Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  She saw him complete his task and wipe his brown moist face and stride toward her, coming nearer, tall and erect with something added to his soldierly bearing, with a light in his eyes she could no longer bear.

  The moment for which she had waited more than two months had come at last.

  “Glenn — when will you go back East?” she asked, tensely and low.

  The instant the words were spent upon her lips she realized that he had always been waiting and prepared for this question that had been so terrible for her to ask.

  “Carley,” he replied gently, though his voice rang, “I am never going back East.”

  An inward quivering hindered her articulation.

  “Never?” she whispered.

  “Never to live, or stay any while,” he went on. “I might go some time for a little visit. . . . But never to live.”

  “Oh — Glenn!” she gasped, and her hands fluttered out to him. The shock was driving home. No amaze, no incredulity succeeded her reception of the fact. It was a slow stab. Carley felt the cold blanch of her skin. “Then — this is it — the something I felt strange between us?”

  “Yes, I knew — and you never asked me,” he replied.

  “That was it? All the time you knew,” she whispered, huskily. “You knew. . . . I’d never — marry you — never live out here?”

  “Yes, Carley, I knew you’d never be woman enough — American enough — to help me reconstruct my broken life out here in the West,” he replied, with a sad and bitter smile.

  That flayed her. An insupportable shame and wounded vanity and clamoring love contended for dominance of her emotions. Love beat down all else.

  “Dearest — I beg of you — don’t break my heart,” she implored.

  “I love you, Carley,” he answered, steadily, with piercing eyes on hers.

  “Then come back — home — home with me.”

  “No. If you love me you will be my wife.”

  “Love you! Glenn, I worship you,” she broke out, passionately. “But I could not live here — I could not.”

  “Carley, did you ever read of the woman who said, ‘Whither thou goest, there will I go’ . . .”

  “Oh, don’t be ruthless! Don’t judge me. . . . I never dreamed of this. I came West to take you back.”

  “My dear, it was a mistake,” he said, gently, softening to her distress. “I’m sorry I did not write you more plainly. But, Carley, I could not ask you to share this — this wilderness home with me. I don’t ask it now. I always knew you couldn’t do it. Yet you’ve changed so — that I hoped against hope. Love makes us blind even to what we see.”

  “Don’t try to spare me. I’m slight and miserable. I stand abased in my own eyes. I thought I loved you. But I must love best the crowd — people- -luxury — fashion — the damned round of things I was born to.”

  “Carley, you will realize their insufficiency too late,” he replied, earnestly. “The things you were born to are love, work, children, happiness.”

  “Don’t! don’t! . . . they are hollow mockery for me,” she cried, passionately. “Glenn, it is the end. It must come — quickly. . . . You are free.”

  “I do not ask to be free. Wait. Go home and look at it again with different eyes. Think things over. Remember what came to me out of the West. I will always love you — and I will be here — hoping—”

  “I — I cannot listen,” she returned, brokenly, and she clenched her hands tightly to keep from wringing them. “I — I cannot face you. . . . Here is — your ring. . . . You — are — free. . . . Don’t stop me — don’t come. . . . Oh, Glenn, good-by!”

  With breaking heart she whirled away from him and hurried down the slope toward the trail. The shade of the forest enveloped her. Peering back through the trees, she saw Glenn standing where she had left him, as if already stricken by the loneliness that must be his lot. A sob broke from Carley’s throat. She hated herself. She was in a terrible state of conflict. Decision had been wrenched from her, but she sensed unending strife. She dared not look back again. Stumbling and breathless, she hurried on. How changed the atmosphere and sunlight and shadow of the canyon! The looming walls had pitiless eyes for her flight. When she crossed the mouth of West Fork an almost irresistible force breathed to her from under the stately pines.

  An hour later she had bidden farewell to the weeping Mrs. Hutter, and to the white-faced Flo, and Lolomi Lodge, and the murmuring waterfall, and the haunting loneliness of Oak Creek Canyon.

  CHAPTER VIII

  AT FLAGSTAFF, WHERE Carley arrived a few minutes before train time, she was too busily engaged with tickets and baggage to think of herself or of the significance of leaving Arizona. But as she walked into the Pullman she overheard a passenger remark, “Regular old Arizona sunset,” and that shook her heart. Suddenly she realized she had come to love the colorful sunsets, to watch and wait for them. And bitterly she thought how that was her way to learn the value of something when it was gone.

  The jerk and start of the train affected her with singular depressing shock. She had burned her last bridge behind her. Had she unconsciously hoped for some incredible reversion of Glenn’s mind or of her own? A sense of irreparable loss flooded over her — the first check to shame and humiliation.

  From her window she looked out to the southwest. Somewhere across the cedar and pine-greened uplands lay Oak Creek Canyon, going to sleep in its purple and gold shadows of sunset. Banks of broken clouds hung to the horizon, like continents and islands and reefs set in a turquoise sea. Shafts of sunlight streaked down through creamy-edged and purple-centered clouds. Vast flare of gold dominated the sunset background.

  When the train rounded a curve Carley’s strained vision became filled with the upheaved bulk of the San Francisco Mountains. Ragged gray grass slopes and green forests on end, and black fringed sky lines, all pointed to the sharp clear peaks spearing the sky. And as she watched, the peaks slowly flushed with sunset hues, and the sky flared golden, and the strength of the eternal mountains stood out in sculptured sublimity. Every day for two months and more Carley had watched these peaks, at all hours, in every mood; and they had unconsciously become a part of her thought. The train was relentlessly whirling her eastward. Soon they must become a memory. Tears blurred her sight. Poignant regret seemed added to the anguish she was suffering. Why had she not learned sooner to see the glory of the mountains, to appreciate the beauty and solitude? Why had she not understood herself?

  The next day through New Mexico she followed magnificent ranges and valleys — so different from the country she had seen coming West — so supremely beautiful that she wondered if she had only acquired the harvest of a seeing eye.

  But it was at sunset of the following clay, when the train was speeding down the continental slope of prairie land beyond the Rockies, that the West took its ruthless revenge.

  Masses of strange cloud and singular light upon the green prairie, and a luminosity in the sky, drew Carley to the platform of her car, which was the last of the train. There she stood, gripping the iron gate, feeling the wind whip her hair and the iron-tracked ground speed from under her, spellbound and stricken at the sheer wonder and glory of the firmament, and the mountain range that it canopied so exquisitely.

  A rich and mellow light, singularly clear, seemed to flood out of some unknown source. For the sun was hidden. The clouds just above Carley hung low, and they were like thick, heavy smoke, mushrooming, coalescing, forming and massing, of strange yellow cast of mative. It shaded westward into heliotrope and this into a purple so royal, so matchless and rare that Carley understood why the purple of the heavens could never be reproduced in paint. Here the cloud mass thinned and paled, and a tint of rose began to flush the billowy, flowery, creamy white. Then came the surpassing splendor of this cloud pageant-a vast canopy of shell pink, a sun-fired surface like an opal sea, rippled and webbed, with the exquisite texture of an Oriental fabric, pure, delicate, lovely — as no work of human hands could be. It mirrored all
the warm, pearly tints of the inside whorl of the tropic nautilus. And it ended abruptly, a rounded depth of bank, on a broad stream of clear sky, intensely blue, transparently blue, as if through the lambent depths shone the infinite firmament. The lower edge of this stream took the golden lightning of the sunset and was notched for all its horizon-long length by the wondrous white glistening-peaked range of the Rockies. Far to the north, standing aloof from the range, loomed up the grand black bulk and noble white dome of Pikes Peak.

  Carley watched the sunset transfiguration of cloud and sky and mountain until all were cold and gray. And then she returned to her seat, thoughtful and sad, feeling that the West had mockingly flung at her one of its transient moments of loveliness.

  Nor had the West wholly finished with her. Next day the mellow gold of the Kansas wheat fields, endless and boundless as a sunny sea, rich, waving in the wind, stretched away before her aching eyes for hours and hours. Here was the promise fulfilled, the bountiful harvest of the land, the strength of the West. The great middle state had a heart of gold.

  East of Chicago Carley began to feel that the long days and nights of riding, the ceaseless turning of the wheels, the constant and wearing stress of emotion, had removed her an immeasurable distance of miles and time and feeling from the scene of her catastrophe. Many days seemed to have passed. Many had been the hours of her bitter regret and anguish.

  Indiana and Ohio, with their green pastoral farms, and numberless villages, and thriving cities, denoted a country far removed and different from the West, and an approach to the populous East. Carley felt like a wanderer coming home. She was restlessly and impatiently glad. But her weariness of body and mind, and the close atmosphere of the car, rendered her extreme discomfort. Summer had laid its hot hand on the low country east of the Mississippi.

  Carley had wired her aunt and two of her intimate friends to meet her at the Grand Central Station. This reunion soon to come affected Carley in recurrent emotions of relief, gladness, and shame. She did not sleep well, and arose early, and when the train reached Albany she felt that she could hardly endure the tedious hours. The majestic Hudson and the palatial mansions on the wooded bluffs proclaimed to Carley that she was back in the East. How long a time seemed to have passed! Either she was not the same or the aspect of everything had changed. But she believed that as soon as she got over the ordeal of meeting her friends, and was home again, she would soon see things rationally.

  At last the train sheered away from the broad Hudson and entered the environs of New York. Carley sat perfectly still, to all outward appearances a calm, superbly-poised New York woman returning home, but inwardly raging with contending tides. In her own sight she was a disgraceful failure, a prodigal sneaking back to the ease and protection of loyal friends who did not know her truly. Every familiar landmark in the approach to the city gave her a thrill, yet a vague unsatisfied something lingered after each sensation.

  Then the train with rush and roar crossed the Harlem River to enter New York City. As one waking from a dream Carley saw the blocks and squares of gray apartment houses and red buildings, the miles of roofs and chimneys, the long hot glaring streets full of playing children and cars. Then above the roar of the train sounded the high notes of a hurdy-gurdy. Indeed she was home. Next to startle her was the dark tunnel, and then the slowing of the train to a stop. As she walked behind a porter up the long incline toward the station gate her legs seemed to be dead.

  In the circle of expectant faces beyond the gate she saw her aunt’s, eager and agitated, then the handsome pale face of Eleanor Harmon, and beside her the sweet thin one of Beatrice Lovell. As they saw her how quick the change from expectancy to joy! It seemed they all rushed upon her, and embraced her, and exclaimed over her together. Carley never recalled what she said. But her heart was full.

  “Oh, how perfectly stunning you look!” cried Eleanor, backing away from Carley and gazing with glad, surprised eyes.

  “Carley!” gasped Beatrice. “You wonderful golden-skinned goddess! . . . You’re young again, like you were in our school days.”

  It was before Aunt Mary’s shrewd, penetrating, loving gaze that Carley quailed.

  “Yes, Carley, you look well-better than I ever saw you, but — but—”

  “But I don’t look happy,” interrupted Carley. “I am happy to get home — to see you all . . . But — my — my heart is broken!”

  A little shocked silence ensued, then Carley found herself being led across the lower level and up the wide stairway. As she mounted to the vast-domed cathedral-like chamber of the station a strange sensation pierced her with a pang. Not the old thrill of leaving New York or returning! Nor was it welcome sight of the hurrying, well-dressed throng of travelers and commuters, nor the stately beauty of the station. Carley shut her eyes, and then she knew. The dim light of vast space above, the looming gray walls, shadowy with tracery of figures, the lofty dome like the blue sky, brought back to her the walls of Oak Creek Canyon and the great caverns under the ramparts. As suddenly as she had shut her eyes Carley opened them to face her friends.

  “Let me get it over-quickly,” she burst out, with hot blood surging to her face. “I — I hated the West. It was so raw — so violent — so big. I think I hate it more — now. . . . But it changed me — made me over physically — and did something to my soul — God knows what. . . . And it has saved Glenn. Oh! he is wonderful! You would never know him. . . . For long I had not the courage to tell him I came to bring him back East. I kept putting it off. And I rode, I climbed, I camped, I lived outdoors. At first it nearly killed me. Then it grew bearable, and easier, until I forgot. I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t admit now that somehow I had a wonderful time, in spite of all. . . . Glenn’s business is raising hogs. He has a hog ranch. Doesn’t it sound sordid? But things are not always what they sound — or seem. Glenn is absorbed in his work. I hated it — I expected to ridicule it. But I ended by infinitely respecting him. I learned through his hog-raising the real nobility of work. . . . Well, at last I found courage to ask him when he was coming back to New York. He said ‘never!’ . . . I realized then my blindness, my selfishness. I could not be his wife and live there. I could not. I was too small, too miserable, too comfort-loving — too spoiled. And all the time he knew this — knew I’d never be big enough to marry him. . . . That broke my heart. I left him free — and here I am. . . . I beg you — don’t ask me any more — and never to mention it to me — so I can forget.”

  The tender unspoken sympathy of women who loved her proved comforting in that trying hour. With the confession ruthlessly made the hard compression in Carley’s breast subsided, and her eyes cleared of a hateful dimness. When they reached the taxi stand outside the station Carley felt a rush of hot devitalized air from the street. She seemed not to be able to get air into her lungs.

  “Isn’t it dreadfully hot?” she asked.

  “This is a cool spell to what we had last week,” replied Eleanor.

  “Cool!” exclaimed Carley, as she wiped her moist face. “I wonder if you Easterners know the real significance of words.”

  Then they entered a taxi, to be whisked away apparently through a labyrinthine maze of cars and streets, where pedestrians had to run and jump for their lives. A congestion of traffic at Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street halted their taxi for a few moments, and here in the thick of it Carley had full assurance that she was back in the metropolis. Her sore heart eased somewhat at sight of the streams of people passing to and fro. How they rushed! Where were they going? What was their story? And all the while her aunt held her hand, and Beatrice and Eleanor talked as fast as their tongues could wag. Then the taxi clattered on up the Avenue, to turn down a side street and presently stop at Carley’s home. It was a modest three-story brown-stone house. Carley had been so benumbed by sensations that she did not imagine she could experience a new one. But peering out of the taxi, she gazed dubiously at the brownish-red stone steps and front of her home.

  “I�
��m going to have it painted,” she muttered, as if to herself.

  Her aunt and her friends laughed, glad and relieved to hear such a practical remark from Carley. How were they to divine that this brownish-red stone was the color of desert rocks and canyon walls?

  In a few more moments Carley was inside the house, feeling a sense of protection in the familiar rooms that had been her home for seventeen years. Once in the sanctity of her room, which was exactly as she had left it, her first action was to look n the mirror at her weary, dusty, heated face. Neither the brownness of it nor the shadow appeared to harmonize with the image of her that haunted the mirror.

  “Now!” she whispered low. “It’s done. I’m home. The old life — or a new life? How to meet either. Now!”

  Thus she challenged her spirit. And her intelligence rang at her the imperative necessity for action, for excitement, for effort that left no time for rest or memory or wakefulness. She accepted the issue. She was glad of the stern fight ahead of her. She set her will and steeled her heart with all the pride and vanity and fury of a woman who had been defeated but Who scorned defeat. She was what birth and breeding and circumstance had made her. She would seek what the old life held.

  What with unpacking and chatting and telephoning and lunching, the day soon passed. Carley went to dinner with friends and later to a roof garden. The color and light, the gayety and music, the news of acquaintances, the humor of the actors — all, in fact, except the unaccustomed heat and noise, were most welcome and diverting. That night she slept the sleep of weariness.