The Definite Object

by Jeffery Farnol

  And then—there were the footsteps. All day long they tramped up and down the stairs outside—everyday sounds that he had never heeded before, but now they were warnings to hearken to and shudder at, and he would sit pretending to read but with ears straining for the sound of feet upon the landing or on the stair. Now they were feet that crept—the stealthy steps of one that lurked to catch him unaware; or again, they were the loud tramp of those who came with authority to drag him to doom, and he would watch the door, staring wide-eyed, waiting for the thundering knock he expected yet which never came. All day long they haunted him, and at night, locked within his bedroom, he must needs lift heavy head from the pillow to hearken with ears straining even yet, until, haggard and worn, he had shivered and groaned and wept himself to sleep, only to awake and start up in sweating terror, thinking he heard a fierce hand knocking, knocking upon the outer door.

  Thus, for three long days Spike had lived in torment, and to-night, as he leaned throbbing head between clutching hands, his haggard eyes sought vainly for that fell word which he could read everywhere except in the newspaper before him; his sufferings had grown almost beyond his strength, for to his old torments was added harrowing suspense.

  “Why?” “Why?” “Why” was the word that stared at him from ceiling and walls and blue expanse of heaven; why was it there and not in the papers? Could it be that it was lying there yet, that awful, still thing, lying as he remembered it, as he could see it now, its ghastly features hidden among the leaves that rotted, its long arms outflung and strong hands griped among the grass with clutching fingers—could it be?—

  “Arthur—boy—what’s the matter?”

  Spike started and looked up to find Hermione beside him, and instinctively he shrank away.

  “Arthur—oh, what is it? Are you sick?”

  “N-no, why?”

  “You were moaning.”

  “Oh, well, I—I’m all right, I guess. Got a headache, that’s all.”

  “Why have you avoided me lately, Arthur? I’m not angry any more, I’m only—disappointed.”

  “Y’ mean because I lost me job? They don’t want my kind; I—oh, I’m too mean—too rotten, I guess.”

  “I heard you cry out in the night, Arthur. What was it?”

  “Nothin’—I didn’t cry out las’ night, I tell ye.”

  “I heard you!”

  “Oh, well, I—I was only dreamin’, I guess.”

  “Why have you acted so strangely lately? You don’t eat, you don’t go out; you sit around staring and seem to be listening—almost as if you were afraid—”

  “I ain’t—I ain’t afraid. Who says I’m afraid? An’ I don’t want you to go worryin’ y’self sick over me—I ain’t a kid no more.”

  “No, I’m afraid you’re not.” And sighing, she turned away. But as she crossed the room, her step slow and listless, he spoke, his head down-bent and face hidden between clenched hands, voicing, almost despite himself, the questions that had tortured him so long.

  “Say, Hermy, where’s—Geoff? How is he—I mean you—you ain’t—heard anything—have you?”

  “No,” she answered softly, without turning, “what should I hear? I only know he’s—gone. How should I hope to hear anything any more?”

  “I—I thought he was—goin’ t’ marry you.”

  “So he was, but I—couldn’t let him—marry—a thief’s sister,” she said in the same low, even voice.

  “Ah!” cried Spike, writhing, “why did he go an’ tell ye about me after he told me he never would—why did he tell ye?”

  “He didn’t tell me!” cried Hermione, with curling lip.

  “Didn’t he—oh—didn’t he?” said Spike, his voice high and quivering, “didn’t Geoff tell ye? Then—say, Hermy, who—who did?”

  “It was Bud M’Ginnis, and for once it seems he told the truth!”

  “Bud!” cried Spike, stumbling to his feet. “Oh, my God!” At sound of his voice she turned, and seeing his face, cried out in sudden fear: “Arthur—oh, Arthur, what is it?”

  “Bud told ye?” he gasped. “Wasn’t it Geoff—oh, wasn’t it Geoff?”

  “No!”

  Spike was down on his knees. “Oh, God! Oh, Geoff—dear old Geoff, forgive me!” He was huddled upon the floor, his face pressed to the worn rug, his clenched fingers buried in his curls, while from his lips issued gasping sobs harshly dry and awful to hear.

  “Forgive me, Geoff, forgive me! I thought you told her! I thought you meant t’ steal her from me! Oh, forgive me, Geoff—I wish I was dead like you.”

  “Arthur!”

  She was down beside him on her knees, shaking him with desperate hands.

  “Arthur! Arthur! What—are you saying?”

  “Nothin’—nothin’!” he stammered, staring up into her face, suddenly afraid of her. “Nothin’, I—I was only—thinkin’—I—”

  “What did you mean?” she cried, her grasp tightening. “Tell me what you meant—tell me, tell me!”

  “Nothin’,” he mumbled, trying to break her hold. “Lemme go, I—I didn’t mean anything—”

  “Tell me what you meant—tell me, tell me!”

  “No—I can’t—I—”

  His voice failed suddenly, his whole frame grew tense and rigid, and lifting a stiff arm he pointed a trembling finger toward the open doorway.

  “Hush—hush!” he panted, “oh, for God’s sake, hush! There—don’t you hear—there’s some one outside on th’ landing—footsteps—hark! They’re coming to our door! They’re stoppin’ outside—oh, my God, it’s come at—”

  The word ended in a scream, drowned all at once in a thunderous knocking on the outer door, and Spike, crouching upon his knees, clutched at her as she rose.

  “Don’t,—don’t open—the door!” he gasped, while Hermione gazed at him, terrified by his terror, as again the thunderous summons was heard. Then, despite the boy’s passionate prayers and desperate, clutching hands, she broke from him, and hastening into the little passage, opened the door.

  Upon the threshold stood a little old man, very smartly dressed, who saluted her with a gallant flourish of his dapper straw hat and bowed with his two small and glittering patent leather shoes posed at position number one in waltzing.

  “Ma’am,” said he, “miss, respectful greetin’s. Your name’s Hermione, ain’t it?”

  “Yes,” she answered, wondering.

  “Knowed it was. And a partic’ler fine gal too! Though not ‘oldin’ wi’ marridge, I don’t blame the Guv—’e always ‘ad a quick eye for beauty—like me.”

  “But who are you? What do you want—”

  “Miss, I want you—leastways—’e does. Been callin’ for you the last three days ‘e has, ever since ‘e ketched one as fair doubled ‘im up—”

  “I—I don’t understand. Who are you?”

  “A admirer of the Guv, ma’am. A trusted friend of ‘is, miss—come t’ take ye to ‘is poor, yearnin’ arms, lady—”

  “But who—oh, what do you mean?”

  “Mr. Ravenslee, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Ravenslee!” she echoed, her colour changing.

  “Yes. Y’ see—he’s dyin’, miss!”

  Hermione gasped and leaned against the wall as if suddenly faint and sick, perceiving which, the Old Un promptly set his arm about her waist and led her unresisting into the parlour. There, having aided her tenderly into a chair and nodded to pale-faced Spike, he sighed, shook his ancient head, and continued:

  “Ho, Lor lumme, lady, it fair wrung my old ‘eart to ‘ave to tell ye, but, ‘aving to tell ye (Joe couldn’t) I told ye almighty quick to get it over—sharp an’ quick’s my motter. Fate’s crool ‘ard when Fate takes the gloves off, miss, an’ I know as Fate’s been an’ took ye one in the wind wot’s fair doubled you up—but take time, miss, take time—throw back your pretty ‘ead, breathe deep an’ reg’lar, an’ you’ll soon be strong enough to go another round. If I’d got a towel handy I’d fan ye a bit—not ‘avin’ none,
no matter. Fate’s ‘ard on you, so fair an’ young, miss, but Fate’s been ‘arder on the Guv—ketched the pore young Guv a fair spiflicator—”

  “Oh, please—please,” cried Hermione, reaching out appealing hands, “oh, tell me, is he hurt—sick—dying? Oh, quick, quick—tell me!”

  “Lady, ma’am—my pretty dear,” said the Old Un, taking those pleading hands to pat them tenderly, “that’s what I’m tryin’ to do. The Guv ain’t dead yet—no, not—yet—”

  “You mean he’s dying?”

  “My dear,” said the old man, blinking at her through sudden tears, “that’s what the doctors say.” Here he loosed one hand to rub at each bright eye with a bony knuckle. “An’ ‘im so young—so game an’ strong—three days ago.”

  “How—did it—happen?” she questioned, her voice low and steady.

  “It was Fate!” said the old man, taking her hand again. “Three days ago Fate (the perisher) sends him a telegram—two on ‘em—tellin’ ‘im to meet you in a wood an’ signed with—with your name, both on ‘em—”

  At this she cried out and would have risen, but his kindly clasp checked her.

  “I—sent no telegram!” she whispered.

  “Me an’ Joe an’ the Spider know that now, miss. But anyway, to this ‘ere wood the Guv do ‘aste away, an’ in this wood Fate’s a-layin’ for ‘im wir a gun, an’ down goes the pore Guv wi’ a perishin’ bullet in ‘is gizzard. An’ there Joe finds ‘im, an’ ‘ome Joe brings ‘im in the car, an’ Joe an’ me an’ the Spider ‘ushes things up. An’ now in bed lays the Guv with nurses an’ doctors ‘anging over ‘im—a-callin’ for you—I mean the Guv, d’ ye see? So now for you I’ve come. I’ve brought Joe an’ the car for you—Joe’s across wi’ Mrs. Trapes, an’ the car’s below—both waitin’. So you’ll come t’ th’ pore young Guv, miss, won’t ye, lady?”

  “Have you—any idea—who—did it?” she questioned, speaking as with an effort.

  “We got our suspicions, ho, yus!” the Old Un nodded. “Joe’s got a wonnerful gift o’ suspicion—oh, a rare ‘ead ‘as my lad Joe. Joe an’ the Spider’s on the track, an’ they’re goin’ to track Fate to doom, ma’am—to perishin’ doom! Y’ see,” here the old man leaned suddenly nearer, “y’ see, Joe’s found a cloo!”

  “A clew! Yes—yes!” she whispered breathlessly, moistening lips suddenly dry, and conscious that Spike’s lax form had stiffened to painful alertness.

  “Well, ma’am, Joe an’ the Spider’s been a-seekin’ an’ a-searchin’ of that there wood, an’ they found,” here the Old Un leaned nearer yet and whispered harshly, “they found—a coat button! Lorgorramighty!” he exclaimed suddenly, pointing a trembling bony finger, “what’s took th’ lad—look!”

  Spike had risen and now stood, breathing loudly, one hand clenched upon his breast, and turning swiftly, took a stumbling pace toward the open window, tripped, and fell prone upon his face.

  “Oh, poor lad, poor lad!” cried the Old Un, rising hastily. “Fate’s been an’ ketched him one too—a fair knock-out! Leave him to me, miss, I’ll bring ‘im round—bitin’ ‘is years is good, or vinegar on a sponge—leave ‘im to a old fightin’ man—”

  “No!” cried Hermione passionately, “no, I say. Leave him to me!” Quelled by something in her tone and manner, the old man sank back in his chair, while she, kneeling beside Spike, lifted him in her strong young arms so that he was hidden from the Old Un’s bright, piercing eyes. Holding him thus, she loosed Spike’s rigid fingers and drew away that clutching hand; then, seeing what that hand had striven to hide, she shrank suddenly away, letting the boy’s inanimate form slip from her clasp; and, as she knelt there above him, her shapely body was seized with fierce tremors.

  So she knelt for a long moment until Spike sighed, shivered, and sat up, but beholding the look in her wide eyes, uttered a hoarse sound that was like a cry of fear and, starting from her nearness, crouched down, huddled upon his knees.

  Then Hermione rose and, turning to the old man, smiled with pallid lips.

  “You see—he’s all right—now!” she said. “If you’ll please go and tell Mrs. Trapes I’m leaving, I’ll get ready.” Obediently the Old Un rose.

  “Mrs. Trapes is a-gettin’ into her bonnet to come along wi’ us!” said he, and putting on his hat with a flourish, took his departure. When he was gone, Hermione turned and looked down at Spike, who, meeting her eyes, flinched as from a blow and made no effort to rise from his knees. So she packed her grip and dressed for the journey, while he watched her with eyes of mute appeal. Twice he would have spoken, but her look smote him to silence. At last, as she took up her suit case and turned to go, he implored her in a hoarse whisper, reaching out his arms to her: “Hermy!”

  But she shrank from his contact and, hastening from the room and along the little passage, closed the door and left him to his hopeless misery. As one in a dream she followed the old man down the stairs, was aware of his ushering her through the crowd of women and children who thronged about the big car. As one in a dream she found herself seated beside Mrs. Trapes, whose motherly solicitude she heeded no more than the bustle and traffic of the streets through which the swift car whirled her on and on until, turning, it swung in between massive gates and pulled up before a great, gloomy house.

  As one in a dream she ascended the broad steps, crossed a stately hall, was ushered up a noble stairway and along thick-carpeted corridors until at last she found herself in a darkened chamber where, his dark head conspicuous upon the white pillow, he lay. A nurse rose from beside the bed as Hermione entered and softly withdrew. Left alone, she stood for a long moment utterly still, her hands tightly clasped, her breath in check, gazing at that dark head upon the pillow, at that outstretched form lying so silent and so very still.

  “Hermione!”

  A feeble whisper, a sigh faintly breathed, but at the sound she had crossed the wide chamber on feet swift and noiseless, had sunk upon her knees beside the low bed to lean above him all murmurous love and sighing tenderness, while she stole a timid hand to touch the hair that curled upon his pallid brow; then, for all his helplessness, she flushed beneath his look.

  “How beautiful—you are!” he said faintly, “and I—weak as—confounded rat! Hermione—love, they tell me I—must die. But first I want you for—my very own if only for—a little while!”

  “Oh, my dear,” she whispered, soft mouth against his pale cheek, “I always was yours—yours from the very first; I always shall be.”

  “Then you’ll—marry me?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I—hoped you would, so—I arranged—minister’s waiting now. Will you—ring?” And he motioned feebly toward an electric bell-push that stood upon a small table beside the bed.

  And now once again as one in a dream she obeyed, and was presently aware of soft-treading figures about her in the dim chamber—among them the Old Un whose shoes for once creaked not at all. As one in a dream she made the responses, felt the feeble clasp of that hand whose strength and masterful power had thrilled her, heard the faint echo of that loved voice that had wooed her so passionately once, yet wooed in vain, while now—

  She was alone again, alone with him who lay so very still and pale with eyes closed wearily; from him she glanced to that which gleamed so bright and new upon her finger and bending her head she pressed the wedding ring to her lips.

  “Wife!” he whispered; the weary eyes were open, and his look drew her. So she knelt beside the bed again, stooping above him low and lower until her head lay beside his upon the pillow. Slowly, slowly his feeble hand crept up to her glowing cheek, to the soft waves of her hair, and to the little curl that wantoned above her eyebrow.

  “Hermione—wife—kiss me!”

  Tenderly her arms enfolded him, and with a soft little cry that was half a sob she kissed him, his brow, his hair, his lips, kissed him even while she wetted him with her falling tears.

 
; “Beloved,” he murmured, “my glorious—scrubwoman—if I must—leave you—these dear hands need never—never slave again. Never—any—more, my Hermione.”

  Long after he had fallen to sleep she knelt there, cradling his weakness in her arms, looking down on him with eyes bright with love.

  After this were days and nights when the soul of him wandered in dark places filled with chaotic dreams and wild fancies; but there was ever one beside him whose gentle voice reached him in the darkness, and whose tender hand hushed his delirium and soothed his woes and troubles.

  CHAPTER XXXV

  HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE CAME OUT OF THE DARK

  She was knitting; and opening sleepy eyes he watched drowsily and wondered what it might be and was minded to enquire, but sighed instead and fell asleep again.

  She was knitting; knitting something in red wool, and opening his eyes again, he lay watching awhile and pondered dreamily as to what it could be she wrought at so busily, for the wool was so very red and so extremely woolly.

  Her chin was set at an angle somewhat grim, she was sitting very upright in her chair and, though scrupulously hidden from sight, her elbows—truly how portentous were the undisguisable points of those elbows! And she was knitting fiercely in wool that was remarkably red and woolly.

  “Pray what is it, Mrs. Trapes?” A feeble whisper, but, at the sound, faint though it was, Mrs. Trapes started, half rose from her chair, sank down again heavily and letting fall her knitting, stared at the invalid.

  “Land sakes, alive!” she gasped.

  “Now you’ve dropped it!” said Ravenslee, his voice a little stronger.

  “Oh, dear beloved land o’ my fathers—it’s come!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands, “the Lord be praised for evermore, it’s come!”

  “What has?”

  “The turn! And you’ve took it! Doctor Dennison says last night as you’d take it soon one way or t’ other. But all night long while they waited and watched here, you’ve laid so pale an’ still as a corp’. An’ now, while I’m a-settin’ here, you go an’ take th’ turn so sudden as fair takes my breath away, Lord be praised! I mean—I mean—oh, I guess I’ll go wake the doctor.”