The Day of the Beast by Zane Grey

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"No, no, no! Daren, don't, I beg of you--don't talk to me this way,"
she besought him.

"Mel, it's a difference of opinion that makes arguments, wars and
other things," he said, with a cruelty in strange antithesis to the
pity and tenderness he likewise felt. He could hurt her. He had power
over her. What a pang shot through his heart! There would be an
irresistible delight in playing on the emotions of this woman. He
could no more help it than the shame that surged over him at
consciousness of his littleness. He already loved her, she was all he
had left to love, he would end in a day or a week or a month by
worshipping her. Through her he was going to suffer. Peace would now
never abide in his soul.

"Daren, you were never like this--as a boy," she said, in wondering
distress.

"Like what?"

"You're hard. You used to be so--so gentle and nice."

"Hard! I? Yes, Mel, perhaps I am--hard as war, hard as modern life,
hard as my old friends, my little sister----" he broke off.

"Daren, do not mock me," she entreated. "I should not have said hard.
But you're strange to me--a something terrible flashes from you. Yet
it's only in glimpses.... Forgive me, Daren, I didn't mean hard."

Lane drew her down upon the couch so that she faced him, and he did
not release her hand.

"Mel, I'm softer than a jelly-fish," he said. "I've no bone, no fiber,
no stamina, no substance. I'm more unstable than water. I'm so soft
I'm weak. I can't stand pain. I lie awake in the dead hours of night
and I cry like a baby, like a fool. I weep for myself, for my mother,
for Lorna, for _you_...."

"Hush!" She put a soft hand over his lips.

"Very well, I'll not be bitter," he went on, with mounting pulse,
with thrill and rush of inexplicable feeling, as if at last had come
the person who would not be deaf to his voice. "Mel, I'm still the
boy, your schoolmate, who used to pull the bow off your braid.... I am
that boy still in heart, with all the war upon my head, with the years
between then and now. I'm young and old.... I've lived the whole
gamut--the fresh call of war to youth, glorious, but God! as false as
stairs of sand--the change of blood, hard, long, brutal, debasing
labor of hands, of body, of mind to learn to kill--to survive and
kill--and go on to kill.... I've seen the marching of thousands of
soldiers--the long strange tramp, tramp, tramp, the beat, beat, beat,
the roll of drums, the call of bugles, the boom of cannon in the dark,
the lightnings of hell flaring across the midnight skies, the thunder
and chaos and torture and death and pestilence and decay--the hell of
war. It is not sublime. There is no glory. The sublimity is in man's
acceptance of war, not for hate or gain, but love. Love of country,
home, family--love of women--I fought for women--for Helen, whom I
imagined my ideal, breaking her heart over me on the battlefield. Not
that Helen failed _me_, but failed the ideal for which I fought!... My
little sister Lorna! I fought for her, and I fought for a dream that
existed only in my heart. Lorna--Alas!... I fought for other women,
all women--and _you_, Mel Iden. And in you, in your sacrifice and your
strength to endure, I find something healing to my sore heart. I find
my ideal embodied in you. I find hope and faith for the future
embodied in you. I find--"

"Oh Daren, you shame me utterly," she protested, freeing her hands in
gesture of entreaty. "I am outcast."

"To a false and rotten society, yes--you are," he returned. "But Mel,
that society is a mass of maggots. It is such women as you, such men
as Blair, who carry the spirit onward.... So much for that. I have
spoken to try to show you where I hold you. I do not call your--your
trouble a blunder, or downfall, or dishonor. I call it a misfortune
because--because--"

"Because there was not love," she supplemented, as he halted at fault.
"Yes, that is where I wronged myself, my soul. I obeyed nature and
nature is strong, raw, inevitable. She seeks only her end, which is
concerned with the species. For nature the individual perishes. Nature
cannot be God. For God has created a soul in woman. And through the
ages woman has advanced to hold her womanhood sacred. But ever the
primitive lurks in the blood, and the primitive is nature. Soul and
nature are not compatible. A woman's soul sanctions only love. That is
the only progress there ever was in life. Nature and war made me
traitor to my soul."

"Yes, yes, Mel, it's true--and cruel, what you say," returned Lane.
"All the more reason why you should do what I ask. I am home after the
war. All that was vain _is_ vain. I forget it when I can. I have--not
a great while left. There are a few things even I can do before that
time. One of them--the biggest to me--concerns you. You are in
trouble. You have a boy who can be spared much unhappiness in life.
If you were married--if the boy had my name--how different the
future! Perhaps there can be some measure of happiness for you. For
him there is every hope. You will leave Middleville. You will go far
away somewhere. You are young. You have a good education. You can
teach school, or help your parents while the boy is growing up. Time
is kind. You will forget.... Marry me, Mel, for his sake."

She had both hands pressed to her breast as if to stay an
uncontrollable feeling. Her eyes, dilated and wide, expressed a
blending of emotions.

"No, no, no!" she cried.

Lane went on just the same with other words, in other vein,
reiterating the same importunity. It was a tragic game, in which he
divined he must lose. But the playing of it had inexplicably
bitter-sweet pain. He knew now that Mel loved him. No greater proof
needed he than the perception of her reaction to one word on his
lips--wife. She quivered to that like a tautly strung lyre touched by
a skilful hand. It fascinated her. But the temptation to accept his
offer for the sake of her boy's future was counteracted by the very
strength of her feeling for Lane. She would not marry him, because she
loved him.

Lane read this truth, and it wrung a deeper reverence from him. And he
saw, too, the one way in which he could break her spirit, make her
surrender, if he could stoop to it. If he could take her in his arms,
and hold her tight, and kiss her dumb and blind, and make her
understand his own love for her, his need of her, she would accede
with the wondrous generosity of a woman's heart. But he could not do
it.

In the end, out of sheer pity that overcame the strange delight he had
in torturing her, he desisted in his appeals and demands and subtle
arguments. The long strain left him spent. And with the sudden
let-down of his energy, the surrender to her stronger will, he fell
prey at once to the sadness that more and more was encompassing him.
He felt an old and broken man.

To this sudden change in Lane Mel responded with mute anxiety and
fear. The alteration of his spirit stunned her. As he bade her
good-bye she clung to him.

"Daren, forgive me," she implored. "You don't understand.... Oh, it's
hard."

"Never mind, Mel. I guess it was just one of my dreams. Don't cry....
Good-bye."

"But you'll come again?" she entreated, almost wildly.

Lane shook his head. He did not trust himself to look at her then.

"Daren, you can't mean that," she cried. "It's too late for me.
I--I--Oh! You.... To uplift me--then to cast me down! Daren, come
back."

In his heart he did not deny that cry of hers. He knew he would come
back, knew it with stinging shame, but he could not tell her. It had
all turned out so differently from what he had dreamed. If he had not
loved her he would not have felt defeat. To have made her his wife
would have been to protect her, to possess her even after he was
dead.

At the last she let him go. He felt her watching him, and he carried
her lingering clasp away with him, to burn and to thrill and to haunt,
and yet to comfort him in lonely hours.

But the next day the old spirit resurged anew, and unreconciled to
defeat, he turned to what was left him. Foolish and futile hopes! To
bank on the single grain of good in his wayward sister's heart! To
trust the might of his spirit--to beat down the influence of an
intolerant and depraved young millionaire--verily he was mad. Yet he
believed. And as a final resort he held death in his hand. Richard
Swann swaggered by Lane that night in the billiard room of the
Bradford Inn and stared sneeringly at him.

"I've got a date," he gayly said to his sycophantic friends, in a tone
that would reach Lane's ears.

The summer night came when Lane drove a hired car out the river road,
keeping ever in sight a red light in front of him. He broke the law
and endangered his life by traveling with darkened lamps.

There was a crescent moon, clear and exquisitely delicate in the
darkening blue sky. The gleaming river shone winding away under the
dusky wooded hills. The white road stretched ahead, dimming in the
distance. A night for romance and love--for a maiden at a stile and a
lover who hung rapt and humble upon her whispers! But that red eye
before him held no romance. It leered as the luxurious sedan swayed
from side to side, a diabolical thing with speed.

Lane was driving out the state highway, mile after mile. He calculated
that in less than ten minutes Swann had taken a girl from a bustling
corner of Middleville out into the open country. In pleasant weather,
when the roads were good, cars like Swann's swerved off into the
bypaths, into the edge of woods. In bad weather they parked along the
highway, darkened their lights and pulled their blinds. For this,
great factories turned out automobiles. And there might have pealed
out to a nation, and to God, the dolorous cry of a hundred thousand
ruined girls! But who would hear? And on the lips of girls of the
present there was only the wild cry for excitement, for the nameless
and unknown! There was a girl in Swann's car and Lane believed it was
his sister. Night after night he had watched. Once he had actually
seen Lorna ride off with Swann. And to-night from a vantage point
under the maples, when he had a car ready to follow, he had made sure
he had seen them again.

The red eye squared off at right angles to the highway, and
disappeared. Lane came to a byroad, a lane lined with trees. He
stopped his car and got out. It did not appear that he would have to
walk far. And he was right, for presently a black object loomed
against the gray obscurity. It was an automobile, without lights, in
the shadow of trees.

Lane halted. He carried a flash-light in his left hand, his gun in his
right. For a moment he deliberated. This being abroad in the dark on
an errand fraught with peril for some one had a familiar and deadly
tang. He was at home in this atmosphere. Hell itself had yawned at
his feet many and many a time. He was a different man here. He
deliberated because it was wise to forestall events. He did not want
to kill Swann then, unless in self-defense. He waited until that
peculiarly quick and tight and cold settling of his nerves told of
brain control over heart. Yet he was conscious of subdued hate, of a
righteous and terrible wrath held in abeyance for the sake of his
sister's name. And he regretted that he had imperiously demanded of
himself this assurance of Lorna's wantonness.

Then he stole forward, closer and closer. He heard a low voice of
dalliance, a titter, high-pitched and sweet--sweet and wild. That was
not Lorna's laugh. The car was not Swann's.

Lane swerved to the left, and in the gloom of trees, passed by
noiselessly. Soon he encountered another car--an open car with shields
up--as silent as if empty. But the very silence of it was potent of
life. It cried out to the night and to Lane. But it was not the car he
had followed.

Again he slipped by, stealthily, yet scornful of his caution. Who
cared? He might have shouted his mission to the heavens. Lane passed
on. All he caught from the second car was a faint fragrance of smoke,
wafted on the gentle summer breeze.

Another black object loomed up--a larger car--the sedan Lane
recognized. He did not bolt or hurry. His footsteps made no sound.
Crouching a little he slipped round the car to one side. At the
instant he reached for the handle of the door, a pang shook him. Alas,
that he should be compelled to spy on Lorna! His little sister! He
saw her as a curly-headed child, adoring him. Perhaps it might not be
Lorna after all. But it was for her sake that he was doing this. The
softer moment passed and the soldier intervened.

With one swift turn and jerk he opened the door--then flashed his
light. A scream rent the air. In the glaring circle of light Lane saw
red hair--green eyes transfixed in fear--white shoulders--white
arms--white ringed hands suddenly flung upward. Helen! The blood left
his heart in a rush. Swann blinked in the light, bewildered and
startled.

"Swann, you'll have to excuse me," said Lane, coolly. "I thought you
had my sister with you. I've spotted her twice with you in this
car.... It may not interest you or your--your guest, but I'll add that
you're damned lucky not to have Lorna here to-night."

Then he snapped off his flash-light, and slamming the car door, he
wheeled away.

CHAPTER XIII

Lane left his room and went into the shady woods, where he thought the
July heat would be less unendurable, where the fever in his blood
might abate. But though it was cool and pleasant there he experienced
no relief. Wherever he went he carried the burden of his pangs. And
his grim giant of unrest trod in his shadow.

He could not stay long in the woods. He betook himself to the hills
and meadows. Action was beneficial for him, though he soon exhausted
himself. He would have liked to fight out his battle that day. Should
he go on spending his days and nights in a slowly increasing torment?
The longer he fought the less chance he had of victory. Victory! There
could be none. What victory could be won over a strange ineradicable
susceptibility to the sweetness, charm, mystery of a woman? He plodded
the fragrant fields with bent head, in despair. Loneliness hurt him as
much as anything. And a new pang, the fiercest and most insupportable,
had been added to his miseries. Jealousy! Thought of the father of Mel
Iden's child haunted him, flayed him, made him feel himself ignoble
and base. There was no help for that. And this fiend of jealousy added
fuel to his love. Only long passionate iteration of his assurance of
principle and generosity subdued that frenzy and at length gave him
composure. Perhaps this had some semblance to victory.

Lane returned to town weaker in one way than when he had left, yet
stronger in another. Upon the outskirts of Middleville he crossed the
river road and sat down upon a stone wall. The afternoon was far spent
and the sun blazing red. Lane wiped his moist face and fanned himself
with his hat. Behind him the shade of a wooded garden or park looked
inviting. Back in the foliage he espied the vine-covered roof of an
old summer house.

A fresh young voice burst upon his meditations. "Hello, Daren Lane."

Lane turned in surprise to behold a girl in white, standing in the
shade of trees beyond the wall. Somewhere he had seen that beautiful
golden head, the dark blue, almost purple eyes.

"Good afternoon. You startled me," said Lane.

"I called you twice."

"Indeed? I beg pardon. I didn't hear."

"Don't you remember me?" Her tone was one of pique and doubt.

Then he remembered her. "Oh, of course. Bessy Bell! You must forgive
me. I've been ill and upset lately. These bad spells of mine magnify
time. It seems long since the Junior Prom."

"Oh, you're ill," she returned, compassionately. "You do look pale
and--won't you come in? It's dusty and hot there. Come. I'll take you
where it's nice and cool."

"Thank you. I'll be glad to."

She led him to a green, fragrant nook, where a bench with cushions
stood half-hidden under heavy foliage. Lane caught a glimpse of a
winding flagged path, and in the distance a cottage among the trees.

"Bessy, do you live here?" he asked. "It's pretty."

"Yes, this is my home. It's too damn far from town, I'll say. I'm
buried alive," she replied, passionately.

The bald speech struck Lane forcibly. All at once he remembered Bessy
Bell and his former interest. She was a type of the heretofore
inexplicable modern girl. Lane looked at her, seeing her suddenly with
a clearer vision. Bessy Bell had a physical perfection, a loveliness
that needed neither spirit nor animation. But life had given this girl
so much more than beauty. A softness of light seemed to shine round
her golden head; smiles played in secret behind her red lips ready to
break forth, and there was a haunting hint of a dimple in her round
cheek; on her lay the sweetness of youth subtly dawning into
womanhood; the flashing eyes were keen with intellect, with fire, full
of promise and mystic charm; and her beautiful, supple body, so
plainly visible, seemed quivering with sheer, restless joy of movement
and feeling. A trace of artificial color on her face and the
indelicacy of her dress but slightly counteracted Lane's first
impression.

"You promised to call me up and make a date," she said, and sat down
close to him.

"Yes. I meant it too. But Bessy, I was ill, and then I forgot. You
didn't miss much."

"Hot dog! Hear the man. Daren, I'd throw the whole bunch down to be
with you," she exclaimed.

At the end of that speech she paled slightly and her breath came
quickly. She looked bold, provocative, expectant, yet sincere. Child
or woman, she had to be taken seriously. Here indeed was the mystery
that had baffled Lane. He realized his opportunity, like a flash all
his former thought and conjecture about this girl returned to him.

"You would. Well, I'm highly flattered. Why, may I ask?"

"Because I've fallen for you," she replied, leaning close to him.
"That's the main reason, I guess.... But another is, I want you to
tell me all about yourself--in the war, you know."

"I'd be glad to--if we get to be real friends," he said, thoughtfully.
"I don't understand you."

"And I'll say I don't just get you," she retorted. "What do you want?
Have you forgotten the silver platter?"

She turned away with a restless quivering. She had shown no shyness.
She was bold, intense, absolutely without fear; and however
stimulating or attractive the situation evidently was, it was neither
new nor novel to her. Some strange leaven worked deep in her. Lane
could put no other interpretation on her words and actions than that
she expected him to kiss her.

"Bessy Bell, look at me," said Lane, earnestly. "You've said a
mouthful, as the slang word goes. I'm sort of surprised, you remember.
Bessy, you're not a girl whose head is full of excelsior. You've got
brains. You can think.... Now, if you really like me--and I believe
you--try to understand this. I've been away so long. All is changed. I
don't know how to take girls. I'm ill--and unhappy. But if I could be
your friend and could help you a little--please you--why it'd be good
for me."

"Daren, they tell me you're going to die," she returned, breathlessly.
Her glance was brooding, dark, pregnant with purple fire.

"Bessy, don't believe all you hear. I'm not--not so far gone yet."

"They say you're game, too."

"I hope so, Bessy."

"Oh, you make me think. You must believe me a pill. I wanted you
to--to fall for me hard.... That bunch of sapheads have spoiled me,
I'll say. Daren, I'm sick of them. All they want to do is mush. I like
tennis, riding, golf. I want to do things. But it's too hot, or this,
or that. Yet they'll break their necks to carry a girl off to some
roadhouse, and dance--dance till you're melted. Then they stop along
the river to go bathing. I've been twice. You see, I have to sneak
away, or lie to mother and say I've gone to Gail's or somewhere."

"Bathing, at night?" queried Lane, curiously.

"Sure thing. It's spiffy, in the dark."

"Of course you took your bathing suits?"

"Hot dog! That would be telling."

Lane dropped his head and studied the dust at his feet. His heart beat
thick and heavy. Through this girl the truth was going to be revealed
to him. It seemed on the moment that he could not look into her eyes.
She scattered his wits. He tried to erase from his mind every
impression of her, so that he might begin anew to understand her. And
the very first, succeeding this erasure, was a singular idea that she
was the opposite of romantic.

"Bessy, can you understand that it is hard for a soldier to talk of
what has happened to him?"

"I'll say I can," she replied.

"You're sorry for me?" he went on, gently.

"Sorry!... Give me a chance to prove what I am, Daren Lane."

"Very well, then. I will. We'll make a fifty-fifty bargain. Do you
regard a promise sacred?"

"I think I do. Some of the girls quarrel with me because I get sore,
and swear they're not square, as I try to be. I hate a liar and a
quitter."

"Come then--shake hands on our bargain."

She seemed thrilled, excited. The clasp of her little hand showed
force of character. She looked wonderingly up at him. Her appeal then
was one of exquisite youth and beauty. Something of the baffling
suggestion of an amorous expectation and response left her. This child
would give what she received.

"First, then, it's for me to know a lot about you," went on Lane.
"Will you tell me?"

"Sure. I'd trust you with anything," she replied, impulsively.

"How long have you been going with boys?"

"Oh, for two years, I guess. I had a passionate love affair when I was
thirteen," she replied, with the nonchalance and sophistication of
experience.

It was impossible for Lane to take this latter remark for anything but
the glib boldness of an erotic child. But he was not making any
assurances to himself that he was right. Bessy Bell was fifteen years
old, according to time. But she had the physical development of
eighteen, and a mental range beyond his ken. The lawlessness unleashed
by the war seemed embodied in this girl.

"With an older boy?" queried Lane.

"No. He was a kid of my own age. I guess I outgrew Ted," she replied,
dreamily. "But he still tries to rush me."

"With whom do you go to the secret club-rooms--above White's ice cream
parlor?" asked Lane, abruptly.

Bessy never flicked an eyelash. "Hot dog! So you're wise to that? I
thought it was a secret. I told Rose Clymer those fellows weren't on
the level. Who told you I was there? Your sister Lorna?"

"No. No one told me. Never mind that. Who took you there? You needn't
be afraid to trust _me_. I'm going to entrust my secrets to you by and
bye."

"I went with Roy Vancey, the boy who was with me at Helen's the day I
met you."

"Bessy, how often have you been to those club-rooms?"

"Three times."

"Were you ever there alone without any girls?"

"No. I had my chance. Dick Swann tried his damnedest to get me to go.
But I've no use for him."

"Why?"

"I just don't like him, Daren," she replied, evasively. "I love to
have fun. But I haven't yet been so hard up I had to go out with some
one I didn't like."

"Has Swann had my sister Lorna at the club?"

Her replies had been prompt and frank. At this sudden query she seemed
checked. Lane read in Bessy Bell then more of the truth of her than he
had yet divined. Falsehood was naturally abhorrent to her. To lie to
her parents or teachers savored of fun, and was part of the game. She
did not want to lie to Lane, but in her code she could not betray
another girl, especially to that girl's brother.

"Daren, I promised I'd tell you all about myself," she said.

"I shouldn't have asked you to give away one of your friends," he
returned. "Some other time I'll talk to you about Lorna. Tell you what
I know, and ask you to help me save her----"

"_Save_ her! What do you mean, Daren?" she interrupted, with surprise.

"Bessy, I've paid you the compliment of believing you have
intelligence. Hasn't it occurred to you that Lorna--or other of her
friends or yours--might be going straight to ruin?"

"Ruin! No, that hadn't occurred to me. I heard Doctor Wallace make a
crack like yours. Mother hauled me to church the Sunday after you
broke up Fanchon Smith's dance. Doctor Wallace didn't impress me.
These old people make me sick anyhow. They don't understand.... But
Daren, I think I get your drift. So snow some more."

All in a moment, it seemed to Lane, this girl passed from surprise to
gravity, then to contempt, and finally to humor. She was fascinating.

"To go back to the club," resumed Lane. "Bessy, what did you do
there?"

"Oh, we toddled and shimmied. Cut up! Had an immense time, I'll say."

"What do you mean by cut up?"

"Why, we just ran wild, you know. Fool stunts!... Once Roy was sore
because I kicked cigarettes out of Bob's mouth. But the boob was
tickled stiff when I kicked for _him_. Jealous! It's all right with
any one of the boys what you do for _him_. But if you do the same for
_another_ boy--good night!"

Bessy had no divination of the fact that her words for Lane had a
clarifying significance.

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