A Master's Degree [67]
in the years behind you is leading you toward the larger places before you, teaching you all the meanings of Strife, and Sacrifice, and Service symbolized above our doorway in our proud College initial letter. The Supremacy is yet to come. Will you follow my counsel? I'll take care of Bug, and we will keep Burgess out of this for a while."
Burleigh thought he understood, and the silent hand clasp pledged the faith of the country boy to the teacher's wishes.
It is only in story books that events leap out as pages are turned, events that take days on days of real life to compass. In the swing of one brief year Lagonda Ledge knew little change. New cement walks were built south almost to the Kickapoo Corral. A new manufacturing concern had bonds voted for it at an exciting election, and a squabble for a suitable site was in process. Vincent Burgess and Victor Burleigh, two strong men, were growing actually chummy, and Trench declared he was glad they had decided to quit playing marbles for keeps and hiding each other's caps.
And now the springtime of the year was on the beautiful Walnut Valley. Elinor and Dennie, Trench, "Limpy," the crippled student, and Victor Burleigh were all on the home-stretch of their senior year. One more June Commencement day and Sunrise would know them no more. Beyond all this there was nothing new at Lagonda Ledge until suddenly the white-haired woman was up at Pigeon Place, again, a fact known only to old Bond Saxon and little Bug, who saw her leave the train. The little blue smoke-twist was again rising lazily in the warm May air, and somebody was systematically robbing houses in town, and Bond Saxon was often drunk and hiding away from sight. A May storm sent the Walnut booming down the valley, bank full, cutting off traffic at the town bridge, but the days that followed were a joy. A tenderly green world it was now, all blossom-decked, and blown across by the gentle May zephyrs, with nothing harsh nor cruel in it, unless the rushing river down below the shallows might seem so. The Kickapoo Corral, luxuriant with flowers, and springing grass, and May green foliage, told nothing of the old-time siege and sorrow of Swift Elk and the Fawn of the Morning Light.
On the night after the storm Professor Burgess stopped at the Saxon House.
"Where is your father, Dennie?" he asked.
"He went up north to help somebody out of the mud and water, I suppose," Dennie replied. "He is the kindest neighbor, and he has been trying to--to keep straight. He told me when he left that this night's work was to be a work of redemption for him. He may get stronger some time."
In his heart Burgess knew better. He had no faith in the old man's will power, and the burden of a hidden crime he knew would but increase its weight with time, and drag Bond down at last. But Dennie need not suffer now.
"Will you go with me down to the old Corral tomorrow afternoon, Dennie? I want some plants that grow there. I'm studying nature along with Greek," he said, smiling.
"Of course, if it is fair," Dennie replied, the pretty color blooming deeper in her cheeks.
"Oh, we go fair or foul. You remember we fought it out coming home from there once."
Meanwhile Bond Saxon was hurrying north on his work of redemption. At the bend in the river he found Tom Gresh sitting on the flat stone slab. The light was gleaming through the shrubbery of the little cottage, and the homey sounds of evening and the twitter of late-coming birds were in the air.
"What are you here for, Gresh?" Bond asked, hoarsely. "I thought you had left for good."
The villainous-looking outlaw drew a flask from his pocket.
"Have a drink, Saxon. Take the whole bottle," and he thrust it into the old man's hands.
Bond wavered a moment, then flung it far into the foamy floods of the Walnut.
"Not any more. You shall not get me drunk again while you rob and kill."
"You did the killing for me once. Won't you do it again?" Gresh snarled.
Bond clinched his fists but did not strike.
"What are you after now?" he asked.
Burleigh thought he understood, and the silent hand clasp pledged the faith of the country boy to the teacher's wishes.
It is only in story books that events leap out as pages are turned, events that take days on days of real life to compass. In the swing of one brief year Lagonda Ledge knew little change. New cement walks were built south almost to the Kickapoo Corral. A new manufacturing concern had bonds voted for it at an exciting election, and a squabble for a suitable site was in process. Vincent Burgess and Victor Burleigh, two strong men, were growing actually chummy, and Trench declared he was glad they had decided to quit playing marbles for keeps and hiding each other's caps.
And now the springtime of the year was on the beautiful Walnut Valley. Elinor and Dennie, Trench, "Limpy," the crippled student, and Victor Burleigh were all on the home-stretch of their senior year. One more June Commencement day and Sunrise would know them no more. Beyond all this there was nothing new at Lagonda Ledge until suddenly the white-haired woman was up at Pigeon Place, again, a fact known only to old Bond Saxon and little Bug, who saw her leave the train. The little blue smoke-twist was again rising lazily in the warm May air, and somebody was systematically robbing houses in town, and Bond Saxon was often drunk and hiding away from sight. A May storm sent the Walnut booming down the valley, bank full, cutting off traffic at the town bridge, but the days that followed were a joy. A tenderly green world it was now, all blossom-decked, and blown across by the gentle May zephyrs, with nothing harsh nor cruel in it, unless the rushing river down below the shallows might seem so. The Kickapoo Corral, luxuriant with flowers, and springing grass, and May green foliage, told nothing of the old-time siege and sorrow of Swift Elk and the Fawn of the Morning Light.
On the night after the storm Professor Burgess stopped at the Saxon House.
"Where is your father, Dennie?" he asked.
"He went up north to help somebody out of the mud and water, I suppose," Dennie replied. "He is the kindest neighbor, and he has been trying to--to keep straight. He told me when he left that this night's work was to be a work of redemption for him. He may get stronger some time."
In his heart Burgess knew better. He had no faith in the old man's will power, and the burden of a hidden crime he knew would but increase its weight with time, and drag Bond down at last. But Dennie need not suffer now.
"Will you go with me down to the old Corral tomorrow afternoon, Dennie? I want some plants that grow there. I'm studying nature along with Greek," he said, smiling.
"Of course, if it is fair," Dennie replied, the pretty color blooming deeper in her cheeks.
"Oh, we go fair or foul. You remember we fought it out coming home from there once."
Meanwhile Bond Saxon was hurrying north on his work of redemption. At the bend in the river he found Tom Gresh sitting on the flat stone slab. The light was gleaming through the shrubbery of the little cottage, and the homey sounds of evening and the twitter of late-coming birds were in the air.
"What are you here for, Gresh?" Bond asked, hoarsely. "I thought you had left for good."
The villainous-looking outlaw drew a flask from his pocket.
"Have a drink, Saxon. Take the whole bottle," and he thrust it into the old man's hands.
Bond wavered a moment, then flung it far into the foamy floods of the Walnut.
"Not any more. You shall not get me drunk again while you rob and kill."
"You did the killing for me once. Won't you do it again?" Gresh snarled.
Bond clinched his fists but did not strike.
"What are you after now?" he asked.