The Man of the Desert (19 page)

He put the idea from him many times with a sigh as he tended the fire and prepared his simple meal. Yet always her face lingered sweetly in his thoughts, like balm on his sad spirit.

Billy was headed toward home that morning and took up an eager gait, while the missionary endeavored to keep his thoughts on his work and plans for the immediate future. But, try as he would, the girl’s face kept smiling in between, and the beauty along the trail reminded him of their ride. Finally he let his imagination dwell on her with pleasant thoughts of how it would be if she were his, waiting for him at the end of his journey or, better still, riding beside him at this moment and conversing with him on the way.

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!

The Letter

I
n 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:

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?”