THE GREAT FEAR.
Aghast, his heart in his throat, Charley Shultz stared at the face
outside the window. Only the upper part of the body of his unwelcome
visitor could be seen, and that, clothed all in white, seemed
particularly ghostlike. The head of the figure was encircled by a heavy
white bandage, like a turban. The eyes which stared back at Shultz from
an apparently set and pallid face were full of terrible accusation and
menace, and beneath that unwavering gaze the terrified boy felt his
blood turn to icy currents in his veins.
For a moment he stood spellbound and as motionless as the unmoving
figure upon the roof of the ell. Presently, unable longer to endure the
ordeal of those burning orbs, Shultz fell back a step, clapping a
trembling hand over his own eyes.
He struck against the little stand on which his lamp stood, and the lamp
was overturned. Fortunately, it was of metal, and did not break. The
chimney, detaching itself, dropped upon a rug and was also unbroken. The
burning wick continued to flare, sending up a writhing spiral of smoke,
but the room was temporarily plunged into semi-gloom; and, still further
terrified lest complete darkness should ensue, Charley stooped and
caught up the lamp. He scarcely realized that he burned his quivering,
nerveless fingers as he tried to replace the chimney. It was some
moments ere he succeeded in his object, and even then, with the lamp
gripped convulsively in his hand and held above his head, he could
scarcely bring himself once more to look toward the window.
When he did look, he was astounded by the fact that the apparition had
vanished, and for at least sixty seconds he stood watching for it to
reappear; for it to materialize slowly and horribly, little by little,
vague and mist-like at first, but gradually taking form and growing
plainer, until, crouching at the window, it should once more sicken his
soul with those terrible eyes.
It did not come. Hoping at last that it was truly gone, he forced
himself to advance, bearing the lamp. Reaching the window, he ran the
roller shade to the very top, and then, still holding the lamp above his
head with one hand while he shaded his eyes with the other, he gazed out
into the silent night.
The lamplight showed that the roof of the ell was bare. At the far end
of the building it fell upon a big chestnut tree with spreading
branches. Beyond that nothing could be seen.
Presently, with a deep breath that was almost painful in the relief it
gave, Shultz drew back from the window, seized the shade and quickly
pulled it all the way down.
“Mercy! what a fright!” he whispered hoarsely. “I must have imagined it.
My nerves must be on edge, and I never knew I had any nerves. Great
Cæsar! but it did look natural and real!”
He put the lamp back on the stand and dropped upon a chair, weak and
covered with clammy perspiration. For the first time in his life,
perhaps, Charley Shultz had been thoroughly frightened, and it was no
easy matter for him to recover and regain control of himself.
“I can hardly believe I imagined it, now!” he muttered. “Why should I? I
haven’t felt that I was really to blame for this Hooker business, and,
if I’m not to blame, why should I get all wrought up over it?”
Up to this time his great concern had been almost wholly for himself as
he would be affected by the unfortunate affair. In a slight measure he
had regretted that Osgood would be entangled. Hooker had called him a
cheat and had been the first to lift his hand in wrath. Therefore, why
should he feel remorse over what the fellow had brought upon himself?
“He deserved all he got,” Shultz had told himself this over and over.
“Of course I didn’t intend to give him a poke that would hurt him
seriously, but I had to defend myself.”
Now, however, something like a ray of light, piercing his distressed
heart, showed him that under the circumstances he could not hope wholly
to escape just blame and censure. Although seemingly a bit stolid about
ordinary affairs, he had always permitted his ungovernable temper and
somewhat bullying proclivities to have full sway, and no person with a
violent temper is totally phlegmatic or stolid. Rage and resentment had
put power into the smashing blow which threatened him with disgrace—or
worse.
“If only I hadn’t been quite so quick!” he sighed. “I didn’t realize
what might come of it. I didn’t stop to think.” Which is the prime cause
of most misfortunes we bring upon ourselves; we do not stop to think.
Rising, after a time, from the chair, he paced the floor of the little
room, feeling that in his present condition it would be useless to go to
bed; for sleep would be denied him. Back and forth he walked for a long
time, his mind a riot of wild thoughts. Presently he stood still,
breathing softly with his lips parted, his eyes wide and staring, yet
seeing nothing in that room. A dreadful thought had gripped him. What if
Hooker were dead?
“Perhaps it was his ghost I really saw!” The words drifted so faintly
from his lips that another person in the room could not have understood
them. “It isn’t impossible that he’s dead! The doctor thought he’d get
better, but doctors make mistakes. If he’s dead I’m done for.”
Scarcely realizing what he was doing, he flung on the garments he had
removed some time before. And as he dressed he became more and more
convinced that Roy Hooker was really dead.
“I’ll have to get out of this town—quick. I’ll pack up and get ready.”
Forth from an adjoining closet he drew his trunk, into which he flung
his belongings without method or care. A few things, such as he might
need for immediate use, he packed into a leather grip.
“I can’t get away till morning,” he muttered; “there’s no train. Still,
I suppose I might hire a team from the stable. I might tell them I’d had
a message that my father was dying. It’s thirty-four miles to Watertown
on the main line, and there’s a train goes through that place at four in
the morning. I could catch that train, but, first, I’ll make sure about
Hooker.”
Blowing out the lamp, he tiptoed down the dark stairs and presently
found himself outside the house in which Mr. and Mrs. Carter were
soundly sleeping. The air was raw and the night still dark. Later the
moon would come up, though it might be smothered by clouds.
Shultz walked slowly, irresolutely, down the black road which led into
Lake Street. After a time the academy loomed on his left, and on the
right he saw the gymnasium and the fence of the athletic field. Like an
avalanche a host of memories came rushing over him; memories of the days
he had spent here since his expulsion from Berkley Academy.
For the first time he realized how pleasant those days had really been,
and for the first time he perceived with wonderment that he had become
attached to the place and it would give him regret to go away. Through
his athletic prowess and his skill in baseball he had won a certain
amount of popularity, which might have been much greater if he had only
made some effort to curb his unpleasant characteristics. Osgood, his
friend, was immensely popular; so popular, indeed, that it had seemed
probable that, through a little maneuvering and scheming, he might
supersede Nelson as captain of the nine. Without a thought of the moral
or manly points involved, they had plotted to bring this about.
“Well, it will never happen now,” said Shultz, with a low, bitter laugh.
“The jig is up, anyhow. I hardly thought Ned would agree when I proposed
it, but he almost jumped at it. I believe he’d been thinking of the very
same thing. There’s class to his people, and he’s a gentleman, so, when
he did agree, it seemed all right to me.” In this manner he sought to
excuse himself.
He recalled how he had scoffed at Oakdale, the school and the old
professor. He had even dreamed of resorting to various harassing methods
in order to make Professor Richardson’s task so difficult that, unable
to govern his pupils with a stern hand, he would withdraw from his
position to let it be filled by a younger and more efficient instructor.
Yes, having instilled some of his own spirit into his associates, Shultz
had started a campaign of nagging and annoyance and disregard for what
he called old-fashioned rules, which had certainly given the principal
no small amount of worry and trouble.
“I suppose,” he half laughed, as he walked slowly past the building,
“the old relic thinks I’m a bad egg. What do I care what he thinks! What
do I care what anybody thinks!” But for the first time in his life he
did care.
At this hour the center of the village seemed dark and deserted. Only an
occasional light was to be seen shining dimly from a window.
Nevertheless, the boy hesitated about passing through the square,
fearing that some one might see him, know him, and wonder what he was
doing prowling about so late. This fear led him to turn from Lake Street
and cross lots toward the rapids below the upper dam. In this manner he
stole down the slope at the rear of the stores and houses which lined
the western side of lower Main Street.
The water was gurgling and grumbling around the rocks which thrust
themselves upward in the channel. At intervals, as Shultz passed, it
hissed, like a living creature expressing scorn and hatred.
At the bridge he climbed upward to the roadway, where he stood for a few
moments, peering and listening.
“I seem to be the only one alive in this old burg.” The thought brought
Hooker to his mind—Hooker, dead, perhaps.
Cross Street, which ran back of the town hall and along the shore of the
lower pond, would bring him into Lake Street again, near Willow, upon
which was the home of the Hookers. He had almost reached Lake Street
when he stopped short, halted by the sound of echoing footsteps, which
were approaching from that part of the town he had avoided. In a moment
he was pressing his body against the bole of a big tree.
The footsteps came nearer. The person began to hum a tune. Here was some
one abroad with a light heart and fearless of observation.
“It must be Tuttle,” thought the boy by the tree. “Yes, it is. Why don’t
he let his eternal peanuts stop his mouth?”
Chub Tuttle passed on the opposite side of the way, and, ceasing to hum
as he trudged serenely homeward, began to whistle not unmelodiously. The
notes of “The Last Rose of Summer” came drifting back to the ears of
Charley Shultz, growing fainter and fainter in the distance and sounding
inexpressibly sad.
Shultz thought it must be getting darker, and was amazed, on rubbing
them, to find that his eyes were moist and blurred. He leaned against
the tree and listened, almost against his will, as the whistling grew
fainter and yet fainter, softened and sweetened by the distance. When he
could hear it no longer he gave himself a savage shake.
“You fool!” he rasped. “What’s the matter with you? You never felt like
this before. You’re growing silly.”
Reaching Willow Street, he gazed toward Hooker’s home, but, even had the
darkness not prevented him from seeing the house, it stood so far back
on the Middle Street corner that he could not have surveyed it from his
present position. Dread heavily upon him, yet hope not entirely dead, he
walked slowly up the street. He had almost reached the corner when he
stopped again.
He could see the house now, and his heart hammered furiously as he
perceived that something was taking place there. There were lights
flashing from room to room; he heard excited voices calling; the house
was in a commotion.
“What’s that mean? What’s that mean?” whispered Shultz over and over.
Suddenly the door of the house was flung open. A man came running out,
some one calling after him. Down the steps he sprang; across Lake Street
he dashed; along Middle Street he raced.
Panting, one hand clutching a nearby fence-railing, Shultz was certain
he knew the cause of this commotion. Mr. Hooker was running for the
doctor. They had just discovered that Roy was dead.
Turning sharply about, Schultz ran also.