XV
THE TRADITION
The noises outside the little flat at first were very disconcertingafter living in the country. They made sleep difficult. At thecottage in Sussex where the family had lived, night brought deep,comfortable silence, unless the wind was high, when the pine treesround the duck-pond made a sound like surf, or if the gale was from thesouth-west, the orchard roared a bit unpleasantly.
But in London it was very different; sleep was easier in the daytimethan at night. For after nightfall the rumble of the traffic becamespasmodic instead of continuous; the motor-horns startled like warningsof alarm; after comparative silence the furious rushing of a taxi-cabtouched the nerves. From dinner till eleven o'clock the streetssubsided gradually; then came the army from theatres, parties, and latedinners, hurrying home to bed. The motor-horns during this hour werelively and incessant, like bugles of a regiment moving into battle.The parents rarely retired until this attack was over. If quick aboutit, sleep was possible then before the flying of the night-birds--anuncertain squadron--screamed half the street awake again. But,these finally disposed of, a delightful hush settled down upon theneighbourhood, profounder far than any peace of the countryside. Thedeep rumble of the produce wagons, coming in to the big London marketsfrom the farms--generally about three A.M.--held no disturbing quality.
But sometimes in the stillness of very early morning, when streetswere empty and pavements all deserted, there was a sound of anotherkind that was startling and unwelcome. For it was ominous. It came witha clattering violence that made nerves quiver and forced the heart topause and listen. A strange resonance was in it, a volume of sound,moreover, that was hardly justified by its cause. For it was hoofs. Ahorse swept hurrying up the deserted street, and was close upon thebuilding in a moment. It was audible suddenly, no gradual approach froma distance, but as though it turned a corner from soft ground thatmuffled the hoofs, on to the echoing, hard paving that emphasised thedreadful clatter. Nor did it die away again when once the house wasreached. It ceased as abruptly as it came. The hoofs did not go away.
It was the mother who heard them first, and drew her husband'sattention to their disagreeable quality.
"It is the mail-vans, dear," he answered. "They go at four A. M. tocatch the early trains into the country."
She looked up sharply, as though something in his tone surprised her.
"But there's no sound of wheels," she said. And then, as he did notreply, she added gravely, "You have heard it too, John. I can tell."
"I have," he said. "I have heard it--twice."
And they looked at one another searchingly, each trying to read theother's mind. She did not question him; he did not propose writing tocomplain in a newspaper; both understood something that neither of themunderstood.
"I heard it first," she then said softly, "the night before Jack gotthe fever. And as I listened, I heard him crying. But when I went in tosee he was asleep. The noise stopped just outside the building." Therewas a shadow in her eyes as she said this, and a hush crept in betweenher words. "I did not hear it _go_." She said this almost beneath herbreath.
He looked a moment at the ground; then, coming towards her, he tookher in his arms and kissed her. And she clung very tightly to him.
"Sometimes," he said in a quiet voice, "a mounted policeman passes downthe street, I think."
"It is a horse," she answered. But whether it was a question or merecorroboration he did not ask, for at that moment the doctor arrived,and the question of little Jack's health became the paramount matter ofimmediate interest. The great man's verdict was uncommonly disquieting.
All that night they sat up in the sick room. It was strangely still, asthough by one accord the traffic avoided the house where a little boyhung between life and death. The motor-horns even had a muffled sound,and heavy drays and wagons used the wide streets; there were fewertaxicabs about, or else they flew by noiselessly. Yet no straw wasdown; the expense prohibited that. And towards morning, very early, themother decided to watch alone. She had been a trained nurse before hermarriage, accustomed when she was younger to long vigils. "You go down,dear, and get a little sleep," she urged in a whisper. "He's quiet now.At five o'clock I'll come for you to take my place."
"You'll fetch me at once," he whispered, "if----" then hesitated asthough breath failed him. A moment he stood there staring from herface to the bed. "If you hear anything," he finished. She nodded, andhe went downstairs to his study, not to his bedroom. He left the doorajar. He sat in darkness, listening. Mother, he knew, was listening,too, beside the bed. His heart was very full, for he did not believethe boy could live till morning. The picture of the room was all thetime before his eyes--the shaded lamp, the table with the medicines,the little wasted figure beneath the blankets, and mother close besideit, listening. He sat alert, ready to fly upstairs at the smallest cry.
But no sound broke the stillness; the entire neighbourhood was silent;all London slept. He heard the clock strike three in the dining-room atthe end of the corridor. It was still enough for that. There was noteven the heavy rumble of a single produce wagon, though usually theypassed about this time on their way to Smithfield and Covent Gardenmarkets. He waited, far too anxious to close his eyes.... At fouro'clock he would go up and relieve her vigil. Four, he knew, was thetime when life sinks to its lowest ebb.... Then, in the middle of hisreflections, thought stopped dead, and it seemed his heart stopped too.
Far away, but coming nearer with extraordinary rapidity, a sharp,clear sound broke out of the surrounding stillness--a horse's hoofs.At first it was so distant that it might have been almost on the highroads of the country, but the amazing speed with which it came closer,and the sudden increase of the beating sound, was such, that by thetime he turned his head it seemed to have entered the street outside.It was within a hundred yards of the building. The next second it wasbefore the very door. And something in him blenched. He knew a moment'scomplete paralysis. The abrupt cessation of the heavy clatter wasstrangest of all. It came like lightning, it struck, it paused. It didnot go away again. Yet the sound of it was still beating in his earsas he dashed upstairs three steps at a time. It seemed in the house aswell, on the stairs behind him, in the little passage-way, _inside thevery bedroom_. It was an appalling sound. Yet he entered a room thatwas quiet, orderly, and calm. It was silent. Beside the bed his wifesat, holding Jack's hand and stroking it. She was soothing him; herface was very peaceful. No sound but her gentle whisper was audible.
He controlled himself by a tremendous effort, but his face betrayedhis consternation and distress. "Hush," she said beneath her breath;"he's sleeping much more calmly now. The crisis, bless God, is over, Ido believe. I dared not leave him."
He saw in a moment that she was right, and an untenable relief passedover him. He sat down beside her, very cold, yet perspiring with heat.
"You heard----?" he asked after a pause.
"Nothing," she replied quickly, "except his pitiful, wild words whenthe delirium was on him. It's passed. It lasted but a moment, or I'dhave called you."
He stared closely into her tired eyes. "And his words?" he asked in awhisper. Whereupon she told him quietly that the little chap had sat upwith wide-opened eyes and talked excitedly about a "great, great horse"he heard, but that was not "coming for him." "He laughed and said hewould not go with it because he 'was not ready yet.' Some scrap of talkhe had overheard from us," she added, "when we discussed the trafficonce...."
"But you heard nothing?" he repeated almost impatiently.
No, she had heard nothing. After all, then, he _had_ dozed a moment inhis chair....
Four weeks later Jack, entirely convalescent, was playing a restrictedgame of hide-and-seek with his sister in the flat. It was really aforbidden joy, owing to noise and risk of breakages, but he had unusualprivileges after his grave illness. It was dusk. The lamps in thestreet were being lit. "Quietly, remember; your mother's resting in herroom," were the father's orders. She had just returned from a week bythe
sea, recuperating from the strain of nursing for so many nights.The traffic rolled and boomed along the streets below.
"Jack! Do come on and hide. It's your turn. I hid last."
But the boy was standing spellbound by the window, staring hard atsomething on the pavement. Sybil called and tugged in vain. Tearsthreatened. Jack would not budge. He declared he saw something.
"Oh, you're always seeing something. I wish you'd go and hide. It'sonly because you can't think of a good place, really."
"Look!" he cried in a voice of wonder. And as he said it his fatherrose quickly from his chair before the fire.
"Look!" the child repeated with delight and excitement. "It's a greatbig horse. And it's perfectly white all over." His sister joined him atthe window. "Where? Where? I can't see it. Oh, _do_ show me!"
Their father was standing close behind them now. "I heard it," he waswhispering, but so low the children did not notice him. His face wasthe colour of chalk.
"Straight in front of our door, stupid! Can't you see it? Oh, I do wishit had come for me. It's _such_ a beauty!" And he clapped his handswith pleasure and excitement. "Quick, quick! It's going away again!"
But while the children stood half-squabbling by the window, theirfather leaned over a sofa in the adjoining room above a figure whoseheart in sleep had quietly stopped its beating. The great white horsehad come. But this time he had not only heard its wonderful arrival. Hehad also heard it go. It seemed he heard the awful hoofs beat down thesky, far, far away, and very swiftly, dying into silence, finally upamong the stars.
THE END.
Transcriber's Note
Spelling, hyphenation and punctuation have been retained as in theoriginal publication except as follows:
Page 1 in the familar scenery _changed to_ in the familiar scenery
Page 137 that the search partly had gone _changed to_ that the search party had gone
Page 183 which disintegrate the herioc soul _changed to_ which disintegrate the heroic soul
Page 185 where they had their birth: _changed to_ where they had their birth.
Page 204 this Tessaract was bounded _changed to_ this tessaract was bounded
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