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Updated: June 26, 2025
Lane waited five minutes after the sound of wheels had died away. Then he hurried out and opened the door of the closet. Lorna almost fell over him in her eagerness. If she had been frightened, she had recovered. Gail staggered out, pale and sick looking. "Oh, Daren, can you get us out?" whispered Lorna, breathlessly. "Hurry, and don't talk," replied Lane.
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.
If she heard a whistle on the avenue, the honk of a car the familiar old signals of the boys and girls, she smiled her disdain, and curling comfortably in her great chair, bent her lovely head over her books. In the beginning her dreams were all of Daren Lane, of the strangeness and glory of this soldier who spent so many secret hours with her.
Holt, would you do me a favor?" "Would I? Listen to the guy," returned young Dalrymple. "Daren, I'd do any old thing for you." "Do you happen to know Bessy Bell?" went on Lane. Dalrymple quickened with surprise. "Yes, I know her. Some little peach!... I almost ran into her down on West Street a few minutes ago. She wore a white veil. She didn't see me, or recognize me. But I sure knew her.
The afternoon was far spent and the sun blazing red. Lane wiped his moist face and fanned himself with his hat. Behind him the shade of a wooded garden or park looked inviting. Back in the foliage he espied the vine-covered roof of an old summer house. A fresh young voice burst upon his meditations. "Hello, Daren Lane."
Sad as she seemed, he wanted to make her suffer more an inexplicable and shameful desire. "Mel, you and I are alike," he said. "Oh, no, Daren; you are noble and I am...." "Mel, in my dreams I see myself standing plodding along the dark shores of a river that river of tears which runs down the vast naked stretch of our inner lives.... I see you now, on the opposite shore.
This new world moved on unmindful, through its travail and incalculable change, to unknown ends. He, Daren Lane, had been left alone on the vast and naked shores of Lethe. Lane made not one passionate protest at the injustice of his fate. Labor, agony, war had taught him wisdom and vision. He began to realize that no greater change could there be than this of his mind, his soul.
"You would! And why?" "I am a physical wreck and a mental one, too, I fear.... Helen, I've come home to die." "Daren!" she cried, poignantly. Then he told her in brief, brutal words of the wounds and ravages war had dealt him, and what Doctor Bronson's verdict had been. Lane felt shame in being so little as to want to shock and hurt her, if that were possible. "Oh, I'm sorry," she burst out.
"Daren, the car has stopped," said Mel, presently. Lane got out, walked up the steps, and pulled the bell. He was admitted. He had no better luck here. Lane felt that his lips shut tight, and his face set. Mel said nothing and sat by him, very quiet. The taxi rolled on and stopped again, and Lane had audience with another minister. He was repulsed here also.
This is Daren Lane.... He wants to marry me to give my boy a name.... Somehow he finally made me consent." "Well, well, here is a story. Come, take off this snowy cloak and get nearer the fire. Your hands are like ice." His voice was very calm and kind. It soothed Lane's strained nerves. With what eagerness did he scrutinize the old minister's face.
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