The Man of the Desert (15 page)

“The last day ‘fore he left she seemed like she wasn’t sick at all. She wanted to get up early, an’ she wouldn’t take no nap, ’cause she said she couldn’t waste a minute of the last day. Well, she actu’lly got on her feet oncet an’ made him walk her crost the porch. She hedn’t ben on her feet fer more’n a minute fer ten months, an’ ‘twas more’n she could stan’. She was jest as bright an’ happy all thet day, an’ when he went ‘way she waved her hand as happy like an’ smiled an’ said she was glad to be able to send him back to his work. But she never said a word about his comin’ back. He kep’ sayin’ he’d come back next spring, but she only smiled an’ tole him he might not be able to leave his work, an’ ‘twas all right. She wanted him to be faithful.

“Well, he went, an’ the coach hedn’t no more’n got down the hill an’ up again an out o’ sight behind the bridge ‘fore she calls to me an’ she says, ‘ ’Meelia Ellen, I believe I’m tired with all the goin’s on there’s been, an’ if you don’t mind I think I’ll take a nap.’ So I helps her into her room and fixes her into her night things an’ thur she’s laid ever since, an’ it’s six whole weeks ef it’s a day. Every mornin’ fer a spell I’d go in an’ say, ‘Ain’t you ready fer me to fix you fer the day, Mis’ Brownleigh?’ An’ she’d jest smile an’ say, ‘Well, I b’leeve not just now, ‘Meelia Ellen. I think I’ll just rest today yet. Maybe I’ll feel stronger tomorrow.’

“But tomorrow never comes, an’ it’s my thinkin’ she’ll never git up again.”

The tears were streaming down the good woman’s cheeks now, and Hazel’s eyes were bright with tears, too. She’d noticed the transparency of the delicate flesh, the frailness of the wrinkled hands. The woman’s words brought conviction to her heart also.

“What does the doctor say?” she asked, catching at a hope.

“Well, he ain’t much fer talk,” said Amelia Ellen, lifting her tearstained face from her gingham apron where it was bowed. “It seems like them two hev just got a secret between ’em thet they won’t say nothin’ ’bout it. Seems like he understands and knows she don’t want folks to talk about it or worry ’bout her.”

“But her son—,” said Hazel. “He should be told!”

“Yes, but ‘tain’t no use. She won’t let yeh. I ast her oncet didn’t she want me to write him to come an’ make her a little visit just to chirk her up. She shook her head and looked real frightened and says, ‘ ’Meelia Ellen, don’t you never go to sendin’ fer him ‘thout lettin’ me know. I wouldn’t like it ‘tall. He’s out there doin’ his work, an’ I’m happier havin’ him at it. A missionary can’t take time traipsin’ round the country every time a relative gets a little down. I’m jest perfectly all right, ‘Meelia Ellen. Only I went pretty hard durin’ ‘sembly week and when John was here, an’ I’m restin’ up fer a while. If I want John sent fer I’ll tell you, but don’t you go to doin’ it ‘fore!’ An’ I really b’leeve she’d be mad at me if I did. She lots a good deal on givin’ her son, an’ it would sort o’ spoil her sakkerfize, I s’pose, to hev him come back every time she hungers fer him. I b’leeve in my heart she’s plannin’ to slip away quiet and not bother him to say good-bye. It jest looks that way to me.”

But the next few days the invalid brightened perceptibly, and Hazel began to be reassured. Sweet conversation they had together, and the girl heard the long pleasant story of the son’s visit home as the mother dwelt lovingly upon each detail, telling it over and over, until the listener felt that every spot within sight of the invalid’s window was fragrant with his memory. She enjoyed the tale as much as the teller and knew just how to give the answer that one loving woman wants from another loving woman when they speak of the beloved.

Then when the story was told over and over and nothing was left to tell except the pleasant recalling of a funny speech or some tender happening, Hazel asked deeper questions about the things of life and eternity. And step-by-step the older woman led her in the path she’d led her son through his childhood years.

During this time she seemed to grow stronger again. Some days she sat up for a little while and let them put the meals on a tiny swinging table by her chair. And she took a deep interest in leading the girl to a heavenly knowledge. Every day she asked for her writing materials and wrote for a little while. Yet Hazel noticed she didn’t send all she wrote in the envelope of weekly letters but laid it away carefully in her writing portfolio as if it were something yet unfinished.

And one evening in late September, when the last rays of the sunset were lying across the foot of the wheeled chair, and Amelia Ellen was building a bit of a fire in the fireplace because it seemed chilly, the mother called Hazel to her and handed her a letter sealed and addressed to her son.

“Dear,” she said gently, “I want you to take this letter and put it away carefully and keep it until I’m gone. Then I want you to promise that, if it’s possible for you to do it, you’ll give it to my son with your own hands.”

Hazel took the letter reverently, her heart filled with sorrow and stooped anxiously over her friend. “Oh, why,” she cried, “what’s the matter? Do you feel worse tonight? You’ve seemed so bright all day.”

“Not a bit,” said the invalid cheerily. “But I’ve been writing this for a long time—a sort of good-bye to my boy—and there’s nobody in the world I’d like to give it to him as well as you. Will it trouble you to promise me, my dear?”

Hazel with kisses and tears protested she’d be glad to fulfill the mission but begged she might be allowed to send for the beloved son at once, for a sight of his face, she knew, would be good for his mother.

At last her fears were allayed, though she was by no means sure the son shouldn’t be sent for. When the invalid had gone happily to sleep, Hazel went to her room and tried to think how she might write a letter that wouldn’t alarm the young man but would bring him to his mother’s side. She planned how she’d go away herself for a few days, so he needn’t find her here. She wrote several stiff little notes, but none of them satisfied her. Her heart longed to write, “Oh, my dear! Come quickly, for your beloved mother needs you. Come, for my heart is crying out for the sight of you! Come at once!”

But finally before she slept she sealed and addressed a dignified letter from Miss Radcliffe, his mother’s trained nurse, suggesting he make at least a brief visit at this time. She must be away for a few days, and she felt his presence would be a wise thing. His mother didn’t seem as well as when he was with her. Then, comforted, she lay down to sleep. But the letter was never sent.

In the early dawn the faithful Amelia Ellen slipped from her couch in the alcove just off the invalid’s room and went to touch a match to the carefully laid fire in the fireplace. She passed the bed and, as was her custom for years, glanced to see if all was well with her patient. At once she knew the mother’s sweet spirit had fled.

With her face turned slightly away, a smile of good night on her lips and the peace of God on her brow, the mother had entered into her rest.

The Call of the Desert

H
azel, with her eyes blinded with tears and her heart swelling with the loss of the woman whose motherliness she’d come to feel a claim on, burned the letter she’d written the night before and sent a carefully worded telegram, her heart yearning with sympathy toward the bereaved son.

“Your dear mother has gone home, quietly, in her sleep. She didn’t seem any worse than usual, and her last words were of you. Let us know at once what plans we shall make. Nurse Radcliffe.” That was the telegram she sent.

Poor Amelia Ellen was inconsolable. Her practical common sense for once fled her. She did nothing but weep and moan for the beloved invalid she had served so long and faithfully. It fell to Hazel to make all decisions, though neighbors and old friends were kind with offers of help. Hazel waited anxiously for an answer to the telegram, but night fell, and no answer came. A storm had come, and something was wrong with the wires. The next morning, however, she sent another telegram, and about noon still a third, with as yet no response. She thought perhaps he didn’t wait to telegraph but started immediately and might be with them in a few hours. She watched the evening stage, but he didn’t come.

Then she realized her heart was in a flutter and wondered how she’d have the strength to meet him if he came. She had the letter from his mother and her promise. She had that excuse for her presence—of course she couldn’t have left under the circumstances. Yet she shrank from the meeting, for it seemed a breach of etiquette for her to break the separation he’d chosen should be between them.

He didn’t come, however, and the third morning, when it became imperative for something definite to be known, a telegram to the station agent in Arizona brought answer that the missionary was away on a long trip among some Indian tribes. His exact whereabouts weren’t known, but messengers had been sent after him, and word would be sent as soon as possible. The minister and the old neighbors consulted with Amelia Ellen and Hazel and made simple plans for the funeral, yet they hoped and delayed as long as possible. When at last, after repeated telegrams, the answer still came,
“Messenger not yet returned,”
they bore the woman’s worn-out body to a quiet resting place beside her husband in the churchyard on the hillside. There the soft maples scattered bright covering over the new mound, and the sky arched high with a kind of triumphant reminder of where the spirit had gone.

Hazel tried to have every detail just as she thought he’d like it. The neighbors brought their homegrown flowers in great quantities, and some city friends who were old summer boarders sent hothouse roses. The minister conducted the beautiful service of faith, and the village children sang around the casket of their old friend, who’d always loved every one of them. Their hands were full of late flowers from her own garden, bright scarlet and blue and gold, as though it were a joyous occasion. Indeed, Hazel had the impression, even as she moved in the hush of the presence of death, that she was helping at some solemn festivity of deep joy instead of a funeral—so glorious was the hope of the one who was gone, so triumphant her faith in her Savior.

After the funeral was over Hazel sat down and wrote a letter telling about it all, filling it with sympathy. She tried to show their effort to have things as he’d like them and expressed deep sorrow that they were compelled to go on with the service without him.

That night a message came from the Arizona station agent. The missionary had been found in a distant Indian hogan with a dislocated ankle. He sent word that they mustn’t wait for him; he’d get there in time, if possible. A later message the next day said he was still unable to travel but would go to the railroad as soon as possible. Then came an interval of several days without any word from Arizona.

Hazel went about with Amelia Ellen, putting the house in order and hearing the beautiful plaint of the loving-hearted, mourning servant as she told little incidents about her mistress. Here was the chair she sat in the last time she went upstairs to oversee the spring regulating, and that was Mr. John’s baby gown he was christened in. His mother had smoothed it out and told her one day of what he was like as a baby. She laid it away herself in the box with the blue shoes and the crocheted cap. It was the last time she ever came upstairs.

She pointed out the gray silk dress she had worn to weddings and dinner parties before her husband died, and beneath it in the trunk lay a white embroidered muslin, her wedding gown. It was yellow with age and delicate as a spider’s web, with frostwork of yellow embroidery strewn quaintly on its ancient form and a touch of real lace. Hazel laid a reverent hand on the fine old fabric and felt, as she looked through the old trunk’s treasures, that an inner sanctuary of sweetness had been opened for her to glimpse.

At last, a letter came from the West.

It was addressed to
“Miss Radcliffe, Nurse,”
in John Brownleigh’s firm, clear hand, and began,
“Dear Madam.”
Hazel’s hand trembled as she opened it, and the “dear madam” brought the tears to her eyes. But then, of course, he didn’t know.

He thanked her, with all the kindness and graciousness of his mother’s son, for attending to his dear mother and told her many pleasant things his mother had written of her service. He spoke briefly of being laid up lamed in the Indian reservation and his deep grief that he couldn’t come East to be beside his mother during her last hours. He went on to say it was his mother’s wish, expressed many times, for him not to leave his post to come to her and that “no sadness of farewell” was needed when she “embarked.” Though it was hard for him he knew it would fulfill his mother’s desires.

Now that she was gone and looking on her dear face was impossible, he decided he couldn’t bear it just yet to come home and see all the dear familiar places with her gone. He’d wait awhile, until he’d grown used to the thought of her in heaven, and then it wouldn’t be so hard. Perhaps he wouldn’t come home until next spring, unless something called him; he couldn’t tell. In any case, his injured ankle prevented him from making the journey at present, no matter how much he may desire to do so. Miss Radcliffe’s letter told him everything was done just as he’d have had it done. Nothing further made it necessary for him to come.

He wrote to his mother’s lawyer to arrange his mother’s few business affairs, and it only remained for him to express his deep gratitude toward those who stood by his dear mother when it was impossible for him to do so. He closed with a request that the nurse would give him her permanent address so he might find her when he came East again, since he’d enjoy thanking her face-to-face for what she was to his mother.

That was all.

Hazel felt a blank dizziness settle down over her as she finished the letter. It put him miles away from her again, with years perhaps before seeing him. She suddenly seemed fearfully alone in a world that no longer interested her. Where should she go, and what would she do with her life now? Back to the hard grind of the hospital with nobody to care and the heartrending scenes and tragedies enacted daily? Somehow her strength seemed to leave her at the thought. Here, too, she’d failed. She wasn’t fit for the life, and the hospital people discovered it and sent her away to nurse her friend and try to get well. They were kind and talked about when she’d return to them, but she knew in her heart they felt her unfit and didn’t want her back.