Zane Grey - The Day of the Beast

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.