by Zane Grey
“I don’t know, unless it’s to see her way,” responded the mother. “Sometimes I feel so—so old-fashioned and ignorant before Lorna. Maybe she is right. How can we tell? What makes all the young girls like that?”
What indeed, wondered Lane! The question had been hammering at his mind for over a month. He went back to bed, weary and dejected, suffering spasms of pain, like blades, through his lungs, and grateful for the darkness. Almost he wished it was all over—this ordeal. How puny his efforts! Relentlessly life marched on. At midnight he was still fighting his pangs, still unconquered. In the night his dark room was not empty. There were faces, shadows, moving images and pictures, scenes of the war limned against the blackness. At last he rested, grew as free from pain as he ever grew, and slept. In the morning it was another day, and the past was as if it were not.
May the first dawned ideally springlike, warm, fresh, fragrant, with birds singing, sky a clear blue, and trees budding green and white.
Lane yielded to an impulse that had grown stronger of late. His steps drew him to the little drab house where Mel Iden lived with her aunt. On the way, which led past a hedge, Lane gathered a bunch of violets.
“‘In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,’” he mused. “It’s good, even for me, to be alive this morning.… These violets, the birds, the fresh smells, the bursting green! Oh, well, regrets are idle. But just to think—I had to go through all I’ve known—right down to this moment—to realize how stingingly sweet life is.…”
Mel answered his knock, and sight of her face seemed to lift his heart with an unwonted throb. Had he unconsciously needed that? The thought made his greeting, and the tender of the violets, awkward for him.
“Violets! Oh, and spring! Daren, it was good of you to gather them for me. I remember.… But I told you not to come again.”
“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 today. 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 someone 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 o
r 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 someone 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 cu
ssed 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.”