close all about her. She could not catch even a glimpse of the platform
with its array of noble men whose consecration and power and intellects
had made them great religious leaders. She could not see the young
commanding figure standing at the edge of the platform, nor catch the
flash of his brown eyes as he held the audience in his power while he
told the simple story of his Western work; but she could hear the voice,
and it went straight to her lonely, sorrowful heart. Straightway the
church with its mass of packed humanity, its arched and carven ceiling,
its magnificent stained-glass windows, its wonderful organ and costly
fittings, faded from her sight, and overhead there arched a dome of dark
blue pierced with stars, and mountains in the distance with a canyon
opening, and a flickering fire. She heard the voice speak from its
natural setting, though her eyes were closed and full of tears.
He finished his story amid a breathless silence on the part of his
audience, and then with scarcely a break in his voice spoke to God in
one of his uplifting prayers. The girl, trembling, almost sobbing, felt
herself included in the prayer, felt again the protection of an unseen
Presence, felt the benediction in his voice as he said, "Amen," and
echoed its utmost meaning in her soul.
The audience was still hushed as the speaker turned to go to his seat at
the back of the platform. A storm of applause had been made impossible
by that prayer, for heaven opened with the words and God looked down and
had to do with each soul present. But the applause burst forth after all
in a moment, for the speaker had whispered a few words to the moderator
and was hurrying from the platform. There were cries of, "Don't go! Tell
us more! Keep on till six o'clock!" Hazel could not see a thing though
she stretched her neck and stood upon the tips of her toes, but she
clasped her hands tightly together when the applause came, and her heart
echoed every sound.
The clamour ceased a moment as the moderator raised his hand, and
explained that the brother to whom they had all been listening with such
pleasure would be glad to speak to them longer, but that he was
hastening away to take the train to see his invalid mother who had been
waiting for two long years for her boy. A pause, a great sigh of
sympathy and disappointment, and then the applause burst forth again,
and continued till the young missionary had left the church.
Hazel, in bitter disappointment, turned and slipped out. She had not
caught a glimpse of his beloved face. She exulted that she had heard the
honour given him, been a part of those who rejoiced in his power and
consecration, but she could not have him go without having at least one
look at him.
She hurried blindly down the stairs, out to the street, and saw a
carriage standing before the door. The carriage door had just been
closed, but as she gazed he turned and looked out for an instant,
lifting his hat in farewell to a group of ministers who stood on the
church steps. Then the carriage whirled him away and the world grew
suddenly blank.
She had been behind the men on the steps, just within the shadow of the
dim doorway. He had not seen her, and of course would not have
recognized her if he had; yet now she realized that she had
hoped--oh--what had she not hoped from meeting him here!
But he was gone, and it might be years before he came East again. He had
utterly put her from his life. He would not think of her again if he did
come! Oh, the loneliness of a world like this! Why, oh why, had she ever
gone to the desert to learn the emptiness of her life, when there was
no other for her anywhere!
The days that followed were very sad and hard. The only thought that
helped now was that she too had tried to give her life for something
worth while as he had done, and perhaps it might be accepted. But there
was a deep unrest in her soul now, a something that she knew she had not
got that she longed inexpressibly to have. She had learned to cook and
to nurse. She was not nearly so useless as when she rode all care-free
upon the desert. She had overcome much of her unworthiness. But there
was still one great obstacle which unfitted her for companionship and
partnership with the man of the desert. She had not the something in her
heart and life that was the source and centre of self-sacrifice. She was
still unworthy.
There was a long letter about the first of June from her friend in New
Hampshire, more shakily written, she fancied, than those that had come
before, and then there came an interval without any reply to hers. She
had little time, however, to worry about it, for the weather was
unusually warm and the hospital was full. Her strength was taxed to its
utmost to fill her round of daily duties. Aunt Maria scolded and
insisted on a vacation, and finally in high dudgeon betook herself to
Europe for the summer. The few friends with whom Hazel kept up any
intercourse hurried away to mountains or sea, and the summer settled
down to business.
And now in the hot, hot nights when she lay upon her small bed, too
weary almost to sleep, she would fancy she heard again that voice as he
spoke in the church, or longer ago in the desert; and sometimes she
could think she felt the breeze of the desert night upon her hot
forehead.
The head nurse and the house doctor decided Radcliffe needed a change
and suggested a few days at the shore with a convalescing patient, but
Hazel's heart turned from the thought, and she insisted upon sticking to
her post. She clung to the thought that she could at least be faithful.
It was what he would do, and in so much she would be like him, and
worthy of his love.
It was the last thought in her mind before she fainted on the broad
marble staircase with a tiny baby in her arms, and fell to the bottom.
The baby was uninjured, but it took a long time to bring the nurse back
to consciousness, and still longer to put heart into her again.
"She isn't fit for the work!" she heard the biting tongue of the head
nurse declare. "She's too frail and pretty and--emotional. She feels
everybody's troubles. Now I never let a case worry me in the least!" And
the house doctor eyed her knowingly and said in his heart:
"Any one would know that."
But Hazel, listening, was more disheartened than ever. Then here, too,
she was failing and was adjudged unworthy!
The next morning there came a brief, blunt note from Amelia Ellen: "Dear
Mis Raclift Ef yore a trainurse why don't yo cum an' take car o' my Mis
Brownleigh She aint long fer heer an she's wearyin to see yo She as
gotta hev one, a trainurse I mean Yors respectfooly Amelia Ellen Stout."
After an interview with the house doctor and another with her old family
physician, Hazel packed up her uniforms and departed for New Hampshire.
It was the evening of her arrival, after the gentle invalid had been
prepared for sleep and left in the quiet and dark, that Amelia Ellen
told the story:
"She ain't ben the same since John went back. Seems like she sort o'
sensed thet he wouldn't come again while she was livin'. She tole me the
next day a lot of things she wanted done after she was gone, and she's
ben gettin' ready to leave this earth ever since. Not that she's gloomy,
oh, my senses no! She's jes' as interested as can be in her flowers, and
in folks, an' the church, but she don't want to try to do so many
things, and she has them weak, fainty spells oftener, an' more pain in
her heart. She sits fer long hours with jest her Bible open now, but
land, she don't need to read it! She knows it most by heart--that is the
livin' parts, you know. She don't seem to care 'tall fer them magazine
articles now any more. I wish t' the land they'd be anuther Gen'l
'Sembly! Thet was the greatest thing fer her. She jest acted like she
was tendin' every blessed one o' them meetin's. Why, she couldn't wait
fer me t' git done my breakfast dishes. She'd want me t' fix her up fer
the day, an' then set down an' read their doin's. 'We kin let things go,
you know, 'Meelia Ellen,' she'd say with her sweet little smile, 'just
while the meetin's last. Then when it's over they'll be time 'nough fer
work--an' rest too, 'Meelia Ellen,' says she. Well, seems like she was
just 'tendin' those meetin's herself, same es if she was there. She'd
take her nap like it was a pill, er somethin', and then be wide awake
an' ready fer her afternoon freshenin', an' then she'd watch fer the
stage to bring the evenin' paper. John, he hed a whole cartload o'
papers sent, an' the day he spoke they was so many I jes' couldn't get
my bread set. I hed to borry a loaf off the inn. First time that's ever
happened to me either. I jest hed to set an' read till my back ached,
and my eyes swum. I never read so much in my whole borned days t' oncet;
an' I've done a good bit o' readin' in my time, too, what with nursin'
her an' bein' companion to a perfessor's invaleed daughter one summer.
"Wal, seems like she jest went on an' on, gettin' workeder-up an'
workeder-up, till the 'Sembly closed, an' he come; and she was clear to
the top o' the heap all them three weeks whilst he was here. Why, I
never seen her so bright since when I was a little girl an' went to her
Sunday-school class, an' she wore a poke bonnet trimmed with lute-string
ribbon an' a rose inside. Talk 'bout roses--they wasn't one in the
garden as bright an' pink as her two cheeks, an' her eyes shone jest fer
all the world like his. I was terrible troubled lest she'd break down,
but she didn't. She got brighter an' brighter. Let him take her out
ridin', an' let him carry her into the orchard an' lay her down under
the apple boughs where she could reach a wild strawberry herself. Why,
she hedn't ben off'n the porch sence he went away two years ago. But
every day he stayed she got brighter. 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
would 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 to-day yet. Maybe I'll
feel stronger to-morrow'; but to-morrow never comes, an' it's my
thinkin' she'll never git up agin."
The tears were streaming down the good woman's cheeks now and Hazel's
eyes were bright with tears too. She had 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
tear-stained face from her gingham apron where it had been 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 nor worry 'bout her."
"But her son----" faltered Hazel. "He ought to 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, and she shook her head and looked real frightened, and she says:
''Meelia Ellen, don't you never go to sendin' fer him 'thout lettin' me
know. I should _not_ 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 thet way to me."
But the next few days the invalid brightened perceptibly, and Hazel
began to be reassured. Sweet converse 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 all was told over and over and there was nothing
more to tell except the pleasant recalling of a funny speech, or some
tender happening, Hazel began to ask deeper questions about the things
of life and eternity; and step by step the older woman led her in the
path she had led her son through all the years of his childhood.
During this time she seemed to grow stronger again. There were days when
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 that she did
not send all that she had written in the envelope of the 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 am gone, and then I want you to promise
that, if possible for you to do it, you will give it to my son with your
own hands."
Hazel took the letter reverently, her heart filled with awe and sorrow
and stooped anxiously over her friend. "Oh, why"--she cried--"what is
the matter? Do you feel worse to-night? You have seemed so bright all
day."
"Not a bit," said the invalid cheerily. "But I have been writing this
for a long time--a sort of good-bye to my boy--and there is nobody in
the world I would like to have give it to him as well as you. Will it
trouble you to promise me, my dear?"
Hazel with kisses and tears protested that she would be glad to fulfill
the mission, but begged that she might be allowed to send for the
beloved son at once, for a sight of his face, she knew, would be good to
his mother.
At last her fears were allayed, though she was by no means sure that
the son ought not to be sent for, and when the invalid was happily gone
to sleep, Hazel went to her room and tried to think how she might write
a letter that would not alarm the young man, while yet it would bring
him to his mother's side. She planned how she would go away herself for
a few days, so that he need not 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 that he make at least
a brief visit at this time as she must be away for a few days, and she
felt that his presence would be a wise thing. His mother did not seem so
well as when he was with her. Then she lay down comforted to sleep. But
the letter was never sent.
In the early dawn of the morning, when 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 had been her custom for years, glanced to see if all
was well with her patient; at once she knew that the sweet spirit of the
mother had fled.
With her face slightly turned away, a smile of good-night upon her lips,
and the peace of God upon her brow, the mother had entered into her
rest.
XIII
THE CALL OF THE DESERT
Hazel, with her eyes blinded with tears and her heart swelling with the
loss of the woman upon whose motherliness she had come to feel a claim,
burned the letter she had written the night before, and sent a carefully
worded telegram, her heart yearning with sympathy towards the bereaved
son.
"Your dear mother has gone home, quietly, in her sleep. She did not 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 all broken up. Her practical common sense for once
had fled her. She would do nothing but weep and moan for the beloved
invalid whom she had served so long and faithfully. It fell to Hazel to
make all decisions, though the neighbours and old friends were most kind
with offers of help. Hazel waited anxiously for an answer to the
telegram, but night fell and no answer had come. There had been a storm
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 had not waited to telegraph but had
started immediately, and might be with them in a few hours. She watched
the evening stage, but he did not come; then realized how her heart was
in a flutter, and wondered how she would have had strength to meet him
had he come. There was the letter from his mother, and her promise. She
had that excuse for her presence--of course she could not have left
under the circumstances. Yet she shrank from the meeting, for it seemed
somehow a breach of etiquette that she should be the one to break the
separation that he had chosen should be between them.
However, he did not come, and the third morning, when it became
imperative that something definite should be known, a telegram to the
station agent in Arizona brought answer that the missionary was away on
a long trip among some tribes of Indians; that his exact whereabouts was
not known, but messengers had been sent after him, and word would be
sent as soon as possible. The minister and the old neighbours advised
with Amelia Ellen and Hazel, and made simple plans for the funeral, yet
hoped and delayed as long as possible, and when at last after repeated
telegrams there still came the answer, "Messenger not yet returned,"
they bore the worn-out body of the woman to a quiet resting place beside
her beloved husband in the churchyard on the hillside where 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 was gone.
Hazel tried to have every detail just as she thought he would have liked
it. The neighbours brought of their homely flowers in great quantities,
and some city friends who had been old summer boarders sent hot-house
roses. The minister conducted the beautiful service of faith, and the
village children sang about the casket of their old friend, who had
always loved every one of them, their hands full of the 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 had been
the hope of the one who was gone, so triumphant her faith in her
Saviour.
After the funeral was over Hazel sat down and wrote a letter telling
about it all, filling it with sympathy, trying to show their effort to
have things as he would have liked them, and expressing deep sorrow that
they had been compelled to go on with the service without him.
That night there came a message from the Arizona station agent. The
missionary had been found in a distant Indian hogan with a dislocated
ankle. He sent word that they must not wait for him; that he would get
there in time, if possible. A later message the next day said he was
still unable to travel, but would get 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, hearing
the beautiful plaint of the loving-hearted, mourning servant as she told
little incidents of her mistress. Here was the chair she sat in the last
time she went up-stairs to oversee the spring regulating, and that was
Mr. John's little baby dress in which he was christened. His mother
smoothed it out and told her the story of his baby loveliness one day.
She had laid it away herself in the box with the blue shoes and the
crocheted cap. It was the last time she ever came up-stairs.
There was the gray silk dress she wore to weddings and dinner parties
before her husband died, and beneath it in the trunk was the white
embroidered muslin that was her wedding gown. Yellow with age it was,
and delicate as a spider's web, with frostwork of yellowed broidery
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 treasures of the old trunk, that an inner sanctuary of
sweetness had been opened for her glimpsing.
At last a letter came from the West.
It was addressed to "Miss Radcliffe, Nurse," in 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 did not know.
He thanked her, with all the kindliness and courtliness of his mother's
son, for her attendance on his dear mother, and told her of many
pleasant things his mother had written of her ministrations. He spoke
briefly of his being laid up lamed in the Indian reservation and his
deep grief that he had been unable to come East to be beside his mother
during her last hours, but went on to say that it had been his mother's
wish, many times expressed, that he should not leave his post to come to
her, and that there need be "no sadness of farewell" when she
"embarked," and that though it was hard for him he knew it was a
fulfillment of his mother's desires. And now that she was gone, and the
last look upon her dear face was impossible, he had decided that he
could not bear it just yet to come home and see all the dear familiar
places with her face gone. He would wait a little while, until he had
grown used to the thought of her in heaven, and then it would not be so
hard. Perhaps he would not come home until next spring, unless something
called him; he could not tell. And in any case, his injured ankle
prevented him making the journey at present, no matter how much he may
desire to do so. Miss Radcliffe's letter had told him that everything
had been done just as he would have had it done. There was nothing
further to make it a necessity that he should come. He had written to
his mother's lawyer to arrange his mother's few business affairs, and it
only remained for him to express his deep gratitude towards those who
had stood by his dear mother when it had been made impossible for him
to do so. He closed with a request that the nurse would give him her
permanent address that he might be sure to find her when he found it
possible to come East again, as he would enjoy thanking her face to face
for what she had been to his mother.
That was all.