The Day of the Beast by Zane Grey

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"Yes, I know you did," he replied. "But I've disobeyed you. I wanted
to see you, Mel.... I didn't know how badly until I got here."

"You should not want to see me at all. People will talk."

"So you care what people say of you?" he questioned, feigning
surprise.

"Of me? No. I was thinking of you."

"You fear the poison tongues for me? Well, they cannot harm me. I'm
beyond tongues or minds like those."

She regarded him earnestly, with serious gravity and slowly dawning
apprehension; then, turning to arrange the violets in a tiny vase, she
shook her head.

"Daren, you're beyond me, too. I feel a--a change in you. Have you had
another sick spell?"

"Only for a day off and on. I'm really pretty well to-day. But I have
changed. I feel that, yet I don't know how."

Lane could talk to her. She stirred him, drew him out of himself. He
felt a strange desire for her sympathy, and a keen curiosity
concerning her opinions.

"I thought maybe you'd been ill again or perhaps upset by the
consequences of your--your action at Fanchon Smith's party."

"Who told you of that?" he asked in surprise.

"Dal. She was here yesterday. She will come in spite of me."

"So will I," interposed Lane.

She shook her head. "No, it's different for a man.... I've missed the
girls. No one but Dal ever comes. I thought Margie would be true to
me--no matter what had befallen.... Dal comes, and oh, Daren, she is
good. She helps me so.... She told me what you did at Fanchon's
party."

"She did! Well, what's your verdict?" he queried, grimly. "That break
queered me in Middleville."

"I agree with what Doctor Wallace said to his congregation," returned
Mel.

As Lane met the blue fire of her eyes he experienced another
singularly deep and profound thrill, as if the very depths of him had
been stirred. He seemed to have suddenly discovered Mel Iden.

"Doctor Wallace did back me up," said Lane, with a smile. "But no one
else did."

"Don't be so sure of that. Harsh conditions require harsh measures.
Dal said you killed the camel-walk dance in Middleville."

"It surely was a disgusting sight," returned Lane, with a grimace.
"Mel, I just saw red that night."

"Daren," she asked wistfully, following her own train of thought, "do
you know that most of the girls consider me an outcast? Fanchon rides
past me with her head up in the air. Helen Wrapp cuts me. Margie looks
to see if her mother is watching when she bows to me. Isn't it
strange, Daren, how things turn out? Maybe my old friends are right.
But I don't _feel_ that I am what they think I am.... I would do what
I did--over and over."

Her eyes darkened under his gaze, and a slow crimson tide stained her
white face.

"I understand you, Mel," he said, swiftly. "You must forgive me that I
didn't understand at once.... And I think you are infinitely better,
finer, purer than these selfsame girls who scorn you."

"Daren! You--understand?" she faltered.

And just as swiftly he told her the revelation that thinking had
brought to him.

When he had finished she looked at him for a long while. "Yes, Daren,"
she finally said, "you understand, and you have made me understand. I
always felt"--and her hand went to her heart--"but my mind did not
grasp.... Oh, Daren, how I thank you!" and she held her hands out to
him.

Lane grasped the outstretched hands, and loosed the leaping thought
her words and action created.

"Mel, let me give your boy a father--a name."

No blow could have made her shrink so palpably. It passed--that shame.
Her lips parted, and other emotions claimed her.

"Daren--you would--marry me?" she gasped.

"I am asking you to be my wife for your child's sake," he replied.

Her head bowed. She sank against him, trembling. Her hands clung
tightly to his. Lane divined something of her agitation from the feel
of her slender form. And then again that deep and profound thrill ran
over him. It was followed by an instinct to wrap her in his arms, to
hold her, to share her trouble and to protect her.

Strong reserve force suddenly came to Mel. She drew away from Lane,
still quivering, but composed.

"Daren, all my life I'll thank you and bless you for that offer," she
said, very low. "But, of course it is impossible."

She disengaged her hands, and, turning away, looked out of the window.
Lane rather weakly sat down. What had come over him? His blood seemed
bursting in his veins. Then he gazed round the dingy little parlor and
at this girl of twenty, whose beauty did not harmonize with her
surroundings. Fair-haired, white-faced, violet-eyed, she emanated
tragedy. He watched her profile, clear cut as a cameo, fine brow,
straight nose, sensitive lips, strong chin. She was biting those
tremulous lips. And when she turned again to him they were red. The
short-bowed upper lip, full and sweet, the lower, with its sensitive
droop at the corner, eloquent of sorrow--all at once Lane realized he
wanted to kiss that mouth more than he had ever wanted anything. The
moment was sudden and terrible, for it meant love--love such as he had
never known.

"Daren," she said, turning, "tell me how you got the _Croix de
Guerre_."

By the look of her and the hand that moved toward his breast, Lane
felt his power over her. He began his story and it was as if he heard
some one else talking. When he had finished, she asked, "The French
Army honored you, why not the American?"

"It was never reported."

"How strange! Who was your officer?"

"You'll laugh when you hear," he replied, without hint of laugh
himself. "Heavens, how things come about! My officer was from
Middleville."

"Daren! Who?" she asked, quickly, her eyes darkening with thought.

"Captain Vane Thesel."

How singular to Lane the fact she did not laugh! She only stared. Then
it seemed part of her warmth and glow, her subtle response to his
emotion, slowly receded. He felt what he could not see.

"Oh! He. Vane Thesel," she said, without wonder or surprise or
displeasure, or any expression Lane anticipated.

Her strange detachment stirred a hideous thought--could Thesel have
been.... But Lane killed the culmination of that thought. Not,
however, before dark, fiery jealousy touched him with fangs new to his
endurance.

To drive it away, Lane launched into more narrative of the war. And as
he talked he gradually forgot himself. It might be hateful to rake up
the burning threads of memory for the curious and the soulless, but to
tell Mel Iden it was a keen, strange delight. He watched the changes
of her expression. He learned to bring out the horror, sadness, glory
that abided in her heart. And at last he cut himself off abruptly:
"But I must save something for another day."

That broke the spell.

"No, you must never come back."

He picked up his hat and his stick.

"Mel, would you shut the door in my face?"

"No, Daren--but I'll not open it," she replied resolutely.

"Why?"

"You must not come."

"For my sake--or yours?"

"Both our sakes."

He backed out on the little porch, and looked at her as she stood
there. Beyond him, indeed, were his emotions then. Sad as she seemed,
he wanted to make her suffer more--an inexplicable and shameful
desire.

"Mel, you and I are alike," he said.

"Oh, no, Daren; you are noble and I am...."

"Mel, in my dreams I see myself standing--plodding along the dark
shores of a river--that river of tears which runs down the vast naked
stretch of our inner lives.... I see you now, on the opposite shore.
Let us reach our hands across--for the baby's sake."

"Daren, it is a beautiful thought, but it--it can't be," she
whispered.

"Then let me come to see you when I need--when I'm down," he begged.

"No."

"Mel, what harm can it do--just to let me come?"

"No--don't ask me. Daren, I am no stone."

"You'll be sorry when I'm out there in--Woodlawn.... That won't be
long."

That broke her courage and her restraint.

"Come, then," she whispered, in tears.

CHAPTER VIII

Lane's intentions and his spirit were too great for his endurance. It
was some time before he got downtown again. And upon entering the inn
he was told some one had just called him on the telephone.

"Hello, this is Lane," he answered. "Who called me?"

"It's Blair," came the reply. "How are you, old top?"

"Not so well. I've been down and out."

"Sorry. Suppose that's why you haven't called me up for so long?"

"Well, Buddy, I can't lay it all to that.... And how're you?"

The answer did not come. So Lane repeated his query.

"Well, I'm still hobbling round on one leg," replied Blair.

"That's good. Tell me about Reddie."

Again the reply was long in coming....

"Haven't you heard--about Red?"

"No."

"Haven't seen the newspapers lately?"

"I never read the papers, Blair."

"Right-o. But I had to.... Buck up, now, Dare!"

"All right. Shoot it quick," returned Lane, feeling his breast
contract and his skin tighten with a chill.

"Red Payson has gone west."

"Blair! You don't mean--dead?" exclaimed Lane.

"Yes, Reddie's gone--and I guess it's just as well, poor devil!"

"How? When?"

"Two days ago, according to papers.... He died in Washington, D.C.
Fell down in the vestibule of one of the government offices--where he
was waiting.... fell with another hemorrhage--and died right there--on
the floor--quick."

"My--God!" gasped Lane.

"Yes, it's tough. You see, Dare, I couldn't keep Reddie here. Heaven
knows I tried, but he wouldn't stay.... I'm afraid he heard my mother
complaining. Say, Dare, suppose I have somebody drive me in town to
see you."

"I'd like that, Blair."

"You're on. And say, I've another idea. Tonight's the Junior Prom--did
you know that?"

"No, I didn't."

"Well, it is. Suppose we go up? My sister can get me cards.... I tell
you, Dare, I'd like to see what's going on in that bunch. I've heard a
lot and seen some things."

"Did you hear how I mussed up Fanchon Smith's party?"

"You bet I did. That's one reason I want to see some of this dancing.
Will you go?"

"Yes, I can stand it if you can."

"All right, Buddy, I'll meet you at the inn--eight o'clock."

Lane slowly made his way to a secluded corner of the lobby, where he
sat down. Red Payson dead! Lane felt that he should not have been
surprised or shocked. But he was both. The strange, cold sensation
gradually wore away and with it the slight trembling of his limbs. A
mournful procession of thoughts and images returned to his mind and he
sat and brooded.

At the hour of his appointment with his friend, Lane went to the front
of the lobby. Blair was on time. He hobbled in, erect and martial of
bearing despite the crutch, and his dark citizen's suit emphasized the
whiteness of his face. Being home had softened Blair a little. Yet the
pride and tragic bitterness were there. But when Blair espied Lane a
warmth burned out of the havoc in his face. Lane's conscience gave him
a twinge. It dawned upon him that neither his spells of illness, nor
his distress over his sister Lorna, nor his obsession to see and
understand what the young people were doing could hold him wholly
excusable for having neglected his comrade.

Their hand-clasp was close, almost fierce, and neither spoke at once.
But they looked intently into each other's faces. Emotion stormed
Lane's heart. He realized that Blair loved him and that he loved
Blair--and that between them was a measureless bond, a something only
separation could make tangible. But little of what they felt came out
in their greetings.

"Dare, why the devil don't you can that uniform," demanded Blair,
cheerfully. "People might recognize you've been 'over there.'"

"Well, Blair, I expected you'd have a cork leg by this time," said
Lane.

"Nothing doing," returned the other. "I want to be perpetually
reminded that I was in the war. This 'forget the war' propaganda we
see and hear all over acts kind of queer on a soldier.... Let's find a
bench away from these people."

After they were comfortably seated Blair went on: "Do you know, Dare,
I don't miss my leg so much when I'm crutching around. But when I try
to sit down or get up! By heck, sometimes I forget it's gone. And
sometimes I want to scratch my lost foot. Isn't that hell?"

"I'll say so, Buddy," returned Lane, with a laugh.

"Read this," said Blair, taking a paper from his pocket, and
indicating a column.

Whereupon Lane read a brief Associated Press dispatch from Washington,
D.C., stating that one Payson, disabled soldier of twenty-five,
suffering with tuberculosis caused by gassed lungs, had come to
Washington to make in person a protest and appeal that had been
unanswered in letters. He wanted money from the government to enable
him to travel west to a dry climate, where doctors assured him he
might get well. He made his statement to several clerks and officials,
and waited all day in the vestibule of the department. Suddenly he was
seized with a hemorrhage, and, falling on the floor, died before aid
could be summoned.

Without a word Lane handed the paper back to his friend.

"Red was a queer duck," said Blair, rather hoarsely. "You remember
when I 'phoned you last over two weeks ago?... Well, just after that
Red got bad on my hands. He wouldn't accept charity, he said. And he
wanted to beat it. He got wise to my mother. He wouldn't give up
trying to get money from the government--back money owed him, he
swore--and the idea of being turned down at home seemed to obsess him.
I talked and cussed myself weak. No good! Red beat it soon after
that--beat it from Middleville on a freight train. And I never heard a
word from him.... Not a word...."

"Blair, can't you see it Red's way?" queried Lane, sadly.

"Yes, I can," responded Blair, "but hell! he might have gotten well.
Doc Bronson said Red had a chance. I could have borrowed enough money
to get him out west. Red wouldn't take it."

"And he ran off--exposed himself to cold and starvation--over-exertion
and anger," added Lane.

"Exactly. Brought on that hemorrhage and croaked. All for nothing!"

"No, Blair. All for a principle," observed Lane. "Red was fired out of
the hospital without a dollar. There was something terribly wrong."

"Wrong?... God Almighty!" burst out Blair, with hard passion. "Let me
read you something in this same paper." With shaking hands he unfolded
it, searched until he found what he wanted, and began to read:

"'If the _actual_ needs of disabled veterans require the expenditure
of much money, then unquestionably a majority of the taxpayers of the
country will favor spending it. Despite the insistent demand for
economy in Washington that is arising from every part of the country,
no member of House or Senate will have occasion to fear that he is
running counter to popular opinion when eventually he votes to take
generous care of disabled soldiers.'"

Blair's trembling voice ceased, and then twisting the newspaper into a
rope, he turned to Lane. "Dare, can you understand that?... Red Payson
was a bull-headed boy, not over bright. But you and I have some
intelligence, I hope. We can allow for the immense confusion at
Washington--the senselessness of red tape--the callosity of
politicians. But when we remember the eloquent calls to us boys--the
wonderfully worded appeals to our patriotism, love of country and
home--the painted posters bearing the picture of a beautiful American
girl--or a young mother with a baby--remembering these deep,
passionate calls to the best in us, can you understand _that_ sort of
talk now?"

"Blair, I think I can," replied Lane. "Then--before and after the
draft--the whole country was at a white heat of all that the approach
of war rouses. Fear, self-preservation, love of country, hate of the
Huns, inspired patriotism, and in most everybody the will to fight and
to sacrifice.... The war was a long, hideous, soul-racking,
nerve-destroying time. When it ended, and the wild period of joy and
relief had its run, then all that pertained to the war sickened and
wearied and disgusted the majority of people. It's 'forget the war.'
You and Payson and I got home a year too late."

"Then--it's just--monstrous," said Blair, heavily.

"That's all, Blair. Just monstrous. But we can't beat our spirits out
against this wall. No one can understand us--how alone we are. Let's
forget _that_--this wall--this thing called government. Shall we spend
what time we have to live always in a thunderous atmosphere of
mind--hating, pondering, bitter?"

"No. I'll make a compact with you," returned Blair, with flashing
eyes. "Never to speak again of _that_--so long as we live!"

"Never to a living soul," rejoined Lane, with a ring in his voice.

They shook hands much the same as when they had met half an hour
earlier.

"So!" exclaimed Blair, with a deep breath. "And now, Dare, tell me how
you made out with Helen. You cut me short over the 'phone."

"Blair, that day coming into New York on the ship, you didn't put it
half strong enough," replied Lane. Then he told Blair about the call
he had made upon Helen, and what had transpired at her studio.

Blair did not voice the scorn that his eyes expressed. And, in fact,
most of his talking was confined to asking questions. Lane found it
easy enough to unburden himself, though he did not mention his calls
on Mel Iden, or Colonel Pepper's disclosures.

"Well, I guess it's high time we were meandering up to the hall," said
Blair, consulting his watch. "I'm curious about this Prom. Think we're
in for a jolt. It's four years since I went to a Prom. Now, both of
us, Dare, have a sister who'll be there, besides all our old
friends.... And we're not dancing! But I want to look on. They've got
an out-of-town orchestra coming--a jazz orchestra. There'll probably
be a hot time in the old town to-night."

"Lorna did not tell me," replied Lane, as they got up to go. "But I
suppose she'd rather I didn't know. We've clashed a good deal lately."

"Dare, I hear lots of talk," said Blair. "Margaret is chummy with me,
and some of her friends are always out at the house. I hear Dick Swann
is rushing Lorna. Think he's doing it on the q-t."

"I know he is, Blair, but I can't catch them together," returned Lane.
"Lorna is working now. Swann got her the job."

"Looks bad to me," replied Blair, soberly. "Swann is cutting a swath.
I hear his old man is sore on him.... I'd take Lorna out of that
office quick."

"Maybe you would," declared Lane, grimly. "For all the influence or
power I have over Lorna I might as well not exist."

They walked silently along the street for a little while. Lane had to
accommodate his step to the slower movement of his crippled friend.
Blair's crutch tapped over the stone pavement and clicked over the
curbs. They crossed the railroad tracks and turned off the main street
to go down a couple of blocks.

"Shades of the past!" exclaimed Blair, as they reached a big brick
building, well-lighted in front by a sizzling electric lamp. The night
was rather warm and clouds of insects were wheeling round the light.
"The moths and the flame!" added Blair, satirically. "Well, Dare, old
bunkie, brace up and we'll go over the top. This ought to be fun for
us."

"I don't see it," replied Lane. "I'll be about as welcome as a bull in
a china shop."

"Oh, I didn't mean any one would throw fits over us," responded Blair.
"But we ought to get some fun out of the fact."

"What fact?" queried Lane, puzzled.

"Rather far-fetched, maybe. But I'll get a kick out of looking
on--watching these swell slackers with the girls _we_ fought for."

"Wonder why they didn't give the dance at the armory, where they'd not
have to climb stairs, and have more room?" queried Lane, as they went
in under the big light.

"Dare, you're far back in the past," said Blair, sardonically. "The
armory is on the ground floor--one big hall--open, you know. The
Assembly Hall is a regular maze for rooms and stairways."

Blair labored up the stairway with Lane's help. At last they reached
the floor from which had blared the strains of jazz. Wide doors were
open, through which Lane caught the flash of many colors. Blair
produced his tickets at the door. There did not appear to be any one
to take them.

Lane experienced an indefinable thrill at the scene. The air seemed to
reek with a mixed perfume and cigarette smoke--to resound with
high-keyed youthful laughter, wild and sweet and vacant above the
strange, discordant music. Then the flashing, changing, whirling
colors of the dancers struck Lane as oriental, erotic,
bizarre--gorgeous golds and greens and reds striped by the
conventional black. Suddenly the blare ceased, and the shrill,
trilling laughter had dominance. The rapid circling of forms came to a
sudden stop, and the dancers streamed in all directions over the
floor.

"Dare, they've called time," said Blair. "Let's get inside the ropes
so we can see better."

The hall was not large, but it was long, and shaped like a letter L
with pillars running down the center. Countless threads of
many-colored strings of paper had been stretched from pillars to
walls, hanging down almost within reach of the dancers. Flags and gay
bunting helped in the riotous effect of decoration. The black-faced
orchestra held forth on a raised platform at the point where the hall
looked two ways. Recesses, alcoves and open doors to other rooms,
which the young couples were piling over each other to reach, gave
Lane some inkling of what Blair had hinted.

"Now we're out in the limelight," announced Blair, as he halted.
"Let's stand here and run the gauntlet until the next dance--then we
can find seats."

Almost at once a stream of gay couples enveloped them in passing.
Bright, flashing, vivid faces and bare shoulders, arms and breasts
appeared above the short bodices of the girls. Few of them were gowned
in white. The colors seemed too garish for anything but musical
comedy. But the freshness, the vividness of these girls seemed
exhilarating. The murmur, the merriment touched a forgotten chord in
Lane's heart. For a moment it seemed sweet to be there, once more in a
gathering where pleasure was the pursuit. It breathed of what seemed
long ago, in a past that was infinitely more precious to remember
because he had no future of hope or of ambition or dream. Something
had happened to him that now made the sensations of the moment
stingingly bitter-sweet. The freshness and fragrance, the color and
excitement, the beauty and gayety were not for him. Youth was dead. He
could never enter the lists with these young men, many no younger than
he, for the favor and smile of a girl. Resignation had not been so
difficult in the spiritual moment of realization and resolve, but to
be presented with one concrete and stunning actuality after another,
each with its mocking might-have-been, had grown to be a terrible
ordeal.

Lane looked for faces he knew. On each side of the pillar where he and
Blair stood the stream of color and gayety flowed. Helen and Margaret
Maynard went by on the far edge of that stream. Across the hall he
caught a glimpse of the flashing golden beauty of Bessy Bell. Then
near at hand he recognized Fanchon Smith, a petite, smug-faced little
brunette, with naked shoulders bulging out of a piebald gown. She
espied Lane and her face froze. Then there were familiar faces near
and far, to which Lane could not attach names.

All at once he became aware that other of his senses besides sight
were being stimulated. He had been hearing without distinguishing what
he heard. And curiously he listened, still with that strange knock of
memory at his heart. Everybody was talking, some low, some high, all
in the spirit of the hour. And in one moment he had heard that which
killed the false enchantment.

"Not a chance!..."

"Hot dog--she's some Jane!"

"Now to the clinch--"

"What'll we do till the next spiel--"

"Have a shot?----"

"Boys, it's only the shank of the evening. Leave something peppy for
the finish."

"Mame, you look like a million dollars in that rag."

"She shakes a mean shimmy, believe me...."

"That egg! Not on your life!"

"Cut the next with Ned. We'll sneak down and take a ride in my
car...."

"Oh, spiffy!"

Lane's acutely strained attention was diverted by Blair's voice.

"Look who's with my sister Margie."

Lane turned to look through an open space in the dispersing stream.
Blair's sister was passing with Dick Swann. Elegantly and fastidiously
attired, the young millionaire appeared to be attentive to his
partner. Margaret stood out rather strikingly from the other girls
near her by reason of the simplicity and modesty of her dress. She did
not look so much bored as discontented. Lane saw her eyes rove to and
fro from the entrance of the hall. When she espied Lane she nodded and
spoke with a smile and made an evident move toward him, but was
restrained by Swann. He led her past Lane and Blair without so much as
glancing in their direction. Lane heard Blair swear.

"Dare, if my mother throws Marg at that--slacker, I'll block the deal
if it's the last thing I ever do," he declared, violently.

"And I'll help you," replied Lane, instantly.

"I know Margie hates him."

"Blair, your sister is in love with Holt Dalrymple."

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