A young girl in servant’s attire was clasping her hands together and weeping in a kind of hysterical joy over the return of her mistress. And behind her in the gloom of the car vestibule loomed the dark countenance of a man with an angry, red mark across one cheek. Brownleigh guessed him to be Hamar, the man who had frightened Hazel. He turned from his face with disgust.
In the confusion over the girl’s return, the man of the desert prepared to slip away, but as he was about to mount his horse Hazel turned and saw him.
“Daddy, come and speak to the man who found me and brought me safely back,” she said, taking her father’s arm and leading him across the platform to where the missionary stood.
Hazel talked rapidly, her eyes shining, her cheeks like twin roses, telling in a breath of the horrors, the darkness, and the rescue, and of the stranger’s thoughtfulness.
Mr. Radcliffe stepped forward with outstretched hand to greet him, and the missionary took off his hat and shook hands graciously. He was unaware then of the piercing stares leveled at him from Aunt Maria, Hamar, and the young Radcliffe, as if to say, How dare he presume to expect recognition for doing a simply duty! He noted only the genuine heartiness in the father’s face and voice as he thanked him for what he’d done.
Then, like the practical man of the world he was, Mr. Radcliffe reached his hand into his pocket and drew out his checkbook. He remarked that, of course, he wished to reward his daughter’s rescuer and asked his name as he pulled off the cap from his fountain pen.
Brownleigh stepped back, the color rising in his face.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “I wouldn’t think of taking anything for a simple act of humanity. It was a pleasure to be able to serve your daughter.” Then he swung himself into the saddle.
But Mr. Radcliffe was unaccustomed to such independence in those who served him and started to protest. Hazel, however, her cheeks fairly blazing, put a hand on her father’s arm.
“Daddy, you don’t understand,” she said. “My new friend is a clergyman—he’s a missionary, Daddy!”
“Nonsense, daughter! You don’t let a deed like this go unrewarded. A missionary, did you say? Then if you won’t take anything for yourself take it for your church. It’s all the same in the end.” He winked at Brownleigh whose anger was rising rapidly and who was struggling to keep a quiet spirit.
“Thank you,” he said again, “but not for any such service.”
“But I mean it!” grumbled the older man. “I want to donate something to a cause that employs a man like you. It’s good for the country to have such men patrolling the deserts. I never thought there was much excuse for home missions, but after this I’ll give it my hearty approval. It makes the country safer for tourists. Come—tell me your name, and I’ll write out a check. I’m quite serious.”
“Send any contributions you wish to the general fund,” said Brownleigh with dignity, mentioning the address of the New York board under whose auspices he was sent out. “But don’t mention me, please.”
He lifted his hat again and would have ridden away but for the distress in Hazel’s eyes.
Just then Hazel’s brother rushed up. “Dad, Aunt Maria wants to know if we can’t go on with this train. It’s in sight now, and she’s nearly crazy to get moving. There’s nothing to stop us from hitching on, is there? The agent has the order. Do, Dad. Let’s get out of here. I’m sick of it, and Aunt Maria is unbearable!”
“Yes, certainly, Arthur, speak to the agent. We’ll go on at once. Excuse me, Mr.—uh—what did you say was the name? I’m sorry you feel that way about it—though it’s very commendable, I’m sure. I’ll send to New York at once. Fifth Avenue, did you say? I’ll speak a good word for you. Excuse me. The agent’s calling me. Well, good-bye, and thank you again! Daughter, you better get right into the car. The train’s almost here, and they may have no time to spare.” Mr. Radcliffe hastened up the platform after his son and the agent.
Chapter 9
For Remembrance
Hazel turned her troubled eyes to the man’s face. “My father doesn’t understand. He’s very grateful, and he’s used to thinking money can always show gratitude.”
Brownleigh was off his horse beside her, his hat off, before she finished speaking.
“I beg of you—don’t think of it again,” he pleaded. “It’s all right. I understand. And you understand, too, I’m sure.”
“Yes, I understand,” she said, her eyes filled with the love she hadn’t dared let him see. She was fussing with her rings as she spoke and looked back anxiously at the train heading toward the station.
Her brother, dashing down the platform to their car, called to her to hurry as he passed her, and she knew she’d be allowed only a moment more. She caught her breath and looked at the tall missionary wistfully.
“You’ll let me leave something of my own with you, just for remembrance?” she asked eagerly.
His eyes grew tender and misty.
“Of course,” he said, his voice suddenly husky, “although I’ll need nothing to remember you by. I can never forget you.” The memory of that look in his eyes was meat and drink to her soul for many days afterward. But she met it now steadily, not even flushing at her open recognition of his love.
“This is mine,” she said. “My father bought it for me when I was sixteen. I’ve worn it ever since. He’ll never care.” She slipped a ring from her finger and dropped it in his palm.
“Hurry up, sister!” called young Radcliffe from the car window.
Glancing up, Brownleigh saw Hamar’s face peering from another window.
Hazel struggled to keep back the rising tears. “I must go.”
Brownleigh flung the horse’s reins to a young Indian who stood near, turned, and walked beside her, aware of frowning faces watching them from the car windows.
“And I have nothing to give you,” he said to her in a low tone, deeply moved by what she’d done.
“Will you let me have the little book?” she asked shyly.
His eyes lit up as he reached in his pocket for his Bible.
“It’s the best thing I own,” he said. “May it bring you the same joy and comfort it has often brought me.” And he placed the little book in her hand.
The train backed up and jarred into the private car with a snarling, grating sound. Brownleigh put Hazel on the steps and helped her up. Her father was hurrying toward the steps also, and some train hands were shouting directions. They had only an instant for a handclasp. Then he stepped back to the platform, and her father swung himself on, as the train moved off. She stood on the top step of the car, her eyes on his face and his on hers, with his hat lifted and renunciation on his brow as though it were a crown.
Her aunt Maria’s voice recalled her to herself, while the little station with its primitive setting, straggling onlookers, and one great man slipped past and was blurred into the landscape by the tears she couldn’t hold back.
“Hazel! For pity’s sake! Don’t stand mooning and gazing at that rude creature any longer. You’ll fall off the train and get dramatically rescued again for the natives’ enjoyment. I’m sure you’ve disturbed us enough for one trip. Now you’d better come in and try to make amends with poor Mr. Hamar. What a foolish thing to make him suffer by going off on a wild horse that ran away! Perhaps you don’t know he risked his life for you. He tried to catch your horse and was thrown and kicked in the face by his own wretched beast and left lying unconscious for hours in the desert. Finally an Indian came along and picked him up and helped him back to the station.”
In fact, Milton Hamar planned and enacted this drama with a passing Indian’s help, when he found Hazel had run off and left an ugly whip mark on his cheek, which must be explained to the family.
“He may bear that dreadful scar for life!” her aunt added. “He’ll think you’re ungrateful if you don’t go at once and apologize.”
For answer, Hazel, brushing away the tears before her aunt saw, swept past her and locked herself in
her own private stateroom.
She rushed to the window, standing partly open and guarded with a screen, and pressed her face against the upper part of the glass. The train had made a curve across the prairie, and the station was still visible, though far away. She was sure she could see the missionary’s tall figure with hat in hand watching her as she disappeared from his sight.
On an impulse she caught up a long white crepe scarf that lay on her berth and, snatching the screen from the window, threw the scarf out to the wind. Almost instantly a flutter of white came from the figure on the platform, and her heart quickened with joy. They’d sent a message from heart to heart across the wide plains, and the wireless telegraphy of hearts was established. Tears rushed to blot the last flutter of white from the receding landscape. Then a hill loomed bright and shifting and in a moment cut off the station and the little group from her sight. Hazel knew she was back in the world of commonplace things again, with only a memory for her company, amidst a background of unsympathetic relatives.
She refreshed herself in a leisurely way, for she dreaded to talk as she knew she would and dreaded still more to meet Hamar. But she knew she must go and tell her father about her experiences. Presently she came out to them with eyes only brighter for the tears and a soft wild-rose flush on her wind-browned cheeks.
They clamored at once, of course, for the details of her experience and began by rehearsing again how hard Mr. Hamar tried to save her, risking his life to stop her horse.
Hazel said nothing but gave one steady clear look at the disfigured face of the man who led them to believe this. And that was her only recognition of his would-be heroism. In that look she managed to show her utter disbelief and contempt, though her aunt and perhaps even her father and brother thought her gratitude too deep for words before them.
The girl passed over the matter of the runaway with a brief word, saying the horse decided to run and she lost the reins, which of course explained her inability to control him. She made light of her ride, however, before her aunt and told the story briefly until she came to the canyon and the coyotes howling. She praised her rescuer, though here, too, she was brief and avoided any description of the ride back. She simply said the missionary showed himself a gentleman in every way and gave her every care and attention her own family would have under the circumstances, making the way pleasant with stories of the country and the people. She said he was a man of unusual culture and refinement, she thought, yet devoted to his work. Then she changed the subject by asking about plans for their future trip and indicated no further interest in her experience.
But all the while she was conscious of Milton Hamar’s piercing eyes watching her, and she knew that as soon as an opportunity presented itself he’d continue the hateful encounter he began on the plain. She decided mentally to avoid any such encounter if possible. To that end, Hazel excused herself immediately after lunch, saying she needed a good sleep to make up for her long ride.
But she didn’t give herself to sleep when she took refuge in her little apartment again. She gazed out at the passing landscape, beautiful with varied scenery, all blurred with tears as she thought of how a little while before she was out in its wide free space with someone who loved her.
How that thought thrilled her and brought fresh joy each time it repeated itself! She wondered over its miracle. She never dreamed love was like this. She scarcely believed it now. She was stirred to the depths by her unusual experience, almost feeling the strange circumstances that brought this man into her acquaintance were abnormal. Thus said common sense, warning her that tomorrow or the next day or next week the thrill would be gone and she’d think of the stranger-missionary as one curious detail of her Western trip. But her heart resented this. And something else told her deep inside that this strange new joy wouldn’t vanish; it would live throughout her life, and, whatever came to her in the years ahead, she’d always know underneath this was real, the fullness of perfect love for her.
As the miles lengthened and her thoughts grew sad with the distance, she drew out the little book he’d given her at parting. She’d slipped it into the breast pocket of her riding habit then, for she shrank from her aunt’s detecting it and questioning her. She’d been too absorbed with the separation to remember it till now.
She touched it shyly, as though it were part of him. The limp, worn covers, the look of constant use, all made it inexpressibly dear. She didn’t know an inanimate object, not beautiful in itself, could bring such tender love.
Opening to the flyleaf, she found his name in clear, bold writing: “John Chadwick Brownleigh.” For the first time she realized she hadn’t given him her name. Strange that they two should have come so close as to need no names between them. But she was glad she knew his name, and her eyes dwelt on the written characters. John! How well the name suited him.
Then she wondered whether he’d have any way of discovering her name. Perhaps her father had given it to him, or the station agent might have known to whom their car belonged. Of course he would when they received the orders—or did they give orders about cars only by numbers? She wished she dared ask someone. Perhaps she could find out in some way how those orders were written. Yet all the time she knew instinctively that if he knew her name a thousand times he wouldn’t communicate with her. She knew by that fine look of renunciation upon his face that no longing whatsoever could make him overstep the bounds he’d laid down between her soul and his.
With a sigh she opened the little book. It fell apart by itself to the place where he read the night before, the page still marked by the little silk cord. She could see him now with the firelight flickering on his face and the moonlight silvering his head, that strong tender look on his face. How wonderful he was!
She read the psalm over now, the first time in her life she ever consciously gave herself to reading the Bible. But the words held a charm that gave them new meaning, the charm of his voice as she heard them in memory and watched his face change and stir at the words as he read.
The day waned, and the train raced on, but the landscape had lost its attraction now for the girl. She pleaded weariness and remained apart from the rest, dreaming over her wonderful experience and thinking deep thoughts of wonder, regret, sadness, and joy. When night fell and the moon rose, lighting the world again, she knelt beside her car window, gazing for a long time into the wide clear sky, the sky that covered them both and the moon that looked down upon them. Then switching on the electric light over her berth she read the psalm again and fell asleep with her cheek on the little book and a prayer for him in her heart.
Standing on the station platform, watching the train disappear behind the foothills, John Brownleigh experienced, for the first time since coming to Arizona, a feeling of utter desolation. He’d been lonely and homesick at times, but always with a sense of being master of it. And with delight in his work it would pass and leave him free and glad in the power whereby his God had called him to the service. But now he felt the light of life leaving him with the train, and the glory of Arizona and the world he loved to be in was darkened.
For a moment or two his soul cried out that it couldn’t be, that he must mount some winged steed and speed after the one his heart loved. Then the wall of the inevitable appeared before his eyes, and reason crowded close to bring him to his senses. He turned away to hide the emotion in his face. The Indian boy, who was holding both horses, received his customary smile and pleasant word, but the missionary gave them more by habit now. His soul had entered its Gethsemane, and his spirit was bowed within him.
As soon as he could get away from the people around the station who wanted to tell him their little griefs, joys, and perplexities, he mounted Billy and, leading the borrowed pony, rode away into the desert, retracing the way they’d come together only a short time before. They traveled only as far back as the edge of the corn, where they made their last stop of the journey together a few short hours before. Here the missionary stopped and gave the horses their
freedom to rest and eat. He felt too weary to go farther.
He brought out the little ring she’d taken from her hand and laid within his palm and found it was too small to go more than halfway on his little finger. The low sun in the west stole into the jewel and sent its glory in a million multicolored facets, piercing his soul with the pain and joy of his love. He threw himself down on the grass where she’d sat, where, with his eyes closed and his lips on the jewel she’d worn, he met his enemy and fought.
Exhausted at last from the contest, he slept. The sun set, and the moon rose. And when the night coursed down its silver path, two jewels gleamed in its radiance, the one on his finger where he’d pressed her ring, the other from the grass beside him. Rousing, he reached over and found the topaz sparkling in the handle of her whip she’d dropped and forgotten when they sat together and talked. He seized it now. It seemed like a message of comfort from her. It was something tangible, with the ring, to show him he didn’t dream she came; she was real and had wanted him to tell her of his love and said it would make a difference the rest of her life.
He remembered reading or hearing a great man say that to be worthy of a great love a person must be able to do without it. He would prove his love, now, by doing without. He stood with uplifted face, transfigured in the light of the brilliant night, with a look of self-surrender. But only his heart communed that night, for no words came to his lips to express the fullness of his abnegation.
Then, his battle fought and stronger for it, he set out to be a staff for other men to lean on.
Chapter 10
His Mother
Deserts and mountains remained, duties crowded and pressed, hearts ached, but the world rushed on. The weeks that followed showed these two that great love is eternal.
Brownleigh didn’t try to stop thinking about it but rather let it glorify his life. Each day passed, and he traveled from post to post, from hogan to mesa, and back to his shanty again, always with the thought of her companionship. He’d never been less cheery when he met his friends, though he had a quiet dignity, a tender reserve behind it that a few discerning ones perceived. At the fort they said he was losing flesh, but if so he was gaining muscle. His lean brown arms were never stronger, and his fine strong face was never sad when anyone was nearby. Only in the nighttime, alone on the moonlit desert or in his quiet dwelling place, did he talk with his Father and tell Him of the loneliness and heartache. His people found him more sympathetic, more painstaking, more tireless than ever before, and the work prospered under his hand.