The Call of the Canyon by Zane Grey (best books to read for self development txt) đ
- Author: Zane Grey
- Performer: -
Book online «The Call of the Canyon by Zane Grey (best books to read for self development txt) đ». Author Zane Grey
She heard the murmur of flowing water, soft, low, now loud, and again lulling, hollow and eager, tinkling over rocks, bellowing into the deep pools, washing with silky seep of wind-swept waves the hanging willows. Shrill and piercing and far-aloft pealed the scream of the eagle. And she seemed to listen to a mocking bird while he mocked her with his melody of many birds. The bees hummed, the wind moaned, the leaves rustled, the waterfall murmured. Then came the sharp rare note of a canyon swift, most mysterious of birds, significant of the heights.
A breath of fragrance seemed to blow with her shifting senses. The dry, sweet, tangy canyon smells returned to herâof fresh-cut timber, of wood smoke, of the cabin fire with its steaming pots, of flowers and earth, and of the wet stones, of the redolent pines and the pungent cedars.
And suddenly, clearly, amazingly, Carley beheld in her mindâs sight the hard features, the bold eyes, the slight smile, the coarse face of Haze Ruff. She had forgotten him. But he now returned. And with memory of him flashed a revelation as to his meaning in her life. He had appeared merely a clout, a ruffian, an animal with manâs shape and intelligence. But he was the embodiment of the raw, crude violence of the West. He was the eyes of the natural primitive man, believing what he saw. He had seen in Carley Burch the paraded charm, the unashamed and serene front, the woman seeking man. Haze Ruff had been neither vile nor base nor unnatural. It had been her subjection to the decadence of feminine dress that had been unnatural. But Ruff had found her a lie. She invited what she did not want. And his scorn had been commensurate with the falsehood of her. So might any man have been justified in his insult to her, in his rejection of her. Haze Ruff had found her unfit for his idea of dalliance. Virgil Rust had found her false to the ideals of womanhood for which he had sacrificed all but life itself. What then had Glenn Kilbourne found her? He possessed the greatness of noble love. He had loved her before the dark and changeful tide of war had come between them. How had he judged her? That last sight of him standing alone, leaning with head bowed, a solitary figure trenchant with suggestion of tragic resignation and strength, returned to flay Carley. He had loved, trusted, and hoped. She saw now what his hope had been-that she would have instilled into her blood the subtle, red, and revivifying essence of calling life in the open, the strength of the wives of earlier years, an emanation from canyon, desert, mountain, forest, of health, of spirit, of forward-gazing natural love, of the mysterious saving instinct he had gotten out of the West. And she had been too little too steeped in the indulgence of luxurious life too slight-natured and pale-blooded! And suddenly there pierced into the black storm of Carleyâs mind a blazing, white-streaked thoughtâshe had left Glenn to the Western girl, Flo Hutter. Humiliated, and abased in her own sight, Carley fell prey to a fury of jealousy.
She went back to the old life. But it was in a bitter, restless, critical spirit, conscious of the fact that she could derive neither forgetfulness nor pleasure from it, nor see any release from the habit of years.
One afternoon, late in the fall, she motored out to a Long Island club where the last of the seasonâs golf was being enjoyed by some of her most intimate friends. Carley did not play. Aimlessly she walked around the grounds, finding the autumn colors subdued and drab, like her mind. The air held a promise of early winter. She thought that she would go South before the cold came. Always trying to escape anything rigorous, hard, painful, or disagreeable! Later she returned to the clubhouse to find her party assembled on an inclosed porch, chatting and partaking of refreshment. Morrison was there. He had not taken kindly to her late habit of denying herself to him.
During a lull in the idle conversation Morrison addressed Carley pointedly. âWell, Carley, howâs your Arizona hog-raiser?â he queried, with a little gleam in his usually lusterless eyes.
âI have not heard lately,â she replied, coldly.
The assembled company suddenly quieted with a portent inimical to their leisurely content of the moment. Carley felt them all looking at her, and underneath the exterior she preserved with extreme difficulty, there burned so fierce an anger that she seemed to have swelling veins of fire.
âQueer how Kilbourne went into raising hogs,â observed Morrison. âSuch a low-down sort of work, you know.â
âHe had no choice,â replied Carley. âGlenn didnât have a father who made tainted millions out of the war. He had to work. And I must differ with you about its being low-down. No honest work is that. It is idleness that is low down.â
âBut so foolish of Glenn when he might have married money,â rejoined Morrison, sarcastcally.
âThe honor of soldiers is beyond your ken, Mr. Morrison.â
He flushed darkly and bit his lip.
âYou women make a man sick with this rot about soldiers,â he said, the gleam in his eye growing ugly. âA uniform goes to a womanâs head no matter whatâs inside it. I donât see where your vaunted honor of soldiers comes in considering how they accepted the let-down of women during and after the war.â
âHow could you see when you stayed comfortably at home?â retorted Carley.
âAll I could see was women falling into soldiersâ arms,â he said, sullenly.
âCertainly. Could an American girl desire any greater happinessâor opportunity to prove her gratitude?â flashed Carley, with proud uplift of head.
âIt didnât look like gratitude to me,â returned Morrison.
âWell, it was gratitude,â declared Carley, ringingly. âIf women of America did throw themselves at soldiers it was not owing to the moral lapse of the day. It was womanâs instinct to save the race! Always, in every war, women have sacrificed themselves to the future. Not vile, but noble! ⊠You insult both soldiers and women, Mr. Morrison. I wonderâdid any American girls throw themselves at you?â
Morrison turned a dead white, and his mouth twisted to a distorted checking of speech, disagreeable to see.
âNo, you were a slacker,â went on Carley, with scathing scorn. âYou let the other men go fight for American girls. Do you imagine one of them will ever marry you? ⊠All your life, Mr. Morrison, you will be a marked man- -outside the pale of friendship with real American men and the respect of real American girls.â
Morrison leaped up, almost knocking the table over, and he glared at Carley as he gathered up his hat and cane. She turned her back upon him. From that moment he ceased to exist for Carley. She never spoke to him again.
Next day Carley called upon her dearest friend, whom she had not seen for some time.
âCarley dear, you donât look so very well,â said Eleanor, after greetings had been exchanged.
âOh, what does it matter how I look?â queried Carley, impatiently.
âYou were so wonderful when you got home from Arizona.â
âIf I was wonderful and am now commonplace you can thank your old New York for it.â
âCarley, donât you care for New York any more?â asked Eleanor.
âOh, New York is all right, I suppose. Itâs I who am wrong.â
âMy dear, you puzzle me these days. Youâve changed. Iâm sorry. Iâm afraid youâre unhappy.â
âMe? Oh, impossible! Iâm in a seventh heaven,â replied Carley, with a hard little laugh. âWhat âre you doing this afternoon? Letâs go outâridingâor somewhere.â
âIâm expecting the dressmaker.â
âWhere are you going to-night?â
âDinner and theater. Itâs a party, or Iâd ask you.â
âWhat did you do yesterday and the day before, and the days before that?â
Eleanor laughed indulgently, and acquainted Carley with a record of her social wanderings during the last few days.
âThe same old things-over and over again! Eleanor donât you get sick of it?â queried Carley.
âOh yes, to tell the truth,â returned Eleanor, thoughtfully. âBut thereâs nothing else to do.â
âEleanor, Iâm no better than you,â said Carley, with disdain. âIâm as useless and idle. But Iâm beginning to see myselfâand youâand all this rotten crowd of ours. Weâre no good. But youâre married, Eleanor. Youâre settled in life. You ought to do something. Iâm single and at loose ends. Oh, Iâm in revolt! ⊠Think, Eleanor, just think. Your husband works hard to keep you in this expensive apartment. You have a car. He dresses you in silks and satins. You wear diamonds. You eat your breakfast in bed. You loll around in a pink dressing gown all morning. You dress for lunch or tea. You ride or golf or worse than waste your time on some lounge lizard, dancing till time to come home to dress for dinner. You let other men make love to you. Oh, donât get sore. You do⊠. And so goes the round of your life. What good on earth are you, anyhow? Youâre just aâa gratification to the senses of your husband. And at that you donât see much of hint.â
âCarley, how you rave!â exclaimed her friend. âWhat has gotten into you lately? Why, everybody tells me youâreâyouâre queer! The way you insulted Morrisonâhow unlike you, Carley!â
âIâm glad I found the nerve to do it. What do you think, Eleanor?â
âOh, I despise him. But you canât say the things you feel.â
âYouâd be bigger and truer if you did. Some day Iâll break out and flay you and your friends alive.â
âBut, Carley, youâre my friend and youâre just exactly like we are. Or you were, quite recently.â
âOf course, Iâm your friend. Iâve always loved you, Eleanor,â went on Carley, earnestly. âIâm as deep in thisâthis damned stagnant muck as you, or anyone. But Iâm no longer blind. Thereâs something terribly wrong with us women, and itâs not what Morrison hinted.â
âCarley, the only thing wrong with you is that you jilted poor Glennâand are breaking your heart over him still.â
âDonâtâdonât!â cried Carley, shrinking. âGod knows that is true. But thereâs more wrong with me than a blighted love affair.â
âYes, you mean the modern feminine unrest?â
âEleanor, I positively hate that phrase âmodern feminine unrest!â It smacks of ultraâultraâOh! I donât know what. That phrase ought to be translated by a Western acquaintance of mineâone Haze Ruff. Iâd not like to hurt your sensitive feelings with what heâd say. But this unrest means speed-mad, excitement-mad, fad-mad, dress-mad, or I should say undress-mad, cultureâ mad, and Heaven only knows what else. The women of our set are idle, luxurious, selfish, pleasure-craving, lazy, useless, work-and-children shirking, absolutely no good.â
âWell, if we are, whoâs to blame?â rejoined Eleanor, spiritedly. âNow, Carley Burch, you listen to me. I think the twentieth-century girl in America is the most wonderful female creation of all the ages of the universe. I admit it. That is why we are a prey to the evils attending greatness. Listen. Here is a crying sinâan infernal paradox. Take this twentieth-century girl, this American girl who is the finest creation of the ages. A young and healthy girl, the most perfect type of culture possible to the freest and greatest city on earth-New York! She holds absolutely an unreal, untrue position in the scheme of existence. Surrounded by parents, relatives, friends, suitors, and instructive schools of every kind, colleges, institutions, is she really happy, is she really living?â
âEleanor,â interrupted Carley, earnestly, âshe is not⊠. And Iâve been trying to tell you why.â
âMy dear, let me get a word in, will you,â complained Eleanor. âYou donât know it
Comments (0)