“Zen!”
“How is he—how is Wilson?” she demanded, breathlessly.
“Sound as a bell,” he answered, alarmed by her manner. The self-assured Zen was far from self-assurance now. “Come, see, he is asleep.”
He led her into the whim-room and turned up the lamp. The lad was sleeping soundly, his teddy-bear clasped in his arms, his little pink and white face serene under the magic skies of slumberland. Grant expected that Zen would throw herself upon the child in her agitation, but she did not. She drew her fingers gently across his brow, then, turning to Grant,
“Rather an unceremonious way to break into your house,” she said, with a little laugh. “I hope you will pardon me.... I was uneasy about Wilson.”
“But tell me—how—where did you come from?”
“From town. Let me stand in your kitchen, or somewhere.”
“You’re wet through. I can’t offer you much change.”
“Not as wet as when you first met me, Dennison,” she said, with a smile. “I have a good waterproof, but my hat blew off. It’s somewhere on the road. I couldn’t see through the windshield, so I put my head out, and away it went.”
“The hat?”
Then both laughed, and an atmosphere that had been tense began to settle back to normal. Grant led her out to the living-room, removed her coat, and started a fire.
“So you drove out over those roads?” he said, when the smoke began to curl up around the logs. “You had your courage.”
“It wasn’t courage, Dennison; it was terror. Fear sometimes makes one wonderfully brave. After I saw Frank off I went to the hotel. I had a room on the west side, and instead of going to bed I sat by the window looking out at the storm and at the wet streets. I could see the flashes of lightning striking down as though they were aimed at definite objects, and I began to think of Wilson, and of you. You see, it was the first night I had ever spent away from him, and I began to think....
“After a while I could bear it no longer, and I rushed down and out to the garage. There was just one young man on night duty, and I’m sure he thought me crazy. When he couldn’t dissuade me he wanted to send a driver with me. You know I couldn’t have that.”
She was looking squarely at him, her face strangely calm and emotionless. Grant nodded that he followed her reasoning.
“So here I am,” she continued. “No doubt you think me silly, too. You are not a mother.”
“I think I understand,” he answered, tenderly. “I think I do.”
They sat in silence for some time, and presently they became aware of a grey light displacing the yellow glow from the lamp and the ruddy reflections of the fire. “It is morning,” said Grant. “I believe the storm has cleared.”
He stood beside her chair and took her hand in his. “Let us watch the dawn break on the mountains,” he said, and together they moved to the windows that overlooked the valley and the grim ranges beyond. Already shafts of crimson light were firing the scattered drift of clouds far overhead....
“Dennison,” she said at length, turning her face to his, “I hope you will understand, but—I have thought it all over. I have not hidden my heart from you. For the boy’s sake, and for your sake, and for the sake of ‘a scrap of paper’—that was what the war was over, wasn’t it?—”
“I know,” he whispered. “I know.”
“Then you have been thinking, too?... I am so glad!” In the growing light he could see the moisture in her bright eyes glisten, and it seemed to him this wild, daring daughter of the hills had never been lovelier than in this moment of confession and of high resolve.
“I am so glad,” she repeated, “for your sake—and for my own. Now, again, you are really the Man-on-the-Hill. We have been in the valley of late. You can go ahead now with your high plans, with your Big Idea. You will marry Miss Bruce, and forget.”
“I shall remember with chastened memory, but I shall never forget,” he said at length. “I shall never forget Zen of the Y.D. And you—what will you do?”
“I have the boy. I did not realize how much I had until to-night. Suddenly it came upon me that he was everything. You won’t understand, Dennison, but as we grow older our hearts wrap up around our children with a love quite different from that which expresses itself in marriage. This love gives—gives—gives, lavishly, unselfishly, asking nothing in return.”
“I think I understand,” he said again. “I think I do.”
They turned their eyes to the mountains, and as they looked the first shafts of sunlight fell on the white peaks and set them dazzling like mighty diamond-points against the blue bosom of the West. Slowly the flood of light poured down their mighty sides and melted the mauve shadows of the valley. Suddenly a ray of the morning splendor shot through the little window in the eastern wall of the living-room and fell fairly upon the woman’s head, crowning her like a halo of the Madonna.
“It is morning on the mountains—and on you!” Grant exclaimed. “Zen, you are very, very beautiful.” He raised her hand and pressed her fingers to his lips.
As they stood watching the sunlight pour into the valley a sharp knock sounded on the door. “Come,” said Dennison, and the next moment it swung open and Phyllis Bruce entered, followed immediately by Linder. A question leapt into her eyes at the remarkable situation which greeted them, and she paused in embarrassment.
“Phyllis!” Grant exclaimed. “You here!”
“It would seem that I was not expected.”
“It is all very simple,” Grant explained, with a laugh. “Little Willie Transley was my guest overnight. On account of the storm his mother became alarmed, and drove out from the city early this morning for him. Mrs. Transley, let me introduce Miss Bruce—Phyllis Bruce, of whom I have told you.”
Zen’s cordial handshake did more to reassure Phyllis than any amount of explanations, and Linder’s timely observation that he knew Wilson was there and was wondering about him himself had valuable corroborative effect.
“But now—YOUR explanations?” said Grant. “How comes it, Linder?”
“Simple enough, from our side. When I got back to town last night I found Murdoch highly excited over a telegram from Miss Bruce that she would arrive on the 3 a.m. train. He was determined to wait up, but when the storm came on I persuaded him to go home, as I was sure I could identify her. So I was lounging in my room waiting for three o’clock when I got your telephone call. All I could catch was the fact that you were mighty glad to get me, and had some urgent message for Miss Bruce. Then the connection broke.”
“I see. And you, of course, assured Miss Bruce that I was being murdered, or meeting some such happy and effective ending, out here in the wilderness.”
“Not exactly that, but I reported what I could, and Miss Bruce insisted upon coming out at once. The roads were dreadful, but we had daylight. Also, we have a trophy.”
Linder went out and returned in a moment with a sadly bedraggled hat.
“My poor hat!” Zen exclaimed. “I lost it on the way.”
“It is the best kind of evidence that you had but recently come over the road,” said Linder, significantly.
“I think no more evidence need be called,” said Phyllis. “May I lay off my things?”
“Certainly—certainly,” Grant apologized. “But I must introduce one more exhibit.” He handed her the telegram he had written during the night. “That is the message I wanted Linder to rush to you,” he said, and as she read it he saw the color deepen in her cheeks.
“I’m going to get breakfast, Mr. Grant,” Zen announced with a sudden burst of energy. “Everybody keep out of the kitchen.”
“Guess I’ll feed up for you, this morning, old chap,” said Linder, beating a retreat to the stables.
And when Phyllis had laid aside her coat and hat and had straightened her hair a little in the glass above the mantelpiece she walked straight to Grant and put both her hands in his. “Let me see this boy, Willie Transley,” she said.
Grant led her into the whim-room, where the boy still slept soundly, and drew aside the blinds that the morning light might fall about him. Phyllis bent over the child. “Isn’t he dear?” she said, and stooped and kissed his lips.
Then she stood up and looked for what seemed to Grant a very long time at the panorama of grandeur that stretched away to the westward.
“When may I expect an answer, Phyllis?” he said at length. “You know why my question has been so long delayed. I shall not attempt to excuse myself. I have been very, very foolish. But to-day I am very, very wise. May I also be very, very happy?”
He had taken her hands in his, and as she did not resist he drew her gently to him.
“Little Willie christened me The Man-on-the-Hill,” he whispered. “I have tried to live on the hill, but I need you to keep me from falling off.”
“What about your settlement plan? I thought you wanted me for that.”
“We will give our lives to that, together, Phyllis, to that, and to making this house a home. If God should give us—”
He did not finish the thought, for the form of Phyllis Bruce trembled against his, and her lips had murmured “Yes.”...
“Mr. Grant! Mr. Grant! The telephone is ringing,” called the clear voice of Zen Transley. “Shall I take the message?”
“Please do,” said Dennison, inwardly abjuring the efficiency of the lineman who had already made repairs.
“It’s Mr. Murdoch, and he’s highly excited, and he says have you Phyllis Bruce here.”
“Tell him I have, and I’m going to keep her.”
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