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—”