Ironheart

The days followed each other, clear, sparkling, crisp, with mornings in which Betty’s lungs drew in a winey exhilaration of living, with evenings which shut the cabin on the slope of Pegleg Pass from a remote world of men and women engaged in a thousand activities.

Betty had time to think during the long winter nights after she had retired to her room. Some of her thoughts hurt. She was shocked at the termination of her engagement, at the manner of it. That was not the way it should have been done at all. She and Justin should have recognized frankly that their views of life could not be made to harmonize. They should have parted with esteem and friendship. Instead of which there had been a scene of which she was ashamed.

Her cheeks burned when she recalled his crass charge that she was infatuated with Hollister. Why hadn’t he been able to understand that she had signed a pact of friendship with the ex-service man? If he had done that, if he had been wise and generous and sympathetic instead of harsh and grudging, he would (so Betty persuaded herself) have won her heart completely. He had been given a great chance, and he had not been worthy of it.

Merrick had humiliated her, shattered for the time at least the gallant young egoism which made her the mistress of her world.

Her father came up as soon as he returned from Denver. She talked over with him the break with her fiancé. Clint supported her, with reservations that did not reach the surface.

“Never did like it,” he said bluntly, referring to her engagement. “Merrick’s a good man in his way, but not the one for you. I been figuring you’d see it. I’m glad this came up. His ideas about marriage are crusted. He’d put a wife in a cage and treat her well. That wouldn’t suit you, Bess. You’ve got to have room to try your wings.”

She clung to him, crying a little. “You don’t blame me, then, Dad?”

“Not a bit. You did right. If Merrick had been the proper man for you, he’d have understood you well enough to know you had to come here. Maybe it wasn’t wise to come. Maybe it was impulsive. I reckon most folks would agree with him about that. But he’d have known his Betty. He’d ’a’ helped you, even though it was foolish. You wouldn’t be happy with any man who couldn’t let you fly the coop once in a while.”

“Was it foolish to come, Dad?” she asked.

He stroked her dark hair gently. “It’s the foolishness we all love in you, honey—that way you have of giving till it hurts.”

Betty had inherited her impulsiveness from him. He, too, could be generous without counting the cost. He rejoiced in the eagerness with which her spirit went out to offer the gift of herself. But he had to be both father and mother. Generosity might easily carry her too far.

“I do such crazy things,” she murmured. “And I never know they’re silly till afterward.”

“This wasn’t silly,” he reassured her. “I’d have figured out some other way if I’d been home. But I wasn’t. Rayburn says your cooking an’ your nursing have helped young Hollister a lot. I’m glad you came, now it’s over with. I reckon you’ve paid my debt in full, Bettykins.”

“He’s absurdly grateful,” she said. “I haven’t done much for him. You’d think I’d saved his life.”

“Soon now we’ll be able to get him back to the ranch and Bridget can take care of him. Ruth’s wearyin’ for you. I’ll be more satisfied when we’re there. I’ve got old Jake Prowers on my mind some. Never can tell what he’ll be up to.”

Hollister was grateful to Betty, whether absurdly so or not is a matter of definitions. His big eyes followed her about the room as she cooked custards with the eggs and milk brought from the Howard place just below. “Sweet Marie” did not entrance him when Black tunelessly sang it, but the snatches of song she hummed at her work filled the room with melody for him. She read “David Copperfield” aloud after he began to mend, and his gaze rested on her with the mute admiration sick men are likely to give charming nurses overflowing with good-will and vitality. Her laugh lifted like a lark’s song. Even her smile had the radiant quality of one who is hearing good news.

He noticed that she was no longer wearing Merrick’s ring, and his thoughts dwelt on it a good deal. Was the engagement broken? He could not see that she was unhappy. Her presence filled the place with sunshine. It was a joy to lie there and know that she was near, even when she was in another room and he could not see her. There was something permeating about Betty Reed. She lit up men’s souls as an arc-light does a dark street.

He hoped that she and Merrick had come to the parting of the ways. The engineer was the last man in the world to make her eager spirit happy. His strength never spent itself in rebellion. He followed convention and would look for the acceptance of it in her. But Betty was cast in another mould. What was important to him did not touch her at all, or, if it did, seemed a worthless sham. She laughed at social usage when it became mere formalism. No doubt she would be a disturbing wife. Life with her would be exciting. That was not what Justin Merrick wanted.

The right man for her would be one who both loved and understood. He must be big enough to let her enthusiasms sweep over their lives and must even give them moral support while they lasted. Also, he must be a clean and stalwart outdoor man, not one who had been salvaged from the yellow swamp waters of vice. This last Hollister kept before him as a fundamental necessity. He laid hold of it to stamp down the passionate insurgent longings that filled him.

It was an obligation on him. He must not abuse her kindness by forgetting that he had been an outcast, had himself shut a door upon any future that included the fine purity of her youth. An effect of her simplicity was that he stood in constant danger of not remembering this. There was nothing of the Lady Bountiful about Betty. Her star-clear eyes, the song and sunlight of her being, offered friendship and camaraderie with no assumption of superior virtue. She saw no barrier between them. They came together on an equal footing as comrades. The girl’s unconscious generosity enhanced her charm and made the struggle in his heart more difficult.

Those days while he lay there and gathered strength were red-letter ones in his life. Given the conditions, it was inevitable that he should come to care for the gracious spirit dwelling in a form that expressed so lovingly the mystery of maiden dreams. In every fiber of him he cherished her loveliness and pulsed to the enticement of her.

She gave the dull cabin atmosphere. A light burned inside her that was warm and bright and colorful. Black looked on her as he might a creature from another world. This slip of a girl had brought something new into the range rider’s life, something fine and spiritual which evoked response from his long-dormant soul. He had till now missed the joy of being teased by a girl as innocent and as vivid as she.

Hollister was won the easier because her tenderness was for him. Black must hunt ptarmigan for broth, Clint Reed go foraging for milk and eggs. They submitted cheerfully to be bullied in the interest of the patient. His needs ruled the household, since he was an invalid. Betty pampered and petted and poked fun at him, all with a zeal that captivated his imagination.

In the evenings they talked, three of them in a semi-circle before the blazing logs, the fourth sitting up in the bed propped by pillows. The talk ranged far, from cattle to Château-Thierry. It brought to the sick man a new sense of the values of life. These people lived far from the swift currents of urban rush and haste, but he found in them something the world has lost, the serenity and poise that come from the former standards of judgment. The feverish glitter of post-war excitement, its unrest and dissatisfaction, had left them untouched. Betty and her father were somehow anchored to realities. They did not crave wealth. They had within themselves sources of entertainment. The simple things of life gave them pleasure. He realized that there must be millions of such people in the country, and that through them it would eventually be saved from the effects of its restlessness.