Zane Grey - The Day of the Beast

“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.”