The Day of the Beast by Zane Grey

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Day of the Beast

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

Presently Lane remembered the nature of the place. It was a house of
night. In daylight it was silent; its inmates were asleep. But as the
darkness unfolded a cloak over it, all the hidden springs of its
obscure humanity began to flow. Lying there with the woman's appeal
haunting him and all those sounds in his ears he thought of their
meaning. The drunkard with his lust for money; his moaning victim; the
discordant piano; the man with the vacant laugh; the lost hope and
youth in the woman's that echoed it; the stealing, slipping feet of
those who must tread softly--all conveyed to Lane that he had awakened
in another world, a world which shunned sunlight.

Toward morning he dozed off into a fitful sleep which lasted until ten
o'clock when he arose and dressed. As he was about to go out a knock
on the door of the room next to his recalled the incident of the
night. He listened. Another knock followed, somewhat louder, but no
response came from within.

"Say, you in there," cried a voice Lane recognized as the landlady's.
She rattled the door-knob.

A girl's voice answered weakly: "Come in."

Lane heard the door open.

"I wants my room rent. I can't get a dollar out of your drunken
father. Will you pay? It's four weeks overdue."

"I have no money."

"Then get out an' leave me the room." The landlady spoke angrily.

"I'm ill. I can't get up." The answer was faint.

Lane opened his door quickly, and confronted the broad person of the
landlady.

"How much does the woman owe?" he asked, quietly.

"Ah-huh!" the exclamation was trenchant with meaning. "Twenty dollars,
if it's anything to you."

"I'll pay it. I think I heard the woman say she was ill."

"She says she is."

"May I be of any assistance?"

"Ask her."

Lane glanced into the little room, a counterpart of his. But it was so
dark he could see nothing distinctly.

"May I come in? Let me raise the blind. There, the sun is fine this
morning. Now, may I not---"

He looked down at a curly head and a sweet pretty face that he knew.

"I know you," he said, groping among past associations.

"I am Rose Clymer," she whispered, and a momentary color came into her
wan cheeks.

"Rose Clymer! Bessy Bell's friend!"

"Yes, Mr. Lane. I'm not so surprised as you. I recognized you last
night."

"Then it was you who passed me in the hall?"

"Yes."

"Well! And you're ill? What is the matter? Ah! Last night--it was
your--your father--I heard?"

"Yes," she answered. "I've not been well since--for a long time, and I
gave out last night."

"Here I am talking when I might be of some use," said Lane, and he
hurried out of the room. The landlady had discreetly retired to the
other end of the hall. He thrust some money into her hands.

"She seems pretty sick. Do all you can for her, be kind to her. I'll
pay. I'm going for a doctor."

He telephoned for Doctor Bronson.

An hour later Lane, coming upstairs from his meal, met the physician
at Rose's door. He looked strangely at Lane and shook his head.

"Daren, how is it I find you here in this place?"

"Beggars can't be choosers," answered Lane, with his old frank smile.

"Humph!" exclaimed the doctor, gruffly.

"How about the girl?" asked Lane.

"She's in bad shape," replied Bronson.... "Lane, are you aware of her
condition?"

"Why, she's ill--that's all I know," replied Lane, slowly. "Rose
didn't tell me what ailed her. I just found out she was here."

Doctor Bronson looked at Lane. "Too bad you didn't find out sooner.
I'll call again to-day and see her.... And say, Daren, you look all in
yourself."

"Never mind me, Doctor. It's mighty good of you to look after Rose. I
know you've more patients than you can take care of. Rose has nothing
and her father's a poor devil. But I'll pay you."

"Never mind about money," rejoined Bronson, turning to go.

Lane could learn little from Rose. Questions seemed to make her
shrink, so Lane refrained from them and tried to cheer her. The
landlady had taken a sudden liking to Lane which evinced itself in her
change of attitude toward Rose, and she was communicative. She
informed Lane that the girl had been there about two months; that her
father had made her work till she dropped. Old Clymer had often
brought men to the hotel to drink and gamble, and to the girl's credit
she had avoided them.

For several days Doctor Bronson came twice daily to see Rose. He made
little comment upon her condition, except to state that she had
developed peritonitis, and he was not hopeful. Soon Rose took a turn
for the worse. The doctor came to Lane's room and told him the girl
would not have the strength to go through with her ordeal. Lane was so
shocked he could not speak. Dr. Bronson's shoulders sagged a little,
an unusual thing for him. "I'm sorry, Daren," he said. "I know you
wanted to help the poor girl out of this. But too late. I can ease her
pain, and that's all."

Strangely shaken and frightened Lane lay down in the dark. The
partition between his room and Rose's might as well have been paper
for all the sound it deadened. He could have escaped that, but he
wanted to be near her.... And he listened to Rose's moans in the
darkness. Lane shuddered there, helpless, suffering, realizing. Then
the foreboding silence became more dreadful than any sound.... It was
terrible for Lane. That strange cold knot in his breast, that coil of
panic, seemed to spring and tear, quivering through all his body. What
had he known of torture, of sacrifice, of divine selflessness? He
understood now how the loved and guarded woman went down into the
Valley of the Shadow for the sake of a man. Likewise, he knew the
infinite tragedy of a ruined girl who lay in agony, gripped by
relentless nature.

Lane was called into the hall by Mrs. O'Brien. She was weeping.
Bronson met him at the door.

"She's dying," he whispered. "You'd better come in. I've 'phoned to
Doctor Wallace."

Lane went in, almost blinded. The light seemed dim. Yet he saw Rose
with a luminous glow radiating from her white face.

"I feel--so light," she said, with a wan smile.

Lane sat by the bed, but he could not speak. The moments dragged. He
had a feeling of their slow but remorseless certainty.

Then there were soft steps outside--Mrs. O'Brien opened the door--and
Doctor Wallace entered the room.

"My child," he gravely began, bending over her.

Rose's big eyes with their strained questioning gaze sought his face
and Doctor Bronson's and Lane's.

"Rose--are you--in pain?"

"The burning's gone," she said.

"My child," began Doctor Wallace, again. "Your pain is almost over.
Will you not pray with me?"

"No. I never was two-faced," replied Rose, with a weary shake of the
tangled curls. "I won't show yellow now."

Lane turned away blindly. It was terrible to think of her dying
bitter, unrepentant.

"Oh! if I could hope!" murmured Rose. "To see my mother!"

Then there were shuffling steps outside and voices. The door was
opened by Mrs. O'Brien. Old Clymer crossed the threshold. He was
sober, haggard, grieved. He had been told. No one spoke as he
approached Rose's bedside.

"Lass--lass--" he began, brokenly.

Then he sought from the men confirmation of a fear borne by a glance
into Rose's white still face. And silence answered him.

"Lass, if you're goin'--tell me--who was to blame?"

"No one--but myself--father," she replied.

"Tell me, who was to blame?" demanded Clymer, harshly.

Her pale lips curled a little bitterly, and suddenly, as a change
seemed to come over her, they set that way. She looked up at Lane with
a different light in her eyes. Then she turned her face to the wall.

Lane left the room, to pace up and down the hall outside. His thoughts
seemed deadlocked. By and bye, Doctor Bronson came out with Doctor
Wallace, who was evidently leaving.

"She is unconscious and dying," said Doctor Bronson to Lane, and then
bade the minister good-bye and returned to the room.

"How strangely bitter she was!" exclaimed Doctor Wallace to Lane. "Yet
she seemed such a frank honest girl. Her attitude was an
acknowledgment of sin. But she did not believe it herself. She seemed
to have a terrible resentment. Not against one man, or many persons,
but perhaps life itself! She was beyond me. A modern girl--a pagan!
But such a brave, loyal, generous little soul. What a pity! I find my
religion at fault because it can accomplish nothing these days."

CHAPTER XX

Lane took Rose's death to heart as if she had been his sister or
sweetheart. The exhaustion and exposure he was subjected to during
these days dragged him farther down.

One bitter February day he took refuge in the railroad station. The
old negro porter who had known Lane since he was a boy evidently read
the truth of Lane's condition, for he contrived to lead him back into
a corner of the irregular room. It was an obscure corner, rather
hidden by a supporting pillar and the projecting end of a news
counter. This seat was directly over the furnace in the cellar.
Several pipes, too hot to touch, came up through the floor. It was the
warmest place Lane had found, and he sat there for hours. He could see
the people passing to and fro through the station, arriving and
leaving on trains, without himself being seen. That afternoon was good
for him, and he went back next day.

But before he could get to the coveted seat he was accosted by Blair
Maynard. Lane winced under Blair's piercing gaze; and the haggard face
of his friend renewed Lane's deadened pangs. Lane led Blair to the
warm corner, and they sat down. It had been many weeks since they had
seen each other. Blair talked in one uninterrupted flow for an hour,
and so the life of the people Lane had given up was once again open to
him. It was like the scoring of an old wound. Then Lane told what
little there was to tell about himself. And the things he omitted
Blair divined. After that they sat silent for a while.

"Of course you knew Mel's boy died," said Blair, presently.

"Oh--No!" exclaimed Lane.

"Hadn't you heard? I thought--of course you--.... Yes, he died some
time ago. Croup or flu, I forget."

"Dead!" whispered Lane, and he leaned forward to cover his face with
his hands. He had seemed so numb to feeling. But now a storm shook
him.

"Dare, it's better for him--and Mel too," said Blair, with a hand
going to his friend's shoulder. "That idea never occurred to me until
day before yesterday when I ran into Mel. She looked--Oh, I can't tell
you how. But I got that strange impression."

"Did--did she ask about me?" queried Lane, hoarsely, as he uncovered
his face, and sat back.

"She certainly did," replied Blair, warmly. "And I lied like a
trooper. I didn't know where you were or how you were, but I pretended
you were O.K."

"And then--" asked Lane, breathlessly.

"She said, 'Tell Daren I must see him.' I promised and set out to find
you. I was pretty lucky to run into you.... And now, old sport, let me
get personal, will you?"

"Go as far as you like," replied Lane, in muffled voice.

"Well, I think Mel loves you," went on Blair, in hurried softness. "I
always thought so--even when we were kids. And now I know it.... And
Lord! Dare you just ought to see her now. She's lovely. And she's
your wife."

"What if she is--both lovely--and my wife?" queried Lane, bitterly.

"If I were you I'd go to her. I'd sure let her take care of me....
Dare, the way you're living is horrible. I have a home, such as it is.
My room is warm and clean, and I can stay in it. But you--Dare, it
hurts me to see you--as you are----"

"No!" interrupted Lane, passionately. The temptation Blair suggested
was not to be borne.

Lane met Blair the next afternoon at the station, and again on the
next. That established a habit in which both found much comfort and
some happiness. Thereafter they met every day at the same hour. Often
for long they sat silent, each occupied with his own thoughts.
Occasionally Blair would bring a package which contained food he had
ransacked from the larder at home. Together they would fall upon it
like two schoolboys. But what Lane was most grateful for was just
Blair's presence.

It was distressing then, after these meetings had extended over a
period of two weeks, to be confronted one afternoon by a new station
agent who called Blair and Lane bums and ordered them out of the
place.

Blair raised his crutch to knock the man down. But Lane intercepted
it, and got his friend out of the station. It was late afternoon with
the sun going down over the hill across the railroad yards. Blair
stood a moment bare-headed, with the light on his handsome haggard
face. How frail he seemed--too frail of body for the magnificent
spirit so flashing in his eyes, so scathing on his bitter lips. Lane
bade him good-bye and turned away, with a strange intimation that this
was the last time he would ever see Blair alive.

Wretched and desperate, Lane bought drink and took it to his room with
him. On that dark winter night he sat by the window of his room.
Insensible now to the cold, to the wind moaning outside, to the snow
whirling against the pane, he lived with phantoms. To and fro, to and
fro glided the wraith-forms, vanishing and appearing. The soft
rustling sound of the snow was the rustle of their movements. Across
the gleam of light, streaking coldly through the pane, flickering
fitfully on the wall, floated shadows and faces.

He did not know when he succumbed to drowsy weakness. But he awoke at
daylight, lying on the floor, stiff with cold. Drink helped him to
drag through that day. Then something happened to him, and time meant
nothing. Night and day were the same. He did not eat. When he lay back
upon his bed he became irrational, yet seemed to be conscious of it.
When he sat up his senses slowly righted. But he preferred the spells
of aberration. Sometimes he was possessed by hideous nightmares, out
of which he awoke with the terror of a child. Then he would have to
sit up in the dark, in a cold sweat, and wait, and wait, until he
dared to lie back again.

In the daytime delusions grew upon him. One was that he was always
hearing the strange voices of the river, and another that he was
being pursued by an old woman clad in a flowing black mantle, with a
hood on her head and a crooked staff in her hand. The voices and
apparition came to him, now in his waking hours; they came suddenly
without any prelude or warning. He explained them as odd fancies
resulting from strong drink; they grew on him until his harsh laugh
could not shake them off. He managed occasionally to drag himself out
of the house. In the streets he felt this old black hag following him;
but later she came to him in the lonely silence of his room. He never
noticed her unless he glanced behind him, and he was powerless to
resist that impulse. At length the dreary old woman, who seemed to
grow more gaunt and ghostly every day, took the form in Lane's
disordered fancy of the misfortune that war had put upon him.

Lane dreamed once that it was a gray winter afternoon; dark lowering
clouds hung over the drab-colored hills, and a chill north wind
scurried over the bare meadows, sending the dead leaves rustling over
the heath and moaning through the leafless oaks. What a sad day it
was, he thought, as he faced the biting wind: sad as was his life and
a fitting one for the deed on which he had determined! Long since he
had left the city and was on the country road. He ascended a steep
hill. From its highest point he looked back toward the city he was
leaving forever. Faint it lay in the distance, only a few of its white
spires shining out dimly from the purple haze.

What was that dark shadow? Far down the winding road he discerned an
object moving slowly up the hill. Closer he looked, and trembled. An
old woman with flowing black robes was laboriously climbing the hill.
Whirling, he placed his hand on his breast, firmly grasped something
there, and then strode onward. Soon he glanced over his shoulder. Yes,
there she came, hobbling over the crest, her bent form and long
crooked staff clearly silhouetted against the gray background. She
raised the long staff and pointed it at him.

Now it seemed the day was waning; deep shadows lay in the valleys, and
night already enveloped the forest. Through rents in the broken clouds
a few pale stars twinkled fitfully. Soon dark cloud curtains scurried
across these spaces shutting out the light.

He plunged into the forest. His footsteps made no sound on the soft
moss as he glided through wooded aisles and under giant trees. Once
well into the deep woods, he turned to look behind him. He saw a
shadow, blacker than the forest-gloom, stealthily slipping from tree
to tree. He looked no more. For hours he traveled on and on, never
stopping, never looking backward, never listening, intent only on
placing a great distance between him and his pursuer.

He came upon a swamp where his feet sank in the soft earth, and
through all the night, with tireless strength and fateful resolve, he
toiled into this dreamy waste of woods and waters, until at length a
huge black rock loomed up in his way. He ascended to its summit and
looked beyond.

It seemed now that he had reached his destination. Wood spirits and
phantoms of night would mourn over him, but they would keep his
secret. He peered across a shining lake, and tried to pierce the
gloom. No living thing moved before his vision. Silver rippling waves
shimmered under that starlit sky; tall weird pines waved gently in the
night breeze; slender cedars, resembling spectres, reared their heads
toward the blue-black vault of heaven. He listened intently. There was
a faint rustling of the few leaves left upon the oaks. The strange
voices that had always haunted him, the murmuring of river waters, or
whispering of maidens, or muttering of women were now clear.

Suddenly two white forms came gliding across the waters. The face of
one was that of a young girl. Golden hair clustered round the face and
over the fair brow. The lips smiled with mournful sweetness. The other
form seemed instinct with life. The face was that of a living,
breathing girl, soulful, passionate, her arms outstretched, her eyes
shining with a strange hopeful light.

Down, down, down he fell and sank through chill depths, falling
slowly, falling softly. The cool waters passed; he floated through
misty, shadowy space. An infinitude of silence enclosed him. Then a
dim and sullen roar of waters came to his ears, borne faintly, then
stronger, on a breeze that was not of earth. Anguish and despair
tinged that sodden wind. Weird and terrible came a cry. Steaming,
boiling, burning, rumbling chaos--a fearful rushing sullen water! Then
a flash of light like a falling star sped out of the dark clouds.

Lane found himself sitting up in bed, wet and shaking. The room was
dark. Some one was pounding on the door.

"Hello, Lane, are you there?" called a man's deep voice.

"Yes. What's wanted?" answered Lane.

The door opened wide, impelled by a powerful arm. Light from the
hallway streamed in over the burly form of a man in a heavy coat. He
stood in the doorway evidently trying to see.

"Sick in bed, hey?" he queried, with gruff kind voice.

"I guess I am. Who're you?"

"I'm Joshua Iden and I've come to pack you out of here," he said.

"No!" protested Lane, faintly.

"Your wife is downstairs in a taxi waiting," went on his strange
visitor.

"My wife!" whispered Lane.

"Yes. Mel Iden, my daughter. You've forgotten maybe, but she hasn't.
She learned to-day from Doctor Bronson how ill you were. And so she's
come to take you home."

Mel Iden! The name seemed a part of the past. This was only another
dream, thought Lane, and slowly fell back upon his bed.

"Say, aren't you able to sit up?" queried this visitor Lane took for
the spectre of a dream. He advanced into the room. He grasped Lane
with firm hand. And then Lane realized this was no nightmare. He began
to shake.

"Sit up?" he echoed, vaguely. "Sure I can.... You're Mel's father?"

"Yes," replied the other. "Come, get out of this.... Well, you haven't
much dressing to do. And that's good.... Steady there."

As he rose, Lane would have fallen but for a quick move of Iden's.

"Only shoes and coat," said Lane, fumbling around. "They're
somewhere."

"Here you are.... Let me help.... There. Have you an overcoat?"

"No," replied Lane.

"Well, there's a robe in the taxi. Come on now. I'll come back and
pack your belongings."

He put an arm under Lane's and led him out into the hall and down the
dim stairway to the street. Under the yellow light Lane saw a cab,
toward which Iden urged him. Lane knew that he moved, but he seemed
not to have any feeling in his legs. The cabman put a hand back to
open the door.

"Mel, here he is," called out Iden, cheerfully.

Lane felt himself being pushed into the cab. His knees failed and he
sank forward, even as he saw Mel's face.

"Daren!" she cried, and caught him.

Then all went black.

CHAPTER XXI

Lane's return to consciousness was an awakening into what seemed as
unreal and unbelievable as any of his morbid dreams.

But he knew that his mind was clear. It did not take him a moment to
realize from the feel of his body and the fact that he could not lift
his hand that he had been prostrate a long time.

The room he lay in was strange to him. It had a neatness and
cleanliness that spoke of a woman's care. It had two small windows,
one of which was open. Sunshine flooded in, and the twitter of
swallows and hum of bees filled the air outside. Lane could scarcely
believe his senses. A warm fragrance floated in. Spring! What struck
Lane then most singularly was the fact of the silence. There were no
city sounds. This was not the Iden home. Presently he heard soft
footfalls downstairs, and a low voice, as of some one humming a tune.
What then had happened?

As if in answer to his query there came from below a sound of heavy
footfalls on a porch, the opening and closing of a door, a man's
cheery voice, and then steps on the stairs. The door opened and Doctor
Bronson entered.

"Hello, Doc," said Lane, in a very faint voice.

"Well, you son of a gun!" ejaculated the doctor, in delight. Then he
called down the stairs. "Mel, come up here quick."

Then came a low cry and a flying patter of light feet. Mel ran past
the doctor into the room. To Lane she seemed to have grown along with
the enchantments his old memories had invoked. With parted lips,
eager-eyed, she flashed a look from Lane to Doctor Bronson and back
again. Then she fell upon her knees by the bed.

"Do you know me?" she asked, her voice tremulous.

"Sure. You're the wife--of a poor sick soldier--Daren Lane."

"Oh, Doctor, he has come to," cried Mel, in rapture.

"Fine. I've been expecting it every day," said Doctor Bronson, rubbing
his hands. "Now, Daren, you can listen all you want. But don't try to
talk. You've really been improving ever since we got you out here to
the country. For a while I was worried about your mind. Lately,
though, you showed signs of rationality. And now all's O.K. In a few
days we'll have you sitting up."

Doctor Bronson's prophecy was more than fulfilled. From the hour of
Lane's return to consciousness, he made rapid improvement. Most of the
time he slept and, upon awakening, he seemed to feel stronger. Lane
had been ill often during the last eighteen months, but after this
illness there was a difference, inasmuch as he began to make
surprising strides toward recovery. Doctor Bronson was nonplussed, and
elated. Mel seemed mute in her gratitude. Lane could have told them
the reason for his improvement, but it was a secret he hid in his
heart.

In less than a week he was up, walking round his little room, peering
out of the windows.

Mel had told Lane the circumstances attending his illness. It had been
late in February when she and her father had called for him at his
lodgings. He had collapsed in the cab. They took him to the Iden home
where he was severely ill during March. In April he began to improve,
although he did not come to his senses. One day Mr. Iden brought Jacob
Lane, an uncle of Lane's, to see him. Lane's uncle had been at odds
with the family for many years. There had been a time when he had
cared much for his nephew Daren. The visit had evidently revived the
old man's affection, for the result was that Jacob Lane offered Daren
the use of a cottage and several acres of land on Sycamore River, just
out of town. Joshua Iden had seen to the overhauling of the cottage;
and as soon as the weather got warm, Doctor Bronson had consented to
Lane's removal to the country. And in a few days after his arrival at
the cottage, Lane recovered consciousness.

"Well, this beats me," said Lane, for the hundredth time. "Uncle Jake
letting us have this farm. I thought he hated us all."

"Daren, it was your going to war--and coming back--that you were ill
and fell to so sad a plight. I think if your uncle had known, he'd
have helped you."

"Mel, I couldn't ask anybody for help," said Lane. "Don't you
understand that?"

"You were a stubborn fellow," mused Mel.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20