The Heart of the Desert | Page 7

innocently passed round a bomb on which to
make conversation!"
Jack Newman laughed, the tension relaxed, and in a moment the dinner
was proceeding merrily, though Porter and Cartwell carefully avoided
speaking to each other. Most of the conversation centered around
Rhoda. Katherine always had been devoted to her friend. And though
men always had paid homage to Rhoda, since her illness had enhanced
her delicacy, and had made her so appealingly helpless, they were
drawn to her as surely as bee to flower. Old and young, dignified and
happy-go-lucky, all were moved irresistibly to do something for her, to
coddle her, to undertake impossible missions, self-imposed.
Porter from his place of vantage beside her kept her plate heaped with

delicacies, calmly removed the breast of chicken from his own plate to
hers, all but fed her with a spoon when she refused to more than nibble
at her meal.
DeWitt's special night-mare was that drafts were blowing on her. He
kept excusing himself from the table to open and close windows and
doors, to hang over her chair so as to feel for himself if the wind
touched her.
Katherine and Jack kept Li Chung trotting to the kitchen for different
dainties with which to tempt her. Only Cartwell did nothing. He kept
up what seemed to be his usual fire of amiable conversation and
watched Rhoda constantly through inscrutable black eyes. But he made
no attempt to serve her.
Rhoda was scarcely conscious of the deference showed her, partly
because she had received it so long, partly because that detached frame
of mind of the hopeless invalid made the life about her seem shadowy
and unreal. Nothing really mattered much. She lay back in her chair
with the little wistful smile, the somber light in her eyes that had
become habitual to her.
After dinner was finished Katherine led the way to the living-room. To
his unspeakable pride, Rhoda took Billy Porter's arm and he guided her
listless footsteps carefully, casting pitying glances on his less favored
friends. Jack wheeled a Morris chair before the fireplace--desert nights
are cool--and John DeWitt hurried for a shawl, while Katherine gave
every one orders that no one heeded in the least.
Cartwell followed after the others, slowly lighted a cigarette, then
seated himself at the piano. For the rest of the evening he made no
attempt to join in the fragmentary conversation. Instead he sang softly,
as if to himself, touching the keys so gently that their notes seemed
only the echo of his mellow voice. He sang bits of Spanish love-songs,
of Mexican lullabies. But for the most part he kept to Indian
melodies--wistful love-songs and chants that touched the listener with
strange poignancy.

There was little talk among the group around the fire. The three men
smoked peacefully. Katherine and Jack sat close to each other, on the
davenport, content to be together. DeWitt lounged where he could
watch Rhoda, as did Billy Porter, the latter hanging on every word and
movement of this lovely, fragile being, as if he would carry forever in
his heart the memory of her charm.
Rhoda herself watched the fire. She was tired, tired to the inmost fiber
of her being. The only real desire left her was that she might crawl off
somewhere and die in peace. But these good friends of hers had set
their faces against the inevitable and it was only decency to humor
them. Once, quite unconscious that the others were watching her, she
lifted her hands and eyed them idly. They were almost transparent and
shook a little. The group about the fire stirred pityingly. John and
Katherine and Jack remembered those shadowy hands when they had
been rosy and full of warmth and tenderness. Billy Porter leaned across
and with his hard brown palms pressed the trembling fingers down into
Rhoda's lap. She looked up in astonishment.
"Don't hold 'em so!" said Billy hoarsely. "I can't stand to see 'em!"
"They are pretty bad," said Rhoda, smiling. It was her rare, slow,
unforgetable smile. Porter swallowed audibly. Cartwell at the piano
drifted from a Mohave lament to La Paloma.
"The day that I left my home for the rolling sea, I said, 'Mother dear, O
pray to thy God for me!' But e'er I set sail I went a fond leave to take Of
Nina, who wept as if her poor heart would break!"
The mellow, haunting melody caught Rhoda's fancy at once, as
Cartwell knew it would. She turned to the sinewy figure at the piano.
DeWitt was wholesome and strong, but this young Indian seemed
vitality itself.
"Nina, if I should die and o'er ocean's foam Softly at dusk a fair dove
should come, Open thy window, Nina, for it would be My faithful soul
come