IN THE DARK
Margaret, as she let herself down into the chimney, held the torch
so as to show her surroundings. She still clung to the rock above
with her right hand, while the left was occupied by the torch. As
yet, she had found no footing. The light revealed that this opening
through the ridge was the result of the lodging of one huge block
of stone, which had left the angle between it and the other rock
empty. A clutter of fragments formed the third side of a triangle,
which extended downward steeply as far as she could see. A feeling
of sick apprehension swept over her when she perceived the manner in
which some of the stones hung, seemingly poised to a fall. Then, in
the next instant, she recalled the reason of her presence there, and
conquered dread in the need of action.
She saw a jutting bit of rock a few inches below her feet. She let
herself down to the extreme limit of reach, and found herself just
able to touch the support with a toe. She released her hand-hold,
and thus remained, half-standing, half-lying in the hole. She
searched out other points to which her fingers might cling, at the
height of her breast. Clenching these, she bent her knees, and
finally came to a crouching posture on the tiny ledge that had been
under her feet. In the like tedious, slow fashion, she continued
the descent, for a distance of perhaps twenty feet, without mishap,
though in constant danger of a fall. But, at this point, new
difficulties threatened. Though she took long to search, she could
find nothing to afford a foothold, even the tiniest. To make the
matter worse, just here the smoothness of the walls was such that her
hands could secure only a doubtful grip. She studied the situation
painstakingly by means of the torch, making sure that nowhere a
projection of the stone escaped her observation. She was distraught
by this ill fortune, which threatened the ruin of her hopes. Finally,
however, she perceived by the light of the torch that, two yards or
more below the point to which her feet reached, the chimney bent
a little, toward the horizontal. At the sight, Margaret’s courage
sprang to new life. Without a second of delay in which fear might
grow, she loosed her hold, and let herself slip downward.
The steepness of the chimney was so great that her movement was
rather a fall than a slide. In the very second of the start, she
felt the violent impact of her feet against the stone as they struck
the bend. Nor was the change of direction sufficient to overcome the
impetus of the drop, as she had hoped. Her body shot onward down the
rough slope. She caught at the walls with her fingers, but, though
the ragged surface tore the skin from her flesh, she could get no
clutch strong enough to stay the flight. The torch had slipped from
her grasp without her even being aware of its loss at the time. In
the darkness, she went hurtling on. Her spirit broke in those seconds
of dreadfulness. She felt that death waited at the end of the fall.
Saxe’s name was on her lips when she crashed into pause.
For a long time she lay without any movement, her sole consciousness
a dazed suffering from bruised flesh and aching bones. Her senses all
but failed, yet did not quite. A vague, incoherent necessity beat
upon her brain, though she could by no means understand what that
need might be. Her one clear realization was of pain--pain pervasive,
deadly. But, little by little, the torment of racked nerves lessened.
It seemed to her ages after that hideous drop through the black
when, at last, her mind grew active again. On the instant, she was a
creature transformed. She contrived with infinite pains to sit erect,
alert to know the truth as to her own condition--for she still had
work to do. To her relief, she found that, despite the complaining
of her beaten body, she had been spared broken bones or other hurt
that might disable. There was misery in each movement, but she could
move, and with that she was content, grateful to providence that her
plight was no worse. She looked back, and saw, a long way off, a
feeble, pallid light, which came, she made certain, from the foot of
the shaft at the bend. Now, from its remoteness, she was able to make
some estimate of the distance through which she had sped beyond it,
and she was fain to wonder that she should be indeed alive.
It was easy to determine that she was lying on a shelf of rock,
which was almost level. She felt about this, and even ventured to
crawl a short way. Then, her groping hand struck on emptiness, and,
shuddering, she drew back from the invisible void. Nevertheless,
weakness gave ground to desire. She must press onward, somehow, to
the rescue. At once, she began creeping forward, bearing to the
right, on which side she felt the sheer wall of a cliff. She judged
that, by proceeding thus, she would be safe from the gulf as far
as the ledge might run. She had gone perhaps twenty yards in this
tortoise manner, when a sudden thought halted her in anger against
the folly of having neglected the simplest expedient. Saxe--the
others--might be about anywhere, and she had not called to them!
Forthwith, she gathered her strength--such as was left to her--and
sent out a cry, a pitiful, passionate cry.
“Saxe! Saxe!”
She listened in breathless suspense ... there came no answer.
Then, after a time, she called again; and again there came no answer,
yet she refused to lose hold on faith. She sought comfort in the
thought that she was still too far from him for her voice to carry.
So, she set forward anew on hands and knees, her fingers groping
over the rock on which she crawled, to make sure that the way was
safe for her passing. Physical suffering rent her, but an indomitable
spirit spurred the jaded body. By sheer strength of will, she
persisted in that pitiful progress through minute after minute, until
at last she deemed the distance traversed enough to warrant a second
calling into the dark:
“Saxe! Saxe!” sounded the repetition of her summons. Followed an
instant of profoundest silence, as the last echoes of the shrill cry
died.
Then, of a sudden, the air was shattered with clamors. A din of
shouts roared in her ears, multiplied by the reverberations of the
cavern, chaotic, deafening. Out of all the cacophony, her strained
sense caught a tone that thrilled the heart to rapture. Her voice
rose in a scream--hysterical, triumphant--in answer.
“Saxe! Saxe!” And then a weary murmur: “Oh, thank God!”
A little silence fell. It was broken by her own name, spoken in his
voice.
“Margaret!”
“Yes, Saxe,” she answered, simply. It was evident that the distance
between them was not very great. She wondered that her calling should
have remained unheard in the earlier effort. It occurred to her that
perhaps in the first attempt she had not really cried out with all
her might--as was, indeed, the case.
“You--you, Margaret--you came for us!”
“Yes.” There was no need to explain that she had come for him, for
him alone. Oh, she would be very glad that the others should win to
life--but she had come for him, for him only. “You are safe?” she
added.
“Yes.” The others were silent, giving the dialogue to the girl and
Saxe, for they understood how it was between the two. “You came by
the other entrance, of which you told me?”
“Yes--through the chimney, on the ridge by the shore. May is there,
watching and waiting for Jake to come. We shall need help to get out.
It is hard to climb. I slipped coming down.”
“You are hurt!” The lover’s voice was harsh with fear.
But Margaret laughed blithely. What matter a few bruises now?
“It shook me up a bit,” she confessed. “But I’m all right. The worst
of it was that I lost my torch. Can you come to me here? I know how
to find the way back in the dark.”
Billy Walker deemed it time that he should assume direction of the
affair.
“Do you know how high above the water you are there, Miss West?” he
demanded. The gruff voice was very gentle, for gratitude to this girl
burned hot in him, as in the others. She had brought the gift of life
to dead men.
“No,” Margaret answered.
“You are on a ledge, of course,” the sage continued. “Please get to
the edge of it, and reach down with your hand, and find if you can
touch the water.”
There was a little delay before the reply came.
“Yes.”
“Be careful!” The sharp admonition was from Saxe.
“It’s almost level with the shelf I’m on,” the girl continued.
“Good!” Billy’s tone was full of satisfaction. “That makes it very
simple. We shall swim across to you, and then you will guide us from
these Plutonian shades back to the upper world.” He turned toward
the companions whom he could not see, and addressed them with crisp
authority. “You will go first, Saxe. Her voice will guide you--she’s
directly across the chamber from us. Be ready afterward to help
us with David when we get there. We shall allow you ample time
to--er--climb out before we start to tote Dave. Go ahead.”
“I’m off,” Saxe answered, promptly. Then, he called to Margaret,
“Talk a bit, please, while I’m in the water, so that I’ll know the
direction. I’m just starting.”
There was a slight splash as Saxe lowered his body into the water,
and the soft swish from his strokes as he swam away.
“Here, Saxe! Here I am! This way!” The girl continued the calls with
joy in her tones. Then, a minute later, she heard him speak her name
softly, at her feet. In another instant, he was beside her on the
ledge--she was in his arms, their lips met. He had no thought of his
dripping garments, nor had she. They had no knowledge of anything
save heaven.
Billy Walker’s voice went thundering across the cavern:
“Are you there, Saxe?”
There was no reply. The sage chuckled aloud.
“The exercise of reason teaches me,” he explained in a voluminous
whisper, “that our dear young friend is not drowned--oh, no! As a
matter of fact, at this moment, he has already got clear of the
water, and doesn’t know where he is, but is happier than he ever was
before in his life. When he awakes from the trance, he will address
us.”
So, in truth, it came to pass. Presently, the call came from
Saxe, and the progress of the three across the cavern was safely
accomplished. Arrived, they pressed about the girl, who was standing,
supported by her lover’s arm, and mightily embarrassed by the fervor
of their gratitude for the boon of life bestowed on them by her
intrepidity and resource. Finally, the five set forth along the
ledge, following it as Margaret had come, by groping on the sheer
wall from which it jutted. And, now, the girl no longer went with
painful slowness on hands and knees, but walked bravely, upheld by
the lover at her side. So, at last, they came to the spot where
Margaret’s fall had ended. To their left, seemingly a great way off,
and high above them, showed the pallid gleam from the bend of the
chimney--blessed harbinger of God’s light above.
Billy Walker surveyed the dim vista of ascent with extreme disfavor.
“Jake must bring ladders,” he declared. “Luckily, he’s to fetch along
help--a whole crew for the rescue work. Oh, yes, I’ll wait--I don’t
mind waiting. The water was warm, and the cavern’s warm, and, anyhow,
wet clothes don’t bother--if one doesn’t think of them. But I wish I
had a dry cigar and a match.”
Roy thrust himself forward resolutely.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “I’ll climb up in a jiffy.” He had pulled
off his shoes before starting for the first swim with David across
the chamber, and now stood up in his stockinged feet. “I’m fond of
cliff-climbing. The only trouble with this is, it’ll prove too easy.”
Without more ado, he scrambled upward through the darkness. The
others waited anxiously, and breathed a sigh of relief when they saw
his form at last silhouetted against the pale light at the bend. His
voice came to them muffled.
“The rest will be quicker, I can see, now.” Forthwith, he vanished.
It was May on the solid earth above who heard him, and the happiness
of it made her almost fainting. But she held herself sternly, and
even managed a quavering call of his name--for which, when he heard,
Roy climbed the faster, and soon these two were in each other’s
arms, glad beyond measure of gladness. The girl was in terror over
the blood-stained bandage about her lover’s head, and cried when
she learned of the treacherous shot that had wounded him. She cried
again, with content, that it had been no worse. Most of all, she
cried for the exquisite bliss of his being alive and holding her in
his arms--ruining the daintiest of summer frocks with his sodden,
rock-stained clothes.
The strangeness of the spectacle thus presented by the ardent pair
arrested the attention of Jake and his crew, who chanced just then to
arrive in the launch. So great became the boatman’s curiosity that he
resolved to investigate before marching his company into the cavern.
To this fact, and not to any alertness on the part of the lovers
in looking out for the coming of the launch, was due the quickness
with which measures of relief were undertaken for those left in the
depths. Ropes were hurried to the scene; a lantern was lowered. It
was then discovered that the descent was not so very difficult. With
the way lighted, and a rope by which to cling, the various members
of the party contrived to climb safely to the mouth of the chimney.
Margaret went first, with Saxe behind to aid as best he might. David
Thwing was next, and last of all, by his own choice, Billy Walker.
“If I go last,” he explained to David, “I’m saved the discomfort of
feeling that I ought to be hurrying to get out of somebody’s way.”
After the rescue had been effected, a watch made up from men trusted
by the boatman was set over the chimney, at Roy’s suggestion. Then,
the four young men, with the two girls, entered the launch to be
taken to the cottage, for a change of clothing and luncheon. Billy
chuckled contentedly, while the other men appeared sheepish, when it
was learned that noon remained still an hour distant.
“But the chances are poor of ever getting that gold, after all,” Saxe
said ruefully, when they were under weigh.
Roy uttered an indignant exclamation.
“Nothing of the sort!” he declared. “David and I had the tackle
fastened, all right, with a knot on the rope to save it from slipping
through the block. And we had it hauled tight, too.” He laughed
amusedly. “Why, do you know? That treasure-chest has started up the
slope already! I’ll bet what you like the shrinking of the rope has
brought it out of the pit. A good gang of men can get that chest out
in less than a half-day.” He spoke with the sureness of one having
knowledge drawn from experience. That he was right the issue proved,
for the gold was taken out very easily, and stored safely in the bank
before nightfall.
* * * * *
That evening in the music-room, Saxe sat playing the miser’s song of
gold. Still drumming the harsh phrases, he turned, and spoke to his
friends with a whimsical smile.
“You know, I rather apologized to you for asking your help in this
affair, because it didn’t offer anything much in the way of real
adventure, but it did turn out a bit lively after all!”
Came a chorus of laughing assents.
“We owe Masters gratitude for some thrills,” David said cheerfully.
“And anyhow, he’s got his deserts.”
Roy was on the point of saying something candid anent the dead
engineer. But his eyes met those of May Thurston, and he forgot hate,
and remembered only love.
Saxe spoke again presently, with a meditative air, though Margaret
thought that she could detect a twinkle deep in the gray eyes.
“Roy was right in his idea about the solution of the mystery coming
by psychic impression. It did. The curious part is that the one to
receive the subtle suggestion from the world beyond was the last
person to be suspected of anything of the kind--a kind so contrary to
pure reason.”
“What’s that?” Billy Walker demanded.
“Why, about the cipher,” Saxe explained, placidly. “Billy, tell us
the truth. Search your memory well. Didn’t you first have the idea
that the music had something to do with the hiding-place of the gold,
and then didn’t you dig out the reasons to justify that idea--after
you had it?”
“Of all the preposterous--” the sage began stormily.
But Saxe interrupted ruthlessly:
“Carefully! Search your memory, Billy. Didn’t the idea come first,
the reasons afterward? Aren’t you psychically sensitive, Billy
Walker? Confess!”
“Psychic--I!” the seer boomed, outraged. Then, his brow became
furrowed with thought. His expression changed to one of dismay.
Little by little, this wore away, a dawning satisfaction grew in
its stead. Finally, he spoke aloud to himself, unconsciously.
“Psychic--I? Well, well!” And Billy Walker smiled.
Saxe smiled in answer to the smile that was in Margaret’s eyes as her
glance met his. Then he turned once again to the piano. The rhythm of
the miser’s song of gold rang out. But now, the player touched the
harsh measures with a certain grateful gentleness. In and over and
about the grim chords, he wove daintier harmonies, lingered often for
cadences of passion, wrought a counterpoint of basic love, set above
all an exquisite melody, the unison of two hearts. The improvisation
welled to a chorale of magnificent praise for that lonely and
unhappy man to whose morbid intrigue the player owed not merely a
fortune, but something infinitely more--the meeting and the winning
of the woman he loved.
“It’s the only tune I ever cared for,” quoth Billy Walker,
complacently.
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.