by Zane Grey
She had both hands pressed to her breast as if to stay an uncontrollable feeling. Her eyes, dilated and wide, expressed a blending of emotions.
“No, no, no!” she cried.
Lane went on just the same with other words, in other vein, reiterating the same importunity. It was a tragic game, in which he divined he must lose. But the playing of it had inexplicably bitter-sweet pain. He knew now that Mel loved him. No greater proof needed he than the perception of her reaction to one word on his lips—wife. She quivered to that like a tautly strung lyre touched by a skilful hand. It fascinated her. But the temptation to accept his offer for the sake of her boy’s future was counteracted by the very strength of her feeling for Lane. She would not marry him, because she loved him.
Lane read this truth, and it wrung a deeper reverence from him. And he saw, too, the one way in which he could break her spirit, make her surrender, if he could stoop to it. If he could take her in his arms, and hold her tight, and kiss her dumb and blind, and make her understand his own love for her, his need of her, she would accede with the wondrous generosity of a woman’s heart. But he could not do it.
In the end, out of sheer pity that overcame the strange delight he had in torturing her, he desisted in his appeals and demands and subtle arguments. The long strain left him spent. And with the sudden let-down of his energy, the surrender to her stronger will, he fell prey at once to the sadness that more and more was encompassing him. He felt an old and broken man.
To this sudden change in Lane Mel responded with mute anxiety and fear. The alteration of his spirit stunned her. As he bade her good-bye she clung to him.
“Daren, forgive me,” she implored. “You don’t understand.… Oh, it’s hard.”
“Never mind, Mel. I guess it was just one of my dreams. Don’t cry.… Good-bye.”
“But you’ll come again?” she entreated, almost wildly.
Lane shook his head. He did not trust himself to look at her then.
“Daren, you can’t mean that,” she cried. “It’s too late for me. I—I—Oh! You.… To uplift me—then to cast me down! Daren, come back.”
In his heart he did not deny that cry of hers. He knew he would come back, knew it with stinging shame, but he could not tell her. It had all turned out so differently from what he had dreamed. If he had not loved her he would not have felt defeat. To have made her his wife would have been to protect her, to possess her even after he was dead.
At the last she let him go. He felt her watching him, and he carried her lingering clasp away with him, to burn and to thrill and to haunt, and yet to comfort him in lonely hours.
But the next day the old spirit resurged anew, and unreconciled to defeat, he turned to what was left him. Foolish and futile hopes! To bank on the single grain of good in his wayward sister’s heart! To trust the might of his spirit—to beat down the influence of an intolerant and depraved young millionaire—verily he was mad. Yet he believed. And as a final resort he held death in his hand. Richard Swann swaggered by Lane that night in the billiard room of the Bradford Inn and stared sneeringly at him.
“I’ve got a date,” he gayly said to his sycophantic friends, in a tone that would reach Lane’s ears.
The summer night came when Lane drove a hired car out the river road, keeping ever in sight a red light in front of him. He broke the law and endangered his life by traveling with darkened lamps.
There was a crescent moon, clear and exquisitely delicate in the darkening blue sky. The gleaming river shone winding away under the dusky wooded hills. The white road stretched ahead, dimming in the distance. A night for romance and love—for a maiden at a stile and a lover who hung rapt and humble upon her whispers! But that red eye before him held no romance. It leered as the luxurious sedan swayed from side to side, a diabolical thing with speed.
Lane was driving out the state highway, mile after mile. He calculated that in less than ten minutes Swann had taken a girl from a bustling corner of Middleville out into the open country. In pleasant weather, when the roads were good, cars like Swann’s swerved off into the bypaths, into the edge of woods. In bad weather they parked along the highway, darkened their lights and pulled their blinds. For this, great factories turned out automobiles. And there might have pealed out to a nation, and to God, the dolorous cry of a hundred thousand ruined girls! But who would hear? And on the lips of girls of the present there was only the wild cry for excitement, for the nameless and unknown! There was a girl in Swann’s car and Lane believed it was his sister. Night after night he had watched. Once he had actually seen Lorna ride off with Swann. And tonight from a vantage point under the maples, when he had a car ready to follow, he had made sure he had seen them again.
The red eye squared off at right angles to the highway, and disappeared. Lane came to a byroad, a lane lined with trees. He stopped his car and got out. It did not appear that he would have to walk far. And he was right, for presently a black object loomed against the gray obscurity. It was an automobile, without lights, in the shadow of trees.
Lane halted. He carried a flash-light in his left hand, his gun in his right. For a moment he deliberated. This being abroad in the dark on an errand fraught with peril for someone had a familiar and deadly tang. He was at home in this atmosphere. Hell itself had yawned at his feet many and many a time. He was a different man here. He deliberated because it was wise to forestall events. He did not want to kill Swann then, unless in self-defense. He waited until that peculiarly quick and tight and cold settling of his nerves told of brain control over heart. Yet he was conscious of subdued hate, of a righteous and terrible wrath held in abeyance for the sake of his sister’s name. And he regretted that he had imperiously demanded of himself this assurance of Lorna’s wantonness.
Then he stole forward, closer and closer. He heard a low voice of dalliance, a titter, high-pitched and sweet—sweet and wild. That was not Lorna’s laugh. The car was not Swann’s.
Lane swerved to the left, and in the gloom of trees, passed by noiselessly. Soon he encountered another car—an open car with shields up—as silent as if empty. But the very silence of it was potent of life. It cried out to the night and to Lane. But it was not the car he had followed.
Again he slipped by, stealthily, yet scornful of his caution. Who cared? He might have shouted his mission to the heavens. Lane passed on. All he caught from the second car was a faint fragrance of smoke, wafted on the gentle summer breeze.
Another black object loomed up—a larger car—the sedan Lane recognized. He did not bolt or hurry. His footsteps made no sound. Crouching a little he slipped round the car to one side. At the instant he reached for the handle of the door, a pang shook him. Alas, that he should be compelled to spy on Lorna! His little sister! He saw her as a curly-headed child, adoring him. Perhaps it might not be Lorna after all. But it was for her sake that he was doing this. The softer moment passed and the soldier intervened.
With one swift turn and jerk he opened the door—then flashed his light. A scream rent the air. In the glaring circle of light Lane saw red hair—green eyes transfixed in fear—white shoulders—white arms—white ringed hands suddenly flung upward. Helen! The blood left his heart in a rush. Swann blinked in the light, bewildered and startled.
“Swann, you’ll have to excuse me,” said Lane, coolly. “I thought you had my sister with you. I’ve spotted her twice with you in this car.… It may not interest you or your—your guest, but I’ll add that you’re damned lucky not to have Lorna here tonight.”
Then he snapped off his flash-light, and slamming the car door, he wheeled away.
CHAPTER XIII
Lane left his room and went into the shady woods, where he thought the July heat would be less unendurable, where the fever in his blood might abate. But though it was cool and pleasant there he experienced no relief. Wherever he went he carried the burden of his pangs. And his grim giant of unrest trod in his shadow.
He could not stay long in the woods. He betook himself to
the hills and meadows. Action was beneficial for him, though he soon exhausted himself. He would have liked to fight out his battle that day. Should he go on spending his days and nights in a slowly increasing torment? The longer he fought the less chance he had of victory. Victory! There could be none. What victory could be won over a strange ineradicable susceptibility to the sweetness, charm, mystery of a woman? He plodded the fragrant fields with bent head, in despair. Loneliness hurt him as much as anything. And a new pang, the fiercest and most insupportable, had been added to his miseries. Jealousy! Thought of the father of Mel Iden’s child haunted him, flayed him, made him feel himself ignoble and base. There was no help for that. And this fiend of jealousy added fuel to his love. Only long passionate iteration of his assurance of principle and generosity subdued that frenzy and at length gave him composure. Perhaps this had some semblance to victory.
Lane returned to town weaker in one way than when he had left, yet stronger in another. Upon the outskirts of Middleville he crossed the river road and sat down upon a stone wall. The afternoon was far spent and the sun blazing red. Lane wiped his moist face and fanned himself with his hat. Behind him the shade of a wooded garden or park looked inviting. Back in the foliage he espied the vine-covered roof of an old summer house.
A fresh young voice burst upon his meditations. “Hello, Daren Lane.”
Lane turned in surprise to behold a girl in white, standing in the shade of trees beyond the wall. Somewhere he had seen that beautiful golden head, the dark blue, almost purple eyes.
“Good afternoon. You startled me,” said Lane.
“I called you twice.”
“Indeed? I beg pardon. I didn’t hear.”
“Don’t you remember me?” Her tone was one of pique and doubt.
Then he remembered her. “Oh, of course. Bessy Bell! You must forgive me. I’ve been ill and upset lately. These bad spells of mine magnify time. It seems long since the Junior Prom.”
“Oh, you’re ill,” she returned, compassionately. “You do look pale and—won’t you come in? It’s dusty and hot there. Come. I’ll take you where it’s nice and cool.”
“Thank you. I’ll be glad to.”
She led him to a green, fragrant nook, where a bench with cushions stood half-hidden under heavy foliage. Lane caught a glimpse of a winding flagged path, and in the distance a cottage among the trees.
“Bessy, do you live here?” he asked. “It’s pretty.”
“Yes, this is my home. It’s too damn far from town, I’ll say. I’m buried alive,” she replied, passionately.
The bald speech struck Lane forcibly. All at once he remembered Bessy Bell and his former interest. She was a type of the heretofore inexplicable modern girl. Lane looked at her, seeing her suddenly with a clearer vision. Bessy Bell had a physical perfection, a loveliness that needed neither spirit nor animation. But life had given this girl so much more than beauty. A softness of light seemed to shine round her golden head; smiles played in secret behind her red lips ready to break forth, and there was a haunting hint of a dimple in her round cheek; on her lay the sweetness of youth subtly dawning into womanhood; the flashing eyes were keen with intellect, with fire, full of promise and mystic charm; and her beautiful, supple body, so plainly visible, seemed quivering with sheer, restless joy of movement and feeling. A trace of artificial color on her face and the indelicacy of her dress but slightly counteracted Lane’s first impression.
“You promised to call me up and make a date,” she said, and sat down close to him.
“Yes. I meant it too. But Bessy, I was ill, and then I forgot. You didn’t miss much.”
“Hot dog! Hear the man. Daren, I’d throw the whole bunch down to be with you,” she exclaimed.
At the end of that speech she paled slightly and her breath came quickly. She looked bold, provocative, expectant, yet sincere. Child or woman, she had to be taken seriously. Here indeed was the mystery that had baffled Lane. He realized his opportunity, like a flash all his former thought and conjecture about this girl returned to him.
“You would. Well, I’m highly flattered. Why, may I ask?”
“Because I’ve fallen for you,” she replied, leaning close to him. “That’s the main reason, I guess.… But another is, I want you to tell me all about yourself—in the war, you know.”
“I’d be glad to—if we get to be real friends,” he said, thoughtfully. “I don’t understand you.”
“And I’ll say I don’t just get you,” she retorted. “What do you want? Have you forgotten the silver platter?”
She turned away with a restless quivering. She had shown no shyness. She was bold, intense, absolutely without fear; and however stimulating or attractive the situation evidently was, it was neither new nor novel to her. Some strange leaven worked deep in her. Lane could put no other interpretation on her words and actions than that she expected him to kiss her.
“Bessy Bell, look at me,” said Lane, earnestly. “You’ve said a mouthful, as the slang word goes. I’m sort of surprised, you remember. Bessy, you’re not a girl whose head is full of excelsior. You’ve got brains. You can think.… Now, if you really like me—and I believe you—try to understand this. I’ve been away so long. All is changed. I don’t know how to take girls. I’m ill—and unhappy. But if I could be your friend and could help you a little—please you—why it’d be good for me.”
“Daren, they tell me you’re going to die,” she returned, breathlessly. Her glance was brooding, dark, pregnant with purple fire.
“Bessy, don’t believe all you hear. I’m not—not so far gone yet.”
“They say you’re game, too.”
“I hope so, Bessy.”
“Oh, you make me think. You must believe me a pill. I wanted you to—to fall for me hard.… That bunch of sapheads have spoiled me, I’ll say. Daren, I’m sick of them. All they want to do is mush. I like tennis, riding, golf. I want to do things. But it’s too hot, or this, or that. Yet they’ll break their necks to carry a girl off to some roadhouse, and dance—dance till you’re melted. Then they stop along the river to go bathing. I’ve been twice. You see, I have to sneak away, or lie to mother and say I’ve gone to Gail’s or somewhere.”
“Bathing, at night?” queried Lane, curiously.
“Sure thing. It’s spiffy, in the dark.”
“Of course you took your bathing suits?”
“Hot dog! That would be telling.”
Lane dropped his head and studied the dust at his feet. His heart beat thick and heavy. Through this girl the truth was going to be revealed to him. It seemed on the moment that he could not look into her eyes. She scattered his wits. He tried to erase from his mind every impression of her, so that he might begin anew to understand her. And the very first, succeeding this erasure, was a singular idea that she was the opposite of romantic.
“Bessy, can you understand that it is hard for a soldier to talk of what has happened to him?”
“I’ll say I can,” she replied.
“You’re sorry for me?” he went on, gently.
“Sorry!… Give me a chance to prove what I am, Daren Lane.”
“Very well, then. I will. We’ll make a fifty-fifty bargain. Do you regard a promise sacred?”
“I think I do. Some of the girls quarrel with me because I get sore, and swear they’re not square, as I try to be. I hate a liar and a quitter.”
“Come then—shake hands on our bargain.”
She seemed thrilled, excited. The clasp of her little hand showed force of character. She looked wonderingly up at him. Her appeal then was one of exquisite youth and beauty. Something of the baffling suggestion of an amorous expectation and response left her. This child would give what she received.
“First, then, it’s for me to know a lot about you,” went on Lane. “Will you tell me?”
“Sure. I’d trust you with anything,” she replied, impulsively.
“How long have you been going with boys?”
“Oh, for two
years, I guess. I had a passionate love affair when I was thirteen,” she replied, with the nonchalance and sophistication of experience.
It was impossible for Lane to take this latter remark for anything but the glib boldness of an erotic child. But he was not making any assurances to himself that he was right. Bessy Bell was fifteen years old, according to time. But she had the physical development of eighteen, and a mental range beyond his ken. The lawlessness unleashed by the war seemed embodied in this girl.
“With an older boy?” queried Lane.
“No. He was a kid of my own age. I guess I outgrew Ted,” she replied, dreamily. “But he still tries to rush me.”
“With whom do you go to the secret club-rooms—above White’s ice cream parlor?” asked Lane, abruptly.
Bessy never flicked an eyelash. “Hot dog! So you’re wise to that? I thought it was a secret. I told Rose Clymer those fellows weren’t on the level. Who told you I was there? Your sister Lorna?”
“No. No one told me. Never mind that. Who took you there? You needn’t be afraid to trust me. I’m going to entrust my secrets to you by and bye.”
“I went with Roy Vancey, the boy who was with me at Helen’s the day I met you.”
“Bessy, how often have you been to those club-rooms?”
“Three times.”
“Were you ever there alone without any girls?”
“No. I had my chance. Dick Swann tried his damnedest to get me to go. But I’ve no use for him.”
“Why?”
“I just don’t like him, Daren,” she replied, evasively. “I love to have fun. But I haven’t yet been so hard up I had to go out with someone I didn’t like.”
“Has Swann had my sister Lorna at the club?”
Her replies had been prompt and frank. At this sudden query she seemed checked. Lane read in Bessy Bell then more of the truth of her than he had yet divined. Falsehood was naturally abhorrent to her. To lie to her parents or teachers savored of fun, and was part of the game. She did not want to lie to Lane, but in her code she could not betray another girl, especially to that girl’s brother.