Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1483
Presently Lane remembered the nature of the place. It was a house of night. In daylight it was silent; its inmates were asleep. But as the darkness unfolded a cloak over it, all the hidden springs of its obscure humanity began to flow. Lying there with the woman’s appeal haunting him and all those sounds in his ears he thought of their meaning. The drunkard with his lust for money; his moaning victim; the discordant piano; the man with the vacant laugh; the lost hope and youth in the woman’s that echoed it; the stealing, slipping feet of those who must tread softly — all conveyed to Lane that he had awakened in another world, a world which shunned sunlight.
Toward morning he dozed off into a fitful sleep which lasted until ten o’clock when he arose and dressed. As he was about to go out a knock on the door of the room next to his recalled the incident of the night. He listened. Another knock followed, somewhat louder, but no response came from within.
“Say, you in there,” cried a voice Lane recognized as the landlady’s. She rattled the door-knob.
A girl’s voice answered weakly: “Come in.”
Lane heard the door open.
“I wants my room rent. I can’t get a dollar out of your drunken father. Will you pay? It’s four weeks overdue.”
“I have no money.”
“Then get out an’ leave me the room.” The landlady spoke angrily.
“I’m ill. I can’t get up.” The answer was faint.
Lane opened his door quickly, and confronted the broad person of the landlady.
“How much does the woman owe?” he asked, quietly.
“Ah-huh!” the exclamation was trenchant with meaning. “Twenty dollars, if it’s anything to you.”
“I’ll pay it. I think I heard the woman say she was ill.”
“She says she is.”
“May I be of any assistance?”
“Ask her.”
Lane glanced into the little room, a counterpart of his. But it was so dark he could see nothing distinctly.
“May I come in? Let me raise the blind. There, the sun is fine this morning. Now, may I not—”
He looked down at a curly head and a sweet pretty face that he knew.
“I know you,” he said, groping among past associations.
“I am Rose Clymer,” she whispered, and a momentary color came into her wan cheeks.
“Rose Clymer! Bessy Bell’s friend!”
“Yes, Mr. Lane. I’m not so surprised as you. I recognized you last night.”
“Then it was you who passed me in the hall?”
“Yes.”
“Well! And you’re ill? What is the matter? Ah! Last night — it was your — your father — I heard?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I’ve not been well since — for a long time, and I gave out last night.”
“Here I am talking when I might be of some use,” said Lane, and he hurried out of the room. The landlady had discreetly retired to the other end of the hall. He thrust some money into her hands.
“She seems pretty sick. Do all you can for her, be kind to her. I’ll pay. I’m going for a doctor.”
He telephoned for Doctor Bronson.
An hour later Lane, coming upstairs from his meal, met the physician at Rose’s door. He looked strangely at Lane and shook his head.
“Daren, how is it I find you here in this place?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” answered Lane, with his old frank smile.
“Humph!” exclaimed the doctor, gruffly.
“How about the girl?” asked Lane.
“She’s in bad shape,” replied Bronson.... “Lane, are you aware of her condition?”
“Why, she’s ill — that’s all I know,” replied Lane, slowly. “Rose didn’t tell me what ailed her. I just found out she was here.”
Doctor Bronson looked at Lane. “Too bad you didn’t find out sooner. I’ll call again to-day and see her.... And say, Daren, you look all in yourself.”
“Never mind me, Doctor. It’s mighty good of you to look after Rose. I know you’ve more patients than you can take care of. Rose has nothing and her father’s a poor devil. But I’ll pay you.”
“Never mind about money,” rejoined Bronson, turning to go.
Lane could learn little from Rose. Questions seemed to make her shrink, so Lane refrained from them and tried to cheer her. The landlady had taken a sudden liking to Lane which evinced itself in her change of attitude toward Rose, and she was communicative. She informed Lane that the girl had been there about two months; that her father had made her work till she dropped. Old Clymer had often brought men to the hotel to drink and gamble, and to the girl’s credit she had avoided them.
For several days Doctor Bronson came twice daily to see Rose. He made little comment upon her condition, except to state that she had developed peritonitis, and he was not hopeful. Soon Rose took a turn for the worse. The doctor came to Lane’s room and told him the girl would not have the strength to go through with her ordeal. Lane was so shocked he could not speak. Dr. Bronson’s shoulders sagged a little, an unusual thing for him. “I’m sorry, Daren,” he said. “I know you wanted to help the poor girl out of this. But too late. I can ease her pain, and that’s all.”
Strangely shaken and frightened Lane lay down in the dark. The partition between his room and Rose’s might as well have been paper for all the sound it deadened. He could have escaped that, but he wanted to be near her.... And he listened to Rose’s moans in the darkness. Lane shuddered there, helpless, suffering, realizing. Then the foreboding silence became more dreadful than any sound.... It was terrible for Lane. That strange cold knot in his breast, that coil of panic, seemed to spring and tear, quivering through all his body. What had he known of torture, of sacrifice, of divine selflessness? He understood now how the loved and guarded woman went down into the Valley of the Shadow for the sake of a man. Likewise, he knew the infinite tragedy of a ruined girl who lay in agony, gripped by relentless nature.
Lane was called into the hall by Mrs. O’Brien. She was weeping. Bronson met him at the door.
“She’s dying,” he whispered. “You’d better come in. I’ve ‘phoned to Doctor Wallace.”
Lane went in, almost blinded. The light seemed dim. Yet he saw Rose with a luminous glow radiating from her white face.
“I feel — so light,” she said, with a wan smile.
Lane sat by the bed, but he could not speak. The moments dragged. He had a feeling of their slow but remorseless certainty.
Then there were soft steps outside — Mrs. O’Brien opened the door — and Doctor Wallace entered the room.
“My child,” he gravely began, bending over her.
Rose’s big eyes with their strained questioning gaze sought his face and Doctor Bronson’s and Lane’s.
“Rose — are you — in pain?”
“The burning’s gone,” she said.
“My child,” began Doctor Wallace, again. “Your pain is almost over. Will you not pray with me?”
“No. I never was two-faced,” replied Rose, with a weary shake of the tangled curls. “I won’t show yellow now.”
Lane turned away blindly. It was terrible to think of her dying bitter, unrepentant.
“Oh! if I could hope!” murmured Rose. “To see my mother!”
Then there were shuffling steps outside and voices. The door was opened by Mrs. O’Brien. Old Clymer crossed the threshold. He was sober, haggard, grieved. He had been told. No one spoke as he approached Rose’s bedside.
“Lass — lass—” he began, brokenly.
Then he sought from the men confirmation of a fear borne by a glance into Rose’s white still face. And silence answered him.
“Lass, if you’re goin’ — tell me — who was to blame?”
“No one — but myself — father,” she replied.
“Tell me, who was to blame?” demanded Clymer, harshly.
Her pale lips curled a little bitterly, and suddenly, as a change seemed to come over her, they set that way. She looked up at Lane with a different light in her eyes. Then she turned her face to the wall.
Lane left the room, to pace up and down the hall outside. His thoughts seemed deadlocked. By and bye, Doctor Bronson came out with Doctor Wallace, who was evidently leaving.
“She is unconscious and dying,” said Doctor Bronson to Lane, and then bade the minister good-bye and returned to the room.
“How strangely bitter she was!” exclaimed Doctor Wallace to Lane. “Yet she seemed such a frank honest girl. Her attitude was an acknowledgment of sin. But she did not believe it herself. She seemed to have a terrible resentment. Not against one man, or many persons, but perhaps life itself! She was beyond me. A modern girl — a pagan! But such a brave, loyal, generous little soul. What a pity! I find my religion at fault because it can accomplish nothing these days.”
CHAPTER XX
LANE TOOK ROSE’S death to heart as if she had been his sister or sweetheart. The exhaustion and exposure he was subjected to during these days dragged him farther down.
One bitter February day he took refuge in the railroad station. The old negro porter who had known Lane since he was a boy evidently read the truth of Lane’s condition, for he contrived to lead him back into a corner of the irregular room. It was an obscure corner, rather hidden by a supporting pillar and the projecting end of a news counter. This seat was directly over the furnace in the cellar. Several pipes, too hot to touch, came up through the floor. It was the warmest place Lane had found, and he sat there for hours. He could see the people passing to and fro through the station, arriving and leaving on trains, without himself being seen. That afternoon was good for him, and he went back next day.
But before he could get to the coveted seat he was accosted by Blair Maynard. Lane winced under Blair’s piercing gaze; and the haggard face of his friend renewed Lane’s deadened pangs. Lane led Blair to the warm corner, and they sat down. It had been many weeks since they had seen each other. Blair talked in one uninterrupted flow for an hour, and so the life of the people Lane had given up was once again open to him. It was like the scoring of an old wound. Then Lane told what little there was to tell about himself. And the things he omitted Blair divined. After that they sat silent for a while.
“Of course you knew Mel’s boy died,” said Blair, presently.
“Oh — No!” exclaimed Lane.
“Hadn’t you heard? I thought — of course you — .... Yes, he died some time ago. Croup or flu, I forget.”
“Dead!” whispered Lane, and he leaned forward to cover his face with his hands. He had seemed so numb to feeling. But now a storm shook him.
“Dare, it’s better for him — and Mel too,” said Blair, with a hand going to his friend’s shoulder. “That idea never occurred to me until day before yesterday when I ran into Mel. She looked — Oh, I can’t tell you how. But I got that strange impression.”
“Did — did she ask about me?” queried Lane, hoarsely, as he uncovered his face, and sat back.
“She certainly did,” replied Blair, warmly. “And I lied like a trooper. I didn’t know where you were or how you were, but I pretended you were O.K.”
“And then—” asked Lane, breathlessly.
“She said, ‘Tell Daren I must see him.’ I promised and set out to find you. I was pretty lucky to run into you.... And now, old sport, let me get personal, will you?”
“Go as far as you like,” replied Lane, in muffled voice.
“Well, I think Mel loves you,” went on Blair, in hurried softness. “I always thought so — even when we were kids. And now I know it.... And Lord! Dare you just ought to see her now. She’s lovely. And she’s your wife.”
“What if she is — both lovely — and my wife?” queried Lane, bitterly.
“If I were you I’d go to her. I’d sure let her take care of me.... Dare, the way you’re living is horrible. I have a home, such as it is. My room is warm and clean, and I can stay in it. But you — Dare, it hurts me to see you — as you are — —”
“No!” interrupted Lane, passionately. The temptation Blair suggested was not to be borne.
Lane met Blair the next afternoon at the station, and again on the next. That established a habit in which both found much comfort and some happiness. Thereafter they met every day at the same hour. Often for long they sat silent, each occupied with his own thoughts. Occasionally Blair would bring a package which contained food he had ransacked from the larder at home. Together they would fall upon it like two schoolboys. But what Lane was most grateful for was just Blair’s presence.
It was distressing then, after these meetings had extended over a period of two weeks, to be confronted one afternoon by a new station agent who called Blair and Lane bums and ordered them out of the place.
Blair raised his crutch to knock the man down. But Lane intercepted it, and got his friend out of the station. It was late afternoon with the sun going down over the hill across the railroad yards. Blair stood a moment bare-headed, with the light on his handsome haggard face. How frail he seemed — too frail of body for the magnificent spirit so flashing in his eyes, so scathing on his bitter lips. Lane bade him good-bye and turned away, with a strange intimation that this was the last time he would ever see Blair alive.
Wretched and desperate, Lane bought drink and took it to his room with him. On that dark winter night he sat by the window of his room. Insensible now to the cold, to the wind moaning outside, to the snow whirling against the pane, he lived with phantoms. To and fro, to and fro glided the wraith-forms, vanishing and appearing. The soft rustling sound of the snow was the rustle of their movements. Across the gleam of light, streaking coldly through the pane, flickering fitfully on the wall, floated shadows and faces.
He did not know when he succumbed to drowsy weakness. But he awoke at daylight, lying on the floor, stiff with cold. Drink helped him to drag through that day. Then something happened to him, and time meant nothing. Night and day were the same. He did not eat. When he lay back upon his bed he became irrational, yet seemed to be conscious of it. When he sat up his senses slowly righted. But he preferred the spells of aberration. Sometimes he was possessed by hideous nightmares, out of which he awoke with the terror of a child. Then he would have to sit up in the dark, in a cold sweat, and wait, and wait, until he dared to lie back again.
In the daytime delusions grew upon him. One was that he was always hearing the strange voices of the river, and another that he was being pursued by an old woman clad in a flowing black mantle, with a hood on her head and a crooked staff in her hand. The voices and apparition came to him, now in his waking hours; they came suddenly without any prelude or warning. He explained them as odd fancies resulting from strong drink; they grew on him until his harsh laugh could not shake them off. He managed occasionally to drag himself out of the house. In the streets he felt this old black hag following him; but later she came to him in the lonely silence of his room. He never noticed her unless he glanced behind him, and he was powerless to resist that impulse. At length the dreary old woman, who seemed to grow more gaunt and ghostly every day, took the form in Lane’s disordered fancy of the misfortune that war had put upon him.
Lane dreamed once that it was a gray winter afternoon; dark lowering clouds hung over the drab-colored hills, and a chill north wind scurried over the bare meadows, sending the dead leaves rustling over the heath and moaning through the leafless oaks. What a sad day it was, he thought, as he faced the biting wind: sad as was his life and a fitting one for the deed on which he had determined! Long since he had left the city and was on the country road. He ascended a steep hill. From its highest point he looked back toward the city he was leaving forever. Faint it lay in the distance, only a few of its white spires shining out dimly from the purple haze.
What was that dark shadow? Far down the winding road he discerned an object moving slowly up the hill. Closer he looked, and trembled. An old woman with flowing black robes was laboriously climbing the hill. Whirling, he placed his hand on his breast, firmly grasped something there, and then strode onward. Soon he glanced over his shoulder. Yes, there she came, hobbling over the crest, her bent form and long crooked staff clearly silhouetted against the gray background. She raised the long staff and pointed it at him.
Now it seemed the day was waning; deep shadows lay in the valleys, and night already enveloped the forest. Through rents in the broken clouds a few pale stars twinkled fitfully. Soon dark cloud curtains scurried across these spaces shutting out the light.
He plunged into the forest. His footsteps made no sound on the soft moss as he glided through wooded aisles and under giant trees. Once well into the deep woods, he turned to look behind him. He saw a shadow, blacker than the forest-gloom, stealthily slipping from tree to tree. He looked no more. For hours he traveled on and on, never stopping, never looking backward, never listening, intent only on placing a great distance between him and his pursuer.
He came upon a swamp where his feet sank in the soft earth, and through all the night, with tireless strength and fateful resolve, he toiled into this dreamy waste of woods and waters, until at length a huge black rock loomed up in his way. He ascended to its summit and looked beyond.
It seemed now that he had reached his destination. Wood spirits and phantoms of night would mourn over him, but they would keep his secret. He peered across a shining lake, and tried to pierce the gloom. No living thing moved before his vision. Silver rippling waves shimmered under that starlit sky; tall weird pines waved gently in the night breeze; slender cedars, resembling spectres, reared their heads toward the blue-black vault of heaven. He listened intently. There was a faint rustling of the few leaves left upon the oaks. The strange voices that had always haunted him, the murmuring of river waters, or whispering of maidens, or muttering of women were now clear.
