by Zane Grey
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 to-night.”
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. Throu
gh 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 trustme . 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 some one 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.
“Daren, I promised I'd tell you all about myself,” she said.
“I shouldn't have asked you to give away one of your friends,” he returned. “Some other time I'll talk to you about Lorna. Tell you what I know, and ask you to help me save her——”
“Saveher! What do you mean, Daren?” she interrupted, with surprise.
“Bessy, I've paid you the compliment of believing you have intelligence. Hasn't it occurred to you that Lorna—or other of her friends or yours—might be going straight to ruin?”
“Ruin! No, that hadn't occurred to me. I heard Doctor Wallace make a crack like yours. Mother hauled me to church the Sunday after you broke up Fanchon Smith's dance. Doctor Wallace didn't impress me. These old people make me sick anyhow. They don't understand.... But Daren, I think I get your drift. So snow some more.”
All in a moment, it seemed to Lane, this girl passed from surprise to gravity, then to contempt, and finally to humor. She was fascinating.
“To go back to the club,” resumed Lane. “Bessy, what did you do there?”
“Oh, we toddled and shimmied. Cut up! Had an immense time, I'll say.”
“What do you mean by cut up?”
“Why, we just ran wild, you know. Fool stunts!... Once Roy was sore because I kicked cigarettes out of Bob's mouth. But the boob was tickled stiff when I kicked forhim . Jealous! It's all right with any one of the boys what you do forhim . But if you do the same foranother boy—good night!”
Bessy had no divination of the fact that her words for Lane had a clarifying significance.
“I suppose you played what we used to call kissing games?” queried Lane.
A sweet, high trill of laughter escaped Bessy's red lips.
“Daren, you are funny. Those games are as dead as Caesar.... This bunch of boys and girls paired off by themselves to spoon.... As for myself, I don't mind spooning if I like the fellow—and he hasn't been drinking. But otherwise I hate it. All the same I got what was coming to me from some of the boys of the Strong Arm Club.”
“Why do they give it that name?” asked Lane, remembering Colonel Pepper's remarks.
“Why, if a girl doesn't come across she gets the strong arm.... I had to fight like the devil that last afternoon I went there.”
“Didyou fight, Bessy?”
“I'll say I did.... Roy Vancey is sore as a pup. He hasn't been near me or called me up since.”
“Bessy, will you promise to stay away from that place—and not to go joy-riding with any of those boys—day or night—if I meet you, and tell you all about my experience in the war? I'll do my best to keep the time you spend with me from being tedious.”
“It's another bargain,” she returned deliberately, “if you just don't spend enough time with me to make me stuck on you—then throw me down. On the level, now, Daren?”
“I'll meet you as often as you want. And I'll be your friend as long as you prove to me I can be of any help, or pleasure, or good to you.”
“Hot dog, but you're taking some job, Daren. Won't it be just spiffy? We'll meet here, afternoons, and evenings when mother's out. She's nutty on bridge. She makes me promise I won't leave the yard. So I'll not have to lie to meet you.... Daren, that day at Helen's, the minute I saw you I knew you were going to have something to do with my future.”
“Bessy, a little while ago I made sure you had no romance in you,” replied Lane, with a smile. “Now as we've gotten serious, let's think hard about the future. What do you want most? Do you care for study, for books? Have you any gift for music? Do you ever think of fitting yourself for useful work?... Or is your mind full of this jazz stuff? Do you just want to go from day to day, like a butterfly from flower to flower? Just this boy and that one—not caring much which—all this frivolity you hinted of, and worse, living this precious time of your youth all for excitement? What is it you want most?”
She responded with a thoughtfulness that inspired Lane's hope for her. This girl could be reached. She was like Lorna in many ways, but different in mentality. Bessy watched the gyrations of her shapely little foot. She could not keep still even in abstraction.
“A girlmust have a good time,” she replied presently. “I've done things I hated because I couldn't bear to be left out of the fun.... But I like most to read and dream. Music makes me strange inside, and to want to do great things. Only there are no great things to do. I've never been nutty about a career, like Helen is. And I always ha
ted work.... I guess—to tell on the level—what I want most is to be loved.”
With that she raised her eyes to Lane's. He tried to read her mind, and realized that if he failed it was not because she was not baring it. Dropping his own gaze, he pondered. The girl's response to his earnestness was intensely thought-provoking. No matter how immodestly she was dressed, or what she had confessed to, or whether she had really expected and desired dalliance on his part—here was the truth as to her hidden yearning. The seething and terrible Renaissance of the modern girl seemed remarkably exemplified in Bessy Bell, yet underneath it all hid the fundamental instinct of all women of all ages. Bessy wanted most to be loved. Was that the secret of her departure from the old-fashioned canons of modesty and reserve?