The Truth
“I am the resurrection and the life——” The white-frocked minister’s
voice rose solemnly above the subdued rustlings and sighing whispers
in the little vine-wreathed church, and the stirring ceased. A robin
peered in curiously at one of the open windows from his perch on a
maple bough and chirped inquiringly, and the scent of lilacs was
wafted in from the rector’s garden to mingle with the heavier
fragrance of lilies and white roses heaped about the casket at the
altar steps.
It was such a small casket, almost like that of a child, and fairly
buried beneath the weight of the floral offerings which banked it; a
varied collection of offerings, for the costliest of hot-house set
pieces mingled with sheaves of home-grown blossoms, and rare orchids
nestled beside humble wild violets, but each had their place.
The congregation, too, was a heterogeneous one. Rich and poor, smart
and shabby, the country club colony and the villagers met in a common
democracy to do honor to their dead friend.
“The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away——” The minister went on to
the end, and then the voices of a hidden choir chanted softly: “Lord,
thou hast been our refuge: from one generation to another . . . .”
In the front pew Norman Storm rested his sleek head upon his
black-gloved hand, and George Holworthy beside him cleared his throat
huskily. In the moment of stillness which followed the Psalm, a
woman’s sob rose from somewhere back in the church, the sound jangling
in Storm’s ears like a touch upon naked nerves.
The last act of the farce, and then peace! Peace in which to plan for
the future, to gain strength with which to shut out vain, maddening
memories, to meet and cope with the change which his own act had
wrought in his life. But would peace come?
Everything had gone smoothly; his scheme to evade justice and preserve
himself from danger had been crowned with success; but in fortifying
himself against suspicion and accusation from outside, he had not
thought that a more subtle enemy might arise to be faced and
vanquished or forever hold him in miserable thrall.
His love for Leila had not died with her. Despite her unfaithfulness,
to the thought of which he clung doggedly, he could not exorcise her
gentle influence. Everything in the house spoke mutely to him of her,
everywhere he turned were evidences of her care and thoughtfulness and
charm. In vain he reminded himself that it was over and done with, a
closed chapter never to be recalled. He was beginning to fear himself,
to dread the hours of solitude ahead as much as he looked forward to
them. The voice of his conscience was whispering, threatening, and he
must silence it or know no peace.
George glanced furtively at him now and then as the service went on,
but he gave no sign. It drew to a close at last, and still he sat
there immersed in his own thoughts until a touch upon his arm roused
him to a consciousness of the present. Half-way down the aisle Richard
and Julie Brewster with exalted faces and hands clasped like children
stood aside to let him pass, but he did not even see them, and those
who pressed forward and would have spoken paused at sight of his face.
Pitying shocked murmurs followed him as he and George stepped into the
car, but he did not heed them, and the long ride to the cemetery
progressed in silence.
The brief, simple service of committal, the clods of earth falling
dully, heavily into the grave and then came the interminable drive
home. George’s glances were less furtive now, more openly charged with
amazement. Storm had not shed a tear, had not vouchsafed an utterance
of emotion throughout those solemn hours. His friends wondered how
great the reaction would be from such long, pent-up grief, and as they
swept into the driveway before the silent, empty house which awaited
them he ventured a suggestion.
“Norman, don’t you want to pack up and come and stay in town with me
for a few days? The change will do you good and give you time to—to
get used to things.”
Storm stifled the exasperated rejoinder which rose to his lips and
replied quietly:
“Thanks, old man, but I want to be here, alone. I’ve got to face facts
sooner or later, to bring myself to a realization that she has gone,
and I’m better off here.”
“Well, maybe that’s so,” George conceded. “Country air’s the best, and
I’ll run out now and then to cheer you up. You’ll take to playing golf
again after a bit——”
“Don’t!” The cry was wrung from Storm’s very soul. Never again would
he hold a golf-stick in his hands! He could see now before him that
driver with the dark stains spattered upon it, and he recoiled
shuddering from the apparition, while George inwardly cursed his own
tactlessness, the while wholly ignorant of how his clumsy, well-meant
effort at consolation had pierced the armor of the other man’s
self-control.
The fickle May sunshine vanished, and before the coming of twilight a
bank of heavy gray clouds formed in the west, presaging a storm. They
made a pretense of dining, while the rising wind swept gustily about
the house and moaned in the chimneys like a thing in pain.
Storm still preserved his stoic calm, and George’s perturbation grew.
It wasn’t natural, wasn’t like the Norman he had known from college
days. The younger man had always been outwardly reserved, but such
stern, almost deliberate self-repression was new to him and filled his
friend with vague alarm.
“You didn’t close your eyes during the night before last, and you
couldn’t have slept much last night, Norman, for I heard you walking
the floor at all hours,” he remarked. “Don’t you think it would be
well to call in Carr and have him look you over and give you something
quieting? You’ll be ill if you keep this up.”
“I’m all right!” Storm responded with a touch of impatience. “Don’t
worry about me, George. I’ll turn in early and by to-morrow I’ll get a
fresh grip on myself——”
“I think you’ve got too tight a grip on yourself as it is,” George
interrupted.
“What do you mean?” Storm shot the question at him almost fiercely.
Was he under surveillance, his every mood and gesture subject to
analysis? Why couldn’t the other let him alone?
“You’re not meeting this normally,” replied George in all seriousness.
“Hang it all, I’d rather see you violent than like this! There’s
something horrible about your calmness, the way you are clamping down
your feelings! If you would just give way——”
“I can’t,” Storm protested in the first wholly honest speech which had
passed his lips. “I’m all frozen up. For God’s sake, don’t nag me,
George, because I’m about all in!”
The other subsided, but Storm could feel his eyes upon him, and their
mute solicitude drove him to an inward frenzy. At all costs he must
get away from that insistent scrutiny! He would lock himself in his
room, feign sleep, illness, anything! George had served his turn, and
Storm thanked fortune that business would of necessity demand the
fussy, faithful little man’s presence in town the next day.
He was casting about for an excuse as they rose from the table when
all at once the front door knocker sounded faintly, almost
apologetically.
“I can’t see anyone! I won’t!” The haggard lines deepened about
Storm’s mouth. “In Heaven’s name, can’t they respect my—my grief? I’m
going upstairs. George, you get rid of them. Send them away, whoever
they are!”
But George did not send them away. Listening from above, Storm heard
the front door open and close, heard George’s low rumble, and a reply
in higher but softly modulated feminine tones. Then came a masculine
voice which made him grip the stair rail in sudden fury not unmixed
with consternation.
Richard Brewster! It couldn’t be; the fellow would not dare intrude
his presence here, even though he fancied his secret unshared by any
living soul! But that was unmistakably Julie’s voice raised in almost
tearful pleading, and then Brewster spoke again.
What had brought them here? Why didn’t George get rid of them as he
had been told to do? Could it be that Julie had discovered the truth
of her husband’s unfaithfulness, and with a woman’s hysterical notion
of justice had brought Brewster here to force his confession to the
man he had wronged? It was evident from the sounds that reached his
ears that George was showing them into the library, was taking it upon
himself to disregard Storm’s express commands. Damn them all! Why
couldn’t they let him alone?
A brief colloquy ensued, and then George mounted the stairs.
“Look here!” he began in a sepulchral whisper. “It’s the Brewsters,
Norman, and I think you ought to see them for a minute. There’s
something they want to tell you——”
“I don’t want to hear it!” interrupted Storm fiercely. “Good God, man,
can’t you see I’m in no condition to listen to a lot of vapid
condolences? I told you to send them away!”
“I would have done so, but I think you ought to let them tell you,”
George insisted with the meek, unyielding tenacity which the other man
had always found exasperating. “Julie Brewster is terribly wrought up;
she says that in justice to—to Leila’s memory you must hear what she
has to say.”
In justice to Leila’s memory! Storm gave a sudden, involuntary start.
There could be no ambiguity about that phrase. With a feeling as if
the world were crashing down about his ears, he thrust George
unceremoniously aside and descended the stairs.
They were standing side by side on the hearth rug awaiting him, Julie
in tears but with her face bravely lifted to his, Brewster meeting his
eyes without a tremor.
“It is good of you to see us, Mr. Storm.” Julie was making an obvious
effort to control her emotion. “We wouldn’t have intruded, but I
wanted you to know the truth; I couldn’t bear the thought that the
shadow of even the slightest misunderstanding should rest between you
and—and Leila’s memory now, especially when it was all my fault.”
“‘Your fault’?” Storm repeated. “Sit down, please. I don’t
understand——”
“We won’t detain you long, old man.” It was Brewster who spoke, but
his words failed to pierce the tumult in the other’s brain. “We felt
it would comfort you as much as anything could to know that almost her
last thought on earth had been for the happiness of others.”
Storm’s eyes had never left the woman’s face, and to their mute
command she responded:
“I’m not going to try your patience with a long story of my own
foolishness, but I did a wicked, selfish thing in dragging poor Leila
into my troubles just to save myself. She was so generous, so
self-sacrificing that she did not murmur at the risk to herself, and I
never realized until she—she was dead that I might have been the cause
of a misunderstanding between you at the very last. It has almost
killed me to think of it, and I simply had to come and tell you the
truth about the whole affair!”
Storm tried to collect his reeling senses, but only one clear thought
came to his rescue. These people must never know, never suspect that
any trouble had arisen between him and Leila.
He steadied his voice with an effort at composure.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Brewster. If my poor wife was able
to help you out of any difficulty—I am glad, but I know nothing of it.
You speak of a risk——?”
“Yes. I have been very foolish—wilfully, blindly foolish—in the way
I’ve acted for weeks past.” She paused and then hurried on
shamefacedly. “You see, I thought Dick was neglecting me, and to pay
him out I’ve been flirting outrageously with Ted Mattison. Leila tried
to influence me, but I wouldn’t listen to her, and when Dick woke up
to what was going on and ordered me not even to speak to Ted again I—I
resented it and defied him.
“Last Monday I motored out to the Ferndale Inn for lunch alone with
Ted, and some horrid, gossipy people were there who knew how I’d been
trotting about. I didn’t think they had caught a glimpse of Ted then,
but I was sure that if they had recognized me they would put two and
two together and tell Dick, and I was afraid; terribly afraid, for
Dick had threatened to leave me if I disobeyed him.
“As soon as I reached home that afternoon I rushed to Leila, told her
the whole thing and made her promise to say that she had been to the
Inn with me. It never occurred to me that that promise would make her
tell you a lie; I’m afraid I didn’t think about anything except the
trouble I was in and how I could manage to get out of it.”
So that was it! They had come to explain about that paltry lie!
Brewster dared to stand there while his wife made her trivial
confession, while all the time—! A turbulent flame of rage arose in
Storm’s heart, but he quelled it rigorously. Caution, now! Brewster
must not suspect!
“I knew that my wife had not been with you.” Could that be his own
voice speaking with such quiet restraint? “In fact, I had seen her
myself in town at noon, although she did not know it. Please don’t
distress yourself further, Mrs. Brewster; I know what her errand was
in town and why she wished to keep it from me.”
“Oh!” Julie started for a moment and then added miserably: “Leila was
sure that you guessed she had fibbed to you. The very next day—the
last day of her life!—she begged me to absolve her from her promise,
for she said you had seemed so strange and cold to her that morning
she was afraid you suspected, and it was the first time she had ever
told you an untruth!”
“She must have imagined a change in my attitude,” Storm said hastily.
“I was preoccupied and in a hurry to get to town, but that little
white lie never gave me a moment’s uneasiness. I would have chaffed
her about it only I did not want to spoil her surprise.”
“Surprise!” Julie echoed.
“Yes. When I had seen her in town the day before she was just coming
out of Alpheus Jaffray’s office in the Leicester Building.” He felt a
measure of grim satisfaction at Brewster’s uncontrollable start. “She
had been there to arrange to purchase from him the trout stream which
adjoins the property here and which he had refused to sell me; you
know as well as the rest of the crowd what a veritable feud has
existed between the old fellow and me. I learned the truth from my
attorney, whom Leila had consulted previously about the transaction.
My poor wife intended it as a birthday surprise for me. My birthday is
to-day—to-day!”
He turned away to hide the rage which was fast getting beyond his
control at the smug, hypocritical presence of that other man, but his
emotion was misread by both his companions.
“To-day! How terrible for you, Storm!” began Brewster, but his wife
sobbed:
“If Leila had only guessed! But that untruth made her positively
wretched! Why, when I telephoned to her late that night and she came
out to meet me——”
“You telephoned to her! She met you——!” The room whirled and grew
black before Storm’s eyes, and the woman’s voice, although clear and
distinct, seemed to come from far away.
“Yes. I’d had a terrible row with Dick when he came home that night,
and I knew he had heard something more about Ted, though I didn’t know
what. I was nearly crazy, Mr. Storm, and when he rushed out of the
house in anger I ’phoned Leila and begged her to meet me and help me;
tell me what to do! She had promised that afternoon to come to me if I
needed her. You had gone to the station with Mr. Holworthy when I
called up, and Leila did meet me, at the edge of the golf course.
“She urged me to tell Dick everything, but I wouldn’t. I might just as
well have done so, though, for those horrid people had seen Ted with
me at the Inn, after all, and they went straight to Dick the next day.
If only I hadn’t persuaded Leila to lie for me! It wasn’t any use, and
it made some of her last hours unhappy. I shall never forgive myself,
never!—Oh, don’t look at me like that, Mr. Storm! I can’t bear it!”
Storm had slowly risen from his chair, one hand clutching the table
edge as though for support, his eye fixed in an unwavering gaze of
horror at the one thing visible in the whirling vortex about him: the
white face of Julie. In his dazed brain a hideous fact was taking
shape and form, and his soul cowered before it.
He essayed to speak, but no sound issued from his dry lips, and
Brewster stepped forward.
“Try not to blame Julie too much, old man,” he begged. “You see, the
poor little girl was desperate. I was as much at fault in the
situation between us as she was; your dead wife showed me that and
brought me to reason. The last act of her life was to save me from
wrecking both mine and Julie’s, and we can never be grateful enough to
her memory. That is why we had to come here to-night to tell you.”
Slowly Storm’s gaze shifted to the other man’s face, and the
inexorable truth of Brewster’s sincerity was forced upon his wretched
consciousness. Still he could find no words, and the other continued:
“When I confronted Julie and she stuck to her story, I came here to
your wife to confirm the truth of what I had heard. She was loyal to
Julie, she tried to make me believe that she had accompanied her to
the Inn, but she was too inherently honest to brave it out, and I
practically tricked her into admitting the truth. I was going to rush
home then in my jealous rage and break with Julie forever, but your
wife restrained me, Storm; she convinced me that Julie hadn’t done
anything really wrong, anything that I could not forgive, and showed
me where I, too, had been at fault in neglecting her for my business,
even though it was for her that I wanted to succeed. She made me see
that we could begin all over again on a firmer basis even than before,
just when I thought everything was ended and the future held nothing
but separation and despair.
“I can’t tell you what it meant to me, that quiet talk with your wife
here in this very room! It was Tuesday night, you know, and death must
have come to her shortly after. I can’t realize it even now, she
seemed so radiant, so splendidly alive! I’ll never forget what she did
for me, and if I thought that—that the excitement of our interview——!
I’m afraid I made rather a scene! If it hurt her, brought on that
stroke, or fainting spell——!”
“No. It was a form of catalepsy, you know.” A totally strange voice
was speaking in a monotonous, dragging undertone. Storm did not
recognize it as his own. Blind instinct alone braced him to a last
effort to dissemble. “No one could predict when it was coming on or
what caused it . . . . No one was to blame.”
The lie died in his throat, and all at once he began to tremble
violently as if the chill of the grave itself were upon him. He caught
at the table again, his whole body shaking, collapsing, and with a
harsh, strangling cry the floodgates were opened at last. Sinking to
his knees, he buried his face in his arms lest the guilt which
consumed him be revealed, and sobbed out his anguish unrestrained. He
did not feel Julie’s arms about him, her tears against his cheek, nor
know when her husband led her gently away. He was face to face with
the warped and blackened thing which was his soul, and with that
vision he descended to the nethermost depths.