_Rock and moan, and roar alone,
And the dread of some nameless thing unknown_.
--LOWELL
THE silence following Dennie's story was broken by a sudden peal of
thunder overhead. At the same instant the blackness of midnight
lifted itself above the stone ledges and dropped down upon the Corral,
smothering everything in darkness. A rushing whirlwind, a lurid blaze
of lightning, and a second peal of thunder threw the camp into blind
disorder. In the minute's lull following the first storm herald, there
was a wild scrambling for wraps and lunch baskets. Then the darkness
thickened and the storm's fury burst upon the crowd--a mad lashing
of bending tree tops, a blinding whirl of dust filling the air, the
thunder's terrific cannonade, the incessant blaze of lightning, the
rattling of the distant rain; and above all these, unlike them all, a
steady, dreadful roaring, coming nearer each moment.
Professor Burgess was no coward, but he had little power of generalship.
As the crowd huddled together under the swaying trees, Trench called to
Burleigh:
“There's been a cloudburst up stream. The roar I've been hearing is a
wall of water coming down. We've got to get out of this.”
Then above all the crashing and booming they heard Vic Burleigh's voice:
“Every fellow take a girl and run for the ford. Come on!”
In the darkness, each boy caught the arm of the girl nearest him and
made a dash for the ford. A flash of lightning showed Burleigh that the
white-faced girl clinging to his arm was Elinor Wream. After that, the
storm was a plaything for him.
The first to reach the ford were Vincent Burgess and Dennie Saxon.
Dennie was sure-footed and she knew by instinct where to find the
shallows. But the river was rising rapidly and the waters were black and
angry under the lightning's glitter. As the crowd held back Vic shouted:
“You'll have to wade. It's not very deep yet. Professor, you must cross
first, and count 'em as they come. Go quick! One at a time. The way
is narrow. And for God's sake, keep to the upper side of the shallows.
Stand in the middle, Trench, and don't let them get down stream below
you.”
They were all safely across except Vic and Elinor, when Trench cried
out:
“Send your girl in quick, Burleigh, and you run west. The flood is at
the bend now. Hurry!”
“Run in, Elinor. Trench will take you through, and I'll follow, for I
can swim and he can't. I'll be right behind you. Run!”
A vision of the whirlpool and of Swift Elk and The Fawn flashed into
Elinor's mind, filling her with terror. Before Vic could push her
forward, Trench shouted:
“It's too late. Don't try it. I've got to run.”
He was strong and sure-footed and he fought his way gallantly to the
further side as a great wave swirled around the curve of the river,
engulfing the shallows in its mad surge. When he reached the east bank
the count of the company numbered all but two.
“It's Vic and Elinor,” Trench declared. “Vic wouldn't come till the
last, and Elinor was too dead scared to trust anybody else, I guess.
Nobody could cross there now, Professor. But Vic is as strong as an
ox and he's not afraid of the devil. He'll keep both their heads above
water. He wants to win out in the Thanksgiving game too much to get lost
now. Trust him to get up the bluff some way, and back to town by the
Main street bridge like as not, before we get there. There's no shelter
between here and Lagonda Ledge. Let's all cut for it before the rain
beats us into the mud.”
The deluge was just beginning, so, safe, but wet, and mud-smeared,
fighting wind and rain and darkness, taking it all as a jolly lark,
although they had slidden into safety but a hand's breadth in front of
death, the couples straggled back to town.
Vincent Burgess, anxious, angry, and jealous, found an unconscious
comfort in Dennie Saxon in that homeward struggle. She was so capable
and cheery that he forgot a little the girl who had as surely drawn him
Kansas-ward as his interest in types and geographical breadth had done.
It dimly entered his consciousness, as he told Dennie good-bye, that
maybe she had been the most desirable companion of the crowd on such a
night as this. He knew, at least, that he would have shown Elinor much
more attention than he had shown to Dennie, and he knew that Elinor
would have required it of him.
The light from the hall was streaming across the veranda of the Saxon
House, a beam as faithful and friendly at the border of the lower campus
as the bigger beacon in the college turret up on the lime-stone ridge.
As Burgess started away the worst deluge of the night fell out of the
sky, so he dropped down on a seat to wait for the downpour to weaken.
He was very tired and his mind was feverishly busy. Where could Burleigh
and Elinor be now? What dangers might threaten them? What ill might
befall Elinor from exposure to this beating storm? He was frantic with
the thought. Then he recalled Dennie, the girl who was working her
way through college, whom he--Professor Vincent Burgess, A.B., from
Harvard--had escorted home. How cheap Kansas was making him. The boys
and girls had taken Dennie as one of them today; and truly, she did add
to the comfort and pleasure of the outing. It seemed all right down in
the woods where all was unconventional. But now, alone, in how common a
grade he seemed to have placed himself, to be forced to pay attention to
the poorest girl in school. His cheeks grew hot at the very thought of
it.
In the shadows, beyond him, a form straightened up stupidly:
“Shay, Profesh Burgush, that you?”
Dennie's father, half-drunken still! Oh, Shades of classic culture! To
what depths in social contact may a college man fall in this wretched
land!
“Shay! Is't you, or ain't it you? You gonna tell me?” Old Bond queried.
“This is Vincent Burgess,” the young man replied.
“Dennie home?” the father asked.
“Yes, sir,” came the curt answer.
“Who? Who bring her home? Vic Burleigh?”
“I brought her home. She is a good girl, too.”
In spite of himself, Burgess resented the shame of such a father for the
capable, happy-spirited daughter.
“Yesh, Dennie's good girl, all right.”
Then a silence fell.
Presently, the old man spoke again.
“Shay, Prof esh, 'd ye mind doin' somethin' for me?”
“What is it?” Burgess was by nature courteous.
“If anything sh'd ever happen to me, 'd you take care of Dennie? Shay,
would you?”
“If I could do anything for her, I would do it,” the young man replied.
“Somethin' gonna happen to me. I ain't shafe. I know I'll go that way.
But you'll be good to Dennie. Now, wouldn't you? I'd ask Funnybone, but
he's no shafer 'n I am. No shafer! You'll be good to Dennie, you said
so. Shay it again!”
Bond was standing now bending threateningly toward Burgess, who had also
risen.
“I'll do all that a gentleman ought to do.” He had only one thought--to
pacify the drunken man and get away. And the old man understood.
“Shwear it, I tell you! Lif' up your right hand an'--an' shwear to take
care of Dennie, or I'll kill you!” Bond insisted.
He was a large, muscular man, towering over the slender young professor
like a very giant, and in his eyes there was a cruel gleam. Vincent
Burgess was at the limit of mental resistance. Lifting his shapely right
hand in the shadowy light, he said wearily:
“I swear it!”
“One more question, and you may go. You know that little boy Vic
Burleigh takes care of here?”
The Professor had heard of him.
“Vic keeps that little boy all right. He don't complain none. S'pose you
help me watch um, Profesh.” Then as an afterthought, Saxon added: “Young
woman livin' out north of town. Pretty woman. She don't know nothing
'bout that little boy. Now, honest, she don't. Lives all by herself with
a big dog.”
Jealousy is an ugly, suspicious beast. Vincent Burgess was no worse than
many other men would have been, because his mind leaped to the meaning
old Saxon's words might carry. And this was the man with Elinor in the
darkness and the storm. Before Burgess could think clearly, Saxon came a
step nearer.
“Shay, where's Vic tonight?”
“Across the river with Miss Wream. They were cut off by the deep water,”
Vincent answered.
A quick change from drunkenness to sober sense leaped into Bond Saxon's
eyes.
“Across the river! Great God!” Then sternly, with a grim set of jaw, he
commanded: “You go home! If you dare to say a word, I'll kill you. If
you try to follow me, he'll kill you. Go home! I 'm going over there, if
I die for it.” And the darkness and rain swallowed him as he leaped away
to the westward!
Burgess gazed into the blackness into which Bond Saxon had gone until a
soft hand touched his, and he looked down to see little Bug Buler, clad
in his nightgown, standing barefoot beside him.
“Where's Vic?” Bug demanded.
“I don't know,” Burgess answered.
“Take me up, I'se told.” Bug stretched up his arms appealingly, and
Burgess, who knew nothing of babies, awkwardly lifted him up.
“Tuddle me tlose like Vic do,” and the little one snuggled lovingly in
the Professor's embrace. “Your toat's wet. Is Vic wet, too?”
“Yes, little boy. We are all in trouble tonight.” Burgess had to say
something.
“In twouble? Umph--humph!” Bug shut his lips tightly, puffing out his
cheeks, as was his habit. “I was in twouble, and I ist wented to Don
Fonnybone. He's dood for twouble-ness. You go see him. Poor man!” and
the little hand stroked Professor Burgess' feverish cheek.
“If you'll run right back to bed, I'll do it,” Burgess declared. “We
can learn even from children sometimes,” he thought, as Bug climbed down
obediently and toddled away.
Vincent Burgess went directly to Dr. Lloyd Fenneben, to whom he told the
story of the day's events, including the interview with Bond Saxon.
He did not repeat Bond's words regarding Vic, but only hinted at the
suspicion that there was something questionable in the situation in
which Vic was placed. Nor did he refer to the old man's maudlin demand
that he should take care of Dennie if she were left fatherless, and of
his sworn promise to do so.
Burgess felt as, if the Dean's black eyes would burn through him,
so steady was their gaze while the story was being told. When he had
finished, Lloyd Fenneben said quietly:
“You are worn out with the excitement of the day and night. Go home and
rest now. I've learned through many a struggle, that what I cannot
fight to a finish in the darkness, I can safely leave with God till the
daylight comes.”
The smile that lighted up the stern face and the firm handclasp with
which Lloyd Fenneben dismissed the young man were things he remembered
long afterward. And above all, he recalled many times a sense of secret
shame that he should have felt degraded because of his association with
Dennie Saxon on this day. But of this last, the memory was stronger than
the present realization.
Meanwhile, as the mad waters surged around the bend in the river, and
swept over the shallows, Victor Burleigh flung his arm around Elinor
Wream and leaped back from the very edge of doom.
“We must climb the bluff again. Be a good Indian!” he cried, groping for
a footing.
Climbing the west bluff by daylight for the sake of adventure was very
unlike this struggle in the darkness to escape the widening river, with
a wind-driven torrent of rain sweeping down the land behind the first
storm-fury, and Elinor Wream clung to her companion's arm almost
helpless with fear.
“Do you think you can ever get us out? she asked, as the limestone ledge
blocked the way.
“Do you know what my mother named me?” The carelessness of the tone was
surprising.
“Victor!” she replied.
“Then don't forget it,” Burleigh said. “It's a dreadfully rough way
before us, little girl, but we'll soon be safe from the river. Don't
mind this little bit of a storm, and you'll get personally conducted
into Lagonda Ledge before midnight.”
In her sheltered life, Elinor had never known anything half so dreadful
as this storm and darkness and booming flood, but the fearlessness of
the strong man beside her inspired her to do her best. It was only two
hours since they were here before. How could she know that these two
hours had marked the crisis of a lifetime for Victor Burleigh. With a
friendly little pressure on his arm, she said bravely:
“I'd rather be here with you than over the river with anybody else. I
feel safer here.”
Vic knew she meant only to be courteous, but the words were comforting.
On the crest of the ledge the fierceness of the storm was revealed.
Great sheets of wind-blown rain were flung athwart the landscape, and
the utter blackness that followed the lightning's glare, and the roaring
of the wind and river were appalling.
In all this tumult, away to the northeast, the beacon light above the
Sunrise dome was cutting the darkness with a steady beam.
“See that light, Elinor? We are not lost. We must get up stream a little
way. Then we'll find the bridge, all right. The crowd will get home
ahead of us, because this is the rough side of the river.”
“Oh, what a comfort a light can be!” Elinor murmured as she looked up
and caught the welcome gleam.
As they hurried along, the Sunrise light suddenly disappeared and they
found themselves descending a rough downward way. Presently there
were rock walls on either side hemming them in a narrow crevice in the
ledges. Then the rain ceased and Vic knew they had slidden down into a
rock-covered fissure, that they were getting underground. They tried
to turn back, but the up-climb was impossible, and in the darkness they
could reach nothing but the sharp ledge of the cliff sheer above the
raging river. Entrapped and bewildered, Vic felt cautiously about; but
the only certain things were the straight bluff overhanging the flood,
and the cavernous way leading downward; while the same deluge that was
keeping Vincent Burgess storm-staid on the veranda of the Saxon House,
was beating mercilessly down on Elinor Wream.
“We can't stay here and be threshed to pieces,” Vic cried. “This crack
is drier, anyhow, and it must lead to somewhere.”
It did lead to what seemed to Elinor an endless length of hideous
uncertainty, until Vic suddenly lost his footing and plunged headlong
down somewhere into the blackness of darkness. Elinor shrieked in terror
and sank down limply on the stone floor of the crevice.
“All a bluff,” Vic called up cheerily, in the same startlingly deep
sweet voice that had caught Elinor's ear on the September afternoon
before the door of Sunrise, and out in the edge of her consciousness
the thought played in again, “I'd rather be here with you than over the
river with anybody else. I feel safer here.”
“Slide down, Elinor. I'll catch you. It is n't very far, and there's a
little light somewhere.”
Elinor slipped blindly down the side of the rock into Vic Burleigh's
outstretched arms. As he set her on her feet, somehow, the little light
failed. In all their struggle, this part of the way seemed the darkest,
the chillest, the most dangerous, and a sudden sense of a presence
hidden nearby possessed them both, as they came against a blind wall. A
stouter heart than Vic Burleigh's might well have quailed now. The two
were lost underground. What deeper cavern might yawn beyond them? What
length of dead wall might bar their way? And more terrifying still,
was the growing sense of a human presence, a human menace, an unseen
treachery. As Vic felt his way along the stone, his hand closed over
something thrust into a little niche, shoulder-high in the wall. It
seemed to be a small pitcher of unique pattern, solid silver by its
weight. Was it the booty of some dead and forgotten robber chief, the
buried treasure of some old Kickapoo raiding tragedy, or the loot of a
living outlaw?
Vic thought he felt the outline of a letter graven in heavy relief
on the smooth side, and, for a reason of his own, dropped the thing.
Mercifully, he did not cry out at the discovery, but Elinor felt his
hand on her arm grow chill.
A dazzling glare, token of the passing of the storm's fireworks,
outlined an irregular opening in the wall before them, revealing at the
same time a large room beyond the wall.
“Here's the hole where we get out of this trap, Elinor Wream. If such a
big lightning like that can get in, we can get out,” Vic cried.
He crawled through the opening, and pulled her as gently as possible
after him. Presently, another blaze lit up the night outside, showing
a cavern-like space thirty feet in dimensions, with a rock roof above
their heads, and a low doorway through which the light from the outside
had come in, and beyond which the rain was beating tremendously.
Evidently they had found a rear entrance to this cavern.
“We are past our troubles now, Elinor,” Vic said. “There's the real
out-of-doors, and I feel sure of the rest of the way. This seems to be
a sort of cave, and we have come in kind of irregularly by the back door
or down the chimney. But here we are at the real front door. Shall we go
on?”
Elinor leaned wearily against the wall, wet and cold, and almost
exhausted.
“Let's wait a little, till this shower passes,” she pleaded.
“You poor girl! This has been an awful night,” Vic said gently.
Their eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness and they saw more
clearly the outline of the opening to the outside world. Suddenly Elinor
shivered as again the nearness of a presence somewhere possessed them
both.
“Let's go! Let's go!” she whispered, huddling close to her companion,
whose grip on her arm tightened.
He was conscious of a light behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he
caught a gleam beyond the opening in the rear wall through which they
had just crept; and in that gleam, a villainous face, with still black
eyes, looking straight at him. The light disappeared, and he heard the
faint sound of something creeping toward them. Vic could fight any man
living. Nature built him for that. He had no fear for himself. But here
was Elinor, and he must think of her first. At that instant, the doorway
darkened, and a form slipped into the cavern somewhere. Oh, wind and
rain, and forked blue lightning and the thunder's roar, the river's
mad floods, the steep, slippery rocks, and jagged ledges, all were kind
beside this secret human presence, cruelly silent and treacherous.
Victor Burleigh drew Elinor closer to him, and whispered low:
“Don't be afraid with me to guard you.”
Even in that deep gloom, he caught the outline of a white face with
star-bright eyes lifted toward his face.
“I'm not afraid with you,” she whispered.
Behind them stealthy movements somewhere. Between them and the doorway,
stealthy movements somewhere; but all so still and slow, they stretched
the listening nerve almost to the breaking point. Suddenly, a big, hard
hand gripped Burleigh's shoulder, and a dead still voice, that Vic could
not recognize, breathed into his ear, “Go quick and quiet! I'll stand
for it. Go!”
It was old Bond Saxon.
Vic caught Elinor's arm, and with one stride they sprang from the cave's
mouth up to the open ground beyond it. Something behind them, it might
have been a groan or a smothered oath, reached their ears, as they sped
away down a narrow ravine. The rain had ceased and overhead the stars
were peeping from the edges of feathery flying clouds; and all the
sodden autumn night was still at last, save for the gurgling waters of a
little stream down the rocky glen.
The Sunrise bell was striking eleven when they reached the bridge
across the Walnut, and the beacon light from the dome began to twinkle
a welcome now and then through the dripping branches of the leafless
trees. A few minutes later, Victor Burleigh brought Elinor safely to
Lloyd Fenneben's door.
“We made it in before midnight, anyhow,” he said carelessly.
Elinor looked up in surprise. The terrors of the night still possessed
her.
“What a horrible nightmare it has all been. The storm, the river, the
rocks, and the darkness, and that dreadful something behind us in the
cave. Was there really anything, or did we just imagine it all? It will
seem impossible when the daylight comes.”
Victor looked at her with a wonderful light in his wide-open brown eyes.
“Yes,” he said in a deep voice. “It will seem impossible when daylight
comes. But will it all be as a horrible nightmare?”
“No, no; not all.” Elinor's face was winsomely sweet. “Not all,” she
repeated. “It is fine to feel one's self so safeguarded as I have been.
I shall always remember you as one with whom I could never again be
afraid.”
Burleigh turned hastily toward the door, and, having delivered her to
the care of her uncle, he bade them both good night.
Dr. Fenneben looked keenly after the young man striding away from the
light. His clothes were torn and bedraggled, his cap was gone, and his
heavy hair was a mass of rough waves about his forehead. The direct
gaze of his golden-brown eyes took away distrust, and yet the face had
changed somehow in this day. A hint of a new purpose had crept into it,
a purpose not possible for Dr. Fenneben to read.
But he did note the set of the head, the erect form and broad shoulders,
and the easy swinging step as the boy went whistling away into the
shadows of the night.
“A splendid animal, anyhow,” the Dean thought. “Will the soul measure
up to that princely body? And what can be the purport of this maudlin
mouthing of old Bond Saxon? Bond is really a lovable man when he's
sober; but he's vindictive and ugly when he's drunk. I can wait for
developments. Whatever the boy's history may have been, like the courts,
it's my business to hold every man innocent till he's proven guilty;
to build up character, not to undermine and destroy it. And destruction
begins in suspicion.”