Several days passed before Lane felt himself equal to the momentous
interview with Mel Iden. After his call upon Mel's father and mother
he was overcome by one of his sick, weak spells, that happily had been
infrequent of late. This one confined him to his room. He had about
fought and won it out, when the old injury at the base of his spine
reminded him that misfortunes did not come singly. Quite unexpectedly,
as he bent over with less than his usual caution, the vertebra slipped
out; and Lane found his body twisted like a letter S. And the old pain
was no less terrible for its familiarity.
He got back to his bed and called his mother. She sent for Doctor
Bronson. He came at once, and though solicitous and kind he lectured
Lane for neglecting the osteopathic treatment he had advised. And he
sent his chauffeur for an osteopath.
"Lane," said the little physician, peering severely down upon him, "I
didn't think you'd last as long as this."
"I'm tough, Doctor--hard to kill," returned Lane, making a wry face.
"But I couldn't stand this pain long."
"It'll be easier presently. We can fix that spine. Some good
treatments to strengthen ligaments, and a brace to wear--we can fix
that.... Lane, you've wonderful vitality."
"A doctor in France told me that."
"Except for your mental condition, you're in better shape now than
when you came home." Doctor Bronson peered at Lane from under his
shaggy brows, walked to the window, looked out, and returned,
evidently deep in thought.
"Boy, what's on your mind?" he queried, suddenly.
"Oh, Lord! listen to him," sighed Lane. Then he laughed. "My dear
Doctor, I have nothing on my mind--absolutely nothing.... This world
is a beautiful place. Middleville is fine, clean, progressive. People
are kind--thoughtful--good. What could I have on my mind?"
"You can't fool me. You think the opposite of what you say.... Lane,
your heart is breaking."
"No, Doctor. It broke long ago."
"You believe so, but it didn't. You can't give up.... Lane, I want to
tell you something. I'm a prohibitionist myself, and I respect the
law. But there are rare cases where whiskey will effect a cure. I say
that as a physician. And I am convinced now that your case is one
where whiskey might give you a fighting chance."
"Doctor! What're you saying?" ejaculated Lane, wide-eyed with
incredulity.
Doctor Bronson enlarged upon and emphasized his statement.
"I might _live_!" whispered Lane. "My God!... But that is ridiculous.
I'm shot to pieces. I'm really tired of living. And I certainly
wouldn't become a drunkard to save my life."
At this juncture the osteopath entered, putting an end to that
intimate conversation. Doctor Bronson explained the case to his
colleague. And fifteen minutes later Lane's body was again straight.
Also he was wringing wet with cold sweat and quivering in every
muscle.
"Gentlemen--your cure is--worse than--the disease," he panted.
Manifestly Doctor Branson's interest in Lane had advanced beyond the
professional. His tone was one of friendship when he said, "Boy, it
beats hell what you can stand. I don't know about you. Stop your worry
now. Isn't there something you _care_ for?"
"Yes," replied Lane.
"Think of that, or it, or _her_, then to the exclusion of all else.
And give nature a chance."
"Doctor, I can't control my thoughts."
"A fellow like you can do anything," snapped Bronson. "There are such
men, now and then. Human nature is strange and manifold. All great men
do not have statues erected in their honor. Most of them are unknown,
unsung.... Lane, you could do anything--do you hear me?--_anything_."
Lane felt surprise at the force and passion of the practical little
physician. But he was not greatly impressed. And he was glad when the
two men went away. He felt the insidious approach of one of his states
of depression--the black mood--the hopeless despair--the hell on
earth. This spell had not visited him often of late, and now
manifestly meant to make up for that forbearance. Lane put forth his
intelligence, his courage, his spirit--all in vain. The onslaught of
gloom and anguish was irresistible. Then thought of Mel Iden
sustained him--held back this madness for the moment.
Every hour he lived made her dearer, yet farther away. It was the
unattainableness of her, the impossibility of a fruition of love that
slowly and surely removed her. On the other hand, the image of her
sweet face, of her form, of her beauty, of her movements--every recall
of these physical things enhanced her charm, and his love. He had
cherished a delusion that it was Mel Iden's spirit alone, the
wonderful soul of her, that had stormed his heart and won it. But he
found to his consternation that however he revered her soul, it was
the woman also who now allured him. That moment of revelation to Lane
was a catastrophe. Was there no peace on earth for him? What had he
done to be so tortured? He had a secret he must hide from Mel Iden. He
was human, he was alone, he needed love, but this seemed madness. And
at the moment of full realization Doctor Bronson's strange words of
possibility returned to haunt and flay him. He might live! A fierce
thrill like a flame leaped from his heart, along his veins. And a
shudder, cold as ice, followed it. Love would kill his resignation.
Love would add to his despair. Mel Iden could never love him. He did
not want her love. And yet, to live on and on, with such love as would
swell and mount from his agony, with the barrier between them growing
more terrible every day, was more than he cared to face. He would
rather die.
And so, at length, Lane's black demon of despair overthrew even his
thoughts of Mel, and fettered him there, in darkness and strife of
soul. He was an atom under the grinding, monstrous wheels of his
morbid mood.
Sometime, after endless moments or hours of lying there, with crushed
breast, with locked thoughts hideous and forlorn, with slow burn of
pang and beat of heart, Lane heard a heavy thump on the porch outside,
on the hall inside, on the stairs. Thump--thump, slow and heavy! It
roused him. It drove away the drowsy, thick and thunderous atmosphere
of mind. It had a familiar sound. Blair's crutch!
Presently there was a knock on the door of his room and Blair entered.
Blair, as always, bright of eye, smiling of lip, erect, proud,
self-sufficient, inscrutable and sure. Lane's black demon stole away.
Lane saw that Blair was whiter, thinner, frailer, a little farther on
that road from which there could be no turning.
"Hello, old scout," greeted Blair, as he sat down on the bed beside
Lane. "I need you more than any one--but it kills me to see you."
"Same here, Blair," replied Lane, comprehendingly.
"Gosh! we oughtn't be so finicky about each other's looks," exclaimed
Blair, with a smile.
But neither Lane nor Blair made further reference to the subject.
Each from the other assimilated some force, from voice and look and
presence, something wanting in their contact with others. These two
had measured all emotions, spanned in little time the extremes of
life, plumbed the depths, and now saw each other on the heights. In
the presence of Blair, Lane felt an exaltation. The more Blair seemed
to fade away from life, the more luminous and beautiful the light of
his countenance. For Lane the crippled and dying Blair was a deed of
valor done, a wrong expiated for the sake of others, a magnificent
nobility in contrast to the baseness and greed and cowardice of the
self-preservation that had doomed him. Lane had only to look at Blair
to feel something elevating in himself, to know beyond all doubt that
the goodness, the truth, the progress of man in nature, and of God in
his soul, must grow on forever.
Mel Iden had been in her home four days when Lane first saw her there.
It was a day late in June when the rich, thick, amber light of
afternoon seemed to float in the air. Warm summer lay on the land. The
bees were humming in the rose vines over the porch. Mrs. Iden, who
evidently heard Lane's step, appeared in the path, and nodding her
gladness at sight of him, she pointed to the open door.
Lane halted on the threshold. The golden light of the day seemed to
have entered the room and found Mel. It warmed the pallor of her skin
and the whiteness of her dress. When he had seen her before she had
worn something plain and dark. Could a white gown and the golden glow
of June effect such transformation? She came slowly toward him and
took his hand.
"Daren, I am home," was all she could say.
Long hours before Lane had braced himself for this ordeal. It was
himself he had feared, not Mel. He played the part he had created for
her imagination. Behind his composure, his grave, kind earnestness,
hid the subdued and scorned and unwelcome love that had come to him.
He held it down, surrounded, encompassed, clamped, so that he dared
look into her eyes, listen to her voice, watch the sweet and tragic
tremulousness of her lips.
"Yes, Mel, where you should be," replied Lane.
"It was you--your offer to marry me--that melted father's heart."
"Mel, all he needed was to be made think," returned Lane. "And that
was how I made him do it."
"Oh, Daren, I thank you, for mother's sake, for mine--I can't tell you
how much."
"Mel, please don't thank me," he answered. "You understand, and that's
enough. Now say you'll marry me, Mel."
Mel did not answer, but in the look of her eyes, dark, humid, with
mysterious depths below the veil, Lane saw the truth; he felt it in
the clasp of her hands, he divined it in all that so subtly emanated
from the womanliness of her. Mel had come to love him.
And all that he had endured seemed to rise and envelop heart and soul
in a strange, cold stillness.
"Mel, will you marry me?" he repeated, almost dully.
Slowly Mel withdrew her hands. The query seemed to make her mistress
of herself.
"No, Daren, I cannot," she replied, and turned away to look out of a
window with unseeing eyes. "Let us talk of other things.... My father
says he will move away--taking me and--and--all of us--as soon as he
sells the home."
"No, Mel, if you'll forgive me, we'll not talk of something else,"
Lane informed her. "We can argue without quarreling. Come over here
and sit down."
She came slowly, as if impelled, and she stood before him. To Lane it
seemed as if she were both supplicating and inexorable.
"Do you remember the last time we sat together on this couch?" she
asked.
"No, Mel, I don't."
"It was four years ago--and more. I was sixteen. You tried to kiss me
and were angry because I wouldn't let you."
"Well, wasn't I rude!" he exclaimed, facetiously. Then he grew
serious. "Mel, do you remember it was Helen's lying that came between
you and me--as boy and girl friends?"
"I never knew. Helen Wrapp! What was it?"
"It's not worth recalling and would hurt you--now," he replied. "But
it served to draw me Helen's way. We were engaged when she was
seventeen.... Then came the war. And the other night she laughed in my
face because I was a wreck.... Mel, it's beyond understanding how
things work out. Helen has chosen the fleshpots of Egypt. You have
chosen a lonelier and higher path.... And here I am in your little
parlor asking you to marry me."
"No, no, no! Daren, don't, I beg of you--don't talk to me this way,"
she besought him.
"Mel, it's a difference of opinion that makes arguments, wars and
other things," he said, with a cruelty in strange antithesis to the
pity and tenderness he likewise felt. He could hurt her. He had power
over her. What a pang shot through his heart! There would be an
irresistible delight in playing on the emotions of this woman. He
could no more help it than the shame that surged over him at
consciousness of his littleness. He already loved her, she was all he
had left to love, he would end in a day or a week or a month by
worshipping her. Through her he was going to suffer. Peace would now
never abide in his soul.
"Daren, you were never like this--as a boy," she said, in wondering
distress.
"Like what?"
"You're hard. You used to be so--so gentle and nice."
"Hard! I? Yes, Mel, perhaps I am--hard as war, hard as modern life,
hard as my old friends, my little sister----" he broke off.
"Daren, do not mock me," she entreated. "I should not have said hard.
But you're strange to me--a something terrible flashes from you. Yet
it's only in glimpses.... Forgive me, Daren, I didn't mean hard."
Lane drew her down upon the couch so that she faced him, and he did
not release her hand.
"Mel, I'm softer than a jelly-fish," he said. "I've no bone, no fiber,
no stamina, no substance. I'm more unstable than water. I'm so soft
I'm weak. I can't stand pain. I lie awake in the dead hours of night
and I cry like a baby, like a fool. I weep for myself, for my mother,
for Lorna, for _you_...."
"Hush!" She put a soft hand over his lips.
"Very well, I'll not be bitter," he went on, with mounting pulse,
with thrill and rush of inexplicable feeling, as if at last had come
the person who would not be deaf to his voice. "Mel, I'm still the
boy, your schoolmate, who used to pull the bow off your braid.... I am
that boy still in heart, with all the war upon my head, with the years
between then and now. I'm young and old.... I've lived the whole
gamut--the fresh call of war to youth, glorious, but God! as false as
stairs of sand--the change of blood, hard, long, brutal, debasing
labor of hands, of body, of mind to learn to kill--to survive and
kill--and go on to kill.... I've seen the marching of thousands of
soldiers--the long strange tramp, tramp, tramp, the beat, beat, beat,
the roll of drums, the call of bugles, the boom of cannon in the dark,
the lightnings of hell flaring across the midnight skies, the thunder
and chaos and torture and death and pestilence and decay--the hell of
war. It is not sublime. There is no glory. The sublimity is in man's
acceptance of war, not for hate or gain, but love. Love of country,
home, family--love of women--I fought for women--for Helen, whom I
imagined my ideal, breaking her heart over me on the battlefield. Not
that Helen failed _me_, but failed the ideal for which I fought!... My
little sister Lorna! I fought for her, and I fought for a dream that
existed only in my heart. Lorna--Alas!... I fought for other women,
all women--and _you_, Mel Iden. And in you, in your sacrifice and your
strength to endure, I find something healing to my sore heart. I find
my ideal embodied in you. I find hope and faith for the future
embodied in you. I find--"
"Oh Daren, you shame me utterly," she protested, freeing her hands in
gesture of entreaty. "I am outcast."
"To a false and rotten society, yes--you are," he returned. "But Mel,
that society is a mass of maggots. It is such women as you, such men
as Blair, who carry the spirit onward.... So much for that. I have
spoken to try to show you where I hold you. I do not call your--your
trouble a blunder, or downfall, or dishonor. I call it a misfortune
because--because--"
"Because there was not love," she supplemented, as he halted at fault.
"Yes, that is where I wronged myself, my soul. I obeyed nature and
nature is strong, raw, inevitable. She seeks only her end, which is
concerned with the species. For nature the individual perishes. Nature
cannot be God. For God has created a soul in woman. And through the
ages woman has advanced to hold her womanhood sacred. But ever the
primitive lurks in the blood, and the primitive is nature. Soul and
nature are not compatible. A woman's soul sanctions only love. That is
the only progress there ever was in life. Nature and war made me
traitor to my soul."
"Yes, yes, Mel, it's true--and cruel, what you say," returned Lane.
"All the more reason why you should do what I ask. I am home after the
war. All that was vain _is_ vain. I forget it when I can. I have--not
a great while left. There are a few things even I can do before that
time. One of them--the biggest to me--concerns you. You are in
trouble. You have a boy who can be spared much unhappiness in life.
If you were married--if the boy had my name--how different the
future! Perhaps there can be some measure of happiness for you. For
him there is every hope. You will leave Middleville. You will go far
away somewhere. You are young. You have a good education. You can
teach school, or help your parents while the boy is growing up. Time
is kind. You will forget.... Marry me, Mel, for his sake."
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 to-night 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 some one 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 to-night."
Then he snapped off his flash-light, and slamming the car door, he
wheeled away.