Daren Lane left Riverside Park, and walked in the meadows until he
came to a boulder under a huge chestnut tree. Here he sat down. He
could not walk far these days. Many a time in the Indian summers long
past he had gathered chestnuts there with Dal, with Mel Iden, with
Helen. He would never do it again.
The April day had been warm and fresh with the opening of a late
spring. The sun was now gold--rimming the low hills in the west; the
sky was pale blue; the spring flowers whitened the meadow. Twilight
began to deepen; the evening star twinkled out of the sky; the hush of
the gloaming hour stole over the land.
"Four weeks home--and nothing done. So little time left!" he muttered.
Two weeks of that period he had been unable to leave his bed. The rest
of the time he had dragged himself around, trying to live up to his
resolve, to get at the meaning of the present, to turn his sister
Lorna from the path of dalliance. And he had failed in all.
His sister presented the problem that most distressed Lane. She had
her good qualities, and through them could be reached. But she was
thoughtless, vacillating, and wilful. She had made him promises only
to break them. Lane had caught her in falsehoods. And upon being
called to account she had told him that if he didn't like it he could
"lump" it. Of late she had grown away from what affection she had
shown at first. She could not bear interference with her pleasures,
and seemed uncontrollable. Lane felt baffled. This thing was a
Juggernaut impossible to stop.
Lane had scraped acquaintance with Harry Hale, one of Lorna's
admirers, a boy of eighteen, who lived with his widowed mother on the
edge of the town. He appeared to be an industrious, intelligent, quiet
fellow, not much given to the prevailing habits of the young people.
In his humble worship of Lorna he was like a dog. Lorna went to the
motion pictures with him occasionally, when she had no other
opportunity for excitement. Lane gathered that Lorna really liked this
boy, and when with him seemed more natural, more what a
fifteen-year-old girl used to be. And somehow it was upon this boy
that Lane placed a forlorn hope.
No more automobiles honked in front of the home to call Lorna out. She
met her friends away from the house, and returning at night she walked
the last few blocks. It was this fact that awoke Lane's serious
suspicions.
Another problem lay upon Lane's heart; if not so distressing as
Lorna's, still one that added to his sorrow and his perplexity. He had
gone once to call on Mel Iden. Mel Iden was all soul. Whatever had
been the facts of her downfall--and reflection on that hurt Lane so
strangely he could not bear it--it had not been on her part a matter
of sex. She was far above wantonness.
Through long hours in the dark of night, when Lane's pain kept him
sleepless, he had pondered over the mystery of Mel Iden until it
cleared. She typified the mother of the race. In all periods of the
progress of the race, war had brought out this instinct in women--to
give themselves for the future. It was a provision of nature,
inscrutable and terrible. How immeasurable the distance between Mel
Iden and those women who practised birth control! As the war had
brought out hideous greed and baseness, so had it propelled forward
and upward the noblest attributes of life. Mel Iden was a builder, not
a destroyer. She had been sexless and selfless. Unconsciously during
the fever and emotion of the training of American men for service
abroad, and the poignancy of their departure, to fight, and perhaps
never return, Mel Iden had answered to this mysterious instinct of
nature. Then, with the emotion past, and face to face with staggering
consequences, she had reacted to conscious instincts. She had proved
the purity of her surrender. She was all mother. And Lane began to see
her moving in a crystal, beautiful light.
For what seemed a long time Lane remained motionless there in the
silence of the meadow. Then at length he arose and retraced his slow
steps back to town. Darkness overtook him on the bridge that spanned
Middleville River. He leaned over the railing and peered down into the
shadows. A soft murmur of rushing water came up. How like strange
distant voices calling him to go back or go on, or warning him, or
giving mystic portent of something that would happen to him there! A
cold chill crept over him and he seemed enveloped in a sombre menace
of the future. But he shook it off. He had many battles to fight, not
the least of which was with morbid imagination.
When he reached the center of town he entered the lobby of the
Bradford Inn. He hoped to meet Blair Maynard there. A company of
well-dressed youths and men filled the place, most of whom appeared to
be making a merry uproar.
Lane observed two men who evidently were the focus of attention. One
was a stranger, very likely a traveling man, and at the moment he
presented a picture of mingled consternation and anger. He was
brushing off his clothes while glaring at a little, stout, red-faced
man who appeared about to be stricken by apoplexy. This latter was a
Colonel Pepper, whose acquaintance Lane had recently made. He was fond
of cards and sport, and appeared to be a favorite with the young men
about town. Moreover he had made himself particularly agreeable to
Lane, in fact to the extent of Lane's embarrassment. At this moment
the stranger lost his consternation wholly in wrath, and made a
threatening movement toward Pepper. Lane stepped between them just in
time to save Pepper a blow.
"I know what he's done. I apologize for him," said Lane, to the
stranger. "He's made a good many people victims of the same indignity.
It's a weakness--a disease. He can't help himself. Pray overlook it."
The stranger appeared impressed with Lane's presence, probably with
his uniform, and slowly shook himself and fell back, to glower at
Pepper, and curse under his breath, still uncertain of himself.
Lane grasped Colonel Pepper and led him out of the lobby.
"Pepper, you're going to get in an awful mess with that stunt of
yours," he declared, severely. "If you can't help it you ought at
least pick on your friends, or the town people--not strangers."
"Have--a--drink," sputtered Pepper, with his hand at his hip.
"No, thanks."
"Have--a--cigar."
Lane laughed. He had been informed that Colonel Pepper's failing
always took this form of remorse, and certainly he would have tried it
upon his latest victim had not Lane interfered.
"Colonel, you're hopeless," said Lane, as they walked out. "I hope
somebody will always be around to protect you. I'd carry a body
guard.... Say, have you seen Blair Maynard or Holt Dalrymple
to-night?"
"Not Blair, but Holt was here early with the boys," replied Pepper.
"They've gone to the club rooms to have a little game. I'm going to
sit in. Lately I had to put up a holler. If the boys quit cards how'm
I to make a living?"
"Had Holt been drinking?"
"Not to-night. But he's been hitting the bottle pretty hard of late."
Suddenly Lane buttonholed the little man and peered down earnestly at
him. "Pepper, I've been trying to straighten Holt up. He's going to
the bad. But he's a good kid. It's only the company.... The fact
is--this's strictly confidential, mind you--Holt's sister begged me to
try to stop his drinking and gambling. I think I can do it, too, with
a little help. Now, Pepper, I'm asking you to help me."
"Ahuh! Well, let's go in the writing room, where we can talk," said
the other, and he took hold of Lane's arm. When they were seated in a
secluded corner he lighted a cigar, and faced Lane with shrewd, kindly
eyes. "Son, I like you and Blair as well as I hate these slackers
Swann and Mackay, and their crowd. I could tell you a heap, and maybe
help you, though I think young Holt is not a bad egg.... Is his sister
the dark one who steps so straight and holds herself so well?"
"Yes, that sounds like Dorothy," replied Lane.
"She's about the only one I know who doesn't paint her face and I
never saw her at--well, never mind where. But the fact I mean makes
her stand out in this Middleville crowd like a light in the dark....
Lane, have you got on yet to the speed of the young people of this old
burg?"
"I'm getting on, to my sorrow," said Lane.
"Ahuh! You mean you're getting wise to your kid sister?"
"Yes, I'm sorry to say. What do you know, Pepper?"
"Now, son, wait. I'm coming to that, maybe. But I want to know some
things first. Is it true--what I hear about your health, bad shape,
you know--all cut up in the war? Worse than young Maynard?"
Pepper's hand was close on Lane's. He had forgotten his cigar. His
eyes were earnest.
"True?" laughed Lane, grimly. "Yes, it's true.... I won't last long,
Pepper, according to Doctor Bronson. That's why I want to make hay
while the sun shines."
"Ahuh!" Pepper cleared his throat. "Forgive this, boy.... Is it also
true you were engaged to marry that Helen Wrapp--and she threw you
down, while you were over there?"
"Yes, that's perfectly true," replied Lane, soberly.
"God, I guess maybe the soldier wasn't up against it!" ejaculated
Pepper, with a gesture of mingled awe and wonder and scorn.
"What was the soldier up against, Pepper?" queried Lane. "Frankly, I
don't know."
"Lane, the government jollied and forced the boys into the army,"
replied Pepper. "The country went wild with patriotism. The soldiers
were heroes. The women threw themselves away on anything inside a
uniform. Make the world safe for democracy--down the Hun--save France
and England--ideals, freedom, God's country, and all that! Well, the
first few soldiers to return from France got a grand reception, were
made heroes of. They were lucky to get back while the sentiment was
hot. But that didn't last.... Now, a year and more after the war,
where does the soldier get off? Lane, there're over six hundred
thousand of you disabled veterans, and for all I can read and find out
the government has done next to nothing. New York is full of begging
soldiers--on the streets. Think of it! And the poor devils are dying
everywhere. My God! think of what's in the mind of one crippled
soldier, let alone over half a million. I just have a dim idea of what
I'd felt. You must know, or you will know, Lane, for you seem a
thoughtful, lofty sort of chap. Just the kind to make a good soldier,
because you had ideals and nerve!... Well, a selfish and weak
administration could hardly be expected to keep extravagant promises
to patriots. But that the American public, as a body, should now be
sick of the sight of a crippled soldier--and that his sweetheart
should turn him down!--this is the hideous blot, the ineradicable
shame, the stinking truth, the damned mystery!"
When Pepper ended his speech, which grew more vehement toward the
close, Lane could only stare at him in amaze.
"See here, Lane," added the other hastily, "pardon me for blowing up.
I just couldn't help it. I took a shine to you--and to see you like
this--brings back the resentment I've had all along. I'm blunt, but
it's just as well for you to be put wise quick. You'll find friends,
like me, who will stand by you, if you let them. But you'll also find
that most of this rotten world has gone back on you...."
Then Pepper made a sharp, passionate gesture that broke his cigar
against the arm of his chair, and he cursed low and deep. Presently he
addressed Lane again. "Whatever comes of any disclosures I
make--whatever you _do_--you'll not give me away?"
"Certainly not. You can trust me, Pepper," returned Lane.
"Son, I'm a wise old guy. There's not much that goes on in Middleville
I don't get on to. And I'll make your hair curl. But I'll confine
myself to what comes closest home to you. I _get_ you, Lane. You're
game. You're through. You have come back from war to find a hell of a
mess. Your own sister--your sweetheart--your friend's brother and
your soldier pard's sister--on the primrose path! And you with your
last breath trying to turn them back! I'll say it's a damn fine stunt.
I'm an old gambler, Lane. I've lived in many towns and mixed in tough
crowds of crooked men and rotten women. But I'm here to confess that
this after-the-war stuff of Middleville's better class has knocked out
about all the faith I had left in human nature.... Then you came along
to teach me a lesson."
"Well, Pepper, that's strong talk," returned Lane. "But cut it, and
hurry to--to what comes home to me. What's the matter with these
Middleville girls?"
"Lane, any intelligent man, who _knows_ things, and who can think for
himself, will tell you this--that to judge from the dress, dance,
talk, conduct of these young girls--most of them have _apparently_
gone wrong."
"You include our nice girls--from what we used to call Middleville's
best families?"
"I don't only include them. I throw the emphasis on them. The girls
you know best."
Lane straightened up, to look at his companion. Pepper certainly was
not drunk.
"Do you know--anything about Lorna?"
"Nothing specifically to prove anything. She's in the thick of this
thing in Middleville. Only a few nights ago I saw her at a roadhouse,
out on the State Road, with a crowd of youngsters. They were having a
high old time, I'll say. They danced jazz, and I saw Lorna drink
lemonade into which liquor had been poured from a hip-pocket flask."
Lane put his head on his hands, as if to rest it, or still the
throbbing there.
"Who took Lorna to this place?" he asked, presently, breathing
heavily.
"I don't know. But it was Dick Swann who poured the drink out of the
flask. Between you and me, Lane, that young millionaire is going a
pace hereabouts. Listen," he went on, lowering his voice, and glancing
round to see there was no one to overhear him, "there's a gambling
club in Middleville. I go there. My rooms are in the same building.
I've made a peep-hole through the attic floor next to my room. Do I
see more things than cards and bottles? Do I! If the fathers of
Middleville could see what I've seen they'd go out to the asylum....
I'm not supposed to know it's more than a place to gamble. And nobody
knows I know. Dick Swann and Hardy Mackay are at the head of this
club. Swann is the genius and the support of it. He's rich, and a high
roller if I ever saw one.... Among themselves these young gentlemen
call it the Strong Arm Club. Study over that, Lane. Do you _get_ it? I
know you do, and that saves me talking until I see red."
"Pepper, have you seen my sister--there?" queried Lane, tensely.
"Yes."
"With whom?"
"I'll not say, Lane. There's no need for that. I'll give you a key to
my rooms, and you can go there--in the afternoons--and paste yourself
to my peep-hole, and watch.... Honest to God, I believe it means
bloodshed. But I can't help that. Something must be done. I'm not
much good, but I can see that."
Colonel Pepper wiped his moist face. He was now quite pale and his
hands shook.
"I never had a wife, or a sweetheart," he went on. "But once I had a
little sister. Thank Heaven she didn't live her girlhood in times like
these."
Lane again bowed his head on his hands, and wrestled with the might of
reality.
"I'm going to take you to these club-rooms to-night," went on Pepper.
"It'll cause a hell of a row. But once you get in, there'll be no help
for them. Swann and his chums will have to stand for it."
"Did you ever take an outsider in?" asked Lane.
"Several times. Traveling men I met here. Good fellows that liked a
game of cards. Swann made no kick at that. He's keen to gamble. And
when he's drinking the sky's the limit."
"Wouldn't it be wiser just to show me these rooms, and let me watch
from your place--until I find my sister there?" queried Lane.
"I don't know," replied Pepper, thoughtfully. "I think if I were you
I'd butt in to-night with me. You can drag young Dalrymple home before
he gets drunk."
"Pepper, I'll break up this--this club," declared Lane.
"I'll say you will. And I'm for you strong. If it was only the booze
and cards I'd not have squealed. That's my living. But by God, I can't
stand for the--the other stuff any longer!... Come on now. And I'll
put you on to a slick stunt that'll take your breath away."
He led the way out of the hotel, in his excitement walking rather
fast.
"Go slow, Pepper," said Lane. "We're not going over the top."
Pepper gave him a quick, comprehending look.
"Good Lord, Lane, you're not as--as bad as all that!"
Lane nodded. Then at slower pace they went out and down the bright
Main Street for two blocks, and then to the right on West Street,
which was quite comparable to the other thoroughfare as a business
district. At the end of the street the buildings were the oldest in
Middleville, and entirely familiar to Lane.
"Give White's the once over," said Pepper, indicating a brightly
lighted store across the street. "That place is new to you, isn't it?"
"Yes, I don't remember White, or that there was a confectionery den
along here."
"Den is right. It's some den, believe me.... White's a newcomer--a
young sport, thick with Swann. For all I know Swann is backing him.
Anyway he has a swell joint and a good trade. People kick about his
high prices. Ice cream, candy, soda, soft drinks, and all that rot.
But if he knows who you are you can get a shot. It'll strike you funny
later to see he waits on the customers himself. But when you get wise
it'll not be so funny. He's got a tea parlor upstairs--and they say
it's some swell place, with a rest room or ladies' dressing room back.
Now from this back room the girls can get into the club-rooms of the
boys, and go out on the other side of the block. In one way and out
the other--at night. Not necessary in the afternoon.... Come on now,
well go round the block."
A short walk round the block brought them into a shaded, wide street
with one of Middleville's parks on the left. A row of luxuriant elm
trees helped the effect of gloom. The nearest electric light was
across on the far corner, with trees obscuring it to some extent. At
the corner where Pepper halted there was an outside stairway running
up the old-fashioned building. The ground floor shops bore the signs
of a florist and a milliner; above was a photograph gallery; and the
two upper stories were apparently unoccupied. To the left of the two
stores another stairway led up into the center of the building. Pepper
led Lane up this stairway, a long, dark climb of three stories that
taxed Lane's endurance.
"Sure is a junk heap, this old block," observed Pepper, as he fumbled
in the dim light with his keys. At length he opened a door, turned on
a light and led Lane into his apartment. "I have three rooms here, and
the back one opens into a kind of areaway from which I get into an
abandoned storeroom, or I guess it's an attic. To-morrow afternoon
about three you meet me here and I'll take you in there and let you
have a look through the peep-hole I made. It's no use to-night,
because there'll be only boys at the club, and I'm going to take you
right in."
He switched off the light, drew Lane out and locked the door. "I'm the
only person who lives on this floor. There're three holes to this
burrow and one of them is at the end of this hall. The exit where the
girls slip out is on the floor below, through a hallway to that
outside stairs. Oh, I'll say it's a Coney Island maze, this building!
But just what these young rakes want.... Come on, and be careful.
It'll be dark and the stairs are steep."
At the end of the short hall Pepper opened a door, and led Lane down
steep steps in thick darkness, to another hall, dimly lighted by a
window opening upon the street.
"You'll have to make a bluff at playing poker, unless my butting in
with you causes a row," said Pepper, as he walked along. Presently he
came to a door upon which he knocked several times. But before it was
opened footsteps and voices sounded down the hall in the opposite
direction from which Pepper had escorted Lane.
"Guess they're just coming. Hard luck," said Pepper. "'Fraid you'll
not get in now."
Lane counted five dark forms against the background of dim light. He
saw the red glow of a cigarette. Then the door upon which Pepper had
knocked opened to let out a flare. Pepper gave Lane a shove across the
threshold and followed him. Lane did not recognize the young man who
had opened the door. The room was large, with old walls and high
ceiling, a round table with chairs and a sideboard. It had no windows.
The door on the other side was closed.
"Pepper, who's this you're ringin' in on me?" demanded the young
fellow.
"A pard of mine. Now don't be peeved, Sammy," replied Pepper. "If
there's any kick I'll take the blame."
Then the five young men glided swiftly into the room. The last one was
Dick Swann. In the act of closing the door behind him, he saw Lane, and
started violently back. His face turned white. His action, his look
silenced the talk.
"Lane! What do you want?" he jerked out.
Lane eyed him without replying. He thought he read more in Swann's face
and voice than any of the amazed onlookers.
"Dick, I fetched Lane up for a little game," put in Pepper, with
composure.
Swann jerked as violently out of his stiffened posture as he had frozen
into it. His face changed--showed comprehension--relief--then flamed
with anger.
"Pepper, it's a damn high-handed imposition for you to bring strangers
here," he burst out.
"Well, I'm sorry you take it that way," replied Pepper, with deprecatory
spreading of his hands. He was quite cool and his little eyes held a
singular gleam. "You never kicked before when I brought a stranger."
Swann fiercely threw down his cigarette.
"Hell! I told you never to bring any Middleville man in here."
"Ahuh! I forgot. You'll have to excuse me," returned Pepper, not with
any particular regret.
"What's the matter with my money?" queried Lane, ironically, at last
removing his steady gaze from Swann to the others. Mackay was there, and
Holt Dalrymple, the boy in whom Lane had lately interested himself. Holt
resembled his sister in his dark rich coloring, but his face wore a
shade of sullen depression. The other two young men Lane had seen in
Middleville, but they were unknown to him.
"Pepper, you beat it with your new pard," snarled Swarm. "And you'll not
get in here again, take that from me."
The mandate nettled Pepper, who evidently felt more deeply over this
situation than had appeared on the surface.
"Sure, I'll beat it," returned he, resentfully. "But see here, Swann. Be
careful how you shoot off your dirty mouth. It's not beyond me to hand a
little tip to my friend Chief of Police Bell."
"You damned squealer!" shouted Swann. "Go ahead--do your worst. You'll
find I pull a stroke.... Now get out of here."
With a violent action he shoved the little man out into the hall. Then
turning to Lane he pointed with shaking hand to the door.
"Lane, you couldn't be a guest of mine."
"Swann, I certainly wouldn't be," retorted Lane, in tones that rang.
"Pepper didn't tell me you were the proprietor of this--this joint."
"Get out of here or I'll throw you out!" yelled Swann, now beside
himself with rage. And he made a threatening move toward Lane.
"Don't lay a hand on me," replied Lane. "I don't want my uniform
soiled."
With that Lane turned to Dalrymple, and said quietly: "Holt, I came here
to find you, not to play cards. That was a stall. Come away with me. You
were not cut out for a card sharp or a booze fighter.
What's got into you that you can gamble and drink with _slackers_?"
Dalrymple jammed his hat on and stepped toward the door. "Dare, you
said a lot. I'll beat it with you--and I'll never come back."
"You bet your sweet life you won't," shouted Swann.
"Hold on there, Dalrymple," interposed Mackay, stepping out. "Come
across with that eighty-six bucks you owe me."
"I--I haven't got it, Mackay," rejoined the boy, flushing deeply.
Lane ripped open his coat and jerked out his pocket-book and tore
bills out of it. "There, Hardy Mackay," he said, with deliberate
scorn, throwing the money on the table. "There are your eighty-six
dollars--_earned_ in France.... I should think it'd burn your
fingers."
He drew Holt out into the hall, where Pepper waited. Some one slammed
the door and began to curse.
"That ends that," said Colonel Pepper, as the three moved down the dim
hall.
"It ends us, Pepper, but you couldn't stop those guys with a crowbar,"
retorted Dalrymple.
Lane linked arms with the boy and changed the conversation while they
walked back to the inn. Here Colonel Pepper left them, and Lane talked
to Holt for an hour. The more he questioned Holt the better he liked
him, and yet the more surprised was he at the sordid fact of the boy's
inclination toward loose living. There was something perhaps that Holt
would not confess. His health had been impaired in the service, but not
seriously. He was getting stronger all the time. His old job was waiting
for him. His mother and sister had enough to live on, but if he had been
working he could have helped them in a way to afford him great
satisfaction.
"Holt, listen," finally said Lane, with more earnestness. "We're
friends--all boys of the service are friends. We might even become
great pards, if we had time."
"What's time got to do with it?" queried the younger man. "I'm sure
I'd like it--and know it'd help me."
"I'm shot to pieces, Holt.... I won't last long...."
"Aw, Lane, don't say that!"
"It's true. And if I'm to help you at all it must be now.... You
haven't told me everything, boy--now have you?"
Holt dropped his head.
"I'll say--I haven't," he replied, haltingly. "Lane--the trouble
is--I'm clean gone on Margie Maynard. But her mother hates the sight
of me. She won't stand for me."
"Oho! So that's it?" ejaculated Lane, a light breaking in upon him.
"Well, I'll be darned. It _is_ serious, Holt.... Does Margie love
you?"
"Sure she does. We've always cared. Don't you remember how Margie and
I and Dal and you used to go to school together? And come home
together? And play on Saturdays?... Ever since then!... But lately
Margie and I are--we got--pretty badly mixed up."
"Yes, I remember those days," replied Lane, dreamily, and suddenly he
recalled Dal's dark eyes, somehow haunting. He had to make an effort
to get back to the issue at hand.
"If Margie loves you--why it's all right. Go back to work and marry
her."
"Lane, it can't be all right. Mrs. Maynard has handed me the mitt,"
replied Holt, bitterly. "And Margie hasn't the courage to run off with
me.... Her mother is throwing Margie at Swann--because he's rich."
"Oh Lord, no--Holt--you can't mean _it_!" exclaimed Lane, aghast.
"I'll say I do mean it. I _know_ it," returned Holt, moodily. "So I
let go--fell into the dumps--didn't care a d---- what became of me."
Lane was genuinely shocked. What a tangle he had fallen upon! Once
again there seemed to confront him a colossal Juggernaut, a moving,
crushing, intangible thing, beyond his power to cope with.
"Now, what can I do?" queried Holt, in sudden hope his friend might
see a way out.
Despairingly, Lane racked his brain for some word of advice or
assurance, if not of solution. But he found none. Then his spirit
mounted, and with it passion.
"Holt, don't be a miserable coward," he began, in fierce scorn.
"You're a soldier, man, and you've got your life to _live_!... The sun
will rise--the days will be long and pleasant--you can work--_do_
something. You can fish the streams in summer and climb the hills in
autumn. You can enjoy. Bah! don't tell me one shallow girl means the
world. If Margie hasn't courage enough to run off and marry you--_let
her go!_ But you can never tell. Maybe Margie will stick to you. I'll
help you. Margie and I have always been friends and I'll try to
influence her. Then think of your mother and sister. Work for _them_.
Forget yourself--your little, miserable, selfish desires.... My God,
boy, but it's a strange life the war's left us to face. I _hate_ it.
So do you hate it. Swann and Mackay giving nothing and getting all!...
So it looks.... But it's false--false. God did not intend men to live
solely for their bodies. A balance _must_ be struck. They have _got_
to pay. Their time will come.... As for you, the harder this job is
the fiercer you should be. I've got to die, Holt. But if I could live
I'd show these slackers, these fickle wild girls, what they're
doing.... You can do it, Holt. It's the greatest part any man could be
called upon to play. It will prove the difference between you and
them...."
Holt Dalrymple crushed Lane's hand in both his own. On his face was a
glow--his dark eyes flashed: "Lane--that'll be about all," he burst
out with a kind of breathlessness. Then his head high, he stalked out.
The next day was bad. Lane suffered from both over-exertion and
intensity of emotion. He remained at home all day, in bed most of the
time. At supper time he went downstairs to find Lorna pirouetting in a
new dress, more abbreviated at top and bottom than any costume he had
seen her wear. The effect struck him at an inopportune time. He told
her flatly that she looked like a French grisette of the music halls,
and ought to be ashamed to be seen in such attire.
"Daren, I don't think you're a good judge of clothes these days," she
observed, complacently. "The boys will say I look spiffy in this."
So many times Lorna's trenchant remarks silenced Lane. She hit the
nail on the head. Practical, logical, inevitable were some of her
speeches. She knew what men wanted. That was the pith of her meaning.
What else mattered?
"But Lorna, suppose you don't look nice?" he questioned.
"I _do_ look nice," she retorted.
"You don't look anything of the kind."
"What's nice? It's only a word. It doesn't mean much in my young
life."
"Where are you going to-night?" he asked, sitting down to the table.
"To the armory--basketball game--and dance afterward."
"With whom?"
"With Harry. I suppose that pleases you, big brother?"
"Yes, it does. I like him. I wish he'd take you out oftener."
"_Take_ me! Hot dog! He'd kill himself to take me all the time. But
Harry's slow. He bores me. Then he hasn't got a car."
"Lorna, you may as well know now that I'm going to stop your car
rides," said Lane, losing his patience.
"You are _not_," she retorted, and in the glint of the eyes meeting
his, Lane saw his defeat. His patience was exhausted, his fear almost
verified. He did not mince words. With his mother standing
open-mouthed and shocked, Lane gave his sister to understand what he
thought of automobile rides, and that as far as she was concerned they
had to be stopped. If she would not stop them out of respect to her
mother and to him, then he would resort to other measures. Lorna
bounced up in a fury, and in the sharp quarrel that followed, Lane
realized he was dealing with flint full of fire. Lorna left without
finishing her supper.
"Daren, that's not the way," said his mother, shaking her head.
"What is the way, mother?" he asked, throwing up his hands.
"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 to-day. 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
some one 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 or 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.