The Day of the Beast

“But Lorna, suppose you don't look nice?” he questioned.

“Ido look nice,” she retorted.

“You don't look anything of the kind.”

“What's nice? It's only a word. It doesn't mean much in my young life.”

“Where are you going to-night?” he asked, sitting down to the table.

“To the armory—basketball game—and dance afterward.”

“With whom?”

“With Harry. I suppose that pleases you, big brother?”

“Yes, it does. I like him. I wish he'd take you out oftener.”

“Takeme! Hot dog! He'd kill himself to take me all the time. But Harry's slow. He bores me. Then he hasn't got a car.”

“Lorna, you may as well know now that I'm going to stop your car rides,” said Lane, losing his patience.

“You arenot ,” she retorted, and in the glint of the eyes meeting his, Lane saw his defeat. His patience was exhausted, his fear almost verified. He did not mince words. With his mother standing open-mouthed and shocked, Lane gave his sister to understand what he thought of automobile rides, and that as far as she was concerned they had to be stopped. If she would not stop them out of respect to her mother and to him, then he would resort to other measures. Lorna bounced up in a fury, and in the sharp quarrel that followed, Lane realized he was dealing with flint full of fire. Lorna left without finishing her supper.

“Daren, that's not the way,” said his mother, shaking her head.

“What is the way, mother?” he asked, throwing up his hands.

“I don't know, unless it's to see her way,” responded the mother. “Sometimes I feel so—so old-fashioned and ignorant before Lorna. Maybe she is right. How can we tell? What makes all the young girls like that?”

What indeed, wondered Lane! The question had been hammering at his mind for over a month. He went back to bed, weary and dejected, suffering spasms of pain, like blades, through his lungs, and grateful for the darkness. Almost he wished it was all over—this ordeal. How puny his efforts! Relentlessly life marched on. At midnight he was still fighting his pangs, still unconquered. In the night his dark room was not empty. There were faces, shadows, moving images and pictures, scenes of the war limned against the blackness. At last he rested, grew as free from pain as he ever grew, and slept. In the morning it was another day, and the past was as if it were not.

May the first dawned ideally springlike, warm, fresh, fragrant, with birds singing, sky a clear blue, and trees budding green and white.

Lane yielded to an impulse that had grown stronger of late. His steps drew him to the little drab house where Mel Iden lived with her aunt. On the way, which led past a hedge, Lane gathered a bunch of violets.

“'In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,'“ he mused. “It's good, even forme , to be alive this morning.... These violets, the birds, the fresh smells, the bursting green! Oh, well, regrets are idle. But just to think—I had to go through all I've known—right down to this moment —to realize how stingingly sweet life is....”

Mel answered his knock, and sight of her face seemed to lift his heart with an unwonted throb. Had he unconsciously needed that? The thought made his greeting, and the tender of the violets, awkward for him.

“Violets! Oh, and spring! Daren, it was good of you to gather them for me. I remember.... But I told you not to come again.”

“Yes, I know you did,” he replied. “But I've disobeyed you. I wanted to see you, Mel.... I didn't know how badly until I got here.”

“You should not want to see me at all. People will talk.”

“So you care what people say of you?” he questioned, feigning surprise.

“Of me? No. I was thinking of you.”

“You fear the poison tongues for me? Well, they cannot harm me. I'm beyond tongues or minds like those.”

She regarded him earnestly, with serious gravity and slowly dawning apprehension; then, turning to arrange the violets in a tiny vase, she shook her head.

“Daren, you're beyond me, too. I feel a—a change in you. Have you had another sick spell?”

“Only for a day off and on. I'm really pretty well to-day. But I have changed. I feel that, yet I don't know how.”

Lane could talk to her. She stirred him, drew him out of himself. He felt a strange desire for her sympathy, and a keen curiosity concerning her opinions.

“I thought maybe you'd been ill again or perhaps upset by the consequences of your—your action at Fanchon Smith's party.”

“Who told you of that?” he asked in surprise.

“Dal. She was here yesterday. She will come in spite of me.”

“So will I,” interposed Lane.

She shook her head. “No, it's different for a man.... I've missed the girls. No one but Dal ever comes. I thought Margie would be true to me—no matter what had befallen.... Dal comes, and oh, Daren, she is good. She helps me so.... She told me what you did at Fanchon's party.”

“She did! Well, what's your verdict?” he queried, grimly. “That break queered me in Middleville.”