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.
Blair 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.