Zen thought over the events of that evening until they became a blur in
her memory. Her principal recollection was that she had been quite swept
off her feet. Transley had interpreted her submission as assent, and
she had not corrected him in the vital moment when they stood before her
father that night in the deep shadow of the veranda.
“Y.D.,” Transley had said, “your consent and your blessing! Zen and I
are to be married as soon as she can be ready.”
That was the moment at which she should have spoken, but she did not.
She, who had prided herself that she would make a race of it--she,
who had always been able to slip out of a predicament in the nick of
time--stood mutely by and let Transley and her father interpret her
silence as consent. She was not sure that she was sorry; she was not
sure but she would have consented anyway; but Transley had taken the
matter quite out of her hands. And yet she could not bring herself to
feel resentment toward him; that was the strangest part of it. It seemed
that she had come under his domination; that she even had to think as he
would have her think.
In the darkness she could not see her father’s face, for which she was
sorry; and he could not see hers, for which she was glad. There was a
long moment of tense silence before she heard him say,
“Well, well! I had a hunch it might come to that, but I didn’t reckon
you youngsters would work so fast.”
“This was a stake worth working fast for,” Transley was saying, as he
shook Y.D.’s hand. “I wouldn’t trade places with any man alive.” And Zen
was sure he meant exactly what he said.
“She’s a good girl, Transley,” her father commented; “a good girl, even
if a bit obstrep’rous at times. She’s got spirit, Transley, an’ you’ll
have to handle her with sense. She’s a--a thoroughbred!”
Y.D. had reached his arms toward his daughter, and at these words he
closed them about her. Zen had never known her father to be emotional;
she had known him to face matters of life and death without the quiver
of an eyelid, but as he held her there in his arms that night she felt
his big frame tremble. Suddenly she had a powerful desire to cry. She
broke from his embrace and ran upstairs to her room.
When she came down her father and mother and Transley were sitting about
the table in the living-room; the room hung with trophies of the chase
and of competition; the room which had been the nucleus of the Y.D.
estate. There was a colored cover on the table, and the shaded oil lamp
in the centre sent a comfortable glow of light downward and about.
The mammoth shadows of the three people fell on the log walls, darting
silently from position to position with their every movement.
Her mother arose as Zen entered the room and took her hands in a warm,
tender grip.
“You’re early leaving us,” she said. “I’m not saying I object. I think
Mr. Transley will make you a good husband. He is a man of energy, like
your father. He will do well. You will not know the hardships that
we knew in our early married life.” Their eyes met, and there was a
moment’s pause.
“You will not understand for many years what this means to me, Zenith,”
her mother said, and turned quickly to her place at the table.
She could not remember what they had talked about after that. She
had been conscious of Transley’s eyes often on her, and of a certain
spiritual exaltation within her. She could not remember what she had
said, but she knew she had talked with unusual vivacity and charm. It
was as though certain storehouses of brilliance in her being, of which
she had been unaware, had been suddenly opened to her. It was as though
she had been intoxicated by a very subtle wine which did not deaden, but
rather quickened, all her faculties.
Afterwards, she had spent long hours among the foothills, thinking and
thinking. There were times when the flame of that strange exaltation
burned low indeed; times when it seemed almost to expire. There were
moments--hours--of misgivings. She could not understand the strange
docility which had come over her; the unprecedented willingness to have
her course shaped by another. That strange willingness came as near to
frightening Zen as anything had ever done. She felt that she was being
carried along in a stream; that she was making no resistance; that she
had no desire to resist. She had a strange fear that some day she
would need to resist; some day she would mightily need qualities
of self-direction, and those qualities would refuse to arise at her
command.
She did not fear Transley. She believed in him. She believed in his
ability to grapple with anything that stood in his way; to thrust it
aside, and press on. She respected the judgment of her father and her
mother, and both of them believed in Transley. He would succeed; he
would seize the opportunities this young country afforded and rise to
power and influence upon them. He would be kind, he would be generous.
He would make her proud of him. What more could she want?
That was just it. There were dark moments when she felt that surely
there must be something more than all this. She did not know what it
was--she could not analyze her thoughts or give them definite form--but
in these dark moments she feared that she was being tricked, that the
whole thing was a sham which she would discover when it was too late.
She did not suspect her mother, or her father, or Transley, one or all,
of being parties to this trick; she believed that they did not know it
existed. She herself did not know it existed. But the fear was there.
After a week she admitted, much against her will, that possibly Dennison
Grant had something to do with it. She had not seen him since she had
pressed his fingers and he had ridden away through the smoke-haze of the
South Y.D. She had dutifully tried to force him from her mind. But he
would not stay out of it. It was about that fact that her misgivings
seemed most to centre. When she would be thinking of Transley, and
wondering about the future, suddenly she would discover that she was not
thinking of Transley, but of Dennison Grant. These discoveries shocked
and humiliated her. It was an impossible position. She would throw Grant
forcibly out of her mind and turn to Transley. And then, in an unguarded
moment, Transley would fade from her consciousness, and she would know
again that she was thinking of Grant.
At length she allowed herself the luxury of thinking frankly about
Dennison Grant. It WAS a luxury. It brought her a secret happiness which
she was wholly at a loss to understand, but which was very delightful,
nevertheless. She amused herself with comparing Grant with Transley.
They had two points in common: their physical perfection and their
fearless, self-confident manner. With these exceptions they seemed to be
complete contradictions. The ambitious Transley worshipped success; the
philosophical Grant despised it. That difference in attitude toward the
world and its affairs was a ridge which separated the whole current of
their lives. It even, in a way, shut one from the view of the other;
at least it shut Grant from the view of Transley. Transley would
never understand Grant, but Grant might, and probably did, understand
Transley. That was why Grant was the greater of the two....
She reproached herself for such a thought; it was disloyal to admit
that this stranger on the Landson ranch was a greater man than her
husband-to-be. And yet honesty--or, perhaps, something deeper than
honesty--compelled her to make that admission.... She ran back over the
remembered incidents of the night they had spent together, marooned like
shipwrecked sailors on a rock in the foothills. His attentiveness, his
courtesy, his freedom from any conventional restraint, his manly respect
which was so much greater than conventional restraint--all these came
back to her with a poignant tenderness. She pictured Transley in his
place. Transley would probably have proposed even before he bandaged her
ankle. Grant had not said a word of love, or even of affection. He had
talked freely of himself--at her request--but there had been nothing
that might not have been said before the world. She had been safe with
Grant....
After she had thought on this theme for a while Zen would acknowledge to
herself that the situation was absurd and impossible. Grant had given
no evidence of thinking more of her than of any other girl whom he might
have met. He had been chivalrous only. She had sat up with a start at
the thought that there might be another girl.... Or there might be no
girl. Grant was an unusual character....
At any rate, the thing for her to do was to forget about him. She should
have no place in her mind for any man but Transley. It was true he had
stampeded her, but she had accepted the situation in which she found
herself. Transley was worthy of her--she had nothing to take back--she
would go through with it.
On the principle that the way to drive an unwelcome thought out of the
mind is to think vigorously about something else, Zen occupied herself
with plans and day-dreams centering about the new home that was to be
built in town. Neither her father nor Transley had as yet returned from
the trip on which they had gone with a view to forming a partnership, so
there had been no opportunity to discuss the plans for the future, but
Zen took it for granted that Transley would build in town. He was so
enthusiastic over the possibilities of that young and bustling centre
of population that there was no doubt he would want to throw in his lot
with it. This prospect was quite pleasing to the girl; it would leave
her within easy distance of her old home; it would introduce her to a
type of society with which she was well acquainted, and where she could
do herself justice, and it would not break up the associations of her
young life. She would still be able, now and again, to take long rides
through the tawny foothills; to mingle with her old friends; possibly to
maintain a somewhat sisterly acquaintance with Dennison Grant....
After ten days Y.D. returned--alone. He had scarcely been able to
believe the developments which he had seen. It was as though the sleepy,
lazy cow-town had become electrified. Y.D. had looked on for three days,
wondering if he were not in some kind of a dream from which he would
awaken presently among his herds in the foothills. After three days he
bought a property. Before he left he sold it at a profit greater than
the earnings of his first five years on the ranch. It would be indeed
a stubborn confidence which could not be won by such an experience, and
before leaving for the ranch Y.D. had arranged for Transley practically
an open credit with his bankers, and had undertaken to send down all the
horses and equipment that could be spared.
Transley had planned to return to the foothills with Y.D., but at the
last moment business matters developed which required his attention. He
placed a tiny package in Y.D.’s capacious palm.
“For the girl,” he said. “I should deliver it myself, but you’ll
explain?”
Y.D. fumbled the tiny package into a vest pocket. “Sure, I’ll attend to
that,” he promised. “Wasn’t much of these fancy trimmin’s when I settled
into double harness, but lots of things has changed since then. You’ll
be out soon?”
“Just as soon as business will stand for it. Not a minute longer.”
On his return home Y.D., after maintaining an exasperating silence until
supper was finished, casually handed the package to his daughter.
“Some trinket Transley sent out,” he explained. “He’ll be here himself
as soon as business permits.”
She took the package with a glow of expectancy, started to open it, then
folded the paper again and ran up to her room. Here she tempted herself
for minutes before she would finally open it, whetting the appetite of
anticipation to the full.... The gem justified her little play. It was
magnificent; more beautiful and more expensive than anything her father
ever bought her.
She hesitated strangely about putting it on. To Zen it seemed that the
putting on of Transley’s ring would be a voluntary act symbolizing her
acceptance of him. If she had been carried off her feet--swept into the
position in which she found herself--that explanation would not apply
to the deliberate placing of his ring upon her finger. There would be
no excuse; she could never again plead that she had been the victim of
Transley’s precipitateness. This would be deliberate, and she must do it
herself.
She rather blamed Transley for not having left his old business and come
to perform this rite himself, as he should have done. What was one day
of business, more or less? Yet Zen gathered no hint from that
incident that always, with Transley, business would come first. It was
symbolic--prophetic--but she did not see the sign nor understand the
prophecy.
She held the ring between her fingers; slipped it off and on her little
fingers; held it so the rays of the sun fell through the window upon it
and danced before her eyes in all their primal colors.
“I have to put this on,” she said, pursing her lips firmly, “and--and
forget about Dennison Grant!”
For a long time she thought of that and all it meant. Then she raised
the jewel to her lips.
“Help me--help me--” she murmured. With a quick little impetuous motion
she drew it on to the finger where it belonged. There she gazed upon it
for a moment, as though fascinated by it. Then she fell upon her bed and
lay motionless until long after the valley was wrapped in shadow.
The events of these days had almost driven from Zen’s mind the tragedy
of George Drazk. When she thought of it at all it presented such a
grotesque unreality--it was such an unreasonable thing--that it assumed
the vague qualities of a dream. It was something unreal and very much
better forgotten, and it was only by an unwilling effort at such times
that she could bring herself to know that it was not unreal. It was
a matter that concerned her tremendously. Sooner or later Drazk’s
disappearance must be noted,--perhaps his body would be found--and while
she had little fear that anyone would associate her with the tragedy it
was a most unpleasant thing to think about. Sometimes she wondered if
she should not tell her father or Transley just what had happened, but
she shrank from doing so as from the confession of a crime. Mostly she
was able to think of other matters.
Her father brought it up in a startling way at breakfast. Absolutely out
of a blue sky he said, “Did you know, Zen, that Drazk has disappeared?
Transley tells me you were int’rested a bit in him, or perhaps I should
say he was int’rested in you.”
Zen was so overcome by this startling change in the conversation that
she was unable to answer. The color went from her face and she leaned
low over her plate to conceal her agitation.
“Yep,” continued Y.D., with no more concern than if a steer had been
lost from the herd. “Transley said to tell you Drazk had disappeared an’
he reckoned you wouldn’t be bothered any more with him.”
“Drazk was nothing to me,” she managed to say. “How can you think he
was?”
“Now who said he was?” her father retorted. “For a young woman with the
price of a herd of steers on her third finger you’re sort o’ short this
mornin’. Now I’m jus’ wonderin’ how far you can see through a board
fence, Zen. Are you surprised that Drazk has disappeared?”
She was entirely at a loss to understand the drift of her father’s talk.
He could not connect her with Drazk’s disappearance, or he would not
approach the matter with such unconcern. That was unthinkable. Neither
could Transley, or he would not have sent so brutal a message. And yet
it was clear that they thought she should be interested.
Her father’s question demanded an answer.
“What should I care?” she ventured at length.
“I didn’t ask you whether you cared. I asked you whether you was
surprised.”
“Drazk’s movements were--are nothing to me. I don’t know that I have any
occasion to be surprised about anything he may do.”
“Well, I’m rather glad you’re not, because if you don’t jump to
conclusions, perhaps other people won’t. Not that it makes any
partic’lar diff’rence.”
“Dad,” she cried in desperation, “whatever do you mean?”
“It was all plain enough to me, an’ plain enough to Transley,” her
father continued with remarkable calmness. “We seen it right from the
first.”
“You’re talking in riddles, Y.D.,” his wife remonstrated. “You’re
getting Zen all worked up.”
“Jewelry seems to be mighty upsettin’,” Y.D. commented. “There was
nothin’ like that in our engagement, eh, Jessie? Well, to come to the
point. There was a fire which burned up the valley of the South Y.D.
Fires don’t start themselves--usually. This one started among the
Landson stacks, so it was natural enough to suspec’ Y.D. or some of his
sympathizers. Well it wasn’t Y.D., an’ I reckon it wasn’t Zen, an’ it
wasn’t Transley nor Linder an’ every one of the gang’s accounted for
excep’ Drazk. Drazk thought he was doin’ a great piece of business when
he fired the Landson hay, but when the wind turned an’ burned up the
whole valley Drazk sees where he can’t play no hero part around here so
he loses himself for good. I gathered from Transley that Drazk had been
botherin’ you a little, Zen, which is why I told you.”
The girl’s heart was pounding violently at this explanation. It was
logical, and would be accepted readily by those who knew Drazk. She
would not trust herself in further conversation, so she slipped away as
soon as she could and spent the day riding down by the river.
The afternoon wore on, and as the day was warm she dismounted by a ford
and sat down upon a flat rock close to the water. The rock reminded her
of the one on which she and Grant had sat that night while the thin red
lines of fire played far up and down the valley. Her ankle was paining
a little so she removed her boot and stocking and soothed it in the cool
water.
As she sat watching her reflection in the clear stream and toying with
the ripple about her foot a horseman rode quickly down through the
cottonwoods on the other side and plunged into the ford. It happened
so quickly that neither saw the other until he was well into the river.
Although she had had no dream of seeing him here, in some way she felt
no surprise. Her heart was behaving boisterously, but she sat outwardly
demure, and when he was close enough she sent a frank smile up to him.
The look on his sunburned face as he returned her greeting convinced her
that the meeting, on his part, was no less unexpected and welcome than
it was to her.
When his horse was out of the water he dismounted and walked to her with
extended hand.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said. “How is the ankle
progressing?”
“Well enough,” she returned, “but it gets tired as the day wears on. I
am just resting a bit.”
There was a moment of somewhat embarrassed silence.
“That is a good-sized rock,” he suggested, at length.
“Yes, isn’t it? And here in the shade, at that.”
She did not invite him with words, but she gave her body a slight hitch,
as though to make room, although there was enough already. He sat down
without comment.
“Not unlike a rock I remember up in the foothills,” he remarked, after a
silence.
“Oh, you remember that? It WAS like this, wasn’t it?”
“Same two people sitting on it.”
“.... Yes.”
“Not like this, though.”
“No.... You’re mean. You know I didn’t intend to fall asleep.”
“Of course not. Still....”
His voice lingered on it as though it were a delightful remembrance.
She found herself holding one of her hands in the other. She could feel
the pressure of Transley’s ring on her palm, and she held it tighter
still.
“Riding anywhere in particular?” he inquired.
“No. Just mooning.” She looked up at him again, this time at close
quarters. It was a quick, bright flash on his face--a moment only.
“Why mooning?”
She did not answer. Looking down in the water he met her gaze there.
“You’re troubled!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, no! My--my ankle hurts a little.”
He looked at her sympathetically. “But not that much,” he said.
She gave a forced little laugh. “What a mind reader you are! Can you
tell my fortune?”
“I should have to read it in your hand.”
She would have extended her hand, but for Transley’s ring.
“No.... No. You’ll have to read it in--in the stars.”
“Then look at me.” She did so, innocently.
“I cannot read it there,” he said, after his long gaze had begun to whip
the color to her cheeks. “There is no answer.”
She turned again to the water, and after a long while she heard his
voice, very low and earnest.
“Zen, I could read a fortune for you, if you would not be offended. We
are only chance acquaintances--not very well acquainted, yet--”
She knew what he meant, but she pretended she did not. Even in that
moment something came to her of Transley’s speech about love being a
game of pretence. Very well, she would play the game--this once.
“I don’t see how I could be offended at your reading my fortune,” she
murmured.
“Then this is the fortune I would read for you,” he said boldly. “I see
a young man, a rather foolish young man, perhaps, by ordinary standards,
and yet one who has found a great deal of happiness in his simple,
unconventional life. Until a short time ago he felt that life could give
him all the happiness that was worth having. He had health, strength,
hours of work and hours of pleasure, the fields, the hills, the
mountains, the sky--all God’s open places to live in and enjoy. He
thought there was nothing more.
“Well, then he found, all of a sudden, that there was something
more--everything more. He made that discovery on a calm autumn night,
when fire had blackened all the foothills and still ran in dancing red
ribbons over their distant crests. That night a great thing--two great
things--came into his life. First was something he gave. Not very much,
indeed, but typical of all it might be. It was service. And next was
something he received, something so wonderful he did not understand it
then, and does not understand it yet. It was trust. These were things he
had been leaving largely out of his life, and suddenly he discovered how
empty it was. I think there is one word for both these things, and, it
may be, for even more. You know?”
“I know,” she said, and her voice was scarcely audible.
“But it is YOUR fortune I am to read,” he corrected himself. “It has
been your fortune to open that new world to me. That can never be
undone--those gates can never be closed--no matter where the paths may
lead. Those two paths go down to the future--as all paths must--even
as this road leads away through the valley to the sunset. Zen--if only,
like this road, they could run side by side to the sunset--Oh! Zen, if
they could?”
“I know,” she said, and as she raised her face he saw that her eyes were
wet. “I know--if only they could!”
There was a little sob in her voice, and in her beauty and distress
she was altogether irresistible. He reached out his arms and would have
taken her in them, but she thrust her hands in his and held herself
back. She turned the diamond deliberately to his eyes. She could feel
his grip relax and apparently grow suddenly cold. He stood speechless,
like one dazed--benumbed.
“You see, I should not have let you talk--it is my fault,” she said,
speaking hurriedly. “I should not have let you talk. Please do not think
I am shallow; that I let you suffer to gratify my vanity.” Her eyes
found his again. “If I had not believed every word you said--if I had
not liked every word you said--if I had not--HOPED--every word you said,
I would not have listened.... But you see how it is.”
He was silent for so long that she thought he was not going to answer
her at all. When he spoke it was in a dry, parched voice.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I should not have presumed--”
“I know, I know. If only--”
Then he looked straight at her and talked out.
“You liked me enough to let me speak as I did. I opened my heart to
you. I ask no such concession in return. I hope you will not think me
presumptuous, but I do not plead now for my happiness, but for yours. Is
this irrevocable? Are--you--sure?”
He said the last words so slowly and deliberately that she felt that
each of them was cutting the very rock from underneath her. She knew
she was at a junction point in her life, and her mind strove to quickly
appraise the situation. On one side was this man who had for her so
strange and so powerful an appeal. It was only by sheer force of will
that she could hold herself aloof from him. But he was a man who had
broken with his family and quarrelled with her father--a man whom her
father would certainly not for a moment consider as a son-in-law. He
was a foreman; practically a ranch hand. Neither Zen nor her father were
snobs, and if Grant worked for a living, so did Transley. That was not
to be counted against him. The point was, what kind of living did he
earn? What Transley had to offer was perhaps on a lower plane, but
it was more substantial. It had been approved by her father, and her
mother, and herself. It wasn’t as though one man were good and the other
bad; it wasn’t as though one thing were right and the other wrong. It
would have been easy then....
“I have promised,” she said at last.
She released her hands from his, and, sitting down, silently put on her
stocking and boot. She was aware that he was still standing near, as
though waiting to be formally dismissed. She walked by him to her horse
and put her foot in the stirrup. Then she looked at him and gave her
hand a little farewell wave.
Then a great pang, irresistible in its yearning, swept over her. She
drew her foot from the stirrup, and, rushing down, threw her arms about
his neck....
“I must go,” she said. “I must go. We must both go and forget.”
And Dennison Grant continued his way down the valley while Zen rode back
to the Y.D., wondering if she could ever forget.