The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Then—it’s just—monstrous,” said Blair, heavily.

  “That’s all, Blair. Just monstrous. But we can’t beat our spirits out against this wall. No one can understand us—how alone we are. Let’s forget that—this wall—this thing called government. Shall we spend what time we have to live always in a thunderous atmosphere of mind—hating, pondering, bitter?”

  “No. I’ll make a compact with you,” returned Blair, with flashing eyes. “Never to speak again of that—so long as we live!”

  “Never to a living soul,” rejoined Lane, with a ring in his voice.

  They shook hands much the same as when they had met half an hour earlier.

  “So!” exclaimed Blair, with a deep breath. “And now, Dare, tell me how you made out with Helen. You cut me short over the ’phone.”

  “Blair, that day coming into New York on the ship, you didn’t put it half strong enough,” replied Lane. Then he told Blair about the call he had made upon Helen, and what had transpired at her studio.

  Blair did not voice the scorn that his eyes expressed. And, in fact, most of his talking was confined to asking questions. Lane found it easy enough to unburden himself, though he did not mention his calls on Mel Iden, or Colonel Pepper’s disclosures.

  “Well, I guess it’s high time we were meandering up to the hall,” said Blair, consulting his watch. “I’m curious about this Prom. Think we’re in for a jolt. It’s four years since I went to a Prom. Now, both of us, Dare, have a sister who’ll be there, besides all our old friends.… And we’re not dancing! But I want to look on. They’ve got an out-of-town orchestra coming—a jazz orchestra. There’ll probably be a hot time in the old town tonight.”

  “Lorna did not tell me,” replied Lane, as they got up to go. “But I suppose she’d rather I didn’t know. We’ve clashed a good deal lately.”

  “Dare, I hear lots of talk,” said Blair. “Margaret is chummy with me, and some of her friends are always out at the house. I hear Dick Swann is rushing Lorna. Think he’s doing it on the q-t.”

  “I know he is, Blair, but I can’t catch them together,” returned Lane. “Lorna is working now. Swann got her the job.”

  “Looks bad to me,” replied Blair, soberly. “Swann is cutting a swath. I hear his old man is sore on him.… I’d take Lorna out of that office quick.”

  “Maybe you would,” declared Lane, grimly. “For all the influence or power I have over Lorna I might as well not exist.”

  They walked silently along the street for a little while. Lane had to accommodate his step to the slower movement of his crippled friend. Blair’s crutch tapped over the stone pavement and clicked over the curbs. They crossed the railroad tracks and turned off the main street to go down a couple of blocks.

  “Shades of the past!” exclaimed Blair, as they reached a big brick building, well-lighted in front by a sizzling electric lamp. The night was rather warm and clouds of insects were wheeling round the light. “The moths and the flame!” added Blair, satirically. “Well, Dare, old bunkie, brace up and we’ll go over the top. This ought to be fun for us.”

  “I don’t see it,” replied Lane. “I’ll be about as welcome as a bull in a china shop.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean any one would throw fits over us,” responded Blair. “But we ought to get some fun out of the fact.”

  “What fact?” queried Lane, puzzled.

  “Rather far-fetched, maybe. But I’ll get a kick out of looking on—watching these swell slackers with the girls we fought for.”

  “Wonder why they didn’t give the dance at the armory, where they’d not have to climb stairs, and have more room?” queried Lane, as they went in under the big light.

  “Dare, you’re far back in the past,” said Blair, sardonically. “The armory is on the ground floor—one big hall—open, you know. The Assembly Hall is a regular maze for rooms and stairways.”

  Blair labored up the stairway with Lane’s help. At last they reached the floor from which had blared the strains of jazz. Wide doors were open, through which Lane caught the flash of many colors. Blair produced his tickets at the door. There did not appear to be any one to take them.

  Lane experienced an indefinable thrill at the scene. The air seemed to reek with a mixed perfume and cigarette smoke—to resound with high-keyed youthful laughter, wild and sweet and vacant above the strange, discordant music. Then the flashing, changing, whirling colors of the dancers struck Lane as oriental, erotic, bizarre—gorgeous golds and greens and reds striped by the conventional black. Suddenly the blare ceased, and the shrill, trilling laughter had dominance. The rapid circling of forms came to a sudden stop, and the dancers streamed in all directions over the floor.

  “Dare, they’ve called time,” said Blair. “Let’s get inside the ropes so we can see better.”

  The hall was not large, but it was long, and shaped like a letter L with pillars running down the center. Countless threads of many-colored strings of paper had been stretched from pillars to walls, hanging down almost within reach of the dancers. Flags and gay bunting helped in the riotous effect of decoration. The black-faced orchestra held forth on a raised platform at the point where the hall looked two ways. Recesses, alcoves and open doors to other rooms, which the young couples were piling over each other to reach, gave Lane some inkling of what Blair had hinted.

  “Now we’re out in the limelight,” announced Blair, as he halted. “Let’s stand here and run the gauntlet until the next dance—then we can find seats.”

  Almost at once a stream of gay couples enveloped them in passing. Bright, flashing, vivid faces and bare shoulders, arms and breasts appeared above the short bodices of the girls. Few of them were gowned in white. The colors seemed too garish for anything but musical comedy. But the freshness, the vividness of these girls seemed exhilarating. The murmur, the merriment touched a forgotten chord in Lane’s heart. For a moment it seemed sweet to be there, once more in a gathering where pleasure was the pursuit. It breathed of what seemed long ago, in a past that was infinitely more precious to remember because he had no future of hope or of ambition or dream. Something had happened to him that now made the sensations of the moment stingingly bitter-sweet. The freshness and fragrance, the color and excitement, the beauty and gayety were not for him. Youth was dead. He could never enter the lists with these young men, many no younger than he, for the favor and smile of a girl. Resignation had not been so difficult in the spiritual moment of realization and resolve, but to be presented with one concrete and stunning actuality after another, each with its mocking might-have-been, had grown to be a terrible ordeal.

  Lane looked for faces he knew. On each side of the pillar where he and Blair stood the stream of color and gayety flowed. Helen and Margaret Maynard went by on the far edge of that stream. Across the hall he caught a glimpse of the flashing golden beauty of Bessy Bell. Then near at hand he recognized Fanchon Smith, a petite, smug-faced little brunette, with naked shoulders bulging out of a piebald gown. She espied Lane and her face froze. Then there were familiar faces near and far, to which Lane could not attach names.

  All at once he became aware that other of his senses besides sight were being stimulated. He had been hearing without distinguishing what he heard. And curiously he listened, still with that strange knock of memory at his heart. Everybody was talking, some low, some high, all in the spirit of the hour. And in one moment he had heard that which killed the false enchantment.

  “Not a chance!…”

  “Hot dog—she’s some Jane!”

  “Now to the clinch—”

  “What’ll we do till the next spiel—”

  “Have a shot?——”

  “Boys, it’s only the shank of the evening. Leave something peppy for the finish.”

  “Mame, you look like a million dollars in that rag.”

  “She shakes a mean shimmy, believe me.…”

  “That egg! Not on your life!”

  “Cut the next with Ned. We’ll sneak down and ta
ke a ride in my car.…”

  “Oh, spiffy!”

  Lane’s acutely strained attention was diverted by Blair’s voice.

  “Look who’s with my sister Margie.”

  Lane turned to look through an open space in the dispersing stream. Blair’s sister was passing with Dick Swann. Elegantly and fastidiously attired, the young millionaire appeared to be attentive to his partner. Margaret stood out rather strikingly from the other girls near her by reason of the simplicity and modesty of her dress. She did not look so much bored as discontented. Lane saw her eyes rove to and fro from the entrance of the hall. When she espied Lane she nodded and spoke with a smile and made an evident move toward him, but was restrained by Swann. He led her past Lane and Blair without so much as glancing in their direction. Lane heard Blair swear.

  “Dare, if my mother throws Marg at that—slacker, I’ll block the deal if it’s the last thing I ever do,” he declared, violently.

  “And I’ll help you,” replied Lane, instantly.

  “I know Margie hates him.”

  “Blair, your sister is in love with Holt Dalrymple.”

  “No! Not really? Thought that was only a boy-and-girl affair.… Aha! the nigger music again! Let’s find a seat, Dare.”

  Saxophone, trombone, piccolo, snare-drum and other barbaric instruments opened with a brazen defiance of music, and a vibrant assurance of quick, raw, strong sounds. Lane himself felt the stirring effect upon his nerves. He had difficulty in keeping still. From the lines of chairs along the walls and from doors and alcoves rushed the gay-colored throng to leap, to close, to step, to rock and sway, until the floor was full of a moving mass of life.

  The first half-dozen couples Lane studied all danced more or less as Helen and Swann had, that day in Helen’s studio. Then, by way of a remarkable contrast, there passed two young people who danced decently. Lane descried his sister Lorna in the throng, and when she and her partner came round in the giddy circle, Lane saw that she wiggled and toddled like the others. Lane, as she passed him, caught a glance of her eyes, flashing, reproachful, furious, directed at someone across her partner’s shoulder. Lane followed that glance and saw Swann. Apparently he did not notice Lorna, and was absorbed in the dance with his own partner, Helen Wrapp. This byplay further excited Lane’s curiosity. On the whole, it was an ungraceful, violent mob, almost totally lacking in restraint, whirling, kicking, swaying, clasping, instinctively physical, crude, vulgar and wild. Down the line of chairs from his position, Lane saw the chaperones of the Prom, no doubt mothers of some of these girls. Lane wondered at them with sincere and persistent amaze. If they were respectable, and had even a slight degree of intelligence, how could they look on at this dance with complacence? Perhaps after all the young people were not wholly to blame for an abnormal expression of instinctive action.

  That dance had its several encores and finally ended.

  Margaret and Holt made their way up to Lane and Blair. The girl was now radiant. It took no second glance for Lane to see how matters stood with her at that moment.

  “Say, beat it, you two,” suddenly spoke up Blair. “There comes Swann. He’s looking for you. Chase yourselves, now, Marg—Holt. Leave that slacker to us!”

  Margaret gave a start, a gasp. She looked hard at her brother. Blair wore a cool smile, underneath which there was sterner hidden meaning. Then Margaret looked at Lane with slow, deep blush, making her really beautiful.

  “Margie, we’re for you two, strong,” said Lane, with a smile. “Go hide from Swann.”

  “But I—I came with him,” she faltered.

  “Then let him find you—in other words, let him get you.… ‘All’s fair in love and war.’”

  Lane had his reward in the sweet amaze and confusion of her face, as she turned away. Holt rushed her off amid the straggling couples.

  “Dare, you’re a wiz,” declared Blair. “Margie’s strong for Holt—I’m glad. If we could only put Swann out of the running.”

  “It’s a cinch,” returned Lane, with sudden heat.

  “Pard, you don’t know my mother. If she has picked out Swann for Margie—all I’ve got to say is—good night!”

  “Even if we prove Swann——”

  “No matter what we prove,” interrupted Blair. “No matter what, so long as he’s out of jail. My mother is money mad. She’d sell Margie to the devil himself for gold, position—the means to queen it over these other mothers of girls.”

  “Blair, you’re—you’re a little off your nut, aren’t you?”

  “Not on your life. That talk four years ago might have been irrational. But now—not on your life.… The world has come to an end.… Oh, Lord, look who’s coming! Lane, did you ever in your life see such a peach as that?”

  Bessy Bell had appeared, coming toward them with a callow youth near her own age. Her dress was some soft, pale blue material that was neither gaudy nor fantastical. But it was far from modest. Lane had to echo Blair’s eulogy of this young specimen of the new America. She simply verified and stabilized the assertion that physically the newer generations of girls were markedly more beautiful than those of any generation before.

  Bessy either forgot to introduce her escort or did not care to. She nodded a dismissal to him, spoke sweetly to Blair, and then took the empty chair next to Lane.

  “You’re having a rotten time,” she said, leaning close to him. She seemed all fragrance and airy grace and impelling life.

  Lane had to smile. “How do you know?”

  “I can tell by your face. Now aren’t you?”

  “Well, to be honest, Miss Bessy”

  “For tripe’s sake, don’t be so formal,” she interrupted. “Call me Bessy.”

  “Oh, very well, Bessy. There’s no use to lie to you. I’m not very happy at what I see here.”

  “What’s the matter with it—with us?” she queried, quickly. “Everybody’s doing it.”

  “That is no excuse. Besides, that’s not so. Everybody is not—not——”

  “Well, not what?”

  “Not doing it, whatever you meant by that,” returned Lane, with a laugh.

  “Tell me straight out what you think of us,” she shot at Lane, with a purple flash of her eyes.

  She irritated Lane. Stirred him somehow, yet she seemed wholesome, full of quick response. She was daring, sophisticated, provocative. Therefore Lane retorted in brief, blunt speech what he thought of the majority of the girls present.

  Bessy Bell did not look insulted. She did not blush. She did not show shame. Her eyes darkened. Her rosy mouth lost something of its soft curves.

  “Daren Lane, we’re not all rotten,” she said.

  “I did not say or imply you all were,” he replied.

  She gazed up at him thoughtfully, earnestly, with an unconscious frank interest, curiosity, and reverence.

  “You strike me funny,” she mused. “I never met a soldier like you.”

  “Bessy, how many soldiers have you met who have come back from France?”

  “Not many, only Blair and you, and Captain Thesel, though I really didn’t meet him. He came up to me at the armory and spoke to me. And tonight he cut in on Roy’s dance. Roy was sore.”

  “Three. Well, that’s not many,” replied Lane. “Not enough to get a line on two million, is it?”

  “Captain Thesel is just like all the other fellows.… But you’re not a bit like them.”

  “Is that a compliment or otherwise?”

  “I’ll say it’s a compliment,” she replied, with arch eyes on his.

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, you don’t deserve it.… You promised to make a date with me. Why haven’t you?”

  “Why child, I—I don’t know what to say,” returned Lane, utterly disconcerted. Yet he liked this amazing girl. “I suppose I forgot. But I’ve been ill, for one reason.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. “I heard you were badly hurt. Won’t you tell me about your—your hurts?”

>   “Some day, if opportunity affords. I can’t here, that’s certain.”

  “Opportunity! What do you want? Haven’t I handed myself out on a silver platter?”

  Lane could find no ready retort for this query. He gazed at her, marveling at the apparently measureless distance between her exquisite physical beauty and the spiritual beauty that should have been harmonious with it. Still he felt baffled by this young girl. She seemed to resemble Lorna, yet was different in a way he could not grasp. Lorna had coarsened in fibre. This girl was fine, despite her coarse speech. She did not repel.

  “Mr. Lane, will you dance with me?” she asked, almost wistfully. She liked him, and was not ashamed of it. But she seemed pondering over what to make of him—how far to go.

  “Bessy, I dare not exert myself to that extent,” he replied, gently. “You forget I am a disabled soldier.”

  “Forget that? Not a chance,” she flashed. “But I hoped you might dance with me once—just a little.”

  “No. I might keel over.”

  She shivered and her eyes dilated. “You mean it as a joke. But it’s no joke.… I read about your comrade—that poor Red Payson!”… Then both devil of humor and woman of fire shone in her glance. “Daren, if you did keel over—you’d die in my arms—not on the floor!”

  Then another partner came up to claim her. As the orchestra blurted forth and Bessy leaned to the dancer’s clasp she shouted audaciously at Lane: “Don’t forget that silver platter!”

  Lane turned to Blair to find that worthy shaking his handsome head.

  “Did you hear what she said?” asked Lane, close to Blair’s ear.

  “Every word,” replied Blair. “Some kid!… She’s like the girl in the motion-pictures. She comes along. She meets the fellow. She looks at him—she says ‘good day’—then Wham, into his arms.… My God!… Lane, is that kid good or bad?”