The Day of the Beast

by Zane Grey

  Only Lane heard her. The others were crying out themselves as Blair's gray-haired mother received him into her arms. She seemed a proud woman, broken and unsteady. Red Payson's grip on Lane's arm told what that scene meant to him. How pitiful the vain effort of Blair's people to hide their horror! Presently mother and sister and women relatives fell aside to let the soldier boy meet his father. This was something that rang the bells in Lane's heart. Men were different, and Blair faced his father differently. The wild boy had come home—the scapegoat of many Middleville escapades had returned—the ne'er-do-well sought his father's house. He had come home to die. It was there in Blair's white face—the dreadful truth. He wore a ribbon on his breast and he leaned on a crutch. For the instant, as father and son faced each other, there was something in Blair's poise, his look of an eagle, that carried home a poignant sense of his greatness. Lane thrilled with it and a lump constricted his throat. Then with Blair's ringing “Dad!” and the father's deep and broken: “My son! My son!” the two embraced.

  In a stifling moment more it seemed, attention turned on Red Payson, who stood nearest. Blair's folk were eager, kind, soft-spoken and warm in their welcome.

  Then it came Lane's turn, and what they said or did he scarcely knew, until Margaret kissed him. “Oh, Dare! I'mso glad to see you home.” Tears were standing in her clear blue eyes. “You're changed, but—not—not so much as Blair.”

  Lane responded as best he could, and presently he found himself standing at the curb, watching the car move away.

  “Come out to-morrow,” called back Blair.

  The Maynard's car was carrying his comrades away. His first feeling was one of gladness—the next of relief. He could be alone now—alone to find out what had happened to him, and to this strange Middleville. An old negro wearing a blue uniform accosted Lane, shook hands with him, asked him if he had any baggage. “Yas sir, I sho knowed you, Mistah Dare Lane. But you looks powerful bad.”

  Lane crossed the station platform, and the railroad yard and tracks, to make a short cut in the direction of his home. He shrank from meeting any one. He had not sent word just when he would arrive, though he had written his mother from New York that it would be soon, He was glad that no one belonging to him had been at the station. He wanted to see his mother in his home. Walking fast exhausted him, and he had to rest. How dead his legs felt! In fact he felt queer all over. The old burn and gnaw in his breast had expanded to a heavy, full, suffocating sensation. Yet his blood seemed to race. Suddenly an overwhelming emotion of rapture flooded over him. Home at last! He did not think of any one. He was walking across the railroad yards where as a boy he had been wont to steal rides on freight trains. Soon he reached the bridge. In the gathering twilight he halted to clutch at the railing and look out across where the waters met—where Sycamore Creek flowed into Middleville River. The roar of water falling over the dam came melodiously and stirringly to his ears. And as he looked again he was assailed by that strange sense of littleness, of shrunkenness, which had struck him so forcibly at the station. He listened to the murmur of running water. Then, while the sweetness of joy pervaded him, there seemed to rise from below or across the river or from somewhere the same strange misgiving, a keener dread, a chill that was not in the air, a fatal portent of the future. Why should this come to mock him at such a sacred and beautiful moment?

  Passers-by stared at Lane, and some of them whispered, and one hesitated, as if impelled to speak. Wheeling away Lane crossed the bridge, turned up River Street, soon turned off again into a darker street, and reaching High School Park he sat down to rest again. He was almost spent. The park was quiet and lonely. The bare trees showed their skeleton outlines against the cold sky. It was March and the air was raw and chilly. This park that had once been a wonderful place now appeared so small. Everything he saw was familiar yet grotesque in the way it had become dwarfed. Across the street from where he sat lights shone in the windows of a house. He knew the place. Who lived there? One of the girls—he had forgotten which. From somewhere the discordance of a Victrola jarred on Lane's sensitive ears.

  Lifting his bag he proceeded on his way, halting every little while to catch his breath. When he turned a corner into a side street, recognizing every tree and gate and house, there came a gathering and swelling of his emotions and he began to weaken and shake. He was afraid he could not make it half way up the street. But he kept on. The torture now was more a mingled rapture and grief than the physical protest of his racked body. At last he saw the modest little house—and then he stood at the gate, quivering. Home! A light in the window of his old room! A terrible and tremendous storm of feeling forced him to lean on the gate. How many endless hours had the pictured memory of that house haunted him? There was the beloved room where he had lived and slept and read, and cherished over his books and over his compositions a secret hope and ambition to make of himself an author. How strange to remember that! But it was true. His day labor at Manton's office, for all the years since he had graduated from High School, had been only a means to an end. No one had dreamed of his dream. Then the war had come and now his hope, if not his faith, was dead. Never before had the realization been so galling, so bitter. Endlessly and eternally he must be concerned with himself. He had driven that habit of thought away a million times, but it would return. All he had prayed for was to get home—only to reach home alive—to see his mother, and his sister Lorna—and Helen—and then.... But he was here now and all that prayer was falsehood. Just to get home was not enough. He had been cheated of career, love, happiness.

  It required extreme effort to cross the little yard, to mount the porch. In a moment more he would see his mother. He heard her within, somewhere at the back of the house. Wherefore he tip-toed round to the kitchen door. Here he paused, quaking. A cold sweat broke out all over him. Why was this return so dreadful? He pressed a shaking hand over his heart. How surely he knew he could not deceive his mother! The moment she saw him, after the first flash of joy, she would see the wreck of the boy she had let go to war. Lane choked over his emotion, but he could not spare her. Opening the door he entered.

  There she stood at the stove and she looked up at the sound he made. Yes! but stranger than all other changes was the change in her. She was not the mother of his boyhood. Nor was the change alone age or grief or wasted cheek. The moment tore cruelly at Lane's heart. She did not recognize him swiftly. But when she did....

  “Oh God!... Daren! My boy!” she whispered.

  “Mother!”

  CHAPTER II.

  His mother divined what he knew. And her embrace was so close, almost fierce in its tenderness, her voice so broken, that Lane could only hide his face over her, and shut his eyes, and shudder in an ecstasy. God alone had omniscience to tell what his soul needed, but something of it was embodied in home and mother.

  That first acute moment past, he released her, and she clung to his hands, her face upturned, her eyes full of pain and joy, and woman's searching power, while she broke into almost incoherent speech; and he responded in feeling, though he caught little of the content of her words, and scarcely knew what he was saying.

  Then he reeled a little and the kitchen dimmed in his sight. Sinking into a chair and leaning on the table he fought his weakness. He came close to fainting. But he held on to his sense, aware of his mother fluttering over him. Gradually the spell passed.

  “Mother—maybe I'm starved,” he said, smiling at her.

  That practical speech released the strain and inspired his mother to action. She began to bustle round the kitchen, talking all the while. Lane watched her and listened, and spoke occasionally. Once he asked about his sister Lorna, but his mother either did not hear or chose not to reply. All she said was music to his ears, yet not quite what his heart longed for. He began to distrust this strange longing. There was something wrong with his mind. His faculties seemed too sensitive. Every word his mother uttered was news, surprising, unusual, as if it emanated from a home-world that had chan
ged. And presently she dropped into complaint at the hard times and the cost of everything.

  “Mother,” he interrupted, “I didn't blow my money. I've saved nearly a year's pay. It's yours.”

  “But, Daren, you'll need money,” she protested.

  “Not much. And maybe—I'll be strong enough to go to work—presently,” he said, hopefully. “Do you think Manton will take me back—half days at first?”

  “I have my doubts, Daren,” she replied, soberly. “Hattie Wilson has your old job. And I hear they're pleased with her. Few of the boys got their places back.”

  “Hattie Wilson!” exclaimed Lane. “Why, she was a kid in the eighth grade when I left home.”

  “Yes, my son. But that was nearly three years ago. And the children have sprung up like weeds. Wild weeds!”

  “Well! That tousle-headed Wilson kid!” mused Lane. An uneasy conviction of having been forgotten dawned upon Lane. He remembered Blair Maynard's bitter prophecy, which he had been unable to accept.

  “Anyway, Daren, are you able to work?” asked his mother.

  “Sure,” he replied, lying cheerfully, with a smile on his face. “Not hard work, just yet, but I can do something.”

  His mother did not share his enthusiasm. She went on preparing the supper.

  “How do you manage to get along?” inquired Lane.

  “Lord only knows,” she replied, sombrely. “It has been very hard. When you left home I had only the interest on your father's life insurance. I sold the farm—”

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Lane, with a rush of boyhood memories.

  “I had to,” she went on. “I made that money help out for a long time. Then I—I mortgaged this place.... Things cost so terribly. And Lorna had to have so much more.... But she's just left school and gone to work. That helps.”

  “Lorna left school!” ejaculated Lane, incredulously. “Why, mother, she was only a child. Thirteen years old when I left! She'll miss her education. I'll send her back.”

  “Well, son, I doubt if you can make Lorna do anything she doesn't want to do,” returned his mother. “She wanted to quit school—to earn money. Whatever she was when you left home she's grown up now. You'll not know her.”

  “Know Lorna! Why, mother dear, I carried Lorna's picture all through the war.”

  “You won't know her,” returned Mrs. Lane, positively. “My boy, these years so short to you have been ages here at home. You will find your sister—different from the little girl you left. You'll find all the girls you knew changed—changed. I have given up trying to understand what's come over the world.”

  “How—about Helen?” inquired Lane, with strange reluctance and shyness.

  “Helen who?” asked his mother.

  “Helen Wrapp, of course,” replied Lane, quickly in his surprise. “The girl I was engaged to when I left.”

  “Oh!—I had forgotten,” she sighed.

  “Hasn't Helen been here to see you?”

  “Let me see—well, now you tax me—I think she did come once—right after you left.”

  “Do you—ever see her?” he asked, with slow heave of breast.

  “Yes, now and then, as she rides by in an automobile. But she never sees me.... Daren, I don't know what your—your—that engagement means to you, but I must tell you—Helen Wrapp doesn't conduct herself as if she were engaged. Still, I don't know what's in the heads of girls to-day. I can only compare the present with the past.”

  Lane did not inquire further and his mother did not offer more comment. At the moment he heard a motor car out in front of the house, a girl's shrill voice in laughter, the slamming of a car-door—then light, quick footsteps on the porch. Lane could look from where he sat to the front door—only a few yards down the short hall. The door opened. A girl entered.

  “That's Lorna,” said Lane's mother. He grew aware that she bent a curious gaze upon his face.

  Lane rose to his feet with his heart pounding, and a strange sense of expectancy. His little sister! Never during the endless months of drudgery, strife and conflict, and agony, had he forgotten Lorna. Not duty, nor patriotism, had forced him to enlist in the army before the draft. It had been an ideal which he imagined he shared with the millions of American boys who entered the service. Too deep ever to be spoken of! The barbarous and simian Hun, with his black record against Belgian, and French women, should never set foot on American soil.

  In the lamplight Lane saw this sister throw coat and hat on the banister, come down the hall and enter the kitchen. She seemed tall, but her short skirt counteracted that effect. Her bobbed hair, curly and rebellious, of a rich brown-red color, framed a pretty face Lane surely remembered. But yet not the same! He had carried away memory of a child's face and this was a woman's. It was bright, piquant, with darkly glancing eyes, and vivid cheeks, and carmine lips.

  “Oh,hot dog ! if it isn't Dare!” she squealed, and with radiant look she ran into his arms.

  The moment, or moments, of that meeting between brother and sister passed, leaving Lane conscious of hearty welcome and a sense of unreality. He could not at once adjust his mental faculties to an incomprehensible difference affecting everything.

  They sat down to supper, and Lane, sick, dazed, weak, found eating his first meal at home as different as everything else from what he had expected. There had been no lack of warmth or love in Lorna's welcome, but he suffered disappointment. Again for the hundredth time he put it aside and blamed his morbid condition. Nothing must inhibit his gladness.

  Lorna gave Lane no chance to question her. She was eager, voluble, curious, and most disconcertingly oblivious of a possible sensitiveness in Lane.

  “Dare, you look like a dead one,” she said. “Did you get shot, bayoneted, gassed, shell-shocked and all the rest? Did you go over the top? Did you kill any Germans? Gee! did you get to ride in a war-plane? Come across, now, and tell me.”

  “I guess about—everything happened to me—except going west,” returned Lane. “But I don't want to talk about that. I'm too glad to be home.”

  “What's that on your breast?” she queried, suddenly, pointing at theCroix de Guerre he wore.

  “That? Lorna, that's my medal.”

  “Gee! Let me see.” She got up and came round to peer down closely, to finger the decoration. “French! I never saw one before.... Daren, haven't you an American medal too?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “My dear sister, that's hard to say. Because I didn't deserve it, most likely.”

  She leaned back to gaze more thoughtfully at him.

  “What did you get this for?”

  “It's a long story. Some day I'll tell you.”

  “Are you proud of it?”

  For answer he only smiled at her.

  “It's so long since the war I've forgotten so many things,” she said, wonderingly. Then she smiled sweetly. “Dare, I'm proud of you.”

  That was a moment in which his former emotion seemed to stir for her. Evidently she had lost track of something once memorable. She was groping back for childish impressions. It was the only indication of softness he had felt in her. How impossible to believe Lorna was only fifteen! He could form no permanent conception of her. But in that moment he sensed something akin to a sister's sympathy, some vague and indefinable thought in her, too big for her to grasp. He never felt it again. The serious sweet mood vanished.

  “Hot dog! I've a brother with theCroix de Guerre . I'll swell up over that. I'll crow over some of these Janes.”

  Thus she talked on while eating her supper. And Lane tried to eat while he watched her. Presently he moved his chair near to the stove. Lorna did not wait upon her mother. It was the mother who did the waiting, as silently she moved from table to stove.

  Lorna's waist was cut so low that it showed the swell of her breast. The red color of her cheeks, high up near her temples, was not altogether the rosy line of health and youth. Her eyebrows were only faint, thin, curved lines, oriental in effect. Sh
e appeared to be unusually well-developed in body for so young a girl. And the air of sophistication, of experience that seemed a part of her manner completely mystified Lane. If it had not been for the slangy speech, and the false color in her face, he would have been amused at what he might have termed his little sister's posing as a woman of the world. But in the light of these he grew doubtful of his impression. Lastly, he saw that she wore her stockings rolled below her knees and that the edge of her short skirt permitted several inches of her bare legs to be seen. And at that he did not know what to think. He was stunned.