The Call of the Canyon, Zane Grey [ereader for textbooks txt] 📗

must wait. But she thought of his work, and the more she thought the less she wondered.

First he had labored with his hands. What infinite meaning lay unfolding to her vision! Somewhere out of it all came the conception that man was intended to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. But there was more to it than that. By that toil and sweat, by the friction of horny palms, by the expansion and contraction of muscle, by the acceleration of blood, something great and enduring, something physical and spiritual, came to a man. She understood then why she would have wanted to surrender herself to a man made manly by toil; she understood how a woman instinctively leaned toward the protection of a man who had used his hands—who had strength and red blood and virility who could fight like the progenitors of the race. Any toil was splendid that served this end for any man. It all went back to the survival of the fittest. And suddenly Carley thought of Morrison. He could dance and dangle attendance upon her, and amuse her—but how would he have acquitted himself in a moment of peril? She had her doubts. Most assuredly he could not have beaten down for her a ruffian like Haze Ruff. What then should be the significance of a man for a woman?

Carley’s querying and answering mind reverted to Glenn. He had found a secret in this seeking for something through the labor of hands. All development of body must come through exercise of muscles. The virility of cell in tissue and bone depended upon that. Thus he had found in toil the pleasure and reward athletes had in their desultory training. But when a man learned this secret the need of work must become permanent. Did this explain the law of the Persians that every man was required to sweat every day?

Carley tried to picture to herself Glenn’s attitude of mind when he had first gone to work here in the West. Resolutely she now denied her shrinking, cowardly sensitiveness. She would go to the root of this matter, if she had intelligence enough. Crippled, ruined in health, wrecked and broken by an inexplicable war, soul-blighted by the heartless, callous neglect of government and public, on the verge of madness at the insupportable facts, he had yet been wonderful enough, true enough to himself and God, to fight for life with the instinct of a man, to fight for his mind with a noble and unquenchable faith. Alone indeed he had been alone! And by some miracle beyond the power of understanding he had found day by day in his painful efforts some hope and strength to go on. He could not have had any illusions. For Glenn Kilbourne the health and happiness and success most men held so dear must have seemed impossible. His slow, daily, tragic, and terrible task must have been something he owed himself. Not for Carley Burch! She like all the others had failed him. How Carley shuddered in confession of that! Not for the country which had used him and cast him off! Carley divined now, as if by a flash of lightning, the meaning of Glenn’s strange, cold, scornful, and aloof manner when he had encountered young men of his station, as capable and as strong as he, who had escaped the service of the army. For him these men did not exist. They were less than nothing. They had waxed fat on lucrative jobs; they had basked in the presence of girls whose brothers and lovers were in the trenches or on the turbulent sea, exposed to the ceaseless dread and almost ceaseless toil of war. If Glenn’s spirit had lifted him to endurance of war for the sake of others, how then could it fail him in a precious duty of fidelity to himself? Carley could see him day by day toiling in his lonely canyon— plodding to his lonely cabin. He had been playing the game—fighting it out alone as surely he knew his brothers of like misfortune were fighting.

So Glenn Kilbourne loomed heroically in Carley’s transfigured sight. He was one of Carley’s battle-scarred warriors. Out of his travail he had climbed on stepping-stones of his dead self. Resurqam! That had been his unquenchable cry. Who had heard it? Only the solitude of his lonely canyon, only the waiting, dreaming, watching walls, only the silent midnight shadows, only the white, blinking, passionless stars, only the wild creatures of his haunts, only the moaning wind in the pines—only these had been with him in his agony. How near were these things to God?

Carley’s heart seemed full to bursting. Not another single moment could her mounting love abide in a heart that held a double purpose. How bitter the assurance that she had not come West to help him! It was self, self, all self that had actuated her. Unworthy indeed was she of the love of this man. Only a lifetime of devotion to him could acquit her in the eyes of her better self. Sweetly and madly raced the thrill and tumult of her blood. There must be only one outcome to her romance. Yet the next instant there came a dull throbbing-an oppression which was pain—an impondering vague thought of catastrophe. Only the fearfulness of love perhaps!

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.