The Call of the Canyon by Zane Grey (best books to read for self development txt) 📖

“Happier! Why Glenn, I’d be miserable! … But listen. It wasn’t my beautiful and useless hand I wanted you to see. It was my engagement ring.”

“Oh!—Well?” he went on, slowly.

“I’ve never had it off since you left New York,” she said, softly. “You gave it to me four years ago. Do you remember? It was on my twenty-second birthday. You said it would take two months’ salary to pay the bill.”

“It sure did,” he retorted, with a hint of humor.

“Glenn, during the war it was not so—so very hard to wear this ring as an engagement ring should be worn,” said Carley, growing more earnest. “But after the war—especially after your departure West it was terribly hard to be true to the significance of this betrothal ring. There was a let-down in all women. Oh, no one need tell me! There was. And men were affected by that and the chaotic condition of the times. New York was wild during the year of your absence. Prohibition was a joke.—Well, I gadded, danced, dressed, drank, smoked, motored, just the same as the other women in our crowd. Something drove me to. I never rested. Excitement seemed to be happiness—Glenn, I am not making any plea to excuse all that. But I want you to know—how under trying circumstances—I was absolutely true to you. Understand me. I mean true as regards love. Through it all I loved you just the same. And now I’m with you, it seems, oh, so much more! … Your last letter hurt me. I don’t know just how. But I came West to see you—to tell you this—and to ask you… . Do you want this ring back?”

“Certainly not,” he replied, forcibly, with a dark flush spreading over his face.

“Then—you love me?” she whispered.

“Yes—I love you,” he returned, deliberately. “And in spite of all you say—very probably more than you love me… . But you, like all women, make love and its expression the sole object of life. Carley, I have been concerned with keeping my body from the grave and my soul from hell.”

“But—clear—you’re well now?” she returned, with trembling lips.

“Yes, I’ve almost pulled out.”

“Then what is wrong?”

“Wrong?—With me or you,” he queried, with keen, enigmatical glance upon her.

“What is wrong between us? There is something.”

“Carley, a man who has been on the verge—as I have been—seldom or never comes back to happiness. But perhaps—”

“You frighten me,” cried Carley, and, rising, she sat upon the arm of his chair and encircled his neck with her arms. “How can I help if I do not understand? Am I so miserably little? … Glenn, must I tell you? No woman can live without love. I need to be loved. That’s all that’s wrong with me.”

“Carley, you are still an imperious, mushy girl,” replied Glenn, taking her into his arms. “I need to be loved, too. But that’s not what is wrong with me. You’ll have to find it out yourself.”

“You’re a dear old Sphinx,” she retorted.

“Listen, Carley,” he said, earnestly. “About this love-making stuff. Please don’t misunderstand me. I love you. I’m starved for your kisses. But—is it right to ask them?”

“Right! Aren’t we engaged? And don’t I want to give them?”

“If I were only sure we’d be married!” he said, in low, tense voice, as if speaking more to himself.

“Married!” cried Carley, convulsively clasping him. “Of course we’ll be married. Glenn, you wouldn’t jilt me?”

“Carley, what I mean is that you might never really marry me,” he answered, seriously.

“Oh, if that’s all you need be sure of, Glenn Kilbourne, you may begin to make love to me now.”

It was late when Carley went up to her room. And she was in such a softened mood, so happy and excited and yet disturbed in mind, that the coldness and the darkness did not matter in the least. She undressed in pitchy blackness, stumbling over chair and bed, feeling for what she needed. And in her mood this unusual proceeding was fun. When ready for bed she opened the door to take a peep out. Through the dense blackness the waterfall showed dimly opaque. Carley felt a soft mist wet her face. The low roar of the falling water seemed to envelop her. Under the cliff wall brooded impenetrable gloom. But out above the treetops shone great stars, wonderfully white and radiant and cold, with a piercing contrast to the deep clear blue of sky. The waterfall hummed into an absolutely dead silence. It emphasized the silence. Not only cold was it that made Carley shudder. How lonely, how lost, how hidden this canyon!

Then she hurried to bed, grateful for the warm woolly blankets. Relaxation and thought brought consciousness of the heat of her blood, the beat and throb and swell of her heart, of the tumult within her. In the lonely darkness of her room she might have faced the truth of her strangely renewed and augmented love for Glenn Kilbourne. But she was more concerned with her happiness. She had won him back. Her presence, her love had overcome his restraint. She thrilled in the sweet consciousness of her woman’s conquest. How splendid he was! To hold back physical tenderness, the simple expressions of love, because he had feared they might unduly influence her! He had grown in many ways. She must be careful to reach up to his ideals. That about Flo Hutter’s toil-hardened hands! Was that significance somehow connected with the rift in the lute? For Carley admitted to herself that there was something amiss, something incomprehensible, something intangible that obtruded its menace into her dream of future happiness. Still, what had she to fear, so long as she could be with Glenn?

And yet there were forced upon her, insistent and perplexing, the questions—was her love selfish? was she considering him? was she blind to something he could see? Tomorrow and next day and the days to come held promise of joyous companionship with Glenn, yet likewise they seemed full of a portent of trouble for her, or fight and ordeal, of lessons that would make life significant for her.