Milton Hamar had not troubled Hazel
all summer. From time to time her father mentioned
him as being connected with business enterprises, and
it was openly spoken of now that a divorce had been
granted him, and his former wife was soon to marry
again. All this, however, was most distasteful
to the girl to whom the slightest word about the man
served to bring up the hateful scene of the desert.
But early in the fall he appeared
among them again, assuming his old friendly attitude
towards the whole family, dropping in to lunch or
dinner whenever it suited his fancy. He seemed
to choose to forget what had passed between Hazel
and himself, to act as though it had not been, and
resumed his former playful attitude of extreme interest
in the girl of whom he had always been fond.
Hazel, however, found a certain air of proprietorship
in his gaze, a too-open expression of his admiration
which was offensive. She could not forget, try
as hard as she might for her father’s sake to
forgive. She shrank away from the man’s
company, avoided him whenever possible, and at last
when he seemed to be almost omnipresent, and growing
every day more insistent in his attentions, she cast
about her for some absorbing interest which would take
her out of his sphere.
Then a strange fancy took her in its possession.
It was in the middle of the night
when it came to her, where she had been turning her
luxurious pillow for two hours trying in vain to tempt
a drowsiness that would not come, and she arose at
once and wrote a brief and businesslike letter to
the landlord of the little New Hampshire inn where
she had been delayed for a couple of hours in the
fall. In the morning, true to her impulsive nature,
she besieged her father until he gave his permission
for her to take her maid and a quiet elderly cousin
of his and go away for a complete rest before the society
season began.
It was a strange whim for his butterfly
daughter to take but the busy man saw no harm in it,
and was fully convinced that it was merely her way
of punishing some over ardent follower for a few days;
and feeling sure she would soon return, he let her
go. She had had her way all her life, and why
should he cross her in so simple a matter as a few
days’ rest in a country inn with a respectable
chaperone?
The letter to the landlord was outtravelled
by a telegram whose answer sent Hazel on her way the
next morning, thankful that she had been able to get
away during a temporary absence of Milton Hamar, and
that her father had promised not to let any of her
friends know of her whereabouts. His eye had
twinkled as he made the promise. He was quite
sure which of her many admirers was being punished,
but he did not tell her so. He intended to be
most judicious with all her young men friends.
He so confided his intentions to Milton Hamar that
evening, having no thought that Hazel would mind their
old friend’s knowing.
Two days later Hazel, after establishing
her little party comfortably in the best rooms the
New Hampshire inn afforded, putting a large box of
new novels at their disposal, and another of sweets,
and sending orders for new magazines to be forwarded,
went over to call on the sweet old lady towards whom
her heart had been turning eagerly, with a longing
that would not be put away, ever since that first accidental,
or providential, meeting.
When she came back, through the first
early snow-storm, with her cheeks like winter roses
and her furry hat all feathered with great white flakes,
she found Milton Hamar seated in front of the open
fire in the office making the air heavy with his best
tobacco, and frowning impatiently through the small-paned
windows.
The bright look faded instantly from
her face and the peace which she had almost caught
from the woman across the way. Her eyes flashed
indignantly, and her whole small frame stiffened for
the combat that she knew must come now. There
was no mistaking her look. Milton Hamar knew
at once that he was not welcome. She stood for
an instant with the door wide open, blowing a great
gust of biting air across the wide room and into his
face. A cloud of smoke sprang out from the fireplace
to meet it and the two came together in front of the
man, and made a visible wall for a second between
him and the girl.
He sprang to his feet, cigar in hand,
and an angry exclamation upon his lips. The office,
fortunately, was without other occupant.
“Why in the name of all that’s
unholy did you lead me a race away off to this forsaken
little hole in midwinter, Hazel?” he cried.
Hazel drew herself to her full height
and with the dignity that well became her, answered
him:
“Really, Mr. Hamar, what right
have you to speak to me in that way? And what
right had you to follow me?”
“The right of the man who is
going to marry you!” he answered fiercely; “and
I think it’s about time this nonsense stopped.
It’s nothing but coquettish foolishness, your
coming here. I hate coquettish fools. I
didn’t think you had it in you to coquet, but
it seems all women are alike.”
“Mr. Hamar, you are forgetting
yourself,” said the girl quietly, turning to
shut the door that she might gain time to get control
of her shaken nerves. She had a swift vision
of what it would be if she were married to a man like
that. No wonder his wife was entirely willing
to give him a divorce. But she shuddered as she
turned back and faced him bravely.
“Well, what did you come here
for?” he asked in a less fierce tone.
“I came because I wanted to
be quiet,” Hazel said trying to steady her voice,
“and-I will tell you the whole truth.
I came because I wanted to get away from-you!
I have not liked the way you acted towards me since-that
day-in Arizona.”
The man’s fierce brows drew
together, but a kind of mask of apology overspread
his features. He perceived that he had gone too
far with the girl whom he had thought scarcely more
than a child. He had thought he could mould her
like wax, and that his scorn would instantly wither
her wiles. He watched her steadily for a full
minute; the girl, though trembling in every nerve,
sending back a steady, haughty gaze.
“Do you mean that?” he said at last.
“I do!” Her voice was quiet, but she was
on the verge of tears.
“Well, perhaps we’d better
talk it over. I see I’ve taken too much
for granted. I thought you’d understood
for a year or more what was going on-what
I was doing it for.”
“You thought I understood!
You thought I would be willing to be a party to such
an awful thing as you have done!” Hazel’s
eyes were flashing fire now. The tears were scorched
away.
“Sit down! We’ll
talk it over,” said the man moving a great summer
chair nearer to his own. His eyes were on her
face approvingly and he was thinking what a beautiful
picture she made in her anger.
“Never!” said the girl
quickly. “It is not a thing I could talk
over. I do not wish to speak of it again.
I wish you to leave this place at once,” and
she turned with a quick movement and fled up the quaint
old staircase.
She stayed in her room until he left,
utterly refusing to see him, refusing to answer the
long letters he wrote and sent up to her; and finally,
after another day, he went away. But he wrote
to her several times, and came again twice, each time
endeavouring to surprise her into talking with him.
The girl grew to watch nervously every approach of
the daily stage which brought stray travellers from
the station four miles distant, and was actually glad
when a heavy snow-storm shut them in and made it unlikely
that her unwelcome visitor would venture again into
the country.
The last time he came Hazel saw him
descending from the coach, and without a word to any
one, although it was almost supper time, and the early
winter twilight was upon them, she seized her fur cloak
and slipped down the back stairs, out through the
shadows, across the road, where she surprised good
Amelia Ellen by flinging her arms about her neck and
bursting into tears right in the dark front hall, for
the gust of wintry wind from the open door blew the
candle out, and Amelia Ellen stood astonished and
bewildered for a moment in the blast of the north
wind with the soft arms of the excited girl in her
furry wrappings clinging about her unaccustomed shoulders.
Amelia Ellen had never had many beautiful
things in her life, the care of her Dresden-china
mistress, and her brilliant garden of flowers, having
been the crowning of her life hitherto. This beautiful
city girl with her exquisite garments and her face
like a flower, flung upon her in sudden appeal, drew
out all the latent love and pity and sympathy of which
Amelia Ellen had a larger store than most, hidden under
a simple and severe exterior.
“Fer the land’s sake!
Whatever ails you!” she exclaimed when she could
speak for astonishment, and to her own surprise her
arm enclosed the sobbing girl in a warm embrace while
with the other hand she reached to close the door.
“Come right in to my kitchen and set in the big
chair by the cat and let me give you a cup o’
tea. Then you can tell Mis’ Brownleigh
what’s troublin’ you. She’ll
know how to talk to you. I’ll git you some
tea right away.”
She drew the shrinking girl into the
kitchen and ousting the cat from a patchwork rocker
pushed her gently into it. It was characteristic
of Amelia Ellen that she had no thought of ministering
to her spiritual needs herself, but knew her place
was to bring physical comfort.
She spoke no word save to the cat,
admonishing him to mend his manners and keep out from
under foot, while she hurried to the tea canister,
the bread box, the sugar bowl, and the china closet.
Soon a cup of fragrant tea was set before the unexpected
guest, and a bit of delicate toast browning over the
coals, to be buttered and eaten crisp with the tea;
and the cat nestled comfortably at Hazel’s feet
while she drank the tea and wiped away the tears.
“You’ll think I’m
a big baby, Amelia Ellen!” cried Hazel trying
to smile shamedly, “but I’m just so tired
of the way things go. You see somebody I don’t
a bit like has come up from New York on the evening
coach, and I’ve run away for a little while.
I don’t know what made me cry. I never
cry at home, but when I got safely over here a big
lump came in my throat and you looked so nice and
kind that I couldn’t keep the tears back.”
From that instant Amelia Ellen, toasting
fork in hand, watching the sweet blue eyes and the
tear-stained face that resembled a drenched pink bud
after a storm, loved Hazel Radcliffe. Come weal,
come woe, Amelia Ellen was from henceforth her staunch
admirer and defendant.
“Never you mind, honey, you
just eat your tea an’ run in to Mis’ Brownleigh,
an’ I’ll get my hood an’ run over
to tell your folks you’ve come to stay all night
over here. Then you’ll have a cozy evenin’
readin’ while I sew, an’ you can sleep
late come mornin’, and go back when you’re
ready. Nobody can’t touch you over here.
I’m not lettin’ in people by night ’thout
I know ’em,” and she winked knowingly at
the girl by way of encouragement. Well she knew
who the unwelcome stranger from New York was.
She had keen eyes, and had watched the coach from her
well-curtained kitchen window as it came in.
That night Hazel told her invalid
friend all about Milton Hamar, and slept in the pleasant
bed that Amelia Ellen had prepared for her, with sheets
of fragrant linen redolent of sweet clover. Her
heart was lighter for the simple, kindly advice and
the gentle love that had been showered upon her.
She wondered, as she lay half dozing in the morning
with the faint odour of coffee and muffins penetrating
the atmosphere, why it was that she could love this
beautiful mother of her hero so much more tenderly
than she had ever loved any other woman. Was it
because she had never known her own mother and had
longed for one all her life, or was it just because
she was his dear mother? She gave up trying
to answer the question and went smiling down to breakfast,
and then across the road to face her unwelcome lover,
strong in the courage that friendly counsel had given
her.
Milton Hamar left before dinner, having
been convinced at last of the uselessness of his visit.
He hired a man with a horse and cutter to drive him
across country to catch the New York evening express,
and Hazel drew a breath of relief and began to find
new pleasure in life. Her father was off on a
business trip for some weeks; her brother had gone
abroad for the winter with a party of college friends.
There was no real reason why she should return to
New York for some time, and she decided to stay and
learn of this saintly woman how to look wisely on
the things of life. To her own heart she openly
acknowledged that there was a deep pleasure in being
near one who talked of the man she loved.
So the winter settled down to business,
and Hazel spent happy days with her new friends, for
Amelia Ellen had become a true friend in the best
sense of the word.
The maid had found the country winter
too lonely and Hazel had found her useless and sent
her back to town. She was learning by association
with Amelia Ellen to do a few things for herself.
The elderly cousin, whose years had been a long strain
of scrimping to present a respectable exterior, was
only too happy to have leisure and quiet to read and
embroider to her heart’s content. So Hazel
was free to spend much time with Mrs. Brownleigh.
They read together, at least Hazel
did the reading, for the older eyes were growing dim,
and had to be guarded to prevent the terrible headaches
which came at the slightest provocation and made the
days a blank of suffering for the lovely soul where
patience was having its perfect work.
The world of literature opened through
a new door to the eager young mind now. Books
of which she had never heard were at her hand.
New thoughts and feelings were stirred by them.
A few friends who knew Mrs. Brownleigh through their
summer visits, and others who had known her husband,
kept her well supplied with the latest and always the
best of everything-history, biography,
essays and fiction. But there were also books
of a deep spiritual character, and magazines that showed
a new world, the religious world, to the girl.
She read with zest all of them, and enjoyed deeply
the pleasant converse concerning each. Her eyes
were being opened to new ways of living. She
was beginning to know that there was an existence
more satisfying than just to go from one round of
amusement to another. And always, more than in
any other thing she read, she took a most unusual
interest in home missionary literature. It was
not because it was so new and strange and like a fairy
tale, nor because she knew her friend enjoyed hearing
all this news so much, but because it held for her
the story of the man she now knew she loved, and who
had said he loved her. She wanted to put herself
into touch with surroundings like his, to understand
better what he had to endure, and why he had not dared
to ask her to share his life, his hardship-most
of all why he had not thought her worthy to suffer
with him.
When she grew tired of reading she
would go out into the kitchen and help Amelia Ellen.
It was her own whim that she should learn how to make
some of the good things to eat for which Amelia Ellen
was famous. So while her society friends at home
went from one gay scene to another, dancing and frivolling
through the night and sleeping away the morning, Hazel
bared her round white arms, enveloped herself in a
clean blue-checked apron, and learned to make bread
and pies and gingerbread and puddings and doughnuts
and fruit-cake, how to cook meats and vegetables and
make delicious broths from odds and ends, and to concoct
the most delectable desserts that would tempt the frailest
appetite. Real old country things they were-no
fancy salads and whips and froths that society has
hunted out to tempt its waning taste till everything
has palled. She wrote to one of her old friends,
who demanded to know what she was doing so long up
there in the country in the height of the season,
that she was taking a course in Domestic Science and
happily recounted her menu of accomplishments.
Secretly her heart rejoiced that she was become less
and less unworthy of the love of the man in whose
home and at whose mother’s side she was learning
sweet lessons.
There came letters, of course, from
the far-away missionary. Hazel stayed later in
the kitchen the morning of their arrival, conscious
of a kind of extra presence in his mother’s
room when his letters arrived. She knew the mother
liked to be alone with her son’s letters, and
that she saved her eyes from other reading for them
alone. Always the older face wore a kind of glorified
look when the girl entered after she had been reading
her letter. The letter itself would be hidden
away out of sight in the bosom of her soft gray gown,
to be read again and again when she was alone, but
seldom was it brought out in the presence of the visitor,
much as the mother was growing to love this girl.
Frequently there were bits of news.
“My son says he is very glad
I am having such delightful company this winter, and
he wants me to thank you from him for reading to me,”
she said once, patting Hazel’s hand as she tucked
the wool robe about her friend’s helpless form.
And again:
“My son is starting to build
a church. He is very happy about it. They
have heretofore held worship in a schoolhouse.
He has collected a good deal of the money himself,
and he will help to put up the building with his own
hands. He is going to send me a photograph when
it is up. I would like to be present when it
is dedicated. It makes me very proud to have
my son doing that.”
The next letter brought a photograph,
a small snapshot of the canyon, tiny, but clear and
distinct. Hazel’s hand trembled when the
mother gave it to her to look at, for she knew the
very spot. She fancied it was quite near the
place where they had paused for water. She could
feel again the cool breath of the canyon, the damp
smell of the earth and ferns, and hear the call of
the wild bird.
Then one day there came a missionary
magazine with a short article on the work of Arizona
and a picture of the missionary mounted on Billy,
just ready to start from his little shack on a missionary
tour.
Hazel, turning the leaves, came upon
the picture and held her breath with astonishment
and delight; then rapidly glanced over the article,
her heart beating wildly as though she had heard his
voice suddenly calling to her out of the distances
that separated them. She had a beautiful time
surprising the proud mother with the picture and reading
the article. From that morning they seemed to
have a tenderer tie between them, and once, just
before Hazel was leaving for the night, the mother
reached out a detaining hand and laid it on the girl’s
arm. “I wish my boy and you were acquainted,
dear,” she said wistfully. And Hazel, the
rich colour flooding her face at once, replied hesitatingly:
“Oh, why-I-feel-almost-as-though-we
were!” Then she kissed her friend on
the soft cheek and hurried back to the inn.
It was that night that the telegram
came to say that her father had been seriously injured
in a railway accident and would be brought home at
once. She had no time to think of anything then
but to hurry her belongings together and hasten to
New York.