"I am so happy!" This had been the unbroken song of Amy Berl for the
five years of her married life. Maternity had not altered a line of her
girlish figure, neither had it crowned her with the rounded, satisfying
glory of womanhood. The ceaseless, parching winds had not dimmed the
lustre of her clear blue eyes, nor deadened the gloss of her soft flaxen
hair. Even the hot, dry air, so trying to most, only heightened the
beauty of her complexion, as the peach reveals the rich glow of its
color by diffusion through the meshes of its downy veil. Delicate in
face and figure, there was no suggestion of frailty, neither was there a
suggestion of strength. There was the glow of perfect health. In the
eyes that looked fearlessly and frankly into the eyes of others, there
was unmistakably a capacity for infinite happiness and infinite
suffering. This was all. The eyes were frank because they had nothing to
conceal; nor did they dream that other eyes differed from themselves.
They were fearless because they knew no sin in themselves or in others.
There was not strength of mind or of intellect to compel the fruition of
her desire for love. It must come to her without her volition or not at
all. As the flowers of the field unfold in beauty under sun and shower,
even so she grew and blossomed and was fair to look upon. As the flowers
of the field wither away in parching drought, even so would the beauty
of happiness fall from her shrinking soul. She was of a religious
nature, not because of a consciousness of its necessity to the human
soul, but because, to her, God was love and his works beautiful to look
upon. God to her was impersonal, because in her was not strength of
intellect to construct an entity from its manifestations. When Elijah
Berl came to her, she received him as a god. Her love was not selective;
it was responsive. Henceforth her daily prayers on her bended knees were
to her husband, not to the Divine Giver of every good and perfect gift.
Even when her first-born lay in her arms, the light that shone in her
eyes was not the giving of maternal love, but the thrill of assurance
that the helpless mite was but another bond that bound her happiness to
her soul and made it more her own. She gave with the unconscious
selfishness of a perfect mirror that which she received, no more, no
less.
Elijah Berl had not yet realized what his wife was, because he was
selfish in another way. He saw himself in his wife. For the present,
this sufficed. Five years of struggle in the land of golden promise had
not lessened his faith in himself, had not wearied his restless energy,
nor dulled his faith in his God. From New England's granite hills, he
believed God's hand had led him to this distant field. Since the day of
his birth, the firm, unwavering, fanatical belief that the Bible was
God's direct, unchangeable revelation to man, made him, as it had made
his father, impregnable to the assaults of reason. The figurative,
semi-scriptural language of his father and of his father's father had
been as the breath of his nostrils. It had become a part of him as it
was of his father. It was neither cant nor hypocrisy. "As it was
written," was an unanswerable dictum. The very things that had shaken
and are shaking to its foundation the faith in the Bible as an
infallible guide, only rooted Elijah the more firmly in his belief. In
California as in New England, he felt that in good time God's hand would
point out the work which He had planned for him to do. He was marking
time with restless steps, ready to swing into action when God should
give the word. Only one part of his work had he forecast in his mind. A
son of the soil, in the soil was his work to be. This was his unshaken
belief. From San Benito, under the shadow of abrupt mountains, over to
San Quentin where ragged chaparral grew as it might on the blood-red
hills, and where cottonwoods and willows throve rank on the moisture of
hidden streams, he had pitched his tent for the night and had folded it
in the morning. What mattered it to him that the scattered ranchers
looked approvingly upon his fair-haired wife, and, moved with pity for
her, cursed him as a heartless idiot; or that uncouth vaqueros shrugged
their shoulders and softly named him a locoed gringo?
The few dollars which he had brought with him from the East, had long
since been spent in his wanderings. The goodly sum which had come to him
on the death of his father, was no longer what it had been; yet he had
no thought of despair. The limit of his wanderings was narrowing in
concentric circles, and at length its centre was fixed. With almost his
last dollar, he had bought a wide ranch from a dreamy Mexican who had
then gone his way. Already the land around his was heaving and swelling
in undulating rolls that warn the mariner of a coming storm. Bearded
ranchers laughed in scorn, and mild-eyed Mexicans spoke even more
softly. What were a few seeping springs on the hillsides? What were the
hillsides themselves beside the rolling plains at their feet, where
herds of cattle fed and drank and mired themselves in green-fringed
cienagas? Elijah was disturbed no more than was Noah when he closed the
doors of his ark against the gibes of the unbelievers. His mission was
being disclosed, point by point and line by line, to his waiting eye.
Elijah deepened his springs and hoarded the water they gave. Between
rows of dark-green leaves, shrubs that faded not in summer's drouth nor
in winter's rains, he guided trickling streams, apportioning to each its
proper share. Through the day he toiled with increasing energy. Towards
each night, with Amy by his side, he rested by the door of his cottage
and looked below, over reddening hills, across the rolling plains,
beyond where the half-buried disc of the sun spread wide the golden
mantle of its light upon the wrinkling waters of the Pacific. Behind the
cottage, from the rock-strewn wash of the Rio Sangre de Cristo, the
lowest foot-hills rose to wooded slopes, grew to timbered mountains, up
and up till the forests gave way to the snow-capped peaks of the San
Bernardinos. "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills whence cometh my
help." In mid-day's toil when Elijah paused to rest his strained back,
or to wipe the perspiration from his streaming face, in the silence of
the night, when the moon lay white and still upon the slumbering
landscape, his eyes sought out the solemn mountains which were shaping
his dreams. He listened to the roar of the torrents that came faint with
distance, when the mountains wrung dry the clouds that shrouded their
peaks, or when the fierce sun swept away their winter's mantle of white.
He watched the surging flood that rolled breast-high in receding waves
through the Sangre de Cristo, tossing boulders like feathers in their
boisterous strength; watched it rush through torrid plains and finally
sink from sight beneath the sands. He watched the parched lips held to
the Tantalean cup, saw the few drops of stolen moisture quicken into
verdant life, saw, when the flood had passed by and the mountains had
ceased to give forth their murmurs, the mocking sun crackle the
up-sprung life to choking dust, and once more the shimmering heat-waves
rise in trembling agony from the tortured sands. Then the voice that was
calling him grew more distinct, the guiding hand more clearly outlined.
As the blood of Christ quickened into life the soul dead in sin, so
should the stream that bore His name quicken into blooming fields the
dead, dry sands of the desert. His lips moved reverently with his
unuttered words, a prayer for guidance, a chant of faith, as his eyes
swept from crest to crest of the blood-red hills that held the river of
the blood of Christ against the mountains of its birth.
In spite of his words to the contrary, Elijah was disturbed by Winston's
attitude. What was the flaw in his scheme that held Winston aloof?
Elijah was in an agony of doubt. Up and down the flower-scented paths,
through groves of orange, yellow with golden fruit, he paced with
restless steps. With all his soul he strained to catch an opening in the
clouds that held the future from his eyes. Little by little the sense of
depression yielded to his efforts, little by little the vision that had
kept him constant, returned to him in the full glory of perfection. He
had been watching the hills as they glowed in the light of the setting
sun. As the gray night, settling over all, blotted out the details of
the landscape, leaving the mountains a purple blur against the faint
blue of the sky, Elijah felt a strong reaction. He feared, yet longed
for the coming light; feared, lest it should prove that the plan which
had been revealed to him might be but the figment of a frenzied dream.
Amy was sitting beside him as usual, her hand in his. Her eyes dreamily
watched the shifting shadows as the sinking sun moved them to and fro in
a stately march. As the shadows deepened to darkness, her eyes closed
and her head sank upon Elijah's shoulder. Elijah could no longer endure
the strain of questioning doubt that the shadows were pouring over his
soul.
"Amy! Amy!" he called.
"What is it, Elijah?"
"I can't see, Amy. I saw it all, and now it's gone."
"What is gone, Elijah?" The voice was heavy with sleep.
"I can't sit still any longer. Let's walk. The moon will be up soon and
then I can see if I was wrong. Come."
Amy was again sleeping. He shook her gently as he rose to his feet.
"Come."
"I am so tired, Elijah." She rose and turned toward the open door.
"Let's wait until tomorrow."
"I can't wait. It's now, now!"
Amy was conscious of nothing save her overpowering drowsiness.
"Come in with me, Elijah."
"No, no! I can't." Elijah was irritated; not at Amy, but at the tingle
of opposition that played upon his strained nerves.
"Goodnight, Elijah." She put up her dreamy lips for his goodnight kiss;
but Elijah had left her and was again striding up and down, his eyes
fixed on the purple blur. Without further word, she entered the cottage
and lay down to the rest for which her eyes so longed.
One by one the stars pricked through the arching sky, filling the space
above the earth with a light that only intensified the darkness below.
Hour after hour passed by. At length a silver halo fringed the mountain
summits, a band of light softly parting the blue of the sky from the
purple of the mountains. A silver disc, barred with dense black lines,
moved grandly into the waiting sky, and twinkling stars veiled their
faces before their coming queen. Far out on the plain a banded line of
light moved against the retreating darkness. Against the hills it swept,
charging their steep slopes, creeping up their darkened gulches, glowing
on their conquered crests; on and on it swept, until the retreating
shadows sank from the earth before the hosts of light. As the outlines
of the hills came sharply into sight, Elijah's dream took substance that
would never wane again.
Amy arose, bright and fresh for the day. Upon Elijah the strained vigil
of the night had left its mark. There was no longer ecstasy. The settled
lines of his face were almost sullen in their intensity. The sparkle
died from Amy's eyes and a look of anxious questioning took its place.
With the strange unconscious conceit confined to narrow minds, she never
dreamed that her husband's preoccupation was a thing entirely apart from
herself. Wholly self-centred, her husband's smiling attention meant
approbation; preoccupation meant disapproval or resentment. Her sun was
her husband's love. In its full warm rays she basked with the happy
abandon of a well-fed animal. Preoccupation was the eclipsing shadow
that chilled her to the marrow, with no sustaining faith that it was
only obscuration, not destruction for all time. When the shadow fell,
there was no other suggestion than to beat her sounding soul with a
heathen's ardor, in order to frighten from its prey the devouring dragon
that would forever destroy her source of life and light. Now her anxiety
grew to pain; her lips were tremulous.
"What have I done to offend you, Elijah?"
"Nothing," he answered abruptly. "I'm not offended. Can't you see that
I'm absorbed in my work? I can't spend all my time in telling you that I
love you just the same as ever. Why can't you take something for
granted?"
Elijah's words were sharp-cut, almost explosive. It was not resentment
at Amy; it was the irritation of a dog who is having a bone taken from
his jaws.
Amy was cut to the depths of her sensitive soul. Her words were not a
reproach, but a hopeless wail.
"It's these miserable orange trees! I wish oranges had never grown in
this country. I was so happy before. Now you never think of me. You look
at the mountains and the springs and the orange trees, but never at me."
Her tears were flowing freely, her lips were tremulous.
Elijah was moved, but without understanding.
"Why! Haven't I always enjoyed showing them to you and talking to you
about them? You know that I always tell you every thing that I am
doing."
"Yes, I know; but you get just as enthusiastic over them to Ralph
Winston and he looks cold all the time and keeps criticising and
contradicting you. It's just the same with the other men who come to
look at your work. They don't care one single thing about you, and I do,
and I tell you so, but you won't believe me."
Amy's tears had ceased, her voice was steadier; but there was a
suggestion of the eager heart hunger that looked from her eyes.
"Winston isn't my wife, Amy--"
"And he doesn't care for you. He says things to you I would not think of
saying."
Elijah made an impatient gesture, resuming his interrupted words.
"I have a great idea, a great work. I have only shown what can be done.
To actually do it, I must have money. I know these men don't care
anything about me; I don't care anything about them, only to get them
interested and convinced. If I can only do this, it means fame and
fortune to me and, just think of what it all means! Just think! When
these great, barren, red hillsides are all covered with orchards; with
beautiful houses and thousands of happy, prosperous people; when the
snows and rains of the San Bernardinos, instead of running to waste,
will flow through tunnels and canals and make the desert blossom as the
rose; then they will all say that this is the work of one man, of me,
Elijah Berl!" Elijah's eyes kindled anew with the thought which he had
elaborated.
Amy saw and was terrified. Her soul shrank and shivered before the
vision which he had conjured up. She could not have stated to herself
the reason of her fear. Only one thought was keenly present to her, that
henceforth she would be no longer the sole centre of her husband's life.
"I don't want you to be great, Elijah. I want you, just as you are."
Elijah saw the expression of his wife, not the principle which gave it
birth. He caught a fleeting glimpse, a faint suggestion of the impelling
principle that stimulates all men to the heights of achievement; the
pride and glory of laying at the feet of love the laurels of their
triumphs, the testimonials of worth wrung from a grudging world; the
proud conviction that love is made secure by the assurance that its
object is not unworthy. He failed to see that the principles which
control a narrow though amiable mind, may be in hopeless antagonism with
the broader views of higher mental endowment. He failed to see that each
life has its limitations, that when it has given all, it can give no
more. The time had not yet come for this knowledge. Therefore it was
hidden from his eyes, that when it should come, a hopeless sorrow should
come with it. He turned again to Amy.
"I am not always going to be just what I am. I am going to do great
things and you will be proud that I am your husband."
"Don't, Elijah! Don't!" Amy clutched Elijah as if already she felt him
slipping from her grasp. "I loved you as you were. I love you as you
are. You can never be more dear to me. I don't know, Elijah; I am
afraid." She buried her head on his shoulder. "I am afraid I shall not
always be everything to you. I am so happy with you now. If I should
ever be less happy, it would kill me."
"Nonsense. Don't make pictures to get scared at." He drew his watch from
his pocket. "I must go now. You know I promised to see Ralph at Ysleta
this morning. Goodbye, and don't scare yourself any more."
Elijah began to unclasp her arms. They were reluctant rather than
resisting. He kissed her with a show of affection which was not absent,
only obscured by other things; then he saddled his horse and rode away.
Amy stood watching him with hard, dry eyes; with the unconscious
superstition of the maiden who with trembling fingers plucks one by one
the petals from a prophetic flower. "He loves me, he loves me not." She
stood watching for a motion, a gesture which should assure her that her
husband's thoughts were of her, even as hers were of him, making herself
the wretched plaything of senseless Fate, instead of resting tranquil in
the surety that she was its master.
Elijah was absorbed in himself. He grew but a speck on the trail to
Amy's watching eyes. There was not a motion which she could distort into
a recognition of her existence. The last petal had fallen. "He loves me
not."