The Call of the Canyon by Zane Grey (best 7 inch ereader TXT) 📗

him cross the road, face the house. How changed! No—this was not Glenn Kilbourne. This was a bronzed man, wide of shoulder, roughly garbed, heavy limbed, quite different from the Glenn she remembered. He mounted the porch steps. And Carley, still unseen herself, saw his face. Yes—Glenn! Hot blood seemed to be tingling liberated in her veins. Wheeling away, she backed against the wall behind the door and held up a warning finger to Flo, who stood nearest. Strange and disturbing then, to see something in Flo Hutter's eyes that could be read by a woman in only one way!

A tall form darkened the doorway. It strode in and halted.

“Flo!—who—where?” he began, breathlessly.

His voice, so well remembered, yet deeper, huskier, fell upon Carley's ears as something unconsciously longed for. His frame had so filled out that she did not recognize it. His face, too, had unbelievably changed—not in the regularity of feature that had been its chief charm, but in contour of cheek and vanishing of pallid hue and tragic line. Carley's heart swelled with joy. Beyond all else she had hoped to see the sad fixed hopelessness, the havoc, gone from his face. Therefore the restraint and nonchalance upon which Carley prided herself sustained eclipse.

“Glenn! Look—who's—here!” she called, in voice she could not have steadied to save her life. This meeting was more than she had anticipated.

Glenn whirled with an inarticulate cry. He saw Carley. Then—no matter how unreasonable or exacting had been Carley's longings, they were satisfied.

“You!” he cried, and leaped at her with radiant face.

Carley not only did not care about the spectators of this meeting, but forgot them utterly. More than the joy of seeing Glenn, more than the all-satisfying assurance to her woman's heart that she was still beloved, welled up a deep, strange, profound something that shook her to her depths. It was beyond selfishness. It was gratitude to God and to the West that had restored him.

“Carley! I couldn't believe it was you,” he declared, releasing her from his close embrace, yet still holding her.

“Yes, Glenn—it's I—all you've left of me,” she replied, tremulously, and she sought with unsteady hands to put up her dishevelled hair. “You—you big sheep herder! You Goliath!”

“I never was so knocked off my pins,” he said. “A lady to see me—from New York!... Of course it had to be you. But I couldn't believe. Carley, you were good to come.”

Somehow the soft, warm look of his dark eyes hurt her. New and strange indeed it was to her, as were other things about him. Why had she not come West sooner? She disengaged herself from his hold and moved away, striving for the composure habitual with her. Flo Hutter was standing before the fire, looking down. Mrs. Hutter beamed upon Carley.

“Now let's have supper,” she said.

“Reckon Miss Carley can't eat now, after that hug Glenn gave her,” drawled Tom Hutter. “I was some worried. You see Glenn has gained seventy pounds in six months. An' he doesn't know his strength.”

“Seventy pounds!” exclaimed Carley, gayly. “I thought it was more.”

“Carley, you must excuse my violence,” said Glenn. “I've been hugging sheep. That is, when I shear a sheep I have to hold him.”

They all laughed, and so the moment of readjustment passed. Presently Carley found herself sitting at table, directly across from Flo. A pearly whiteness was slowly warming out of the girl's face. Her frank clear eyes met Carley's and they had nothing to hide. Carley's first requisite for character in a woman was that she be a thoroughbred. She lacked it often enough herself to admire it greatly in another woman. And that moment saw a birth of respect and sincere liking in her for this Western girl. If Flo Hutter ever was a rival she would be an honest one.

Not long after supper Tom Hutter winked at Carley and said he “reckoned on general principles it was his hunch to go to bed.” Mrs. Hutter suddenly discovered tasks to perform elsewhere. And Flo said in her cool sweet drawl, somehow audacious and tantalizing, “Shore you two will want to spoon.”

“Now, Flo, Eastern girls are no longer old-fashioned enough for that,” declared Glenn.

“Too bad! Reckon I can't see how love could ever be old-fashioned. Good night, Glenn. Good night, Carley.”

Flo stood an instant at the foot of the dark stairway where the light from the lamp fell upon her face. It seemed sweet and earnest to Carley. It expressed unconscious longing, but no envy. Then she ran up the stairs to disappear.

“Glenn, is that girl in love with you?” asked Carley, bluntly.

To her amaze, Glenn laughed. When had she heard him laugh? It thrilled her, yet nettled her a little.

“If that isn't like you!” he ejaculated. “Your very first words after we are left alone! It brings back the East, Carley.”

“Probably recall to memory will be good for you,” returned Carley. “But tell me. Is she in love with you?”

“Why, no, certainly not!” replied Glenn. “Anyway, how could I answer such a question? It just made me laugh, that's all.”

“Humph! I can remember when you were not above making love to a pretty girl. You certainly had me worn to a frazzle—before we became engaged,” said Carley.

“Old times! How long ago they seem!... Carley, it's sure wonderful to see you.”

“How do you like my gown?” asked Carley, pirouetting for his benefit.

“Well, what little there is of it is beautiful,” he replied, with a slow smile. “I always liked you best in white. Did you remember?”

“Yes. I got the gown for you. And I'll never wear it except for you.”

“Same old coquette—same old eternal feminine,” he said, half sadly. “You know when you look stunning.... But, Carley, the cut of that—or rather the abbreviation of it—inclines me to think that style for women's clothes has not changed for the better. In fact, it's worse than two years ago in Paris and later in New York. Where will you women draw the line?”

“Women are slaves to the prevailing mode,” rejoined Carley. “I don't imagine women who dress would ever draw a line, if fashion went on dictating.”

“But would they care so much—if they had to work—plenty of work—and children?” inquired Glenn, wistfully.

“Glenn! Work and children for modern women? Why, you are dreaming!” said Carley, with a laugh.

She saw him gaze thoughtfully into the glowing embers of the fire, and as she watched him her quick intuition grasped a subtle change in his mood. It brought a sternness to his face. She could hardly realize she was looking at the Glenn Kilbourne of old.

“Come close to the fire,” he said, and pulled up a chair for her. Then he threw more wood upon the red