“The stormy blast of hell—with restless fury—drives the spirits onward!” she said, her voice rising.
“I know—I understand. But you mustn’t speak such thoughts. You must not give up to the wandering of your mind. You must fight,” implored Adam.
“My friend—the fight is over—the victory is mine.... I shall escape Virey. He possessed my body—poor weak thing of flesh!... but he wanted my love—my soul.... My soul to kill! He’ll never have either.... Wansfell, I’ll not live—through the night.... I am dying now.”
“No—no!” cried Adam, huskily. “You only imagine that. It’s only the oppression of these winds—and the terror of the night—this awful, unearthly valley of death. You’ll live. The winds will wear out soon. If only you fight you’ll live.... And to-morrow—Magdalene, so help me God—I’ll take you away!”
He expected the inflexible and magnetic opposition of her will, the resistless power of her spirit to uplift and transform. And this time he was adamant. At last the desert force within him had arisen above all spiritual obstacles. The thing that called was life—life as it had been in the beginning of time. But no mockery or eloquence of refusal was forthcoming from Magdalene Virey. Instead, she placed the little ivory case, containing the miniature painting of her daughter Ruth, in Adam’s hand and softly pressed it there.
“But—if I should die—I want you to have this picture of Ruth,” she said. “I’ve had to hide it from Virey—to gaze upon it in his absence. Take it, my friend, and keep it, and look at it until it draws you to her.... Wansfell, I’ll not bewilder you by mystic prophecies. But I tell you solemnly—with the clairvoyant truth given to a woman who feels the presence of death—that my daughter Ruth will cross your wanderer’s trail—come into your life—and love you.... Remember what I tell you. I see!... You are a young man still. She is a budding girl. You two will meet, perhaps in your own wastelands. Ruth is all of me—magnified a thousand times. More—she is as lovely as an unfolding rose at dawn. She will be a white, living flame.... It will be as if I had met you long ago—when I was a girl—and gave you what by the nature of life was yours.... Wansfell, you wakened my heart—saved my soul—taught me peace.... I wonder how you did it. You were just a man.... There’s a falseness of life—the scales fell from my eyes one by one. It is the heart, the flesh, the bursting stream of red blood that count with nature. All this strife, this travail, makes toward a perfection never to be attained. But effort and pain, agony of flesh, and victory over mind make strength, virility.... Nature loves barbarian women who nurse their children. I—with all my love—could not nurse my baby Ruth. It’s a mystery no longer. Death Valley and a primitive man have opened my eyes. Nature did not intend people to live in cities, but in forests, as lived the Aryans of India, or like the savages of Brazilian jungles. Like the desert beasts, self-sufficient, bringing forth few of their kind, but better, stronger species. The weak perish. So should the weak among men.... Ah! hear the roar! Another wind of death!... But I’ve said all.... Wansfell, go find Ruth—find me in her—and—remember!”
The rich voice, growing faint at the last, failed as another furnace blast came swooping up with its dust and heat. Adam bowed his head and endured. It passed and another came. The woman lay with closed eyes and limp body and nerveless hands. Hours passed and the terrible winds subsided. The shadow of a man that was Virey swaying to and fro, like a drunken specter, vanished in the shack. The woman slept. Adam watched by her side till dawn, and when the gray light came he could no more have been changed than could the night have been recalled. He would find the burros and pack them and saddle one for Magdalene Virey to ride; he would start to climb out of Death Valley and when another night fell he would have her safe on the cool mountain heights. If Virey tried to prevent this, it would mean the terrible end he merited. Adam gazed down upon the sleeping woman. How transparent, how frail a creature! She mystified Adam. She represented the creative force in life. She possessed that unintelligible and fatal thing in nature—the greatest, the most irresistible, the purest expression of truth, of what nature strove so desperately for—and it was beauty. Her youth, her error, her mocking acceptance of life, her magnificent spirit, her mother longing, her agony and her physical pangs, her awakening and repentance and victory—all were written on the pale face and with the indestructible charm of line and curve and classic feature constituted its infinite loveliness. She was a sleeping woman, yet she was close to the angels.
Adam looked from her to the ivory case in his hand.
“Her daughter Ruth—for me!” he said, wonderingly. “How strange if we met! If—if— But that’s impossible. She was wandering in mind.”
He carried the little case to his camp, searched in his pack for an old silk scarf, and, tearing this, he carefully wrapped the gift and deposited it inside the leather money belt he wore hidden round his waist.