The shack stood silent and familiar in the setting sunlight as he rode up to the door and solemnly arranged for Billy’s comfort. Then with his upward look for comfort he went toward his lonely home and, opening the door, stood wondering at the threshold!
Chapter 16
The Letter
In an instant she opened her eyes, for that subconscious state, that warns even in sleep of things occurring outside the world of slumber, told her another soul was present.
She awakened suddenly and looked up at him, the rosiness of sleep on her cheeks and the dewiness of it on her eyelids. She looked lovely with the long red slant of sunset from the open door at her feet and the wonder of his coming in her face. Their eyes met and told the story, before brains had time to warn of danger and need for self-control.
“Oh, my darling!” the man said and took a step toward her, his arms outstretched as if he would clasp her, yet daring hardly to believe it was really she in the flesh.
“My darling! Have you really come to me?” He breathed the question as though its answer meant life or death to him.
She stood up before him, trembling with joy, abashed now that she was in his presence, in his home, unbidden. Her tongue seemed tied. She had no word with which to explain. But because he saw the love in her eyes and his own need for her was great, he became bolder. Stepping closer he began to tell her earnestly how he’d longed and prayed that God would make a way for him to find her again, how he’d imagined her here in this room, his own dear companion—his wife!
He breathed the word tenderly, and she felt the blessing and wonder of the love of this great, simple-hearted man.
Then because he saw his answer in her eyes, he came near and took her reverently in his arms, laid his lips on hers, and thus they stood for a moment together, knowing that after all the sorrow, the longing, the separation, they had each come into their own.
It was some time before Hazel could get an opportunity to explain how she came unknowingly to be in his house. Even then he couldn’t understand what joyful circumstance dropped her at his door. So she returned to the letter, the cause of it all, which for the moment was forgotten. She brought it out now, and his face, tender with the joy of her presence, grew almost glorified when he knew she was his mother’s tender nurse and beloved friend through her last days.
With clasped hands they talked together about his mother. Hazel told him all: how she came upon her that summer day and yearned to know her for his sake; how she went back again and yet again; the whole story of her own struggles for a better life. When she told of her cooking lessons he kissed the little hands he was holding, and when she spoke of her hospital work he touched his lips to her eyes and brow.
“And you did all that because—?” he asked and looked deep into her eyes, demanding hungrily the answer.
“Because I wanted to be worthy of your love!” she breathed softly, her eyes downcast, her face rosy with her confession.
“Oh, my darling!” he said and clasped her close again.
Almost the letter itself was forgotten, until it slipped to the floor and called attention to itself. There was no need after all for the letter. It had done its intended work without being read. But they read it together, his arm around her shoulders and their heads close, each feeling the need of the other’s comforting love because of the bereavement each had suffered.
And thus they read:
My dear son,
I’m writing this letter in what I believe to be the last few days of my life. Long ago I made our dear doctor tell me just what would be the signs preceding the probable culmination of my disease. He knew I’d be happier knowing, for I had some things I wished to accomplish before I went away. I didn’t tell you, dear son, because I knew it could only distress you and turn your thoughts away from the work you belong to. I knew when you came home to me for that dear last visit I had only a little while longer left here, and you know without my telling you what those blessed days of your stay were to me.
You perhaps will blame yourself for not seeing how near the end was and staying beside me. But, John, beloved, I would not have been happy with that. It would have brought before you with intensity death’s parting side, and I wished to avoid this. I want you to think of me as gone to be with Jesus and with your dear father. Besides, I wanted the pleasure of giving you back again to your work before I went away.
Because I knew the end was near I dared to do a lot of things I would have been careful about otherwise. I forced myself to walk again in the strength of the happiness of your presence so you might remember your mother once more on her feet. Remember now when you’re reading this I’ll be walking the golden streets as strong and free as you walk your desert, dear. So don’t regret anything of the good times we had or wish you’d stayed longer. It was perfect, and the good times aren’t over for us. We’ll have them again on the other side someday when there are no more partings forever.
But one thing has troubled me ever since you first went away, and that is you’re alone. God knew it wasn’t good for man to be alone, and He has a helpmeet for my boy somewhere in the world, I’m sure. I’d be glad if I might go knowing you found her and she loved you as I loved your father when I married him. I’ve never talked much about these things to you because I don’t think mothers should try to influence their children to marry until God sends the right one, and then it isn’t the mother who should be the judge, of course.
But once I spoke to you in a letter. You remember? It was after I met a sweet girl whose life seemed so fit to belong to yours. You opened your heart to me then and told me you’d found the one you loved and would never love another—but she wasn’t for you. My heart ached for you, laddie, and I prayed much for you then, for it was a sore trial to come to my boy out there alone with his trouble. I had much to do not to hate that girl you gave your love to and not to imagine her a disagreeable creature with airs and no sense, that she didn’t recognize the man in my son or know his beautiful soul and the worth of his love. But then I thought perhaps she couldn’t help not knowing enough, poor child, to appreciate you, and likely it was God’s good leading that kept you from her. But I’ve kept hoping that sometime He’d bring you to love another who was more worthy than she could have been.
Dear, you’ve never said anything more about that girl, and I hope you’ve forgotten her, though sometimes when you were at home I noticed that deep, faraway look in your eyes and a sadness about your face that made me tremble lest her memory was just as bright as ever.
I have wanted you to know the sweet girl, Hazel Radcliffe, who has been my dear friend and almost daughter—for no daughter could have been dearer than she has been to me, and I believe she loves me, too, as I love her.
If you were nearer I’d have tried to bring you two together, at least once, so you might judge for yourselves. But I found out she was shy as a bird about meeting anyone—though she has hosts of young men friends in her New York home—and she’d have run away if you’d come. Besides, I couldn’t have given you any reason but the truth for sending for you, and I knew God would bring you two together if it was His will. But I couldn’t go happy from this earth without doing something toward helping you just see her once, so I asked her to give you this letter with her own hand, if possible, and she promised to do so.
You’ll come home when I’m gone, and she’ll have to see you. And when you look on her sweet face, if you don’t feel as your mother does about her, it’s all right, dear son. Only I wanted you just to see her once because I love her so much and because I love you. If you could forget the other and love this one, it seems as though I’d be glad even in heaven. But if you don’t feel that way when you see her, John, don’t mind my writing this letter, for it pleased me a great deal to play this little trick on you before I left. And the dear girl must never know—unless indeed you love her—and then I don’t care—for I know she’ll forgive me for writing this silly letter and love me just the same.
Dear b
oy, just as we never liked to say good-bye when you went away to college, but only “Au revoir,” so there won’t be any good-bye now—only I love you.
Your Mother
Hazel was weeping softly when they finished the letter, and tears stood in the son’s eyes, though they were glorified by the smile that shone on the girl as he folded the letter.
“Wasn’t that a mother for a fellow to have? And could I do anything else than give myself when she gave all she had? And to think she picked out the very one for me I loved in the whole world and sent her to me because I was too set in my way to come back after her. It’s just as if my mother sent you down as a gift from heaven to me, dear!” And their lips met again in deep love and understanding.
The sun was almost setting now, and suddenly the two became aware that night was coming on. The Indian would return, and they must plan what to do.
Brownleigh rose and went to the door to see if the Indian was in sight. He was thinking rapidly. Then he came back and stood before the girl.
“Dear!” he said.
The tone of his voice brought the quick color to her cheeks. It was so wonderful, so disconcerting to be looked at and spoken to in that way. She caught her breath and wondered if it weren’t a dream after all.
“Dear,” he said, with another of those deep searching looks, “this is a big, primitive country, and we do things in a quick way out here sometimes. You must tell me if I go too fast. But could—would you—do you think you love me enough to marry me at once—tonight?”
“Oh!” she breathed, lifting her happy eyes. “It would be beautiful never to have to leave you again—but—you hardly know me. I’m not fit, you know. You’re a great, wonderful missionary, and I–I’m only a foolish girl who’s fallen in love with you and can’t ever be happy again without you.”
She buried her face in the arm of the chair and cried happy, shamed tears, and he gathered her up in his arms and comforted her, his face shining.
“Dear,” he said when he could speak again, “dear, don’t you know that’s all I want? And don’t ever talk that way again about me. I’m no saint, as you’ll very well find out, but I’ll promise to love and cherish you as long as we both shall live. Will you marry me tonight?”
The silence in the little room was broken only by the low crackling of the dying fire.
She lifted shy glad eyes to his and then came and placed her two hands in his.
“If you’re quite sure you want me,” she breathed softly.
His glowing face and his tender arms assured her on that point.
“I have just one regret,” said the young man, lifting his eyes toward his mother’s picture. “If she only could have known it was you I loved. Why didn’t I tell her your name? But then—why, my dear, I didn’t know your name. Do you realize that? I didn’t know your name until now.”
“I certainly did realize it,” said Hazel with rosy cheeks. “It used to hurt dreadfully sometimes to think that even if you wanted to find me you wouldn’t know how.”
“You dear! Did you care so much?” His voice was deep and tender, and his eyes were upon her.
“So much!” she breathed softly.
But the splash of red sunlight on the floor at their feet warned them of the lateness of the hour, and they turned to the business of the moment.
“It’s wonderful for things to be the way they are tonight,” said Brownleigh in his full, joyous tones. “It certainly seems providential. Bishop Vail, my father’s old college chum, has been traveling through the West on missionary work for his church and is now at the stopping place where you spent last night. He leaves on the midnight train tonight, but we can get there long before that time, and he’ll marry us. There’s no one I’d rather have, though the choice should be yours. Are you going to mind very much being married in this brief, primitive way?”
“If I minded those things I wouldn’t be worthy of your love,” said Hazel softly. “No, I don’t mind in the least. But I don’t really have anything with me to get married in—nothing suitable for a wedding gown. You won’t remember me in bridal attire—and there won’t even be Amelia Ellen for bridesmaid.” She smiled at him mischievously.
“You darling!” he said, laying his lips upon hers again. “You don’t need bridal attire to make you the sweetest bride that ever came to Arizona, and I’ll always remember you as you are now, as the most beautiful sight my eyes ever saw. If we had time to get word to some of my colleagues at their stations we’d have a wedding reception that would outrival your New York affairs as far as enthusiasm and genuine hearty goodwill is concerned. But they’re all forty to a hundred miles away from here, and it’ll be impossible. Are you sure you’re not too tired to ride back to the stopping place tonight?” He looked at her anxiously.
“We’ll hitch Billy to the wagon, and the seat has good springs. I’ll put in plenty of cushions, and you can rest on the way. We won’t even try to come back tonight. It would be too much for you.”
She began to protest, but he continued. “No, dear, I don’t mean we’ll stay in that little hole where you spent last night. That would be awful! But what would you say to camping in the same spot where we had our last talk? I’ve been there many times since and often spend the night there because of its association with you. It isn’t far, you know, from the railroad—a matter of a few minutes’ ride—and there’s good water. We can carry my little tent and equipment and then take as much of a wedding trip afterward as you feel you have strength for before we return—though we’ll have the rest of our lives to make one dear long wedding trip of, I hope. Will that plan suit you?”
“Oh, it will be beautiful,” said Hazel with shining eyes.
“Very well, then. I’ll get everything ready for our start, and you must rest until I call you.”
With that he stooped and, before she realized what he was doing, gently lifted her from her feet and laid her down upon his couch over in the corner, spreading a multicolored Indian blanket over her. Then he stirred the fire, filled up the kettle, swung it back over the blaze and, with a smile, went out to prepare the wagon.
Hazel lay there looking about her new home with happy eyes, noting each touch of refinement and beauty that showed the character of the man who’d lived his life alone there for four long years. She wondered if it were really she, the lonely struggling nurse with the bitter ache in her heart, who was feeling so happy here today—Hazel Radcliffe, the former New York society girl, rejoicing ecstatically because she was going to marry a poor home missionary and live in a shanty!
How her friends would laugh and sneer, and how Aunt Maria would lift her hands in horror and say the family was disgraced! But it didn’t matter about Aunt Maria. Poor Aunt Maria! She’d never approved of anything Hazel wanted to do all her life. As for her brother—and here her face took on a shade of sadness—her brother was of a different world from hers and always had been. People said he was like his dead mother. Perhaps the man of the desert could help her brother to better things. Perhaps he’d come out here to visit them and catch a vision of another life and long for it as she had. He couldn’t fail at least to see the greatness of the man she’d chosen.
She took great comfort in this hour to remember her father had been interested in her missionary and expressed a hope she might meet him again someday. She thought her father would have been pleased at her choice, for he’d surely seen the vision of what was really worthwhile in life before he died.
Suddenly her eyes turned to the little square table over by the cupboard. What if she set it?
She sprang up, following the thought with action.
Almost as a child might handle her first pewter set, Hazel took the dishes from the shelves and arranged them on the table. They were pretty china dishes, with a fine old sprigged pattern of delicate flowers. She recognized them as belonging to his mother’s set and handled them reverently. The mother’s presence seemed almost with her in the room as she prepared the table for her first meal with th
e beloved son.
She found a large white towel in the cupboard drawer, spread it on the rough little table and set the delicate dishes upon it: two plates, two cups and saucers, knives, and forks—two of everything! How it thrilled her to think that in a little while she’d belong here in this dear house, and they two would have a right to sit together at this table through the years. Hardships and disappointments would come, of course. She was no fool! Life was full of disappointments for everybody, as well as beautiful surprises! But come what would, she knew by the thrill in her heart she’d never be sorry for this day in which she promised to become the wife of the man of the desert. And she’d always cherish the memory of this her first setting of the little table and let it make all future settings of that table a holy ordinance.
She found a can of soup in the cupboard and heated it in a small saucepan on the fire. Then she set out crackers and cheese, a glass of jelly, a small bottle of stuffed olives and some little cakes she brought with her in her suitcase. She’d thought she might need something when she arrived in Arizona, for she didn’t know if she might have to ride across the desert to find the missionary. And sure enough that was the case.
It looked very cozy when Brownleigh came in to say the wagon was ready, and he thought he saw the Indian in the dusk coming across the plain. But he stopped short, speechless, for here before him was the picture his mind and heart had painted for him many times: this girl, the one girl in all the earth for him, beside his hearth dishing up steaming soup into the hot dishes, the firelight playing on her sweet face and golden hair, and every line and movement of her graceful body calling for his adoration! So he stood for one long minute and feasted his hungry eyes on the sight, until she turned and saw his heart in his eyes, and her own face grew rosy with the joy and the meaning of it all.
The Man of the Desert Page 15