The Day of the Beast by Zane Grey

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"Me? Never. I'm the meekest of mortals.... Mel, I know every rock
along the river here. This is just above where at flood time the
Sycamore cuts across that rocky flat below, and makes a bad rapid.
There's a creek above and a big woods. I used to fish and hunt there a
good deal."

Two weeks passed by and Daren felt himself slowly but surely getting
stronger. Every morning when he came down to breakfast he felt a
little better, had a little more color in his pale cheeks. At first he
could not eat, but as the days went by he regained an appetite which,
to Mel's delight, manifestly grew stronger. No woman could have been
brighter and merrier. She laughed at the expression on his face when
he saw her hands red from hot dish-water, and she would not allow him
to help her. The boast she had made to him of her housekeeping
abilities had not been an idle one. She prepared the meals and kept
the cottage tidy, and went about other duties in a manner that showed
she was thoroughly conversant with them.

The way in which she had absolutely put aside the past, her witty
sallies and her innocent humor, her habit of singing while at work,
the depth of her earnest conversation; in all, the sweet wholesome
strength and beauty of her nature had a remarkable effect on Lane. He
began to live again. It was simply impossible to be morbid in her
presence. While he was with her he escaped from himself.

The day came when he felt strong enough to take a walk. He labored up
the hillside toward a wood. Thereafter he went every day and walked
farther every time.

With his returning strength there crept into his mind the dawning of a
hope that he might get well. At first he denied it, denied even the
conviction that he wished to live. But not long. The hope grew, and
soon he found himself deliberately trying to build up his health.
Every day he put a greater test upon himself, and as summer drew on he
felt his strength gradually increasing. Against Doctor Bronson's
advice, he got an axe and set to work on the wood pile, very
cautiously at first.

Every day he wielded the axe until from sheer exhaustion he could not
lift it. Then he would sit on a log and pant and scorn his weakness.
What a poor man it was who could not chop wood for ten minutes without
getting out of breath! This pile of logs became to him a serious and
meaning obstacle. Every morning he went at it doggedly. His back grew
lame, his arms sore, his hands raw and blistered. But he did not give
up.

Mel seemed happy to see him so occupied, and was loath to call him
even when it was necessary. After lunch it was his habit to walk in
the woods. Unmindful of weather, every day he climbed the hill,
plunged into the woods, and tramped until late in the afternoon.
Returning, he usually slept until Mel called him to dinner. Afterward
they spent the evening in the little library. The past seemed buried.
Lane's curiosity as to family and friends had not reawakened.

Mel possessed a rich contralto voice which had been carefully
cultivated. Every evening in the twilight, with only the flickering of
the wood fire in the room, she would sit at the piano and sing. Lane
would close his eyes and let the mellow voice charm his every sense.
It called up his highest feelings; it lingered in his soul, thrilled
along his heart and played on the chords of love and hope. It
dispelled the heavy gloom that so often pressed down upon him; it
vanquished the depression that was the forerunner of his old terrible
black mood.

It came about that Lane spent most of his time outdoors, in the
fields, along the river, on the wooded hills. The morbid brooding lost
its hold on his mind, and in its place came memories, dreams,
imaginations. He walked those hills with phantoms of the past and
phantoms of his fancy.

The birds sang, the leaves fluttered, the wind rustled through the
branches. White clouds sailed across the blue sky, a crow cawed from a
hilltop, a hawk screeched from above, the roar of the river rapids
came faintly upward. And Lane saw eyes gazing dreamily downward,
thoughtful at a word, looking into life, trying to pierce the veil. It
was all so beautiful--so terrible.

The peeping of frogs roused in Lane sensations thrilling and strange.
The quick sharp notes were suggestive of cool nights, of flooded
streams and marshy places. How often Lane wandered in the dusk along
the shore to listen to this chorus!

At that hour twilight stole down; the dark hills rose to the pale blue
sky; there was a fair star and a wisp of purple cloud; and the shadowy
waters gleamed. Breaking into the trill of the frogs came the song of
a lonely whippoorwill.

Lane felt a better spirit resurging. He felt the silence, the beauty,
the mystery, the eternal that was there. All that was small and frail
was passing from him. There came a regurgitation of physical
strength--a change of blood.

The following morning while Lane was laboring over his wood pile, he
thought he heard voices in the front yard, and presently Mel came
around the walk accompanied by Doctor Wallace and Doctor Bronson.

"Well, Lane, glad to see you," said Doctor Bronson, in his hearty
tones. "Doctor Wallace and I are on our way to the Grange and thought
we'd stop off a minute."

"How are you, Mr. Lane? I see you're taking work seriously," put in
Doctor Wallace, in his kindly way.

"Oh, I'm coming round all right," replied Lane.

He stood there with his shirt sleeves rolled up, his face bronzed a
little and now warm and moist from the exercise, with something proven
about him, with a suggestion of a new force which made him different.

There was an unmistakable kindliness in the regard of both men and a
scarcely veiled fear Lane was quick to read. Both men were afraid they
would not find him as they had hoped to.

"Mel, you've chosen a charming location for a home," observed Doctor
Wallace.

When Mel was showing her old teacher and friend the garden and
flowerbeds the practical Doctor Bronson asked Lane: "Did you chop all
that wood?"

The doctor pointed to three long piles of wood, composed of short
pieces regularly stacked one upon another.

"I did."

"How long did it take you?"

"I've been weeks at it. That's a long time, but you know, Doctor, I
was in pretty poor condition. I had to go slow."

"Well, you've done wonders. I want to tell you that. I hardly knew
you. You're still thin, but you're gaining. I won't say now what I
think. Be careful of sudden or violent exertion. That's all. You've
done more than doctors can do."

CHAPTER XXII

"Mel, come here," called Lane from the back porch, "who the deuce are
those people coming down the hill?"

Mel shaded her eyes from the glare of the bright morning sun. "The
lady is Miss Hill, my old schoolteacher. I'd know her as far as I
could see her. Look how she carries her left arm. This is Saturday,
for she has neither a lunch basket nor a prayer book in that
outstretched hand. If you see Miss Hill without either you can be
certain it's Saturday. As to the gentleman--Daren, can it possibly be
Colonel Pepper?"

"That's the Colonel, sure as you're alive," declared Lane, with
alacrity. "They must be coming here. Where else could they be making
for? But Mel, for them to be together! Why, the Colonel's an old
sport, and she--Mel--you know Miss Hill!"

Whereupon Mel acquainted Daren with the circumstances of a romance
between Miss Hill and the gallant Colonel.

"Well--of all things!" gasped Lane, and straightway became speechless.

"You're right, Daren; they are coming in. Isn't that nice of them?
Now, don't you dare show I told you anything. Miss Hill is so easily
embarrassed. She's the most sensitive woman I ever knew."

Lane recovered in time to go through the cottage to the front porch
and to hear Miss Hill greet Mel affectionately, and announce with the
tone of a society woman that she had encountered Colonel Pepper on the
way and had brought him along. Lane had met the little schoolteacher,
but did not remember her as she appeared now, for she was no longer
plain, and there was life and color in her face. And as for
embarrassment, not a trace of it was evident in her bearing. According
to Mel, the mere sight of man, much less of one of such repute as
Colonel Pepper, would once have been sufficient to reduce Miss Hill to
a trembling shadow.

But the Colonel! None of his courage manifested an appearance now. To
Lane's hearty welcome he mumbled some incoherent reply and mopped his
moist red face. He was wonderfully and gorgeously arrayed in a new
suit of light check, patent leather shoes, a tie almost as bright as
his complexion, and he had a carnation in his buttonhole. This last
proof of the Colonel's mental condition was such an overwhelming shock
to Lane that all he could do for a moment was stare. The Colonel saw
the stare and it rendered him helpless.

Miss Hill came to the rescue with pleasant chat and most interesting
news to the exiles. She had intended coming out to the cottage for
ever so long, but the weather and one thing or another falling on a
Saturday, had prevented until to-day. How pretty the little home! Did
not the Colonel agree with her that it was so sweet, so cosy, and
picturesquely situated? Did they have chickens? What pleasure to have
chickens, and flowers, too! Of course they had heard about Mr. Harry
White and the widow, about the dissension in Doctor Wallace's church.
And Margaret Maynard was far from well, and Helen Wrapp had gone back
home to her mother, and Bessy Bell had grown into a tall ravishingly
beautiful girl and had distracted her mother by refusing a
millionaire, and seemed very much in love with young Dalrymple.

"And I've the worst class of girls I ever had," went on Miss Hill.
"The one I had last year was a class of angels compared to what I have
now. I reproved one girl whose mother wrote me that as long as
Middleville had preachers like Doctor Wallace and teachers like myself
there wasn't much chance of a girl being good. So I'm going to give up
teaching."

The little schoolmistress straightened up in her chair and looked
severe. Colonel Pepper shifted uneasily, bent his glance for the
hundredth time on his shiny shoes and once more had recourse to his
huge handkerchief and heated brow.

"Well, Colonel, it seems good to see you once more," put in Lane.
"Tell me about yourself. How do you pass the time?"

"Same old story, Daren, same old way, a game of billiards now and
then, and a little game of cards. But I'm more lonely than I used to
be."

"Why, you never were lonely!" exclaimed Lane.

"Oh, yes indeed I was, always," protested the Colonel.

"A little game of cards," mused Lane. "How well I remember! You used
to have some pretty big games, too."

"Er--yes--you see--once in a while, very seldom, just for fun," he
replied.

"How about your old weakness? Hope you've conquered that," went on
Lane, mercilessly.

The Colonel was thrown into utter confusion. And when Miss Hill turned
terrible eyes upon him, poor Pepper looked as if he wanted to sink
through the porch.

Lane took pity on him and carried him off to the garden and the river
bank, where he became himself again.

They talked for a while, but neither mentioned the subject that had
once drawn them together. For both of them a different life had begun.

A little while afterward Mel and Lane watched the bright figure and
the slight dark one go up the hillside cityward.

"What do you know about that!" ejaculated Lane for the tenth time.

"Hush!" said Mel, and she touched his lips with a soft exquisite
gesture.

At three o'clock one June afternoon Mel and Daren were lounging on a
mossy bank that lined the shady side of a clear rapid-running brook. A
canoe was pulled up on the grass below them. With an expression of
utter content, Lane was leaning over the brook absorbed in the
contemplation of a piece of thread which was tied to a crooked stick
he held in his hand. He had gone back to his boyhood days. Just then
the greatest happiness on earth was the outwitting of bright-sided
minnows and golden flecked sunfish. Mel sat nearby with her lap full
of flowers which she had gathered in the long grass and was now
arranging. She was dressed in blue; a sunbonnet slipped back from her
head; her glossy hair waved in the breeze. She looked as fresh as a
violet.

"Well, Daren, we have spent four delightful, happy hours. How time
flies! But it's growing late and we must go," said Mel.

"Wait a minute or two," replied Lane. "I'll catch this fellow. See him
bite! He's cunning. He's taken my bait time and again, but I'll get
him. There! See him run with the line. It's a big sunfish!"

"How do you know? You haven't seen him."

"I can tell by the way he bites. Ha! I've got him now," cried Lane,
giving a quick jerk. There was a splash and he pulled out a squirming
eel.

"Ugh! The nasty thing!" cried Mel, jumping up. Lane had flung the eel
back on the bank and it just missed falling into Mel's lap. She
screamed, and then when safely out of the way she laughed at the
disgust in his face.

"So it was a big sunfish? My! What a disillusion! So much for a man's
boastful knowledge."

"Well, if it isn't a slimy old eel. There! be off with you; go back
into the water," said Lane, as he shook the eel free from the hook.

"Come, we must be starting."

He pushed the canoe into the brook, helped Mel to a seat in the bow
and shoved off. In some places the stream was only a few feet wide,
but there was enough room and water for the light craft and it went
skimming along. The brook turned through the woods and twisted through
the meadows, sometimes lying cool and dark in the shade and again
shining in the sunlight. Often Lane would have to duck his head to
get under the alders and willows. Here in an overshadowed bend of the
stream a heron rose lumbering from his weedy retreat and winged his
slow flight away out of sight; a water wagtail, that cunning sentinel
of the brooks, gave a startled _tweet! tweet!_ and went flitting like
a gray streak of light round the bend.

"Daren, please don't be so energetic," said Mel, nervously.

"I'm strong as a horse now. I'm--hello! What's that?"

"I didn't hear anything."

"I imagined I heard a laugh or shout."

The stream was widening now as it neared its mouth. Lane was sending
the canoe along swiftly with vigorous strokes. It passed under a
water-gate, round a quick turn in the stream, where a bridge spanned
it, and before Lane had a suspicion of anything unusual he was right
upon a merry picnic party. There were young men and girls resting on
the banks and several sitting on the bridge. Automobiles were parked
back on the bank.

Lane swore under his breath. He recognized Margaret, Dick Swann and
several other old-time acquaintances and friends of Mel's.

"Who is it?" asked Mel. Her back was turned. She did not look round,
though she heard voices.

"It doesn't matter," said Lane, calmly.

He would have given the world to spare Mel the ordeal before her, but
that was impossible. He put more power into his stroke and the canoe
shot ahead.

It passed under the bridge, not twenty feet from Margaret Swann. There
was a strange, eager, wondering look in Margaret's clear eyes as she
recognized Mel. Then she seemed to be swallowed up by the green
willows.

"That was damned annoying," muttered Lane to himself. He could have
met them all face to face without being affected, but he realized how
painful this meeting must be to Mel. These were Mel's old friends. He
had caught Margaret's glance. Old memories came surging back. His gaze
returned to Mel. Her face was grave and sad; her eyes had darkened,
and there was a shadow in them. His glance sought the green-lined
channel ahead. The canoe cut the placid water, turned the last bend,
and glided into the swift river. Soon Lane saw the little cottage
shining white in the light of the setting sun.

One afternoon, as Lane was returning from the woods, he met a car
coming out of the grassy road that led down to his cottage. As he was
about to step aside, a gay voice hailed him. He waited. The car came
on. It contained Holt Dalrymple and Bessy Bell.

"Say, don't you dodge us," called Holt.

"Daren Lane!" screamed Bessy.

Then the car halted, and with two strides Lane found himself face to
face with the young friends he had not seen for months. Holt appeared
a man now. And Bessy--no longer with bobbed hair--older, taller,
changed incalculably, struck him as having fulfilled her girlish
promise of character and beauty. "Well, it's good to see you
youngsters", said Lane, as he shook hands with them.

Holt seemed trying to hide emotion. But Bessy, after that first
scream, sat staring at Lane with a growing comprehending light in her
purple eyes.

Suddenly she burst out. "Daren--you're _well_!... Oh, how glad I am!
Holt, just look at him."

"I'm looking, Bess. And if he's really Daren Lane, I'll eat him,"
responded Holt.

"This is all I needed to make to-day the happiest day of my life,"
said Bessy, with serious sweetness.

"This? Do you mean meeting me? I'm greatly flattered, Bessy," said
Lane, with a smile.

Then both a blush and a glow made her radiant.

"Daren, I'm sixteen to-day. Holt and I are--we're engaged I told
mother, and expected a row. She was really pleased.... And then seeing
you well again. Why, Daren, you've actually got color. Then Holt has
been given a splendid business opportunity.... And--Oh! it's all too
good to be true."

"Well, of all things!" cried Lane, when he had a chance to speak. "You
two engaged! I--I could never tell you how glad I am." Lane felt that
he could have hugged them both. "I congratulate you with all my heart.
Now Holt--Bessy, make a go of it. You're the luckiest kids in the
world."

"Daren, we've both had our fling and we've both been hurt," said
Bessy, seriously. "And you bet _we_ know how lucky we are--and what
we owe Daren Lane for our happiness to-day."

"Bessy, that means a great deal to me," replied Lane, earnestly. "I
know you'll be happy. You have everything to live for. Just be true
to yourself."

So the moment of feeling passed.

"We went down to your place," said Holt, "and stayed a while waiting
for you."

"Daren, I think Mel is lovely. May I not come often to see you both?"
added Bessy.

"You know how pleased we'll be.... Bessy, do you ever see my sister
Lorna?" asked Lane, hesitantly.

"Yes, I see her now and then. Only the other day I met her in a store.
Daren, she's getting some sense. She has a better position now. And
she said she was not going with any fellow but Harry."

"And my mother?" Lane went on.

"She is quite well, Lorna said. And they are getting along well now.
Lorna hinted that a relative--an uncle, I think, was helping them."

Lane was silent a moment, too stirred to trust his voice. Presently he
said: "Bessy, your birthday has brought happiness to some one besides
yourself."

He bade them good-bye and strode on down the hill toward the cottage.
How strangely meetings changed the future! Holt's pride of possession
in Bessy brought poignantly back to Lane his own hidden love for Mel.
And Bessy's rapture of amaze at his improvement in health put Lane
face to face with a possibility he had dreamed of but had never
believed in--that he might live.

That night was for Lane a sleepless one. He seemed to have traveled in
a dreamy circle, and was now returning to memories and pangs from
which he had long been free.

Next morning, without any hint to Mel of his intentions, he left the
cottage and made his way into town. Almost he felt as he had upon his
return from France. He dropped in to see his mother and was happy to
find her condition of mind and health improved. She was overjoyed to
see Lane. Her surprise was pitiful. She told him she was sure that he
had recovered.

It was this matter of his physical condition that had brought Lane
into Middleville. For many months he had resigned himself to death.
And now he could not deny even his morbid fancy that he felt stronger
than at any time since he left France. He had worked hard to try to
get well, but he had never, in his heart, believed that possible.

Lane called upon Doctor Bronson and asked to be thoroughly examined.
The doctor manifestly found the examination a task of mounting
gratification. At length he concluded.

"Daren, I told you over a year ago I didn't know of anything that
could save your life," he said. "I didn't. But something _has_ saved
your life. You are thirty pounds heavier and gaining fast. That hole
in your back is healed. Your lungs are nearly normal. You have only to
be careful of a very violent physical strain. That weak place in your
back seems gone.... You're going to _live_, my boy.... There has been
some magic at work. I'm very happy about it. How little doctors know!"

Dazed and stunned by this intelligence, Lane left the doctor's
residence and turned through town on his way homeward. As he plodded
on, he began to realize the marvelous truth. What would Blair say? He
hurried to a telephone exchange to acquaint his friend with the
strange thing that had happened. But Blair had been taken to a
sanitarium in the mountains. Lane hurried out of town into the
country, down the river road, to the cottage, there to burst in upon
Mel.

"Daren!" she cried, in alarm. "What's happened?"

She rose unsteadily, her eyes dilating.

"Doctor Bronson said--I was--well," panted Lane.

"Oh!... Daren, is _that_ it?" she replied, with a wonderful light
coming to her face. "I've known that for weeks."

"After all--I'm not going--to die!... My God!"

Lane rushed out and strode along the river, and followed the creek
into the woods. Once hidden in the leafy recesses he abandoned himself
to a frenzy of rapture. What he had given up had come back to him.
Life! And he lay on his back with his senses magnified to an intense
degree.

The day was late in June, and a rich, thick amber light floated
through the glades of the forest. Majestic white clouds sailed in the
deep blue sky. The sun shone hot down into the glades. Under the pines
and maples there was a cool sweet shade. Wild flowers bloomed. A
fragrance of the woods came on the gentle breeze. The leaves rustled.
The melancholy song of a hermit thrush pierced the stillness. A crow
cawed from a high oak. The murmur of shallow water running over rocks
came faintly to Lane's ears.

Lane surrendered utterly to the sheer primitive exultation of life.
The supreme ecstasy of that hour could never have been experienced but
for the long hopeless months which had preceded it. For a long time he
lay there in a transport of the senses, without thinking. As soon as
thought regained dominance over his feelings there came a subtle
change in his reaction to this situation.

He had forgotten much. He had lived in a dream. He had unconsciously
grown well. He had been strangely, unbelievably happy. Why? Mel Iden
had nursed him, loved him, inspired him back to health. Her very
presence near him, even unseen, had been a profound happiness. He made
the astonishing discovery that for months he had thought of little
else besides his wife. He had lived a lonely life, in his room, and in
the open, but all of it had been dominated by his dreams and fancies
and emotions about her. He had roused from his last illness with the
past apparently dead. There was no future. So he lived in the moment,
the hour. While he lay awake in the silence of night, or toiled over
his wood pile, or wandered by the brook under the trees, his dreamy
thoughts centered about her. And now the truth burst upon him. His
love for her had been stronger than his ruined health and blasted
life, stronger than misfortune, stronger than death. It had made him
well. He had not now to face death, but life. And the revelation
brought on shuddering dread.

Lane lingered in the woods until late afternoon. Then he felt forced
to return to the cottage. The look of the whole world seemed changed.
All was actual, vivid, striking. Mel's loveliness burst upon him as
new and strange and terrible as the fact of his recovery. He had
hidden his secret from her. He had been like a brother, kind,
thoughtful, gay at times, always helpful. But he had remained aloof.
He had basked in the sunshine of her presence, dreamily reveling in
the consciousness of what she was to him. That hour had passed
forever.

He saw her now as his wife, a girl still, one who had been cruelly
wronged by life, who had turned her back upon the past and who lived
for him alone. She had beauty and brains, a wonderful voice, and
personality that might have fitted her for any career or station in
life. She thought only of him. She had found content in ministering to
him. She was noble and good.

In the light of these truths coming to him, Lane took stock of his
love for Mel. It had come to be too mighty a thing to understand in a
moment. He lived with it in the darkness of midnight and in the
loneliness of the hills. He had never loved Helen. Always he had loved
Mel Iden--all his life. Clear as a crystal he saw the truth. The war
with its ruin for both of them had only augmented the powers to love.
Lane's year of agony in Middleville had been the mere cradling of a
mounting and passionate love. He must face it now, no longer in dreamy
lulled unconsciousness, but in all its insidious and complex meaning.
The spiritual side of it had not changed. This girl with the bloom of
woman's loveliness upon her, with her grace and sweetness and fire,
with the love that comes only once in life, belonged to him, was his
wife. She did not try to hide anything. She was unconscious of appeal.
Her wistfulness came from her lonely soul.

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