When Zen came to herself it was with a sense of a strange swimming in
her head. Gradually it resolved itself into a sound of water about her
head; a splashing, fighting water; two heads in the water; two heads in
the water; a lash floating in the water--
“Oh!” She was sure she felt water on her face....
“Where am I?”
“You’re all right--you’ll be all right in a little while.”
“But where am I? What has happened?” She tried to sit up. All was dark.
“Where am I?” she demanded.
“Don’t be alarmed, Zen--I think your name is Zen,” she heard a man’s
voice saying. “You’ve been hurt, but you’ll be all right presently.”
Then the curtain lifted. “You are Dennison Grant,” she said. “I remember
you now. But what has happened? Why am I here--with you?”
“Well, so far, you’ve been enjoying about three hours’ unconsciousness,”
he told her. “At a distance which seems about a mile from here--although
it may be less--is a little pond. I’ve carried water in the sleeve of my
coat--fortunately it is leather--and poured it somewhat generously upon
your brow. And at last I’ve been rewarded by a conscious word.”
She tried to sit up, but desisted when a sudden twitch of pain held her
fast.
“Let me help you,” he said, gently. “We have camped, as you may notice,
on a big, flat rock. I found it not far from the scene of the accident,
so I carried you over to it. It is drier than the earth, and, for the
forepart of the night at least, will be warmer.” With a strong arm about
her shoulders he drew her into a sitting posture.
Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness. “What’s wrong with my
foot?” she demanded. “My boot’s off.”
“I’m afraid you turned your ankle getting free from your stirrup,” he
explained. “I had to do a little surgery. I could find nothing broken.
It will be painful, but I fear there is nothing to do but bear it.”
She reached down and felt her foot. It was neatly bandaged with cloth
very much like that which she had used to blindfold Quiver. It was easy
to surmise where it came from. Evidently her protector had stopped at
nothing.
“Well, are we to stay here permanently?” she asked, presently.
“Only for the night,” he told her. “If we’re lucky, not that long.
Search parties will be hunting for you, and they will doubtless ride
this way. Both of our horses bolted in the fire--”
“Oh yes, the fire! Tell me what happened.”
He hesitated.
“I remember riding into the fire,” she continued, “and then next thing I
was on this rock. How did it all happen?”
“Your horse fell,” he explained, “just as you reached the fire, and
threw you, pretty heavily, to the ground. I was behind, so I dismounted
and dragged you through.”
“Oh!” She felt her face. “But I am not even singed!” she exclaimed.
It was plain that he was holding something back. She turned and laid her
fingers on his arm. “Tell me how you did it,” she pressed.
The darkness hid his modest confusion. “It was really nothing,” he
stammered. “You see, I had a leather coat, and I just threw it over your
head--and mine--and dragged you out.”
She was silent for a moment while the meaning of his words came home to
her. Then she placed her hand frankly in his.
“Thank you,” she said, and even in the darkness she knew that their eyes
had met.
“You are very resourceful,” she continued presently. “Must we sit here
all night?”
“I can think of no alternative,” he confessed. “If we had fire-arms
we could shoot a signal, or if there were grass about we could start a
fire, although it probably would not be noticed with so many glows on
the horizon to-night.” He stopped to look about. Dull splashes of red
in the sky pointed out remnants of the day’s conflagration still eating
their way through the foothills. The air was full of the pungent but not
unpleasant smell of burnt grass.
“A pretty hard night to send a signal,” he said, “but they’re almost
sure to ride this way.”
She wondered why he did not offer to walk to the camp for help; it
could not be more than four or five miles. Suddenly she thought she
understood.
“I am not afraid to stay here alone,” she said, with a little laugh.
It was the first time Grant had heard her laugh, and he thought it very
musical indeed. “I’ve slept out many a night, and you would be back
within a couple of hours.”
“I’m quite sure you’re not afraid,” he agreed, “but, you see, I am. You
got quite a tap on the head, and for some time before you came to you
were talking--rather foolishly. Now if I should leave you it is not
only possible, but quite probable, that you would lapse again into
unconsciousness.... I really think you’ll have to put up with me here.”
“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that!... Did I--did I talk--foolishly?”
“Rather. Seemed to think you were swimming--or fighting--I couldn’t be
sure which. Sometimes you seemed to be doing both.”
“Oh!” With a cold chill the events of the day came back upon her. That
struggle in the water; it came to her now like a bad dream out of the
long, long past. How much had she said? How much would she have given to
know what she said? She felt herself recounting events....
Presently she pulled herself up with a start. She must not let him think
her moody.
“Well, if we MUST enjoy each other’s company, we may as well do so
companionably,” she said, with an effort at gaiety. “Let us talk. Tell
me about yourself.”
“First things first,” he parried.
“Oh, I’ve nothing to tell. My life has been very unromantic. A few years
at school, and the rest of it on the range. A very every-day kind of
existence.”
“I think it’s the ‘every-day kind of existence’ that IS romantic,” he
returned. “It is a great mistake to think of romance as belonging to
other times and other places. Even the most commonplace person has
experienced romance enough for a dozen books. Quite possibly he has not
recognized the romance, but it was there. The trouble is that with our
limited sense of humor, what we think of as romance in other people’s
lives becomes tragedy in our own.”
How much DID he know?... “Yes,” she said, “I suppose that is so.”
“I know it is so,” he went on. “If we could read the thoughts--know the
experiences--of those nearest to us, we would never need to look out of
our own circles for either romance or tragedy. But it is as well that
we can’t. Take the experience of to-day, for example. I admit it has
not been a commonplace day, and yet it has not been altogether
extraordinary. Think of the experiences we have been through just this
day, and how, if they were presented in fiction they would be romantic,
almost unbelievable. And here we are at the close, sitting on a rock,
matter-of-fact people in a matter-of-fact world, accepting everything as
commonplace and unexceptional.”
“Not quite that,” she said daringly. “I see that you are neither
commonplace nor unexceptional.” She spoke with sudden impulse out of the
depth of her sincerity. She had not met a man like this before. In her
mind she fixed him in contrast with Transley, the self-confident
and aggressive, and Linder, the shy and unassertive. None of those
adjectives seemed to fit this new acquaintance. Nevertheless, he
suffered nothing by the contrast.
“If I had been bright enough I would have said that first,” he
apologized, “but I got rather carried away in one of my pet theories
about romance. Now my life, I suppose, to many people would seem quite
tame and unromantic, but to me it has been a delightful succession of
somewhat placid adventures. It began in a very orthodox way, in a very
orthodox family. My father, under the guidance, no doubt, of whatever
star governs such lucky affairs, became possessed of a piece of land. In
doing so he contributed to society no service whatever, so far as I
have been able to ascertain. But it so fell about that society, in
considerable numbers, wanted his land to live on, so society made of
my father a wealthy man, and gave him power over many people. Could
anything be more romantic than that? Could the fairy tales of your
childhood surpass it for benevolent irresponsibility?”
“My father has also become wealthy,” she said, “although I never thought
of it in that way.”
“Yes, but in exchange for his wealth your father has given service to
society; supplied many thousands of steers for hungry people to eat.
That’s a different story, but not less romantic.
“Well, to proceed. I was brought up to fit my station in life, whatever
that means. There were just two boys of us, and I was the elder. My
father had become a broker. I believe he had become quite a successful
broker, using the word in its ordinary sense, which denotes the making
of money. You see, he already had too much money, so it was very easy
for him to make more. He wanted me to go into the office with him, but
some way I didn’t fit in. I’ve no doubt there was lots of romance there,
too, but I was of the wrong nature; I simply couldn’t get enthusiastic
over it. As we already had more money than we could possibly spend on
things that were good for us, I failed to see the point in sitting up
nights to increase it. Being of a frank disposition I confided in my
father that I felt I was wasting my time in a broker’s office. He, being
of an equally frank disposition, confided in me that he entertained the
same opinion.
“Then I delivered myself of some of my pet theories about wealth. I told
him that I didn’t believe that any man had a right to money unless he
earned it in return for service given to society, and I said that as
society had to supply the money, society should determine the amount. I
confessed that I was a little hazy about how that was to be carried out,
but I insisted that the principle was right, and, that being so, the
working of it out was only a matter of detail. I realize now that this
was all fanatical heresy to my father; I remember the pained look that
came into his eyes. I thought at the time that it was anger, but I know
now that it was grief--grief and humiliation that a son of his should
entertain such wild and unbalanced ideas.
“Well, there was more talk, and the upshot of it was that I got out,
accompanied by an assurance from my father that I would never
be burdened with any of the family ducats. Roy--my younger
brother--succeeded to the worries of wealth, and I came to the ranges
where, no doubt to the deep chagrin of my father, I have been able to
make a living, and have, incidentally, been profoundly happy. I’ll take
a wager that to-day I look ten years younger than Roy, that I can lick
him with one hand, that I have more real friends than he has, and that
I’m getting more out of life than he is. I’m a man of whims. When they
beckon I follow.”
Grant had been talking intensely. He paused now, feeling that his
enthusiasm had carried him into rather fuller confidences than he had
intended.
“I’m sorry I bored you with that harangue,” he said contritely. “You
couldn’t possibly be interested in it.”
“On the contrary, I am very much interested in it,” she protested. “It
seems so much finer for a man to make his own way, rather than be lifted
up by someone else. I am sure you are already doing well in the West.
Some day you will go back to your father with more money than he has.”
Grant uttered an amused little laugh.
“I was afraid you would say that,” he answered. “You see, you don’t
understand me, either. I don’t want to make money. Can you understand
that?”
“Don’t want to make money? Why not?”
“Why should I?”
“Well, everybody does. Money is power--it is a mark of success. It would
open up a wider life for you. It would bring you into new circles. Some
day you will want to marry and settle down, and money would enable you
to meet the kind of women--”
She stopped, confused. She had plunged farther than she had intended.
“You’re all wrong,” he said amusedly. It did not even occur to Zen
that he was contradicting her. She had not been accustomed to being
contradicted, but then, neither had she been accustomed to men like
Dennison Grant, nor to conversations such as had developed. She was too
interested to be annoyed.
“You’re all wrong, Miss--?”
“I don’t wonder that you can’t fill in my name,” she said. “Nobody knows
Dad except as Y.D. But I heard you call me Zen--”
“That was when you were coming out of your unconsciousness. I apologize
for the liberty taken. I thought it might recall you--”
“Well, I’m still coming out,” she interrupted. “I am beginning to feel
that I have been unconscious for a very long time indeed. Let me hear
why you don’t want money.”
Grant was aware of a pleasant glow excited by her frank interest. She
was altogether a desirable girl.
“I have observed,” he said, “that poor people worry over what they
haven’t got, and rich people worry over what they have. It is my
disposition not to worry over anything. You said that money is power.
That is one of its deceits. It offers a man power, but in reality it
makes him its slave. It enchains him for life; I have seen it in too
many cases--I am not mistaken. As for opening up a wider life, what
wider life could there be than this which I--which you and I--are
living?”
She wondered why he had said “you and I.” Evidently he was wondering
too, for he fell into reflection. She changed her position to ease the
dull pain in her ankle, which his talk had almost driven from her
mind. The rock had a perpendicular edge, so she let her feet hang over,
resting the injured one upon the other. He was sitting in a similar
position. The silence of the night had gathered about them, broken
occasionally by the yapping of coyotes far down the valley. Segments of
dull light fringed the horizon; the breeze was again blowing from the
west, mild and balmy. Presently one of the segments of light grew and
grew. It was as though it were rushing up the valley. They watched
it, fascinated; then burst into laughter as the orb of the moon became
recognizable.... There was something very companionable about watching
the moon rise, as they did.
“The greatest wealth in the world,” he said at length, as though his
thoughts had been far afield, searching, perchance, the mazy corridors
of Truth for this atom of wisdom; “the greatest wealth in the world is
to be able to do something useful. That is the only wealth which will
not be disturbed in the coming reorganization of society.”
Zen did not reply. For the first time in her life she stood convicted,
before her own mind, of a very profound ignorance. Dennison Grant had
been drawing back the curtain of a world of the existence of which she
had never known. He had talked to her about “the coming reorganization
of society”? What did it mean? She was at home in discussions of herds
or horses; she was at home with the duties of kitchen or reception-room;
she was at home with her father or Transley or Linder or Drazk or
Tompkins the cook, but Dennison Grant in an hour had carried her into a
far country, where she would be hopelessly lost but for his guidance....
Yet it seemed a good and interesting country. She wanted to enter in--to
know it better.
“Tell me about the coming reorganization of society,” she said.
“That is an all-night order,” he returned. “Besides, I can’t tell you
all, because I don’t know all. I know only very, very little. I see my
little gleam of light and keep my eye close upon it. But you must know
that society is always in a state of reorganization. Nothing continues
as it was. Those who dismiss a problem glibly by saying it has always
been so and always will be so don’t read history and don’t understand
human nature.”
He turned toward her as interest in his theme developed. The moonlight
was now pouring upon them; her face was beautiful and fine as marble
in its soft rays. For a moment he hesitated, overwhelmed by a sudden
realization of her attractiveness. He had just been saying that the law
of nature was the law of change, and nature itself stood up to refute
him.
He brought himself back to earth. “I was saying that everything
changes,” he continued. “Look at our economic system, for instance. Not
so many centuries ago the man who got the most wealth was the man with
the biggest muscle and the toughest skin. He wielded a stout club, and
what he wanted, he took. His system of operation was simple and direct.
You have money, you have cattle, you have a wife--I’m speaking of
the times that were. I am stronger than you. I take them. Simplicity
itself!”
“But very unjust,” she protested.
“Our sense of justice is due to our education,” he continued. “If we are
taught to believe that a certain thing is just, we believe it is just.
I am convinced that there is no sense of justice inherent in humanity;
whatever sense we have is the result of education, and the kind of
justice we believe in is the kind of justice to which we are educated.
For example, the justice of the plains is not the justice of the cities;
the justice of the vigilance committee is not the justice of judge and
jury. Now to get back to our subject. When Baron Battle Ax, back in
the fifth or sixth century, knocked all his rivals on the head and
took their wealth away from them, I suppose there was here and there an
advanced thinker who said the thing was unjust, but I am quite sure the
great majority of people said things had always been that way and always
would be that way. But the little minority of thinkers gradually grew
in strength. The Truth was with them. It is worthy of notice that the
advance guard of Truth always travels with minorities. And the day came
that society organized itself to say that the man who uses physical
force to take wealth from another is an enemy of society and must not be
allowed at large.
“But we have passed largely out of the era of physical force. To-day, an
engineer presses a button and releases more physical force than could be
commanded by all the armies of Rome. Brain power is to-day the dominant
power. And just as physical force was once used to take wealth without
earning it, so is brain force now used to take wealth without earning
it. And just as the masses in the days of Battle Ax said things had
always been that way and always would be that way, just so do the masses
in these days of brain supremacy say things have always been that way
and always will be that way. But just as there was a minority with an
advanced vision of Truth in those days, so is there a minority with an
advanced vision of Truth in these days. You may be absolutely sure that,
just as society found a way to deal with muscle brigands, so also it
will find a way to deal with brain brigands. I confess I don’t see how
the details are to be worked out, but there must be a plan under which
the value of the services rendered to society by every man and every
woman will be determined, and they will be rewarded according to the
services rendered.”
“Is that Socialism?” she ventured.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Certainly it does not contemplate
an equal distribution of the world’s wealth. Some men are a menace to
themselves and society when they have a hundred dollars. Others can be
trusted with a hundred million. All men have not been equally gifted
by nature--we know that. We can’t make them equal. But surely we can
prevent the gifted ones from preying upon those who are not gifted. That
is what the coming reorganization of society will aim to do.”
“It is very interesting,” she said. “And very deep. I have never heard
it discussed before. Why don’t people think about these things more?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, “but I suppose it is because they are too
busy in the fight. When a self was dodging Battle Ax he hadn’t much time
to think about evolving a Magna Charta. But most of all I suppose it is
just natural laziness. People refuse to think. It calls for effort. Most
people would find it easier to pitch a load of hay than to think of a
new thought.”
The moon was now well up; the smoke clouds had been scattered by the
breeze; the sky was studded with diamonds. Zen had a feeling of being
very happy. True, a certain haunting spectre at times would break into
her consciousness, but in the companionship of such a man as Grant she
could easily beat it off. She studied the face in the moon, and invited
her soul. She was living through a new experience--an experience she
could not understand. In spite of the discomfort of her injuries, in
spite of the events of the day, she was very, very happy....
If only that horrid memory of Drazk would not keep tormenting her! She
began to have some glimpse of what remorse must mean. She did not blame
herself; she could not have done otherwise; and yet--it was horrible to
think about, and it would not stay away. She felt a tremendous desire to
tell Grant all about it.... She wondered how much he knew. He must have
discovered that her clothing had been wet.
She shivered slightly.
“You’re cold,” he said, as he placed his arm about her, and there was
something very far removed from political economy in the timbre of his
voice.
“I’m a little chilly,” she admitted. “I had to swim my horse across the
river to-day--he got into a deep spot--and I got wet.” She congratulated
herself that she had made a very clever explanation.
He put his coat about her shoulders and drew it tight. Then he sat
beside her in silence. There were many things he could have said,
but this seemed to be neither the time nor the place. Grant was not
Transley. He had for this girl a delicate consideration which Transley’s
nature could never know. Grant was a thinker--Transley a doer. Grant
knew that the charm which enveloped him in this girl’s presence was the
perfectly natural product of a set of conditions. He was worldly-wise
enough to suspect that Zen also felt that charm. It was as natural as
the bursting of a seed in moist soil; as natural as the unfolding of a
rose in warm air....
Presently he felt her head rest against his shoulder. He looked down
upon her in awed delight. Her eyes had closed; her lips were smiling
faintly; her figure had relaxed. He could feel her warm breath upon his
face. He could have touched her lips with his.
Slowly the moon traced its long arc in the heavens.