He talked as if he were recounting the plan of some delightful recreation, and the girl lay there and watched his handsome face in the firelight and rejoiced. She found something very sweet in companionship alone in the vast silence with this stranger friend. She was glad of the wide desert and the still night that shut out the world and made their unusual relationship possible for a little while. She longed to know and understand better the fine personality of this man who was, she believed, a man among men.
When he sat down by the fire not far from her after attending to the few supper dishes, she suddenly burst forth with a question: “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” he asked, turning to her.
“Come here! Be a missionary! Why did you do it? You’re suited for better things. You could fill a large city church, or—even do other things in the world. Why did you do it?”
The firelight flickered on his face and showed his features fine and strong in an expression of deep feeling. A light shone in his eyes that was more than firelight as he raised them upward in a swift glance and said quietly, as if it were the simplest matter in the universe: “Because my Father called me to this work. And—I doubt if there can be any better.”
Then he told her of his work while the fire burned cheerfully, and the dusk grew deeper, till the moon showed clear its silver orb riding high in the starry heavens. The mournful voice of the coyotes echoed in the distance, but the girl wasn’t frightened. Her thoughts were held by the story of the people for whom this man among men was giving his life.
He described the Indian hogans, round huts built of logs on end and slanting to a common center thatched with turf and straw, with an opening for a door and another in the top to let out the fire’s smoke, a dirt floor, no furniture but a few blankets, sheepskins, and some tin dishes. He carried her in imagination to one such hogan where the Indian maiden lay dying and made the picture of their barren lives so vivid that tears stood in her eyes as she listened. He told her about the medicine men, the ignorance and superstition, the snake dances and heathen rites, and the wild, poetic, conservative man of the desert with his distrust, his great loving heart, his broken hopes, and blind aspirations. At length Hazel understood he really loved them, saw the possibility of greatness in them, and longed to help develop it.
He told her about the Sabbath just past, when he and his fellow missionary went on an evangelistic tour among the tribes far away from the mission station. He described the Indians sitting on rocks and stones amid the long shadows of the cedar trees, just before sundown, listening to a sermon. He’d reminded them of their god Begochiddi and of Nilhchii, whom the Indians believe to have made all things—the same one white men call God—and showed them a book called the Bible which told the story of God and of Jesus His Son who came to save men from their sin. Not one of the Indians had ever heard the name of Jesus before or knew anything about the great story of salvation.
Hazel wondered why it made a difference whether these poor people knew all this or not; yet she saw in this man’s face that it did matter, infinitely. To him it mattered more than anything else. A passing wish that she were an Indian and could hold his interest that way flashed through her mind. But he was still speaking of his work, and his rapt look filled her with awe. She was overwhelmed with the depth of the man before her. Sitting there in the firelight, with its ruddy glow on his face, his hat off and the moon laying a silver crown upon his head, he seemed almost like an angel to her. She’d never been so filled with the joy of beholding another soul. She had no room for thoughts of anything else.
Then suddenly he remembered it was late.
“I’ve kept you awake far too long,” he said gently. “We should get on our way as soon as it’s light, and I’ve made you listen to me when you should have been sleeping. But I always like to have a word with my Father before retiring. Shall we worship together?”
Hazel, overcome with wonder and embarrassment, assented and lay still in her sheltered spot. She watched him draw a small leather book from his breast pocket and open it to the place marked by a thin satin cord. Then stirring up the fire to brightness he began to read, and the majestic words of the ninety-first psalm sounded to her unaccustomed ears like a charming page.
“He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.”
“He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust.”
The words were uttered with a ringing tone of trust. The listener knew little of birds and their ways, but the phrasing reminded her of how she was sheltered from the storm a little while before, and her heart thrilled anew with the thought of it.
“Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror by night!”
Ah! Terror by night! She knew what that meant. That awful night of darkness, steep climbing, howling beasts, and black oblivion! She shuddered involuntarily. Not afraid! What confidence the voice had as it rang on, and all at once she knew this night was free from terror for her because of the man whose confidence was in the Unseen.
“He shall give his angels charge over thee.”
Looking at him, she almost expected to see flitting wings in the moonlit background. How strong and true the face! How tender the lines about the mouth! What a glow of inner quietness and power in the eyes as he raised them now and again to her face across the firelight! What a thing it would be to have a friend like that! Her eyes glowed softly at the thought, and once again the contrast between this man and the one from whom she had fled in horror flashed across her mind.
With the reading ended, he replaced the marker and dropped on one knee on the desert with his face lifted to the sky. The moon’s radiance flooded over him as he spoke to God in the same way a man speaks with his friend, face-to-face.
Hazel watched him still, with awe growing inside her. The sense of an unseen Presence close at hand was so strong that once she lifted half-frightened eyes to the wide clear sky. The light on the missionary’s face seemed like glory from another world.
She felt herself enfolded and carried into the presence of the infinite by his words, and he didn’t forget to commend her loved ones to the Almighty’s care. A sense of peace and security, unknown to her before, came upon her as she listened to the simple, earnest words.
After the brief prayer he turned to her with a smile and some reassuring words about the night. Her dressing room was behind those trees, and she didn’t need to be afraid; he wouldn’t be far away. He’d keep the fire bright all night, so she wouldn’t be annoyed by coyotes howling too close, and then he went to gather more wood. She heard him singing, softly at first, then with increasing volume as he got farther away, his rich tenor ringing clear into the night in an old hymn. The words floated back distinctly to her listening ears:
“My God, is any hour so sweet
From flush of dawn to evening star,
As that which calls me to Thy feet,
The hour of prayer?
Then is my strength by Thee renewed;
Then are my sins by Thee forgiven;
Then dost Thou cheer my solitude
With hopes of heaven.
No words can tell what sweet relief
There for my every want I find;
What strength for warfare, balm for grief,
What peace of mind!”
She lay down for the night, marveling still over the man. He was singing those words as if he meant them. She knew he possessed something that made him different from other men. What was it, and how did she find him out here alone in the desert?
The great stars burned sharply in the heavens over her, the moon’s white radiance lay all about her, and the firelight played at her feet. Far away she could hear coyotes howling, but she wasn’t afraid.
She could see the man’s broad shoulders as he bent over on the other side of the fire to throw on more wood. Presently she knew he’d stretched out on the ground with his head on the saddle, but she could hear him humming softly so
mething like a lullaby. When the firelight flared up, it showed his fine profile.
Some little distance away she could hear Billy cropping the grass, and throughout the vast open universe a great, peaceful silence hovered. Her tired eyes finally shut. And the last thing she remembered was a line he’d read from the little book, “He shall give his angels charge,” and she wondered if they were somewhere about now.
That was all until she awoke with a start. She was suddenly aware of being alone, yet she could hear a conversation being carried on quietly not far away.
Chapter 7
Revelation
The moon was gone, and the luminous silver atmosphere had turned into a clear dark blue, with shadows of black velvet. But the stars burned redder now and nearer to the earth.
The fire still flickered brightly, with a glow the moon had paled. But no protecting figure rested on the other side of the flames, and the angels seemed to have forgotten.
Off at a distance, where a clump of sagebrush made dense darkness, she heard the talking. One spoke in low tones, now pleading, now explaining, deeply earnest, with a mingling of anxiety and trouble. She couldn’t hear any words. She sensed the voice was low so she might not hear, yet it filled her with fear. What had happened? Had someone come to harm them, and was he pleading for her life? Strange to say, it never entered her head to doubt his loyalty, stranger though he was. She only felt he might have been overpowered in his sleep and need help now. But what could she do?
After the first instant of horror she was on the alert. He’d saved her, and she must help him. She could hear only his voice. Probably the enemy was whispering, but she had to find out what was the matter. From her pleasant bed beside the fire it took only a few steps, yet it seemed like miles to her trembling heart and limbs, as she crept toward the sagebrush.
At last she was close to the bush, parted it with her hand and peered into the little shelter.
A faint light in the east beyond the mountains showed the coming dawn. Silhouetted against this was the figure of her rescuer, dropped upon one knee, with his elbow on the other and his face bowed in his hand. She could hear his words distinctly now, but no one else was present, though she searched the darkness carefully.
“I found her lost out here in the wilderness,” he was saying in low, earnest tones, “so beautiful, so dear! But I know she can’t be for me. Her life has been full of luxury, and I wouldn’t be a man to ask her to share the desert! I know she’s not fit for the work. I know it would be all wrong, and I mustn’t wish it, but I love her—though I mustn’t tell her so! I must be resolute and strong and not show her what I feel. I must face my Gethsemane, for this girl is as dear to me as my own soul! God bless her and guide her, for I may not.”
The girl stood rooted to the spot, unable to move as the low voice continued with its revelation. But when she heard his plea for a blessing on her, she couldn’t bear it and, turning, fled silently back and crept under the canvas, thrilled, frightened, shamed, and glad all in one. She closed her eyes, and tears of joy fell. He loved her! How the thought thrilled her. How her own heart leaped up to meet his love. She could grasp only that thought for now, and it filled her with an ecstasy she’d never known before. She opened her eyes to the stars, shining as they seemed to be with radiant joy. The quiet darkness of the vast earth about her seemed suddenly to be the sweetest spot she’d ever known. She never thought there could be joy like this.
Gradually she quieted her heart’s wild throbbing and tried to put her thoughts in order. Perhaps she was taking too much for granted. Perhaps he was talking about another girl, someone he met the day before. Yet it seemed as if there could be no doubt. Two girls wouldn’t be lost out in that desert. There couldn’t—and her heart told her he loved her. Could she trust her heart? Oh, how dear if it were true!
Her face was burning, too, with the sweet shame of hearing what wasn’t meant for her ears.
Then came the flash of pain in the joy. He didn’t intend to tell her. He meant to hide his love—and for her sake! And he was great enough to do so. The man who could sacrifice the things other men hold dear, to come out to the desert wilderness for the sake of a forgotten, half-savage people, could sacrifice anything for what he considered right. This fact loomed like a wall of adamant across the lovely way joy had revealed to her. Her heart sunk with the thought that he wouldn’t speak of this to her—and she knew that more than anything else she longed to hear him speak those words to her. A half resentment filled her that he’d told his secret—what concerned her—to Another and wouldn’t let her know.
She continued to search her heart, and now she arrived at the most disturbing fact of the whole revelation. He had another reason besides care for her why he couldn’t tell her of his love, why he couldn’t ask her to share his life. She wasn’t counted worthy. He put it in pleasant words, saying she was unfit, but he might as well have said plainly how useless she’d be in his life.
Tears welled up now, for Hazel Radcliffe had never in her petted life been counted unworthy for any position. She hadn’t considered at all accepting the position that wasn’t to be offered her—her startled mind hadn’t even reached that far—but her pride was hurt that anyone would think her unworthy.
Then over the tumult of her thoughts would come the memory of his voice deep with emotion as he said, “She’s as dear to me as my own soul,” sweeping everything else away.
There was no more sleep to be had for her.
The stars paled, and the dawn blushed rose in the east. She presently heard her companion return and replenish the fire, stirring about softly among the dishes, and move away again. But she’d turned her head away so he might not see her face, and he evidently thought her still sleeping.
So she lay and reasoned things out, scolding herself for thinking his words applied to her. Then she recalled her city life and friends and how alien this man and his work would be to them. She thought of the day when she’d probably reach her friends again and lose sight of this new friend. At that thought she felt a sharp twinge of pain. She wondered if she’d meet Milton Hamar and what they’d say to one other, if any comfortable relations could ever be established between them again; and she knew they couldn’t.
Once again horror at the thought of his kiss rolled over her. Then came the startling awareness that he’d used almost the same words to her that this man of the desert had used about her, yet in what an infinitely different way! How tender and pure his face stood in contrast to that handsome, evil face bent over her! She shuddered again and entertained a fleeting wish she might stay here forever and never return to his hated presence.
Then the thought of the missionary and his love for her would flood her with sunshine, erasing everything else in the rapture it brought.
And thus the morning dawned, a clean, straight sunrise.
Hazel could hear the man stepping softly here and there making breakfast and knew he felt it was time to move on. She must stir and speak, but her cheeks turned pink at the thought of it. She kept waiting and trying to think how to say good morning without looking guilty in her knowledge. Presently she heard him call to Billy and move away in the direction of the horse. Snatching her opportunity, she slipped from under the canvas into her green dressing room.
But even here she found evidences of her wise guide’s care, for standing in front of the largest cedar were two tin cups of clear water and beside them a small soap case and a clean, white folded handkerchief. He’d done his best to supply her with grooming articles.
Her heart leaped up again at his thoughtfulness. She dashed the water into her glowing face and buried it in the handkerchief’s clean folds—his handkerchief. How wonderful for it to be that way! How did an ordinary bit of linen become so invested with life currents that it gave such joyous refreshment with a touch? The wonder of it was like a miracle. She hadn’t realized anything in life could be like that.
The red cliff across the valley was touched with the morning sun when she
emerged from her green shelter, shyly conscious of the secret that lay unrevealed between them.
Their little camp was still in shadow. The last star disappeared as if a hand turned the lights low with a flash and revealed the morning.
She stood for an instant in the parting of the cedars, a hand on each side holding back the boughs, looking out from her retreat. The man saw her and waited with bared head. His eyes shone with a light of love he didn’t know was visible.
The very air about them seemed charged with an electrical current. The little commonplaces they spoke sank deep into each one’s heart and lingered to bless the future. Their eyes met many times and lingered shyly on more intimate ground than the day before, yet each had grown more silent.
He seated her on the canvas he’d arranged beside a patch of green grass and prepared to serve her like a queen. Indeed she wore a regal bearing, small and slender though she was, with her golden hair shining in the morning and her eyes bright.
Fried rabbits were cooking in the tiny saucepan, and corn bread was toasting before the fire on two sharp sticks. She found to her surprise she was hungry and the breakfast seemed delicious.
She was certain he didn’t know she’d guessed his secret. Her laugh rang out musically over the plain, and he watched her with delight, enjoying the companionship even more because of the barren days he was sure would come.
Finally he broke away from the pleasant lingering with an exclamation, for the sun was hastening upward and it was time for them to go. He packed away the things quickly, and she tried to help, but in her unfamiliarity only gave hindrance, with delicate hands that thrilled him as they came near with a plate, a cup, or a bit of corn bread left out.
The Man of the Desert Page 6