The Man of the Desert (13 page)

“The right of the man who is going to marry you!” he answered fiercely. “And I think it’s about time this nonsense stopped. It’s nothing but coquettish foolishness, your coming here. I hate coquettish fools. I didn’t think you had it in you, but it seems all women are alike.”

“Mr. Hamar, you’re forgetting yourself,” said the girl quietly, turning to shut the door so she might gain time to control her shaken nerves. She had a swift vision of how it would be if she were married to a man like that. No wonder his wife was entirely willing to grant him a divorce. But she shuddered as she turned back and faced him bravely.

“Well, what did you come here for?” he asked in a less fierce tone.

“I came because I wanted quiet,” Hazel said, trying to steady her voice. “And I’ll tell you the whole truth. I came because I wanted to get away from—you! I haven’t liked the way you acted toward me since—that day—in Arizona.”

The man’s fierce brows drew together, but a kind of mask apology spread over his features. He perceived he’d gone too far with the girl he thought scarcely more than a child. He thought he could mold her like wax and his scorn would instantly wither her wiles. He watched her steadily for a full minute. The girl, though trembling, sent back a steady, haughty gaze.

“Do you mean that?” he said at last.

“I do!” Her voice was quiet, but she was on the verge of tears.

“Well, perhaps we’d better talk it over. I see I’ve taken too much for granted. I thought you’d understood for a year or more what was going on—what I was doing it for.”

“You thought I understood! You thought I’d be willing to be a party to the awful thing you’ve done!” Hazel’s eyes were flashing fire now. The tears were scorched away.

“Sit down! We’ll talk it over,” said the man, moving a chair nearer his. His eyes were on her face, and he was thinking what a beautiful picture she made in her anger.

“Never!” said the girl quickly. “It isn’t a thing I could talk over. I don’t wish to speak of it again. I want you to leave this place at once.” She turned and fled up the staircase.

She stayed in her room until he left, refusing to see him or answer the long letters he wrote and sent up to her. Finally, after another day, he went away. But he wrote to her several times and returned twice, each time endeavoring to surprise her into talking with him. The girl started nervously, watching every time the daily stage arrived bringing stray travelers from the station four miles away. She was actually glad when a heavy snowstorm shut them in and made it unlikely her unwelcome visitor would venture again into the country.

The last time he came, Hazel saw him descending from the coach. Without a word to anyone, although it was almost suppertime and the early winter twilight was upon them, she seized her fur cloak and slipped down the back stairs, out through the shadows, and across the road. There she surprised good Amelia Ellen by flinging her arms about her neck and bursting into tears right in the dark front hall, for the gust of wintry wind from the open door blew the candle out. Amelia Ellen stood bewildered for a moment in the blast of the north wind with the soft arms of the excited girl in her furry wrappings clinging about her unaccustomed shoulders.

Amelia Ellen had never had many beautiful things in her life; the care of her Dresden-china mistress and the brilliant flower garden were the crowning of her life until now. This beautiful city girl with her exquisite garments and her face like a flower, flung upon her in sudden appeal, drew out all of Amelia Ellen’s latent love and sympathy, hidden under her simple, severe exterior.

“Fer the land’s sake! Whatever ails you?” she exclaimed when she could speak.

To her own surprise her arm encircled the sobbing girl in a warm embrace while with the other hand she reached to close the door.

“Come right into my kitchen and set in the big chair by the cat and let me give you a cup of tea. Then you can tell Mis’ Brownleigh what’s troublin’ you. She’ll know how to talk to you. I’ll git you some tea right away.”

She drew the shrinking girl into the kitchen and, ousting the cat from a patchwork rocker, pushed her gently into it. Amelia Ellen had no thought of ministering to her spiritual needs herself but knew her place was to bring physical comfort.

She said nothing except to the cat, admonishing him to mind his manners and keep out from underfoot, while she hurried to the tea canister, the bread box, the sugar bowl, and the china closet. Soon a cup of fragrant tea was set before the unexpected guest and a bit of delicate toast browning over the coals, to be buttered and eaten crisp with tea. And the cat nestled comfortably at Hazel’s feet while she drank the tea and wiped away the tears.

“You’ll think I’m a big baby, Amelia Ellen!” cried Hazel, trying to smile. “But I’m just so tired of the way things go. You see, somebody I don’t like a bit has come up from New York on the evening coach, and I’ve run away for a little while. I don’t know what made me cry. I never cry at home, but when I got safely over here a big lump came in my throat, and you looked so kind that I couldn’t keep the tears back.”

From that instant Amelia Ellen loved Hazel Radcliffe.

“Never you mind, honey. You just eat your tea an’ run in to Mis’ Brownleigh, an’ I’ll get my hood an’ run over to tell your folks you’ve come to stay all night over here. Then you’ll have a cozy evenin’ readin’ while I sew, an’ you can sleep late come mornin’ and go back when you’re ready. Nobody can touch you over here. I’m not lettin’ in people by night ‘thout I know ’em.” She winked at the girl by way of encouragement.

Well she knew who the unwelcome stranger from New York was. She had keen eyes and had watched the coach from her well-curtained kitchen window as it came in.

That night Hazel told her invalid friend all about Milton Hamar and slept in the pleasant bed Amelia Ellen prepared for her, with fragrant linen sheets redolent of sweet clover. Her heart was lighter for the simple, kind advice and the gentle love showered upon her. She wondered, as she lay half dozing in the morning with a faint odor of coffee and muffins in the air, why she could love this beautiful mother of her hero so much more tenderly than she’d ever loved any other woman. Was it because she’d never known her own mother and longed for one all her life, or was it just because she was his dear mother? She gave up trying to answer the question and went smiling down to breakfast and then across the road to face the unwelcome man, strong in the courage friendly counsel had given her.

Milton Hamar left before dinner, convinced at last of the futility of his visit. He hired a man with a horse and cutter to drive him across country to catch the New York evening express, and Hazel drew a breath of relief and began to find new pleasure in life. Her father was off on a business trip for some weeks, and her brother had gone abroad for the winter with a party of college friends. She had no real reason to return to New York for some time and decided to stay and learn from this saintly woman how to look wisely on life. To her own heart she openly acknowledged she found a deep pleasure in being near someone who talked of the man she loved.

So the winter settled down to business, and Hazel spent happy days with her new friends, for Amelia Ellen had become a true friend in the best sense of the word.

The maid thought the country winter too lonely, and Hazel found her useless and sent her back to town. She was learning by association with Amelia Ellen to do a few things for herself. The elderly cousin, whose years had been spent scrimping to present a respectable exterior, was only too happy to have leisure and quiet to read and embroider to her heart’s content. So Hazel was free to spend a great deal of time with Mrs. Brownleigh.

They read together. At least Hazel did the reading. The older eyes were growing dim and had to be guarded to prevent the terrible headaches that came at the slightest provocation and made the days a blank of suffering for the lovely soul where patience was having its perfect work.

The world of literature opened through a new door to the eager young mind now. Books she’d never heard of were on hand and stirred new thoughts and feelings. A few friends who knew Mrs. Brownleigh through their summer visits, and others who’d known her husband, kept her well supplied with the latest and best of everything—history, biography, essays, and fiction. But there were also books of a deep spiritual character and magazines that showed a new world, the religious world, to the girl. She read all of them with zest and enjoyed the pleasant conversation concerning each. Her eyes were being opened to new ways of living. She was learning there was an existence more satisfying than just going from one amusement to the next.

And always, more than in any other thing she read, she took an unusual interest in home missionary literature. It wasn’t because it was so new and strange and like a fairy tale, or because she knew her friend enjoyed hearing the news so much; it held for her the story of the man she now knew she loved and who had said he loved her. She wanted to put herself in touch with circumstances like his, to understand better what he had to endure and why he hadn’t dared ask her to share his life, his hardship—most of all, why he hadn’t thought her worthy to suffer with him.

When she tired of reading she’d go into the kitchen and help Amelia Ellen. It was her own whim to learn how to make some of the good things to eat for which Amelia Ellen was famous. So while her society friends at home went from one lively scene to another, dancing and partying through the night and sleeping away the morning, Hazel bared her round white arms and enveloped herself in a clean blue-checked apron. She learned to make bread, pies, gingerbread, puddings, doughnuts, and fruitcake; to cook meats and vegetables and make delicious broths from odds and ends; and to concoct the most delectable desserts that would tempt the frailest appetite. Real old country things they were—no fancy salads and whips and froths society has hunted out to tempt its waning taste till everything has palled.

She wrote to one of her old friends, who demanded to know what she was doing so long up there in the country in the height of the season, that she was taking a course in domestic science and happily recounted her menu of accomplishments. Secretly her heart rejoiced that she was becoming less and less unworthy of the love of the man in whose home and at whose mother’s side she was learning sweet lessons.

There came letters, of course, from the faraway missionary. Hazel stayed later in the kitchen the morning of their arrival, conscious of a kind of extra presence in his mother’s room when his letters arrived. She knew the mother liked to be alone with her son’s letters and saved her eyes from other reading for them alone. Always the older face wore a kind of glorified look when the girl entered after she read the letter. The letter itself would be hidden away out of sight in the bosom of her soft gray gown, to be read again when she was alone. But seldom was it brought out in the visitor’s presence, much as the mother was growing to love this girl. Often there were bits of news.

“My son says he’s very glad I’m having such delightful company this winter, and he wants me to thank you from him for reading to me,” she said once, patting Hazel’s hand that was tucking the wool robe about the woman’s helpless form.

Another time she said, “My son is starting to build a church. He’s very happy about it. They’ve been holding worship in a schoolhouse. He’s collected a good deal of the money himself, and he’ll help put up the building with his own hands. He’s going to send me a photograph when it’s up. I’d like to be present when it’s dedicated. It makes me very proud to have my son doing that.”

The next letter brought a photograph, a small snapshot of the canyon, tiny, but clear and distinct. Hazel’s hand trembled when the mother gave it to her to look at, for she knew the very spot. She guessed it was near the place where they’d paused for water. She could feel again the cool breath of the canyon, the damp smell of the earth and ferns, and hear the call of the wild bird.

Then one day a missionary magazine arrived with a short article on the work in Arizona and a picture of the missionary mounted on Billy, just ready to start from his little shack on a missionary tour.

Hazel, turning the pages, discovered the picture and held her breath with astonishment and delight. Then she glanced over the article, her heart beating wildly as though she’d heard his voice suddenly calling to her out of the distances that separated them. She had a beautiful time surprising the proud mother with the picture and reading the article.

From that morning they seemed to have a closer tie between them, and once, just before Hazel was leaving for the night, the mother reached out a detaining hand and laid it on the girl’s arm.

“I wish my boy and you were acquainted, dear,” she said wistfully.

And Hazel, the rich color flooding her face, replied hesitantly, “Oh, why—I—feel—almost—as—though—we were!” Then she kissed her friend on the cheek and hurried back to the inn.

That night the telegram came to say her father was seriously injured in a railway accident and would be brought home at once. She had no time to think of anything then but to gather her belongings and hurry to New York.

Qualifying for Service

D
uring the six weeks’ suffering that lingered following the accident, Hazel was never far from her father’s bedside. They seemed to grow closer.

He was very low, and there was little hope from the beginning. As he weakened he didn’t want his daughter out of sight, and once he woke suddenly to find her close beside him. A smile of relief spread over his face, and he told her in brief words he’d dreamed she was lost again in Arizona and he’d been searching for her with the wild beasts howling all about and wicked men prowling in dark caves. He told her how during that awful time of her disappearance he was haunted by her face as she was a tiny baby after her mother died, and it seemed to him he’d go mad if he couldn’t find her at once.

Then, to soothe him, she told him about the missionary and how gently he cared for her and all the pleasant details of the way, though not, of course, of his love for her nor hers for him. Perhaps the father, with eyes keen from their nearness to the other world, discerned something of her interest as she talked, for once he sighed and said, in reference to the sacrificial life the missionary was leading: “Well, such things may be more worthwhile after all.”