The Eye of Dread

For a moment his heart ceased to beat, then it throbbed suffocatingly and his hand went to his breast and clutched the bill book where lay the tender little poem. There at her elbow lay the copy she had so carefully made. The air of the room was warm and drowsy, and the stillness was only broken by the low buzzing of two great bluebottle flies that struggled futilely against the high window panes. Dear little tired Betty! Dreaming,–of whom? The breath came through her parted lips, softly and evenly, and the last ray of the sun fell on her flushed cheek and brought out the touch of gold in her hair.

The young man turned away and crossed the bare floor with light steps and drew the door softly shut after him as he went out. No one might look upon her as she slept, with less reverent eyes. Some distance away, where the road began to ascend toward the river bluff, he seated himself on a stone overlooking the little schoolhouse and the road beyond. There he took up his lonely watch, until he saw Betty come out and walk hurriedly toward the village, carrying a book and swinging her hat by the long ribbon ties; then he went on climbing the winding path to the top of the bluff overlooking the river.

Moodily he paced up and down along the edge of the bluff, and finally followed a zigzag path to the great rocks below, that at this point seemed to have hurled themselves down there to do battle with the eager, dominating flood. For a while he stood gazing into the rushing water, not as though he were fascinated by it, but rather as if he were held to the spot by some inward vision. Presently he seemed to wake with a start and looked back along the narrow, steep path, and up to the overhanging edge of the bluff, scanning it closely.

“Yes, yes. There is the notch where it lay, and this may be the very stone on which I am standing. What an easy thing to fall over there and meet death halfway!” He muttered the words under his breath and began slowly to climb the difficult ascent.

The sun was gone, and down by the water a cold, damp current of air seemed to sweep around the curve of the bluff along with the rush of the river. As he climbed he came to a warmer wave of air, and the dusk closed softly around him, as if nature were casting a friendly curtain over the drowsing earth; and the roar of the river came up to him, no longer angrily, but in a ceaseless, subdued complaint.

Again he paced the top of the bluff, and at last seated himself with his feet hanging over the edge, at the spot from which the stone had fallen. The trees on this wind-swept place were mostly gnarled oaks, old and strong and rugged, standing like a band of weather-beaten life guardsmen overlooking the miles of country around. Not twenty paces from where the young man sat, half reclining on his elbow, stood one of these oaks, and close to its great trunk on its shadowed side a man bent forward intently watching him. Whenever the young man shifted his position restlessly, the figure made a darting movement forward as if to snatch him from the dangerous brink, then recoiled and continued to watch.

Soon the young man seemed to be aware of the presence and watchful eye, and looked behind him, peering into the dusk. Then the man left his place and came toward him, with slow, sauntering step.

“Hullo!” he said, with an insinuating, rising inflection and in the soft voice of the Scandinavian.

“Hallo!” replied the young man.

“Seek?”

“Sick? No.” The young man laughed slightly. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I yust make it leetle valk up here.”

“Same with me, and now I’ll make it a little walk back to town.” The young man rose and stretched himself and turned his steps slowly back along the winding path.

“Vell, I tank I make it leetle valk down town, too,” and the figure came sauntering along at the young man’s side.

“Oh, you’re going my way, are you? All right.”

“Yas, I tank I going yust de sam your way.”

The young man set the pace more rapidly, and for a time they walked on in silence. At last, “Live here?” he asked.

“Yas, I lif here.”

“Been here long?”

“In America? Yes. I guess five–sax–year. Oh, I lak it goot.”

“I mean here, in this place.”

“Oh, here? Yas, two, t’ree year. I lak it goot too.”

“Know any one here?”

“Oh, yas. I know people I vork by yet.”

“Who are they?”

“Oh, I vork by many place–make garten–und vork wit’ horses, und so. Meesus Craikmile, I vork by her on garten. She iss dere no more.”

The young man paused suddenly in his stride. “Gone? Where is she gone?”

“Oh, she iss by ol’ country gone. Her man iss gone mit.” They walked on.

“What! Is the Elder gone, too?”

“Yas. You know heem, yas?”

“Oh, yes. I know everybody here. I’ve been away for a good while.”

“So? Yas, yust lak me. I was gone too goot wile, bot I coom back too, yust lak you.”

Here they came to a turn in the road, and the village lights began to wink out through the darkness, and their ways parted.

“I’m going this way,” said the young man. “You turn off here? Well, good night.”

“Vell, goot night.” The Swede sauntered away down a by-path, and the young man kept on the main road to the village and entered its one hotel where he had engaged a room a few hours before.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE SWEDE’S TELEGRAM

As soon as the shadows hid the young man’s retreating form from the Swede’s watchful eye, that individual quickened his pace and presently broke into a run. Circling round a few blocks and regaining the main street a little below the hotel, he entered the telegraph office. There his haste seemed to leave him. He stood watching the clerk a few minutes, but the latter paid no attention to him.

“Hullo!” he said at last.

“Hallo, yourself!” said the boy, without looking up or taking his hand from the steadily clicking instrument.

“Say, I lak it you send me somet’ing by telegraph.”

“All right. Hold on a minute,” and the instrument clicked on.

After a little the Swede grew impatient. He scratched his pale gold head and shuffled his feet.

“Say, I lak it you send me a little somet’ing yet.” He reached out and touched the boy on the shoulder.

“Keep out of here. I’ll send your message when I’m through with this,” and the instrument clicked on. Then the Swede resigned himself, watching sullenly.

“Everybody has to take his turn,” said the boy at last. “You can’t cut in like that.” The boy was newly promoted and felt his importance. He took the soiled scrap of paper held out to him. It was written over in a clear, bold hand. “This isn’t signed. Who sends this?”

“You make it yust lak it iss. I send dot.”

“Well, sign it.” He pushed a pen toward him, and the Swede took it in clumsy fingers and wrote laboriously, “Nels Nelson.”

“You didn’t write this message?”

“No. I vork by de hotel, und I get a man write it.”