“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.