by Zane Grey
“On second thought, I’ll go up with you,” continued Mrs. Wrapp, as he moved in the direction she had indicated. “Come.”
The wide hall, the winding stairway with its soft carpet, the narrower hallway above—these made a long journey for Lane. But at the end, when Mrs. Wrapp stopped with hand on the farthest door, Lane felt knit like cold steel.
The discordant music and the soft shuffling of feet ceased. Laughter and murmur of voices began.
“Come, Daren,” whispered Mrs. Wrapp, as if thrilled. Certainly her eyes gleamed. Then quickly she threw the door open wide and called out:
“Helen, here’s Daren Lane home from the war, wearing the Croix de Guerre.”
Mrs. Wrapp pushed Lane forward, and stood there a moment in the sudden silence, then stepping back, she went out and closed the door.
Lane saw a large well-lighted room, with colorful bizarre decorations and a bare shiny floor. The first person his glance encountered was a young girl, strikingly beautiful, facing him with red lips parted. She had violet eyes that seemed to have a startled expression as they met Lane’s. Next Lane saw a slim young man standing close to this girl, in the act of withdrawing his arm from around her waist. Apparently with his free hand he had either been lowering a smoking cigarette from her lips or had been raising it there. This hand, too, dropped down. Lane did not recognize the fellow’s smooth, smug face, with its tiny curled mustache and its heated swollen lines.
“Look who’s here,” shouted a gay, vibrant voice. “If it isn’t old Dare Lane!”
That voice drew Lane’s fixed gaze, and he saw a group in the far corner of the room. One man was standing, another was sitting beside a lounge, upon which lay a young woman amid a pile of pillows. She rose lazily, and as she slid off the lounge Lane saw her skirt come down and cover her bare knees. Her red hair, bobbed and curly, marked her for recognition. It was Helen. But Lane doubted if he would have at once recognized any other feature. The handsome insolence of her face was belied by a singularly eager and curious expression. Her eyes, almost green in line, swept Lane up and down, and came back to his face, while she extended her hands in greeting.
“Helen, how are you?” said Lane, with a cool intent mastery of himself, bowing over her hands. “Surprised to see me?”
“Well, I’ll say so! Daren, you’ve changed,” she replied, and the latter part of her speech flashed swiftly.
“Rather,” he said, laconically. “What would you expect? So have you changed.”
There came a moment’s pause. Helen was not embarrassed or agitated, but something about Lane or the situation apparently made her slow or stiff.
“Daren, you—of course you remember Hardy Mackay and Dick Swann,” she said.
Lane turned to greet one-time schoolmates and rivals of his. Mackay was tall, homely, with a face that lacked force, light blue eyes and thick sandy hair, brushed high. Swann was slight, elegant, faultlessly groomed and he had a dark, sallow face, heavy lips, heavy eyelids, eyes rather prominent and of a wine-dark hue. To Lane he did not have a clean, virile look.
In their greetings Lane sensed some indefinable quality of surprise or suspense. Swann rather awkwardly put out his hand, but Lane ignored it. The blood stained Swann’s sallow face and he drew himself up.
“And Daren, here are other friends of mine,” said Helen, and she turned him round. “Bessy, this is Daren Lane.… Miss Bessy Bell.” As Lane acknowledged the introduction he felt that he was looking at the prettiest girl he had ever seen—the girl whose violet eyes had met his when he entered the room.
“Mr. Daren Lane, I’m very happy to meet someone from ‘over there,’” she said, with the ease and self-possession of a woman of the world. But when she smiled a beautiful, wonderful light seemed to shine from eyes and face and lips—a smile of youth.
Helen introduced her companion as Roy Vancey. Then she led Lane to the far corner, to another couple, manifestly disturbed from their rather close and familiar position in a window seat. These also were strangers to Lane. They did not get up, and they were not interested. In fact, Lane was quick to catch an impression from all, possibly excepting Miss Bell, that the courtesy of drawing rooms, such as he had been familiar with as a young man, was wanting in this atmosphere. Lane wondered if it was antagonism toward him. Helen drew Lane back toward her other friends, to the lounge where she seated herself. If the situation had disturbed her equilibrium in the least, the moment had passed. She did not care what Lane thought of her guests or what they thought of him. But she seemed curious about him. Bessy Bell came and sat beside her, watching Lane.
“Daren, do you dance?” queried Helen. “You used to be good. But dancing is not the same. It’s all fox-trot, toddle, shimmy nowadays.”
“I’m afraid my dancing days are over,” replied Lane.
“How so? I see you came back with two legs and arms.”
“Yes. But I was shot twice through one leg—it’s about all I can do to walk now.”
Following his easy laugh, a little silence ensued. Helen’s green eyes seemed to narrow and concentrate on Lane. Dick Swann inhaled a deep draught of his cigarette, then let the smoke curl up from his lips to enter his nostrils. Mackay rather uneasily shifted his feet. And Bessy Bell gazed with wonderful violet eyes at Lane.
“Oh! You were shot!” she whispered.
“Yes,” replied Lane, and looked directly at her, prompted by her singular tone. A glance was enough to show Lane that this very young girl was an entirely new type to him. She seemed to vibrate with intensity. All the graceful lines of her body seemed strangely instinct with pulsing life. She was bottled lightning. In a flash Lane sensed what made her different from the fifteen-year-olds he remembered before the war. It was what made his sister Lorna different. He felt it in Helen’s scrutiny of him, in the speculation of her eyes. Then Bessy Bell leaned toward Lane, and softly, reverently touched the medal upon his breast.
“The Croix de Guerre,” she said, in awe. “That’s the French badge of honor.… It means you must have done something great.… You must have—killed Germans!”
Bessy sank back upon the lounge, clasping her hands, and her eyes appeared to darken, to turn purple with quickening thought and emotion. Her exclamation brought the third girl of the party over to the lounge. She was all eyes. Her apathy had vanished. She did not see the sulky young fellow who had followed her.
Lane could have laughed aloud. He read the shallow souls of these older girls. They could not help their instincts and he had learned that it was instinctive with women to become emotional over soldiers. Bessy Bell was a child. Hero-worship shone from her speaking eyes. Whatever other young men might be to her, no one of them could compare with a soldier.
The situation had its pathos, its tragedy, and its gratification for Lane. He saw clearly, and felt with the acuteness of a woman. Helen had jilted him for such young men as these. So in the feeling of the moment it cost him nothing to thrill and fascinate these girls with the story of how he had been shot through the leg. It pleased him to see Helen’s green eyes dilate, to see Bessy Bell shudder. Presently Lane turned to speak to the supercilious Swann.
“I didn’t have the luck to run across you in France!” he queried.
“No. I didn’t go,” replied Swann.
“How was that? Didn’t the draft get you?”
“Yes. But my eyes were bad. And my father needed me at the works. We had a big army contract in steel.”
“Oh, I see,” returned Lane, with a subtle alteration of manner he could not, did not want to control. But it was unmistakable in its detachment. Next his gaze on Mackay did not require the accompaniment of a query.
“I was under weight. They wouldn’t accept me,” he explained.
Bessy Bell looked at Mackay disdainfully. “Why didn’t you drink a bucketful of water—same as Billy Means did? He got in.”
Helen laughed gayly. “What! Mac drink water? He’d be ill.… Come, let’s dance. Dick put on that new one. Daren, you can wat
ch us dance.”
Swann did as he was bidden, and as a loud, violent discordance blared out of the machine he threw away his cigarette, and turned to Helen. She seemed to leap at him. She had a pantherish grace. Swann drew her closely to him, with his arm all the way round her, while her arm encircled his neck. They began a fast swaying walk, in which Swann appeared to be forcing the girl over backwards. They swayed, and turned, and glided; they made strange abrupt movements in accordance with the jerky tune; they halted at the end of a walk to make little steps forward and back; then they began to bounce and sway together in a motion that Lane instantly recognized as a toddle. Lane remembered the one-step, the fox-trot and other new dances of an earlier day, when the craze for new dancing had become general, but this sort of gyration was vastly something else. It disgusted Lane. He felt the blood surge to his face. He watched Helen Wrapp in the arms of Swann, and he realized, whatever had been the state of his heart on his return home, he did not love her now. Even if the war had not disrupted his mind in an unaccountable way, even if he had loved Helen Wrapp right up to that moment, such singular abandonment to a distorted strange music, to the close and unmistakably sensual embrace of a man—that spectacle would have killed his love.
Lane turned his gaze away. The young fellow Vancey was pulling at Bessy Bell, and she shook his hand off. “No, Roy, I don’t want to dance.” Lane heard above the jarring, stringing notes. Mackay was smoking, and looked on as if bored. In a moment more the Victrola rasped out its last note.
Helen’s face was flushed and moist. Her bosom heaved. Her gown hung closely to her lissom and rather full form. A singular expression of excitement, of titillation, almost wild, a softer expression almost dreamy, died out of her face. Lane saw Swann lead Helen up to a small table beside the Victrola. Here stood a large pitcher of lemonade, and a number of glasses. Swann filled a glass half full, from the pitcher, and then, deliberately pulling a silver flask from his hip pocket he poured some of its dark red contents into the glass. Helen took it from him, and turned to Lane with a half-mocking glance.
“Daren, I remember you never drank,” she said. “Maybe the war made a man of you!… Will you have a sip of lemonade with a shot in it?”
“No, thank you,” replied Lane.
“Didn’t you drink over there?” she queried.
“Only when I had to,” he rejoined, shortly.
All of the four dancers partook of a drink of lemonade, strengthened by something from Swann’s flask. Lane was quick to observe that when it was pressed upon Bessy Bell she refused to take it: “I hate booze,” she said, with a grimace. His further impression of Bessy Bell, then, was that she had just fallen in with this older crowd, and sophisticated though she was, had not yet been corrupted. The divination of this heightened his interest.
“Well, Daren, you old prune, what’d you think of the toddle?” asked Helen, as she took a cigarette offered by Swann and tipped it between her red lips.
“Is that what you danced?”
“I’ll say so. And Dick and I are considered pretty spiffy.”
“I don’t think much of it, Helen,” replied Lane, deliberately. “If you care to—to do that sort of thing I’d imagine you’d rather do it alone.”
“Oh Lord, you talk like mother,” she exclaimed.
“Lane, you’re out of date,” said Swann, with a little sneer.
Lane took a long, steady glance at Swann, but did not reply.
“Daren, everybody has been dancing jazz. It’s the rage. The old dances were slow. The new ones have pep and snap.”
“So I see. They have more than that,” returned Lane. “But pray, never mind me. I’m out of date. Go ahead and dance.… If you’d rather, I’ll leave and call on you some other time.”
“No, you stay,” she replied. “I’ll chase this bunch pretty soon.”
“Well, you won’t chase me. I’ll go,” spoke up Swann, sullenly, with a fling of his cigarette.
“You needn’t hurt yourself,” returned Helen, sarcastically.
“So long, people,” said Swann to the others. But it was perfectly obvious that he did not include Lane. It was also obvious, at least to Lane, that Swann showed something of intolerance and mastery in the dark, sullen glance he bestowed upon Helen. She followed him across the room and out into the hall, from whence her guarded voice sounded unintelligibly. But Lane’s keen ear, despite the starting of the Victrola, caught Swann’s equally low, yet clearer reply. “You can’t kid me. I’m on. You’ll vamp Lane if he lets you. Go to it!”
As Helen came back into the room Mackay ran for her, and locking her in the same embrace—even a tighter one than Swann’s—he fell into the strange steps that had so shocked Lane. Moreover, he was manifestly a skilful dancer, and showed the thin, lithe, supple body of one trained down by this or some other violent exercise.
Lane did not watch the dancers this time. Again Bessy Bell refused to get up from the lounge. The youth was insistent. He pawed at her. And manifestly she did not like that, for her face flamed, and she snapped: “Stop it—you bonehead! Can’t you see I want to sit here by Mr. Lane?”
The youth slouched away fuming to himself.
Whereupon Lane got up, and seated himself beside Bessy so that he need not shout to be heard.
“That was nice of you, Miss Bell—but rather hard on the youngster,” said Lane.
“He makes me sick. All he wants to do is lolly-gag.… Besides, after what you said to Helen about the jazz I wouldn’t dance in front of you on a bet.”
She was forceful, frank, naive. She was impressed by his nearness; but Lane saw that it was the fact of his being a soldier with a record, not his mere physical propinquity that affected her. She seemed both bold and shy. But she did not show any modesty. Her short skirt came above her bare knees, and she did not try to hide them from Lane’s sight. At fifteen, like his sister Lorna, this girl had the development of a young woman. She breathed health, and something elusive that Lane could not catch. If it had not been for her apparent lack of shame, and her rouged lips and cheeks, and her plucked eyebrows, she would have been exceedingly alluring. But no beauty, however striking, could under these circumstances, stir Lane’s heart. He was fascinated, puzzled, intensely curious.
“Why wouldn’t you dance jazz in front of me?” he inquired, with a smile.
“Well, for one thing I’m not stuck on it, and for another I’ll say you said a mouthful.”
“Is that all?” he asked, as if disappointed.
“No. I’d respect what you said—because of where you’ve been and what you’ve done.”
It was a reply that surprised Lane.
“I’m out of date, you know.”
She put a finger on the medal on his breast and said: “You could never be out of date.”
The music and the sliding shuffle ceased.
“Now beat it,” said Helen. “I want to talk to Daren.” She gayly shoved the young people ahead of her in a mass, and called to Bessy: “Here, you kid vamp, lay off Daren.”
Bessy leaned to whisper in his ear: “Make a date with me, quick!”
“Surely, I’ll hunt you up. Good-bye.”
She was the only one who made any pretension of saying good-bye to Lane. They all crowded out before Helen, with Mackay in the rear. From the hall Lane heard him say to Helen: “Dick’ll sure go to the mat with you for this.”
Presently Helen returned to shut the door behind her; and her walk toward Lane had a suggestion of the oriental dancer. For Lane her face was a study. This seemed a woman beyond his comprehension. She was the Helen Wrapp he had known and loved, plus an age of change, a measureless experience. With that swaying, sinuous, pantherish grace, with her green eyes narrowed and gleaming, half mocking, half serious, she glided up to him, close, closer until she pressed against him, and her face was uplifted under his. Then she waited with her eyes gazing into his. Slumberous green depths, slowly lighting, they seemed to Lane. Her presence thus, her brazen challenge, affected him
powerfully, but he had no thrill.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” she asked.
“Helen, why didn’t you write me you had broken our engagement?” he counter-queried.
The question disconcerted her somewhat. Drawing back from close contact with him she took hold of his sleeves, and assumed a naive air of groping in memory. She used her eyes in a way that Lane could not associate with the past he knew. She was a flirt—not above trying her arts on the man she had jilted.
“Why, didn’t I write you? Of course I did.”
“Well, if you did I never got the letter. And if you were on the level you’d admit you never wrote.”
“How’d you find out then?” she inquired curiously.
“I never knew for sure until your mother verified it.”
“Are you curious to know why I did break it off?”
“Not in the least.”
This reply shot the fire into her face, yet she still persisted in the expression of her sentimental motive. She began to finger the medal on his breast.
“So, Mr. Soldier Hero, you didn’t care?”
“No—not after I had been here ten minutes,” he replied, bluntly.
She whirled from him, swiftly, her body instinct with passion, her expression one of surprise and fury.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing I care to explain, except I discovered my love for you was dead—perhaps had been dead for a long time.”
“But you never discovered it until you saw me—here—with Swann—dancing, drinking, smoking?”
“No. To be honest, the shock of that enlightened me.”
“Daren Lane, I’m just what you men have made me,” she burst out, passionately.
“You are mistaken. I beg to be excluded from any complicity in the—in whatever you’ve been made,” he said, bitterly. “I have been true to you in deed and in thought all this time.”
“You must be a queer soldier!” she exclaimed, incredulously.
“I figure there were a couple of million soldiers like me, queer or not,” he retorted.