The Day of the Beast by Zane Grey

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"What--does the 'Bell-garter' mean?" went on the teacher, presently.

"One of the boys stole my garter and fastened a little bell to it. Now
it's going the rounds. Every girl who could has worn it."

"What's the 'Old Bench'?"

"Down in the basement here at school there's a bench under the
stairway in the dark. The boys and girls have signals. One boy will
get permission to go out at a certain time, and a girl from his room,
or another room, will go out too. It's all arranged beforehand. They
meet down on the Old Bench."

"What for?"

"They meet to spoon."

"I find the names Hardy Mackay, Captain Thesel, Dick Swann among these
notes. What can these young society men be to my pupils?"

"Some of the jealous girls have been tattling to each other and
mentioning names."

"Bessy! Do you imply these girls who talk have had the--the interest
or attention of these young gentlemen named?"

"Yes."

"In what way?"

"I mean they've had dates to meet in the park--and other places. Then
they go joy riding."

"Bessy, have you?"

"Yes--but only just lately."

"Thank you Bessy, for your--your frankness," replied Miss Hill,
drawing a long breath. "I'll have another talk with you, after I see
your mother. You may go now."

It was an indication of Miss Hill's mental perturbation that for once
she broke her methodical routine. For many years she had carried a
lunch-basket to and from school; for so many in fact that now on
Saturdays when she went to town without it she carried her left hand
forward in the same position that had grown habitual to her while
holding it. But this afternoon, as she went out, she forgot the basket
entirely.

"I'll go to Mrs. Bell," soliloquized the worried schoolteacher. "But
how to explain what I can't understand! Some people would call this
thing just natural depravity. But I love these girls. As I think back,
every year, in the early summer, I've always had something of this
sort of thing to puzzle over. But the last few years it's grown worse.
The war made a difference. And since the war--how strange the girls
are! They seem to feel more. They're bolder. They break out oftener.
They dress so immodestly. Yet they're less deceitful. They have no
shame. I can blind myself no longer to that. And this last is damning
proof of--of wildness. Some of them have taken the fatal step!...
Yet--yet I seem to feel somehow Bessy Bell isn't _bad_. I wonder if
my hope isn't responsible for that feeling. I'm old-fashioned. This
modern girl is beyond me. How clearly she spoke! She's a wonderful,
fearless, terrible girl. I never saw a girl so alive. I can't--can't
understand her."

In the swift swinging from one consideration of the perplexing
question to another Miss Hill's mind naturally reverted to her errand,
and to her possible reception. Mrs. Bell was a proud woman. She had
married against the wishes of her blue-blooded family, so rumor had
it, and her husband was now Chief of Police in Middleville. Mrs. Bell
had some money of her own and was slowly recovering her old position
in society.

It was not without misgivings that Miss Hill presented herself at Mrs.
Bell's door and gave her card to a servant. The teacher had often made
thankless and misunderstood calls upon the mothers of her pupils. She
was admitted and shown to a living room where a woman of fair features
and noble proportions greeted her.

"Bessy's teacher, I presume?" she queried, graciously, yet with just
that slight touch of hauteur which made Miss Hill feel her position.

"I am Bessy's teacher," she replied, with dignity. "Can you spare me a
few minutes?"

"Assuredly. Please be seated. I've heard Bessy speak of you. By the
way, the child hasn't come home yet. How late she always is!"

Miss Hill realized, with a protest at the unfairness of the situation,
that to face this elegant lady, so smiling, so suave, so worldly, so
graciously superior, and to tell her some unpleasant truths about her
daughter, was a task by no means easy, and one almost sure to prove
futile. But Miss Hill never shirked her duty, and after all, her
motive was a hope to help Bessy.

"Mrs. Bell, I've come on a matter of importance," began Miss Hill.
"But it is so delicate a one I don't know how to broach it. I believe
plain speaking best."

Here Miss Hill went into detail, sparing not to call a spade a spade.
But she held back the names of the young society gentlemen mentioned
in the notes. Miss Hill was not sure of her ground there and her
revelation was grave enough for any intelligent mother.

"Really, Miss Hill, you amaze me!" exclaimed Mrs. Bell. "Bessie has
fallen into bad company. Oh, these public schools! I never attended
one, but I've heard what they are."

"The public schools are not to blame," replied Miss Hill, bluntly.

Mrs. Bell gave her visitor a rather supercilious stare.

"May I ask you to explain?"

"I'm afraid I can't explain," replied Miss Hill, conscious of a little
heat. "I've proofs of the condition. But as I can't understand it, how
can I explain? I have my own peculiar ideas, only, lately, I've begun
to doubt them. A year or so ago I would have said girls had their own
way too much--too much time to themselves--too much freedom. But now I
seem to feel life isn't like what it was a few years ago. Girls are
bound to learn. And they never learn at home, that's sure. The last
thing a mother will do is to tell her daughter what she _ought_ to
know. There's always been a shadow between most mothers and daughters.
And in these days of jazz it has become a wall. Perhaps that's why
girls don't confide in their mothers.... Mrs. Bell, I considered it my
duty to acquaint you with the truth about these verses and notes, and
what they imply. Would you care to read some of them?"

"Thank you, but they wouldn't interest me in the least," replied Mrs.
Bell, coldly. "I wouldn't insult Bessy or her girl friends. I imagine
it's all some risque suggestion overheard and made much of or a few
verses mischievously plagiarized. I'm no prude, Miss Hill. I know
enough not to be strict, which is apparently the fault of the school
system. As for my own daughter I understand her perfectly and trust
her implicitly. I know the blood in her. And I shall remove her from
public school and place her in a private institution under a tutor,
where she'll no longer be exposed to contaminating influences.... I
thank you for your intention, which I'm sure is kind--and, will you
please excuse me? I must dress for my bridge party. Good afternoon,
Miss Hill."

The schoolteacher plodded homeward, her eyes downcast and sad. The
snub given her by the mother had not hurt her as had the failure to
help the daughter.

"I knew it--I knew it. I'll never try again. That woman's mind is a
wilderness where her girl is concerned. How brainless these mothers
are!... Yet if I'd ever had a girl--I wonder--would I have been blind?
One's own blood--that must be the reason. Pride. Could I have believed
of _my_ girl what I admitted of hers? Perhaps not till too late. That
would be so human. But, oh! the mystery--the sadness of it--the
fatality!"

Rose Clymer left the High School with the settled, indifferent
bitterness of one used to trouble. Every desire she followed, turn
what way she would, every impulse reaching to grasp some girlish gleam
of happiness, resulted in the inevitable rebuke. And this time it had
been disgrace. But Rose felt she did not care if she could only
deceive her father. No cheerful task was it to face him. Shivering at
the thought she resolved to elude the punishment he was sure to
inflict if he learned why she had been expelled.

She had no twinge of conscience. She was used to slights and
unkindness, and did not now reflect upon the justice of her dismissal.
What little pleasure she got came from friendships with boys, and
these her father had forbidden her to have. In the bitter web of her
thought ran the threads that if she had pretty clothes like Helen, and
a rich mother like Bessy, and a father who was not a drunkard, her lot
in life would have been happy.

Rose lived with her stepfather in three dingy rooms in the mill
section of Middleville. She never left the wide avenues and lawns and
stately residences, which she had to pass on her way to and from
school, without contrasting them with the dirty alleys and grimy walls
and squalid quarters of the working-class. She had grown up in that
class, but in her mind there was always a faint vague recollection of
a time when her surroundings had been bright and cheerful, where there
had been a mother who had taught her to love beautiful things. To-day
she climbed the rickety stairs to her home and pushed open the
latchless door with a revolt brooding in her mind.

A man in his shirt sleeves sat by the little window.

"Why father--home so early?" she asked.

"Yes lass, home early," he replied wearily. "I'm losing my place
again."

He had straggling gray hair, bleared eyes with an opaque, glazy look
and a bluish cast of countenance. His chin was buried in the collar of
his open shirt; his shoulders sagged, and he breathed heavily.

One glance assured Rose her father was not very much under the
influence of drink. And fear left her. When even half-sober he was
kind.

"So you've lost your place?" she asked.

"Yes. Old Swann is layin' off."

This was an untruth, Rose knew, because the mills had never been so
full, and men never so in demand. Besides her father was an expert at
his trade and could always have work.

"I'm sorry," she said, slowly. "I've been thinking lately that I'll
give up school and go to work. In an office uptown or a department
store."

"Rose, that'd be good of you," he replied. "You could help along a
lot. I don't do my work so well no more. But your poor mother won't
rest in her grave. She was so proud of you, always dreamin'."

The lamp Rose lighted showed comfortless rooms, with but few articles
of furniture. It was with the deft fingers of long practice that the
girl spread the faded table-cloth, laid the dishes, ground the coffee,
peeled the potatoes, and cut the bread. Then presently she called her
father to the meal. He ate in silence, having relapsed once more into
the dull gloom natural to him. When he had finished he took up his hat
and with slow steps left the room.

"No more study for me," mused Rose, and she felt both glad and sorry.
"What will Bessy say? She won't like it. I wonder what old Hill did to
her. Let her off easy. I won't get to see Bessy so much now. No more
afternoons in the park. But I'll have the evenings. Best of all, some
nice clothes to wear. I might some day have a lovely gown like that
Miss Maynard wore the night of the Prom."

Rose washed and dried the dishes, put them away, and cleaned up the
little kitchen in a way that spoke well for her. And she did it
cheerfully, for in the interest of this new idea of work she forgot
her trouble and discontent. Taking up the lamp she went to her room.
It contained a narrow bed, a bureau, a small wardrobe and a rug. The
walls held several pictures, and some touches of color in the way of
ribbons, bright posters, and an orange-and-blue banner. A photograph
of Bessy Bell stood on the bureau and the girl's beauty seemed like a
light in the dingy room.

Rose looked in the mirror and smiled and tossed her curly head. She
studied the oval face framed in its mass of curls, the steady
gray-blue eyes, the soft, wistful, tenderly curved lips. "Yes, I'm
pretty," she said. "And I'm going to buy nice things to wear."

Suddenly she heard a pattering on the roof.

"Rain! What do you know about that? I've got to stay in. If I spoil
that relic of a hat I'll never have the nerve to go ask for a job."

She prepared for bed, and placing the lamp on the edge of the bureau,
she lay down to become absorbed in a paper-backed novel. The
mill-clock was striking ten when she finished. There was a dreamy
light in her eyes and a glow upon her face.

"How grand to be as beautiful as she was and turn out to be an heiress
with blue blood, and a lovely mother, and handsome lovers dying for
her!"

Then she flung the novel against the wall.

"It's only a book. It's not true."

Rose blew out the lamp and went to sleep.

During the night she dreamed that the principal of the High School had
called to see her father, and she awoke trembling.

The room was dark as pitch; the rain pattered on the roof; the wind
moaned softly under the eaves. A rat somewhere in the wall made a
creaking noise. Rose hated to awaken in the middle of the night. She
listened for her father's breathing, and failing to hear it, knew he
had not yet come home. Often she was left alone until dawn. She tried
bravely to go to sleep again but found it impossible; she lay there
listening, sensitive to every little sound. The silence was almost
more dreadful than the stealthy unknown noises of the night. Vague
shapes seemed to hover over her bed. Somehow to-night she dreaded them
more. She was sixteen years old, yet there abided with her the terror
of the child in the dark.

She cried out in her heart--why was she alone? It was so dark, so
silent. Mother! Mother!... She would never--never say her prayers
again!

The brazen-tongued mill clock clanged the hour of two, when shuffling
uncertain footsteps sounded on the hollow stairs. Rose raised her head
to listen. With slow, weary, dragging steps her father came in. Then
she lay back on the pillow with a sigh of relief.

CHAPTER X

In the following week Rose learned that work was not to be had for the
asking. Her love of pretty things and a desire to be independent of
her father had occupied her mind to the exclusion of a consideration
of what might be demanded of a girl seeking a position. She had no
knowledge of stenography or bookkeeping; her handwriting was poor.
Moreover, references from former employers were required and as she
had never been employed, she was asked for recommendations from the
principal of her school. These, of course, she could not supply. The
stores of the better class had nothing to offer her except to put her
name on the waiting-list.

Finally Rose secured a place in a second-rate establishment on Main
Street. The work was hard; it necessitated long hours and continual
standing on her feet. Rose was not rugged enough to accustom herself
to the work all at once, and she was discharged. This disheartened
her, but she kept on trying to find other employment.

One day in the shopping district, some one accosted her. She looked up
to see a young man, slim, elegant, with a curl of his lips she
remembered. He raised his hat.

"How do you do, Mr. Swann," she answered.

"Rose, are you on the way home?"

"Yes."

"Let's go down this side street," he said, throwing away his
cigarette. "I've been looking for you."

They turned the corner. Rose felt strange to be walking alone with
him, but she was not embarrassed. He had danced with her once. And she
knew his friend Hardy Mackay.

"What're you crying about?" he said.

"I'm not."

"You have been then. What for?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Come, tell me."

"I--I've been disappointed."

"What about?" He was persistent, and Rose felt that he must be used to
having his own way.

"It was about a job I didn't get," replied Rose, trying to laugh.

"So you're looking for a job. Heard you'd been fired by old Hill. Gail
told me. I had her out last night in my new car."

"I could go back to school. Miss Hill sent for me.... Was Bessy with
you and Gail?"

"No. Gail and I were alone. We had a dandy time.... Rose, will you
meet me some night and take a ride? It'll be fine and cool."

"Thank you, Mr. Swann. It's very kind of you to ask me."

"Well, will you go?" he queried, impatiently.

"No," she replied, simply.

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"Well, that's plain enough," he said, changing his tone. "Say, Rose,
you're in Clark's store, aren't you?"

"I was. But I lost the place."

"How's that?"

"I couldn't stand on my feet all day. I fainted. Then he fired me."

"So you're hunting for another job?" inquired Swann, thoughtfully.

"Yes."

"Sorry. It's too bad a sweet kid like you has to work. You're not
strong, Rose.... Well, I'll turn off at this corner. You won't meet me
to-night?"

"No, thanks."

Swann pulled a gold case from his pocket, and extracting a cigarette,
tilted it in his lips as he struck a match. His face wore a careless
smile Rose did not like. He was amiable, but he seemed so sure, so
satisfied, almost as if he believed she would change her mind.

"Rose, you're turning me down cold, then?"

"Take it any way you like, Mr. Swann," she replied. "Good day."

Rose forgot him almost the instant her back was turned. He had only
annoyed her. And she had her stepfather to face, with news of her
discharge from the store. Her fears were verified; he treated her
brutally. Next day Rose went to work in a laundry.

And then, very soon it seemed, her school days, the merry times with
the boys, and Bessy--all were far back in the past. She did not meet
any one who knew her, nor hear from any one. They had forgotten her.
At night, after coming home from the laundry and doing the housework,
she was so tired that she was glad to crawl into bed.

But one night a boy brought her a note. It was from Dick Swann. He
asked her to go to Mendleson's Hall to see the moving-pictures. She
could meet him uptown at the entrance. Rose told the boy to tell Swann
she would not come.

This invitation made her thoughtful. If Swann had been ashamed to be
seen with her he would not have invited her to go there. Mendleson's
was a nice place; all the nice people of Middleville went there. Rose
found herself thinking of the lights, the music, the well-dressed
crowd, and then the pictures. She loved moving-pictures, especially
those with swift horses and cowboys and a girl who could ride. All at
once a wave of the old thrilling excitement rushed over her. Almost
she regretted having sent back a refusal. But she would not go with
Swann. And it was not because she knew what kind of a young man he
was--what he wanted. Rose refused from dislike, not scruples.

Then came a Saturday night which seemed a climax of her troubles. She
was told not to come back to work until further notice, and that was
as bad as being discharged. How could she tell her stepfather? Of late
he had been hard with her. She dared not tell him. The money she
earned was little enough, but during his idleness it had served to
keep them.

Rose had scarcely gone a block when she encountered Dick Swann. He
stopped her--turned to walk with her. It was a melancholy gift of
Rose's that she could tell when men were even in the slightest under
the influence of drink. Swann was not careless now or indifferent. He
seemed excited and gay.

"Rose, you're just the girl I'm looking for," he said. "I really was
going to your home. Got that job yet?"

"No," she replied.

"I've got one for you. It's at the Telephone Exchange. They need an
operator. My dad owns the telephone company. I've got a pull. I'll get
you the place. You can learn it easy. Nice job--short hours--you sit
down all the time--good pay. What do you say, Rose?"

"I--I don't know--what to say," she faltered. "Thanks for thinking of
me."

"I've had you in mind for a month. Rose, you take this job. Take it
whether you've any use for me or not. I'm not rotten enough to put
this in your way just to make you under obligations to me."

"I'll think about it. I--I do need a place. My father's out of work.
And he's--he's not easy to get along with."

"I tell you what, Rose. You meet me to-night. We'll take a spin in my
car. It'll be fine down the river road. Then we can talk it over. Will
you?"

Rose looked at him, and thought how strange it was that she did not
like him any better, now when she ought to.

"Why have you tried to--to rush me?" she asked.

"I like you, Rose."

"But you don't want me to meet you--go with you, when I--I can't feel
as you do?"

"Sure, I want you to, Rose. Nobody ever likes me right off. Maybe you
will, after you know me. The job is yours. Don't make any date with me
for that. I say here's your chance to have a ride, to win a friend.
Take it or not. It's up to you. I won't say another word."

Rose's hungry, lonely heart warmed toward Swann. He seemed like a ray
of light in the gloom.

"I'll meet you," she said.

They arranged the hour and then she went on her way home.

The big car sped through River Park. Rose shivered a little as she
peered into the darkness of the grove. Then the car shot under the
last electric light, out into the country, with the level road white
in the moonlight, and the river gleaming below. There was a steady,
even rush of wind. The car hummed and droned and sang. And mingled
with the dry scent of dust was the sweet fragrance of new-mown hay.
Far off a light twinkled or it might have been a star.

Swann put his arm around Rose. She did not shrink--she did not repulse
him--she did not move. Something strange happened in her mind or
heart. It was that moment she fell.

And she fell wide-eyed, knowing what she was doing, not in a fervor of
excitement, without pleasure or passion, bitterly sure that it was
better to be with some one she could not like than to be alone
forever. The wrong to herself lay only in the fact that she could not
care.

CHAPTER XI

Toward the end of June, Lane's long vigil of watchfulness from the
vantage-point at Colonel Pepper's apartment resulted in a confirmation
of his worst fears.

One afternoon and evening of a warm, close day in early summer he lay
and crouched on the attic floor above the club-rooms from three
o'clock until one the next morning. From time to time he had changed
his position to rest. But at the expiration of that protracted period
of spying he was so exhausted from the physical strain and mental
shock that he was unable to go home. All the rest of the night he lay
upon Colonel Pepper's couch, wide awake, consumed by pain and
distress. About daylight he fell into a sleep, fitful and full of
nightmares, to be awakened around nine o'clock by Pepper. The old
gambler evinced considerable alarm until Lane explained how he
happened to be there; and then his feeling changed to solicitude.

"Lane, you look awful," he said.

"If I look the way I feel it's no wonder you're shocked," returned
Lane.

"Ahuh! What'd you see?" queried the other, curiously.

"When?"

"Why, you numskull, while you were peepin' all that time."

Lane sombrely shook his head. "I couldn't tell--what I saw. I want to
forget.... Maybe in twenty-four hours I'll believe it was a
nightmare."

"Humph! Well, I'm here to tell you what _I've_ seen wasn't any
nightmare," returned Pepper, with his shrewd gaze on Lane. "But we
needn't discuss that. If it made an old bum like me sick what might
not it do to a sensitive high-minded chap like you.... The question is
are you going to bust up that club."

"I am," declared Lane, grimly.

"Good! But how--when? What's the sense in lettin' them carry on any
longer?"

"I had to fight myself last night to keep from breaking in on them....
But I want to catch this fellow Swann with my sister. She wasn't
there."

"Lane, don't wait for that," returned Pepper, nervously. "You might
never catch him.... And if you did...."

His little plump well-cared-for hand shook as he extended it.

"I don't know what I'll do.... I don't know," said Lane, darkly, more
to himself.

"Lane, this--this worry will knock you out."

"No matter. All I ask is to stand up--long enough--to do what I want
to do."

"Go home and get some breakfast--and take care of yourself," replied
Pepper, gruffly. "Damn me if I'm not sorry I gave Swann's secret
away."

"Oh no, you're not," said Lane, quickly. "But I'd have found it out by
this time."

Pepper paced up and down the faded carpet, his hands behind his back,
a plodding, burdened figure.

"Have you any--doubts left?" he asked, suddenly.

"Doubts!" echoed Lane, vaguely.

"Yes--doubts. You're like most of these mothers and fathers.... You
couldn't believe. You made excuses for the smoke--saying there was no
fire."

"No more doubts, alas!... My God! I _saw_," burst out Lane.

"All right. Buck up now. It's something to be sure.... You've overdone
your strength. You look...."

"Pepper, do me a favor," interposed Lane, as he made for the door.
"Get me an axe and leave it here in your rooms. In case I want to
break in on those fellows some time--quick--I'll have it ready."

"Sure, I'll get you anything. And I want to be around when you butt in
on them."

"That's up to you. Good-bye now. I'll run in to-morrow if I'm up to
it."

Lane went home, his mind in a tumult. His mother had just discovered
that he had not slept in his bed, and was greatly relieved to see him.
Breakfast was waiting, and after partaking of it Lane felt somewhat
better. His mother appeared more than usually sombre. Worry was
killing her.

"Lorna did not sleep at home last night," she said, presently, as if
reluctantly forced to impart this information.

"Where was she?" he queried, blankly.

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