The death of Grace had, of course, its naturally depressing
effect upon the circle of relatives and friends
at Ganado; but her absence of more than a year, the infrequency
of her letters, and the fact that they had already
come to feel that she was lost to them, mitigated to
some degree the keenness of their grief and lessened its
outward manifestations. Her pitiful end could not seriously
interrupt the tenor of their lives, which had long
since grown over the wound of her departure, as a tree’s
growth rolls over the hurt of a severed limb, leaving only
a scar as a reminder of its loss.
Mrs. Evans, Guy and Custer suffered more than the
others—Mrs. Evans because of the natural instincts of
motherhood, and Custer from a sense of loss that seemed
to have uprooted and torn away a part of his being, even
though he realized that his love for Grace had been of
a different sort from his hopeless passion for Shannon
Burke. It was Guy who suffered most, for hugged to
his breast was the gnawing secret of the truth of his
sister’s life and death. He had told them that Grace had
died of pneumonia, and they had not gone behind his
assertion to search the records for the truth.
Locked in his desk was the silver frame and the picture
of the man whose identity he had been unable to
discover. The bungalow had been leased in Grace’s name.
The Japanese servant had disappeared, and Guy had
been unable to obtain any trace of him. The dead girl
had had no friends in the neighborhood, and there was
no one who could tell him anything that might lead to
the discovery of the man he sought.
He did not, however, give up his search. He went
often to Hollywood, where he haunted public places and
the entrances to studios, in the hope that some day he
would find the man he sought; but as the passing months
brought no success, and the duties of his ranch and his
literary work demanded more and more of his time, he
was gradually compelled to push the furtherance of his
vengeance into the background, though without any lessening
of his determination to compass it eventually.
To Custer, the direct effect of Grace’s death was to
revive the habit of drinking more than was good for him—a
habit from which he had drifted away during the
past year. That it had ever been a habit he would, of
course, have been the last to admit. He was one of those
men who could drink, or leave it alone. The world is
full of them, and so are the cemeteries.
Custer avoided Shannon when he could do so without
seeming unfriendly. Quite unreasonably, he felt that
his love for Shannon was an indication of disloyalty
to Grace. The latter’s dismissal of him he had never
taken as a serious avowal of her heart. He had realized
that the woman who had spoken so bitterly had not been
the girl he had loved, and whose avowals of love he had
listened to. Nor had she been the girl upon whose sad,
tired face he had looked for the last time in the darkened
living room of the Evans home, for then death had
softened the hard lines of dissipation, revealing again,
in chastened melancholy, the soul that sin had disguised
but not destroyed.
Shannon recognized the change in Custer. She attributed
it to his grief, and to his increased drinking,
which she had sensed almost immediately, as love does
sense the slightest change in its object, however little apparent
to another. She did not realize that she was purposely
avoiding her. She was more than ever with Eva
now, for Guy, having settled down to the serious occupations
of man’s estate, no longer had so much leisure
to devote to play.
She still occasionally rode at night, for the daytime
rides with Custer were less frequent now. Much of his
time was occupied closer in around the ranch, with the
conditioning of the show herds for the coming fall—an
activity which gave him a plausible excuse for foregoing
his rides with Shannon. The previous year they had been
compelled to cancel their entries because of Custer’s imprisonment,
since the colonel would not make the circuit
of the shows himself, and did not care to trust the herds
to any one but his son. Now the Morgans, the Percherons,
the Herefords, and the Berkshires that were to
uphold the fame of Ganado were the center of arduous
and painstaking fitting and grooming, as the time approached
when the finishing touches were to be put upon
glossy coat and polished horn and hoof.
May, June, and July had come and gone—it was
August again. Guy’s futile visits to Los Angeles were
now infrequent. The life of Ganado had again assumed
the cheerfulness of the past. The heat of summer had
brought the swimming pool into renewed demand, and
the cool evenings saved the ballroom from desertion. The
youth of the foothills and valley, reënforced by weekend
visitors from the city, filled the old house with
laughter and happiness. Shannon was always of these
parties, for they would not let her remain away.
It was upon the occasion of one of them, early in
August, that Eva announced the date of her wedding to
Guy.
“The 2nd of September,” she told them. “It comes
on a Saturday. We’re going to motor to——”
“Hold on!” cautioned Guy. “That’s a secret!”
“And when we come back we’re going to start building
on Hill Thirteen.”
“That’s a cow pasture,” said Custer.
“Well, it won’t be one any more. You must find another
cow pasture.”
“Certainly, little one,” replied her brother. “We’ll
bring the cows up here in the ballroom. With five thousand
acres to pick from, you can’t find a bungalow site
anywhere except in the best dairy cow pasture on
Ganado!”
“With five thousand acres to pick from, I suppose you
can’t find a cow pasture anywhere but on the best bungalow
site in southern California! You radiant brother!
You wouldn’t have your little sister living in the hog
pasture, now would you?”
“Heavens, no! Those nine children you aspire to
would annoy the brood sows.”
“You’re hideous!”
“Put on a fox trot, some one,” cried Guy. “Dance
with your sister, Cus, and you’ll let her build bungalows
all over Ganado. No one can refuse her anything when
they dance with her.”
“I’ll say they can’t,” agreed Custer. “Was that how
she lured you to your undoing, Guy?”
“What a dapper little idea!” exclaimed Eva.
Guy danced that dance with Mrs. Pennington, and the
colonel took out Shannon. As they moved over the
smooth floor with the easy dignity that good dancers can
impart to the fox trot, the girl’s eyes were often on the
brother and sister dancing and laughing together.
“How wonderful they are!” she said.
“Who?” inquired the colonel.
“Custer and Eva. Theirs is such a wonderful relationship
between brother and sister—the way it ought
to be, but very seldom is.”
“Oh, I don’t know that it’s unique,” replied the colonel.
“Guy and Grace were that way, and so were my father’s
children. Possibly it’s because we were all raised in the
country, where children are more dependent upon their
sisters and brothers for companionship than children of
the city. We all get better acquainted in the country,
and we have to learn to find the best that is in each of us,
for we haven’t the choice of companions here that a
city, with its thousands, affords.”
“I don’t know,” said Shannon. “Perhaps that is it;
but anyway it is lovely—really lovely, for they are almost
like two lovers. At first, when I heard them teasing
each other, I used to think there might be some bitterness
in their thrusts; but when I came to know you all better,
I realized that your affection was so perfect that there
could never be any misunderstanding among you.”
“That attitude is not peculiar to the Penningtons,” replied
the colonel. “I know, for instance, of one who so
perfectly harmonized with their lives and ideals that
in less than a year she became practically one of them.”
He was smiling down into Shannon’s upturned face.
“I know—you mean me,” she said. “It is awfully nice
of you, and it makes me very proud to hear you say so,
for I have really tried to be like you. If I have succeeded
the least bit, I am so happy!”
“I don’t know that you have succeeded in being like
us,” he laughed; “but you have certainly succeeded in
being liked by us. Why, do you know, Shannon, I believe
Mrs. Pennington and I discuss you and plan for you
fully as much as we do the children. It is almost as if
you were our other daughter.”
The tears came to her eyes.
“I am so happy!” she said again.
It was later in the evening, after a dance, that she and
Custer walked out on the driveway along the north side
of the ballroom, and stood looking out over the moon-enchanted
valley—a vista of loveliness glimpsed between
masses of feathery foliage in an opening through the
trees on the hillside just below them. They looked out
across the acacias and cedars of the lower hill toward
the lights of a little village twinkling between two dome-like
hills at the upper end of the valley. It was an unusually
warm evening, almost too warm to dance.
“I think we’d get a little of the ocean breeze,” said
Custer, “if we were on the other side of the hill. Let’s
walk over to the water gardens. There is usually a breeze
there, but the building cuts us off from it here.”
Side by side, in silence, they walked around the front
of the building and along the south drive to the steps
leading down through the water gardens to the stables.
The steps were narrow and Custer went ahead—which is
always the custom of men in countries where there are
rattlesnakes.
As Shannon stepped from the cement steps to the
gravel walk above the first pool, her foot came down
upon a round stone, turning her ankle and throwing her
against Custer. For support she grasped his arm. Upon
such insignificant trifles may the fate of lives depend.
It might have been a lizard, a toad, a mouse, or even
a rattlesnake that precipitated the moment which, for
countless eons, creation had been preparing; but it was
none of these. It was just a little round pebble—and it
threw Shannon Burke against Custer Pennington, causing
her to seize his arm. He felt the contact of those
fingers, and the warmth of her body, and her cheek near
his shoulder. He threw an arm about her to support
her.
Almost instantly she had regained her footing. Laughingly
she drew away.
“I stepped on a stone,” she said in explanation; “but
I didn’t hurt my ankle.”
But still he kept his arm about her. At first Shannon
did not understand, and, supposing that he still
thought her unable to stand alone, she again explained
that she was unhurt.
He stood looking down into her face, which was turned
up to his. The moon, almost full, revealed her features
as clearly as sunlight—how beautiful they were, and
how close. She had not yet fully realized the significance
of his attitude when he suddenly threw his other arm
about her and crushed her to him; and then, before she
could prevent, he had bent his lips to hers and kissed
her full upon the mouth.
With a startled cry she pushed him away.
“Custer!” she said. “What have you done? This is
not like you. I do not understand!”
She was really terrified—terrified at the thought that
he might have kissed her without love—terrified that he
might have kissed her with love. She did not know which
would be the greater catastrophe.
“I couldn’t help it, Shannon,” he said. “Blame the
pebble, blame the moonlight, blame me—it won’t make
any difference. I couldn’t help it; that is all there is to
it. I’ve fought against it for months. I knew you
didn’t love me; but, oh, Shannon, I love you! I had to
tell you.”
He loved her! He had loved her for months! Oh,
the horror of it! Her little dream of happiness was shattered.
No longer could they go on as they had. There
would always be this between them—the knowledge of his
love; and he would learn of her love for him, for she
would not lie to him if he asked her. Then she would
either have to explain or to go away—to explain those
hideous months with Crumb. Custer would not believe
the truth—no man would believe the truth—that she had
come through them undefiled. She herself would not
believe it of another woman, and she was too sophisticated
to hope that the man who loved her would believe
it of her.
He had not let her go. They still stood there—his arms
about her.
“Please don’t be angry, Shannon,” he begged. “You
may not want my love, but there’s no disgrace in it.
Maybe I shouldn’t have kissed you, but I couldn’t
help it, and I’m glad I did. I have that to remember as
long as I live. Please don’t be angry!”
Angry! She wished to God that he would crush her
to him again and kiss her—kiss her—kiss like that now
and forever. Why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t she let
him? What had she done to deserve eternal punishment?
There were countless wives less virtuous than she. Ah,
if she could but have the happiness of his love!
She closed her eyes and turned away her head, and for
just an instant she dreamed her beautiful dream. Why
not? Why not? Why not? There could be no better
wife than she, for there could be no greater love than
hers.
He noticed that she no longer drew away. There had
been no look of anger in her eyes—only startled questioning;
and her face was still so near. Again his arms
closed about her, and again his lips found hers.
This time she did not deny him. She was only human—only
a woman—and her love, growing steadily in
power for many months, had suddenly burst forth in a
consuming fire beneath his burning kisses. He felt her
lips move in a fluttering sob beneath his, and then her
dear arms stole up about his neck and pressed him closer
in complete surrender.
“Shannon! You love me?”
“Ah, dear boy, always!”
He drew her to the lower end of a pool, where a rustic
seat stood half concealed by the foliage of a drooping
umbrella tree. There they sat and asked each other the
same questions that lovers have asked since prehistoric
man first invented speech, and that lovers will continue to
ask so long as speech exists upon earth; very important
questions—by far the most important questions in the
world.
They did not know how long they had sat there—to
them it seemed but a moment—when they heard voices
calling their names from above.
“Shannon! Custer! Where are you?”
It was Eva calling.
“I suppose we’ll have to go,” he said. “Just one more
kiss!”
He took a dozen; and then they rose and walked up the
steps to the south drive.
“Shall I tell them?” he asked.
“Not yet, please.”
She was not sure that it would last. Such happiness
was too sweet to endure.
Eva spied them.
“Where in the world have you two been?” she demanded.
“We’ve been hunting all over for you, and
shouting until I’m hoarse.”
“We’ve been right down there by the upper pool, trying
to cool off,” replied Custer. “It’s too beastly hot
to dance.”
“You never thought so before,” said Eva suspiciously.
“Do you know, I believe you two have been off spooning!
How perfectly gorgeristic!”
“How perfectly nothing,” replied Custer. “Old
people, like Shannon and me, don’t spoon. That’s for
you kids.”
Eva came closer.
“Shannon, you’d better go and straighten your hair before
any one else sees you.” She laughed and pinched the
other’s arm. “I’d love it,” she whispered in Shannon’s
ear, “if it were true! You’ll tell me, won’t you?”
“If it ever comes true, dear”—Shannon returned the
whisper—“you shall be the first to know about it.”
“Scrumptious! But say, I’ve got the divinest news—what
do you think? Popsy has known it all day and
never mentioned it—forgot all about it, he said, until
just before he and mother trotted off to bed. Did you
ever hear of anything so outrageous? And now half the
folks have gone home, and I can’t tell ’em. Oh, it’s too
spiffy for words! I’ve been longing and longing for it
for months and months and months, and now it’s going
to happen—really going to happen—actually going to
happen on Monday!”
“For Heaven’s sake, little one, unwind, and get to the
end of your harrowing story. What’s going to happen?”
“Why, the K. K. S. company is coming on Monday,
and Wilson Crumb is coming with them!”
Shannon staggered almost as from the force of a
physical blow. Wilson Crumb coming! Coming to
Ganado! Short indeed had been her sweet happiness!
“What’s the matter, Shannon?” asked Custer solicitously.
The girl steadied herself quickly.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, with a nervous laugh. “I
just felt a little dizzy for a moment.”
“You had better go in the house and lie down,” he
suggested.
“No, I think I’ll go home, if you’ll drive me down,
Custer. You know ten o’clock is pretty late for us.”
“It’s Saturday night,” said Eva.
“But I don’t want to miss my ride in the morning.
You’re all going, aren’t you?”
“I am,” said Custer.
He noticed that she was very quiet as they drove down
to her place, and when they parted she clung to him as
if she could not bear to let him go.
It was very wonderful—the miracle of this great love.
As he drove back home, he could not think of anything
else. He was not egotistical, and it seemed strange that
from all the men she must have known Shannon had kept
her love for him. With Grace it had been different. Their
love had grown up with them from childhood. It had
seemed no more remarkable that Grace should love him
than that Eva should love him, or that he should love
Grace; but Shannon had come to him out of a strange
world—a world full of men—where, with her beauty
and her charm, she must have been an object of admiration
to many. Yet she had brought her heart to him
intact; for she had told him that she had never loved
another—and she had told him the truth.
