During the night our story opens, the snow turned to rain; a
warm, steady downpour, which continued for three days in a manner
unparalleled in the annals of the town. On the third day, the scene
from the “Laurels,” as the De Vere place had been named, was one of
wholesale destruction. The heavy body of snow which had lain on the
ground had melted and added its water to help swell the streams. The
Rondout Creek was a raging torrent, filled with logs, trees, cakes of
ice and portions of houses. The Delaware and Hudson Canal, from which
the water had been drawn at the close of the previous boating season,
was full of water and now formed part of the creek. In places the
tow-path was completely covered and canal boats, loosened from their
fastenings, drifted over the valley. The flats were one vast expanse
of water, and lock-keepers had fled from their homes along the canal,
thankful to escape with their lives. The roar was tremendous! Gurgling
mountain brooks had been converted into rivers which rushed madly down
to mingle their waters with the seething flood below.
The De Veres stood on a point of rock which projected out from their
grounds. It was still raining, but from under their umbrellas they
looked sadly on the work of destruction yet in progress. So absorbed
were they that the approach of two gentlemen on horseback was unheeded
until the elder of the two shouted, “Hello, there!”
They all turned quickly and at Mr. De Vere’s invitation Mr. Andrew
Genung, followed by a young man, dismounted at the gate and joined them.
Andrew Genung was not generally liked. By many he was considered an
aristocratic bigot. He never forgave an injury, nor forgot a kindness.
A stern, uncompromising man, his life was governed by certain fixed
rules of conduct which, in his estimation, were the only ones. But his
word was as good as his bond, and the friendship which existed between
him and De Vere stood the test of years.
The young man was presented as his nephew, Hernando Genung, from Nevada.
Celeste’s brown eyes met his blue ones frankly, but the pink flush of
her cheeks deepened to brilliant red under the unconscious admiration
in his face. Eletheer noted this and the sly wink she gave her sister
made the latter’s face flame.
Mr. Genung was discussing the freshet: “Only four bridges left between
here and Kingston.”
“Which ones are they?” Mr. De Vere inquired.
“The Port Ben bridge, the old covered bridge at Accord, the covered
bridge at High Falls, and the Auchmmody bridge at Rosendale; down at
the coal docks everything is swept away, one iron bridge is intact but
the abutments are injured and a wide channel is dug around one end of
the bridge; one pier has been destroyed at the Honk Falls bridge, but
nothing short of deluge can reach the bridge.”
“Have you any news from Rosendale?” they asked.
“There is about a thousand feet of tow-path gone on the feeder level.
The canal bridge and creek bridge with abutments are on the flats. The
water is too high to tell how much damage is done. There are slides and
other damages too numerous to mention. The canal is a total wreck.”
“Then the Berm[A] is the only road passable to Kingston,” said Mr. De
Vere. “How did you manage to get here?”
[A] Berm. “The bank of a canal opposite the tow-path.”
“The road to Wawarsing is in bad condition but we managed to reach
there by going across lots and so on to Port Ben, and from there we
followed the Berm.”
It was late in the day, and as there was nothing they could do to help,
the party went indoors. Mr. Genung and Hernando were wet to the skin,
and Mrs. De Vere insisted on their clothes being changed; so they
appeared arrayed in suits of Mr. De Vere’s and Jack’s while Reuben
dried and pressed theirs. Genung and De Vere wandered into the library
and seated themselves before the fire where they were soon in earnest
conversation. The latter had mentioned Mills’ offer and his promise to
consider it.
“I should not sell,” said Mr. Genung with decision. “He will put
up a sanitarium for consumptives, induce others to erect summer
boarding-houses and turn this valley into a summer resort; in the
end, killing all manufactories and leaving our vast mineral resources
undeveloped. Hernando, who has spent nearly all his life among mines,
says the precious metals are here. He found some specimens this morning
which he says contain gold.”
“But I am afraid not in sufficient quantities for mining,” said Mr. De
Vere resignedly.
“Those words are Mills’s,” answered Genung hotly. “I believe that man
is a rascal.”
John De Vere judged others from his own standpoint. Absolutely
incorruptible himself, he would not see wrong in another until
compelled to do so, and Genung’s flat denunciation of Mills annoyed
him, but restraining his annoyance, he said: “I fear Mills is in need
of money.”
“Let me see, when does your mortgage come due?” said Genung, who always
discussed business matters frankly with De Vere.
“January first.”
“I have five thousand dollars which I am anxious to invest, and unless
you are in a position to pay your mortgage, I should like to take it.”
Although De Vere believed Mills’s intentions honest, he unconsciously
felt a great sense of relief, and thankfully agreed to the transfer.
“One thing more,” said Genung, “Do not sell your mining claim until
Hernando has prospected on it. He is a mining expert, and if he says
gold is not there in sufficient quantities to pay for mining, I’ll not
object if Mills puts up a pest-house on it.”
De Vere laughed as he said, “Genung, I value your friendship more than
that of any man living; but I really think you misjudge Mills.”
Hernando was in the sitting-room with Celeste. She played the guitar
charmingly and her voice was a clear, sweet soprano. One song followed
another and Hernando felt as if vouchsafed a glimpse of Eden. Suddenly
recalling himself, he said: “Pardon my selfishness, you must be tired.”
“Not a bit,” she replied gaily. “Are you fond of the guitar?”
“Very, and your singing is a rare treat,” he replied sincerely. “My
life has been spent largely in mining camps, and the music in such
places is not, to say the least, classical.”
“Have you always lived in Nevada?”
“Nevada and California.”
“That includes San Francisco and Chinatown of course?”
“Of course, but usually ‘California’ means Southern California; the
land of flowers, fruits and perpetual sunshine.”
“True, but Chinatown must be very interesting.”
“Five minutes in a Chinese theater would effectively disillusion you,
Miss De Vere. The orchestra is a thing of terror, although I am told
that Chinese music has a scientific theory and recognized scale, but to
the Caucasian ear it is simply beyond belief.”
“I trust you will appreciate our mountains in summer, though you
probably consider these hills,” laughed Celeste.
But Hernando was thinking of neither Nevada nor hills. That sweet face,
those great brown eyes were raised to his trustfully, and he forgot his
own name, while a thrill went through him.
“One always associates Nevada with snowy mountains and balsamy air,”
Celeste continued.
Glancing out of the window she saw Eletheer in rubber boots and short
skirts with Cornelia on her back, wading through the slush toward the
barn. Celeste looked shocked, but attracted Hernando’s attention
indoors. She was a little late, however, for seeing her expression, he
glanced out just in time to hear Eletheer say, “Hold on tight,” and off
they sped.
“I trust she will not fall down with the little one,” said Hernando.
“Eletheer fall!” and Celeste laughed a soft ripple. “She never does
that, and it is impossible to lose her in these mountains. When
Cornelia was not a year old, mother spied her in the very top of an
apple tree sitting in Eletheer’s lap.”
“Mary Genung told me of their experiences after milkweed greens and
wild flowers. She says your sister is absolutely fearless.”
“Eletheer is our psychological problem.”
Hernando looked amused and she added, “To her mind time-honored
institutions are generally wrong.”
“Marriage, for instance?”
“Yes. That should be a profession with preliminary examinations as to
fitness.”
Hernando’s face became a trifle paler as he replied, “They say at
birth nine-tenths of man’s evolution is completed. Your sister has
encountered a weighty problem, and a melancholy one.”
“Weighty problems require too much effort,” laughed Celeste, “and my
contribution to society must be on purely feminine lines.”
In the evening, the younger members of the family gathered in the
dining-room. Jack and Hernando cracked walnuts and Celeste read aloud
from a newspaper which had just arrived by stage on the Berm. The paper
contained a vivid account of the flood, and it was listened to with
much interest.
“Who knows but this freshet may reveal ‘Old Ninety-Nine’s Cave’?” said
Jack with a light laugh.
“Who is ‘Old Ninety-Nine’?” Hernando asked.
“Have you not heard the story?” asked Jack in some surprise.
“No, but I should like to,” replied Hernando.
“Eletheer remembers, and is full of these old legends; when she returns
from putting Granny to bed, I’ll get her to tell this one.”
They heard her presently going into the kitchen and as she did not
return, Celeste went into the hall and called her, saying Mr. Hernando
Genung wished her to tell the story of “Old Ninety-Nine.”
Eletheer came in, having forgotten to remove her gingham apron, and
seemed pleased to repeat the story.
“Old Ninety-Nine,” Neopakiutic, was a Wawarsing chief and supposed
to have been the sole remnant of the Ninety-ninth Tribe. He was a
great hunter and after the Revolution lived for some years among the
settlers, doing nothing in summer, but hunting and trapping in the
winter. Benny Depuy was a well-known resident of Wawarsing and as he
was a lazy, good soul who loved to fish and hunt and tell stories, he
became a great favorite of “Ninety-Nine,” and one day the Indian told
him that he would show him a sight he would never forget, and one that
he would not show his own brother; that in Benny he had much confidence
and was willing to take him along on his next trip up the mountain.
The two started up the mountain above Port Ben and after travelling
several miles, often over fallen rocks and decayed trees, they came to
the dry channel of a mountain creek. Here Benny was blindfolded and
after going up the bed of the creek for about an hour, as nearly as
he could estimate, the bandage was taken from his eyes and he found
himself at the foot of a high ledge of rocks. The old Indian, who was a
muscular giant, rolled aside a boulder and a passage-way was disclosed
that seemed to run directly under the cliff. The old Indian told Benny
to follow and he went into the passage for a short distance, Benny
holding him by his shirt-sleeves so as not to lose him, for he thought
there was nothing to come of this adventure, but expected to be carried
away by goblins. A short piece of candle was lighted and they found
themselves in a large, vaulted room that seemed cut out from the solid
rock. It looked like the abode of fairies. On the floor were rich and
costly carpets so thickly spread that the heavy boots of the hunters
gave no sound. The sides of the cavern were hung with tapestry. The
cave was lined with beautiful vases and rare things of many kinds. In
one corner of the cave was a large chest which “Ninety-Nine” opened and
told Benny to look in, holding over it the lighted candle. Benny looked
and beheld “heaps upon heaps of gold, silver and precious stones.”
“Ninety-Nine” raked his fingers back and forth through the shining
treasures and finally, after bandaging Benny’s eyes, they started down
the mountain.
“What became of the Indian?” Hernando inquired.
“No one knows. He was very old and the people lost sight of him. This
valley is full of Indian legends, and some of them are beautiful,” said
Eletheer.
“Now, Eletheer,” said Jack, “you recited that so well, let us hear how
well you remember your catechism.”
Hernando smiled, and said, “The settlers of this valley seem to have
been engaged in constant warfare with the Indians.”
“Well,” said Eletheer, “in the first place the whites seized their
hunting-grounds and corn-patches. They never purchased the land as
the settlers on the other side of the mountain did. The Indians were
peaceable until the French war, during which one family was massacred.
After that they were still on good terms, but during the Revolution,
the British were at the bottom of all their depredations, telling them
that the settlers had stolen their lands and that they were cowards
not to be avenged. The British offered them a guinea for every white
scalp they obtained and gave them every assistance. If the Indians had
been let alone, they would never have committed the fearful outrages
which they are now charged with. As it was, the Indian hesitated where
the Tories did not; the latter would sneak into the home when the men
were laboring in the fields and plunge his knife into the bosom of a
sleeping infant or a defenseless woman. Can you wonder that the word
Tory is hated by every descendant of the early settlers of this town?”
“I should think they could have been convicted of Toryism,” Hernando
continued.
“It was a hard thing to do. They lived out in the woods disguised
as Indians, whom they kept posted in regard to the doings in the
settlements, but pretended to be friends of the whites. Talk of the
treachery of an Indian! He can’t begin where a Tory left off,” said
Eletheer warmly.
Just then the clock struck eleven, and soon after Mr. De Vere and Mr.
Genung entered the dining-room.
“Time all honest folks were in bed,” said Mr. De Vere. “What have you
young people been doing all the evening?”
“I have been listening to some very interesting events in the history
of this town,” Hernando replied.
“Our ancestors were firm believers in special dispensations of
Providence,” said Mr. De Vere.
“And their intercession met with favor,” replied Mr. Genung.
“Strange!” said Hernando musingly, “that no trace of ‘Old
Ninety-Nine’s’ cave has ever been discovered. His history sounds like
a fairy tale.”
“Which I verily believe it is,” laughed Mr. De Vere. “Aside from those
in the limestone district, there are no true caves in the Shawangunk
Mountains intersected as they are with metalliferous veins.”
“Do you consider the story of the mine apocryphal?”
“I regard it as simply a local tradition. Instead of a Captain Kidd or
some other pirate, we, on this side of the mountains, have an equally
romantic hero in ‘Old Ninety-Nine.’ Benny Depuy, however, is well
remembered by some of the old residents of this town, was a weaver
by trade, and had an imagination as vivid as the colors he wove. His
house, a quaint specimen of the architecture of pioneer days when each
home was a veritable fort for protection against Indian outbreak,
is still in a good state of preservation. Benny claims that ‘Old
Ninety-Nine’ frequently stopped there. According to tradition, the
Indian was a “Medicine man”; knew the properties of every medicinal
root and herb and effected some wonderful cures. He is said to have
spoken Spanish, coined Spanish money in his cave, and gone to the West
Indies to dispose of it, where it was believed he had a white wife. But
an Indian, were he ever so friendly to the whites, never divulged the
location of mines. Thirst for revenge is the most deeply seated trait
in the savage breast, and for this reason Benny kept his adventure a
secret for many years. He never visited the cave but that once, and not
long afterward ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ disappeared. Some supposed that he
died of old age, others that in clambering over the dangerous crevices
he had fallen into one of them and been killed. When Benny felt that
all danger from Indian vengeance was passed, he searched repeatedly and
in every direction for the cave but never succeeded in finding it, so
concluded that a fallen rock must have closed its entrance.” And with a
shrug Mr. De Vere turned to reply to a question of Mr. Genung’s.
Hernando strolled to the window; the night was one of Egyptian
darkness but eastward, up the mountain side and nearly to the summit,
a bright light, like the flame of a candle, burned steadily. To assure
himself that it was no illusion or trick of the imagination, he watched
it carefully for several minutes. “What can it be?” he thought. There
was no possibility of reflection and no smoke. “Perhaps a belated
prospecting party or a signal of distress,” he reasoned, at the same
time opening the window.
“What now!” called Mr. Genung, stepping beside his nephew.
“Great Scott!” he exclaimed, with a hasty glance at his watch. “The
‘light’ and ‘twelve o’clock!’ Is it seven years?”
Simultaneously all rushed forward. Steadily burned the flame while its
observers remained mute.
“Well, what is it?” Hernando asked with impatience.
“The ‘light,’” his uncle replied excitedly.
“Great Heavens! what light? Are you mad?”
“To be sure, I beg your pardon, Hernando,” Mr. Genung replied. “There
is a saying in this valley that ‘every seven years, a bright light,
like a candle, rises at twelve o’clock at night over the mine, and
disappears in the clouds; but no one that has ever seen it has been
able in daylight to find from where it arose.’ Come to think of it, it
is exactly seven years since we closed out that Shushan deal. It was a
dark night and on my way home I saw the light.”
“But is it visible every seven years and at twelve o’clock?” Hernando
asked.
“That is what they all say. I pledge my word on having seen it twice at
that time,” replied his uncle.
During this dialogue Hernando had not once removed his glance from the
flame which rose clear and steady, from out its ebon surroundings.
No sound but the distant roar from turbulent streams, and a soft
tick! tick! of the great hall clock, broke the stillness. For a full
half hour the watchers waited, and then, as suddenly as it came, the
mysterious light disappeared.
“There!” said Mr. Genung, slapping his nephew on the shoulder; “can you
beat this out West?”
The young man’s face wore an amused smile as he replied: “It is,
indeed, singular and, except possibly the elimination of gases, I can
think of no logical explanation. But its having any connection whatever
with ‘Old Ninety-Nine’ strikes me as absurd. What say you, Miss De
Vere?”
“Well,” she replied, with a tip of her head that reminded one of a
pet canary, and which caused Hernando’s heart to beat unmercifully,
“mystery has no charm for me, and I have never been able to enthuse
over ‘Old Ninety-Nine,’ much to the disgust of your cousin Mary
Genung and Eletheer. He belongs to a half mythical past and what more
natural than that the ‘light,’ occurring as it does with such singular
regularity, should be connected with the old chief? They are equally
elusive.”
“I supposed love of the mysterious to be a strongly feminine
attribute.”
“But there are mysteries and mysteries. Have you any sisters, Mr.
Hernando?”
“No.”
“No sisters!” she repeated, with mock severity. “Then I fear that your
education has been sadly neglected. Ask Jack what he thinks on the
subject.”
Hearing his name mentioned, Jack joined them and a lively debate
followed, so that it was after one o’clock before they went to bed,
and two of them, at least, sought their pillows strangely disturbed in
spirit. Hernando tossed restlessly on his soft bed. Try as he would to
banish the vision, Celeste’s sweet face always appeared before him and,
like some half-forgotten emotion revived, his heart beat tumultuously.
A less discerning eye than his could easily see that Celeste was
interested; but why did he find it so difficult to meet those eyes? A
sense of uncongeniality with the atmosphere of this woman, the antitype
of any he had ever known, disturbed. Chinatown interesting! For the
first time in years a red flush of shame surged to his very temples,
and he dimly comprehended that “We are begirt with laws which execute
themselves.”
Celeste undressed, humming softly to herself. Her bright eyes were
unusually brilliant and the color in her cheeks rivalled the roses in
June. She flitted about the room, carefully folding each garment as it
was removed.
Presently Eletheer, who was nearly asleep, said impatiently: “Celeste
De Vere, for goodness’ sake put out that light and come to bed. Don’t
you hear the roosters crowing?”
“In just one minute,” Celeste answered, brushing out her curls.
Eletheer turned her face towards the wall and soon slept soundly.
A young girl’s first love is like the bursting of a blossom after a
thunderstorm. It is not yet ready to expand and though for a time the
fragrance may be overpowering, it is soon lost. Celeste never sang in a
minor. Sensitive, intense to a degree, a delicate child, she had always
been tenderly watched over and shielded from every care. She had grown
into a wonderfully beautiful woman who viewed life from its sunny
side. Cultivated in all her tastes, generous to a fault, her purse was
always ready to assist in charitable schemes, but the thought that she
had an active part to play in the great drama of life never occurred
to her. Accustomed all her life to admiration, she accepted it as her
simple due.
Of course she would marry, all normal girls do, the expected man always
comes, and is intensely interesting.
“Let me see,” she said with another glance in the mirror. “One
should marry one’s opposite. His eyes are blue, hair golden. Yes,
he is a blond, muscular, rather than massive, and”--putting out the
light--“with nothing mysterious about him.”