by Zane Grey
“What is there to do?” asked Shefford, feeling equal to a hundred tasks.
“No work,” replied the trader, with a laugh, and he drew Shefford aside, “I’m in no hurry. I like it here. And Joe never wants to leave. To-day you can meet the women. Make yourself popular. I’ve already made you that. These women are most all young and lonesome. Talk to them. Make them like you. Then some day you may be safe to ask questions. Last night I wanted to ask old Mother Smith if she ever heard the name Fay Larkin. But I thought better of it. If there’s a girl here or at Stonebridge of that name we’ll learn it. If there’s mystery we’d better go slow. Mormons are hell on secret and mystery, and to pry into their affairs is to queer yourself. My advice is — just be as nice as you can be, and let things happen.”
Fay Larkin! All in a night Shefford had forgotten her. Why? He pondered over the matter, and then the old thrill, the old desire, came back.
“Shefford, what do you think Nas Ta Bega said to me last night?” asked Withers in lower voice.
“Haven’t any idea,” replied Shefford, curiously.
“We were sitting beside the fire. I saw you walking under the cedars. You seemed thoughtful. That keen Indian watched you, and he said to me in Navajo, ‘Bi Nai has lost his God. He has come far to find a wife. Nas Ta Bega is his brother.’... He meant he’ll find both God and wife for you. I don’t know about that, but I say take the Indian as he thinks he is — your brother. Long before I knew Nas Ta Bega well my wife used to tell me about him. He’s a sage and a poet — the very spirit of this desert. He’s worth cultivating for his own sake. But more — remember, if Fay Larkin is still shut in that valley the Navajo will find her for you.”
“I shall take Nas Ta Bega as my brother — and be proud,” replied Shefford.
“There’s another thing. Do you intend to confide in Joe?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Well, it might be a good plan. But wait until you know him better and he knows you. He’s ready to fight for you now. He’s taken your trouble to heart. You wouldn’t think Joe is deeply religious. Yet he is. He may never breathe a word about religion to you.... Now, Shefford, go ahead. You’ve struck a trail. It’s rough, but it’ll make a man of you. It’ll lead somewhere.”
“I’m singularly fortunate — I — who had lost all friends. Withers, I am grateful. I’ll prove it. I’ll show—”
Withers’s upheld hand checked further speech, and Shefford realized that beneath the rough exterior of this desert trader there was fine feeling. These men of crude toil and wild surroundings were beginning to loom up large in Shefford’s mind.
The day began leisurely. The men were yet at breakfast when the women of the village began to come one by one to the spring. Joe Lake made friendly and joking remarks to each. And as each one passed on down the path he poised a biscuit in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and with his head cocked sidewise like an owl he said, “Reckon I’ve got to get me a woman like her.”
Shefford saw and heard, yet he was all the time half unconsciously watching with strange eagerness for a white figure to appear. At last he saw her — the same girl with the hood, the same swift step. A little shock or quiver passed over him, and at the moment all that was explicable about it was something associated with regret.
Joe Lake whistled and stared.
“I haven’t met her,” he muttered.
“That’s the Sago Lily,” said Withers.
“Reckon I’m going to carry that bucket,” went on Joe.
“And queer yourself with all the other women who’ve been to the spring? Don’t do it, Joe,” advised the trader.
“But her bucket’s bigger,” protested Joe, weakly.
“That’s true. But you ought to know Mormons. If she’d come first, all right. As she didn’t — why, don’t single her out.”
Joe kept his seat. The girl came to the spring. A low “good morning” came from under the hood. Then she filled her bucket and started home. Shefford observed that this time she wore moccasins and she carried the heavy bucket with ease. When she disappeared he had again the vague, inexplicable sensation of regret.
Joe Lake breathed heavily. “Reckon I’ve got to get me a woman like her,” he said. But the former jocose tone was lacking and he appeared thoughtful.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Withers first took Shefford to the building used for a school. It was somewhat larger than the other houses, had only one room with two doors and several windows. It was full of children, of all sizes and ages, sitting on rude board benches.
There were half a hundred of them, sturdy, healthy, rosy boys and girls, clad in home-made garments. The young woman teacher was as embarrassed as her pupils were shy, and the visitors withdrew without having heard a word of lessons.
Withers then called upon Smith, Henninger, and Beal, and their wives. Shefford found himself cordially received, and what little he did say showed him how he would be listened to when he cared to talk. These folk were plain and kindly, and he found that there was nothing about them to dislike. The men appeared mild and quiet, and when not conversing seemed austere. The repose of the women was only on the surface; underneath he felt their intensity. Especially in many of the younger women, whom he met in the succeeding hour, did he feel this power of restrained emotion. This surprised him, as did also the fact that almost every one of them was attractive and some of them were exceedingly pretty. He became so interested in them all as a whole that he could not individualize one. They were as widely different in appearance and temperament as women of any other class, but it seemed to Shefford that one common trait united them — and it was a strange, checked yearning for something that he could not discover. Was it happiness? They certainly seemed to be happy, far more so than those millions of women who were chasing phantoms. Were they really sealed wives, as Withers believed, and was this unnatural wife-hood responsible for the strange intensity? At any rate he returned to camp with the conviction that he had stumbled upon a remarkable situation.
He had been told the last names of only three women, and their husbands were in the village. The names of the others were Ruth, Rebecca, Joan — he could not recall them all. They were the mothers of these beautiful children. The fathers, as far as he was concerned, were as intangible as myths. Shefford was an educated clergyman, a man of the world, and, as such, knew women in his way. Mormons might be strange and different, yet the fundamental truth was that all over the world mothers of children were wives; there was a relation between wife and mother that did not need to be named to be felt; and he divined from this that, whatever the situation of these lonely and hidden women, they knew themselves to be wives. Shefford absolutely satisfied himself on that score. If they were miserable they certainly did not show it, and the question came to him how just was the criticism of uninformed men? His judgment of Mormons had been established by what he had heard and read, rather than what he knew. He wanted now to have an open mind. He had studied the totemism and exogamy of the primitive races, and here was his opportunity to understand polygamy. One wife for one man — that was the law. Mormons broke it openly; Gentiles broke it secretly. Mormons acknowledged all their wives and protected their children; Gentiles acknowledged one wife only. Unquestionably the Mormons were wrong, but were not the Gentiles still more wrong?
. . . . . . . . . . .
The following day Joe Lake appeared reluctant to start for Stonebridge with Withers.
“Joe, you’d better come along,” said the trader, dryly. “I reckon you’ve seen a little too much of the Sago Lily.”
Lake offered no reply, but it was evident from his sober face that Withers had not hit short of the mark. Withers rode off, with a parting word to Shefford, and finally Joe somberly mounted his bay and trotted down the valley. As Nas Ta Bega had gone off somewhere to visit Indians, Shefford was left alone.
He went into the village and made himself useful and agreeable. He made friends with the children and he t
alked to the women until he was hoarse. Their ignorance of the world was a spur to him, and never in his life had he had such an attentive audience. And as he showed no curiosity, asked no difficult questions, gradually what reserve he had noted wore away, and the end of the day saw him on a footing with them that Withers had predicted.
By the time several like days had passed it seemed from the interest and friendliness of these women that he might have lived long among them. He was possessed of wit and eloquence and information, which he freely gave, and not with selfish motive. He liked these women; he liked to see the somber shade pass from their faces, to see them brighten. He had met the girl Mary at the spring and along the path, but he had not yet seen her face. He was always looking for her, hoping to meet her, and confessed to himself that the best of the day for him were the morning and evening visits she made to the spring. Nevertheless, for some reason hard to divine, he was reluctant to seek her deliberately.
Always while he had listened to her neighbors’ talk, he had hoped they might let fall something about her. But they did not. He received an impression that she was not so intimate with the others as he had supposed. They all made one big family. Still, she seemed a little outside. He could bring no proofs to strengthen this idea. He merely felt it, and many of his feelings were independent of intelligent reason. Something had been added to curiosity, that was sure.
It was his habit to call upon Mother Smith in the afternoons. From the first her talk to him hinted of a leaning toward thought of making him a Mormon. Her husband and the other men took up her cue and spoke of their religion, casually at first, but gradually opening their minds to free and simple discussion of their faith. Shefford lent respectful attention. He would rather have been a Mormon than an atheist, and apparently they considered him the latter, and were earnest to save his soul. Shefford knew that he could never be one any more than the other. He was just at sea. But he listened, and he found them simple in faith, blind, perhaps, but loyal and good. It was noteworthy that Mother Smith happened to be the only woman in the village who had ever mentioned religion to him. She was old, of a past generation; the young women belonged to the present. Shefford pondered the significant difference.
Every day made more steadfast his impression of the great mystery that was like a twining shadow round these women, yet in the same time many little ideas shifted and many new characteristics became manifest. This last was of course the result of acquaintance; he was learning more about the villagers. He gathered from keen interpretation of subtle words and looks that here in this lonely village, the same as in all the rest of the world where women were together, there were cliques, quarrels, dislikes, loves, and jealousies. The truth, once known to him, made him feel natural and fortified his confidence to meet the demands of an increasingly interesting position. He discovered, with a somewhat grim amusement, that a clergyman’s experience in a church full of women had not been entirely useless.
One afternoon he let fall a careless remark that was a subtle question in regard to the girl Mary, whom Withers called the Sago Lily. In response he received an answer couched in the sweet poisoned honey of woman’s jealousy. He said no more. Certain ideas of his were strengthened, and straightway he became thoughtful.
That afternoon late, as he did his camp chores, he watched for her. But she did not come. Then he decided to go to see her. But even the decision and the strange thrill it imparted did not change his reluctance.
Twilight was darkening the valley when he reached her house, and the shadows were thick under the pinyons. There was no light in the door or window. He saw a white shape on the porch, and as he came down the path it rose. It was the girl Mary, and she appeared startled.
“Good evening,” he said. “It’s Shefford. May I stay and talk a little while?”
She was silent for so long that he began to feel awkward.
“I’d be glad to have you,” she replied, finally.
There was a bench on the porch, but he preferred to sit upon a blanket on the step.
“I’ve been getting acquainted with everybody — except you,” he went on.
“I have been here,” she replied.
That might have been a woman’s speech, but it certainly had been made in a girl’s voice. She was neither shy nor embarrassed nor self-conscious. As she stood back from him he could not see her face in the dense twilight.
“I’ve been wanting to call on you.”
She made some slight movement. Shefford felt a strange calm, yet he knew the moment was big and potent.
“Won’t you sit here?” he asked.
She complied with his wish, and then he saw her face, though dimly, in the twilight. And it struck him mute. But he had no glimpse such as had flashed upon him from under her hood that other night. He thought of a white flower in shadow, and received his first impression of the rare and perfect lily Withers had said graced the wild canyon. She was only a girl. She sat very still, looking straight before her, and seemed to be waiting, listening. Shefford saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom.
“I want to talk,” he began, swiftly, hoping to put her at her ease. “Every one here has been good to me and I’ve talked — oh, for hours and hours. But the thing in my mind I haven’t spoken of. I’ve never asked any questions. That makes my part so strange. I want to tell why I came out here. I need some one who will keep my secret, and perhaps help me.... Would you?”
“Yes, if I could,” she replied.
“You see I’ve got to trust you, or one of these other women. You’re all Mormons. I don’t mean that’s anything against you. I believe you’re all good and noble. But the fact makes — well, makes a liberty of speech impossible. What can I do?”
Her silence probably meant that she did not know. Shefford sensed less strain in her and more excitement. He believed he was on the right track and did not regret his impulse. Even had he regretted it he would have gone on, for opposed to caution and intelligence was his driving mystic force.
Then he told her the truth about his boyhood, his ambition to be an artist, his renunciation to his father’s hope, his career as a clergyman, his failure in religion, and the disgrace that had made him a wanderer.
“Oh — I’m sorry!” she said. The faint starlight shone on her face, in her eyes, and if he ever saw beauty and soul he saw them then. She seemed deeply moved. She had forgotten herself. She betrayed girlhood then — all the quick sympathy, the wonder, the sweetness of a heart innocent and untutored. She looked at him with great, starry, questioning eyes, as if they had just become aware of his presence, as if a man had been strange to her.
“Thank you. It’s good of you to be sorry,” he said. “My instinct guided me right. Perhaps you’ll be my friend.”
“I will be — if I can,” she said.
“But CAN you be?”
“I don’t know. I never had a friend. I... But, sir, I mustn’t talk of myself.... Oh, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
How strange the pathos of her voice! Almost he believed she was in need of help or sympathy or love. But he could not wholly trust a judgment formed from observation of a class different from hers.
“Maybe you CAN help me. Let’s see,” he said. “I don’t seek to make you talk of yourself. But — you’re a human being — a girl — almost a woman. You’re not dumb. But even a nun can talk.”
“A nun? What is that?”
“Well — a nun is a sister of mercy — a woman consecrated to God — who has renounced the world. In some ways you Mormon women here resemble nuns. It is sacrifice that nails you in this lonely valley.... You see — how I talk! One word, one thought brings another, and I speak what perhaps should be unsaid. And it’s hard, because I feel I could unburden myself to you.”
“Tell me what you want,” she said.
Shefford hesitated, and became aware of the rapid pound of his heart. More than anything he wanted to be fair to this girl. He saw that she was warming to his influence. Her shadowy eyes were fixed
upon him. The starlight, growing brighter, shone on her golden hair and white face.
“I’ll tell you presently,” he said. “I’ve trusted you. I’ll trust you with all.... But let me have my own time. This is so strange a thing, my wanting to confide in you. It’s selfish, perhaps. I have my own ax to grind. I hope I won’t wrong you. That’s why I’m going to be perfectly frank. I might wait for days to get better acquainted. But the impulse is on me. I’ve been so interested in all you Mormon women. The fact — the meaning of this hidden village is so — so terrible to me. But that’s none of my business. I have spent my afternoons and evenings with these women at the different cottages. You do not mingle with them. They are lonely, but have not such loneliness as yours. I have passed here every night. No light — no sound. I can’t help thinking. Don’t censure me or be afraid or draw within yourself just because I must think. I may be all wrong. But I’m curious. I wonder about you. Who are you? Mary — Mary what? Maybe I really don’t want to know. I came with selfish motive and now I’d like to — to — what shall I say? Make your life a little less lonely for the while I’m here. That’s all. It needn’t offend. And if you accept it, how much easier I can tell you my secret. You are a Mormon and I — well, I am only a wanderer in these wilds. But — we might help each other.... Have I made a mistake?”
“No — no,” she cried, almost wildly.
“We can be friends then. You will trust me, help me?”
“Yes, if I dare.”
“Surely you may dare what the other women would?”
She was silent.
And the wistfulness of her silence touched him. He felt contrition. He did not stop to analyze his own emotions, but he had an inkling that once this strange situation was ended he would have food for reflection. What struck him most now was the girl’s blanched face, the strong, nervous clasp of her hands, the visible tumult of her bosom. Excitement alone could not be accountable for this. He had not divined the cause for such agitation. He was puzzled, troubled, and drawn irresistibly. He had not said what he had planned to say. The moment had given birth to his speech, and it had flowed. What was guiding him?