The Call Of The Canyon, Zane Grey [good non fiction books to read txt] 📗

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What Subtle Strange Message Had Come To Her Out Of The West? Carley Burch

Laid The Letter In Her Lap And Gazed Dreamily Through The Window.

 

It Was A Day Typical Of Early April In New York,  Rather Cold And Gray,  With

Steely Sunlight. Spring Breathed In The Air,  But The Women Passing Along

Fifty-Seventh Street Wore Furs And Wraps. She Heard The Distant Clatter Of

An L Train And Then The Hum Of A Motor Car. A Hurdy-Gurdy Jarred Into The

Interval Of Quiet.

 

"Glenn Has Been Gone Over A Year," She Mused,  "Three Months Over A Year--

And Of All His Strange Letters This Seems The Strangest Yet."

 

She Lived Again,  For The Thousandth Time,  The Last Moments She Had Spent

With Him. It Had Been On New-Year's Eve,  1918. They Had Called Upon Friends

Who Were Staying At The Mcalpin,  In A Suite On The Twenty-First Floor

Overlooking Broadway. And When The Last Quarter Hour Of That Eventful And

Tragic Year Began Slowly To Pass With The Low Swell Of Whistles And Bells,

Carley's Friends Had Discreetly Left Her Alone With Her Lover,  At The Open

Window,  To Watch And Hear The Old Year Out,  The New Year In. Glenn

Kilbourne Had Returned From France Early That Fall,  Shell-Shocked And

Gassed,  And Otherwise Incapacitated For Service In The Army--A Wreck Of His

Former Sterling Self And In Many Unaccountable Ways A Stranger To Her.

Cold,  Silent,  Haunted By Something,  He Had Made Her Miserable With His

Aloofness. But As The Bells Began To Ring Out The Year That Had Been His

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Ruin Glenn Had Drawn Her Close,  Tenderly,  Passionately,  And Yet Strangely,

Too.

 

"Carley,  Look And Listen!" He Had Whispered.

 

Under Them Stretched The Great Long White Flare Of Broadway,  With Its

Snow-Covered Length Glittering Under A Myriad Of Electric Lights. Sixth

Avenue Swerved Away To The Right,  A Less Brilliant Lane Of Blanched Snow.

The L Trains Crept Along Like Huge Fire-Eyed Serpents. The Hum Of The

Ceaseless Moving Line Of Motor Cars Drifted Upward Faintly,  Almost Drowned

In The Rising Clamor Of The Street. Broadway's Gay And Thoughtless Crowds

Surged To And Fro,  From That Height Merely A Thick Stream Of Black Figures,

Like Contending Columns Of Ants On The March. And Everywhere The Monstrous

Electric Signs Flared Up Vivid In White And Red And Green; And Dimmed And

Paled,  Only To Flash Up Again.

 

Ring Out The Old! Ring In The New! Carley Had Poignantly Felt The Sadness

Of The One,  The Promise Of The Other. As One By One The Siren Factory

Whistles Opened Up With Deep,  Hoarse Bellow,  The Clamor Of The Street And

The Ringing Of The Bells Were Lost In A Volume Of Continuous Sound That

Swelled On High Into A Magnificent Roar. It Was The Voice Of A City--Of A

Nation. It Was The Voice Of A People Crying Out The Strife And The Agony Of

The Year--Pealing Forth A Prayer For The Future.

 

Glenn Had Put His Lips To Her Ear: "It's Like The Voice In My Soul!" Never

Would She Forget The Shock Of That. And How She Had Stood Spellbound,

Enveloped In The Mighty Volume Of Sound No Longer Discordant,  But Full Of

Great,  Pregnant Melody,  Until The White Ball Burst Upon The Tower Of The

Times Building,  Showing The Bright Figures 1919.

 

The New Year Had Not Been Many Minutes Old When Glenn Kilbourne Had Told

Her He Was Going West To Try To Recover His Health.

 

Carley Roused Out Of Her Memories To Take Up The Letter That Had So

Perplexed Her. It Bore The Postmark,  Flagstaff,  Arizona. She Reread It With

Slow Pondering Thoughtfulness.

 

 

 

 

 

West Fork,

March 25.

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Dear Carley:

 

It Does Seem My Neglect In Writing You Is Unpardonable. I Used To Be A

Pretty Fair Correspondent,  But In That As In Other Things I Have Changed.

 

One Reason I Have Not Answered Sooner Is Because Your Letter Was So Sweet

And Loving That It Made Me Feel An Ungrateful And Unappreciative Wretch.

Another Is That This Life I Now Lead Does Not Induce Writing. I Am Outdoors

All Day,  And When I Get Back To This Cabin At Night I Am Too Tired For

Anything But Bed.

 

Your Imperious Questions I Must Answer--And That Must,  Of Course,  Is A

Third Reason Why I Have Delayed My Reply. First,  You Ask,  "Don't You Love

Me Any More As You Used To?" . . . Frankly,  I Do Not. I Am Sure My Old Love

For You,  Before I Went To France,  Was Selfish,  Thoughtless,  Sentimental,

And Boyish. I Am A Man Now. And My Love For You Is Different. Let Me Assure

You That It Has Been About All Left To Me Of What Is Noble And Beautiful.

Whatever The Changes In Me For The Worse,  My Love For You,  At Least,  Has

Grown Better,  Finer,  Purer.

 

And Now For Your Second Question,  "Are You Coming Home As Soon As You Are

Well Again?" . . . Carley,  I Am Well. I Have Delayed Telling You This

Because I Knew You Would Expect Me To Rush Back East With The Telling. But--

The Fact Is,  Carley,  I Am Not Coming--Just Yet. I Wish It Were Possible

For Me To Make You Understand. For A Long Time I Seem To Have Been Frozen

Within. You Know When I Came Back From France I Couldn't Talk. It's Almost

As Bad As That Now. Yet All That I Was Then Seems To Have Changed Again. It

Is Only Fair To You To Tell You That,  As I Feel Now,  I Hate The City,  I

Hate People,  And Particularly I Hate That Dancing,  Drinking,  Lounging Set

You Chase With. I Don't Want To Come East Until I Am Over That,  You Know. . .

Suppose I Never Get Over It? Well,  Carley,  You Can Free Yourself From

Me By One Word That I Could Never Utter. I Could Never Break Our

Engagement. During The Hell I Went Through In The War My Attachment To You

Saved Me From Moral Ruin,  If It Did Not From Perfect Honor And Fidelity.

This Is Another Thing I Despair Of Making You Understand. And In The Chaos

I've Wandered Through Since The War My Love For You Was My Only Anchor. You

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Never Guessed,  Did You,  That I Lived On Your Letters Until I Got Well. And

Now The Fact That I Might Get Along Without Them Is No Discredit To Their

Charm Or To You.

 

It Is All So Hard To Put In Words,  Carley. To Lie Down With Death And Get

Up With Death Was Nothing. To Face One's Degradation Was Nothing. But To

Come Home An Incomprehensibly Changed Man--And To See My Old Life As

Strange As If It Were The New Life Of Another Planet--To Try To Slip Into

The Old Groove--Well,  No Words Of Mine Can Tell You How Utterly Impossible

It Was.

 

My Old Job Was Not Open To Me,  Even If I Had Been Able To Work. The

Government That I Fought For Left Me To Starve,  Or To Die Of My Maladies

Like A Dog,  For All It Cared.

 

I Could Not Live On Your Money,  Carley. My People Are Poor,  As You Know. So

There Was Nothing For Me To Do But To Borrow A Little Money From My Friends

And To Come West. I'm Glad I Had The Courage To Come. What This West Is

I'll Never Try To Tell You,  Because,  Loving The Luxury And Excitement And

Glitter Of The City As You Do,  You'd Think I Was Crazy.

 

Getting On Here,  In My Condition,  Was As Hard As Trench Life. But Now,

Carley--Something Has Come To Me Out Of The West. That,  Too,  I Am Unable To

Put Into Words. Maybe I Can Give You An Inkling Of It. I'm Strong Enough To

Chop Wood All Day. No Man Or Woman Passes My Cabin In A Month. But I Am

Never Lonely. I Love These Vast Red Canyon Walls Towering Above Me. And The

Silence Is So Sweet. Think Of The Hellish Din That Filled My Ears. Even

Now--Sometimes,  The Brook Here Changes Its Babbling Murmur To The Roar Of

War. I Never Understood Anything Of The Meaning Of Nature Until I Lived

Under These Looming Stone Walls And Whispering Pines.

 

So,  Carley,  Try To Understand Me,  Or At Least Be Kind. You Know They Came

Very Near Writing,  "Gone West!" After My Name,  And Considering That,  This

"Out West" Signifies For Me A Very Fortunate Difference. A Tremendous

Difference! For The Present I'll Let Well Enough Alone.

 

Adios. Write Soon. Love From

 

Glen