Suddenly her pony stumbled and nearly fell. She saw that she could not
depend on him for long now.
"Couldn't I walk with you?" she asked, her eyes pleading. "I would
rather walk than stay. Is it far?"
The Indian shook his head vigorously.
"Lady no walk. Many suns lady walk. Great mile. Lady stay. Me ride fast.
Back sundown," and he pointed to the sun which was even now beginning
its downward course.
Hazel saw there was nothing for it but to do as the Indian said, and
indeed his words seemed reasonable, but she was very much frightened.
What kind of a place was this in which she was to stay? As they neared
it there appeared to be nothing but a little weather-beaten shanty, with
a curiously familiar look, as if she had passed that way before. A few
chickens were picking about the yard, and a vine grew over the door, but
there was no sign of human being about and the desert stretched wide and
barren on every side. Her old fear of its vastness returned, and she
began to have a fellow feeling with Amelia Ellen. She saw now that she
ought to have gone with Amelia Ellen back to civilization and found
somebody who would have come with her on her errand. But then the letter
would have been longer delayed!
The thought of the letter kept up her courage, and she descended
dubiously from her pony's back, and followed the Indian to the door of
the shanty. The vine growing luxuriantly over window and casement and
door frame reassured her somewhat, she could not tell just why. Perhaps
somebody with a sense of beauty lived in the ugly little building, and a
man with a sense of beauty could not be wholly bad. But how was she to
stay alone in a man's house where no woman lived? Perhaps the man would
have a horse to lend or sell them. She would offer any sum he wanted if
she only could get to a safe place.
But the Indian did not knock at the door as she had expected he would
do. Instead he stooped to the lower step, and putting his hand into a
small opening in the woodwork of the step, fumbled there a minute and
presently brought out a key which he fitted into the lock and threw the
door wide open to her astonished gaze.
"Him friend me!" explained the Indian again.
He walked into the room with the manner of a partial proprietor of the
place, looked about, stooped down to the fireplace where a fire was
neatly laid, and set it blazing up cheerfully; took the water bucket and
filled it, and putting some water into the kettle swung it over the
blaze to heat, then turning, he spoke again:
"Lady stay. Me come back--soon. Sun no go down. Me come back; good horse
get lady."
"But where is the owner of this house? What will he think of my being
here when he comes back?" said Hazel, more frightened than ever at the
prospect of being left. She had not expected to stay entirely alone. She
had counted on finding some one in the house.
"Aneshodi way off. Not come back one--two--day mebbe! He know me. He me
friend. Lady stay! All right!"
Hazel, her eyes large with fear, watched her protector mount and ride
away. Almost she called after him that he must not leave her; then she
remembered that this was a part of a woman's life in Arizona, and she
was being tried. It was just such things as this the missionary had
meant when he said she was unfit for life out here. She would stay and
bear the loneliness and fright. She would prove, at least to herself,
that she had the courage of any missionary. She would not bear the
ignominy of weakness and failure. It would be a shame to her all her
life to know she had failed in this trying time.
She watched the Indian riding rapidly away as if he were in hot haste.
Once the suspicion crossed her mind that perhaps he had lamed her horse
on purpose, and left her here just to get rid of her. Perhaps this was
the home of some dreadful person who would return soon and do her harm.
She turned quickly, with alarm in her heart, to see what manner of place
she was in, for she had been too excited at first over the prospect of
being left to notice it much, save to be surprised that there were
chairs, a fireplace, and a look of comparative comfort. Now she looked
about to find out if possible just what sort of a person the owner might
be, and glancing at the table near the fireplace the first object her
eye fell upon was an open book, and the words that caught her vision
were: "He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide
under the shadow of the Almighty!"
With a start she turned the book over and found it was a Bible, bound in
plain, strong covers, with large, clear print, and it lay open as if the
owner had been reading it but a short time before and had been called
suddenly away.
With a sigh of relief she sank down in the big chair by the fire and let
the excited tears have their way. Somehow her fear all vanished with
that sentence. The owner of the house could not be very bad when he kept
his Bible about and open to that psalm, her psalm, her missionary's
psalm! And there was assurance in the very words themselves, as if they
had been sent to remind her of her new trust in an Unseen Power. If she
was making the Most High her dwelling place continually, surely she was
under His protection continually, and had no need to be afraid anywhere,
for she was abiding in Him. The thought gave her a strange new sense of
sweetness and safety.
After a moment she sat up wiping away the tears and began to look
around. Perhaps this was the home of some friend of her missionary. She
felt comforted about staying here now. She lifted her eyes to the wall
above the mantel and lo, there smiled the face of her dear friend, the
mother, who had just gone home to heaven, and beneath it--as if that
were not enough to bring a throb of understanding and joy to her
heart--beneath it hung her own little jewelled riding whip which she had
left on the desert a year ago and forgotten.
Suddenly, with a cry of joy, she rose and clasped her hands over her
heart, relief and happiness in every line of her face.
"It is his home! I have come to his own house!" she cried and looked
about her with the joy of discovery. This then was where he lived--there
were his books, here his chair where he sat and rested or studied--his
hands had left the Bible open at her psalm, his psalm--_their_ psalm!
There was his couch over behind the screen, and at the other end the
tiny table and the dishes in the closet! Everything was in place, and
careful neatness reigned, albeit an air of manlike uncertainty about
some things.
She went from one end to the other of the big room and back again,
studying every detail, revelling in the thought that now, whatever came
to her, she might take back with her a picture of himself in his own
quiet room when his work was laid aside for a little, and when, if ever
he had time and allowed himself, he perhaps thought of her.
Time flew on winged feet. With the dear face of her old friend smiling
down upon her and that psalm open beside her on the table, she never
thought of fear. And presently she remembered she was hungry, and went
foraging in the cupboard for something to eat. She found plenty of
supplies, and after she had satisfied her hunger sat down in the great
chair by the fire and looked about her in contentment. With the peace of
the room, his room, upon her, and the sweet old face from the picture
looking down in benediction as if in welcome, she felt happier than
since her father had died.
The quiet of the desert afternoon brooded outside, the fire burned
softly lower and lower at her side, the sun bent down to the west, and
long rays stole through the window and across at her feet, but the
golden head was drooping and the long-lashed eyes were closed. She was
asleep in his chair, and the dying firelight played over her face.
Then, quietly, without any warning, the door opened and a man walked
into the room!
XV
THE WAY OF THE CROSS
The missionary had been a far journey to an isolated tribe of Indians
outside his own reservation. It was his first visit to them since the
journey he had taken with his colleague, and of which he had told Hazel
during their companionship in the desert. He had thought to go sooner,
but matters in his own extended parish, and his trip East, had united to
prevent him.
They had lain upon his heart, these lonely, isolated people of another
age, living amid the past in their ancient houses high up on the cliffs;
a little handful of lonely, primitive children, existing afar; knowing
nothing of God and little of man; with their strange, simple ways, and
their weird appearance. They had come to him in visions as he prayed,
and always with a weight upon his soul as of a message undelivered.
He had taken his first opportunity after his return from the East to go
to them; but it had not been as soon as he had hoped. Matters in
connection with the new church had demanded his attention, and then when
they were arranged satisfactorily one of his flock was smitten with a
lingering illness, and so hung upon his friendship and companionship
that he could not with a clear conscience go far away. But at last all
hindrances subsided and he went forth on his mission.
The Indians had received him gladly, noting his approach from afar and
coming down the steep way to meet him, putting their rude best at his
disposal, and opening their hearts to him. No white man had visited them
since his last coming with his friend, save a trader who had lost his
way, and who knew little about the God of whom the missionary had
spoken, or the Book of Heaven; at least he had not seemed to understand.
Of these things he was as ignorant, perhaps, as they.
The missionary entered into the strange family life of the tribe who
inhabited the vast, many-roomed palace of rock carved high at the top of
the cliff. He laughed with them, ate with them, slept with them, and in
every way gained their full confidence. He played with their little
children, teaching them many new games and amusing tricks, and praising
the quick wits of the little ones; while their elders stood about, the
stolid look of their dusky faces relaxed into smiles of deep interest
and admiration.
And then at night he told them of the God who set the stars above them;
who made the earth and them, and loved them; and of Jesus, His only Son,
who came to die for them and who would not only be their Saviour, but
their loving companion by day and by night; unseen, but always at hand,
caring for each one of His children individually, knowing their joys and
their sorrows. Gradually he made them understand that he was the
servant--the messenger--of this Christ, and had come there for the
express purpose of helping them to know their unseen Friend. Around the
camp-fire, under the starry dome, or on the sunny plain, whenever he
taught them they listened, their faces losing the wild, half-animal look
of the uncivilized, and taking on the hidden longing that all mortals
have in common. He saw the humanity in them looking wistfully through
their great eyes, and gave himself to teach them.
Sometimes as he talked he would lift his face to the sky, and close his
eyes; and they would listen with awe as he spoke to his Father in
heaven. They watched him at first and looked up as if they half
expected to see the Unseen World open before their wondering gaze; but
gradually the spirit of devotion claimed them, and they closed their
eyes with him, and who shall say if the savage prayers within their
breasts were not more acceptable to the Father than many a wordy
petition put up in the temples of civilization?
Seven days and nights he abode with them, and they fain would have
claimed him for their own, and begged him to give up all other places
and live there always. They would give him of their best. He would not
need to work, for they would give him his portion, and make him a home
as he should direct them. In short, they would enshrine him in their
hearts as a kind of under-god, representing to their childish minds the
true and Only One, the knowledge of whom he had brought to them.
But he told them of his work, of why he must go back to it, and sadly
they prepared to bid him good-bye with many an invitation for return. In
going down the cliff, where he had gone with them many a time before, he
turned to wave another farewell to a little child who had been his
special pet, and turning, slipped, and wrenched his ankle so badly that
he could not move on.
They carried him up to their home again, half sorrowful, but wholly
triumphant. He was theirs for a little longer; and there were more
stories he could tell. The Book of Heaven was a large one, and they
wanted to hear it all. They spread his couch of their best, and wearied
themselves to supply his necessity with all that their ignorance
imagined he needed, and then they sat at his feet and listened. The
sprain was a troublesome one and painful, and it yielded to treatment
but slowly; meanwhile the messenger arrived with the telegram from the
East.
They gathered about it, that sheet of yellow paper with its mysterious
scratches upon it, which told such volumes to their friend, but gave no
semblance to sign language of anything in heaven above or earth beneath.
They looked with awe upon their friend as they saw the anguish in his
countenance. His mother was dead! This man who had loved her, and had
left her to bring them news of salvation, was suffering. It was one more
bond between them, one more tie of common humanity. And yet he could
look up and smile, and still speak to the invisible Father! They saw his
face as it were the face of an angel with the light of the comfort of
Christ upon it; and when he read to them and tried to make them
understand the majestic words: "O death, where is thy sting? O grave,
where is thy victory?" they sat and looked afar off, and thought of the
ones that they had lost. This man said they would all live again. His
mother would live; the chief they had lost last year, the bravest and
youngest chief of all their tribe, he would live too; their little
children would live; all they had lost would live again.
So, when he would most have wished to be alone with his God and his
sorrow, he must needs lay aside his own bitter grief, and bring these
childish people consolation for their griefs, and in doing so the
comfort came to him also. For somehow, looking into their longing faces,
and seeing their utter need, and how eagerly they hung upon his words,
he came to feel the presence of the Comforter standing by his side in
the dark cave shadows, whispering to his heart sweet words that he long
had known but had not fully comprehended because his need for them had
never come before. Somehow time and things of earth receded, and only
heaven and immortal souls mattered. He was lifted above his own loss and
into the joy of the inheritance of the servant of the Lord.
But the time had come, all too soon for his hosts, when he was able to
go on his way; and most anxious he was to be started, longing for
further news of the dear one who was gone from him. They followed him in
sorrowful procession far into the plain to see him on his way, and then
returned to their mesa and their cliff home to talk of it all and
wonder.
Alone upon the desert at last, the three great mesas like fingers of a
giant hand stretching cloudily behind him; the purpling mountains in the
distance; the sunlight shining vividly down over all the bright sands;
the full sense of his loss came at last upon him, and his spirit was
bowed with the weight of it. The vision of the Mount was passed, and the
valley of the shadow of life was upon him. It came to him what it would
be to have no more of his mother's letters to cheer his loneliness; no
thought of her at home thinking of him; no looking forward to another
home-coming.
As he rode he saw none of the changing landscape by the way, but only
the Granville orchard with its showering pink and white, and his mother
lying happily beside him on the strawberry bank picking the sweet vivid
berries, and smiling back to him as if she had been a girl. He was glad,
glad he had that memory of her. And she had seemed so well, so very
well. He had been thinking that perhaps when there was hope of building
a little addition to his shack and making a possible place of comfort
for her, that he might venture to propose that she come out to him and
stay. It was a wish that had been growing, growing in his lonely heart
since that visit home when it seemed as if he could not tear himself
away from her and go back; and yet knew that he could not stay--would
not want to stay, because of his beloved work. And now it was over
forever, his dream! She would never come to cheer his home, and he would
always have to live a lonely life--for he knew in his heart there was
only one girl in the whole world he would want to ask to come, and her
he might not, must not ask.
As endless and as desolate as his desert his future lay stretched out
before his mind. For the time his beloved work and the joy of service
was sunk out of sight, and he saw only himself, alone, forsaken of all
love, walking his sorrowful way apart; and there surged over him a great
and deadly weakness as of a spirit in despair.
In this mind he lay down to rest in the shadow of a great rock about the
noon hour, too weary in spirit and exhausted in body to go further
without a sleep. The faithful Billy dozed and munched his portion not
far away; and high overhead a great eagle soared high and far, adding to
the wide desolateness of the scene. Here he was alone at last for the
first time with his grief, and for a while it had its way, and he faced
it; entering into his Gethsemane with bowed spirit and seeing nothing
but blackness all about him. It was so, worn with the anguish of his
spirit, that he fell asleep.
While he slept there came to him peace; a dream of his mother, smiling,
well, and walking with a light free step as he remembered her when he
was a little boy; and by her side the girl he loved. How strange, and
wonderful, that these two should come to him and bring him rest! And
then, as he lay still dreaming, they smiled at him and passed on, hand
in hand, the girl turning and waving her hand as if she meant to return;
and presently they passed beyond his sight. Then One stood by him,
somewhere within the shelter of the rock under which he lay, and spoke;
and the Voice thrilled his soul as it had never been thrilled in life
before:
"Lo, _I_ am with you _alway_, even unto the end of
the world."
The Peace of that Invisible Presence descended upon him in full measure,
and when he awoke he found himself repeating: "The peace which passeth
understanding!" and realizing that for the first time he knew what the
words meant.
Some time he lay quietly like a child who had been comforted and cared
for, wondering at the burden which had been lifted, glorying in the
peace that had come in its place; rejoicing in the Presence that he felt
would be with him always, and make it possible for him to bear the
loneliness.
At last he turned his head to see if Billy were far away, and was
startled to see the shadow of the rock, under which he lay, spread out
upon the sand before him, the semblance of a perfect mighty cross. For
so the jutting uneven arms of the rock and the position of the sun
arranged the shadows before him. "The shadow of a great rock in a weary
land." The words came to his memory, and it seemed to be his mother's
voice repeating them as she used to do on Sabbath evenings when they sat
together in the twilight before his bedtime. A weary land! It _was_ a
weary land now, and his soul had been parched with the heat and
loneliness. He had needed the rock as he had never needed it before, and
the Rock, Christ Jesus, had become a rest and a peace to his soul. But
there it lay spread out upon the sand beside him, and it was the way of
the cross; the Christ way was always the way of the cross. But what was
the song they sang at that great meeting he attended in New York? "The
way of the cross leads home." Ah, that was it. Some day it would lead
him home, but now it was the way of the cross and he must take it with
courage, and always with that unseen but close Companion who had
promised to be with him even to the end of the world.
Well, he would rise up at once, strong in that blessed companionship.
Cheerfully he made his preparations for starting, and now he turned
Billy's head a trifle to the south, for he decided to stop over night
with his colleague.
When his grief and loneliness were fresh upon him it had seemed that he
could not bear this visit. But since peace had come to his soul he
changed his course to take in the other mission, which was really on his
way, only that he had purposely avoided it.
They made him welcome, those two who had made a little bit of earthly
paradise out of their desert shack; and they compelled him to stay with
them and rest three days, for he was more worn with the journey and his
recent pain and sorrow than he realized. They comforted him with their
loving sympathy and gladdened his soul with the sight of their own joy,
albeit it gave him a feeling of being set apart from them. He started in
the early dawn of the day when the morning star was yet visible, and as
he rode through the beryl air of the dawning hour he was uplifted from
his sadness by a sense of the near presence of Christ.
He took his way slowly, purposely turning aside three times from the
trail to call at the hogans of some of his parishioners; for he dreaded
the home-coming as one dreads a blow that is inevitable. His mother's
picture awaited him in his own room, smiling down upon his possessions
with that dear look upon her face, and to look at it for the first time
knowing that she was gone from earth forever was an experience from
which he shrank inexpressibly. Thus he gave himself more time, knowing
that it was better to go calmly, turning his mind back to his work, and
doing what she would have liked him to do.
He camped that night under the sheltered ledge where he and Hazel had
been, and as he lay down to sleep he repeated the psalm they had read
together that night, and felt a sense of the comfort of abiding under
the shadow of the Almighty.
In visions of the night he saw the girl's face once more, and she smiled
upon him with that glad welcoming look, as though she had come to be
with him always. She did not say anything in the dream, but just put out
her hands to him with a motion of surrender.
The vision faded as he opened his eyes, yet so real had it been that it
remained with him and thrilled him with the wonder of her look all day.
He began to ponder whether he had been right in persistently putting her
out of his life as he had done. Bits of her own sentences came to him
with new meaning and he wondered after all if he had not been a fool.
Perhaps he might have won her. Perhaps God had really sent her to him to
be his life companion, and he had been too blind to understand.
He put the idea from him many times with a sigh as he mended the fire
and prepared his simple meal, yet always her face lingered sweetly in
his thoughts, like balm upon his saddened spirit.
Billy was headed towards home that morning, and seemed eager to get on.
He had not understood his master these sad days. Something had come over
his spirits. The little horse neighed cheerfully and started on his way
with willing gait. However lonely the master might be, home was good,
with one's own stall and manger; and who might tell but some
presentiment told Billy that the princess was awaiting them?
The missionary endeavoured to keep his thoughts upon his work and plans
for the immediate future, but try as he would the face of the girl kept
smiling in between; and all the beauties of the way combined to bring
back the ride he had taken with her; until finally he let his fancy
dwell upon her with pleasant thoughts of how it would be if she were
his, and waiting for him at the end of his journey; or better still,
riding beside him at this moment, bearing him sweet converse on the way.
The little shack stood silent, familiar, in the setting sunlight, as he
rode up to the door, and gravely arranged for Billy's comfort, then with
his upward look for comfort he went towards his lonely home and opening
the door stood wondering upon the threshold!
XVI
THE LETTER
It was only an instant before she opened her eyes, for that subconscious
state, that warns even in sleep of things that are going on outside the
world of slumber, told her there was another soul present.