by Zane Grey
“Lane, Mr. Manton asks you to please excuse him. He’s extremely busy,” said Smith. “I told him that you wanted your old job back. And he instructed me to tell you he had been put to the trouble of breaking in a girl to take your place. She now does the work you used to have—very satisfactorily, Mr. Manton thinks, and at less pay. So, of course, a change is impossible.”
“I see,” returned Lane, slowly, as he rose to go. “I had an idea that might be the case. I’m finding things—a little different.”
“No doubt, Lane. You fellows who went away left us to make the best of it.”
“Yes, Smith, we fellows ‘went away,’” replied Lane, with satire, “and I’m finding out the fact wasn’t greatly appreciated. Good day.”
On the way out the little office girl opened the door for him and ogled him again, and stood a moment on the threshold. Ponderingly, Lane made his way down to the street. A rush of cool spring air seemed to refresh him, and with it came a realization that he never would have been able to stay cooped up in Manton’s place. Even if his services had been greatly desired he could not have given them for long. He could not have stood that place. This was a new phase of his mental condition. Work almost anywhere in Middleville would be like that in Manton’s. Could he stand work at all, not only in a physical sense, but in application of mind? He began to worry about that.
Some one hailed Lane, and he turned to recognize an old acquaintance—Matt Jones. They walked along the street together, meeting other men who knew Lane, some of whom greeted him heartily. Then, during an ensuing hour, he went into familiar stores and the postoffice, the hotel and finally the Bradford Inn, meeting many people whom he had known well. The sum of all their greetings left him in cold amaze. At length Lane grasped the subtle import—that people were tired of any one or anything which reminded them of the war. He tried to drive that thought from lodgment in his mind. But it stuck. And slowly he gathered the forces of his spirit to make good the resolve with which he had faced this day—to withstand an appalling truth.
At the inn he sat before an open fire and pondered between brief conversations of men who accosted him. On the one hand it was extremely trying, and on the other a fascinating and grim study—to meet people, and find that he could read their minds. Had the war given him some magic sixth sense, some clairvoyant power, some gift of vision? He could not tell yet what had come to him, but there was something.
Business men, halting to chat with Lane a few moments, helped along his readjustment to the truth of the strange present. Almost all kinds of business were booming. Most people had money to spend. And there was a multitude, made rich by the war, who were throwing money to the four winds. Prices of every commodity were at their highest peak, and supply could not equal demand. An orgy of spending was in full swing, and all men in business, especially the profiteers, were making the most of the unprecedented opportunity.
After he had rested, Lane boarded a street car and rode out to the suburbs of Middleville where the Maynards lived. Although they had lost their money they still lived in the substantial mansion that was all which was left them of prosperous days. House and grounds now appeared sadly run down.
A maid answered Lane’s ring, and let him in. Lane found himself rather nervously expecting to see Mrs. Maynard. The old house brought back to him the fact that he had never liked her. But he wanted to see Margaret. It turned out, however, that mother and daughter were out.
“Come up, old top,” called Blair’s voice from the hall above.
So Lane went up to Blair’s room, which he remembered almost as well as his own, though now it was in disorder. Blair was in his shirt sleeves. He looked both gay and spent. Red Payson was in bed, and his face bore the hectic flush of fever.
“Aw, he’s only had too much to eat,” declared Blair, in answer to Lane’s solicitation.
“How’s that, Red?” asked Lane, sitting down on the bed beside Payson.
“It’s nothing, Dare.… I’m just all in,” replied Red, with a weary smile.
“I telephoned Doc Bronson to come out,” said Blair, “and look us over. That made Red as sore as a pup. Isn’t he the limit? By thunder, you can’t do anything for some people.”
Blair’s tone and words of apparent vexation were at variance with the kindness of his eyes as they rested upon his sick comrade.
“I just came from Bronson’s,” observed Lane. “He’s been our doctor for as long as I can remember.”
Both Lane’s comrades searched his face with questioning eyes, and while Lane returned that gaze there was a little constrained silence.
“Bronson examined me—and said I’d live to be eighty,” added Lane, with dry humor.
“You’re a liar!” burst out Blair.
On Red Payson’s worn face a faint smile appeared. “Carry on, Dare.”
Then Blair fell to questioning Lane as to all the news he had heard, and people he had met.
“So Manton turned you down cold,” said Blair, ponderingly.
“I didn’t get to see him,” replied Lane. “He sent out word that my old job was held by a girl who did my work better and at less pay.”
The blood leaped to Blair’s white cheek.
“What’d you say?” he queried.
“Nothing much. I just trailed out.… But the truth is, Blair—I couldn’t have stood that place—not for a day.”
“I get you,” rejoined Blair. “That isn’t the point, though. I always wondered if we’d find our old jobs open to us. Of course, I couldn’t fill mine now. It was an outside job—lots of walking.”
So the conversation see-sawed back and forth, with Red Payson listening in languid interest.
“Have you seen any of the girls?” asked Blair.
“I met Mel Iden,” replied Lane.
“You did? What did she—”
“Mel told me what explained some of your hints.”
“Ahuh! Poor Mel! How’d she look?”
“Greatly changed,” replied Lane, thoughtfully. “How do you remember Mel?”
“Well, she was pretty—soulful face—wonderful smile—that sort of thing.”
“She’s beautiful now, and sad.”
“I shouldn’t wonder. And she told you right out about the baby?”
“No. That came out when she said I couldn’t call on her, and I wanted to know why.”
“But you’ll go anyhow?”
“Yes.”
“So will I,” returned Blair, with spirit. “Dare, I’ve known for over a year about Mel’s disgrace. You used to like her, and I hated to tell you. If it had been Helen I’d have told you in a minute. But Mel… Well, I suppose we must expect queer things. I got a jolt this morning. I was pumping my sister Margie about everybody, and, of course, Mel’s name came up. You remember Margie and Mel were as thick as two peas in a pod. Looks like Mel’s fall has hurt Margie. But I don’t just get Margie yet. She might be another fellow’s sister—for all the strangeness of her.”
“I hardly knew my kid sister,” responded Lane.
“Ahuh! The plot thickens.… Well, I couldn’t get much out of Marg. She used to babble everything. But what little she told me made up in—in shock for what it lacked in volume.”
“Tell me,” said Lane, as his friend paused.
“Nothing doing.”… And turning to the sick boy on the bed, he remarked, “Red, you needn’t let this—this gab of ours bother you. This is home talk between a couple of boobs who’re burying their illusions in the grave. You didn’t leave a sister or a lot of old schoolgirl sweethearts behind to——”
“What the hell do you know about whom I left behind?” retorted Red, with a swift blaze of strange passion.
“Oh, say, Red—I—I beg your pardon, I was only kidding,” responded Blair, in surprise and contrition. “You never told me a word about yourself.”
For answer Red Payson rolled over wearily and turned his back.
“Blair, I’ll beat it, and let Red go to sleep,” said Lane, taking
up his hat. “Red, good-bye this time. I hope you’ll be better soon.”
“I’m—sorry, Lane,” came in muffled tones from Payson.
“Cut that out, boy. You’ve nothing to be sorry for. Forget it and cheer up.”
Blair hobbled downstairs after Lane. “Don’t go just yet, Dare.”
They found seats in the parlor that appeared to be the same shabby genteel place where Lane had used to call upon Blair’s sister.
“What ails Red?” queried Lane, bluntly.
“Lord only knows. He’s a queer duck. Once in a while he lets out a crack like that. There’s a lot to Red.”
“Blair, his heart is broken,” said Lane, tragically.
“Well!” exclaimed Blair, with quick almost haughty uplift of head. He seemed to resent Lane’s surprise and intimation. It was a rebuke that made Lane shrink.
“I never thought of Red’s being hurt—you know—or as having lost.… Oh, he just seemed like so many other boys ruined in health. I——”
“All right. Cut the sentiment,” interrupted Blair. “The fact is Red is more of a problem than we had any idea he’d be.… And Dare, listen to this—I’m ashamed to have to tell you. Mother raised old Harry with me this morning for fetching Red home. She couldn’t see it my way. She said there were hospitals for sick soldiers who hadn’t homes. I lost my temper and I said: ‘The hell of it, mother, is that there’s nothing of the kind.’… She said we couldn’t keep him here. I tried to coax her.… Margie helped, but nothing doing.”
Blair had spoken hurriedly with again a stain of red in his white cheek, and a break in his voice.
“That’s—tough,” replied Lane, haltingly. He could choke back speech, but not the something in his voice he would rather not have heard. “I’ll tell you what. As soon as Red is well enough we’ll move him over to my house. I’m sure mother will let him share my room. There’s only Lorna—and I’ll pay Red’s board.… You have quite a family—”
“Hell, Dare—don’t apologize to me for my mother,” burst out Blair, bitterly.
“Blair, I believe you realize what we are up against—and I don’t,” rejoined Lane, with level gaze upon his friend.
“Dare, can’t you see we’re up against worse than the Argonne?—worse, because back here at home—that beautiful, glorious thought—idea—spirit we had is gone. Dead!”
“No, I can’t see,” returned Lane, stubbornly.
“Well, I guess that’s one reason we all loved you, Dare—you couldn’t see.… But I’ll bet you my crutch Helen makes you see. Her father made a pile out of the war. She’s a war-rich snob now. And going the pace!”
“Blair, she may make me see her faithlessness—and perhaps some strange unrest—some change that’s seemed to come over everything. But she can’t prove to me the death of anything outside of herself. She can’t prove that any more than Mel Iden’s confession proved her a wanton. It didn’t. Not to me. Why, when Mel put her hand on my breast—on this medal—and looked at me—I had such a thrill as I never had before in all my life. Never!… Blair, it’s not dead. That beautiful thing you mentioned—that spirit—that fire which burned so gloriously—it is not dead.”
“Not in you—old pard,” replied Blair, unsteadily. “I’m always ashamed before your faith. And, by God, I’ll say you’re my only anchor.”
“Blair, let’s play the game out to the end,” said Lane.
“I get you, Dare.… For Margie, for Lorna, for Mel—even if they have—”
“Yes,” answered Lane, as Blair faltered.
CHAPTER IV
As Lane sped out Elm Street in a taxicab he remembered that his last ride in such a conveyance had been with Helen when he took her home from a party. She was then about seventeen years old. And that night she had coaxed him to marry her before he left to go to war. Had her feminine instinct been infallibly right? Would marrying her have saved her from what Blair had so forcibly suggested?
Elm Street was a newly developed part of Middleville, high on one of its hills, and manifestly a restricted section. Lane had found the number of Helen’s home in the telephone book. When the chauffeur stopped before a new and imposing pile of red brick, Lane understood an acquaintance’s reference to the war rich. It was a mansion, but somehow not a home. It flaunted something indefinable.
Lane instructed the driver to wait a few moments, and, if he did not come out, to go back to town and return in about an hour. The house stood rather far from the street, and as Lane mounted the terrace he observed four motor cars parked in the driveway. Also his sensitive ears caught the sound of a phonograph.
A maid answered his ring. Lane asked for both Mrs. Wrapp and Helen. They were at home, the maid informed him, and ushered Lane into a gray and silver reception room. Lane had no card, but gave his name. As he gazed around the room he tried to fit the delicate decorative scheme to Mrs. Wrapp. He smiled at the idea. But he remembered that she had always liked him in spite of the fact that she did not favor his attention to Helen. Like many mothers of girls, she wanted a rich marriage for her daughter. Manifestly now she had money. But had happiness come with prosperity?
Then Mrs. Wrapp came down. Rising, he turned to see a large woman, elaborately gowned. She had a heavy, rather good-natured face on which was a smile of greeting.
“Daren Lane!” she exclaimed, with fervor, and to his surprise, she kissed him. There was no doubt of her pleasure. Lane’s thin armor melted. He had not anticipated such welcome. “Oh, I’m glad to see you, soldier boy. But you’re a man now. Daren, you’re white and thin. Handsomer, though!… Sit down and talk to me a little.”
Her kindness made his task easy.
“I’ve called to pay my respects to you—and to see Helen,” he said.
“Of course. But talk to me first,” she returned, with a smile. “You’ll find me better company than that crowd upstairs. Tell me about yourself.… Oh, I know soldiers hate to talk about themselves and the war. Never mind the war. Are you well? Did you get hurt? You look so—so frail, Daren.”
There was something simple and motherly about her, that became her, and warmed Lane’s cold heart. He remembered that she had always preferred boys to girls, and regretted she had not been the mother of boys. So Lane talked to her, glad to find that the most ordinary news of the service and his comrades interested her very much. The instant she espied his Croix de Guerre he seemed lifted higher in her estimation. Yet she had the delicacy not to question him about that. In fact, after ten minutes with her, Lane had to reproach himself for the hostility with which he had come. At length she rose with evident reluctance.
“You want to see Helen. Shall I send her down here or will you go up to her studio?”
“I think I’d like to go up,” replied Lane.
“If I were you, I would,” advised Mrs. Wrapp. “I’d like your opinion—of, well, what you’ll see. Since you left home, Daren, we’ve been turned topsy-turvy. I’m old-fashioned. I can’t get used to these goings-on. These young people ‘get my goat,’ as Helen expresses it.”
“I’m hopelessly behind the times, I’ve seen that already,” rejoined Lane.
“Daren, I respect you for it. There was a time when I objected to your courting Helen. But I couldn’t see into the future. I’m sorry now she broke her engagement to you.”
“I—thank you, Mrs. Wrapp,” said Lane, with agitation. “But of course Helen was right. She was too young.… And even if she had been—been true to me—I would have freed her upon my return.”
“Indeed. And why, Daren?”
“Because I’ll never be well again,” he replied sadly.
“Boy, don’t say that!” she appealed, with a hand going to his shoulder.
In the poignancy of the moment Lane lost his reserve and told her the truth of his condition, even going so far as to place her hand so she felt the great bayonet hole in his back. Her silence then was more expressive than any speech. She had the look of a woman in whom conscience was a reality. And Lane divined that sh
e felt she and her daughter, and all other women of this distraught land, owed him and his comrades a debt which could never be paid. For once she expressed dignity and sweetness and genuine sorrow.
“You shock me, Daren. But words are useless. I hope and pray you’re wrong. But right or wrong—you’re a real American—like our splendid forefathers. Thank God that spirit still survives. It is our only hope.”
Lane crossed to the window and looked out, slowly conscious of resurging self-control. It was well that he had met Mrs. Wrapp first, for she gave him what he needed. His bleeding vanity, his pride trampled in the dirt, his betrayed faith, his unquenchable spirit of hope for some far-future good—these were not secrets he could hide from every one.
“Daren,” said Mrs. Wrapp, as he again turned to her, “if I were in my daughter’s place I’d beg you to take me back. And if you would, I’d never leave your side for an hour until you were well or—or gone.… But girls now are possessed of some infernal frenzy.… God only knows how far they go, but I’m one mother who is no fool. I see little sign of real love in Helen or any of her friends.… And the men who lounge around after her! Walk upstairs—back to the end of the long hall—open the door and go in. You’ll find Helen and some of her associates. You’ll find the men, young, sleek, soft, well-fed—without any of the scars or ravages of war. They didn’t go to war!… They live for their bodies. And I hate these slackers. So does Helen’s father. And for three years our house has been a rendezvous for them. We’ve prospered, but that has been bitter fruit.”
Strong elemental passions Lane had seen and felt in people during the short twenty-four hours since his return home. All of them had stung and astounded him, flung into his face the hard brutal facts of the materialism of the present. Surely it was an abnormal condition. And yet from the last quarter where he might have expected to find uplift, and the crystallizing of his attitude toward the world, and the sharpening of his intelligence—from the hard, grim mother of the girl who had jilted him, these had come. It was in keeping with all the other mystery.
