The Call Of The Canyon by Zane Grey (most inspirational books .txt) 📕

"He Had No Choice," Replied Carley. "Glenn Didn't Have A Father Who Made

Tainted Millions Out Of The War. He Had To Work. And I Must Differ With You

About Its Being Low-Down. No Honest Work Is That. It Is Idleness That Is

Low Down."

"But So Foolish Of Glenn When He Might Have Married Money," Rejoined

Morrison,  Sarcastcally.

"The Honor Of Soldiers Is Beyond Your Ken,  Mr. Morrison."

He Flushed Darkly And Bit His Lip.

"You Women Make A Man Sick With This Rot About Soldiers," He Said,  The

Gleam In His Eye Growing Ugly. "A Uniform Goes To A Woman's Head No Matter

What's Inside It. I Don't See Where Your Vaunted Honor Of Soldiers Comes

In Considering How They Accepted The Let-Down Of Women During And After The

War."

"How Could You See When You Stayed Comfortably At Home?" Retorted Carley.

"All I Could See Was Women Falling Into Soldiers' Arms," He Said,  Sullenly.

"Certainly. Could An American Girl Desire Any Greater Happiness--Or

Opportunity To Prove Her Gratitude?" Flashed Carley,  With Proud Uplift Of

Head.

"It Didn't Look Like Gratitude To Me," Returned Morrison.

"Well,  It Was Gratitude," Declared Carley,  Ringingly. "If Women Of America

Did Throw Themselves At Soldiers It Was Not Owing To The Moral Lapse Of The

Day. It Was Woman's Instinct To Save The Race! Always,  In Every War,  Women

Have Sacrificed Themselves To The Future. Not Vile,  But Noble! . . . You

Insult Both Soldiers And Women,  Mr. Morrison. I Wonder--Did Any American

Girls Throw Themselves At You?"

Morrison Turned A Dead White,  And His Mouth Twisted To A Distorted Checking

Of Speech,  Disagreeable To See.

"No,  You Were A Slacker," Went On Carley,  With Scathing Scorn. "You Let The

Other Men Go Fight For American Girls. Do You Imagine One Of Them Will Ever

Marry You? . . . All Your Life,  Mr. Morrison,  You Will Be A Marked Man--

Outside The Pale Of Friendship With Real American Men And The Respect Of

Real American Girls."

Morrison Leaped Up,  Almost Knocking The Table Over,  And He Glared At Carley

As He Gathered Up His Hat And Cane. She Turned Her Back Upon Him. From That

Moment He Ceased To Exist For Carley. She Never Spoke To Him Again.

Next Day Carley Called Upon Her Dearest Friend,  Whom She Had Not Seen For

Some Time.

"Carley Dear,  You Don't Look So Very Well," Said Eleanor,  After Greetings

Had Been Exchanged.

"Oh,  What Does It Matter How I Look?" Queried Carley,  Impatiently.

"You Were So Wonderful When You Got Home From Arizona."

"If I Was Wonderful And Am Now Commonplace You Can Thank Your Old New York

For It."

"Carley,  Don't You Care For New York Any More?" Asked Eleanor.

"Oh,  New York Is All Right,  I Suppose. It's I Who Am Wrong."

"My Dear,  You Puzzle Me These Days. You've Changed. I'm Sorry. I'm Afraid

You're Unhappy."

"Me? Oh,  Impossible! I'm In A Seventh Heaven," Replied Carley,  With A Hard

Little Laugh. "What 'Re You Doing This Afternoon? Let's Go Out--Riding--Or

Somewhere."

"I'm Expecting The Dressmaker."

"Where Are You Going To-Night?"

"Dinner And Theater. It's A Party,  Or I'd Ask You."

"What Did You Do Yesterday And The Day Before,  And The Days Before That?"

Eleanor Laughed Indulgently,  And Acquainted Carley With A Record Of Her

Social Wanderings During The Last Few Days.

"The Same Old Things--Over And Over Again! Eleanor Don't You Get Sick Of

It?" Queried Carley.

"Oh Yes,  To Tell The Truth," Returned Eleanor,  Thoughtfully. "But There's

Nothing Else To Do."

"Eleanor,  I'm No Better Than You," Said Carley,  With Disdain. "I'm As

Useless And Idle. But I'm Beginning To See Myself--And You--And All This

Rotten Crowd Of Ours. We're No Good. But You're Married,  Eleanor. You're

Settled In Life. You Ought To Do Something. I'm Single And At Loose Ends.

Oh,  I'm In Revolt! . . . Think,  Eleanor,  Just Think. Your Husband Works

Hard To Keep You In This Expensive Apartment. You Have A Car. He Dresses

You In Silks And Satins. You Wear Diamonds. You Eat Your Breakfast In Bed.

You Loll Around In A Pink Dressing Gown All Morning. You Dress For Lunch Or

Tea. You Ride Or Golf Or Worse Than Waste Your Time On Some Lounge Lizard,

Dancing Till Time To Come Home To Dress For Dinner. You Let Other Men Make

Love To You. Oh,  Don't Get Sore. You Do. . . . And So Goes The Round Of

Your Life. What Good On Earth Are You,  Anyhow? You're Just A--A

Gratification To The Senses Of Your Husband. And At That You Don't See Much

Of Him."

"Carley,  How You Rave!" Exclaimed Her Friend. "What Has Gotten Into You

Lately? Why,  Everybody Tells Me You're--You're Queer! The Way You Insulted

Morrison--How Unlike You,  Carley!"

"I'm Glad I Found The Nerve To Do It. What Do You Think,  Eleanor?"

"Oh,  I Despise Him. But You Can't Say The Things You Feel."

"You'd Be Bigger And Truer If You Did. Some Day I'll Break Out And Flay You

And Your Friends Alive."

"But,  Carley,  You're My Friend And You're Just Exactly Like We Are. Or You

Were,  Quite Recently."

"Of Course,  I'm Your Friend. I've Always Loved You,  Eleanor," Went On

Carley,  Earnestly. "I'm As Deep In This--This Damned Stagnant Muck As You,

Or Anyone. But I'm No Longer Blind. There's Something Terribly Wrong With

Us Women,  And It's Not What Morrison Hinted."

"Carley,  The Only Thing Wrong With You Is That You Jilted Poor Glenn--And

Are Breaking Your Heart Over Him Still."

"Don't--Don't!" Cried Carley,  Shrinking. "God Knows That Is True. But

There's More Wrong With Me Than A Blighted Love Affair."

"Yes,  You Mean The Modern Feminine Unrest?"

"Eleanor,  I Positively Hate That Phrase 'Modern Feminine Unrest!' It Smacks

Of Ultra--Ultra--Oh! I Don't Know What. That Phrase Ought To Be Translated

By A Western Acquaintance Of Mine--One Haze Ruff. I'd Not Like To Hurt Your

Sensitive Feelings With What He'd Say. But This Unrest Means Speed-Mad,

Excitement-Mad,  Fad-Mad,  Dress-Mad,  Or I Should Say Undress-Mad,  Culture-

Mad,  And Heaven Only Knows What Else. The Women Of Our Set Are Idle,

Luxurious,  Selfish,  Pleasure-Craving,  Lazy,  Useless,  Work-And-Children

Shirking,  Absolutely No Good."

"Well,  If We Are,  Who's To Blame?" Rejoined Eleanor,  Spiritedly. "Now,

Carley Burch,  You Listen To Me. I Think The Twentieth-Century Girl In

America Is The Most Wonderful Female Creation Of All The Ages Of The

Universe. I Admit It. That Is Why We Are A Prey To The Evils Attending

Greatness. Listen. Here Is A Crying Sin--An Infernal Paradox. Take This

Twentieth-Century Girl,  This American Girl Who Is The Finest Creation Of

The Ages. A Young And Healthy Girl,  The Most Perfect Type Of Culture

Possible To The Freest And Greatest City On Earth--New York! She Holds

Absolutely An Unreal,  Untrue Position In The Scheme Of Existence.

Surrounded By Parents,  Relatives,  Friends,  Suitors,  And Instructive Schools

Of Every Kind,  Colleges,  Institutions,  Is She Really Happy,  Is She Really

Living?"

"Eleanor," Interrupted Carley,  Earnestly,  "She Is Not. . . . And I've Been

Trying To Tell You Why."

"My Dear,  Let Me Get A Word In,  Will You," Complained Eleanor. "You Don't

Know It All. There Are As Many Different Points Of View As There Are

People. . . . Well,  If This Girl Happened To Have A New Frock,  And A New

Beau To Show It To,  She'd Say,  'I'm The Happiest Girl In The World.' But

She Is Nothing Of The Kind. Only She Doesn't Know That. She Approaches

Marriage,  Or,  For That Matter,  A More Matured Life,  Having Had Too Much,

Having Been Too Well Taken Care Of,  Knowing Too Much. Her Masculine

Satellites--Father,  Brothers,  Uncles,  Friends,  Lovers--All Utterly Spoil

Her. Mind You,  I Mean,  Girls Like Us,  Of The Middle Class--Which Is To Say

The Largest And Best Class Of Americans. We Are Spoiled. . . . This Girl

Marries. And Life Goes On Smoothly,  As If Its Aim Was To Exclude Friction

And Effort. Her Husband Makes It Too Easy For Her. She Is An Ornament,  Or A

Toy,  To Be Kept In A Luxurious Cage. To Soil Her Pretty Hands Would Be

Disgraceful! Even F She Can't Afford A Maid,  The Modern Devices Of Science

Make The Care Of Her Four-Room Apartment A Farce. Electric Dish-Washer,

Clothes-Washer,  Vacuum-Cleaner,  And The Near-By Delicatessen And The

Caterer Simply Rob A Young Wife Of Her Housewifely Heritage. If She Has A

Baby--Which Happens Occasionally,  Carley,  In Spite Of Your Assertion--It

Very Soon Goes To The Kindergarten. Then What Does She Find To Do With

Hours And Hours? If She Is Not Married,  What On Earth Can She Find To Do?"

"She Can Work," Replied Carley,  Bluntly.

"Oh Yes,  She Can,  But She Doesn't," Went On Eleanor. "You Don't Work. I

Never Did. We Both Hated The Idea. You're Calling Spades Spades,  Carley,

But You Seem To Be Riding A Morbid,  Impractical Thesis.