men are free. I have consecrated my life to the service of God in this
place. I know--I knew when I came here--that it was no place to bring a
woman. There are few who could stand the life. It is filled with
privations and hardships. They are inevitable. You are used to tender
care and luxury. No man could ask a sacrifice like that of a woman he
loved. He would not be a man if he did. It is not like marrying a girl
who has felt the call herself, and loves to give her life to the work.
That would be a different matter. But a man has no right to expect it of
a woman----" he paused to find the right words and Hazel in a small
still voice of dignity reminded him:
"You are forgetting one of the reasons."
"Forgetting?" he turned towards her wonderingly and their eyes met for
just an instant, then hers were turned away again.
"Yes," she went on inscrutably. "You thought I--was not--fit!"
She was pulling up bits of green from the ground beside her. She felt a
frightened flutter in her throat. It was the point of the thorn that had
remained in her heart. It was not in nature for her not to speak of it,
yet when it was spoken she felt how it might be misunderstood.
But the missionary made answer in a kind of cry like some hurt creature.
"Not fit! Oh, my dear! You do not understand----"
There was that in his tone that extracted the last bit of rankling
thorn from Hazel's heart and brought the quick blood to her cheeks
again.
With a light laugh that echoed with relief and a deep new joy which she
dared not face as yet, she sprang to her feet.
"Oh, yes, I understand," she said gaily, "and it's all true. I'm not a
bit fit for a missionary. But oughtn't we to be moving on? I'm quite
rested now."
With a face that was grave to sadness he acquiesced, fastening the
canvas in place on the saddle, and putting her on her horse with swift,
silent movements. Then as she gathered up the reins he lingered for an
instant and taking the hem of her gown in his fingers he stooped and
touched his lips lightly, reverently to the cloth.
There was something so humble, so pathetic, so self-forgetful in the
homage that the tears sprang to the girl's eyes and she longed to put
her arms about his neck and draw his face close to hers and tell him how
her heart was throbbing in sympathy.
But he had not even asked for her love, and there must be silence
between them. He had shown that it was the only way. Her own reserve
closed her lips and commanded that she show no sign.
And now they rode on silently for the most part, the horses' hoofs
beating rapidly in unison. Now and then a rabbit scuttled on ahead of
them or a horned toad hopped out of their path. Short brown lizards
palpitated on bits of wood along the way; now and then a bright green
one showed itself and disappeared. Once they came upon a village of
prairie dogs and paused to watch their antics for a moment. It was then
as they turned away that she noticed the bit of green he had stuck in
his buttonhole and recognized it for the same that she had played with
as they talked by the wayside. Her eyes charged him with having picked
it up afterwards and his eyes replied with the truth, but they said no
words about it. They did not need words.
It was not until they reached the top of a sloping hill, and suddenly
came upon the view of the valley with its winding track gleaming in the
late afternoon sun, the little wooden station and few cabins dotted here
and there, that she suddenly realized that their journey together was at
an end, for this was the place from which she had started two days
before.
He had no need to tell her. She saw the smug red gleam of their own
private car standing on the track not far away. She was brought face to
face with the fact that her friends were down there in the valley and
all the stiff conventionalities of her life stood ready to build a wall
between this man and herself. They would sweep him out of her life as if
she had never met him, never been found and saved by him, and carry her
away to their tiresome round of parties and pleasure excursions again.
She lifted her eyes with a frightened, almost pleading glance as if for
a moment she would ask him to turn with her back to the desert again.
She found his eyes upon her in a long deep gaze of farewell, as one
looks upon the face of a beloved soon to be parted from earth. She could
not bear the blinding of the love she saw there, and her own heart
leaped up anew to meet it in answering love.
But it was only this one flash of a glance they had, when they were
aware of voices and the sound of horses' hoofs, and almost instantly
around the clump of sage-brush below the trail there swept into sight
three horsemen, Shag Bunce, an Indian, and Hazel's brother. They were
talking excitedly, and evidently starting out on a new search.
The missionary with quick presence of mind started the horses on,
shouting out a greeting, and was answered with instant cheers from the
approaching party, followed by shots from Shag Bunce in signal that the
lost was found; shots which immediately seemed to echo from the valley
and swell into shouting and rejoicing.
Then all was confusion at once.
The handsome, reckless brother with gold hair like Hazel's embraced her,
talking loud and eagerly; showing how he had done this and that to find
her; blaming the country, the horses, the guides, the roads; and paying
little heed to the missionary who instantly dropped behind to give him
his place. It seemed but a second more before they were surrounded with
eager people all talking at once, and Hazel, distressed that her brother
gave so little attention to the man who had saved her, sought thrice to
make some sort of an introduction, but the brother was too much taken up
with excitement, and with scolding his sister for having gotten herself
lost, to take it in.
Then out came the father, who, it appeared, had been up two nights on
the search, and had been taking a brief nap. His face was pale and
haggard. Brownleigh liked the look of his eyes as he caught sight of
his daughter, and his face lighted as he saw her spring into his arms,
crying: "Daddy! Daddy! I'm so sorry I frightened you!"
Behind him, tall and disapproving, with an I-told-you-so in her eye,
stood Aunt Maria.
"Headstrong girl," she murmured severely. "You have given us all two
terrible days!" and she pecked Hazel's cheek stiffly. But no one heard
her in the excitement.
Behind Aunt Maria Hazel's maid wrung her hands and wept in a kind of
hysterical joy over her mistress' return, and back of her in the gloom
of the car vestibule loomed the dark countenance of Hamar with an angry,
red mark across one cheek. He did not look particularly anxious to be
there. The missionary turned from his evil face with repulsion.
In the confusion and delight over the return of the lost one the man of
the desert prepared to slip away, but just as he was about to mount his
pony Hazel turned and saw him.
"Daddy, come over here and speak to the man who found me and brought me
safely back again," she said, dragging her father eagerly across the
platform to where the missionary stood.
The father came readily enough and Hazel talked rapidly, her eyes
shining, her cheeks like twin roses, telling in a breath of the horrors
and darkness and rescue, and the thoughtfulness of her stranger-rescuer.
Mr. Radcliffe came forward with outstretched hand to greet him, and the
missionary took off his hat and stood with easy grace to shake hands. He
was not conscious then of the fire of eyes upon him, cold society stares
from Aunt Maria, Hamar and young Radcliffe, as if to say, How dared he
presume to expect recognition for doing what was a simple duty! He noted
only the genuine heartiness in the face of the father as he thanked him
for what he had done. Then, like the practical man of the world that he
was, Mr. Radcliffe reached his hand into his pocket and drew out his
check book remarking, as if it were a matter of course, that he wished
to reward his daughter's rescuer handsomely, and inquiring his name as
he pulled off the cap from his fountain pen.
Brownleigh stood back stiffly with a heightened colour, and an almost
haughty look upon his face.
"Thank you," he said coldly, "I could not think of taking anything for a
mere act of humanity. It was a pleasure to be able to serve your
daughter," and he swung himself easily into the saddle.
But Mr. Radcliffe was unaccustomed to such independence in those who
served him and he began to bluster. Hazel, however, her cheeks fairly
blazing, her eyes filled with mortification, put a hand upon her
father's arm.
"Daddy, you don't understand," she said earnestly; "my new friend is a
clergyman--he is a missionary, daddy!"
"Nonsense, daughter! You don't understand these matters. Just wait until
I am through. I cannot let a deed like this go unrewarded. A missionary,
did you say? Then if you won't take anything for yourself take it for
your church; it's all the same in the end," and he gave a knowing wink
towards the missionary whose anger was rising rapidly, and who was
having much ado to keep a meek and quiet spirit.
"Thank you!" he said again coldly, "not for any such service."
"But I mean it!" grumbled the elder man much annoyed. "I want to donate
something to a cause that employs a man like you. It is a good to the
country at large to have such men patrolling the deserts. I never
thought there was much excuse for Home Missions, but after this I shall
give it my hearty approval. It makes the country safer for tourists.
Come, tell me your name and I'll write out a check. I'm in earnest."
"Send any contribution you wish to make to the general fund," said
Brownleigh with dignity, mentioning the address of the New York Board
under whose auspices he was sent out, "but don't mention me, please."
Then he lifted his hat once more and would have ridden away but for the
distress in Hazel's eyes.
Just then the brother created a digression by rushing up to his father.
"Dad, Aunt Maria wants to know if we can't go on, with this train. It's
in sight now, and she is nearly crazy to get on the move. There's
nothing to hinder our being hitched on, is there? The agent has the
order. Do, dad, let's get out of this. I'm sick of it, and Aunt Maria is
unbearable!"
"Yes, certainly, certainly, Arthur, speak to the agent. We'll go on at
once. Excuse me, Mr.---- Ah, what did you say was the name? I'm sorry
you feel that way about it; though it's very commendable, very
commendable, I'm sure. I'll send to New York at once. Fifth Avenue, did
you say? I'll speak a good word for you. Excuse me, the agent is
beckoning me. Well, good-bye, and thank you again! Daughter, you better
get right into the car. The train is almost here, and they may have no
time to spare," and Mr. Radcliffe hastened up the platform after his son
and the agent.
IX
"FOR REMEMBRANCE"
Hazel turned her troubled eyes to the face of the man pleadingly. "My
father does not understand," she said apologetically. "He is very
grateful and he is used to thinking that money can always show
gratitude."
Brownleigh was off his horse beside her, his hat off, before she had
finished speaking.
"Don't, I beg of you, think of it again," he pleaded, his eyes devouring
her face. "It is all right. I quite understand. And you understand too,
I am sure."
"Yes, I understand," she said, lifting her eyes full of the love she had
not dared to let him see. She was fidgetting with her rings as she spoke
and looked back anxiously at the onrushing train. Her brother, hurrying
down the platform to their car, called to her to hasten as he passed
her, and she knew she would be allowed but a moment more. She caught her
breath and looked at the tall missionary wistfully.
"You will let me leave something of my own with you, just for
remembrance?" she asked eagerly.
His eyes grew tender and misty.
"Of course," he said, his voice suddenly husky, "though I shall need
nothing to remember you by. I can never forget you." The memory of that
look of his eyes was meat and drink to her soul during many days that
followed, but she met it now steadily, not even flushing at her open
recognition of his love.
"This is mine," she said. "My father bought it for me when I was
sixteen. I have worn it ever since. He will never care." She slipped a
ring from her finger and dropped it in his palm.
"Hurry up there, sister!" called young Radcliffe once more from the car
window, and looking up, Brownleigh saw the evil face of Hamar peering
from another window.
Hazel turned, struggling to keep back the rising tears. "I must go," she
gasped.
Brownleigh flung the reins of the pony to a young Indian who stood near
and turning walked beside her, conscious the while of the frowning faces
watching them from the car windows.
"And I have nothing to give you," he said to her in a low tone, deeply
moved at what she had done.
"Will you let me have the little book?" she asked shyly.
His eyes lit with a kind of glory as he felt in his pocket for his
Bible.
"It is the best thing I own," he said. "May it bring you the same joy
and comfort it has often brought to me." And he put the little book in
her hand.
The train backed crashing up and jarred into the private car with a
snarling, grating sound. Brownleigh put Hazel on the steps and helped
her up. Her father was hurrying towards them and some train hands were
making a great fuss shouting directions. There was just an instant for a
hand-clasp, and then he stepped back to the platform, and her father
swung himself on, as the train moved off. She stood on the top step of
the car, her eyes upon his face, and his upon hers, his hat lifted in
homage, and renunciation upon his brow as though it were a crown.
It was the voice of her Aunt Maria that recalled her to herself, while
the little station with its primitive setting, its straggling onlookers
and its one great man, slipped past and was blurred into the landscape
by the tears which she could not keep back.
"Hazel! For pity's sake! Don't stand mooning and gazing at that rude
creature any longer. We'll have you falling off the train and being
dramatically rescued again for the delectation of the natives. I'm sure
you've made disturbance enough for one trip, and you'd better come in
and try to make amends to poor Mr. Hamar for what you have made him
suffer with your foolish persistence in going off on a wild western pony
that ran away. You haven't spoken to Mr. Hamar yet. Perhaps you don't
know that he risked his life for you trying to catch your horse and was
thrown and kicked in the face by his own wretched little beast, and left
lying unconscious for hours on the desert, until an Indian came along
and picked him up and helped him back to the station." (As a matter of
fact Milton Hamar had planned and enacted this touching drama with the
help of a passing Indian, when he found that Hazel was gone, leaving an
ugly whip mark on his cheek which must be explained to the family.) "He
may bear that dreadful scar for life! He will think you an ungrateful
girl if you don't go at once and make your apologies."
For answer Hazel, surreptitiously brushing away the tears, swept past
her aunt and locked herself into her own little private stateroom.
She rushed eagerly to the window which was partly open, guarded with a
screen, and pressed her face against the upper part of the glass. The
train had described a curve across the prairie, and the station was
still visible, though far away. She was sure she could see the tall
figure of her lover standing with hat in hand watching her as she passed
from his sight.
With quick impulse she caught up a long white crepe scarf that lay on
her berth, and snatching the screen from the window fluttered the scarf
out to the wind. Almost instantly a flutter of white came from the
figure on the platform, and her heart quickened with joy. They had sent
a message from heart to heart across the wide space of the plains, and
the wireless telegraphy of hearts was established. Great tears rushed to
blot the last flutter of white from the receding landscape, and then a
hill loomed brilliant and shifting, and in a moment more shut out the
sight of station and dim group and Hazel knew that she was back in the
world of commonplace things once more, with only a memory for her
company, amid a background of unsympathetic relatives.
She made her toilet in a leisurely way, for she dreaded to have to talk
as she knew she would, and dreaded still more to meet Hamar. But she
knew she must go and tell her father of her experiences, and presently
she came out to them fresh and beautiful, with eyes but the brighter for
her tears, and a soft wild-rose flush on her wind-browned cheeks that
made her beauty all the sweeter.
They clamoured at once, of course, for all the details of her
experience, and began by rehearsing once more how hard Mr. Hamar had
tried to save her from her terrible plight, risking his life to stop her
horse. Hazel said nothing to this, but one steady clear look at the
disfigured face of the man who had made them believe all this was the
only recognition she gave of his would-be heroism. In that look she
managed to show her utter disbelief and contempt, though her Aunt Maria
and perhaps even her father and brother thought her gratitude too deep
for utterance before them all.
The girl passed over the matter of the runaway with a brief word, saying
that the pony had made up his mind to run, and she had lost the bridle,
which of course explained her inability to control him. She made light
of her ride, however, before her aunt, and told the whole story most
briefly until she came to the canyon and the howl of the coyotes. She
was most warm in praise of her rescuer, though here too she used few
words and avoided any description of the ride back, merely saying that
the missionary had shown himself a gentleman in every particular, and
had given her every care and attention that her own family could have
done under the circumstances, making the way pleasant with stories of
the country and the people. She said that he was a man of unusual
culture and refinement, she thought, and yet most earnestly devoted to
his work, and then she abruptly changed the subject by asking about
certain plans for their further trip and seeming to have no further
interest in what had befallen her; but all the while she was conscious
of the piercing glance and frowning visage of Milton Hamar watching her,
and she knew that as soon as opportunity offered itself he would
continue the hateful interview begun on the plain. She decided mentally
that she would avoid any such interview if possible, and to that end
excused herself immediately after lunch had been served, saying she
needed a good sleep to make up for the long ride she had taken.
But it was not to sleep that she gave herself when she was at last able
to take refuge in her little apartment again. She looked out at the
passing landscape, beautiful with varied scenery, all blurred with tears
as she thought of how she had but a little while before been out in its
wide free distance with one who loved her. How that thought thrilled and
thrilled her, and brought her a fresh joy each time it repeated itself!
She wondered over the miracle of it. She never had dreamed that love was
like this. She scarce believed it now. She was excited, stirred to the
depths by her unusual experience, put beyond the normal by the
strangeness of the surroundings that had brought this man into her
acquaintance; so said common sense, and warned her that to-morrow, or
the next day, or at most next week, the thrill would all be gone and she
would think of the stranger missionary as one curious detail of her
Western trip. But her heart resented this, and down, deep down,
something else told her this strange new joy would not vanish, that it
would live throughout her life, and that whatever in the years came to
her, she would always know underneath all that this had been the real
thing, the highest fullness of a perfect love for her.
As the miles lengthened and her thoughts grew sad with the distance,
she drew from its hiding place the little book he had given her at
parting. She had slipped it into the breast pocket of her riding habit
as she received it, for she shrank from having her aunt's keen eyes
detect it and question her. She had been too much engrossed with the
thought of separation to remember it till now.
She touched it tenderly, shyly, as though it were a part of himself; the
limp, worn covers, the look of constant use, all made it inexpressibly
dear. She had not known before that an inanimate object, not beautiful
in itself, could bring such tender love.
Opening to the flyleaf, there in clear, bold writing was his name, "John
Chadwick Brownleigh," and for the first time she realized that there had
passed between them no word of her name. Strange that they two should
have come so close as to need no names one with the other. But her heart
leaped up with joy that she knew his name, and her eyes dwelt yearningly
upon the written characters. John! How well the name fitted him. It
seemed that she would have known it was his even if she had not seen it
written first in one of his possessions. Then she fell to meditating
whether he would have any way of discovering her name. Perhaps her
father had given it to him, or the station agent might have known to
whom their car belonged. Of course he would when he received the
orders,--or did they give orders about cars only by numbers? She wished
she dared ask some one. Perhaps she could find out in some way how those
orders were written. And yet all the time she had an instinctive feeling
that had he known her name a thousand times he would not have
communicated with her. She knew by that exalted look of renunciation
upon his face that no longing whatsoever could make him overstep the
bounds which he had laid down between her soul and his.
With a sigh she opened the little book, and it fell apart of itself to
the place where he had read the night before, the page still marked by
the little silk cord he had placed so carefully. She could see him now
with the firelight flickering on his face, and the moonlight silvering
his head, that strong tender look upon his face. How wonderful he had
been!
She read the psalm over now herself, the first time in her life she had
ever consciously given herself to reading the Bible. But there was a
charm about the words that gave them new meaning, the charm of his voice
as she heard them in memory and watched again his face change and stir
at the words as he read.
The day waned and the train flew on, but the landscape had lost its
attraction now for the girl. She pleaded weariness and remained apart
from the rest, dreaming over her wonderful experience, and thinking new
deep thoughts of wonder, regret, sadness, joy, and when night fell and
the great moon rose lighting the world again, she knelt beside her car
window, looking long into the wide clear sky, the sky that covered him
and herself; the moon that looked down upon them both. Then switching on
the electric light over her berth she read the psalm once more, and fell
asleep with her cheek upon the little book and in her heart a prayer for
him.
John Brownleigh, standing upon the station platform, watching the train
disappear behind the foot-hills, experienced, for the first time since
his coming to Arizona, a feeling of the utmost desolation. Lonely he had
been, and homesick, sometimes, but always with a sense that he was
master of it all, and that with the delight of his work it would pass
and leave him free and glad in the power wherewith his God had called
him to the service. But now he felt that with this train the light of
life was going from him, and all the glory of Arizona and the world in
which he had loved to be was darkened on her account. For a moment or
two his soul cried out that it could not be, that he must mount some
winged steed and speed after her whom his heart had enthroned. Then the
wall of the inevitable appeared before his eager eyes, and Reason
crowded close to bring him to his senses. He turned away to hide the
emotion in his face. The stolid Indian boy, who had been holding both
horses, received his customary smile and pleasant word, but the
missionary gave them more by habit than thought this time. His soul had
entered its Gethsemane, and his spirit was bowed within him.
As soon as he could get away from the people about the station who had
their little griefs and joys and perplexities to tell him, he mounted
Billy, and leading the borrowed pony rode away into the desert,
retracing the way they had come together but a short time before.
Billy was tired and walked slowly, drooping his head, and his master was
sad at heart, so there was no cheerful converse between them as they
travelled along.
It was not far they went, only back to the edge of the corn, where they
had made their last stop of the journey together a few short hours
before, and here the missionary halted and gave the beasts their freedom
for a respite and refreshment. He himself felt too weary of soul to go
further.