by Zane Grey
“Good!” exclaimed Lane, instantly.
“Bah!”
“Good—still,” returned Lane. “But alas! She is brazen, unconscious of it. But she’s no fool, that kid. Lorna is an absolute silly bull-headed fool. I wish Bessy Bell was my sister—or I mean that Lorna was like her.”
“Here comes Swann without Margie. Looks sore as a pup. The——”
“Shut up, Blair. I want to listen to this jazz.”
Lane shut his eyes during the next number and listened without the disconcerting spectacle in his sight. He put all the intensity of which he was capable into his attention. His knowledge of music was not extensive, but on the other hand it was enough to enable him to analyze this jazz. Neither music nor ragtime, it seemed utterly barbarian in character. It appealed only to primitive, physical, sensual instincts. It could not be danced to sanely and gracefully. When he opened his eyes again, to see once more the disorder of dancers in spirit and action, he seemed to have his analysis absolutely verified.
These dances were short, the encores very brief, and the intermissions long. Perhaps the dancers needed to get their breath and rearrange their apparel.
After this number, Lane left Blair talking to friends, and made his way across the hall to where he espied Lorna. She did not see him. She looked ashamed, hurt, almost sullen. Her young friend, Harry, was bending over talking earnestly. Lane caught the words: “Lorna dear, that Swann’s only stringing you—rushing you on the sly. He won’t dance with you here—not while he’s with that swell crowd.”
“It’s a lie,” burst out Lorna. She was almost in tears.
Lane took her arm, making her start.
“Well, kids, you’re having some time, aren’t you,” he said, cheerfully.
“Sure—are,” gulped Harry.
Lorna repressed her grief, but not her sullen resentment.
Lane pretended not to notice anything unusual, and after a few casual remarks and queries he left them. Strolling from place to place, mingling with the gay groups, in the more secluded alcoves and recesses where couples appeared, oblivious to eyes, in the check room where a sign read: “check your corsets,” out in the wide landing where the stairway came up, Lane passed, missing little that might have been seen or heard. He did not mind that two of the chaperones stared at him in supercilious curiosity, as if speculating on a possible faux pas of his at this dance. Both boys and girls he had met since his return to Middleville, and some he had known before, encountered him face to face, and cut him dead. He heard sarcastic remarks. He was an outsider, a “dead one,” a “has been” and a “lemon.” But Margaret was gracious to him, and Flossie Dickerson made no bones of her regard. Dorothy, he was relieved and glad to see, was not present.
Lane had no particular object in mind. He just wanted to rub elbows with this throng of young people. This was the joy of life he had imagined he had missed while in France. How much vain longing! He had missed nothing. He had boundlessly gained.
Out on this floor a railing ran round the curve of the stairway. Girls were sitting on it, smoking cigarettes, and kicking their slipper-shod feet. Their partners were lounging close. Lane passed by, and walking to a window in the shadow he stood there. Presently one of the boys threw away his cigarette and said: “Come on, Ironsides. I gotta dance. You’re a rotten dancer, but I love you.”
They ran back into the hall. The young fellow who was left indolently attempted to kiss his partner, who blew smoke in his face. Then at a louder blast of jazz they bounced away. The next moment a third couple appeared, probably from another door down the hall. They did not observe Lane. The girl was slim, dainty, gorgeously arrayed, and her keen, fair face bore traces of paint wet by perspiration. Her companion was Captain Vane Thesel, in citizen’s garb, well-built, ruddy-faced, with tiny curled moustache.
“Hurry, kid,” he said, breathlessly, as he pulled at her. “We’ll run down and take a spin.”
“Spiffy! But let’s wait till after the next,” she replied. “It’s Harold’s and I came with him.”
“Tell him it was up to him to find you.”
“But he might get wise to a car ride.”
“He’d do the same. Come on,” returned Thesel, who all the time was leading her down the stairway step by step.
They disappeared. From the open window Lane saw them go down the street and get into a car and ride away. He glanced at his watch, muttering. “This is a new stunt for dances. I just wonder.” He watched, broodingly and sombrely. It was not his sister, but it might just as well have been. Two dances and a long intermission ended before Lane saw the big auto return. He watched the couple get out, and hurry up, to disappear at the entrance. Then Lane changed his position, and stood directly at the head of the stairway under the light. He had no interest in Captain Vane Thesel. He just wanted to get a close look at the girl.
Presently he heard steps, heavy and light, and a man’s deep voice, a girl’s low thrill of laughter. They turned the curve in the stairway and did not see Lane until they had mounted to the top.
With cool steady gaze Lane studied the girl. Her clear eyes met his. If there was anything unmistakable in Lane’s look at her, it was not from any deception on his part. He tried to look into her soul. Her smile—a strange indolent little smile, remnant of excitement—faded from her face. She stared, and she put an instinctive hand up to her somewhat dishevelled hair. Then she passed on with her companion.
“Of all the nerve!” she exclaimed. “Who’s that soldier boob?”
Lane could not catch the low reply. He lingered there a while longer, and then returned to the hall, much surprised to find it so dark he could scarcely distinguish the dancers. The lights had been lowered. If the dance had been violent and strange before this procedure, it was now a riot. In the semi-darkness the dancers cut loose. The paper strings had been loosened and had fallen down to become tangled with the flying feet and legs. Confetti swarmed like dark snowdrops in the hot air. Lane actually smelled the heat of bodies—a strangely stirring and yet noxious sensation. A rushing, murmuring, shrill sound—voices, laughter, cries, and the sliding of feet and brushing of gowns—filled the hall—ominous to Lane’s over-sensitive faculties, swelling unnaturally, the expression of unrestrained physical abandon. Lane walked along the edge of this circling, wrestling melee, down to the corner where the orchestra held forth. They seemed actuated by the same frenzy which possessed the dancers. The piccolo player lay on his back on top of the piano, piping his shrill notes at the ceiling. And Lane made sure this player was drunk. On the moment then the jazz came to an end with a crash. The lights flashed up. The dancers clapped and stamped their pleasure.
Lane wound his way back to Blair.
“I’ve had enough, Blair,” he said. “I’m all in. Let’s go.”
“Right-o,” replied Blair, with evident relief. He reached a hand to Lane to raise himself, an action he rarely resorted to, and awkwardly got his crutch in place. They started out, with Lane accommodating his pace to his crippled comrade. Thus it happened that the two ran a gauntlet with watching young people on each side, out to the open part of the hall. There directly in front they encountered Captain Vane Thesel, with Helen Wrapp on his arm. Her red hair, her green eyes, and carmined lips, the white of her voluptuous neck and arms, united in a singular effect of allurement that Lane felt with scorn and melancholy.
Helen nodded to Blair and Lane, and evidently dragged at her escort’s arm to hold him from passing on.
“Look who’s here! Daren, old boy—and Blair,” she called, and she held the officer back. The malice in her green glance did not escape Lane, as he bowed to her. She gloried in that situation. Captain Thesel had to face them.
It was Blair’s hand that stiffened Lane. They halted, erect, like statues, with eyes that failed to see Thesel. He did not exist for them. With a flush of annoyance he spoke, and breaking from Helen, passed on. A sudden silence in the groups nearby gave evidence that the incident had been observed. Then whispers
rose.
“Boys, aren’t you dancing?” asked Helen, with a mocking sweetness. “Let me teach you the new steps.”
“Thanks, Helen,” replied Lane, in sudden weariness. “But I couldn’t go it.”
“Why did you come? To blow us up again? Lose your nerve?”
“Yes, I lost it tonight—and something more.”
“Blair, you shouldn’t have left one of your legs in France,” she said, turning to Blair. She had always hated Blair, a fact omnipresent now in her green eyes.
Blair had left courtesy and endurance in France, as was evinced by the way he bent closer to Helen, to speak low, with terrible passion.
“If I had it to do over again—I’d see you and your kind—your dirt-cheap crowd of painted hussies where you belong—in the clutch of the Huns!”
CHAPTER IX
Miss Amanda Hill, teacher in the Middleville High School, sat wearily at her desk. She was tired, as tired as she had ever been on any day of the fifteen long years in which she had wrestled with the problems of school life. Her hair was iron gray and she bent a worn, sad, severe face over a mass of notes before her.
At that moment she was laboring under a perplexing question that was not by any means a new one. Only this time it had presented itself in a less insidious manner than usual, leaving no loophole for charitable imagination. Presently she looked up and rapped on her desk.
“These young ladies will remain after school is dismissed,” she said, in her authoritative voice: “Bessy Bell—Rose Clymer—Gail Matthews—Helen Tremaine—Ruth Winthrop.… Also any other girls who are honest enough to admit knowledge of the notes found in Rose Clymer’s desk.”
The hush that fell over the schoolroom was broken by the gong in the main hall, sounding throughout the building. Then followed the noise of shutting books and closing desks, and the bustle and shuffling of anticipated dismissal.
In a front seat sat a girl who did not arise with the others, and as one by one several girls passed her desk with hurried step and embarrassed snicker she looked at them with purple, blazing eyes.
Miss Hill attended to her usual task with the papers of the day’s lessons and the marking of the morrow’s work before she glanced up at the five girls she had detained. They sat in widely separated sections of the room. Rose Clymer, pretty, fragile, curly-haired, occupied the front seat of the end row. Her face had no color and her small mouth was set in painful lines. Four seats across from her Bessy Bell leaned on her desk, with defiant calmness, and traces of scorn still in her expressive eyes. Gail Matthews looked frightened and Helen Tremaine was crying. Ruth Winthrop bent forward with her face buried in her arms.
“Girls,” began Miss Hill, presently. “I know you regard me as a cross old schoolteacher.”
She had spoken impulsively, a rare thing with her, and occasioned in this instance by the painful consciousness of how she was judged, when she was really so kindly disposed toward the wayward girls.
“Girls, I’ve tried to get into close touch with you, to sympathize, to be lenient; but somehow, I’ve failed,” she went on. “Certainly I have failed to stop this note-writing. And lately it has become—beyond me to understand. Now won’t you help me to get at the bottom of the matter? Helen, it was you who told me these notes were in Rose’s desk. Have you any knowledge of more?”
“Ye—s—m,” said Helen, raising her red face. “I’ve—I’ve one—I—was afraid to g—give up.”
“Bring it to me.”
Helen rose and came forward with an expressive little fist and opening it laid a crumpled paper upon Miss Hill’s desk. As Helen returned to her seat she met Bessy Bell’s fiery glance and it seemed to wither her.
The teacher smoothed out the paper and began to read. “Good Heavens!” she breathed, in amaze and pain. Then she turned to Helen. “This verse is in your handwriting.”
“Yes’m—but I—I only copied it,” responded the culprit.
“Who gave you the original?”
“Rose.”
“Where did she get it?”
“I—I don’t know—Miss Hill. Really and tru—truly I don’t,” faltered Helen, beginning to cry again.
Gail and Ruth also disclaimed any knowledge of the verse, except that it had been put into their hands by Rose. They had read it, copied it, written notes about it and discussed it.
“You three girls may go home now,” said Miss Hill, sadly.
The girls hastily filed out and passed the scornful Bessy Bell with averted heads.
“Rose, can you explain the notes found in your possession?” asked the teacher.
“Yes, Miss Hill. They were written to me by different boys and girls,” replied Rose.
“Why do you seem to have all these writings addressed to you?”
“I didn’t get any more than any other girl. But I wasn’t afraid to keep mine.”
“Do you know where these verses came from, before Helen had them?”
“Yes, Miss Hill.”
“Then you know who wrote them?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I won’t tell,” replied Rose, deliberately. She looked straight into her teacher’s eyes.
“You refuse when I’ve assured you I’ll be lenient?” demanded Miss Hill.
“I’m no tattletale.” Rose’s answer was sullen.
“Rose, I ask you again. A great deal depends on your answer. Will you tell me?”
The girl’s lip curled. Then she laughed in a way that made Miss Hill think of her as older. But she kept silent.
“Rose, you’re expelled until further notice.” Miss Hill’s voice trembled with disappointment and anger. “You may go now.”
Rose gathered up her books and went into the cloakroom. The door in the outer hall opened and closed.
“Miss Hill, it wasn’t fair!” exclaimed Bessy Bell, hotly. “It wasn’t fair. Rose is no worse than the other girls. She’s not as bad, for she isn’t sly and deceitful. There were a dozen girls who lied when they went out. Helen lied. Ruth lied. Gail lied. But Rose told the truth so far as she went. And she wouldn’t tell all because she wanted to shield me.”
“Why did she want to shield you?”
“Because I wrote the verses.”
“You mean you copied them?”
“I composed them,” Bessy replied coolly. Her blue eyes fearlessly met Miss Hill’s gaze.
“Bessy Bell!” ejaculated the teacher.
The girl stood before her desk and from the tip of her dainty boot to the crown of her golden hair breathed forth a strange, wilful and rebellious fire.
Miss Hill’s lips framed to ask a certain question of Bessy, but she refrained and substituted another.
“Bessy, how old are you?”
“Fifteen last April.”
“Have you any intelligent idea of—do you know—Bessy, how did you write those verses?” asked Miss Hill, in bewilderment.
“I know a good deal and I’ve imagination,” replied Bessy, candidly.
“That’s evident,” returned the teacher. “How long has this note-and verse-writing been going on?”
“For a year, at least, among us.”
“Then you caught the habit from girls gone higher up?”
“Certainly.”
Bessy’s trenchant brevity was not lost upon Miss Hill.
“We’ve always gotten along—you and I,” said Miss Hill, feeling her way with this strange girl.
“It’s because you’re kind and square, and I like you.”
Something told the teacher she had never been paid a higher compliment.
“Bessy, how much will you tell me?”
“Miss Hill, I’m in for it and I’ll tell you everything, if only you won’t punish Rose,” replied the girl, impulsively. “Rose’s my best friend. Her father’s a mean, drunken brute. I’m afraid of what he’ll do if he finds out. Rose has a hard time.”
“You say Rose is no more guilty than the other girls?”
“Rose Cl
ymer never had an idea of her own. She’s just sweet and willing. I hate deceitful girls. Every one of them wrote notes to the boys—the same kind of notes—and some of them tried to write poetry. Most of them had a copy of the piece I wrote. They had great fun over it—getting the boys to guess what girl wrote it. I’ve written a dozen pieces before this and they’ve all had them.”
“Well, that explains the verses.… Now I read in these notes about meetings with the boys?”
“That refers to mornings before school, and after school, and evenings when it’s nice weather. And the literary society.”
“You mean the Girl’s Literary Guild, with rooms at the Atheneum?”
“Yes. But, Miss Hill, the literary part of it is bunk. We meet there to dance. The boys bring the girls cigarettes. They smoke, and sometimes the boys have something with them to drink.”
“These—these girls—hardly in their teens—smoke and drink?” gasped Miss Hill.
“I’ll say they do,” replied Bessy Bell.
“What—does the ‘Bell-garter’ mean?” went on the teacher, presently.
“One of the boys stole my garter and fastened a little bell to it. Now it’s going the rounds. Every girl who could has worn it.”
“What’s the ‘Old Bench’?”
“Down in the basement here at school there’s a bench under the stairway in the dark. The boys and girls have signals. One boy will get permission to go out at a certain time, and a girl from his room, or another room, will go out too. It’s all arranged beforehand. They meet down on the Old Bench.”
“What for?”
“They meet to spoon.”
“I find the names Hardy Mackay, Captain Thesel, Dick Swann among these notes. What can these young society men be to my pupils?”
“Some of the jealous girls have been tattling to each other and mentioning names.”
“Bessy! Do you imply these girls who talk have had the—the interest or attention of these young gentlemen named?”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
“I mean they’ve had dates to meet in the park—and other places. Then they go joy riding.”
