Dennison Grant: A Novel of To-day






CHAPTER XVII

Sitting on his veranda that evening while the sun dropped low over the mountains and the sound of horses munching contentedly came up from the stables, Grant for the twentieth time turned over in his mind the events of a day that was to stand out as an epochal one in his career. The meeting with the little boy and the quick friendship and confidence which had been formed between them; the mishap, and the trip to the house by the river—these were logical and easily followed. But why, of all the houses in the world, should it have been Zen Transley’s house? Why, of all the little boys in the world, should this have been the son of his rival and the only girl he had ever—the girl he had loved most in all his life? Surely events are ordered to some purpose; surely everything is not mere haphazard chance! The fatalism of the trenches forbade any other conclusion; and if this was so, why had he been thrown into the orbit of Zen Transley? He had not sought her; he had not dreamt of her once in all that morning while her child was winding innocent tendrils of affection about his heart. And yet—how the boy had gripped him! Could it be that in some way he was a small incarnation of the Zen of the Y.D., with all her clamorous passion expressed now in childish love and hero-worship? Had some intelligence above his own guided him into this environment, deliberately inviting him to defy conventions and blaze a path of broader freedom for himself, and for her? These were questions he wrestled with as the shadows crept down the mountain slopes and along the valley at his feet.

For neither Zen nor himself had connived at the situation which had made them, of all the people in the world, near neighbors in this silent valley. Her surprise on meeting him at the door had been as genuine as his. When she had made sure that the boy was not seriously hurt she had turned to him, and instinctively he had known that there are some things which all the weight of passing years can never crush entirely dead. He loved to rehearse her words, her gestures, the quick play of sympathetic emotions as one by one he reviewed them.

“You! I am surprised—I had not known—” She had become confused in her greeting, and a color that she would have given worlds to suppress crept slowly through her cheeks.

“I am surprised, too—and delighted,” he had returned. “The little boy came to me in the field, boasting of his braces.” Then they had both laughed, and she had asked him to come in and tell about himself.

The living-room, as he recalled it, was marked by the simplicity appropriate to the summer home, with just a dash of elegance in the furnishings to suggest that simplicity was a matter of choice and not of necessity. After soothing Wilson’s sobs, which had broken out afresh in his mother’s arms, she had turned him over to a maid and drawn a chair convenient to Grant’s.

“You see, I am a farmer now,” he had said, apologetically regarding his overalls.

“What changes have come! But I don’t understand; I thought you were rich—very rich—and that you were promoting some kind of settlement scheme. Frank has spoken of it.”

“All of which is true. You see, I am a man of whims. I choose to live joyously. I refuse to fit into a ready-made niche in society. I do what other people don’t do—mainly for that reason. I have some peculiar notions—”

“I know. You told me.” And it was then that their eyes had met and they had fallen into a momentary silence.

“But why are you farming?” she had exclaimed, brightly.

“For several reasons. First, the world needs food. Food is the greatest safeguard—I would almost say the only safeguard—against anarchy and chaos. Then, I want to learn by experience; to prove by my own demonstrations that my theories are workable—or that they’re not. And then, most of all, I love the prairies and the open life. It’s my whim, and I follow it.”

“You are very wonderful,” she had murmured. And then, with startling directness, “Are you happy?”

“As happy as I have any right to be. Happier than I have been since childhood.”

She had risen and walked to the mantelpiece; then, with an apparent change of impulse, she had turned and faced him. He had noted that her figure was rounder than in girlhood, her complexion paler, but the sunlight still danced in her hair, and her reckless force had given way to a poise that suggested infinite resources of character.

“Frank has done well, too,” she had said.

“So I have heard. I am told that he has done very well indeed.”

“He has made money, and he is busy and excited over his pursuit of success—what he calls success. He has given it his life. He thinks of nothing else—”

She had stopped suddenly, as though her tongue had trapped her into saying more than she had intended.

“What do you think of my summer home?” she had exclaimed, abruptly. “Come out and admire the sweet peas,” and with a gay little flourish she had led him into the garden. “They tell me Western flowers have a brilliance and a fragrance which the East, with all its advantages, cannot duplicate. Is that true?”

“I believe it is. The East has greater profusion—more varieties—but the individual qualities do not seem to be so well developed.”

“I see you know something of Eastern flowers,” she had said, and he fancied he had caught a note of banter—or was it inquiry?—in her voice. Then, with another abrupt change of subject, she had made him describe his house on the hill. But he had said nothing of the whim-room.

“I must go,” he had exclaimed at length. “I left the horses tied in the field.”

“So you must. I shall let Wilson visit you frequently, if he is not a trouble.”

Then she had chosen a couple of blooms and pinned them on his coat, laughingly overriding his protest that they consorted poorly with his costume. And she had shaken hands and said good-bye in the manner of good friends parting.

The more Grant thought of it the more was he convinced that in her case, as in his own, the years had failed to extinguish the spark kindled in the foothills that night so long ago. He reminded himself continually that she was Transley’s wife, and even while granting the irrevocability of that fact he was demanding to know why Fate had created for them both an atmosphere charged with unspoken possibilities. He had turned her words over again and again, reflecting upon the abrupt angles her speech had taken. In their few minutes’ conversation three times she had had to make a sudden tack to safer subjects. What had she meant by that reference to Eastern and Western flowers? His answer reminded him how well he knew. And the confession about her husband, the worshipper of success—“what he calls success”—how much tragedy lay under those light words?

The valley was filled with shadow, and the level rays of the setting sun fell on the young man’s face and splashed the hill-tops with gold and saffron as within his heart raged the age-old battle.... But as yet he felt none of its wounds. He was conscious only of a wholly irrational delight.

As the next forenoon passed Grant found himself glancing with increasing frequency toward the end of the field where the little boy might be expected to appear. But the day wore on without sign of his young friend, and the furrows which he had turned so joyously at nine were dragging leadenly at eleven. He had not thought it possible that a child could so quickly have won a way to his affections. He fell to wondering as to the cause of the boy’s absence. Had Zen, after a night’s reflection, decided that it was wiser not to allow the acquaintance to develop? Had Transley, returning home, placed his veto upon it? Or—and his heart paused at this prospect—had the foot been more seriously hurt than they had supposed? Grant told himself that he must go over that night and make inquiry. That would be the neighborly thing to do....

But early that afternoon his heart was delighted by the sight of a little figure skipping joyously over the furrows toward him. He had his hat crumpled in one hand, and his teddy-bear in the other, and his face was alive with excitement. He was puffing profusely when he pulled up beside the plow, and Grant stopped the team while he got his breath.

“My! My! What is the hurry? I see the foot is all better.”

“We got a pig!” the lad gasped, when he could speak.

“A pig!”

“Yessir! A live one, too! He’s awful big. A man brought him in a wagon. That is why I couldn’t come this morning.”

Grant treated himself to a humble reflection upon the wisdom of childish preferments.

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Eat him up, I guess. Daddy said there was enough wasted about our house to keep a pig, so we got one. Aren’t you going to take me up?”

“Of course. But first we must put teddy in his place.”

“I’m to go home at five o’clock,” the boy said, when he had got properly settled.

The hours slipped by all too quickly, and if the lad’s presence did not contribute to good plowing, it at least made a cheerful plowman. It was plain that Zen had sufficient confidence in her farmer neighbor to trust her boy in his care, and his frequent references to his mother had an interest for Grant which he could not have analyzed or explained. During the afternoon the merits of the pig were sung and re-sung, and at last Wilson, after kissing his friend on the cheek and whispering, “I like you, Uncle Man-on-the-Hill,” took his teddy-bear under his arm and plodded homeward.

The next morning he came again, but mournfully and slow. There were tear stains on the little round cheeks.

“Why, son, what had happened?” said Grant, his abundant sympathies instantly responding.

“Teddy’s spoiled,” the child sobbed. “I set him—on the side of—the pig pen, and he fell’d in, and the big pig et him—ate him—up. He didn’t ‘zactly eat him up, either—just kind of chewed him, like.”

“Well that certainly is too bad. But then, you’re going to eat the pig some day, so that will square it, won’t it?”

“I guess it will,” said the boy, brightening. “I never thought of that.”

“But we must have a teddy for Prince. See, he is looking around, waiting for it.” Grant folded his coat into the shape of a dummy and set it up on the hames, and all went merrily again.

That afternoon, which was Saturday, the boy came thoughtfully and with an air of much importance. Delving into a pocket he produced an envelope, somewhat crumpled in transit. It was addressed, “The Man on the Hill.”

Grant tore it open eagerly and read this note:

“DEAR MAN-ON-THE-HILL,—That is the name Wilson calls you, so perhaps you will let me use it, too. Frank is to be home to-morrow, and will you come and have dinner with us at six? My father and mother will be here, and possibly one or two others. You had a clash with my men-folk once, but you will find them ready enough to make allowance for, even if they fail to understand, your point of view. Do come.—ZEN.

“P.S.—It just occurs to me that your associates in your colonization scheme may want to claim your time on Sunday. If any of them come out, bring them along. Our table is an extension one, and its capacity has never yet been exhausted.”

Although Grant’s decision was made at once he took some time for reflection before writing an acceptance. He was to enter Zen’s house on her invitation, but under the auspices, so to speak, of husband and parents. That was eminently proper. Zen was a sensible girl. Then there was a reference to that ancient squabble in the hay meadow. It was evidently her plan to see the hatchet buried and friendly relations established all around. Eminently proper and sensible.

He turned the sheet over and wrote on the back:

“DEAR ZEN,—Delighted to come. May have a couple of friends with me, one of whom you have seen before. Prepare for an appetite long denied the joys of home cooking.—D. G.”

It was not until after the child had gone home that Grant remembered he had addressed Transley’s wife by her Christian name. That was the way he always thought of her, and it slipped on to paper quite naturally. Well, it couldn’t be helped now.

Grant unhitched early and hurried to his house and the telephone. In a few minutes he had Linder on the line.

“Hello, Linder? I want you to go to a store for me and buy a teddy-bear.”

The chuckle at the other end of the line irritated Grant. Linder had a strange sense of humor.

“I mean it. A big teddy, with electric eyes, and a deep bass growl, if they make ‘em that way. The best you can get. Fetch it out to-morrow afternoon, and come decently dressed, for once. Bring Murdoch along if you can pry him loose.”

Grant hung up the receiver. “Stupid chap, Linder, some ways,” he muttered. “Why shouldn’t I buy a teddy-bear if I want to?”

Sunday afternoon saw the arrival of Linder and Murdoch, with the largest teddy the town afforded. “What is the big idea now?” Linder demanded, as he delivered it into Grant’s hands.

“It is for a little boy I know who has been bereaved of his first teddy by the activities of the family pig. You will renew some pleasant acquaintanceships, Linder. You remember Transley and his wife—Zen, of the Y.D?”

“You don’t say! Thanks for that tip about dressing up. I may explain,” Linder continued, turning to Murdoch, “there was a time when I might have been an also-ran in the race for Y.D.‘s daughter, only Transley beat me on the getaway.”

“You!” Grant exclaimed, incredulously.

“You, too!” Linder returned, a great light dawning.

“Well, Mr. Grant,” said Murdoch, “I brought you a good cigar, bought at the company’s expense. It comes out of the organization fund. You must be sick of those cheap cigars.”

“Since the war it is nothing but Player’s,” Grant returned, taking the proffered cigar. “They tell me it has revolutionized the tobacco business. However, this does smell a bit all right. How goes our venture, Murdoch? Have I any prospect of being impoverished in a worthy cause?”

“None whatever. Your foreman here is spending every dollar in a way to make you two in spite of your daft notion—begging your pardon, sir—about not taking profits. The subscribers are coming along for stock, but fingering it gently, as though they can’t well believe there’s no catch in it. They say it doesn’t look reasonable, and I tell them no more it is.”

“And then they buy it?”

“Aye, they do. That’s human nature. There’s as many members booked now as can be accommodated in the first colony. I suppose they reason that they will be sure of their winter’s housing, anyway.”

“You don’t seem to have much faith in human nature, Murdoch.”

“Nor have I. Not in that kind of human nature which is always wanting something for nothing.”

Linder’s report was more cheerful. The houses and barns were built and were now being painted, the plowing was done, and the fences were being run. By the use of a triangular system of survey twelve farm homes had been centralized in one little community where a community building would be erected which would be used as a school in daytime, a motion-picture house at night, and a church on Sunday. A community secretary would have his office here, and would have charge of a select little library of fiction, poetry, biography, and works of reference. The leading periodicals dealing with farm problems, sociology, and economics, as well as lighter subjects, would be on file. In connection with this building would be an assembly-room suitable for dances, social events, and theatricals, and equipped with a player piano and concert-size talking machine. Arrangements were being made for a weekly exchange of records, for a weekly musical evening by artists from the city, for a semi-monthly vaudeville show, and for Sunday meetings addressed by the best speakers on the more serious topics of the time.

“What has surprised me in making these arrangements,” Linder confessed, “is the comparatively small outlay they involve. The building will cost no more than many communities spend on school and church which they use thirty hours a week and three hours a week respectively. This one can be used one hundred and sixty-eight hours a week, if needed. Lecturers on many subjects can be had for paying their expenses; in some cases they are employed by the Government, and will come without cost. Amateur theatrical companies from the city will be glad to come in return for an appreciative audience and a dance afterward, with a good fill-up on solid farm cooking. Even some of the professionals can be had on these terms. Of course, before long we will produce our own theatricals.

“Then there is to be a plunge bath big enough to swim in, open to men and women alternate nights, and to children every day. There will be a pool-room, card-room, and refreshment buffet; also a quiet little room for women’s social events, and an emergency hospital ward. I think we should hire a trained nurse who would not be too dignified to cook and serve meals when there’s no business doing in the hospital. You know how everyone gets hankering now and then for a meal from home,—not that it’s any better, but it’s different. I suppose there are farmer’s wives who don’t get a meal away from home once a year. I’m going to change all that, if I have to turn cook myself!”

“Bully for you, Linder!” said Grant, clapping him on the shoulder. “I believe you actually are enthusiastic for once.”

“I understand my orders are to make the country give the city a run for its money, and I’m going to do it, or break you. If all I’ve mentioned won’t do it I’ve another great scheme in storage.”

“Good! What is it?”

“I am inventing a machine that will make a noise like a trolley-car and a smell like a sewer. That will add the last touch in city refinements.”

When the laugh over Linder’s invention had subsided Murdoch broached another.

“The office work is becoming pretty heavy, Mr. Grant, and I’m none too confident in the help I have. Now if I could send for Miss Bruce—”

“What do you think you should pay her?”

“I should say she is worth a hundred dollars a month.”

“Then she must be worth two hundred. Wire her to come and start her at that figure.”

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