man saw no harm in it, and was fully convinced that it was merely her
way of punishing some over ardent follower for a few days; and feeling
sure she would soon return, he let her go. She had had her way all her
life, and why should he cross her in so simple a matter as a few days'
rest in a country inn with a respectable chaperone?
The letter to the landlord was outtravelled by a telegram whose answer
sent Hazel on her way the next morning, thankful that she had been able
to get away during a temporary absence of Milton Hamar, and that her
father had promised not to let any of her friends know of her
whereabouts. His eye had twinkled as he made the promise. He was quite
sure which of her many admirers was being punished, but he did not tell
her so. He intended to be most judicious with all her young men friends.
He so confided his intentions to Milton Hamar that evening, having no
thought that Hazel would mind their old friend's knowing.
Two days later Hazel, after establishing her little party comfortably in
the best rooms the New Hampshire inn afforded, putting a large box of
new novels at their disposal, and another of sweets, and sending orders
for new magazines to be forwarded, went over to call on the sweet old
lady towards whom her heart had been turning eagerly, with a longing
that would not be put away, ever since that first accidental, or
providential, meeting.
When she came back, through the first early snow-storm, with her cheeks
like winter roses and her furry hat all feathered with great white
flakes, she found Milton Hamar seated in front of the open fire in the
office making the air heavy with his best tobacco, and frowning
impatiently through the small-paned windows.
The bright look faded instantly from her face and the peace which she
had almost caught from the woman across the way. Her eyes flashed
indignantly, and her whole small frame stiffened for the combat that she
knew must come now. There was no mistaking her look. Milton Hamar knew
at once that he was not welcome. She stood for an instant with the door
wide open, blowing a great gust of biting air across the wide room and
into his face. A cloud of smoke sprang out from the fireplace to meet it
and the two came together in front of the man, and made a visible wall
for a second between him and the girl.
He sprang to his feet, cigar in hand, and an angry exclamation upon his
lips. The office, fortunately, was without other occupant.
"Why in the name of all that's unholy did you lead me a race away off to
this forsaken little hole in midwinter, Hazel?" he cried.
Hazel drew herself to her full height and with the dignity that well
became her, answered him:
"Really, Mr. Hamar, what right have you to speak to me in that way? And
what right had you to follow me?"
"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 to coquet, but it seems all women are
alike."
"Mr. Hamar, you are forgetting yourself," said the girl quietly, turning
to shut the door that she might gain time to get control of her shaken
nerves. She had a swift vision of what it would be if she were married
to a man like that. No wonder his wife was entirely willing to give 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 to be quiet," Hazel said trying to steady her
voice, "and--I will tell you the whole truth. I came because I wanted to
get away from--you! I have not liked the way you acted towards me
since--that day--in Arizona."
The man's fierce brows drew together, but a kind of mask of apology
overspread his features. He perceived that he had gone too far with the
girl whom he had thought scarcely more than a child. He had thought he
could mould her like wax, and that his scorn would instantly wither her
wiles. He watched her steadily for a full minute; the girl, though
trembling in every nerve, sending 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 would be willing to be a party
to such an awful thing as you have 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 great summer
chair nearer to his own. His eyes were on her face approvingly and he
was thinking what a beautiful picture she made in her anger.
"Never!" said the girl quickly. "It is not a thing I could talk over. I
do not wish to speak of it again. I wish you to leave this place at
once," and she turned with a quick movement and fled up the quaint old
staircase.
She stayed in her room until he left, utterly refusing to see him,
refusing to answer the long letters he wrote and sent up to her; and
finally, after another day, he went away. But he wrote to her several
times, and came again twice, each time endeavouring to surprise her into
talking with him. The girl grew to watch nervously every approach of the
daily stage which brought stray travellers from the station four miles
distant, and was actually glad when a heavy snow-storm shut them in and
made it unlikely that her unwelcome visitor would venture again into the
country.
The last time he came Hazel saw him descending from the coach, and
without a word to any one, although it was almost supper time, and the
early winter twilight was upon them, she seized her fur cloak and
slipped down the back stairs, out through the shadows, across the road,
where 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, and Amelia Ellen
stood astonished and 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 her brilliant garden of flowers,
having been the crowning of her life hitherto. This beautiful city girl
with her exquisite garments and her face like a flower, flung upon her
in sudden appeal, drew out all the latent love and pity and sympathy of
which Amelia Ellen had a larger store than most, hidden under a simple
and severe exterior.
"Fer the land's sake! Whatever ails you!" she exclaimed when she could
speak for astonishment, and to her own surprise her arm enclosed the
sobbing girl in a warm embrace while with the other hand she reached to
close the door. "Come right in to my kitchen and set in the big chair by
the cat and let me give you a cup o' 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. It was characteristic of
Amelia Ellen that she had no thought of ministering to her spiritual
needs herself, but knew her place was to bring physical comfort.
She spoke no word save to the cat, admonishing him to mend his manners
and keep out from under foot, 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 the 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
shamedly, "but I'm just so tired of the way things go. You see somebody
I don't a bit like 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 nice and kind that I couldn't keep the tears
back."
From that instant Amelia Ellen, toasting fork in hand, watching the
sweet blue eyes and the tear-stained face that resembled a drenched pink
bud after a storm, loved Hazel Radcliffe. Come weal, come woe, Amelia
Ellen was from henceforth her staunch admirer and defendant.
"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't touch you over here. I'm not lettin' in
people by night 'thout I know 'em," and she winked knowingly 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 that Amelia Ellen had prepared for her, with
sheets of fragrant linen redolent of sweet clover. Her heart was lighter
for the simple, kindly advice and the gentle love that had been showered
upon her. She wondered, as she lay half dozing in the morning with the
faint odour of coffee and muffins penetrating the atmosphere, why it was
that she could love this beautiful mother of her hero so much more
tenderly than she had ever loved any other woman. Was it because she had
never known her own mother and had 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 her unwelcome lover, strong in the courage that friendly
counsel had given her.
Milton Hamar left before dinner, having been convinced at last of the
uselessness 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; her brother had
gone abroad for the winter with a party of college friends. There was no
real reason why she should return to New York for some time, and she
decided to stay and learn of this saintly woman how to look wisely on
the things of life. To her own heart she openly acknowledged that there
was a deep pleasure in being near one 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 had found the country winter too lonely and Hazel had 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 a long strain of 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 much time
with Mrs. Brownleigh.
They read together, at least Hazel did the reading, for the older eyes
were growing dim, and had to be guarded to prevent the terrible
headaches which 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 of which she had never heard were at her hand. New
thoughts and feelings were stirred by them. A few friends who knew Mrs.
Brownleigh through their summer visits, and others who had known her
husband, kept her well supplied with the latest and always the 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 with zest all of them,
and enjoyed deeply the pleasant converse concerning each. Her eyes were
being opened to new ways of living. She was beginning to know that there
was an existence more satisfying than just to go from one round of
amusement to another. And always, more than in any other thing she read,
she took a most unusual interest in home missionary literature. It was
not because it was so new and strange and like a fairy tale, nor because
she knew her friend enjoyed hearing all this news so much, but because
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 into touch with
surroundings like his, to understand better what he had to endure, and
why he had not dared to ask her to share his life, his hardship--most
of all why he had not thought her worthy to suffer with him.
When she grew tired of reading she would go out into the kitchen and
help Amelia Ellen. It was her own whim that she should 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 gay scene to another,
dancing and frivolling through the night and sleeping away the morning,
Hazel bared her round white arms, enveloped herself in a clean
blue-checked apron, and learned to make bread and pies and gingerbread
and puddings and doughnuts and fruit-cake, how 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
that 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 become 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 far-away 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 that
she 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 had
been reading her letter. The letter itself would be hidden away out of
sight in the bosom of her soft gray gown, to be read again and again
when she was alone, but seldom was it brought out in the presence of the
visitor, much as the mother was growing to love this girl. Frequently
there were bits of news.
"My son says he is very glad I am 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 as she tucked the wool robe about her
friend's helpless form. And again:
"My son is starting to build a church. He is very happy about it. They
have heretofore held worship in a schoolhouse. He has collected a good
deal of the money himself, and he will help to put up the building with
his own hands. He is going to send me a photograph when it is up. I
would like to be present when it is 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 fancied it was
quite near the place where they had 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 there came a missionary magazine with a short article on
the work of 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 leaves, came upon the picture and held her breath
with astonishment and delight; then rapidly glanced over the article,
her heart beating wildly as though she had 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 tenderer 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 colour flooding her face at once, replied hesitatingly:
"Oh, why--I--feel--almost--as--though--we _were_!" Then she kissed her
friend on the soft cheek and hurried back to the inn.
It was that night that the telegram came to say that her father had been
seriously injured in a railway accident and would be brought home at
once. She had no time to think of anything then but to hurry her
belongings together and hasten to New York.
XII
QUALIFYING FOR SERVICE
During the six weeks' lingering suffering that followed the accident
Hazel was never far from her father's bedside. It seemed as though a new
bond of understanding had come between them.
He was very low and there was little hope from the beginning. As he grew
weaker he seemed never to want his daughter out of sight, and once when
he woke suddenly to find her close beside him, a smile of relief spread
over his face, and he told her in brief words that he had dreamed she
was lost again in Arizona, and that he had 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 had been
haunted by her face as she was a tiny baby after her mother died, and it
seemed to him he should go mad if he could not find her at once.
Then to soothe him she told him of the missionary, and how gently he
had cared for her; told him of all the pleasant little 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 life of sacrifice the missionary
was leading: "Well, I don't know but such things are more worth while
after all."
And then with sudden impulse she told him of her finding his mother, and
why she had wanted to go to the country in the middle of the society
season, because she wanted to know more of the peaceful life this woman
lived.
"Perhaps you will meet him again. Who knows?" said the father, looking
wistfully at his lovely daughter, and then he turned his head away and
sighed again.
As the confidence grew between them she told him one day of Milton
Hamar's unwelcome proposal, and the indignation of the father knew no
bounds.
It was after that she ventured to read to him from the little book, and
to tell of the worship held out under the stars in the desert. It came
to be a habit between them, as the days grew less, that she should read
the little book, and afterwards he would always lie still as if he were
asleep.
It was on the words of the precious psalm that he closed his eyes for
the last time in this world, and it was the psalm that brought comfort
to the daughter's heart when she came back to the empty house after the
funeral.
Her brother was there, it is true, but he was afraid of death, and
wanted to get back to his world again, back to the European trip where
he had left his friends, and especially a gay young countess who had
smiled upon him. He was impatient of death and sorrow. Hazel saw that he
could not comprehend her loneliness, so she bade him go as soon as
decency would allow, and he was not long in obeying her. He had had his
own way all his life, and even death was not to deny him.
The work of the trained nurses who had cared for her father interested
Hazel deeply. She had talked with them about their life and preparation
for it, and when she could no longer stand the great empty house with
only Aunt Maria for company, who had come back just before Mr.
Radcliffe's death, she determined to become a nurse herself.
There was much ado over her decision among her acquaintances, and Aunt
Maria thought it was not quite respectable for her to do so eccentric a
thing and so soon after her father's death. She would have preferred to
have had her run down to Lakewood for a few weeks and then follow her
brother across the water for a year or two of travel; but Hazel was
quite determined, and before January was over she was established in the
hospital, through the influence of their family physician, and
undergoing her first initiation.
It was not easy thus to give up her life of doing exactly as she pleased
when she pleased, and become a servant under orders. Her back often
ached, and her eyes grew heavy with the watching and the ministering,
and she would be almost ready to give over. Then the thought of the man
of the desert gave her new courage and strength. It came to her that she
was partaking with him in the great work of the kingdom, and with this
thought she would rise and go about the strange new work again, until
her interest in the individuals to whom she ministered grew deep, and
she understood in a measure the reason for the glory in the face of the
missionary as he spoke in the starlight about his work.
Often her heart went out wistfully towards her invalid friend in New
Hampshire, and she would rest herself by writing a long letter, and
would cherish the delicately written answers. Now and again there would
be some slight reference to "my son" in these letters. As the spring
came on they were more frequent, for May would bring the General
Assembly, and the son was to be one of the speakers. How her heart
throbbed when she read that this was certain now. A few days later when
she happened to read in the daily paper some item about Assembly plans
and discovered for the first time that it was to meet in New York, she
found herself in a flutter of joy. Would it be possible for her to hear
him speak? That was the great question that kept coming and going in her
mind. Could she arrange it so that she would be sure to be off duty when
his time came to speak? How could she find out about it all? Thereafter
her interest in the church news of the daily papers became deep.
Then spring came on with its languid air and the hard round of work,
with often a call to watch when overcome with weariness, or to do some
unaccustomed task that tried her undisciplined soul. But the papers were
full of the coming Assembly, and at last the program and his name!
She laid her plans most carefully, but the case she had been put upon
that week was very low, dying, and the woman had taken a fancy to her
and begged her to stay by her till the end. It was a part of the new
Hazel that she stayed, though her heart rose up in protest and tears of
disappointment would keep coming to her eyes. The head nurse marked them
with disapproval and told the house doctor that Radcliffe would never
make much of a nurse; she had no control over her emotions.
Death came, almost too late, and set her free for the afternoon, but it
was but half an hour to the time set for his speech, she was three miles
from the place of meeting and still in her uniform. It was almost
foolish to try. Nevertheless she hurried to her room and slipped into a
plain little street suit, the thing that would go on quickest, and was
away.
It seemed as though every cab and car and mode of transit had conspired
to hinder her, and five minutes before the time set for the next speech
she hurried breathless into the dim hallway of a great crowded church,
and pressed up the stairs to the gallery, through the silent leather
doors that could scarcely swing open for the crowd inside them, and
heard at last--_his_ voice!