A Master's Degree Part 3

"Oh, no! Keep him if you want him. But would you mind telling me about him?"

"I'd rather not now," Burleigh said, quietly, and Lloyd Fenneben knew when to drop a subject.

"Then I'm through with you for today, Burleigh. I must let Miss Saxon have my room now. Come here whenever you like, and bring Bug if you care to."

Sunrise students always left Dr. Fenneben's study with a little more of self-respect than when they entered it; richer, not so much from the word as from the spirit of the head of Sunrise. Victor Burleigh with little Bug Buler's fat fist clasped in his big, hard hand walked out of the college door that afternoon with the unconscious baptism of the student upon him, the dim sense of a fellowship with a scholarly master of books and of men.

Back in his study Lloyd Fenneben sat looking out once more at the Empire that meant nothing but dreary distances to the scholarly professor of Greek, and seemed a paradise to the untrained young fellow from the prairies.

"I see my stint of cloth for the day," he murmured. "A college professor in the making who has much to unlearn; a crude young giant who is fond of killing things, and cares for helpless children; and a beautiful, wilful, characterless girl to be shown into her womanly heritage. The clay is ready. It is the potter whose hands need skill. Victor Burleigh!

Victor Burleigh! There's my greatest problem of all three. He has the strength of a t.i.tan in those arms, and the pa.s.sion of a tiger behind those innocent yellow eyes. G.o.d keep me on the hilltop nor let my feet once get into the dark and dangerous ways!"

He looked long at the landscape radiant under the level rays of splendor streaming from the low afternoon sun.

"I wonder who built that fire, and what that pillar of smoke meant this afternoon. The mystery of our lives hangs some token in each day."

The shadows were gathering in the Walnut Valley, the pigeons about the cottage up the river, were in their cotes now, the heat of the day was over, and with one more look at the far peaceful prairies Dr. Lloyd Fenneben closed his study door and pa.s.sed out into the cool September air.

CHAPTER III. PIGEON PLACE

_Strange is the wind and the tide, The heavens eternally wide; Less fathomed, this life at my side_.

--W. H. SIMPSON

THE Sunrise rotunda was ringing with a chorus from three hundred throats as three hundred students poured out of doors, and over-flowed the ridge and spilled down the broad steps, making a babel of musical tongues; while fitting itself to every catchy college air known to Sunrise came the noisy refrain:

Rah for Funnybone!

Rah for Funnybone!

Rah for Funnybone!

_Rah!_ RAH! RAH!!!

Again it was repeated, swelling along the ridge and floating wide away over the Walnut Valley. Nor was there a climax of exuberance until the appearance of Dr. Lloyd Fenneben himself, with his tall figure and striking presence outlined against the gray stone columns of the veranda. All this because it was mid-October, a heaven-made autumn day in Kansas, with its gracious warmth and bracing breath; with the Indian summer haze in shimmering amethyst and gold overhanging the land; and the Walnut Valley, gorgeous in the glow of the October frost-fires, winding down between broad seas of rainbow-radiant prairies. And all this gladness and grandeur, by the decree of Dr. Fenneben, was given in fee simple to these three hundred young people for the hours of one perfect day--their annual autumn holiday. No wonder they filled the air with shouts. And before the singing had ceased the crowd broke into groups by natural selection, and the holiday was begun.

Whatever bounds of time Nature may give to the seed in which to become a plant, or to the grub to become a b.u.t.terfly, there is no set limit wherein the country-bred boy may bloom into a full-fledged college student.

Seven weeks after Vic Burleigh had come alongside the Greek Professor into Sunrise, found the quick marvelous change from the timid, untrained, overgrown young giant into a leader of his clan, the pride of the Freshman, the terror of the Soph.o.m.ores, the dramatic interest of the cla.s.sroom, and the hope of Sunrise on the football gridiron. His store-made clothes had a jaunty carelessness of fit. The tan had left his cheek. His auburn hair had lost its sun-burn. His powerful physique, the charm of his deep voice, the singular beauty of his wide open golden-brown eyes, with their long black lashes lighting up his rugged face, gave to him an attractive personality.

Yet to Lloyd Fenneben, who saw below the surface, Victor Burleigh was only at the beginning of things. Something of the tiger light in the brown eyes, the pride in brute strength, the blunt justice lacking the finer sense of mercy, showed how wide yet was the distance between the man and the gentleman.

When Dr. Fenneben returned to his study after the hilarious demonstration he found Dennie Saxon busy with the little film of dust that comes in overnight. Old Bond Saxon, Dennie's father, had been one of the improvident of Lagonda Ledge who took a new lease on a livelihood with the advent of Sunrise. From being a dissipated old fellow drifting toward pauperism, he became the proprietor of a respectable boarding house for students, doing average well. At rare intervals, however, he lapsed into his old ways. During such occasions he kept to the river side of the town. Sober, he was good-natured and obliging; drunken, he was sullen, with a disposition to skulk out of sight and be alone. His daughter Dennie had her father's good-nature combined with a will power all her own.

As Dr. Fenneben watched her about her work this morning, he noted how comfortably she took hold of it. He noted, too, that her heavy yellow-brown hair was full of ripples just where ripples helped, that her arms were plump, that she was short and nothing willowy, and that she had a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

"Why don't you take a holiday, Miss Dennie?" he asked, presently.

"I wanted this done so I wouldn't be seeing dusty books in my daydreams," Dennie answered.

"Where do you do your dreaming today?"

"A crowd of us are going down the river to the Kickapoo Corral. I must make the cakes yet this morning," she answered.

"Good enough Can't I do something for you? Do you need a chaperon?" the Dean queried, smilingly.

"Professor Burgess is to be our chaperon. He is all we can look after."

Dennie's gray eyes danced, but she was serious a moment later.

"Dr. Fenneben, you can do something, maybe, that's none of your business, nor mine." Dennie wondered afterward how she could have had the courage to speak these words.

"That's generally the easy thing. What is it?" the Dean smiled.

The girl hung her feather brush in its place and sat down opposite to him.

"Do you know anything about Pigeon Place?" she began.

"The little place up the river where a queer, half-crazy woman lives alone with a fierce dog?" he asked.

"Yes, you never heard anything more?" Dennie queried.

"Only that the house is hidden from the road and has many pigeons about it, and that the woman sees few callers. I've never located the place.

Tell me about it," he replied.

"Bug Buler and I were up there after eggs this morning. Bug is Victor Burleigh's little boy. They board at our house," Dennie explained.

"Pigeon Place is a little cottage all covered with vines and with flowers everywhere. It's hidden away from the road just outside of town.

Mrs. Marian isn't crazy nor queer, only she seldom leaves home, never goes to church, nor visits anywhere. She doesn't care for anybody, nor take any interest in Lagonda Ledge, and she keeps a Great Dane dog, as big as a calf, that is friendly to women and children, but won't let a man come near, unless Mrs. Marian says so." Dennie paused.

"Very interesting, Miss Dennie, but what can I do?" Fenneben asked.

"Shall I kill the dog and carry off the woman like the regulation grim ogre of the fairy tales?"

Dennie hesitated. Few girls would have come to a college president on such a mission as hers. But then few college presidents are like Lloyd Fenneben.

"Of course n.o.body likes Mrs. Marian, and my father--when he's not quite himself--says dreadful things if I mention her name." Dennie's checks were crimson as she thought of her father. "It's none of my business, but I've felt sorry for Mrs. Marian ever since she came here. She seems like an innocent outcast."

"That is very pitiful." Lloyd Fenneben's voice was sympathetic.

"This morning," continued Dennie, "Bug was playing with the dog outside, and I went into the house for the first time. Mrs. Marian is very pleasant. She asked me about my work here and I told her about Sunrise and you, and your niece, Miss Elinor, being here."

"All the interesting features. Did you mention Professor Burgess?" The query was innocently meant, but it brought the color to Dennie Saxon's cheek.

"No, I didn't think he was in that cla.s.s," she replied, quickly. "But what surprised me was her interest in things. She is a pretty, refined, young-looking woman, with gray hair. When I was leaving I turned back to ask about some eggs for Sat.u.r.day. She thought I was gone, and she had dropped her head on the table and was crying, so I slipped out without her knowing." Dennie's gray eyes were full of tears now. "Dr. Fenneben, if talking about Sunrise made her do that, maybe you might do something for her. I pity her so. n.o.body seems to care about her. My father is set against her when he is not responsible, and he might--" She stopped abruptly and did not finish the sentence.

The Dean looked out of the window at the purple mist melting along the horizon line. Down in the valley pigeons were circling above a wooded spot at a bend in the Walnut River. Fenneben remembered now that he had seen them there many times. He had a boyhood memory of a country home with pigeons flying about it.

"I wish, too, that I might do something," he said at last. "You say she will not let men inside her gate now. I'll keep her in mind, though. The gate may open some time."

It was mid-afternoon when Lloyd Fenneben left his study for a stroll. As he approached the Saxon House, he saw old Bond Saxon slipping out of the side gate and with uncertain steps skulk down the alley.