The Western Romance MEGAPACK ®: 20 Classic Tales

by Zane Grey

  They waited for no ceremony, these two who had met and loved by the way in the wilderness. They went straight to Mrs. Benedict for her blessing, and then to the minister to arrange for his services; and within the week a quiet wedding-party entered the arched doors of the placid brown church with the lofty spire, and Elizabeth Bailey and George Benedict were united in the sacred bonds of matrimony.

  There were present Mrs. Benedict and one or two intimate friends of the family, besides Grandmother Brady, Aunt Nan, and Lizzie.

  Lizzie brought a dozen bread-and-butter-plates from the ten-cent store. They were adorned with cupids and roses and much gilt. But Lizzie was disappointed. No display, no pomp and ceremony. Just a simple white dress and white veil. Lizzie did not understand that the veil had been in the Bailey family for generations, and that the dress was an heirloom also. It was worn because Grandmother Bailey had given it to her, and told her she wanted her to wear it on her wedding-day. Sweet and beautiful she looked as she turned to walk down the aisle on her husband’s arm, and she smiled at Grandmother Brady in a way that filled the grandmother’s heart with pride and triumph. Elizabeth was not ashamed of the Bradys even among her fine friends. But Lizzie grumbled all the way home at the plainness of the ceremony, and the lack of bridesmaids and fuss and feathers.

  The social column of the daily papers stated that young Mr. and Mrs. George Benedict were spending their honeymoon in an extended tour of the West, and Grandmother Brady so read it aloud at the breakfast table to the admiring family. Only Lizzie looked discontented:

  “She just wore a dark blue tricotine one-piece dress and a little plain dark hat. She ain’t got a bit of taste. Oh Boy! If I just had her pocket book wouldn’t I show the world? But anyhow I’m glad she went in a private car. There was a little class to her, though if t’had been mine I’d uv preferred ridin’ in the parlor coach an’ havin’ folks see me and my fine husband. He’s some looker, George Benedict is! Everybody turns to watch ’em as they go by, and they just sail along and never seem to notice. It’s all perfectly throwed away on ’em. Gosh! I’d hate to be such a nut!”

  “Now, Lizzie, you know you hadn’t oughtta talk like that!” reproved her grandmother, “After her giving you all that money fer your own wedding. A thousand dollars just to spend as you please on your cloes and a blow out, and house linens. Jest because she don’t care for gewgaws like you do, you think she’s a fool. But she’s no fool. She’s got a good head on her, and she’ll get more in the long run out of life than you will. She’s been real loving and kind to us all, and she didn’t have any reason to neither. We never did much fer her. And look at how nice and common she’s been with us all, not a bit high headed. I declare, Lizzie, I should think you’d be ashamed!”

  “Oh, well,” said Lizzie shrugging her shoulders indifferently, “She’s all right in her way, only ’taint my way. And I’m thankful t’goodness that I had the nerve to speak up when she offered to give me my trousseau. She askt me would I druther hav her buy it for me, or have the money and pick it out m’self, and I spoke up right quick and says, ‘Oh, cousin Bessie, I wouldn’t think of givin’ ya all that trouble. I’d take the money ef it’s all the same t’you,’ and she jest smiled and said all right, she expected I knew what I wanted better’n she did. So yes’teddy when I went down to the station to see her off she handed me a bank book. And—Oh, say, I fergot! She said there was a good-bye note inside. I ain’t had time to look at it since. I went right to the movies on the dead run to get there ’fore the first show begun, and it’s in my coat pocket. Wait ’till I get it. I spose it’s some of her old religion! She’s always preaching at me. It ain’t that she says so much as that she’s always meanin’ it underneath, everything, that gets my goat! It’s sorta like having a piece of God round with you all the time watching you. You kinda hate to be enjoyin’ yerself fer fear she won’t think yer doin’ it accordin’ to the Bible.”

  Lizzie hurtled into the hall and brought back her coat, fumbling in the pocket.

  “Yes, here ’tis ma! Wanta see the figgers? You never had a whole thousand dollars in the bank t’woncet yerself, did ya?”

  Mrs. Brady put on her spectacles and reached for the book, while Lizzie’s mother got up and came behind her mother’s chair to look over at the magic figures. Lizzie stooped for the little white note that had fluttered to her feet as she opened the book, but she had little interest to see what it said. She was more intent upon the new bank book.

  It was Grandmother Brady that discovered it:

  “Why, Lizzie! It ain’t one thousand, it’s five thousand, the book says! You don’t ’spose she’s made a mistake, do you?”

  Lizzie seized the book and gazed, her jaw dropping open in amaze. “Let me have it!” demanded Lizzie’s mother, reaching for the book.

  “Where’s yer note, Lizzie, mebbe it’ll explain,” said the excited Grandmother.

  Lizzie recovered the note which again had fluttered to the floor in the confusion and opening it began to read:

  “Dear Lizzie,

  “I’ve made it five thousand so you will have some over for furnishing your home, and if you still think you want the little bungalow out on the Pike you will find the deed at my lawyer’s, all made out in your name. It’s my wedding gift to you, so you can go to work and buy your furniture at once, and not wait till Dan gets a raise. And here’s wishing you a great deal of happiness,

  “Your loving cousin,

  ELIZABETH.”

  “There!” said Grandmother Brady sitting back with satisfaction and holding her hands composedly, “Whadd’ I tell ya?”

  “Mercy!” said Lizzie’s mother, “Let me see that note! The idea of her giving all that money when she didn’t have to!”

  But Lizzie’s face was a picture of joy. For once she lost her hard little worldly screwed-up expression and was wreathed in smiles of genuine eagerness:

  “Oh Boy!” she exclaimed delightedly, dancing around the room, “Now we can have a victrola, an’ a player-piano, and Dan’ll get a Ford, one o’ those limousine-kind! Won’t I be some swell? What’ll the girls at the store think now?”

  “H’m! You’d much better get a washing machine and a ’lectric iron!” grumbled Grandmother Brady practically.

  “Well, all I got to say about it is, she was an awful fool to trust you with so much money,” said Lizzie’s mother discontentedly, albeit with a pleased pride as she watched her giddy daughter fling on hat and coat to go down and tell Dan.

  “I sh’ll work in the store fer the rest of the week, jest to ’commodate ’em,” she announced putting her head back in the door as she went out, “but not a day longer. I got a lot t’do. Say, won’t I be some lady in the five-an’-ten the rest o’ the week? Oh Boy! I’ll tell the world!”

  Meantime in their own private car the bride and groom were whirled on their way to the west, but they saw little of the scenery, being engaged in the all-absorbing story of each other’s lives since they had parted.

  And one bright morning, they stepped down from the train at Malta and gazed about them.

  The sun was shining clear and wonderful, and the little brown station stood drearily against the brightness of the day like a picture that has long hung on the wall of one’s memory and is suddenly brought out and the dust wiped away.

  They purchased a couple of horses, and with camp accoutrements following began their real wedding trip, over the road they had come together when they first met. Elizabeth had to show her husband where she had hidden while the men went by, and he drew her close in his arms and thanked God that she had escaped so miraculously.

  It seemed so wonderful to be in the same places again, for nothing out here in the wilderness seemed much to have changed, and yet they two were so changed that the people they met did not seem to recognize them as ever having been that way before.

  T
hey dined sumptuously in the same coulee, and recalled little things they had said and done, and Elizabeth now worldly wise, laughed at her own former ignorance as her husband reminded her of some questions she had asked him on that memorable journey. And ever through the beautiful journey he was telling her how wonderful she seemed to him, both then and now.

  Not however, till they reached the old ranchhouse, where the woman had tried to persuade her to stay, did they stop for long.

  Elizabeth had a tender feeling in her heart for that motherly woman who had sought to protect her, and felt a longing to let her know how safely she had been kept through the long journey and how good the Lord had been to her through the years. Also they both desired to reward these kind people for their hospitality in the time of need. So, in the early evening they rode up just as they did before to the little old log house. But no friendly door flung open wide as they came near, and at first they thought the cabin deserted, till a candle flare suddenly shone forth in the bedroom, and then Benedict dismounted and knocked.

  After some waiting the old man came to the door holding a candle high above his head. His face was haggard and worn, and the whole place looked dishevelled. His eyes had a weary look as he peered into the night and it was evident that he had no thought of ever having seen them before:

  “I can’t do much fer ya, strangers,” he said, his voice sounding tired and discouraged. “If it’s a woman ye have with ye, ye better ride on to the next ranch. My woman is sick. Very sick. There’s nobody here with her but me, and I have all I can tend to. The house ain’t kept very tidy. It’s six weeks since she took to bed.”

  Elizabeth had sprung lightly to the ground and was now at the threshold:

  “Oh, is she sick? I’m so sorry? Couldn’t I do something for her? She was good to me once several years ago!”

  The old man peered at her blinkingly, noting her slender beauty, the exquisite eager face, the dress that showed her of another world—and shook his head:

  “I guess you made a mistake, lady. I don’t remember ever seeing you before—”

  “But I remember you,” she said eagerly stepping into the room, “Won’t you please let me go to her?”

  “Why, shore, lady, go right in ef you want to. She’s layin’ there in the bed. She ain’t likely to get out of it again’ I’m feared. The doctor says nothin’ but a ’noperation will ever get her up, and we can’t pay fer ’noperations. It’s a long ways to the hospital in Chicago where he wants her sent, and M’ria and I, we ain’t allowin’ to part. It can’t be many years—”

  But Elizabeth was not waiting to hear. She had slipped into the old bedroom that she remembered now so well and was kneeling beside the bed talking to the white faced woman on the thin pillow:

  “Don’t you remember me,” she asked, “I’m the girl you tried to get to stay with you once. The girl that came here with a man she had met in the wilderness. You told me things that I didn’t know, and you were kind and wanted me to stay here with you? Don’t you remember me? I’m Elizabeth!”

  The woman reached out a bony hand and touched the fair young face that she could see but dimly in the flare of the candle that the old man now brought into the room:

  “Why, yes, I remember,” the woman said, her voice sounded alive yet in spite of her illness, “Yes, I remember you. You were a dear little girl, and I was so worried about you. I would have kept you for my own—but you wouldn’t stay. And he was a nice looking young man, but I was afraid for you—You can’t always tell about them—You mostly can’t—!”

  “But he was all right Mother!” Elizabeth’s voice rang joyously through the cabin, “He took care of me and got me safely started toward my people, and now he’s my husband. I want you to see him. George come here!”

  The old woman half raised herself from the pillow and looked toward the young man in the doorway:

  “You don’t say! He’s your husband! Well, now isn’t that grand! Well, I certainly am glad! I was that worried—!”

  They sat around the bed talking, Elizabeth telling briefly of her own experiences and her wedding trip which they were taking back over the old trail, and the old man and woman speaking of their trouble, the woman’s breakdown and how the doctor at Malta said there was a chance she could get well if she went to a great doctor in Chicago, but how they had no money unless they sold the ranch and that nobody wanted to buy it.

  “Oh, but we have money,” laughed Elizabeth joyously, “and it is our turn now to help you. You helped us when we were in trouble. How soon can you start? I’m going to play you are my own father and mother. We can send them both, can’t we George?”

  It was a long time before they settled themselves to sleep that night because there was so much planning to be done, and then Elizabeth and her husband had to get out their stores and cook a good supper for the two old people who had been living mostly on corn meal mush, for several weeks.

  And after the others were all asleep the old woman lay praying and thanking God for the two angels who had dropped down to help them in their distress.

  The next morning George Benedict with one of the men who looked after their camping outfit went to Malta and got in touch with the Chicago doctor and hospital, and before he came back to the ranch that night everything was arranged for the immediate start of the two old people He had even planned for an automobile and the Malta doctor to be in attendance in a couple of days to get the invalid to the station.

  Meantime Elizabeth had been going over the old woman’s wardrobe which was scanty and coarse, and selecting garments from her own baggage that would do for the journey.

  The old woman looked glorified as she touched the delicate white garments with their embroidery and ribbons:

  “Oh, dear child! Why, I couldn’t wear a thing like that on my old worn-out body. Those look like angels’ clothes.” She put a work-worn finger on the delicate tracery of embroidery and smoothed a pink satin ribbon bow.

  But Elizabeth overruled her. It was nothing but a plain little garment she had bought for the trip. If the friend thought it was pretty she was glad, but nothing was too pretty for the woman who had taken her in in her distress and tried to help her and keep her safe.

  The invalid was thin with her illness, and it was found that she could easily wear the girl’s simple dress of dark blue with a white collar, and little dark hat, and Elizabeth donned a khaki skirt and brown cap and sweater herself and gladly arrayed her old friend in her own bridal travelling gown for her journey. She had not brought a lot of things for her journey because she did not want to be bothered, but she could easily get more when she got to a large city, and what was money for but to cloth the naked and feed the hungry? She rejoiced in her ability to help this woman of the wilderness.

  On the third day, garbed in Elizabeth’s clothes, her husband fitted out for the east in some of George Benedict’s extra things, they started. They carried a bag containing some necessary changes, and some wonderful toilet accessories with silver monograms, enough to puzzle the most snobbish nurse, also there was a luscious silk kimona of Elizabeth’s in the bag. The two old people were settled in the Benedict private car, and in due time hitched on to the Chicago express and hurried on their way. Before the younger pair went back to their pilgrimage they sent a series of telegrams arranging for every detail of the journey for the old couple, so that they would be met with cars and nurses and looked after most carefully.

  And the thanksgiving and praise of the old people seemed to follow them like music as they rode happily on their way.

  They paused at the little old school house where they had attended the Christian Endeavor meeting, and Elizabeth looked half fearfully up the road where her evil pursuers had ridden by, and rode closer to her husband’s side. So they passed on the way as nearly as Elizabeth could remember every step back as she had come, telling her husband all the
details of the journey.

  That night they camped in the little shelter where Benedict had come upon the girl that first time they met, and under the clear stars that seemed so near they knelt together and thanked God for His leading.

  They went to the lonely cabin on the mountain, shut up and going to ruin now, and Benedict gazing at the surroundings and then looking at the delicate face of his lovely wife was reminded of a white flower he had once seen growing out of the blackness down in a coal mine, pure and clean without a smirch of soil.

  They visited the seven graves in the wilderness, and standing reverently beside the sand-blown mounds she told him much of her early life that she had not told him before, and introduced him to her family, telling a bit about each that would make him see the loveable side of them. And then they planned for seven simple white stones to be set up, bearing words from the book they both loved. Over the care worn mother was to be written “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.”

  It was on that trip that they planned what came to pass in due time. The little cabin was made over into a simple, pretty home, with vines planted about the garden, and a garage with a sturdy little car; and not far away a church nestled into the side of the hill, built out of the stones that were native, with many sunny windows and a belfry in which bells rang out to the whole region round.

  At first it had seemed impractical to put a church out there away from the town, but Elizabeth said that it was centrally located, and high up where it could be seen from the settlements in the valleys, and was moreover on a main trail that was much travelled. She longed to have some such spot in the wilderness that could be a refuge for any who longed for better things.

  When they went back they sent out two consecrated missionaries to occupy the new house and use the sturdy little car. They were to ring the bells, preach the gospel and play the organ and piano in the little church.