darkness, she heard the talking. One speaking in low tones, now
pleading, now explaining, deeply earnest, with a mingling of anxiety and
trouble. She could not hear any words. She seemed to know the voice was
low that she might not hear; yet it filled her with a great fear. What
had happened? Had some one come to harm them, and was he pleading for
her life? Strange to say it never entered her head to doubt his loyalty,
stranger though he was. Her only feeling was that he might have been
overpowered in his sleep, and be even now in need of help himself. What
could she do?
After the first instant of frozen horror she was on the alert. He had
saved her, she must help him. She could not hear any other voice than
his. Probably the enemy spoke in whispers, but she knew that she must go
at once and find out what was the matter. The distance from her pleasant
couch beside the fire was but a few steps, yet it seemed to her
frightened heart and trembling limbs, as she crept softly over towards
the sage-brush, that it was miles.
At last she was close to the bush, could part it with her cold hand and
look into the little shelter.
There was a faint light in the east beyond the mountains that showed the
coming dawn, and silhouetted against this she saw the figure of her
rescuer, dropped upon one knee, his elbow on the other and his face
bowed in his hand. She could hear his words distinctly now, but there
was no man else present, though she searched the darkness carefully.
"I found her lost out here in the wilderness," he was saying in low,
earnest tones, "so beautiful, so dear! But I know she cannot be for me.
Her life has been all luxury and I would not be a man to ask her to
share the desert! I know too that she is not fitted for the work. I know
it would be all wrong, and I must not wish it, but I love her, though I
may not tell her so! I must be resolute and strong, and not show her
what I feel. I must face my Gethsemane, for this girl is as dear to me
as my own soul! God bless and guard her, for I may not."
The girl had stood rooted to the spot unable to move as the low voice
went on with its revelation, but when the plea for a blessing upon her
came with all the mighty longing of a soul who loved absorbingly, it was
as if she were unable to bear it, and she turned and fled silently back
to her couch, creeping under the canvas, thrilled, frightened, shamed
and glad all in one. She closed her eyes and the swift tears of joy
came. He loved her! He loved her! How the thought thrilled her. How her
own heart leaped up to meet his love. The fact of it was all she could
contain for the time and it filled her with an ecstasy such as she had
never known before. She opened her eyes to the stars and they shone back
a great radiance of joy to her. The quiet darkness of the vast earth all
about her seemed suddenly to have become the sweetest spot she had
known. She had never thought there could be joy like this.
Gradually she quieted the wild throbbing of her heart and tried to set
her thoughts in order. Perhaps she was taking too much for granted.
Perhaps he was talking of another girl, some one he had met the day
before. But yet it seemed as if there could be no doubt. There would not
be two girls lost out in that desert. There could not--and her heart
told her that he loved her. Could she trust her heart? Oh, the dearness
of it if it were true!
Her face was burning too, with the sweet shame of having heard what was
not meant for her ears.
Then came the flash of pain in the joy. He did not intend to tell her.
He meant to hide his love--and for her sake! And he was great enough to
do so. The man who could sacrifice the things that other men hold dear
to come out to the wilderness for the sake of a forgotten, half-savage
people, could sacrifice anything for what he considered right. This fact
loomed like a wall of adamant across the lovely way that joy had
revealed to her. Her heart fell with the thought that he was not to
speak of this to her,--and she knew that more than for anything else in
life, more than anything she had ever known, she longed to hear him
speak those words to her. A half resentment filled her that he had told
his secret to Another--what concerned her--and would not let her know.
The heart searching went on, and now she came to the thorn-fact of the
whole revelation. There had been another reason besides care for herself
why he could not tell her of his love,--why he could not ask her to
share his life. She had not been accounted worthy. He had put it in
pleasant words and said she was unfitted, but he might as well have made
it plain and said how useless she would be in his life.
The tears came now, tears of mortification, for Hazel Radcliffe had
never before in all her petted life been accounted unworthy for any
position. It was not that she considered at all the possibility of
accepting the position that was not to be offered her. Her startled mind
had not even reached so far; but her pride was hurt to think that any
one should think her unworthy.
Then over the whole tumultuous state of mind would come the memory of
his voice throbbing with feeling as he said, "She is dear to me as my
own soul," and the joy of it would sweep everything else away.
There was no more sleep to be had for her.
The stars grew pale, and the rose dawn grew in the east. She presently
heard her companion return and replenish the fire, stirring about softly
among the dishes, and move away again, but she had turned her head away
that he might not see her face, and he evidently thought her still
sleeping.
So she lay and tried to reason things out; tried to scold herself for
thinking his words applied to her; tried to recall her city life and
friends, and how utterly alien this man and his work would be to them;
tried to think of the new day when she would probably reach her friends
again and this new friend would be lost sight of; felt a sharp twinge of
pain at the thought; wondered if she could meet Milton Hamar and what
they would say to one another, and if any sort of comfortable relations
could ever be established between them again; and knew they could not.
Once again the great horror rolled over her at thought of his kiss. Then
came the startling thought that he had used almost the same words to her
that this man of the desert had used about her, and yet how infinitely
different! How tender and deep and true, and pure and high his face in
contrast to the look she had seen upon that handsome, evil face bent
over her! She covered her eyes and shuddered again, and entertained a
fleeting wish that she might stay forever here and not return to his
hated presence.
Then back like a flood-tide of sunshine would come the thought of the
missionary and his love for her, and everything else would be
obliterated in the rapture it brought.
And thus on rosy wings the morning dawned, a clean, straight sunrise.
Hazel could hear the missionary stepping softly here and there preparing
breakfast, and knew he felt it time to be on the move. She must bestir
herself and speak, but her cheeks grew pink over the thought of it. She
kept waiting and trying to think how to say good-morning without a look
of guilty knowledge in her eyes. Presently she heard him call to Billy
and move away in the direction where the horse was eating his breakfast.
Then snatching her opportunity she slipped from under the canvas into
her green boudoir.
But even here she found evidences of her wise guide's care, for standing
in front of the largest cedar were two tin cups of clear water and
beside them a small pocket soap-case and a clean folded handkerchief,
fine and white. He had done his best to supply her with toilet articles.
Her heart leaped up again at his thoughtfulness. She dashed the water
into her glowing face, and buried it in the clean folds of the
handkerchief--his handkerchief. How wonderful that it should be so! How
had a mere commonplace bit of linen become so invested with the currents
of life as to give such joyful refreshment with a touch? The wonder of
it all was like a miracle. She had not known anything in life could be
like that.
The great red cliff across the valley was touched with the morning sun
when she emerged from her green shelter, shyly conscious of the secret
that lay unrevealed between them.
Their little camp was still in the shadow. The last star had disappeared
as if a hand had turned the lights low with a flash and revealed the
morning.
She stood for an instant in the parting of the cedars, a hand on each
side holding back the boughs, looking forth from her retreat; and the
man advancing saw her and waited with bared head to do her reverence, a
great light of love in his eyes which he knew not was visible, but which
blinded the eyes of the watching girl, and made her cheeks grow rosier.
The very air about them seemed charged with an electrical current. The
little commonplaces which they spoke sank deep into the heart of each
and lingered to bless the future. The glances of their eyes had many
meetings and lingered shyly on more intimate ground than the day before,
yet each had grown more silent. The tenderness of his voice was like a
benediction as he greeted her.
He seated her on the canvas he had arranged freshly beside a bit of
green grass, and prepared to serve her like a queen. Indeed she wore a
queenly bearing, small and slender though she was, her golden hair
shining in the morning, and her eyes bright as the stars that had just
been paled by day.
There were fried rabbits cooking in the tiny saucepan and corn bread was
toasting before the fire on two sharp sticks. She found to her surprise
that she was hungry, and that the breakfast he had prepared seemed a
most delicious feast.
She grew secure in her consciousness that he did not know she had
guessed his secret, and let the joy of it all flow over her and envelop
her. Her laugh rang out musically over the plain, and he watched her
hungrily, delightedly, enjoying every minute of the companionship with
a kind of double joy because of the barren days that he was sure were to
come.
Finally he broke away from the pleasant lingering with an exclamation,
for the sun was hastening upward and it was time they were on their way.
Hastily he packed away the things, she trying in her bungling
unaccustomedness to help and only giving sweet hindrance, with the
little white hands that thrilled him so wonderfully as they came near
with a plate or a cup, or a bit of corn bread that had been left out.
He put her on the horse and they started on their way. Yet not once in
all the pleasant contact had he betrayed his secret, and Hazel began to
feel the burden of what she had found out weighing guiltily upon her
like a thing stolen which she would gladly replace but dared not.
Sometimes, as they rode along, he quietly talking as the day before,
pointing out some object of interest, or telling her some remarkable
story of his experiences, she would wonder if she had not been entirely
mistaken; heard wrong, maybe, or made more of the words than she should
have done. She grew to feel that he could not have meant her at all. And
then turning suddenly she would find his eyes upon her with a light in
them so tender, so yearning, that she would droop her own in confusion
and feel her heart beating wildly with the pleasure and the pain of it.
About noon they came to a rain-water hole near which were three Indian
hogans. Brownleigh explained that he had come this way, a little out of
the shortest trail, hoping to get another horse so that they might
travel faster and reach the railroad before sundown.
The girl's heart went suddenly heavy as he left her sitting on Billy
under a cottonwood tree while he went forward to find out if any one was
at home and whether they had a horse to spare. Of course she wanted to
find her friends and relieve their anxiety as soon as possible, but
there was something in the voice of the young missionary as he spoke of
hastening onward that seemed to build a wall between them. The pleasant
intercourse of the morning seemed drawing so quickly to a close: the
wonderful sympathy and interest between them pushed with a violent hand
out of her reach. She felt a choking sensation in her throat as if she
would like to put her head down on Billy's rough neck-locks and sob.
She tried to reason with herself. It was but a little over twenty-four
hours since she first looked upon this stranger, and yet her heart was
bound to him in such a way that she was dreading their separation. How
could it be? Such things were not real. People always laughed at sudden
love affairs as if they were impossible, but her heart told her that it
was not merely hours by which they numbered their acquaintance. The soul
of this man had been revealed to her in that brief space of time as
another's might not have been in years. She dreaded the ending of this
companionship. It would be the end, of course. He had said it, and she
knew his words were true. His world was not her world, more the pity! He
would never give up his world, and he had said she was unfitted for his.
It was all too true--this world of rough, uncouth strangers, and wild
emptiness of beauty. But how she longed to have this day with him beside
her prolonged indefinitely!
The vision would fade of course when she got back into the world again,
and things would assume their normal proportions very likely. But just
now she admitted to herself that she did not want to get back. She would
be entirely content if she might wander thus with him in the desert for
the rest of her natural life.
He came back to her presently accompanied by an Indian boy carrying an
iron pot and some fresh mutton. Hazel watched them as they built a fire,
arranged the pot full of water to boil, and placed the meat to roast.
The missionary was making corn cake which presently was baking in the
ashes, and giving forth a savoury odour.
An Indian squaw appeared in the doorway of one of the hogans, her baby
strapped to her back, and watched her with great round wondering eyes.
Hazel smiled at the little papoose, and it soon dimpled into an
answering smile. Then she discovered that the missionary was watching
them both, his heart in his eyes, a strange wonderful joy in his face,
and her heart-beats quickened. She was pleasing him! It was then as she
smiled back at the child of the forest that she discovered an interest
of her own in these neglected people of his. She could not know that the
little dark-skinned baby whom she had noticed would from this time forth
become the special tender object of care from the missionary, just
because she had noticed it.
They had a merry meal, though not so intimate as the others had been;
for a group of Indian women and children huddled outside the nearest
hogan watching their every move with wide staring eyes, and stolid but
interested countenances; and the little boy hovered not far away to
bring anything they might need. It was all pleasant but Hazel felt
impatient of the interruption when their time together was now so short.
She was glad when, mounted on Billy again, and her companion on a rough
little Indian pony with wicked eyes, they rode away together into the
sunshine of the afternoon.
But now it seemed but a breathless space before they would come into the
presence of people, for the two horses made rapid time, and the
distances flew past them mile by mile, the girl feeling each moment more
shy and embarrassed, and conscious of the words she had overheard in the
early morning.
It seemed to her a burden she could not carry away unknown upon her soul
and yet how could she let him know?
VIII
RENUNCIATION
They had entered a strip of silvery sand, about two miles wide, and rode
almost in silence, for a singular shyness had settled upon them.
The girl was conscious of his eyes upon her with a kind of tender
yearning as if he would impress the image on his mind for the time when
she would be with him no more. Each had a curious sense of understanding
the other's thoughts, and needing no words. But as they neared a great
rustling stretch of corn he looked at her keenly again and spoke:
"You are very tired, I'm sure." It was not a question but she lifted her
eyes to deny it, and a flood-tide of sweet colour swept over the cheeks.
"I knew it," he said, searching her raised eyes. "We must stop and rest
after we have passed through this corn. There is a spot under some trees
where you will be sheltered from the sun. This corn lasts only a mile or
so more, and after you have rested we will have only a short distance
to go"--he caught his breath as though the words hurt him--"our journey
is almost over!" They rode in silence through the corn, but when it was
passed and they were seated beneath the trees the girl lifted her eyes
to him filled with unspeakable things.
"I haven't known how to thank you," she said earnestly, the tears almost
in evidence.
"Don't, please!" he said gently. "It has been good to me to be with you.
How good you never can know." He paused and then looked keenly at her.
"Did you rest well last night, your first night under the stars? Did you
hear the coyotes, or feel at all afraid?"
Her colour fled, and she dropped her glance to Billy's neck, while her
heart throbbed painfully.
He saw how disturbed she was.
"You were afraid," he charged gently. "Why didn't you call? I was close
at hand all the time. What frightened you?"
"Oh, it was nothing!" she said evasively. "It was only for a minute."
"Tell me, please!" his voice compelled her.
"It was just for a minute," she said again, speaking rapidly and trying
to hide her embarrassment. "I woke and thought I heard talking and you
were not in sight; but it was not long before you came back with an
armful of wood, and I saw it was almost morning."
Her cheeks were rosy, as she lifted her clear eyes to meet his searching
gaze and tried to face him steadily, but he looked into the very depths
of her soul and saw the truth. She felt her courage going from her, and
tried to turn her gaze carelessly away, but could not.
At last he said in a low voice full of feeling:
"You heard me?"
Her eyes, which he had held with his look, wavered, faltered, and
drooped. "I was afraid," he said as her silence confirmed his
conviction. "I heard some one stirring. I looked and thought I saw you
going back to your couch." There was grave self-reproach in his tone,
but no reproach for her. Nevertheless her heart burned with shame and
her eyes filled with tears. She hid her glowing face in her hands and
cried out:
"I am so sorry. I did not mean to be listening. I thought from the tone
of your voice you were in trouble. I was afraid some one had attacked
you, and perhaps I could do something to help----"
"You poor child!" he said deeply moved. "How unpardonable of me to
frighten you. It is my habit of talking aloud when I am alone. The great
loneliness out here has cultivated it. I did not realize that I might
disturb you. What must you think of me? What _can_ you think?"
"Think!" she burst forth softly. "I think you are all wrong to try to
keep a thing like that to yourself!"
And then the full meaning of what she had said broke upon her, and her
face crimsoned with embarrassment.
But he was looking at her with an eager light in his eyes.
"What do you mean?" he asked. "Won't you please explain?"
Hazel was sitting now with her face entirely turned away, and the soft
hair blowing concealingly about her burning cheeks. She felt as if she
must get up and run away into the desert and end this terrible
conversation. She was getting in deeper and deeper every minute.
"Please!" said the gentle, firm voice.
"Why, I--think--a--a--woman--has a right--to know--a thing like that!"
she faltered desperately.
"Why?" asked the voice again after a pause.
"Because--she--she--might not ever--she might not ever know there was
such a love for a woman in the world!" she stammered, still with her
head turned quite away from him. She felt that she could never turn
around and face this wonderful man of the desert again. She wished the
ground would open and show her some comfortable way of escape.
The pause this time was long, so long that it frightened her, but she
dared not turn and look at him. If she had done so she would have seen
that he was sitting with bowed head for some time, in deep meditation,
and that at last he lifted his glance to the sky again as if to ask a
swift permission. Then he spoke.
"A man has no right to tell a woman he loves her when he cannot ask her
to marry him."
"That," said the girl, her throat throbbing painfully, "_that_ has
nothing to do with it. I--was--not talking about--marrying! But I think
she has a right to know. It would--make a difference all her life!" Her
throat was dry and throbbing. The words seemed to stick as she tried to
utter them, yet they would be said. She longed to hide her burning face
in some cool shelter and get away from this terrible talk, but she
could only sit rigidly quiet, her fingers fastened tensely in the coarse
grass at her side.
There was a longer silence now, and still she dared not look at the man.
A great eagle appeared in the heaven above and sailed swiftly and
strongly towards a mountain peak. Hazel had a sense of her own
smallness, and of the fact that her words had made an exquisite anguish
for the soul of her companion, yet she could not think of anything to
say that would better matters. At last he spoke, and his voice was like
one performing a sad and sacred rite for one tenderly beloved:
"And now that you know I love you can it possibly make any difference to
you?"
Hazel tried three times to answer, but every time her trembling lips
would frame no words. Then suddenly her face went into her hands and the
tears came. She felt as if a benediction had been laid upon her head,
and the glory of it was greater than she could bear.
The man watched her, his arms longing to enfold her and soothe her
agitation, but he would not. His heart was on fire with the sweetness
and the pain of the present moment, yet he could not take advantage of
their situation upon the lonely plain, and desecrate the beauty of the
trust she had put upon him.
Then her strength came again, and she raised her head and looked into
his waiting eyes with a trembling, shy glance, yet true and earnest.
"It will make a difference--to me!" she said. "I shall never feel quite
the same towards life again because I know there is such a wonderful man
in the world."
She had fine control of her voice now, and was holding back the tears.
Her manner of the world was coming to her aid. He must not see how much
this was to her, how very much. She put out a little cold hand and laid
it timidly in his big brown one, and he held it a moment and looked down
at it in great tenderness, closed his fingers over it in a strong clasp,
then laid it gently back in her lap as though it were too precious to
keep. Her heart thrilled and thrilled again at his touch.
"Thank you," he said simply, a great withdrawing in his tone. "But I
cannot see how you can think well of me. I am an utter stranger to you.
I have no right to talk of such things to you."
"You did not tell me," answered Hazel. "You told--God." Her voice was
slow and low with awe. "I only overheard. It was my fault--but--I am
not--sorry. It was a great--thing to hear!"
He watched her shy dignity as she talked, her face drooping and half
turned away. She was exquisitely beautiful in her confusion. His whole
spirit yearned towards hers.
"I feel like a monster," he said suddenly. "You know I love you, but you
do not understand how, in this short time even, you have filled my life,
my whole being. And yet I may not ever try or hope to win your love in
return. It must seem strange to you----"
"I think I understand," she said in a low voice; "you spoke of all that
in the night--you know." It seemed as if she shrank from hearing it
again.
"Will you let me explain it thoroughly to you?"
"If--you think best." She turned her face away and watched the eagle,
now a mere speck in the distance.