by Zane Grey
For several days Doctor Bronson came twice daily to see Rose. He made little comment upon her condition, except to state that she had developed peritonitis, and he was not hopeful. Soon Rose took a turn for the worse. The doctor came to Lane's room and told him the girl would not have the strength to go through with her ordeal. Lane was so shocked he could not speak. Dr. Bronson's shoulders sagged a little, an unusual thing for him. “I'm sorry, Daren,” he said. “I know you wanted to help the poor girl out of this. But too late. I can ease her pain, and that's all.”
Strangely shaken and frightened Lane lay down in the dark. The partition between his room and Rose's might as well have been paper for all the sound it deadened. He could have escaped that, but he wanted to be near her.... And he listened to Rose's moans in the darkness. Lane shuddered there, helpless, suffering, realizing. Then the foreboding silence became more dreadful than any sound.... It was terrible for Lane. That strange cold knot in his breast, that coil of panic, seemed to spring and tear, quivering through all his body. What had he known of torture, of sacrifice, of divine selflessness? He understood now how the loved and guarded woman went down into the Valley of the Shadow for the sake of a man. Likewise, he knew the infinite tragedy of a ruined girl who lay in agony, gripped by relentless nature.
Lane was called into the hall by Mrs. O'Brien. She was weeping. Bronson met him at the door.
“She's dying,” he whispered. “You'd better come in. I've 'phoned to Doctor Wallace.”
Lane went in, almost blinded. The light seemed dim. Yet he saw Rose with a luminous glow radiating from her white face.
“I feel—so light,” she said, with a wan smile.
Lane sat by the bed, but he could not speak. The moments dragged. He had a feeling of their slow but remorseless certainty.
Then there were soft steps outside—Mrs. O'Brien opened the door—and Doctor Wallace entered the room.
“My child,” he gravely began, bending over her.
Rose's big eyes with their strained questioning gaze sought his face and Doctor Bronson's and Lane's.
“Rose—are you—in pain?”
“The burning's gone,” she said.
“My child,” began Doctor Wallace, again. “Your pain is almost over. Will you not pray with me?”
“No. I never was two-faced,” replied Rose, with a weary shake of the tangled curls. “I won't show yellow now.”
Lane turned away blindly. It was terrible to think of her dying bitter, unrepentant.
“Oh! if I could hope!” murmured Rose. “To see my mother!”
Then there were shuffling steps outside and voices. The door was opened by Mrs. O'Brien. Old Clymer crossed the threshold. He was sober, haggard, grieved. He had been told. No one spoke as he approached Rose's bedside.
“Lass—lass—” he began, brokenly.
Then he sought from the men confirmation of a fear borne by a glance into Rose's white still face. And silence answered him.
“Lass, if you're goin'—tell me—who was to blame?”
“No one—but myself—father,” she replied.
“Tell me, who was to blame?” demanded Clymer, harshly.
Her pale lips curled a little bitterly, and suddenly, as a change seemed to come over her, they set that way. She looked up at Lane with a different light in her eyes. Then she turned her face to the wall.
Lane left the room, to pace up and down the hall outside. His thoughts seemed deadlocked. By and bye, Doctor Bronson came out with Doctor Wallace, who was evidently leaving.
“She is unconscious and dying,” said Doctor Bronson to Lane, and then bade the minister good-bye and returned to the room.
“How strangely bitter she was!” exclaimed Doctor Wallace to Lane. “Yet she seemed such a frank honest girl. Her attitude was an acknowledgment of sin. But she did not believe it herself. She seemed to have a terrible resentment. Not against one man, or many persons, but perhaps life itself! She was beyond me. A modern girl—a pagan! But such a brave, loyal, generous little soul. What a pity! I find my religion at fault because it can accomplish nothing these days.”
CHAPTER XX.
Lane took Rose's death to heart as if she had been his sister or sweetheart. The exhaustion and exposure he was subjected to during these days dragged him farther down.
One bitter February day he took refuge in the railroad station. The old negro porter who had known Lane since he was a boy evidently read the truth of Lane's condition, for he contrived to lead him back into a corner of the irregular room. It was an obscure corner, rather hidden by a supporting pillar and the projecting end of a news counter. This seat was directly over the furnace in the cellar. Several pipes, too hot to touch, came up through the floor. It was the warmest place Lane had found, and he sat there for hours. He could see the people passing to and fro through the station, arriving and leaving on trains, without himself being seen. That afternoon was good for him, and he went back next day.
But before he could get to the coveted seat he was accosted by Blair Maynard. Lane winced under Blair's piercing gaze; and the haggard face of his friend renewed Lane's deadened pangs. Lane led Blair to the warm corner, and they sat down. It had been many weeks since they had seen each other. Blair talked in one uninterrupted flow for an hour, and so the life of the people Lane had given up was once again open to him. It was like the scoring of an old wound. Then Lane told what little there was to tell about himself. And the things he omitted Blair divined. After that they sat silent for a while.
“Of course you knew Mel's boy died,” said Blair, presently.
“Oh—No!” exclaimed Lane.
“Hadn't you heard? I thought—of course you—.... Yes, he died some time ago. Croup or flu, I forget.”
“Dead!” whispered Lane, and he leaned forward to cover his face with his hands. He had seemed so numb to feeling. But now a storm shook him.
“Dare, it's better for him—and Mel too,” said Blair, with a hand going to his friend's shoulder. “That idea never occurred to me until day before yesterday when I ran into Mel. She looked—Oh, I can't tell you how. But I got that strange impression.”
“Did—did she ask about me?” queried Lane, hoarsely, as he uncovered his face, and sat back.
“She certainly did,” replied Blair, warmly. “And I lied like a trooper. I didn't know where you were or how you were, but I pretended you were O.K.”
“And then—” asked Lane, breathlessly.
“She said, 'Tell Daren I must see him.' I promised and set out to find you. I was pretty lucky to run into you.... And now, old sport, let me get personal, will you?”
“Go as far as you like,” replied Lane, in muffled voice.
“Well, I think Mel loves you,” went on Blair, in hurried softness. “I always thought so—even when we were kids. And now I know it.... And Lord! Dare you just ought to see her now. She's lovely. And she's your wife.”
“What if she is—both lovely—and my wife?” queried Lane, bitterly.
“If I were you I'd go to her. I'd sure let her take care of me.... Dare, the way you're living is horrible. I have a home, such as it is. My room is warm and clean, and I can stay in it. But you—Dare, it hurts me to see you—as you are——”
“No!” interrupted Lane, passionately. The temptation Blair suggested was not to be borne.
Lane met Blair the next afternoon at the station, and again on the next. That established a habit in which both found much comfort and some happiness. Thereafter they met every day at the same hour. Often for long they sat silent, each occupied with his own thoughts. Occasionally Blair would bring a package which contained food he had ransacked from the larder at home. Together they would fall upon it like two schoolboys. But what Lane was most grateful for was just Blair's presence.
It was distressing then, after these meetings had extended over a period of two weeks, to be confronted one afternoon by a new station agent who called Blair and Lane bums and ordered them out of the place.
Bla
ir raised his crutch to knock the man down. But Lane intercepted it, and got his friend out of the station. It was late afternoon with the sun going down over the hill across the railroad yards. Blair stood a moment bare-headed, with the light on his handsome haggard face. How frail he seemed—too frail of body for the magnificent spirit so flashing in his eyes, so scathing on his bitter lips. Lane bade him good-bye and turned away, with a strange intimation that this was the last time he would ever see Blair alive.
Wretched and desperate, Lane bought drink and took it to his room with him. On that dark winter night he sat by the window of his room. Insensible now to the cold, to the wind moaning outside, to the snow whirling against the pane, he lived with phantoms. To and fro, to and fro glided the wraith-forms, vanishing and appearing. The soft rustling sound of the snow was the rustle of their movements. Across the gleam of light, streaking coldly through the pane, flickering fitfully on the wall, floated shadows and faces.
He did not know when he succumbed to drowsy weakness. But he awoke at daylight, lying on the floor, stiff with cold. Drink helped him to drag through that day. Then something happened to him, and time meant nothing. Night and day were the same. He did not eat. When he lay back upon his bed he became irrational, yet seemed to be conscious of it. When he sat up his senses slowly righted. But he preferred the spells of aberration. Sometimes he was possessed by hideous nightmares, out of which he awoke with the terror of a child. Then he would have to sit up in the dark, in a cold sweat, and wait, and wait, until he dared to lie back again.
In the daytime delusions grew upon him. One was that he was always hearing the strange voices of the river, and another that he was being pursued by an old woman clad in a flowing black mantle, with a hood on her head and a crooked staff in her hand. The voices and apparition came to him, now in his waking hours; they came suddenly without any prelude or warning. He explained them as odd fancies resulting from strong drink; they grew on him until his harsh laugh could not shake them off. He managed occasionally to drag himself out of the house. In the streets he felt this old black hag following him; but later she came to him in the lonely silence of his room. He never noticed her unless he glanced behind him, and he was powerless to resist that impulse. At length the dreary old woman, who seemed to grow more gaunt and ghostly every day, took the form in Lane's disordered fancy of the misfortune that war had put upon him.
Lane dreamed once that it was a gray winter afternoon; dark lowering clouds hung over the drab-colored hills, and a chill north wind scurried over the bare meadows, sending the dead leaves rustling over the heath and moaning through the leafless oaks. What a sad day it was, he thought, as he faced the biting wind: sad as was his life and a fitting one for the deed on which he had determined! Long since he had left the city and was on the country road. He ascended a steep hill. From its highest point he looked back toward the city he was leaving forever. Faint it lay in the distance, only a few of its white spires shining out dimly from the purple haze.
What was that dark shadow? Far down the winding road he discerned an object moving slowly up the hill. Closer he looked, and trembled. An old woman with flowing black robes was laboriously climbing the hill. Whirling, he placed his hand on his breast, firmly grasped something there, and then strode onward. Soon he glanced over his shoulder. Yes, there she came, hobbling over the crest, her bent form and long crooked staff clearly silhouetted against the gray background. She raised the long staff and pointed it at him.
Now it seemed the day was waning; deep shadows lay in the valleys, and night already enveloped the forest. Through rents in the broken clouds a few pale stars twinkled fitfully. Soon dark cloud curtains scurried across these spaces shutting out the light.
He plunged into the forest. His footsteps made no sound on the soft moss as he glided through wooded aisles and under giant trees. Once well into the deep woods, he turned to look behind him. He saw a shadow, blacker than the forest-gloom, stealthily slipping from tree to tree. He looked no more. For hours he traveled on and on, never stopping, never looking backward, never listening, intent only on placing a great distance between him and his pursuer.
He came upon a swamp where his feet sank in the soft earth, and through all the night, with tireless strength and fateful resolve, he toiled into this dreamy waste of woods and waters, until at length a huge black rock loomed up in his way. He ascended to its summit and looked beyond.
It seemed now that he had reached his destination. Wood spirits and phantoms of night would mourn over him, but they would keep his secret. He peered across a shining lake, and tried to pierce the gloom. No living thing moved before his vision. Silver rippling waves shimmered under that starlit sky; tall weird pines waved gently in the night breeze; slender cedars, resembling spectres, reared their heads toward the blue-black vault of heaven. He listened intently. There was a faint rustling of the few leaves left upon the oaks. The strange voices that had always haunted him, the murmuring of river waters, or whispering of maidens, or muttering of women were now clear.
Suddenly two white forms came gliding across the waters. The face of one was that of a young girl. Golden hair clustered round the face and over the fair brow. The lips smiled with mournful sweetness. The other form seemed instinct with life. The face was that of a living, breathing girl, soulful, passionate, her arms outstretched, her eyes shining with a strange hopeful light.
Down, down, down he fell and sank through chill depths, falling slowly, falling softly. The cool waters passed; he floated through misty, shadowy space. An infinitude of silence enclosed him. Then a dim and sullen roar of waters came to his ears, borne faintly, then stronger, on a breeze that was not of earth. Anguish and despair tinged that sodden wind. Weird and terrible came a cry. Steaming, boiling, burning, rumbling chaos—a fearful rushing sullen water! Then a flash of light like a falling star sped out of the dark clouds.
Lane found himself sitting up in bed, wet and shaking. The room was dark. Some one was pounding on the door.
“Hello, Lane, are you there?” called a man's deep voice.
“Yes. What's wanted?” answered Lane.
The door opened wide, impelled by a powerful arm. Light from the hallway streamed in over the burly form of a man in a heavy coat. He stood in the doorway evidently trying to see.
“Sick in bed, hey?” he queried, with gruff kind voice.
“I guess I am. Who're you?”
“I'm Joshua Iden and I've come to pack you out of here,” he said.
“No!” protested Lane, faintly.
“Your wife is downstairs in a taxi waiting,” went on his strange visitor.
“My wife!” whispered Lane.
“Yes. Mel Iden, my daughter. You've forgotten maybe, but she hasn't. She learned to-day from Doctor Bronson how ill you were. And so she's come to take you home.”
Mel Iden! The name seemed a part of the past. This was only another dream, thought Lane, and slowly fell back upon his bed.
“Say, aren't you able to sit up?” queried this visitor Lane took for the spectre of a dream. He advanced into the room. He grasped Lane with firm hand. And then Lane realized this was no nightmare. He began to shake.
“Sit up?” he echoed, vaguely. “Sure I can.... You're Mel's father?”
“Yes,” replied the other. “Come, get out of this.... Well, you haven't much dressing to do. And that's good.... Steady there.”
As he rose, Lane would have fallen but for a quick move of Iden's.
“Only shoes and coat,” said Lane, fumbling around. “They're somewhere.”
“Here you are.... Let me help.... There. Have you an overcoat?”
“No,” replied Lane.
“Well, there's a robe in the taxi. Come on now. I'll come back and pack your belongings.”
He put an arm under Lane's and led him out into the hall and down the dim stairway to the street. Under the yellow light Lane saw a cab, toward which Iden urged him. Lane knew that he moved, but he seemed not to have any feeling in his
legs. The cabman put a hand back to open the door.
“Mel, here he is,” called out Iden, cheerfully.
Lane felt himself being pushed into the cab. His knees failed and he sank forward, even as he saw Mel's face.
“Daren!” she cried, and caught him.
Then all went black.
CHAPTER XXI.
Lane's return to consciousness was an awakening into what seemed as unreal and unbelievable as any of his morbid dreams.
But he knew that his mind was clear. It did not take him a moment to realize from the feel of his body and the fact that he could not lift his hand that he had been prostrate a long time.