The Definite Object Part 72

"Brand, sir," murmured Brimberly, "a--er--certingly, sir."

"Good night, Brimberly."

"Good night, sir, but first can't I do--hanything?"

"Oh, yes, you do me, of course. You do me so consistently and well that I really ought to raise your wages. I'll think about it."

Mr. Brimberly stared, coughed, and fumbled for his whisker, whence his hand wandered to his brow and hovered there.

"I--I bid you good night, sir!"

"Oh, by the way, bring me the letters."

"Certingly, sir!" and crossing the room, Mr. Brimberly returned, bearing a salver piled high with letters, which he set at his master's elbow; this done, he bowed and went from the room, one hand still at his dazed brow.

Left alone, Ravenslee took up the letters one by one. Some he threw aside, some few he opened and glanced at carelessly; among these last was a telegram, and the words he saw were these:

"Meet me to-morrow sunset in the wood all shall be explained Hermy."

For a while he sat staring at this, then, laying it by, drew out a letter case from which he took another telegram bearing precisely the same message. Having compared them, he thrust them into his pocket, and filling his pipe, sat awhile smoking and lost in thought. At last, his pipe being out, he rose, stretched, and turned toward the door, but in the act of leaving the room, paused to take out and compare the telegrams again and so stood with puckered brow.

"'Hermy!'" he said softly. "'Hermione' is so much prettier. 'All shall be explained.' A little trite, perhaps! Oh, well--" So saying, he folded up the telegrams, switched off the lights and went to bed.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

OF TRAGEDY

It was close on the hour of sunset when Ravenslee stopped his car before a quiet hotel in Englewood and sprang out.

"Will you be long, sir?" enquired Joe, seating himself at the wheel and preparing to turn into the garage.

"Probably an hour, Joe."

"Very good, sir."

But as the big car turned, Ravenslee spoke over his shoulder.

"By the way, if I shouldn't be back in an hour, come and meet me." Then, having given Joe full and particular directions as to the little wood, he turned and went upon his way.

It had been a stifling day, and even now, though a soft air was abroad tempering the humid heat, when this light wind languished there was over all things a brooding stillness, foreboding storm. But Ravenslee strode on, unheeding dust and heat, hastening on to that which awaited him, full of strength and life and the zest of life, glad-hearted, and with pulses that throbbed in expectation. Thus, as the sun sank in fiery splendour, he reached the little wood. Evening was falling, and already, among the trees, shadows were deepening to twilight, but in the west was a flaming glory; and, upon the edge of the wood he turned to glance back at this radiance, splashes of gold and pink flushing to an ominous red.

For a long moment he stood to stare around about the solitary countryside, joying in life and the glory of it. Then he turned, with a smile on his lips, and stepped into the gloom of the wood. On he went, forcing his way through the under-brush until, reaching the clearing, he halted suddenly and faced about, fancying he had heard a rustle in the leaves hard by. Spike, cowering behind a bush with M'Ginnis's fingers gripping his arm, shivered and sweated and held his breath until Ravenslee moved on again, and, coming to a fallen tree, seated himself there and sat chin on fist, expectation in every tense line of him.

"Now!" whispered M'Ginnis hoa.r.s.ely, "get him now--before Hermy comes t'

him!" Shuddering, Spike levelled the weapon he held, but at that moment Ravenslee was filling his pipe, and something in this homely action checked the lad, paralysed finger on trigger, and shrinking, he cowered down upon the gra.s.s despite the fierce hand that gripped him. "Get him now, Kid--get him now! Aim f'r his chest--y' can't miss at this distance--"

"I--I can't, Bud!" gasped the boy, writhing, "I can't do it--I can't!"

Dropping the revolver, he hid his face in sweating hands and shivered.

From somewhere near by a woodp.e.c.k.e.r was tapping busily, but save for this no sound broke the pervading stillness, for the gentle wind had died away. But suddenly the quiet was rent and shivered, and Spike, deafened by the report, glanced up to see Ravenslee rise to his feet, stagger forward blindly, then, with arms outflung, pitch forward upon his face and lie there.

"By G.o.d, you--you've shot him, Bud!" he whimpered, "you--you've killed dear old Geoff--oh, my G.o.d!"

"Aw, quit--quit all that!" whispered M'Ginnis breathlessly, "that's what we came for, ain't it? What you lookin' at?"

"It lays so--still! so awful still!" Spike gasped.

"Well, what ye got t' go starin' at it that ways for? Come on--let's beat it; it's us for th' quick get-away in case any one heard. Come on, Kid!"

"But you've--killed Geoff!"

"I guess he don't need no more--'n' say, Kid, you're in on this job too, don't forget! Come on, it's little old N' York for ours!"

Though M'Ginnis dragged at him, Spike huddled limply on his knees, his glaring eyes always staring in the one direction; whereupon M'Ginnis cursed and left him.

But all at once, finding himself alone, to horror came fear, and stumbling to his feet Spike began to draw away from that awful thing that held his gaze; slowly he retreated, always going backwards, and though he stumbled often against tree and sapling, yet so long as it was in sight needs must he walk backwards. When at last a kindly bush hid it from his sight, he turned and ran--ran until, panting and wild-eyed, he burst from the wood and was out upon the open road. Even then he paused to stare back into that leafy gloom but saw and heard nothing. Then, uttering a moan, he turned and ran sobbing along the darkening road.

But, within that place of shadows, from amid the leaves of a certain great tree, dropped one who came beside that motionless form, and knelt there awhile. When at last he rose, a ring lay upon his open palm--a ring in the shape of two hands clasping each other; then, with this clenched in a pallid fist, he also turned and left that still and awful thing with its face hidden in last year's dead and rotting leaves.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

OF REMORSE

For three miserable days Spike had remained indoors, eating little, sleeping less, venturing abroad only at dusk to hurry back with the latest paper and, locked within his bedroom, to scan every scare head and column with eyes dilating in dreadful expectation of beholding the awful word--MURDER.

For three interminable days Hermione, going about her many duties slow of foot and listless, had scarcely heeded him, conscious only of her own pain, the agony of longing, the yearning ache that filled her, throbbing in every heart-beat--an ache that would not be satisfied. Thus, lost in her own new sorrow, she spoke seldom, sighed often, and sang not at all; often sitting at her sewing machine with hands strangely idle and gaze abstracted. Spike, watching furtively, had seen her eyes brim over with great, slow-falling tears; more than once he had heard her bitter weeping in the dawn. At such times he had yearned to comfort her, but between them was memory, dividing them like a wall--the memory of a still form with arms wide-tossed and face hidden among dead leaves. And at such times Spike writhed in the grip of horror and groaned under the gnawing fangs of remorse; sometimes he prayed wild, pa.s.sionate prayers, and sometimes he wetted his pillow with unavailing tears, while in his ears, like a small voice, soft and insistent, repeated over and over again, was the dread word MURDER. By day it haunted him also; it stared up at him from the white cloth of the breakfast table, forbidding him to eat; he read it on floor and walls and ceiling; he saw it in b.l.o.o.d.y characters that straggled across the very sky; wherever he turned his haggard gaze there he needs must read it.

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 gra.s.s 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?"