The Day of the Beast by Zane Grey

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"Dare Lane is handsome, even if he is a wreck," said Elinor, with
sudden enthusiasm. "Friday night when he beat it from Fanchon's party
he sure looked splendid."

Elinor was a staunch admirer of Lane's and she was the inveterate
torment of her girl friends. She gave Helen a sly glance. Helen's
green eyes narrowed and gleamed.

"Yes, Dare's handsomer than ever," she said. "And to give the devil
his due he's _finer_ than ever. Too damn fine for this crowd!... But
what's the use--" she broke off.

"Yes, poor Dare Lane!" sighed Elinor. "Dare deserves much from all of
us, not to mention _you_. He has made me think. Thank Heaven, I found
I hadn't forgotten how."

"El, no one would notice it," returned Helen, sarcastically.

"It's easy to see where you get off," retorted Elinor.

Then a silence ensued, strange in view of the late banter and quick
sallies; a silence breathing of restraint. The color died wholly from
Margaret's face, and a subtle, indefinable, almost imperceptible
change came over Dorothy.

"You bet Dare is handsome," spoke up Flossie, as if to break the
embarrassment. "He's so _white_ since he came home. His eyes are so
dark and flashing. Then the way he holds his head--the look of him....
No wonder these damned slackers seem cheap compared to him.... I'd
fall for Dare Lane in a minute, even if he is half dead."

The restraint passed, and when Floss Dickerson came out with eulogy
for any man his status was settled for good and all. Margaret plunged
once more into her treasures of early schooldays. Floss and Elinor
made merry over some verses Margaret had handed up with a blush. Helen
apparently lapsed into a brooding abstraction. And presently Dorothy
excused herself, and kissing Margaret good-bye, left for home.

The instant she had gone Margaret's gay and reminiscent mood underwent
a change.

"Girls, I want to know what Daren Lane did or said on Friday night at
Fanchon's," spoke up Margaret. "You know mother dragged me home. Said
I was tired. But I wasn't. It was only because I'm a wall-flower....
So I missed what happened. But I've heard talk enough to make me crazy
to know about this scandal. Kit Benson was here and she hinted things.
I met Bessy Bell. She asked me if I knew. She's wild about Daren. That
yellow-legged broiler! He doesn't even know her.... My brother Blair
would not tell me anything. He's strong for Daren. But mother told me
Daren had lost his standing in Middleville. She always hated Daren.
Afraid I'd fall in love with him. The idea! I liked him, and I like
him better now--poor fellow!... And last, when El mentioned Daren, did
you see Dal's face? I never saw Dal look like that."

"Neither did I," replied Elinor.

"Well, I have," spoke up Helen, with all of her mother's bluntness.
"Dal always was love-sick over Daren, when she was a mere kid. She
never got over it and never will."

"Still water runs deep," sapiently remarked Elinor. "There's a good
deal in Dal. She's fine as silk. Of course we all remember how jealous
she was of other girls when Daren went with her. But I think now it's
because she's sorry for Daren. So am I. He was such a fool. Fanchon
swears no nice girl in Middleville will ever dance that new camel-walk
dance in public again."

"What did Daren say?" demanded Margaret, with eyes lighting.

"I was standing with Helen, and Fanchon when Daren came up. He
looked--I don't know how--just wonderful. We all knew something was
doing. Daren bowed to Fanchon and said to her in a perfectly clear
voice that everybody heard: 'I'd like to try your camel-walk. I'm out
of practice and not strong, but I can go once around, I'm sure. Will
you?'"

'You're on, Dare,' replied Fanchon.

Then he asked. 'Do you like it?'

'I'll say so, Dare--crazy about it.'

'Of course you know why it's danced--and how it's interpreted by
men,' said Daren.

'What do you mean?' asked Fanchon, growing red and flustered.

"Then Daren said: 'I'll tell your mother. If she lets you dance with
that understanding--all right.' He bent over Mrs. Smith and said
something. Mrs. Wrapp heard it. And so did Mrs. Mackay, who looked
pretty sick. Mrs. Smith nearly _fainted_!... but she recovered enough
to order Daren to leave."

"Do you know what Daren said?" demanded Margaret, in a frenzy of
excitement.

"No. None of the girls know. We can only imagine. That makes it worse.
If Fanchon knows she won't tell. But it is gossip all over town. We'll
hear it soon. All the girls in town are imagining. It's spread like
wildfire. And what _do_ you think, Margie? In church--on
Sunday--Doctor Wallace spoke of it. He mentioned no names. But he said
that as the indecent dress and obscene dance of the young women could
no longer be influenced by the home or the church it was well that one
young man had the daring to fling the truth into the faces of their
mothers."

"Oh, it was rotten of Daren," replied Margaret, with tears in her
eyes. She was ashamed, indignant, incredulous. "For him to do a thing
like that! He's always been the very prince of gentlemen. What on
earth possessed him? Heaven knows the dances are vile, but that
doesn't excuse Daren Lane. What do I care what Doctor Wallace said?
Never in a thousand years will Mrs. Smith or mother or any one forgive
him. Fanchon Smith is a little snob. I always hated her. She's
spiteful and catty. She's a flirt all the way. She would dance any old
thing. But that's not the point. Daren's disgraced himself. It was
rotten--of him. And--I'll never--forgive--him, either."

"Don't cry, Margie," said Elinor. "It always makes your eyes red and
gives you a headache. Poor Daren made a blunder. But some of us will
stick to him. Don't take it so badly."

"Margie, it was rotten of Daren, one way you look at it--our way,"
added Flossie. "But you have to hand it to him for that stunt."

Helen Wrapp preserved her sombre mood, silent and brooding.

"Margie," went on Elinor, "there's a lot back of this. If Dare Lane
could do that there must be some reason for it. Maybe we all needed a
jolt. Well, we've got it. Let's stand by Daren. I will. Helen will.
Floss will. You will. And surely Dal will."

"If you ask _me_ I'll say Dare Lane ought to hand something to the
men!" burst out Floss Dickerson, with fire in her eyes.

"You said a mouthful, kiddo," responded Helen, with her narrow
contracted gaze upon Margaret. "Daren gave me the once over--and then
the icepick!"

"Wonder what he gave poor Mel--when he heard about her," murmured
Elinor, thoughtfully.

"Mel Iden ought to be roasted," retorted Helen. "She was always so
darned superior. And all the time...."

"Helen, don't you say a word against Mel Iden," burst out Margaret,
hotly. "She was my dearest friend. She was lovely. Her ruin was a
horrible shock. But it wasn't because she was bad.... Mel had some
fanatical notion about soldiers giving all--going away to be
slaughtered. She said to me, 'A woman's body is so little to give,'"

"Yes, I know Mel was cracked," replied Helen. "But she needn't have
been a damn fool. She didn't need to have had that baby!"

"Helen, your idea of sin is to be found out," said Elinor, with
satire.

Again Floss Dickerson dropped her trenchant personality into the
breach.

"Aw, come off!" she ejaculated. "Let somebody roast the men once, will
you? I'm the little Jane that _knows_, believe me. All this talk about
the girls going to hell makes me sick. We may be going--and going in
limousines--but it's the men who're stepping on the gas."

"Floss, I love to hear you elocute," drawled Helen. "Go to it! For
God's sake, roast the men."

"You always have to horn in," retorted Floss. "Let me get this off my
chest, will you?... We girls are getting talked about. There's no use
denying it. Any but a blind girl could see it. And it's because we do
what the men want. Every girl wants to go out--to be attractive--to
have fellows. But the price is getting high. They say in Middleville
that I'm rushed more than any other girl. Well, if I am I know what it
costs.... If I didn't 'pet'--if I didn't mush, if I didn't park my
corsets at dances--if I didn't drink and smoke, and wiggle like a
jelly-fish, I'd be a dead one--an egg, and don't you overlook that. If
any one says I _want_ to do these things he's a fool. But I do love to
have good times, and little by little I've been drawn on and on....
I've had my troubles staving off these fellows. Most of them get half
drunk. Some of the girls do, too. I never went that far. I always kept
my head. I never went the limit. But you can bet your sweet life it
wasn't their fault I didn't fall for them.... I'll say I've had to
walk home from more than one auto ride. There's something in the gag,
'I know she's a good girl because I met her walking home from an auto
ride.' That's one thing I intend to cut out this summer--the auto
rides. Nothing doing for little Flossie!"

"Oh, can't we talk of something else!" complained Margaret, wearily,
with her hands pressing against her temples.

CHAPTER VI

Mrs. Maynard slowly went upstairs and along the hall to her daughter's
room. Margaret sat listlessly by a window. The girls had gone.

"You were going for a long walk," said Mrs. Maynard.

"I'm tired," replied Margaret. There was a shadow in her eyes.

The mother had never understood her daughter. And of late a subtle
change in Margaret had made her more of a puzzle.

"Margaret, I want to talk seriously with you," she began.

"Well?"

"Didn't I tell you I wanted you to break off your--your friendship
with Holt Dalrymple?"

"Yes," replied Margaret, with a flush. "I did not--want to."

"Well, the thing which concerns you now is--he can't be regarded as a
possibility for you."

"Possibility?" echoed Margaret.

"Just that, exactly. I'm not sure of your thoughts on the matter, but
it's time I knew them. Holt is a ne'er-do-well. He's gone to the bad,
like so many of these army boys. No nice girl will ever associate with
him again."

"Then I'm not nice, for I will," declared Margaret, spiritedly.

"You will persist in your friendship for him in the face of my
objection?"

"Certainly I will if I have any say about it. But I know Holt. I--I
guess he has taken to drink--and carrying on. So you needn't worry
much about our friendship."

Mrs. Maynard hesitated. She had become accustomed to Margaret's little
bursts of fury and she expected one here. But none came; Margaret
appeared unnaturally calm; she sat still with her face turned to the
window. Mrs. Maynard was a little afraid of this cold, quiet girl.

"Margaret, you can't help seeing now that your mother's judgment was
right. Holt Dalrymple once may have been very interesting and
attractive for a friend, but as a prospective husband he was
impossible. The worst I hear of him is that he drinks and gambles. I
know you liked him and I don't want to be unjust. But he has kept
other and better young men away from you."

Margaret's hand clenched and her face sank against the window-pane.

"We need say no more about him," went on Mrs. Maynard. "Margaret,
you've been brought up in luxury. If your father happened to die
now--he's far from well--we'd be left penniless. We've lived up every
dollar.... We have our poor crippled Blair to care for. You know you
must marry well. I've brought you up with that end in view. And it's
imperative you marry soon."

"Why must a girl marry?" murmured Margaret, wistfulness in her voice.
"I'd rather go to work." "Margaret, you are a Maynard," replied her
mother, haughtily. "Pray spare me any of this new woman talk about
liberty--equal rights--careers and all that. Life hasn't changed for
the conservative families of blood.... Try to understand, Margaret,
that you must marry and marry well. You're nobody without money. In
society there are hundreds of girls like you, though few so
attractive. That's all the more reason you should take the best chance
you have, before it's lost. If you don't marry people will say you
can't. They'll say you're fading, growing old, even if you grow
prettier every day of your life, and in the end they'll make you a
miserable old maid. Then you'll be glad to marry anybody. If you marry
now you can help your father, who needs help badly enough. You can
help poor Blair.... You can be a leader in society; you can have a
house here, a cottage at the seashore and one in the mountains;
everything a girl's heart yearns for--servants, horses, autos, gowns,
diamonds----"

"Everything except love," interrupted Margaret, bitterly.

Mrs. Maynard actually flushed, but she kept her temper.

"It's desirable that you love your husband. Any sensible woman can
learn to care for a man. Love, as you dream about it is merely a--a
dream. If women waited for that they would never get married."

"Which would be preferable to living without love."

"But Margaret, what would become of the world? If there were fewer
marriages--Heaven knows they're few enough nowadays--there would be
fewer families--and in the end fewer children--less and less----"

"They'd be better children," said Margaret, calmly.

"Eventually the race would die out."

"And that'd be a good thing--if the people can't love each other."

"How silly--exasperating!" ejaculated Mrs. Maynard. "You don't mean
such nonsense. What any girl wants is a home of her own, a man to fuss
over. I didn't marry for love, as you dream it. My husband attended to
his business and I've looked after his household. You've had every
advantage. I flatter myself our marriage has been a success."

Margaret's eyes gleamed like pointed flames.

"I differ with you. Your married life hasn't been successful any more
than it's been happy. You never cared for father. You haven't been
kind to him since his failure."

Mrs. Maynard waved her hand imperiously in angry amaze.

"I won't stop. I'm not a baby or a doll," went on Margaret,
passionately. "If I'm old enough to marry I'm old enough to talk. I
can think, can't I? You never told me anything, but I could see. Ever
since I can remember you and father have had one continual wrangle
about money--bills--expenses. Perhaps I'd have been better off without
all the advantages and luxury. It's because of these things you want
to throw me at some man. I'd far rather go to work the same as Blaid
did, instead of college."

"Whatever on earth has come over you?" gasped Mrs. Maynard,
bewildered by the revolt of this once meek daughter.

"Maybe I'm learning a little sense. Maybe I got some of it from Daren
Lane," flashed back Margaret.

"Mother, whatever I've learned lately has been learned away from home.
You've no more idea what's going on in the world to-day than if you
were actually dead. I never was bright like Mel Iden, but I'm no fool.
I see and hear and I read. Girls aren't pieces of furniture to be
handed out to some rich men. Girls are waking up. They can do things.
They can be independent. And being independent doesn't mean a girl's
not going to marry. For she can wait--wait for the right man--for
love.... You say I dream. Well, why didn't you wake me up long
ago--with the truth? I had my dreams about love and marriage. And I've
learned that love and marriage are vastly different from what most
mothers make them out to be, or let a girl think."

"Margaret, I'll not have you talk in this strange way. You owe me
respect if not obedience," said Mrs. Maynard, her voice trembling.

"Oh, well, I won't say any more," replied Margaret, "But can't you
spare me? Couldn't we live within our means?"

"After all these years--to skimp along! I couldn't endure it."

"Whom have you in mind for me to--to marry?" asked the girl, coldly
curious.

"Mr. Swann has asked your hand in marriage for his son Richard. He
wants Richard to settle down. Richard is wild, like all these young
men. And I have--well, I encouraged the plan."

"_Mother!_" cried Margaret, springing up.

"Margaret, you will see"

"I despise Dick Swann."

"Why?" asked her mother.

"I just do. I never liked him in school. He used to do such mean
things. He's selfish. He let Holt and Daren suffer for his tricks."

"Margaret, you talk like a child."

"Listen, mother." She threw her arms round Mrs. Maynard and kissed her
and spoke pleadingly. "Oh, don't make me hate myself. It seems I've
grown so much older in the last year or so--and lately since this
marriage talk came up. I've thought of things as never before because
I've--I've learned about them. I see so differently. I can't--can't
love Dick Swann. I can't bear to have him touch me. He's rude. He
takes liberties.... He's too free with his hands! Why, it'd be wrong
to marry him. What difference can a marriage service make in a girl's
feelings.... Mother, let me say no."

"Lord spare me from bringing up another girl!" exclaimed Mrs. Maynard.
"Margaret, I can't make you marry Richard Swann. I'm simply trying to
tell you what any sensible girl would see she had to do. You think it
over--both sides of the question--before you absolutely decide."

Mrs. Maynard was glad to end the discussion and to get away. In
Margaret's appeal she heard a yielding, a final obedience to her wish.
And she thought she had better let well enough alone. The look in
Margaret's clear blue eyes made her shrink; it would haunt her. But
she felt no remorse. Any mother would have done the same. There was
always the danger of that old love affair; there was new danger in
these strange wild fancies of modern girls; there was never any
telling what Margaret might do. But once married she would be safe and
her position assured.

CHAPTER VII

Daren Lane left Riverside Park, and walked in the meadows until he
came to a boulder under a huge chestnut tree. Here he sat down. He
could not walk far these days. Many a time in the Indian summers long
past he had gathered chestnuts there with Dal, with Mel Iden, with
Helen. He would never do it again.

The April day had been warm and fresh with the opening of a late
spring. The sun was now gold--rimming the low hills in the west; the
sky was pale blue; the spring flowers whitened the meadow. Twilight
began to deepen; the evening star twinkled out of the sky; the hush of
the gloaming hour stole over the land.

"Four weeks home--and nothing done. So little time left!" he muttered.

Two weeks of that period he had been unable to leave his bed. The rest
of the time he had dragged himself around, trying to live up to his
resolve, to get at the meaning of the present, to turn his sister
Lorna from the path of dalliance. And he had failed in all.

His sister presented the problem that most distressed Lane. She had
her good qualities, and through them could be reached. But she was
thoughtless, vacillating, and wilful. She had made him promises only
to break them. Lane had caught her in falsehoods. And upon being
called to account she had told him that if he didn't like it he could
"lump" it. Of late she had grown away from what affection she had
shown at first. She could not bear interference with her pleasures,
and seemed uncontrollable. Lane felt baffled. This thing was a
Juggernaut impossible to stop.

Lane had scraped acquaintance with Harry Hale, one of Lorna's
admirers, a boy of eighteen, who lived with his widowed mother on the
edge of the town. He appeared to be an industrious, intelligent, quiet
fellow, not much given to the prevailing habits of the young people.
In his humble worship of Lorna he was like a dog. Lorna went to the
motion pictures with him occasionally, when she had no other
opportunity for excitement. Lane gathered that Lorna really liked this
boy, and when with him seemed more natural, more what a
fifteen-year-old girl used to be. And somehow it was upon this boy
that Lane placed a forlorn hope.

No more automobiles honked in front of the home to call Lorna out. She
met her friends away from the house, and returning at night she walked
the last few blocks. It was this fact that awoke Lane's serious
suspicions.

Another problem lay upon Lane's heart; if not so distressing as
Lorna's, still one that added to his sorrow and his perplexity. He had
gone once to call on Mel Iden. Mel Iden was all soul. Whatever had
been the facts of her downfall--and reflection on that hurt Lane so
strangely he could not bear it--it had not been on her part a matter
of sex. She was far above wantonness.

Through long hours in the dark of night, when Lane's pain kept him
sleepless, he had pondered over the mystery of Mel Iden until it
cleared. She typified the mother of the race. In all periods of the
progress of the race, war had brought out this instinct in women--to
give themselves for the future. It was a provision of nature,
inscrutable and terrible. How immeasurable the distance between Mel
Iden and those women who practised birth control! As the war had
brought out hideous greed and baseness, so had it propelled forward
and upward the noblest attributes of life. Mel Iden was a builder, not
a destroyer. She had been sexless and selfless. Unconsciously during
the fever and emotion of the training of American men for service
abroad, and the poignancy of their departure, to fight, and perhaps
never return, Mel Iden had answered to this mysterious instinct of
nature. Then, with the emotion past, and face to face with staggering
consequences, she had reacted to conscious instincts. She had proved
the purity of her surrender. She was all mother. And Lane began to see
her moving in a crystal, beautiful light.

For what seemed a long time Lane remained motionless there in the
silence of the meadow. Then at length he arose and retraced his slow
steps back to town. Darkness overtook him on the bridge that spanned
Middleville River. He leaned over the railing and peered down into the
shadows. A soft murmur of rushing water came up. How like strange
distant voices calling him to go back or go on, or warning him, or
giving mystic portent of something that would happen to him there! A
cold chill crept over him and he seemed enveloped in a sombre menace
of the future. But he shook it off. He had many battles to fight, not
the least of which was with morbid imagination.

When he reached the center of town he entered the lobby of the
Bradford Inn. He hoped to meet Blair Maynard there. A company of
well-dressed youths and men filled the place, most of whom appeared to
be making a merry uproar.

Lane observed two men who evidently were the focus of attention. One
was a stranger, very likely a traveling man, and at the moment he
presented a picture of mingled consternation and anger. He was
brushing off his clothes while glaring at a little, stout, red-faced
man who appeared about to be stricken by apoplexy. This latter was a
Colonel Pepper, whose acquaintance Lane had recently made. He was fond
of cards and sport, and appeared to be a favorite with the young men
about town. Moreover he had made himself particularly agreeable to
Lane, in fact to the extent of Lane's embarrassment. At this moment
the stranger lost his consternation wholly in wrath, and made a
threatening movement toward Pepper. Lane stepped between them just in
time to save Pepper a blow.

"I know what he's done. I apologize for him," said Lane, to the
stranger. "He's made a good many people victims of the same indignity.
It's a weakness--a disease. He can't help himself. Pray overlook it."

The stranger appeared impressed with Lane's presence, probably with
his uniform, and slowly shook himself and fell back, to glower at
Pepper, and curse under his breath, still uncertain of himself.

Lane grasped Colonel Pepper and led him out of the lobby.

"Pepper, you're going to get in an awful mess with that stunt of
yours," he declared, severely. "If you can't help it you ought at
least pick on your friends, or the town people--not strangers."

"Have--a--drink," sputtered Pepper, with his hand at his hip.

"No, thanks."

"Have--a--cigar."

Lane laughed. He had been informed that Colonel Pepper's failing
always took this form of remorse, and certainly he would have tried it
upon his latest victim had not Lane interfered.

"Colonel, you're hopeless," said Lane, as they walked out. "I hope
somebody will always be around to protect you. I'd carry a body
guard.... Say, have you seen Blair Maynard or Holt Dalrymple
to-night?"

"Not Blair, but Holt was here early with the boys," replied Pepper.
"They've gone to the club rooms to have a little game. I'm going to
sit in. Lately I had to put up a holler. If the boys quit cards how'm
I to make a living?"

"Had Holt been drinking?"

"Not to-night. But he's been hitting the bottle pretty hard of late."

Suddenly Lane buttonholed the little man and peered down earnestly at
him. "Pepper, I've been trying to straighten Holt up. He's going to
the bad. But he's a good kid. It's only the company.... The fact
is--this's strictly confidential, mind you--Holt's sister begged me to
try to stop his drinking and gambling. I think I can do it, too, with
a little help. Now, Pepper, I'm asking you to help me."

"Ahuh! Well, let's go in the writing room, where we can talk," said
the other, and he took hold of Lane's arm. When they were seated in a
secluded corner he lighted a cigar, and faced Lane with shrewd, kindly
eyes. "Son, I like you and Blair as well as I hate these slackers
Swann and Mackay, and their crowd. I could tell you a heap, and maybe
help you, though I think young Holt is not a bad egg.... Is his sister
the dark one who steps so straight and holds herself so well?"

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