Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 651
It was he who lifted Georgiana off her horse and he did not neglect to make it an affectionate action. The porch appeared full of people, mostly long, shiny-faced, blue-jeaned riders that Georgiana did not see distinctly. But she saw Mary very clearly, and rushed into her arms.
“Georgie!” exclaimed Mary, after that first embrace, holding her at arm’s-length and gazing upon her with glad eyes. “You look different. Your face is not so thin. I never saw you so — so pretty.... Oh, you’re getting well!”
Georgiana hugged her. “Old dear, it makes me happy to see you and hear you say that. I — I hadn’t thought of my health. I’ve worked.... Take it from me, you look pretty good yourself. This marriage stuff must be the dope for women.”
Mary laughed happily. She did, indeed, appear very well, younger and free of the line and shadow of worry. Georgiana’s keen eyes did not miss that. The evidence went straight to her heart.
“Georgie, when will you ever drop your slang? . . . Come, you must speak to everybody, and, child, curb that terrible tongue.”
“Sis, let me babble. Let me rave,” implored Georgiana. “To you, anyhow. I haven’t spoken thirty words since I saw you. But don’t worry. I’m here to be the simple little bride of Cal Thurman. On exhibition! and believe me, I’ll put it over this day.”
Georgiana had not worn a party gown for over a month. She was so eager to see how much she really had improved during this period that she put on her white dress in the middle of the afternoon. This was in the seclusion of Mary’s room. The effect on Georgiana was magical. Deep in her secret heart had been an unuttered fear that she was losing her health, and with it youth and beauty. But never before in her life had she looked so well.
Mary was all smiles, praises, kisses, between which she wondered and marveled at Georgiana’s improvement. Georgiana was no longer thin and frail. This gown revealed that. Yet it was only half as revealing as it had been before Georgiana had changed it.
“When they see you tonight they’ll forget how you used to look,” declared Mary, with gratification, and she did not explain whom she meant by they.
“Cal hated this dress when it was so short,” observed Georgiana. “I told him I had lengthened it, but I don’t think he took much stock in what I said.”
“Goodness! Haven’t you dressed up since you were married?” asked Mary.
“Not once.”
“Well, you’ll make up for it tonight.”
“I think I look pretty spiffy myself,” replied Georgiana, with complacent assurance. “But I’ve got to hide my hands. Look!”
She spread out the disreputable little members for Mary’s inspection. Georgiana had always been proud of her beautiful hands and had cared for them accordingly. But this last month care had gone with pride.
“Wife of a homesteader! They look it. I’ll tell the world!” exclaimed Georgiana, ruefully.
“You’ve treated them cruelly, but they’ll get well,” said Mary. “And now, Georgie, help me a little with my dress.”
The sisters spent the happiest hour they had ever known together. Georgiana did not have to play a part. She was intensely human, and excitement, praise, admiration acted upon her like wine. All that had happened to her during the month were but records of her development. Still she did not stop to think. Mary’s happiness was infectious.
It took only a few moments for Parson Meeker to make Mary the wife of Enoch Thurman. In the Tonto, neither long courting nor ceremony was in favor.
But the congratulating of the bride and groom was a different matter. Georgiana thought the riders would tear Mary and her husband to pieces. This was their one opportunity and they made the most of it. That hilarious half-hour prepared the way for dinner. This was really a feast. All the Thurman women had a share in it. Georgiana sat next to Mary, and on her left was Cal. Actually she had forgotten him until this hour. Whatever were his true feelings, he wore a genial, manly demeanor that became him in Georgiana’s sight.
After dinner came the personal contact with everybody present — the ordeal which Georgiana had so dreaded. Yet how mistaken she had been! Was the thing to dread within herself? She came second only to Mary in the attention of relatives and friends. Strangely, Georgiana remembered her earlier training. The ultra-modernism had no place here. All was simple, homely, sincere. They rang true. It was not a social gathering. It was the wedding of the chief of the clan. And Georgiana was made to feel something she had never dreamed of — that she counted in the sum of the Thurmans. They all came from fighting Texas stock. If she had been willful, silly, trifling, even vicious, that was as if it had never been. She had given her hand to a Thurman — to the last of the Thurmans. Life was a strong, precious, splendid thing with these Tonto people. Youth was only a preparation. Marriage was a beginning. Before that hour ended Georgiana was a strangely thoughtful, repentant girl.
The big living-room was cleared of tables, and old Henry got out his fiddle.
“I’m a fiddlin’ fool,
An’ the last of my boys has gone to school.”
They began one of the half-square, half-round, changing-partner dances in which all the young folk and many of the older took part. It seemed to Georgiana that every man and boy on the floor had designs upon her and Mary. How they jigged and swung and romped! The old ranch house shook to its foundations. Never in her life had Georgiana been so whirled and lifted and raced and contended for. She began that dance fresh, excited, in the fun of the hour. She ended it spent, on fire with the life, vitality, intensity of these primitive people. As it chanced, Cal had not met her once in the endless changing of that dance.
“Rest now an’ cool off,” he said to her. “We’ve got a long ride an’ we must be goin’ soon.”
Georgiana was glad to leave the gay company and retire to her sister’s room to change the white gown for riding-garb. Glad — but for a strange reason! Cal’s words had broken a spell. She had forgotten him and herself and the hateful reality. It disturbed her suddenly to discover that an abrupt suggestion of departure from that happy circle had brought disappointment. So Georgiana was soberly glad to leave because she found she was having a good time. This extraordinary fact must be delved into.
She and Cal slipped out the back way, just as if they were the bride and groom. A full moon shone white in the pale sky. The hills were black and lonely. An icy wind blew down from the heights.
Georgiana was so bundled up, so booted, chapped, coated, scarfed and hooded and gloved, too, that she had to be lifted on her horse. Once in the saddle, however, she was all right, and she could not repress the sensation of exhilaration.
“We’ll ride some till we get to the grade,” said Cal, as he swung astride. “Stay close to me an’ yell if anythin’ goes wrong.”
Then he was off at a fast trot. Georgiana’s horse needed no urging. Soon Cal took to a lope. Georgiana found herself sailing along the white moon-blanched winding road, with the icy wind in her face. It was sweet, stinging, and so cold that she had to breathe through her nostrils. The dark forest sped by on each side. Now and then Cal looked back to see if all was well with her.
They trotted and loped their horses, and in what seemed a short time rode down into the Boyd Thurman clearing. Across the bare field, in the shadow of the pines, stood the little log cabin Georgiana remembered with a shock. She had been married there. Was it only one month ago? It seemed ages.
Cal lost no time on the stretches of good road. Soon they entered the heavy pine forest, and the moonlight appeared mostly aloft. A roar of north wind in the tree-tops sounded like a rushing river. Georgiana had to ride her best along here. The horses were as eager as Cal to get home. As for Georgiana, she would have liked more time to enjoy this midnight ride. Yet its very hurry and rush filled her with innumerable sensations.
On they sped, and came to the best stretch of road, where the ground was free of stones. Cal’s horse quickened his gait, and Georgiana’s was not going to be left behind. Tufts of swinging pine needles reached out from the shadows. Georgiana had one blow which stung so smartly that she did not care for another. She had to see and dodge. The rhythmic beat of hoofs rang through the forest. Black depths of pine thickets, moonlit glades, open white curves of the road crossed by bars of shadows, passed by until at last Cal drew his horse to a walk at the foot of the trail up the hills.
Georgiana was in a glow. The cold night wind felt pleasant. She was too excited to realize weariness. But now, with it safe to let her horse choose the way, she found it possible to think connectedly. What she must think annoyed her. The night was beautiful, the ride wonderful, the wild lonely Tonto forest strangely productive of thrills. Why must she think, and what about?
It came to her then that her month of martyrdom had ended with her sister’s marriage. She could leave Cal Thurman’s home now and go her way. No longer need she and her vexations and troublesome character, her problems and responsibilities, bring peril to Mary’s future. Enoch could make no terms now; he had married her, and it was Georgiana’s opinion that for a pioneer, sterling and splendid though he was, to win Mary Stockwell for a wife was a piece of supreme good fortune.
Georgiana felt that she must face her problem now. She had no excuse to stay longer with Cal. How easy to name those facts! But a host of considerations, like enemies ambushing her trail, rushed out to confront her. And the very first was a strange, stubborn, utterly incomprehensible vacillation. Wait, it whispered. No hurry! Do not face it now. The others trooped after this traitorous weakness. When would she go? Where? How? From what source could she get money to take her away? To whom could she appeal? Was it possible now to confess her trouble to anyone? What might happen to her? And lastly a sickening, humiliating why — why go at all?
Thus Georgiana encountered an unexpected phase to her problem. Not that it altered her decision in the least! She had to go. But it made for increased perturbation and conflict. The very thought of the future appalled her.
Reality was the thing to expect results from, not romance. She had worked harder in a month than in all the former years of her life. Worked when she longed to faint and fall! By that work and the suffering entailed she saw now a new hold on health, and something nameless, a good not fully understood.
She raised her drooping head to look. Cal rode there ahead, absorbed in his own trouble. She actually felt sorry for him. The horses were climbing sturdily. The white moon sailed aloft, cold, pure, passionless, watching as with an eye of destiny. The wind grew icier as the altitude increased. Then there swept the dark bold Rim, majestic and measureless, under the white radiance of moonlight.
At the cabin Cal hesitated just as he was about to help her dismount. He looked up at her. The wide brim of his beaver sombrero hid his face.
“I’d like to ask — are you sorry you went?”
“No. I’m glad, Cal,” she replied instantly, somehow wanting him to know.
“Why?” he added.
“Two reasons. Now that I know what it is I wouldn’t have missed seeing Mary’s happiness — not for any real or fancied fear in the world.”
“Ahuh!” he said, as if he fully comprehended.
“The other reason is that I was wrong,” she continued, hurriedly. “Whatever it was I — I hated existed only in me. — I forgot it. I had a wonderful time. And so I found everybody nice and kind.”
“Aw, now that’s fine,” he exploded. “But I had a rotten time.” He removed his sombrero, as if to let the wind cool his fevered head. Then in the moonlight his face appeared pale and somber. “It was worse for me than I expected. — My family, all the old women, the boys — even Tim Matthews, comin’ to me, speakin’ high of you — tellin’ how sorry they were — apologizin’ to me for what they’d said of you.... You had been only a motherless child.... Now all was well an’ I deserved such a wonderful little wife — an’ — an’ they were so glad I was happy.... My God!”
“It must have been hell,” she replied, sympathetically. “I’m sorry you had to endure that for me.”
“Reckon I’m glad I went,” he returned, quickly. “If this was the only time I’d ever have to listen to them. But what kills me is thought of the next time — when — when — —”
His voice broke huskily and trailed off. Georgiana understood him to mean when she told the secret of their marriage and left him to scorn and ridicule.
“Cal, I’ll stay if it means so much to you — and for Mary’s sake,” she whispered, impelled beyond resistance. “I’ll stay a while longer for your sake and hers — if you’ll not expect too much of me.”
“Georgie, darlin’,” he cried, wildly, with a throb in his voice, “I beg you — stay — on any conditions. I’ll ask nothin’ of you — nothin’. I swear.”
“Very well,” faltered Georgiana, and slid off her horse. How cramped and dizzy she felt suddenly! She wanted to run, but could scarcely walk. “Good night.”
“Reckon you’d better come in the kitchen an’ get warm,” Cal called after her.
But she stumbled across the porch and entered her room. She did not feel the cold. The darkness of the room was welcome. Anything to get out from under that pitiless, bright, all-seeing moon! She did not light the lamp. Throwing off gloves, hood, scarf, and coats, she bent with trembling hands to unlace her boots. Soon she was in bed, creeping deep under the blankets, throbbing and burning.
What was it that she had done? Coward and liar and cheat again! For Cal’s sake and Mary’s she had consented to remain there a while longer. Maybe, a little — but mostly for her own! Thus she groveled in her shame. Did she want to stay of her own accord? Absurd! Yet she had grasped at the barest excuse. She had not considered. Impulse had governed her. Cal had loomed strangely in her sight. Did his people know him better than she did?
But in this conflicting tide of emotion there entered the quieting influence of a great relief. She did not have to run away just yet. She did not need to face that appalling future tomorrow or next day.
CHAPTER XVI
SPRING! WINTER HAD gone with the fleeting February, and the snow line had vanished from the Rim, and the wild turkeys were gobbling from every ridge. The sun shone warm. Already the red soil of Rock Spring Mesa had begun to dry. One half the Mesa field had been cleared of stumps and rocks, and would soon be ready for spring plowing. The other half was slowly clearing to Cal’s strenuous labors.
Georgiana had stayed on a while longer. She had not been away from the homestead. Mary had visited her once, upon her return with Enoch from Phoenix. A pile of magazines and a shelf of books had been added to Georgiana’s room. She worked much the same as on the first weeks of her stay there, only not quite so hard. She spent more time outdoors now.
All had really changed, her illness, her physical being, her spirit, her attitude towards life, yet nothing seemed different because Cal kept his promise. He had asked nothing of her. He let her alone, except those daily hours when their joint labors and mealtimes necessarily brought them together. Georgiana, in her loneliness, in her growing hunger for she knew not what, thought that she might have forgiven him if he had reverted a little to his former self. But he seemed another person now, a boy no longer, a man, kind, serious, preoccupied, but not bitter any more, grateful for Georgiana’s presence and help. Yet never by word or action overstepping what he deemed his place. Georgiana resented his humility. Had he not carried her off as ruthlessly as the Roman gladiator had the Sabine woman? Had he not stopped her wildcat scratch and bite, and her screams, with a sudden brutal blow? Always that rankled in her. Yet time had softened the shame of it, if not the memory.
One March day a startling and disturbing, and most thrilling bit of news came in the shape of a letter from Mary, brought by a rider. An aunt of the sisters had died, and in her will bequeathed each of them several thousand dollars. Just how much Mary could not determine from their mother’s letter, but they would soon receive the heritage. Strange how Georgiana reacted to this news of good fortune! She was not thrilled or overjoyed. She had a feeling of gladness for Mary. For herself there came only the thought that now she could go. There was something inevitable about it. She did not mention the fact of the inheritance to Cal.
Next morning before she awoke, Cal rode off down to Ryson. Georgiana had the whole day to herself, to think over the unlimited possibilities open to her. A decision to follow several of them seemed made, only to be changed.
Cal returned after dark, and the instant Georgiana saw his telltale face she knew something unusual had happened. He avoided meeting her eyes, and to her timid query he replied, briefly, “Nothin’ much.”
Georgiana lost her dread, but curiosity and concern remained. On the following morning, after breakfast, Cal rode up to the porch and called her.
“Reckon I’d like to tell you somethin’,” he said, as she appeared in the door.
“Yes?” she returned. His cool, easy, dry, rather biting tone roused her curiosity more than the content of his words. Then she became aware of the piercing gaze of his eyes.
“Georgie, do you remember the day I made you marry me?”
“I’ll say I do,” she replied, in surprise.
“You thought I struck you — knocked you senseless?”
“Yes. Didn’t you?”
He gazed down at her in a way that made her feel infinitely small and narrow-minded.
“No!” he declared, ringingly. “I was rough. But I didn’t strike you. My horse ran us under a tree. Your head hit a branch. That’s all.”
“Why have you let me think all this time that you did strike me?”
“Reckon at first it served my purpose to scare you,” he admitted. “But after we were married it made me sore to think you could believe I’d hurt you.”
“Ahuh!” replied Georgiana, imitating him. “Well, why did you tell me now?”
“I’m ridin’ over to the Bar XX,” he replied, coolly, with his intent gaze on her face. He was neither audacious nor reckless, yet something of both pertained in his tone. Georgiana knew enough about Thurmans now to realize that this strange cool baffling presence was dangerous.
