Into the Primitive Part 34

True, this was on solid land, while before there had been the peril of the sea. But now the girl was alone. Outside the straining walls of her refuge, the hurricane yelled and shrieked and roared,--a headless, formless monster, furious to burst in upon her, to overthrow her stanch old tree giant, that in his fall his shattered trunk might crush and mangle her. Or at any instant a thunder-bolt might rend open the great tower of living wood, and hurl her blackened body into the pool on the cave floor.

Once she fancied that she heard Blake shouting outside the door; but when she screamed a shrill response, the blast mocked her with echoing shrieks, and she dared not venture to free the door. If it were Blake, he did not shout again. After a time she began to think that the sound had been no more than a freak of the shifting wind. Yet the thought of him out in the full fury of the cyclone served to turn her thoughts from her own danger. She prayed aloud for his safety, beseeching her G.o.d that he be spared. She sought to pray even for Winthrope. But the vision of that beastly face rose up before her, and she could not--then.

Presently she became aware of a change in the storm. The terrific gusts blew with yet greater violence, the thunder crashed heavier, the lightning filled the air with a flame of dazzling white light. But the rain no longer gushed across on the spot where her bed had been.

It was entering at a different angle, and its force was broken by the bend in the thick wall of the entrance. After a time the deluge dashed aslant the entrance, gushing down the door in a cataract of foam.

Another interval, and the driving downpour no longer struck even the edge of the opening. The wind was veering rapidly as the cyclone centre moved past on one side. The area of the hurricane was little more than thrice that of a tornado, and it was advancing along its course at great speed. An hour more, and the outermost rim of the huge whirl was pa.s.sing over the cleft.

Quickly the hurricane gusts fell away to a gale; the gale became a breeze; the breeze lulled and died away, stifled by the torrential rain.

Within the baobab all was again dark and silent. Utterly exhausted, the girl had sunk back against the friendly wall of the tree, and fallen asleep.

She was wakened by a hoa.r.s.e call: "Miss Jenny! Miss Jenny, answer me!

Are you all right?"

She started up, barely saving herself from a fall as the big unhusked nuts rolled beneath her feet. The morning sunlight was streaming in over her door. She sprang down ankle-deep into the mire of the cave floor, and ran to loosen the bars. As the door swung up, she darted out, with a cry of delight: "You are safe--safe! Oh, I was so afraid for you! But you're drenched! You must build a fire--dry yourself--at once!"

"Wait," said Blake. "I've got to tell you something."

He caught her outstretched hands, and pushed them down with gentle force.

His face was grave, almost solemn.

"Think you can stand bad news--a shock?"

"I-- What is it? You look so strange!"

"It's about Winthrope,--something very bad--"

She turned, with a gasp, and hid her face in her hands, shuddering with horror and loathing.

"Oh! oh!" she cried, "I know already--I know all!"

"All?" demanded Blake, staring blankly.

"Yes; all! And--and he made me think it was you!" She gasped, and fell silent.

Blake's face went white. He spoke in a clear, vibrant voice, tense as an overstrained violin string: "I am speaking about Winthrope--understand me?--Winthrope. He has been badly hurt."

"The door swung down and struck him, when he was creeping in."

"G.o.d!" roared Blake. "I picked him up like a sick baby--the beast!--'stead of grinding my heel in his face! G.o.d! I'll--"

"Tom! don't--don't even speak it! Tom!"

"G.o.d! When a helpless girl--when a --!" He choked, beside himself with rage.

She sprang to him, and caught his sleeve in a convulsive grasp. "Hush, for mercy's sake! Tom Blake, remember--you're a man!"

He calmed like a ferocious dog at the voice of its master; but it was several minutes before he could bring himself to obey her insistent urging that he should return to the injured man.

"I'll go," he at last growled. "Wouldn't do it even for you, but he's good as dead--lucky for him!"

"Dead!"

"Dying. . . . . You stay away."

He went around the baobab and a few paces along the cleft to the place where a limp form lay huddled on the ledges, out of the mud. Slowly, as though drawn by the fascination of horror, the girl crept after him.

When she saw the broken, storm-beaten thing that had been Winthrope, she stopped, and would have turned back. After all, as Blake had said, he was dying--

When she stood at the feet of the writhing figure, and looked down into the battered face, it required all her will-power to keep from fainting.

Blake frowned up at her for an instant, but said nothing.

Winthrope was speaking, feebly and brokenly, yet distinctly: "Really, I did not mean any harm--at first--you know. But a man does not always have control--"

"Not a beast like you!" growled Blake.

"Ow! Don't 'it me! I say now, I'm done for! My legs are cold already--"

"Oh, quick, Mr. Blake! build a fire! It may be, some hot broth--"

"Too late," muttered Blake. "See here, Winthrope, there's no use lying about it. You're going out mighty soon. See if you can't die like a man."

"Die! . . . Gawd, but I can't die--I can't die--Ow! it burns!"

He flung up a hand, and sought to tear at his wounds.

"Hold hard!" cried Blake, catching the hand in an iron grip.

Something in his touch, or the tone of command, seemed to cower the wretched man into a state of abject submission.

"S'elp me, I'll confess!--I'll confess all!" he babbled. "The stones are sewed in the stomach pad; I 'ad to take 'em hout of their settings, and melt up the gold." He paused, and a cunning smile stole over his distorted features. "Ho, wot a bloomin' lark! Valet plays the gent, an' they never 'as a hinkling! Mr. Cecil Winthrope, hif you please, an' a 'int of a t.i.tle--wot a lark! 'Awkings, me lad, you're a gay 'oaxer! Wot a lark! wot a lark!"

Again there was a pause. The breath of the wounded man came in labored gasps. There was an ominous rattling in his throat. Yet once again he rallied, and this time his eyes turned to Miss Leslie, bright with an agonized consciousness of her presence and of all his guilt and shame.

His voice shrilled out in quavering appeal: "Don't--don't look at me, miss! I tried to make myself a gentleman; G.o.d knows I tried! I fought my way up out of the East End--out of that h.e.l.l--and none ever lifted finger to help me. I educated myself like a scholar--then the stock sharks cheated me of my savings--out of the last penny; and I had to take service. My G.o.d! a valet--his Grace's valet, and I a scholar! Do you wonder the devil got into me? Do you--"

Blake's deep voice, firm but strangely husky, broke in upon and silenced the cry of agony: "There, I guess you've said enough."

"Enough!--and last night--My G.o.d! to be such a beast! The devil tempted me--aye, and he's paid me out in my own coin! I'm done for! G.o.d ha'

mercy on me!--G.o.d ha' mercy--"

Again came the gasping rattle; this time there was no rally.

Blake thrust himself between Miss Leslie and the crumpled figure.

"Get back around the tree," he said harshly.

"What are you going to do?"