Voices In The Wind
By
Elizabeth Coppedge
It fell gently on my ear, so gently
that I doubted that it had ever been
there, that soothing bell-like tone. It was
so very stiU afterwards that I know I
must have been dreaming. My eye caught
sight of the lines in the volume lying
open on my lap. On the middle of that
page so yellowed with age these words
seemed to blaze forth:
“While I nodded, nearly napping, sud
denly there came a tapping.
As of someone gently rapping, rapping
at my chamber door.”
A log snapped in the fire and after
a blaze of light a semi-darkness settled
over the room. The wind moaned softly
and in the distance a shutter banged
unnoticed against the far side of the
house. The curtain rustled, and a faint
breeze seemed to touch my forehead. I
saw again the line of poetry:
“Once upon a midnight dreary . . . .”
There it was again, that soothing note.
This time it broke into a gentle whisper.
Then I remembered, and rising I crossed
noiselessly to the French doors and
paused a moment. It was clearer now. I
opened the door and stepping gently on
the terrace I waited. The wind beat madly
about me and then died down leaving me
exhilarated. A black cloud moved from
over the moon whose silvery light came
down and with tapering fingers drew
upon the lawn a cross. Again I heard
that note. This time it was a voice, gentle
and tender. For a moment more I waited
and then I knew. It was the promise. That
comforting voice had returned to lead
me just when I needed it most. The wind
whispered softly in the trees, and I re
membered when first I heard that voice.
It was on such a night as this three
years ago. I stood on the terrace of
Treslewood Castle and heard, floating up
to me, the haunting strains of the lovely
Strauss waltzes. I do not know why I
fled that evening, but the people’s voices
with a laugh here and there seemed to
grate on my soul, and I sought the
security of the dark night. Inside, my soul
writhed in torment. Life was so cruel and
dealt its blows so harshly. Most of all T
hated myself. I could not escape.
There was my own voice haunting me
and tearing at my very soul. “You are
no good. You have made a miserable
failure of your life.” I fled to the edge
of the tiny lake and crossing over gazed
into the water and saw my reflection
there. A loosened stone fell with a gentle
splash, and I saw the reflection tremble
and fade. With an ironical laugh I turned
and thought, ,“How like friends!” First
(Continued on Page 7)
Rendezvous With Insanity
He Let a Murderer Escape . . . Death
Was The Easiest Way Out
Of It All!
By
Sam Smith
Peter Stone and I roomed together in
our freshman year. At the beginning of
our sophomore year, we both were pledged
for Sigma Chi. Since we had known each
other the preceding year in 209 East, we
decided to stick together in the fraternity.
I shall never forget the night of April
13. Pete had been invited to a party at
the Chi Tau house which promised to be
a high spot in the social season. He put
on my tuxedo and left about nine. When
he left I began reading an assignment on
evolution. Charles Darwin’s theory did not
appeal to me very much; so I fell asleep
over the book.
It must have been nearly twelve when
Pete rushed into the room. He slammed
the door and fell back against it. His
face was white as his shirt, which was
spattered with small drops of blood.
“Joe,” he sobbed, “I’ve killed a man.”
By this time I was completely aroused
from my lethargy. I ran to him—“Pete,
you don’t know what you’re saying. Why
did you do it? When? Who? How?”
I asked, as questions came to me faster
than I could word them.
Pete then told his horrible story. During
a poker game at the party he became in
volved in an argument over some money
with Frank Creighton, who was quite
drunk. Frank started fighting Pete as
hard as he could. Pete drove a left to the
drunken boy’s chin and sent him reeling.
Frank fell and hit his temple on the leg
of a chair. He lay very still. Pete ran to
him and shouted his name in his ear, but
Prank Creighton’s lips were sealed in
death. At the conclusion of his story my
roommate stood quite still; cold sweat
stood out in little beads on his forehead.
“Joe, I’m really not sorry I killed Frank
Creighton,” Pete confessed. “He was so
low-down — tried to get away without
settling when he lost. If I hadn’t fixed
him tonight, I would have got even with
him later. Oh, don’t look that way, I
wouldn’t have killed him.”
I felt that for the first time in two
years I really saw inside Peter Stone. He
was cruel and hard.
As soon as he had crammed a few
clothes into a bag he left. Soon after that
the police came to question me. In loyalty
to Pete I told them I hadn’t seen him.
They were quite persistent, but I stuck
to my original assertion and saved him
from the justice he deserved.
Weeks passed slowly. Sometimes I
would sit up until the sun rose over the
hills thinking that I had let a confessed
murderer escape. If I let him escape and
told lies to keep the authorities from
bringing him to trial, I was as guilty as
he. The thought pounded in my head, (“I
a murderer! Why did I let him get away?
Oh, God, you know I didn’t mean to
do it.”) I could think of nothing else—
my brain hummed over again and again,
“murderer, murderer, murderer” till I
thought I would scream my secret to the
world.
One night about a week before the
graduation exercises I heard a faiiit tap
on the window. I was aroused from the
thoughts which haunted me.
“Who is it?” I asked in as calm a
voice as I could command.
“Your ex-roommate.” It was Pete’s
voice.
I opened the screen carefully. He told
me no one had seen him come in. He
looked ghastly. He hadn’t had a shave
for days and his clothes were ragged and
dirty.
After telling him how quickly the whole
affair had been quieted, I asked him to
give himself up to the authorities and
take the consequences. He laughed in
derision when I mentioned this. Some
thing inside me began to writhe. I went
blind with rage when I thought that he
was going to let me go on suffering the
terrible agony I had endured since April
13.
My temples began to throb as a con
suming fire of hatred flooded my every
vein. A heated discussion ensued. I
argued with the desperation of the in
sane person that I was. He would not
listen to me. The book-end—it was heavy
t—very heavy—^heavy enough to
to ... .
Clutching it in my hand I pounded his
head with all the strength I could muster.
He screamed. Again and again I brought
the heavy metal against his skull. His
screams died away—he too was dead. Now
I am the murderer, but I am free of those
thoughts which would have driven me to
insanity.
The death row is not so awful. At last
I am free of that fear that had driven
me to reckless insanity. To-morrow I
will go to see my Creator. I hope He
will understand ....
Page Four