The Man of the Desert (8 page)

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:

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 something 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.

Revelation

T
he 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.

Brownleigh lifted her onto his horse, and they started on their way. Yet not once in all the pleasant contact did he betray his secret, and Hazel began to feel the burden of what she’d heard weighing heavily upon her like a thing stolen she’d gladly replace but dared not. Sometimes, as they rode along, he talked quietly as the day before, pointing out some object of interest or telling her some remarkable story of his experiences. She wondered then if she hadn’t been mistaken—heard wrong, maybe, or made more of the words than she should have. She decided he couldn’t have meant her at all. And then turning suddenly, she’d find his eyes upon her with a light in them so tender, so yearning, that she dropped her own in confusion and felt her heart beating wildly with the pleasure and the pain of it.

About noon they came to a rain waterhole near three Indian hogans. Brownleigh explained to Hazel that he’d come this way, a little off the shortest trail, hoping to get another horse so they might travel faster and reach the railroad before sundown.

Her heart sank as he left her sitting on Billy under a cottonwood tree while he went to see if anyone was home and had a horse to spare. Of course she wanted to find her friends and relieve their anxiety as soon as possible. But something in the young missionary’s voice as he spoke of traveling faster seemed to build a wall between them. Their pleasant morning exchange appeared to be drawing rapidly to a close, with the wonderful sympathy and interest between them pushed out of her reach. She felt a choking sensation in her throat and longed to put her head down on Billy’s neck and sob.

She tried to reason with herself. Only a little over twenty-four hours ago she saw this stranger for the first time; yet her heart was bound to him in such a way that she dreaded their separation. How could it be? Such things weren’t real. People always laughed at sudden love as if it were impossible. But her heart told her they numbered their acquaintance not by mere hours. This man’s soul was revealed to her in that brief space of time as another’s might not be in years. She dreaded the ending of this companionship. It would be the end, of course. He said it, and she knew his words were true. His world wasn’t her world, more the pity! He’d never give up his world, and he said she was unfit for his. It was too true—this world of rough, uncouth strangers and wild, empty beauty. But how she longed to have this day with him beside her prolonged indefinitely! The vision would fade of course when she returned to the world again. But now she admitted to herself she didn’t want to return. She’d be content to wander with him in the desert for the rest of her natural life.