Sitting on his veranda that evening while the sun dropped low over the
mountains and the sound of horses munching contentedly came up from the
stables, Grant for the twentieth time turned over in his mind the events
of a day that was to stand out as an epochal one in his career. The
meeting with the little boy and the quick friendship and confidence
which had been formed between them; the mishap, and the trip to the
house by the river--these were logical and easily followed. But why, of
all the houses in the world, should it have been Zen Transley’s house?
Why, of all the little boys in the world, should this have been the son
of his rival and the only girl he had ever--the girl he had loved most
in all his life? Surely events are ordered to some purpose; surely
everything is not mere haphazard chance! The fatalism of the trenches
forbade any other conclusion; and if this was so, why had he been thrown
into the orbit of Zen Transley? He had not sought her; he had not dreamt
of her once in all that morning while her child was winding innocent
tendrils of affection about his heart. And yet--how the boy had gripped
him! Could it be that in some way he was a small incarnation of the Zen
of the Y.D., with all her clamorous passion expressed now in childish
love and hero-worship? Had some intelligence above his own guided him
into this environment, deliberately inviting him to defy conventions
and blaze a path of broader freedom for himself, and for her? These were
questions he wrestled with as the shadows crept down the mountain slopes
and along the valley at his feet.
For neither Zen nor himself had connived at the situation which had
made them, of all the people in the world, near neighbors in this silent
valley. Her surprise on meeting him at the door had been as genuine as
his. When she had made sure that the boy was not seriously hurt she had
turned to him, and instinctively he had known that there are some things
which all the weight of passing years can never crush entirely dead. He
loved to rehearse her words, her gestures, the quick play of sympathetic
emotions as one by one he reviewed them.
“You! I am surprised--I had not known--” She had become confused in her
greeting, and a color that she would have given worlds to suppress crept
slowly through her cheeks.
“I am surprised, too--and delighted,” he had returned. “The little boy
came to me in the field, boasting of his braces.” Then they had both
laughed, and she had asked him to come in and tell about himself.
The living-room, as he recalled it, was marked by the simplicity
appropriate to the summer home, with just a dash of elegance in the
furnishings to suggest that simplicity was a matter of choice and not of
necessity. After soothing Wilson’s sobs, which had broken out afresh in
his mother’s arms, she had turned him over to a maid and drawn a chair
convenient to Grant’s.
“You see, I am a farmer now,” he had said, apologetically regarding his
overalls.
“What changes have come! But I don’t understand; I thought you were
rich--very rich--and that you were promoting some kind of settlement
scheme. Frank has spoken of it.”
“All of which is true. You see, I am a man of whims. I choose to live
joyously. I refuse to fit into a ready-made niche in society. I do what
other people don’t do--mainly for that reason. I have some peculiar
notions--”
“I know. You told me.” And it was then that their eyes had met and they
had fallen into a momentary silence.
“But why are you farming?” she had exclaimed, brightly.
“For several reasons. First, the world needs food. Food is the greatest
safeguard--I would almost say the only safeguard--against anarchy
and chaos. Then, I want to learn by experience; to prove by my own
demonstrations that my theories are workable--or that they’re not. And
then, most of all, I love the prairies and the open life. It’s my whim,
and I follow it.”
“You are very wonderful,” she had murmured. And then, with startling
directness, “Are you happy?”
“As happy as I have any right to be. Happier than I have been since
childhood.”
She had risen and walked to the mantelpiece; then, with an apparent
change of impulse, she had turned and faced him. He had noted that
her figure was rounder than in girlhood, her complexion paler, but the
sunlight still danced in her hair, and her reckless force had given way
to a poise that suggested infinite resources of character.
“Frank has done well, too,” she had said.
“So I have heard. I am told that he has done very well indeed.”
“He has made money, and he is busy and excited over his pursuit of
success--what he calls success. He has given it his life. He thinks of
nothing else--”
She had stopped suddenly, as though her tongue had trapped her into
saying more than she had intended.
“What do you think of my summer home?” she had exclaimed, abruptly.
“Come out and admire the sweet peas,” and with a gay little flourish
she had led him into the garden. “They tell me Western flowers have
a brilliance and a fragrance which the East, with all its advantages,
cannot duplicate. Is that true?”
“I believe it is. The East has greater profusion--more varieties--but
the individual qualities do not seem to be so well developed.”
“I see you know something of Eastern flowers,” she had said, and he
fancied he had caught a note of banter--or was it inquiry?--in her
voice. Then, with another abrupt change of subject, she had made
him describe his house on the hill. But he had said nothing of the
whim-room.
“I must go,” he had exclaimed at length. “I left the horses tied in the
field.”
“So you must. I shall let Wilson visit you frequently, if he is not a
trouble.”
Then she had chosen a couple of blooms and pinned them on his coat,
laughingly overriding his protest that they consorted poorly with his
costume. And she had shaken hands and said good-bye in the manner of
good friends parting.
The more Grant thought of it the more was he convinced that in her case,
as in his own, the years had failed to extinguish the spark kindled in
the foothills that night so long ago. He reminded himself continually
that she was Transley’s wife, and even while granting the irrevocability
of that fact he was demanding to know why Fate had created for them both
an atmosphere charged with unspoken possibilities. He had turned her
words over again and again, reflecting upon the abrupt angles her speech
had taken. In their few minutes’ conversation three times she had had
to make a sudden tack to safer subjects. What had she meant by that
reference to Eastern and Western flowers? His answer reminded him how
well he knew. And the confession about her husband, the worshipper of
success--“what he calls success”--how much tragedy lay under those light
words?
The valley was filled with shadow, and the level rays of the setting sun
fell on the young man’s face and splashed the hill-tops with gold and
saffron as within his heart raged the age-old battle.... But as yet he
felt none of its wounds. He was conscious only of a wholly irrational
delight.
As the next forenoon passed Grant found himself glancing with increasing
frequency toward the end of the field where the little boy might be
expected to appear. But the day wore on without sign of his young
friend, and the furrows which he had turned so joyously at nine were
dragging leadenly at eleven. He had not thought it possible that a child
could so quickly have won a way to his affections. He fell to wondering
as to the cause of the boy’s absence. Had Zen, after a night’s
reflection, decided that it was wiser not to allow the acquaintance to
develop? Had Transley, returning home, placed his veto upon it? Or--and
his heart paused at this prospect--had the foot been more seriously hurt
than they had supposed? Grant told himself that he must go over that
night and make inquiry. That would be the neighborly thing to do....
But early that afternoon his heart was delighted by the sight of a
little figure skipping joyously over the furrows toward him. He had his
hat crumpled in one hand, and his teddy-bear in the other, and his face
was alive with excitement. He was puffing profusely when he pulled up
beside the plow, and Grant stopped the team while he got his breath.
“My! My! What is the hurry? I see the foot is all better.”
“We got a pig!” the lad gasped, when he could speak.
“A pig!”
“Yessir! A live one, too! He’s awful big. A man brought him in a wagon.
That is why I couldn’t come this morning.”
Grant treated himself to a humble reflection upon the wisdom of childish
preferments.
“What are you going to do with him?”
“Eat him up, I guess. Daddy said there was enough wasted about our house
to keep a pig, so we got one. Aren’t you going to take me up?”
“Of course. But first we must put teddy in his place.”
“I’m to go home at five o’clock,” the boy said, when he had got properly
settled.
The hours slipped by all too quickly, and if the lad’s presence did not
contribute to good plowing, it at least made a cheerful plowman. It was
plain that Zen had sufficient confidence in her farmer neighbor to trust
her boy in his care, and his frequent references to his mother had an
interest for Grant which he could not have analyzed or explained. During
the afternoon the merits of the pig were sung and re-sung, and at last
Wilson, after kissing his friend on the cheek and whispering, “I like
you, Uncle Man-on-the-Hill,” took his teddy-bear under his arm and
plodded homeward.
The next morning he came again, but mournfully and slow. There were tear
stains on the little round cheeks.
“Why, son, what had happened?” said Grant, his abundant sympathies
instantly responding.
“Teddy’s spoiled,” the child sobbed. “I set him--on the side of--the pig
pen, and he fell’d in, and the big pig et him--ate him--up. He didn’t
‘zactly eat him up, either--just kind of chewed him, like.”
“Well that certainly is too bad. But then, you’re going to eat the pig
some day, so that will square it, won’t it?”
“I guess it will,” said the boy, brightening. “I never thought of that.”
“But we must have a teddy for Prince. See, he is looking around, waiting
for it.” Grant folded his coat into the shape of a dummy and set it up
on the hames, and all went merrily again.
That afternoon, which was Saturday, the boy came thoughtfully and
with an air of much importance. Delving into a pocket he produced an
envelope, somewhat crumpled in transit. It was addressed, “The Man on
the Hill.”
Grant tore it open eagerly and read this note:
“DEAR MAN-ON-THE-HILL,--That is the name Wilson calls you, so perhaps
you will let me use it, too. Frank is to be home to-morrow, and will you
come and have dinner with us at six? My father and mother will be here,
and possibly one or two others. You had a clash with my men-folk once,
but you will find them ready enough to make allowance for, even if they
fail to understand, your point of view. Do come.--ZEN.
“P.S.--It just occurs to me that your associates in your colonization
scheme may want to claim your time on Sunday. If any of them come out,
bring them along. Our table is an extension one, and its capacity has
never yet been exhausted.”
Although Grant’s decision was made at once he took some time for
reflection before writing an acceptance. He was to enter Zen’s house
on her invitation, but under the auspices, so to speak, of husband and
parents. That was eminently proper. Zen was a sensible girl. Then there
was a reference to that ancient squabble in the hay meadow. It was
evidently her plan to see the hatchet buried and friendly relations
established all around. Eminently proper and sensible.
He turned the sheet over and wrote on the back:
“DEAR ZEN,--Delighted to come. May have a couple of friends with me, one
of whom you have seen before. Prepare for an appetite long denied the
joys of home cooking.--D. G.”
It was not until after the child had gone home that Grant remembered he
had addressed Transley’s wife by her Christian name. That was the way he
always thought of her, and it slipped on to paper quite naturally. Well,
it couldn’t be helped now.
Grant unhitched early and hurried to his house and the telephone. In a
few minutes he had Linder on the line.
“Hello, Linder? I want you to go to a store for me and buy a
teddy-bear.”
The chuckle at the other end of the line irritated Grant. Linder had a
strange sense of humor.
“I mean it. A big teddy, with electric eyes, and a deep bass growl, if
they make ‘em that way. The best you can get. Fetch it out to-morrow
afternoon, and come decently dressed, for once. Bring Murdoch along if
you can pry him loose.”
Grant hung up the receiver. “Stupid chap, Linder, some ways,” he
muttered. “Why shouldn’t I buy a teddy-bear if I want to?”
Sunday afternoon saw the arrival of Linder and Murdoch, with the largest
teddy the town afforded. “What is the big idea now?” Linder demanded, as
he delivered it into Grant’s hands.
“It is for a little boy I know who has been bereaved of his first
teddy by the activities of the family pig. You will renew some pleasant
acquaintanceships, Linder. You remember Transley and his wife--Zen, of
the Y.D?”
“You don’t say! Thanks for that tip about dressing up. I may explain,”
Linder continued, turning to Murdoch, “there was a time when I might
have been an also-ran in the race for Y.D.’s daughter, only Transley
beat me on the getaway.”
“You!” Grant exclaimed, incredulously.
“You, too!” Linder returned, a great light dawning.
“Well, Mr. Grant,” said Murdoch, “I brought you a good cigar, bought at
the company’s expense. It comes out of the organization fund. You must
be sick of those cheap cigars.”
“Since the war it is nothing but Player’s,” Grant returned, taking
the proffered cigar. “They tell me it has revolutionized the tobacco
business. However, this does smell a bit all right. How goes our
venture, Murdoch? Have I any prospect of being impoverished in a worthy
cause?”
“None whatever. Your foreman here is spending every dollar in a way
to make you two in spite of your daft notion--begging your pardon,
sir--about not taking profits. The subscribers are coming along for
stock, but fingering it gently, as though they can’t well believe
there’s no catch in it. They say it doesn’t look reasonable, and I tell
them no more it is.”
“And then they buy it?”
“Aye, they do. That’s human nature. There’s as many members booked now
as can be accommodated in the first colony. I suppose they reason that
they will be sure of their winter’s housing, anyway.”
“You don’t seem to have much faith in human nature, Murdoch.”
“Nor have I. Not in that kind of human nature which is always wanting
something for nothing.”
Linder’s report was more cheerful. The houses and barns were built and
were now being painted, the plowing was done, and the fences were being
run. By the use of a triangular system of survey twelve farm homes had
been centralized in one little community where a community building
would be erected which would be used as a school in daytime, a
motion-picture house at night, and a church on Sunday. A community
secretary would have his office here, and would have charge of a select
little library of fiction, poetry, biography, and works of reference.
The leading periodicals dealing with farm problems, sociology, and
economics, as well as lighter subjects, would be on file. In connection
with this building would be an assembly-room suitable for dances,
social events, and theatricals, and equipped with a player piano and
concert-size talking machine. Arrangements were being made for a weekly
exchange of records, for a weekly musical evening by artists from
the city, for a semi-monthly vaudeville show, and for Sunday meetings
addressed by the best speakers on the more serious topics of the time.
“What has surprised me in making these arrangements,” Linder confessed,
“is the comparatively small outlay they involve. The building will cost
no more than many communities spend on school and church which they use
thirty hours a week and three hours a week respectively. This one can be
used one hundred and sixty-eight hours a week, if needed. Lecturers on
many subjects can be had for paying their expenses; in some cases they
are employed by the Government, and will come without cost. Amateur
theatrical companies from the city will be glad to come in return for
an appreciative audience and a dance afterward, with a good fill-up on
solid farm cooking. Even some of the professionals can be had on these
terms. Of course, before long we will produce our own theatricals.
“Then there is to be a plunge bath big enough to swim in, open to men
and women alternate nights, and to children every day. There will be a
pool-room, card-room, and refreshment buffet; also a quiet little room
for women’s social events, and an emergency hospital ward. I think we
should hire a trained nurse who would not be too dignified to cook and
serve meals when there’s no business doing in the hospital. You know
how everyone gets hankering now and then for a meal from home,--not that
it’s any better, but it’s different. I suppose there are farmer’s wives
who don’t get a meal away from home once a year. I’m going to change all
that, if I have to turn cook myself!”
“Bully for you, Linder!” said Grant, clapping him on the shoulder. “I
believe you actually are enthusiastic for once.”
“I understand my orders are to make the country give the city a run for
its money, and I’m going to do it, or break you. If all I’ve mentioned
won’t do it I’ve another great scheme in storage.”
“Good! What is it?”
“I am inventing a machine that will make a noise like a trolley-car and
a smell like a sewer. That will add the last touch in city refinements.”
When the laugh over Linder’s invention had subsided Murdoch broached
another.
“The office work is becoming pretty heavy, Mr. Grant, and I’m none too
confident in the help I have. Now if I could send for Miss Bruce--”
“What do you think you should pay her?”
“I should say she is worth a hundred dollars a month.”
“Then she must be worth two hundred. Wire her to come and start her at
that figure.”