by Zane Grey
After the porter lifted the baggage into the back of the car Ethel, still holding to Virginia and piercing her with hungry eyes, opened the dammed gateway of her speech.
“Oh! . . . you perfectly stunning Virginia!” she burst out. “You lovely marble thing! . . . Where’s your old tan—and the red of your cheeks? You’re pale. You’ve thinned out. And that’s all you needed to beat Helen Andrews two ways for Sunday. . . . But your sad, sad eyes! Poor darling! if you haven’t had the rottenest deal! . . . Oh, Virginia, I’m so glad to see you, I’ll cry my eyes out.”
“So will I, honey, but let’s wait till we get out home,” replied Virginia, conscious of a sudden sweet and wonderful warmth. It had not occurred to her that Ethel would be the best medicine in the world. Now she knew it. She took her seat in at the wheel, and Ethel got in beside her.
“Just one word, darling, and a question,” said Ethel, “after that it’s all you.”
“I think I can guess,” replied Virginia.
“But you’re not smiling. . . . Virginia, I’m to be married in June.”
“Marvelous! I congratulate you. I’ll be happy with you.”
“Will you come to my wedding?”
“I surely will. How could you be married without me?”
“I couldn’t. That’s why you’ve had me guessing. Virginia, do you know I’ve had only two letters and one telegram from you in seven months? . . . Seven months!”
“But, honey, how could I write, even to you?” implored Virginia.
“It would have been better for you. But you always were a strange, close-mouthed creature. I think I understand and I forgive you.”
Virginia drove out of town on the San Luis road, which was far from being a thoroughfare.
“I’ll make up for my neglect,” returned Virginia, humbly. “I’ll talk you deaf and dumb and blind.”
“I had your letters, as I said, and of course I read what was in the papers. You need not rake up that horrible——”
“But I shall,” interrupted Virginia as her friend hesitated. “It will do me good to talk.”
“I met Mr. Jarvis yesterday. He asked all about you. I told him I didn’t know much, but I would soon.”
“How is he now?”
“Oh, he’s completely recovered.”
“I am very glad,” said Virginia.
“Virginia, were you hurt in—in that fight?” asked Ethel, anxiously.
“I should say I was. Scratched—beaten black and blue! He even bit me! Uggh! . . . I’ll tell you all about it some day.”
Virginia could see that her faithful friend was repressing all kinds of explosives in consideration for her feelings. But Virginia would not have minded anything now. The ice was broken. She had been too long choked by her own inhibitions.
“Say, this is a swell road, if you don’t know it. Where are we going?” remarked Ethel.
“Home.”
“But this isn’t the way to Cottonwoods.”
“I don’t live at Cottonwoods any longer.”
“Oh, I see!” rejoined Ethel, bursting with curiosity. “Is your mother with you?”
“No. I left her in Atlanta.”
“How is she?”
“Pretty well. I spent three months with her. I don’t think she will ever come back to the West. She likes her old home best and has better health there. My grandfather and grandmother have a fine plantation just out of Atlanta. I like it there, too—for a visit. But give me the desert.”
“Well, dearie, it’s better news than I expected. I was afraid your mother would sink under that calamity.”
“No, she didn’t. Of course she never heard any but the barest details.”
When they crossed the lower end of the valley below San Luis the whole wonderful triangle of green led up beautifully to the impressive white-and-red mansion on the bluff. Cottonwoods shone clear and stately in the sunlight. Virginia saw it without a pang. She had never been happy there.
“It’s so lovely—everything, I mean,” murmured Ethel. “I don’t blame you, though, for not living at Cottonwoods just yet.”
“I gave Cottonwoods back to the Forrests,” said Virginia, quite casually.
“Virginia!” cried Ethel, and with a flop sank back in her seat. She had been prepared for revelations, but this was too much. For the time being she was crushed by the catastrophe.
They drove out of the valley, through the sleepy little town of San Luis, past the spot where the blackened walls of Clifton’s store still stood, and up the shaded, dusty country road where nothing had changed. And at length under the old weather beaten Spanish gate and into the green-gold grove where the vine-covered adobe house stood, surely in Ethel’s eyes memorable of Clifton Forrest and inseparable from his story. Virginia’s heart was full. It was strangely sweet to bring her dearest friend here. Ethel was pale, her eyes were wide and brimming with tears.
“You live here?”
“Yes, honey.”
“Alone?”
“I have two servants. Jake and Con have a cabin below.”
“It is—lovely,” concluded Ethel, with trembling lips.
“I like it better than Cottonwoods. Come. We can carry your bags in. You take the lighter ones.”
The room into which Virginia led Ethel had once been her mother’s and later Mrs. Forrest’s. It was light and fairly large. Virginia had furnished it most comfortably, in harmony with the old-fashioned walls and beams, the open fireplace and the Spanish windows.
“One wouldn’t think it was so nice—from the outside,” murmured Ethel, as she divested herself of gloves and hat, and fussed with her pretty blond hair before the mirror, significantly keeping her back to Virginia. Presently she turned a convulsed little face and eyes streaming with tears.
“Gin—ia, I’m going—to bawl.”
“So am—I,” choked Virginia, and spread wide her arms.
A little while later, after donning comfortable clothes, in fact the same in which they had run and romped and climbed in Colorado, they went outdoors.
“I’m from Missouri,” said Ethel, slangily. “You gotta show me. How big is this jungle?”
“About ten acres of grove, some valley meadowland, and fifty acres running up over the range.”
“Not so poor, for Bertha, the Sewing-machine Girl.”
Eventually they wound up tired and hot and happy on a shady knoll under a giant cottonwood that spread its wide branches on the edge of the valley. The view was open and the mountains stood out splendidly and close. But Cottonwoods could not be seen for trees. The irrigation ditch flowed down here, and by reason of the little slope, made swift gurgling sound. There were innumerable bees humming over the stream, among the blossoms of a flowery vine.
Ethel gazed out over the meadow at the graceful, glistening horses. “Oh, what horses! You must take me riding every day. I miss riding so much at home in Denver. Sure we’re Western, but a horse is rare these days. . . . There’s Calliope and Moses and Calamity. . . . Oh, I see your grand black Sirius. Some horse! If only I could straddle that stallion! . . . And there’s Dumpy—the little pinto that threw me, darn his dusty hide! . . . Virginia, you can’t be so awful poor, or you couldn’t take care of those horses.”
“I’m not so very poor that I can’t give you a ride occasionally—and a wedding present in June,” returned Virginia.
“You darling! Now if you go blow yourself on me I’ll never forgive you. But it seems strange for you to be poor at all.” Ethel fell back with a sigh, her head in Virginia’s lap. “Tell me your story backward.”
“You mean from present to past? . . . Well, to begin with—Clifton is back,” rejoined Virginia, averting her face.
“Back? Where’d he go?”
“When his father turned him out he became a sheep-herder.”
“What! Cliff Forrest a sheep-herder? You mean a shepherd?”
“Yes,” replied Virginia, dreamily.
“But isn’t that a poor job for a white man—a
college man—a soldier?”
“Poor, yes, in a matter of wages. But Cliff had no choice, and besides I think he went for his health.”
“Say, angel-face, turn round here and look at me,” said Ethel.
Virginia complied.
“Oh,” cried Ethel, “then all is not well between you and Cliff?”
“It is—for my part. But I’ve never seen him since that time—nor heard from him. He drove the sheep south. . . . Upon my return from visiting you, I heard that Malpass was dickering with Don Lopez to buy the flock Clifton was driving. Malpass’ motive was not solely a business one. He wanted to acquire possession of Lopez’s flock so he could send a herder out to Guadaloupe and throw Cliff out of his job. Leave him all that distance to come back alone and without supplies.”
Ethel swore. “I’m sure going to get a kick out of your story of how your dad killed that hombre.”
“It was horrible!” said Virginia, her flesh creeping and tears coming into her eyes. “Malpass shot father I don’t recall how many times. Five bullet holes, I think, the inquest reported. . . . But father broke Malpass’ arm—nearly tore it off—and then cracked his neck . . . dropped him off the high trestle.”
“Served him right,” replied Ethel, fiercely. “But never mind that now. Tell me more about Cliff.”
“There’s very little more. I borrowed money and bought the sheep from Lopez. And Cliff drove on to Guadaloupe never knowing.”
“You amazing girl!—All the time, then—for it was early last fall when you left me—Cliff has been working for you?”
“Yes. It’s funny.”
“Funny! It’s great. Shepherd of his wife’s flock! And never knowing. Say, if that isn’t a romance, I don’t know the real thing. . . . Say, darling, sure you raised his wages?”
“Don’t giggle,” entreated Virginia. “I’m scared to death. . . . You see, Clifton has just come back. He must know now that all the winter—seven months—he has worked for me. . . . Sheep-herders are poor. He’ll need his wages. And if he doesn’t come for them—what on earth shall I do?”
“Goose! Take them to him.”
“Ethel, I absolutely couldn’t do that,” expostulated Virginia. Then she felt a tender hand stealing up her arm, along her neck to her cheek.
“Look down at me, dearest,” said Ethel, softly.
Virginia surrendered then and betrayed herself to the wide, shrewd, loving eyes of her friend.
“You love Cliff still?”
“Still! What do you think I am?”
“I think you’re an angel. . . . Then you love him more?”
“I don’t know how much it was, but it’s killing me now.”
“Virginia!—Why, for Heaven’s sake? You ought to be tickled pink! It’s something to be able to love a man these modern days. Ask me. . . . Dear, are you concealing more from me?”
“I don’t think so. Anyway, if I am it’ll come out soon. You’d get blood out of a stone. . . . I’m just scared, Ethel. . . . It has been a long agony for me, since last fall. I’m all right now, except—I—he—oh, well, I want him, I want him—and if he doesn’t want me—I—I’ll drown myself in the ditch here.”
“It’s a cinch,” yelped Ethel, ecstatically.
Virginia wiped the dimness from her eyes and stared down at this galvanizing scion of modern feminism.
“Cinch?” she echoed, stupidly.
“That’s what I said, Desdemona. You’re so modest you make me sick. Good Heavens! Girl, I’ll bet he went off on that sheep-herder job just to think and dream about you. Of course you never had the nerve to give him a hint you loved him.”
“I was so afraid I would—it made me queer, cold. . . . But I led him on. And he asked me to marry him because he thought I wanted to use him as a convenience. To save me from father’s machinations with Malpass. . . . No, poor fellow, he never dreamed I was crazy to be his wife.”
Ethel let out a peal of silvery, happy laughter. “Oh, it’s rich! I’d love to be in your boots. Think of how glorious it’ll be to tell him! I’d have had it done by now.”
“Oh, you—you callous girl! How can I tell him?” cried Virginia.
“You’ve got eyes, arms, hands—and lips, everything, all about as perfect as nature bestows upon a woman.”
“That’s nonsense. But suppose I have?”
“Use them. You darned fool! Didn’t you fight Malpass?—Well, fight Cliff in another way. It’s a woman’s prerogative. We’re no longer vassals of men. We don’t have to wait. But since we’re so soft—since we have to love a man—since we must be mothers, it’s self-preservation or destruction.”
“Ethel, I sent for you to help me—not drive me mad,” replied Virginia, piteously.
“Now, dearest Virginia, I am in dead earnest,” returned Ethel, suddenly starting up. “I wouldn’t hurt your feelings for the world. I’m just taking an extreme view of your trouble. I don’t really believe it’s bad at all. I honestly think Cliff is as much in love with you as you are with him. And you bet I’ll know after I see him.”
“See him? Are you going to?”
“I am. Or I should say we are.”
Virginia covered her face with her hands. “Let us wait a little. He might come—to me. That would help so. . . . Ethel, you don’t know all about it.”
“Ahuh! I thought so.—How can I help you when I don’t know anything?”
“I am disgustingly rich,” confessed Virginia. “Father’s holdings in the south brought a great deal of money. And there’s more to come. No one here except Mr. Forrest knows it. I made him swear not to give me away. I took this place in exchange for Cottonwoods. I kept a few horses, a car, and some help just so I wouldn’t look too awfully poor. But that Payne ranch at Watrous is mine. All the rest of my horses are there. And there’s other property in the estate. I simply can’t conceal it for long. That’s another thing that scares me.”
“Mrs. Clifton Forrest, may I inquire why in the name of Heaven that should scare you?”
“Clifton once said he could never take anything from me. And when he finds out I’m not poor—that I’ve barrels of money, he’ll not want me.”
“Then he’ll be a darned queer genus homo.”
“But, Ethel, you don’t know Cliff.”
“He belongs to the male species of our generation. You’re his wife. You’re a lovely thing—perfectly dippy about him. Considering these facts, I hardly think he’ll cast you off when he finds you’ve got barrels of coin. Men are not that way. Do you want to know what my sweetie would do in such a case?”
“What?” asked Virginia, dubiously.
“He’d proceed to blow some of it pronto.”
“Cliff won’t,” replied Virginia, dejectedly. “I’d be in the seventh heaven if he would.”
“Very well, Melancholy Mag,” said Ethel, with wise resignation. “We’ll proceed from your angle. We’ll get good and serious. We’ll plan to win Clifton. But we’ll go slow. Consider the whole matter from Clifton’s point of view. You can rely on little sister to dig that up. If he doesn’t come to see us soon, then I’ll plan to see him—quite by accident. After all, it’s a matter of love. We’re not trying to put over any crooked stuff. We’ll think always of his pride, his sensitiveness, his suffering. Now, old Owl-eyes, how does that suit you?”
“It’s better,” said Virginia, coming out of her trance.
“Thanks, Pollyanna. Meanwhile we must do things. We’ll ride and climb and drive. Have a perfectly spiffy time.”
“But suppose I—we would be absent if—if Cliff came,” faltered Virginia.
“Help! Help! . . . Virginia Lundeen Forrest, I tell you I’ve got to pull this off my own way or have a lunatic on my hands.”
Chapter Twenty
ASTEP on the dry cottonwood leaves startled Virginia, and even before she moved a familiar voice thrilled her:
“Howdy, daughter!”
Leaping up, blushing scarlet, she saw Clifton’s father right upon them.
“Wal, I’m sorry. The cowboys steered me down here. I sort of hated buttin’ up your pretty little party, but it’s kind of important.”
“Ethel, this is Clifton’s father . . . my friend, Miss Wayne, from Denver.”
“Think I once met you before, Miss, but I’m shore glad to meet you again,” replied the rancher. “Suppose we—all set down. It’s nice here.”
“Virginia, if you’ll excuse me——” began Ethel.
“Don’t run off, young lady. I reckon, judgin’ by your looks, you’d make a handy helpmeet. An’ I’m shore goin’ to need one.”
“Very well. You’re a good judge of character, Mr. Forrest,” said Virginia, with a laugh. “Ethel, you’re elected to stay.”
Forrest sat down with his broad back to the tree, and he laid his hat aside. Virginia had never seen him look so well. He was ten years younger. The somber shade had gone from the dark hazel eyes that were so poignantly like Clifton’s. He was clean-shaven and neatly garbed.
“Wal, it shore ain’t easy to begin this confab,” he said, with a smile that made him winning. “But I reckon I’ve got to.”
“I am all curiosity, Mr. Forrest,” returned Virginia, who was thrilling all over. “Not to say sympathetic.”
“Lass, I’ve been out to see Cliff,” he announced, tragically.
Virginia’s hand flashed to her breast, and her eyes and lips must have added to that gesture.
“Aw, don’t look scared. Cliff’s all right,” he added, hastily. “Fact is I had the jar of my life. I never was so surprised. He’s well!—He’s a strappin’ big fellow, dark as an Indian. I just couldn’t get over it. . . . Now, Virginia, for that good news you shore ought to call me dad, shouldn’t you?”
“I—surely should—dad,” replied Virginia, huskily. She could have kissed him, and probably would have but for the tight hold Ethel had on her.
“Good! That will tickle mother. Do you know, Virginia, I’m like to grow jealous of you. . . . Wal, Cliff wasn’t surprised at all to see me. He was as nice an’ kind as if I’d—as if nothin’ had never happened between us. Asked all about mother, an’ shore wanted to see her bad. But he can’t leave the sheep just now. An’ I reckon mother will have to go over to Sycamore.”
