Zen thought over the events of that evening until they became a blur in her memory. Her principal recollection was that she had been quite swept off her feet. Transley had interpreted her submission as assent, and she had not corrected him in the vital moment when they stood before her father that night in the deep shadow of the veranda.
“Y.D.,” Transley had said, “your consent and your blessing! Zen and I are to be married as soon as she can be ready.”
That was the moment at which she should have spoken, but she did not. She, who had prided herself that she would make a race of it—she, who had always been able to slip out of a predicament in the nick of time—stood mutely by and let Transley and her father interpret her silence as consent. She was not sure that she was sorry; she was not sure but she would have consented anyway; but Transley had taken the matter quite out of her hands. And yet she could not bring herself to feel resentment toward him; that was the strangest part of it. It seemed that she had come under his domination; that she even had to think as he would have her think.
In the darkness she could not see her father’s face, for which she was sorry; and he could not see hers, for which she was glad. There was a long moment of tense silence before she heard him say,
“Well, well! I had a hunch it might come to that, but I didn’t reckon you youngsters would work so fast.”
“This was a stake worth working fast for,” Transley was saying, as he shook Y.D.‘s hand. “I wouldn’t trade places with any man alive.” And Zen was sure he meant exactly what he said.
“She’s a good girl, Transley,” her father commented; “a good girl, even if a bit obstrep’rous at times. She’s got spirit, Transley, an’ you’ll have to handle her with sense. She’s a—a thoroughbred!”
Y.D. had reached his arms toward his daughter, and at these words he closed them about her. Zen had never known her father to be emotional; she had known him to face matters of life and death without the quiver of an eyelid, but as he held her there in his arms that night she felt his big frame tremble. Suddenly she had a powerful desire to cry. She broke from his embrace and ran upstairs to her room.
When she came down her father and mother and Transley were sitting about the table in the living-room; the room hung with trophies of the chase and of competition; the room which had been the nucleus of the Y.D. estate. There was a colored cover on the table, and the shaded oil lamp in the centre sent a comfortable glow of light downward and about. The mammoth shadows of the three people fell on the log walls, darting silently from position to position with their every movement.
Her mother arose as Zen entered the room and took her hands in a warm, tender grip.
“You’re early leaving us,” she said. “I’m not saying I object. I think Mr. Transley will make you a good husband. He is a man of energy, like your father. He will do well. You will not know the hardships that we knew in our early married life.” Their eyes met, and there was a moment’s pause.
“You will not understand for many years what this means to me, Zenith,” her mother said, and turned quickly to her place at the table.
She could not remember what they had talked about after that. She had been conscious of Transley’s eyes often on her, and of a certain spiritual exaltation within her. She could not remember what she had said, but she knew she had talked with unusual vivacity and charm. It was as though certain storehouses of brilliance in her being, of which she had been unaware, had been suddenly opened to her. It was as though she had been intoxicated by a very subtle wine which did not deaden, but rather quickened, all her faculties.
Afterwards, she had spent long hours among the foothills, thinking and thinking. There were times when the flame of that strange exaltation burned low indeed; times when it seemed almost to expire. There were moments—hours—of misgivings. She could not understand the strange docility which had come over her; the unprecedented willingness to have her course shaped by another. That strange willingness came as near to frightening Zen as anything had ever done. She felt that she was being carried along in a stream; that she was making no resistance; that she had no desire to resist. She had a strange fear that some day she would need to resist; some day she would mightily need qualities of self-direction, and those qualities would refuse to arise at her command.
She did not fear Transley. She believed in him. She believed in his ability to grapple with anything that stood in his way; to thrust it aside, and press on. She respected the judgment of her father and her mother, and both of them believed in Transley. He would succeed; he would seize the opportunities this young country afforded and rise to power and influence upon them. He would be kind, he would be generous. He would make her proud of him. What more could she want?
That was just it. There were dark moments when she felt that surely there must be something more than all this. She did not know what it was—she could not analyze her thoughts or give them definite form—but in these dark moments she feared that she was being tricked, that the whole thing was a sham which she would discover when it was too late. She did not suspect her mother, or her father, or Transley, one or all, of being parties to this trick; she believed that they did not know it existed. She herself did not know it existed. But the fear was there.
After a week she admitted, much against her will, that possibly Dennison Grant had something to do with it. She had not seen him since she had pressed his fingers and he had ridden away through the smoke-haze of the South Y.D. She had dutifully tried to force him from her mind. But he would not stay out of it. It was about that fact that her misgivings seemed most to centre. When she would be thinking of Transley, and wondering about the future, suddenly she would discover that she was not thinking of Transley, but of Dennison Grant. These discoveries shocked and humiliated her. It was an impossible position. She would throw Grant forcibly out of her mind and turn to Transley. And then, in an unguarded moment, Transley would fade from her consciousness, and she would know again that she was thinking of Grant.
At length she allowed herself the luxury of thinking frankly about Dennison Grant. It WAS a luxury. It brought her a secret happiness which she was wholly at a loss to understand, but which was very delightful, nevertheless. She amused herself with comparing Grant with Transley. They had two points in common: their physical perfection and their fearless, self-confident manner. With these exceptions they seemed to be complete contradictions. The ambitious Transley worshipped success; the philosophical Grant despised it. That difference in attitude toward the world and its affairs was a ridge which separated the whole current of their lives. It even, in a way, shut one from the view of the other; at least it shut Grant from the view of Transley. Transley would never understand Grant, but Grant might, and probably did, understand Transley. That was why Grant was the greater of the two....
She reproached herself for such a thought; it was disloyal to admit that this stranger on the Landson ranch was a greater man than her husband-to-be. And yet honesty—or, perhaps, something deeper than honesty—compelled her to make that admission.... She ran back over the remembered incidents of the night they had spent together, marooned like shipwrecked sailors on a rock in the foothills. His attentiveness, his courtesy, his freedom from any conventional restraint, his manly respect which was so much greater than conventional restraint—all these came back to her with a poignant tenderness. She pictured Transley in his place. Transley would probably have proposed even before he bandaged her ankle. Grant had not said a word of love, or even of affection. He had talked freely of himself—at her request—but there had been nothing that might not have been said before the world. She had been safe with Grant....
After she had thought on this theme for a while Zen would acknowledge to herself that the situation was absurd and impossible. Grant had given no evidence of thinking more of her than of any other girl whom he might have met. He had been chivalrous only. She had sat up with a start at the thought that there might be another girl.... Or there might be no girl. Grant was an unusual character....
At any rate, the thing for her to do was to forget about him. She should have no place in her mind for any man but Transley. It was true he had stampeded her, but she had accepted the situation in which she found herself. Transley was worthy of her—she had nothing to take back—she would go through with it.
On the principle that the way to drive an unwelcome thought out of the mind is to think vigorously about something else, Zen occupied herself with plans and day-dreams centering about the new home that was to be built in town. Neither her father nor Transley had as yet returned from the trip on which they had gone with a view to forming a partnership, so there had been no opportunity to discuss the plans for the future, but Zen took it for granted that Transley would build in town. He was so enthusiastic over the possibilities of that young and bustling centre of population that there was no doubt he would want to throw in his lot with it. This prospect was quite pleasing to the girl; it would leave her within easy distance of her old home; it would introduce her to a type of society with which she was well acquainted, and where she could do herself justice, and it would not break up the associations of her young life. She would still be able, now and again, to take long rides through the tawny foothills; to mingle with her old friends; possibly to maintain a somewhat sisterly acquaintance with Dennison Grant....
After ten days Y.D. returned—alone. He had scarcely been able to believe the developments which he had seen. It was as though the sleepy, lazy cow-town had become electrified. Y.D. had looked on for three days, wondering if he were not in some kind of a dream from which he would awaken presently among his herds in the foothills. After three days he bought a property. Before he left he sold it at a profit greater than the earnings of his first five years on the ranch. It would be indeed a stubborn confidence which could not be won by such an experience, and before leaving for the ranch Y.D. had arranged for Transley practically an open credit with his bankers, and had undertaken to send down all the horses and equipment that could be spared.
Transley had planned to return to the foothills with Y.D., but at the last moment business matters developed which required his attention. He placed a tiny package in Y.D.‘s capacious palm.
“For the girl,” he said. “I should deliver it myself, but you’ll explain?”
Y.D. fumbled the tiny package into a vest pocket. “Sure, I’ll attend to that,” he promised. “Wasn’t much of these fancy trimmin’s when I settled into double harness, but lots of things has changed since then. You’ll be out soon?”
“Just as soon as business will stand for it. Not a minute longer.”
On his return home Y.D., after maintaining an exasperating silence until supper was finished, casually handed the package to his daughter.
“Some trinket Transley sent out,” he explained. “He’ll be here himself as soon as business permits.”
She took the package with a glow of expectancy, started to open it, then folded the paper again and ran up to her room. Here she tempted herself for minutes before she would finally open it, whetting the appetite of anticipation to the full.... The gem justified her little play. It was magnificent; more beautiful and more expensive than anything her father ever bought her.
She hesitated strangely about putting it on. To Zen it seemed that the putting on of Transley’s ring would be a voluntary act symbolizing her acceptance of him. If she had been carried off her feet—swept into the position in which she found herself—that explanation would not apply to the deliberate placing of his ring upon her finger. There would be no excuse; she could never again plead that she had been the victim of Transley’s precipitateness. This would be deliberate, and she must do it herself.
She rather blamed Transley for not having left his old business and come to perform this rite himself, as he should have done. What was one day of business, more or less? Yet Zen gathered no hint from that incident that always, with Transley, business would come first. It was symbolic—prophetic—but she did not see the sign nor understand the prophecy.
She held the ring between her fingers; slipped it off and on her little fingers; held it so the rays of the sun fell through the window upon it and danced before her eyes in all their primal colors.
“I have to put this on,” she said, pursing her lips firmly, “and—and forget about Dennison Grant!”
For a long time she thought of that and all it meant. Then she raised the jewel to her lips.
“Help me—help me—” she murmured. With a quick little impetuous motion she drew it on to the finger where it belonged. There she gazed upon it for a moment, as though fascinated by it. Then she fell upon her bed and lay motionless until long after the valley was wrapped in shadow.
The events of these days had almost driven from Zen’s mind the tragedy of George Drazk. When she thought of it at all it presented such a grotesque unreality—it was such an unreasonable thing—that it assumed the vague qualities of a dream. It was something unreal and very much better forgotten, and it was only by an unwilling effort at such times that she could bring herself to know that it was not unreal. It was a matter that concerned her tremendously. Sooner or later Drazk’s disappearance must be noted,—perhaps his body would be found—and while she had little fear that anyone would associate her with the tragedy it was a most unpleasant thing to think about. Sometimes she wondered if she should not tell her father or Transley just what had happened, but she shrank from doing so as from the confession of a crime. Mostly she was able to think of other matters.
Her father brought it up in a startling way at breakfast. Absolutely out of a blue sky he said, “Did you know, Zen, that Drazk has disappeared? Transley tells me you were int’rested a bit in him, or perhaps I should say he was int’rested in you.”
Zen was so overcome by this startling change in the conversation that she was unable to answer. The color went from her face and she leaned low over her plate to conceal her agitation.
“Yep,” continued Y.D., with no more concern than if a steer had been lost from the herd. “Transley said to tell you Drazk had disappeared an’ he reckoned you wouldn’t be bothered any more with him.”
“Drazk was nothing to me,” she managed to say. “How can you think he was?”
“Now who said he was?” her father retorted. “For a young woman with the price of a herd of steers on her third finger you’re sort o’ short this mornin’. Now I’m jus’ wonderin’ how far you can see through a board fence, Zen. Are you surprised that Drazk has disappeared?”
She was entirely at a loss to understand the drift of her father’s talk. He could not connect her with Drazk’s disappearance, or he would not approach the matter with such unconcern. That was unthinkable. Neither could Transley, or he would not have sent so brutal a message. And yet it was clear that they thought she should be interested.
Her father’s question demanded an answer.
“What should I care?” she ventured at length.
“I didn’t ask you whether you cared. I asked you whether you was surprised.”
“Drazk’s movements were—are nothing to me. I don’t know that I have any occasion to be surprised about anything he may do.”
“Well, I’m rather glad you’re not, because if you don’t jump to conclusions, perhaps other people won’t. Not that it makes any partic’lar diff’rence.”
“Dad,” she cried in desperation, “whatever do you mean?”
“It was all plain enough to me, an’ plain enough to Transley,” her father continued with remarkable calmness. “We seen it right from the first.”
“You’re talking in riddles, Y.D.,” his wife remonstrated. “You’re getting Zen all worked up.”
“Jewelry seems to be mighty upsettin’,” Y.D. commented. “There was nothin’ like that in our engagement, eh, Jessie? Well, to come to the point. There was a fire which burned up the valley of the South Y.D. Fires don’t start themselves—usually. This one started among the Landson stacks, so it was natural enough to suspec’ Y.D. or some of his sympathizers. Well it wasn’t Y.D., an’ I reckon it wasn’t Zen, an’ it wasn’t Transley nor Linder an’ every one of the gang’s accounted for excep’ Drazk. Drazk thought he was doin’ a great piece of business when he fired the Landson hay, but when the wind turned an’ burned up the whole valley Drazk sees where he can’t play no hero part around here so he loses himself for good. I gathered from Transley that Drazk had been botherin’ you a little, Zen, which is why I told you.”
The girl’s heart was pounding violently at this explanation. It was logical, and would be accepted readily by those who knew Drazk. She would not trust herself in further conversation, so she slipped away as soon as she could and spent the day riding down by the river.
The afternoon wore on, and as the day was warm she dismounted by a ford and sat down upon a flat rock close to the water. The rock reminded her of the one on which she and Grant had sat that night while the thin red lines of fire played far up and down the valley. Her ankle was paining a little so she removed her boot and stocking and soothed it in the cool water.
As she sat watching her reflection in the clear stream and toying with the ripple about her foot a horseman rode quickly down through the cottonwoods on the other side and plunged into the ford. It happened so quickly that neither saw the other until he was well into the river. Although she had had no dream of seeing him here, in some way she felt no surprise. Her heart was behaving boisterously, but she sat outwardly demure, and when he was close enough she sent a frank smile up to him. The look on his sunburned face as he returned her greeting convinced her that the meeting, on his part, was no less unexpected and welcome than it was to her.
When his horse was out of the water he dismounted and walked to her with extended hand.
“This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said. “How is the ankle progressing?”
“Well enough,” she returned, “but it gets tired as the day wears on. I am just resting a bit.”
There was a moment of somewhat embarrassed silence.
“That is a good-sized rock,” he suggested, at length.
“Yes, isn’t it? And here in the shade, at that.”
She did not invite him with words, but she gave her body a slight hitch, as though to make room, although there was enough already. He sat down without comment.
“Not unlike a rock I remember up in the foothills,” he remarked, after a silence.
“Oh, you remember that? It WAS like this, wasn’t it?”
“Same two people sitting on it.”
“.... Yes.”
“Not like this, though.”
“No.... You’re mean. You know I didn’t intend to fall asleep.”
“Of course not. Still....”
His voice lingered on it as though it were a delightful remembrance.
She found herself holding one of her hands in the other. She could feel the pressure of Transley’s ring on her palm, and she held it tighter still.
“Riding anywhere in particular?” he inquired.
“No. Just mooning.” She looked up at him again, this time at close quarters. It was a quick, bright flash on his face—a moment only.
“Why mooning?”
She did not answer. Looking down in the water he met her gaze there.
“You’re troubled!” he exclaimed.
“Oh, no! My—my ankle hurts a little.”
He looked at her sympathetically. “But not that much,” he said.
She gave a forced little laugh. “What a mind reader you are! Can you tell my fortune?”
“I should have to read it in your hand.”
She would have extended her hand, but for Transley’s ring.
“No.... No. You’ll have to read it in—in the stars.”
“Then look at me.” She did so, innocently.
“I cannot read it there,” he said, after his long gaze had begun to whip the color to her cheeks. “There is no answer.”
She turned again to the water, and after a long while she heard his voice, very low and earnest.
“Zen, I could read a fortune for you, if you would not be offended. We are only chance acquaintances—not very well acquainted, yet—”
She knew what he meant, but she pretended she did not. Even in that moment something came to her of Transley’s speech about love being a game of pretence. Very well, she would play the game—this once.
“I don’t see how I could be offended at your reading my fortune,” she murmured.
“Then this is the fortune I would read for you,” he said boldly. “I see a young man, a rather foolish young man, perhaps, by ordinary standards, and yet one who has found a great deal of happiness in his simple, unconventional life. Until a short time ago he felt that life could give him all the happiness that was worth having. He had health, strength, hours of work and hours of pleasure, the fields, the hills, the mountains, the sky—all God’s open places to live in and enjoy. He thought there was nothing more.
“Well, then he found, all of a sudden, that there was something more—everything more. He made that discovery on a calm autumn night, when fire had blackened all the foothills and still ran in dancing red ribbons over their distant crests. That night a great thing—two great things—came into his life. First was something he gave. Not very much, indeed, but typical of all it might be. It was service. And next was something he received, something so wonderful he did not understand it then, and does not understand it yet. It was trust. These were things he had been leaving largely out of his life, and suddenly he discovered how empty it was. I think there is one word for both these things, and, it may be, for even more. You know?”
“I know,” she said, and her voice was scarcely audible.
“But it is YOUR fortune I am to read,” he corrected himself. “It has been your fortune to open that new world to me. That can never be undone—those gates can never be closed—no matter where the paths may lead. Those two paths go down to the future—as all paths must—even as this road leads away through the valley to the sunset. Zen—if only, like this road, they could run side by side to the sunset—Oh! Zen, if they could?”
“I know,” she said, and as she raised her face he saw that her eyes were wet. “I know—if only they could!”
There was a little sob in her voice, and in her beauty and distress she was altogether irresistible. He reached out his arms and would have taken her in them, but she thrust her hands in his and held herself back. She turned the diamond deliberately to his eyes. She could feel his grip relax and apparently grow suddenly cold. He stood speechless, like one dazed—benumbed.
“You see, I should not have let you talk—it is my fault,” she said, speaking hurriedly. “I should not have let you talk. Please do not think I am shallow; that I let you suffer to gratify my vanity.” Her eyes found his again. “If I had not believed every word you said—if I had not liked every word you said—if I had not—HOPED—every word you said, I would not have listened.... But you see how it is.”
He was silent for so long that she thought he was not going to answer her at all. When he spoke it was in a dry, parched voice.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I should not have presumed—”
“I know, I know. If only—”
Then he looked straight at her and talked out.
“You liked me enough to let me speak as I did. I opened my heart to you. I ask no such concession in return. I hope you will not think me presumptuous, but I do not plead now for my happiness, but for yours. Is this irrevocable? Are—you—sure?”
He said the last words so slowly and deliberately that she felt that each of them was cutting the very rock from underneath her. She knew she was at a junction point in her life, and her mind strove to quickly appraise the situation. On one side was this man who had for her so strange and so powerful an appeal. It was only by sheer force of will that she could hold herself aloof from him. But he was a man who had broken with his family and quarrelled with her father—a man whom her father would certainly not for a moment consider as a son-in-law. He was a foreman; practically a ranch hand. Neither Zen nor her father were snobs, and if Grant worked for a living, so did Transley. That was not to be counted against him. The point was, what kind of living did he earn? What Transley had to offer was perhaps on a lower plane, but it was more substantial. It had been approved by her father, and her mother, and herself. It wasn’t as though one man were good and the other bad; it wasn’t as though one thing were right and the other wrong. It would have been easy then....
“I have promised,” she said at last.
She released her hands from his, and, sitting down, silently put on her stocking and boot. She was aware that he was still standing near, as though waiting to be formally dismissed. She walked by him to her horse and put her foot in the stirrup. Then she looked at him and gave her hand a little farewell wave.
Then a great pang, irresistible in its yearning, swept over her. She drew her foot from the stirrup, and, rushing down, threw her arms about his neck....
“I must go,” she said. “I must go. We must both go and forget.”
And Dennison Grant continued his way down the valley while Zen rode back to the Y.D., wondering if she could ever forget.
Linder scratched his tousled brown hair reflectively as he gazed after the retreating form of Transley. His hat was off, and the perspiration stood on his sunburned face—a face which, in point of handsomeness, needed make no apology to Transley.
“Well, by thunder!” said Linder; “by thunder, think of that!”
Linder stood for some time, thinking “of that” as deeply as his somewhat disorganized mental state would permit. For Transley had announced, with his usual directness, that he wanted so many men and teams for a house excavation in the most exclusive part of the city. So far they had been building in the cheaper districts a cheap type of house for those who, having little capital, are the easier deprived of what they have. The shift in operations caused Linder to lift his eyebrows.
Transley laughed boyishly and clapped a palm on his shoulder.
“I may as well make you wise, Linder,” he said. “We’re going to build a house for Mr. and Mrs. Transley.”
“MISSUS?” Linder echoed, incredulously.
“That’s the good word,” Transley confirmed. “Never expected it to happen to me, but it did, all of a sudden. You want to look out; maybe it’s catching.”
Transley was evidently in prime humor. Linder had, indeed, noted this good humor for some time, but had attributed it to the very successful operations in which his employer had been engaged. He pulled himself together enough to offer a somewhat confused congratulation.
“And may I ask who is to be the fortunate young lady?” he ventured.
“You may,” said Transley, “but if you could see the length of your nose it wouldn’t be necessary. Linder, you’re the best foreman I ever had, just because you don’t ever think of anything else. When you pass on there’ll be no heaven for you unless they give you charge of a bunch of men and teams where you can raise a sweat and make money for the boss. If you weren’t like that you would have anticipated what I’ve told you—or perhaps made a play for Zen yourself.”
“Zen? You don’t mean Y.D.‘s daughter?”
“If I don’t mean Y.D.‘s daughter I don’t mean anybody, and you can take that from me. You bet it’s Zen. Say, Linder, I didn’t think I could go silly over a girl, but I’m plumb locoed. I bought the biggest old sparkler in this town and sent it out with Y.D., if he didn’t lose it through the lining of his vest—he handled it like it might have been a box of pills—bad pills, Linder—and I’ve got an architect figuring how much expense he can put on a house—he gets a commission on the cost, you see—and one of these nights I’m going to buy you a dinner that’ll keep you fed till Christmas. I never knew before that silliness and happiness go together, but they do. I’m glad I’ve got a sober old foreman—that’s all that keeps the business going.”
And after Transley had turned away Linder had scratched his head and said “By thunder.... Linder, when you wake up you’ll be dead.... After her practically saying ‘The water’s fine.’... Well, that’s why I’m a foreman, and always will be.”
But after a little reflection Linder came to the conclusion that perhaps it was all for the best. He could not have bought Y.D.‘s daughter a big sparkler or have built her a fine home—because he was a foreman. It was a round circle.... He threw himself into the building of Transley’s house with as much fidelity as if it had been his own. He gave his undivided attention to Transley’s interests, making dollars for him while earning cents for himself. This attention was more needed than it ever had been, as Transley found it necessary to make weekly trips to the ranch in the foothills to consult with Y.D. upon business matters.
Zen found her interest in Transley growing as his attentions continued. He spent money upon her lavishly, to the point at which she protested, for although Y.D. was rated as a millionaire the family life was one of almost stark simplicity. Transley assured her that he was making money faster than he possibly could spend it, and even if not, money had no nobler mission than to bring her happiness. He explained the blue-prints of the house, and discussed with her details of the appointments. As the building progressed he brought her weekly photographs of it. He urged her to set the date about Christmas; during the winter contracting would be at a standstill, so they would spend three months in California and return in time for the spring business.
Day by day the girl turned the situation over in her mind. Her life had been swept into strange and unexpected channels, and the experience puzzled her. Since the episode with Drazk she had lost some of her native recklessness; she was more disposed to weigh the result of her actions, and she approached the future not without some misgivings. She assured herself that she looked forward to her marriage with Transley with the proper delight of a bride-to-be, and indeed it was a prospect that could well be contemplated with pleasure.... Transley had won the complete confidence of her father and when doubts assailed her Zen found in that fact a very considerable comfort. Y.D. was a shrewd man; a man who seldom guessed wrong. Zen did not admit that she was allowing her father to choose a husband for her, but the fact that her father concurred in the choice strengthened her in it. Transley had in him qualities which would win not only wealth, but distinction, and she would share in the laurels. She told herself that it was a delightful outlook; that she was a very happy girl indeed—and wondered why she was not happier!
Particularly she laid it upon herself that she must now, finally, dismiss Dennison Grant from her mind. It was absurd to suppose that she cared more for Grant than she did for Transley. The two men were so different; it was impossible to make comparisons. They occupied quite different spheres in her regard. To be sure, Grant was a very likeable man, but he was not eligible as a husband, and she could not marry two, in any case. Zen entertained no girlish delusions about there being only one man in the world. On the contrary, she was convinced that there were very many men in the world, and, among the better types, there was, perhaps, not so much to choose between them. Grant would undoubtedly be a good husband within his means; so would Transley, and his means were greater. The blue-prints of the new house in town had not been without their effect. It was a different prospect from being a foreman’s wife on a ranch. Her father would never hear of it....
So she busied herself with preparations for the great event, and what preparations they were! “Zen,” her father had said, “for once the lid is off. Go the limit!” She took him at his word. There were many trips to town, and activities about the old ranch buildings such as they had never known since Jessie Wilson came to finish Y.D.‘s up-bringing, nor even then. The good word spread throughout the foothill country and down over the prairies, and many a lazy cloud of dust lay along the November hillsides as the women folk of neighboring ranches came to pay their respects and gratify their curiosity. Zen had treasures to show which sent them home with new standards of extravagance.
Y.D. had not thought he could become so worked up over a simple matter like a wedding. Time had dulled the edge of memory, but even after making allowances he could not recall that his marriage to Jessie Wilson had been such an event in his life as this. It did not at least reflect so much glory upon him personally. He basked in the reflected glow of his daughter’s beauty and popularity, as happily as the big cat lying on the sunny side of the bunk-house. He found all sorts of excuses for invading where his presence was little wanted while Zen’s finery was being displayed for admiration. Y.D. always pretended that such invasions were quite accidental, and affected a fine indifference to all this “women’s fuss an’ feathers,” but his affectations deceived at least none of the older visitors.
As the great day approached Y.D.‘s wife shot a bomb-shell at him. “What do you propose to wear for Zen’s wedding?” she demanded.
“What’s the matter with the suit I go to town in?”
“Y.D.,” said his wife, kindly, “there are certain little touches which you overlook. Your town suit is all right for selling steers, although I won’t say that it hasn’t outlived its prime even for that. To attend Zen’s wedding it is—hardly the thing.”
“It’s been a good suit,” he protested. “It is—”
“It HAS. It is also a venerable suit. But really, Y.D., it will not do for this occasion. You must get yourself a new suit, and a white shirt—”
“What do I want with a white shirt—”
“It has to be,” his wife insisted. “You’ll have to deck yourself out in a new suit and a while shirt and collar.”
Y.D. stamped around the room, and in a moment slipped out. “All fool nonsense,” he confided to himself, on his way to the bunk-house. “It’s all right for Zen to have good clothes—didn’t I tell her to go the limit?—but as for me, ‘tain’t me that’s gettin’ married, is it? Standin’ up before all them cow punchers in a white shirt!” The bitterness of such disgrace cut the old rancher no less keenly than the physical discomfort which he forecast for himself, yet he put his own desires sufficiently to one side to buy a suit of clothes, and a white shirt and collar, when he was next in town.
It must not be supposed that Y.D. admitted to the salesman that he personally was descending to any such garb.
“A suit for a fellow about my size,” he explained. “He’s visitin’ out at the ranch, an’ he hefts about the same as me. Put in one of them Hereford shirts an’ a collar.”
Y.D. tucked the package surreptitiously in his room and awaited the day of Zen’s marriage with mingled emotions.
Zen, yielding to Transley’s importunities, had at last said that it should be Christmas Day. The wedding would be in the house, with the leading ranchers and farmers of the district as invited guests, and the general understanding was to be given out that the countryside as a whole would be welcome. All could not be taken care of in the house, so Y.D. gave orders that the hay was to be cleared out of one of the barns and the floor put in shape for dancing. Open house would be held in the barn and in the bunk-house, where substantial refreshments would be served to all and sundry.
Christmas Day dawned with a seasonable nip to the air, but the sun rose warm and bright. There was no snow, and by early afternoon clouds of dust were rising on every trail leading to the Y.D. The old ranchers and their wives drove in buckboards, and one or two in automobiles; the younger generation, of both sexes, came on horseback, with many an exciting impromptu race by the way. Y.D. received them all in the yard, commenting on the horses and the weather, and how the steers were wintering, and revealing, at the proper moments, the location of a well-filled stone jug. The faithful Linder was on hand to assist in caring for the horses and maintaining organization about the yard. The women were ushered into the house, but the men sat about the bunk-house or leaned against the sunny side of the barn, sharpening their wits in conversational sallies which occasionally brought loud guffaws of merriment.
In the house every arrangement had been completed. Zen was to come down the stairs leaning on her father’s arm, and the ceremony would take place in the big central room, lavishly decorated with flowers which Transley had sent from town in a heated automobile. After the ceremony the principals and the older people would eat the wedding dinner in the house, and all others would be served in the bunk-house. One of the downstairs rooms was already filled with presents.
As the hour approached Zen found herself possessed of a calmness which she deemed worthy of Y.D.‘s daughter. She had elected to be unattended as she had no very special girl friend, and that seemed the simplest way out of the problem of selecting someone for this honor. She was, however, amply assisted with her dressing, and the color of her fine cheeks burned deeper with the compliments to which she listened with modest appreciation.
At a quarter to the hour it was discovered that Y.D. had not yet dressed for the occasion. He was, in fact, engaged with Landson in making a tentative arrangement for the distribution of next year’s hay. Zen had been so insistent upon an invitation being sent to Mr. and Mrs. Landson, that Y.D., although fearing a snub for his pains, at last conceded the point. He had done his neighbor rather less than justice, and now he and Landson, with the assistance of the jug already referred to, were burying the hatchet in a corner of the bunk-house.
“Dang this dressin’,” Y.D. remonstrated when a message demanding instant action reached him. “Landson, hear me now! I wouldn’t take a million dollars for that girl, y’ understand—and I wouldn’t trade a mangy cayuse for another!”
So, grumbling, he found his way to his room and began a wrestle with his “store” clothes. Before the fight was over he was being reminded through the door that he wasn’t roping a steer, and everybody was waiting. At the last moment he discovered that he had neglected to buy shoes. There was nothing for it but his long ranch boots, so on they went.
He sought Zen in her room. “Will I do in this?” he asked, feeling very sheepish.
Zen could have laughed, or she could have cried, but she did neither. She sensed in some way the fact that to her father this experience was a positive ordeal. So she just slipped her arm through his and whispered, “Of course you’ll do, you silly old duffer,” and tripped down the stairs by the side of his ponderous steps.
After the ceremony the elder people sat down to dinner in the house, and the others in the bunk-house. Zen was radiant and calm; Transley handsome, delighted, self-possessed. His good luck was the subject of many a comment, both inside and out of the old house. He accepted it at its full value, and yet as one who has a right to expect that luck will play him some favors.
Suddenly there was a rush from outside, and Zen found herself being carried bodily away. The young people had decided that the dancing could wait no longer, so a half dozen hustlers had been deputed to kidnap the bride and carry her to the barn, where the fiddles were already strumming. Zen insisted that the first dance must belong to Transley, but after that she danced with the young ranchers and cowboys with strict impartiality. And even as she danced she found herself wondering if, among all this representation of the countryside, that one upon whom her thoughts had turned so much should be missing. She found herself watching the door. Surely it would have been only a decent respect to her—surely he might have helped to whirl her joyously away into the new life in which the past had to be forgotten.... How much better that they should part that way, than with the memories they had!
But Dennison Grant did not appear. Evidently he preferred to keep his memories....
When at last the night had worn thin and it was time for the bridal couple to leave if they were to catch the morning train in town, and they had ridden down the foothill trails to the thunder of many accompanying hoof-beats, the old ranch became suddenly a place very quiet and still and alone. Y.D. sat down in the corner of the big room by the fire, and saw strange pictures in its dying embers. Zen.... Zen!... Transley was a good fellow, but how much a man will take with scarce a thank-you!... Presently Y.D. became aware of a hand resting upon his shoulder, and tingling from its fingertips came something akin to the almost forgotten rapture of a day long gone. He raised his great palm and took that slowly ageing hand, once round and fresh like Zen’s, in his. Together they watched the fire die out in the silence of their empty house....