The Long Night
Storm turned from the window with a sudden realization that his task,
instead of having been finished, had only begun. If he were to keep up
this farce it would not be enough to attempt to obliterate from his
memory the hour which had just passed; he must live from this moment
as though it had never been. He must remember that, tempted by the
beauty of the spring night, he had not come directly home by way of
the short cut, but had chosen the winding path which skirted the club
grounds and the lake. That would account for the time that had elapsed
since the arrival and departure of the train.
He had only just come in, and finding the house dark had proceeded at
once up here to his room. He would suppose Leila to be asleep in
there, behind that closed door, and he would therefore move about
softly, so as not to waken her. Every nerve shrank in revolt from the
thought of retiring, of courting sleep and the nightmares which might
arise from his subconsciousness to haunt him, yet he must proceed in
all things as though this were but a usual homecoming.
He must at least prepare for bed. He reached for the pendant chain of
the reading lamp and then paused. The servants’ rooms were directly
above; what if the bright square of light shining from his open window
awoke one of them and she came downstairs? The next minute he was
cursing himself beneath his breath. Was his light not often going as
late as this, or later, and had he ever before paused to think or care
whether it disturbed the servants or not? Tonight must be as all other
nights! Why could he not bear that in mind?
Nevertheless, he crossed to the window once more and closed the
shutters; that concession, at least, was not an unusual precaution,
for an early night moth or two, lured by the prematurely warm weather,
had already made its appearance. Then he turned on the light
resolutely and started to undress. The suit he was wearing was of dark
blue serge with a white pin-head stripe, and as he divested himself of
it a new thought sprang up to his mind. Suppose it, too, bore
traces——? That head with its shattered, gaping wound had rested
against his knee. . . .
Seizing the garments he moved close to the bed-stand, and beneath the
powerful rays of the lamp he examined every thread with straining
eyes. No stain was visible; even his shirt cuffs by a miracle had
escaped contact, and with a sigh of relief he plunged his hands in the
various pockets to remove his keys and small change.
The first object his fingers touched was the burnt match with which he
had ignited the spirit lamp, and impatiently he filliped it out of the
window.
Everything was there in his pockets which he normally carried except
his handkerchief. That was gone, reduced to ashes and flung to the
winds of the night; but it would not have been had his homecoming been
as he must pretend even to himself.
Storm frowned. He would in all likelihood never wear that suit again;
even if it were not for the fact that mourning garb alone must be his
for many months to come, he could still never look upon it again,
remembering . . . .
He thrust that thought violently aside and continued with his
reasoning. Agnes always went through the pockets of the clothes he had
worn during the week for stray handkerchiefs when she was collecting
the laundry. Would she note that he had used one less than usual?
It was not so much the fear of that, however, as the mental urge to
play up to his part, to make all things seem as though that hour in
the den had never been, that prompted Storm to go to his dresser and
take a fresh handkerchief from the drawer. Without effeminacy, his
fastidious taste inclined toward a dash of delicate scent, and several
varieties stood before him.
Tentatively he lifted a bottle of rose toilet water, but the first
whiff of fragrance made him replace it with a shudder. It brought back
too vividly the remembrance of that garden below where the opening
buds were even now scattered with filmy ashes. The lilac water he also
thrust aside—Leila had met him at the gate only a week before with her
arms filled with white lilac, and as she stood there, her head looming
fair and golden above them, he had thought her very like a picture of
the Annunciation . . . .
Finally he sprayed a few drops of eau de Cologne on the handkerchief
and stuffed it in the pocket of his coat lying across the chair. Then,
clad in his pajamas, he glanced at the clock on the mantel.
Half-past twelve! It would be half-past six in the ordinary course of
events when Agnes would descend to dust the first floor and set the
breakfast table. Six hours to wait! Three hundred and sixty slow,
dragging minutes! How could he ever live through them? How did the
condemned spend the last hours before the end? He had read, marveling,
that some hardy criminals slept unconcernedly, some raved, some
prayed . . . .
God, why did such hideous thoughts intrude themselves now? He would
never stand in their shoes, no breath of suspicion would ever approach
him; he had laid his plans too well, had fortified himself against any
contingency which might arise. The scene had been perfectly staged
with not a detail missing to break the continuity of the version of
what had occurred which must impress itself upon those who would view
it.
Crossing the room, he seated himself on the side of the bed and
lighted a cigarette. He could keep the light going a little longer
without occasioning remark should one of the maids wake up, for he had
often read until past one. He must not overdo it, though; he must not
overdo anything. That would be the one great danger; he must hold
himself impervious against self-betrayal.
He smoked cigarette after cigarette until a single stroke tinkled from
the little clock, and, rousing himself from his reverie, Storm reached
over and extinguished the lamp. The darkness seemed sinister,
overwhelming, but as his eyes gradually accustomed themselves to it he
saw pale, silvery moonbeams creeping in between the slats of the
shutters, lying in shimmering bars across the floor and lightening the
gloom with a faint, almost spiritual effulgence. The stillness of the
night, too, was all at once broken by a myriad sounds which had not
penetrated his consciousness before: strange creaks and groans in the
walls as though something invisible were abroad, sibilant whispers in
the chimney and the liquid, monotonous tap of water dripping from the
faucet in the bathroom. Outside, the wind blew gustily, and somewhere
about the house a loose shutter banged with a dismal, hollow sound.
What a hideous thing night was! There was something about it which
loosened a fellow’s thoughts, freed them from his stern control and
let them wander where they would, unrestrained. Only one other such
vigil had Storm kept: that of the crisis in Leila’s desperate illness
after their marriage. Every hour of it was branded on his brain, every
detail arose again to attack his senses: the pungent, penetrating odor
of carbolic, that strange, high voice which babbled and was still, the
white-clad nurse, gravely noncommittal, shutting the door behind which
he might not pass, the taste of his own blood as he caught his lip
between his teeth to keep back the groan of utter despair.
The night then had seemed interminable, but in the end had come the
glorious promise that she would live! Now the dawn would bring only
tidings of death, but he would not call her back again if he could;
would not undo what he had done even if it lay in his power. His Leila
had never existed; the pedestal was empty, that was all!
Gad, if only he could smoke! His nerves shrieked for the solace of
nicotine, but he dared not light another cigarette. The smoke curling
up from his opened window to that of one of the maids upstairs would
tell her, should she also be awake, that her master was keeping vigil
there in the darkness alone. She would think nothing of it now,
perhaps, but later when the discovery was made she might wonder. He
must manage, somehow, to get through the night without even the slight
comfort that he craved!
With a whirring of soft wings, some tiny creature of the night came
and beat upon the shutter, and Storm started violently. The bars of
moonlight had traveled a barely perceptible inch or two across the
floor, and from the distance there came the crowning note of
desolation: the long-drawn, mournful howling of a dog.
Storm shivered. An old superstition which his Irish nurse had
instilled into his mind in the nursery days swept over him. A dog’s
howl was the sign of death! _How could the beast know?_ In all that
sleeping countryside, there was one who shared his vigil, one who
raised his voice in warning and lament!
Storm rose and, tiptoeing to the window, opened the shutters wide and
fastened them noiselessly back against the house wall while he
strained his eyes in the direction from which the dismal baying of the
dog rose once more. Was it nearer now? Could it be that the beast, led
by some instinct more subtle and unerring than man could fathom, had
picked up the scent—the scent of the drifting ashes? Bridget had told
him that a dog could sense the presence of death though it were miles
away and would come to cry the news of it. What if the creature were
to appear suddenly there between the trees and leap across the lawn to
crouch beneath the curtained window of the den downstairs and howl its
dread message?
The next minute Storm’s tense attitude relaxed. What a fool he was to
be stirred by the idle superstition of an old-wives’ tale! His nerves
must be going back on him, what with that accursed howling and the
shifting shadows of the moonlight which were worse than utter darkness
could be. Would it never end?
As if in answer the mellow chime of the clock sounded upon his ears.
It must be three o’clock at least, possibly four——! He waited
breathlessly. A second note pealed forth softly to die away in a
vibrating echo, and then silence. Only two o’clock! Nearly five hours
more! God, could he endure it and keep his sanity? Doyle’s gruesome
story of Lady Sannox came to his mind. Would he be found in the
morning as the great physician had been after the night of horror, a
gibbering idiot trying to thrust both feet into one leg of his
trousers and babbling meaninglessly? Lady Sannox had been unfaithful,
too, but it was the lover, not the husband, who paid!
He forced the hideous picture from his thoughts and turned for one
final glance at the garden below. How still everything was! The
howling of the dog had ceased, and the wind had died down to a mere
rustling, whispering breeze. The moonlight, too, was paling, and
beneath its waning radiance the garden still slumbered undisturbed as
it had when he cast the ashes forth upon the air. From these ashes
would spring the phoenix, not of love, but of murder; of hatred,
vengeance and the lust to kill! What had he not loosed upon the world!
He covered his eyes as if to shut out the scene of false peace, of
menacing, brooding calm before the crimson dawn; and staggering back
to the bed, he sank down upon it once more. The touch of the smooth,
cool linen beneath his fevered hand steadied him and brought a moment
of tranquility to his reeling senses, but he could not stretch himself
out upon it. The space beside him where Leila had so often lain was
blank and empty, yet oddly her presence seemed near. He could almost
hear her light tap upon the connecting door, almost see it open and
her slender, white-clad form appear with the two heavy ropes of golden
hair falling over her shoulders. She would come to him swiftly,
tenderly, and he would take her in his arms and hold her close . . . .
But no tapping came upon the door, no form appeared, his arms were
empty! Great God, why could he not forget!
The clock struck three, the moonlight faded and vanished, swallowed up
in the darkest hour which comes before the dawn, and still Storm
crouched there at the bed’s foot sunk in a reverie of retrospection.
In just such another springtime as this they had gone upon their
honeymoon. The awe and ecstasy of those days like a half-forgotten
fragrance stole again over his spirit and thrilled him anew. How
wonderful she had been, how wondrously sweet her shy confidences, her
little outbursts of tenderness, her bewitching, bewildering changes of
mood! How he reveled in each new phase of her nature as it revealed
itself to him; how he had worshipped her, gloried in the possession of
her! In the golden years that followed, the first ecstasy had not
faded; it had but stabilized, deepened into a steady glow of
unquestioning devotion, and the honeymoon had never really ended until
this hour!
Impotently he struck his forehead with his clenched fist. Why must he
go on thinking, thinking! The past was dead, buried beyond hope of
resurrection! Why must it come trooping back to rob him of his
strength and lull him to forgetfulness of the immediate future and the
crisis which impended? The night had been years long! Would it never
come to an end? Would this hideous darkness envelop him forever?
Four o’clock! Thank God, he had missed an hour! Only two more now, or
three at the most, and then the cry of alarm would come winging up
from below and the curtain would rise!
A chill dampness as of the grave itself stole in at the window, and
Storm shivered although he was bathed in sweat. His pulse slowed and
weakness descended upon him, while a swift, unnerving fear laid its
clammy hands upon his throat.
He fought it off desperately. This was the dreaded hour before the
dawn, the hour of lowered vitality when life’s guard is down and death
stalks in upon those awaiting it, those whose time has come and who
slip out into the unknown quietly, peacefully. But for those who are
hurled into it suddenly, hideously, by shot or stab or crashing
blow——!
He dropped his wretched head upon his hands. This was madness! He must
not succumb to it, he must marshal his resources, steady his brain,
gather strength for the coming of day!
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the darkness was changing from black to
gray. The eastern sky was unbroken, but a mist which could rather be
felt than seen was rising from the darker shadows, and the wind had
been succeeded by a dead calm. A hushed expectancy seemed to brood
over the world, and Storm waited, too, dreading yet longing for the
end of this prolonged suspense.
The clock ticked with maddening precision, and he tried to count the
minutes, to keep his traitorous thoughts from wandering into
dangerous, forbidden channels. His weakness had fallen from him, his
pulse quickened and a mounting excitement drove from him all thought
of fear. He would be ready when the time came to meet the issue. But
would the time ever come?
There were faint gray streaks in the sky now, the shadows had
sharpened and suddenly, piercingly, a cock crew. Storm welcomed the
strident sound with uplifted head and squared shoulders. The dawn was
coming at last!
He turned, crossed his arms on the foot of the bed and, resting his
chin upon them, stared out through the open window at the lightening
sky.
Five liquid, mellow notes sounded from the mantel, and he smiled
grimly. One hour more and he could begin to listen for the maid’s step
upon the stair! His nerves were tingling in anticipation, and without
urging his thoughts leaped ahead. He must be ready when the cry came,
but not too obviously prepared. Surprise must come before alarm,
consternation before a show of grief. The maid herself must lead him
to her discovery. His face and manner must reveal no slightest inkling
of his knowledge of the truth.
Both of the servants were undeniably stupid. He had anathematized them
many a time for their crass density and ignorance, but now he blessed
it. They would suspect nothing, would seize upon any explanation of
the tragedy which was subtly planted in their shallow brains and make
it their own.
Of the outsiders, Carr must be called in first. He was a country
practitioner of the old-fashioned sort who had been established there
when Greenlea was known as Whigham’s Corners, and croup and gout with
their intermediate ills had been the range of his experience. He, too,
could be counted upon to see only what was placed before him, and the
details of the aftermath could safely be left in his hands.
A score of vague, anticipatory visions passed through Storm’s brain.
How shocked the crowd out here would be; and old George! He was
probably fast asleep now, filling the air with contented snores. What
would he say and do when the early edition of the evening papers
brought the tidings to him? Storm thanked heaven that neither he nor
Leila had relatives to come flocking with tears and questions and
advice. He would be free at least from prying eyes beneath his own
roof after the official medical inquiry had been concluded.
Gray turned to rose in the eastern sky, the mist lifted, and the world
showed delicately green beneath it. The lone cock’s crowing had been
augmented by a chorus, and the birds stirred and twittered in the
trees. All life was waking to greet the new day, but Leila. . . .
What time was it? Storm rose weakly and tottered to the mantel. The
clock’s face was plainly visible in the half-light, and he drew his
breath sharply. Five minutes to six!
The pink glow deepened to crimson, and the sun in a blaze of glory
peeped over the low-lying hills, but Storm did not see the spectacle
for which he had waited through interminable tortured hours. He had
caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and stood gazing in
incredulous dismay at the face which gazed back at him. Could it be
his own with that sickly, bluish pallor, unshaven jaw, and haunted,
sunken eyes which stared from dark-rimmed sockets?
Great heavens, if he appeared like that before even the servants his
guilt would be patent to all the world!—But would it? The maids would
surely be too agitated to note him in the shock of the discovery; and
later, when the doctor came, horror and natural grief would account
for the change in his appearance. His night of vigil had provided him
with that which would perhaps be an asset rather than a danger.
What was that? He whirled about and stood listening. The floors and
ceilings were thick, and no ordinary sound could penetrate from above;
but had he not heard a step upon the stair? He waited in an intensity
of strained attention, for several moments. The silence within the
house remained unbroken.
With a sigh he glanced back at the clock. It must have struck the hour
while he stood glaring at the apparition the mirror had revealed, for
now the hands pointed to a quarter after six. Could it be that
perverse fate would ordain that the maids should over-sleep this day
of all days and prolong his agony?
Then his glance fell upon the bed. Its pillows were smooth and
untouched, its covers creased but not tumbled about. The veriest child
could see that it had not been slept in, the most casual glance would
reveal the secret of his night-long vigil!
In three strides he had reached it and thrown back the covers,
pommeling the pillows and crumpling the sheets. What a narrow escape!
He paused, breathless, when his task was completed and gazed fearfully
about him for other overlooked evidence.
His light had been burning until one o’clock. Hastily he picked up a
book at random from those on the table and opening it laid it face
downward upon the bed-stand. The stubs and ashes of the cigarettes he
had smoked would occasion no remark; and the most painstakingly minute
scrutiny failed to reveal any other incongruity in the room.
While he paused anew a sound came to his ears about which there could
be no doubt; cautious but naturally heavy footsteps were descending
the stairs from above. His heart leaped, and the blood raced in his
veins, but he stood motionless as the steps passed his door and
descended again.
It would come now, the cry for which he had waited! He held his breath
until his ear-drums seemed bursting, and the minutes lengthened, but
still the summons did not come. What could the girl be doing? Would
she set all the other rooms to rights before approaching the den, or
did she mean to shirk it altogether? Surely that streak of artificial
light burning in the daytime must catch her eye as she passed along
the hall! Was she gossiping with the milkman, idling on the porch? The
suspense was unbearable!
He had borne with it through the long watches of the night, but now he
could contain himself no longer. Every nerve was strained to the
breaking point, and his nails bit into the flesh of his clenched
hands. Was this agony to be stretched out interminably?
And then it came at last! A piercing, prolonged scream rang suddenly
through the quiet house, to break and rise again, echoing back from
the very walls.
Storm dropped his head in his hands, and an answering cry of
unconscious blasphemy trembled on his lips.
“Thank God!”