The Escape
When Storm came to himself he was lying on the library couch with the
gray dawn seeping in at the curtained windows and George’s rotund
figure in the hideous striped bathrobe looming up grotesquely from an
improvised bed formed of two arm-chairs.
Storm felt a vague sense of irritation. What was he doing there,
dressed save for his shoes and collar, instead of being in pajamas in
his own bed, and why was George hanging around?
Then the mists of sleep cleared from his brain, and remembrance came.
Leila was innocent, and he had killed her! True to him in every act
and word and thought, yet he had flung a monstrous accusation at her,
and struck her down. His Leila! He saw her again as she lay huddled at
his feet, and could have cried aloud in his anguish.
If he could but take back that blow! If only it were given him to live
over once more the time which had passed since he saw her on that
crowded street and doubt first entered his mind! If he could only
speak to her, tell her——!
Then a measure of sanity returned to him. She was dead. He had killed
her. Nothing could alter that, nothing could bring her back. No
reparation, no expiation would undo his mad act and restore the life
that he had taken. If he himself were to live, to go on, he must put
behind him all thought of the past; crush back this creeping menace of
remorse which threatened to overwhelm him. Regret would avail him
nothing now. He had loved the woman who had shared his life for ten
years, but she was gone and the future was before him, long years in
which, since he could not atone, he must school himself to forget.
At least no one would ever suspect the secret which he carried in his
heart. The worst was over, he had fooled them all! But with the
thought a new terror gripped him by the throat. What had he done, what
had he said when the revelation of Leila’s innocence swept him from
his moorings of self-control? The Brewsters had been there, both of
them, staring at him as though the ghost of Leila herself had risen to
accuse him! George must have been hovering about somewhere, too; must
have taken care of him, helped him to the couch, watched over him
throughout those hours of unconsciousness, _and listened!_ Great God!
Had he betrayed himself?
The light was growing brighter now, bringing out the familiar shapes
of the furniture against the gloom and revealing in startling clarity
the tired lines in the relaxed face of his self-appointed nurse. Storm
sat up and scrutinized it half fearfully. Could George sleep like
that, exhausted though he well might be, if he had gained an inkling
of the truth? It seemed impossible, and yet Storm felt that he must
know the worst. A direct accusation, even, would be better than this
suspense. The first look would tell, the first glance that passed
between them.
Storm coughed, and George’s eyes opened sleepily, wandered vaguely
about and then as they came to bear on the upright figure on the
couch, warmed with a sudden clear light of affectionate compassion.
“Norman, old boy! How do you feel? Can I get you anything?”
Storm sank back with a sigh of relief.
“No. I—a drink of water——” he mumbled and closed his eyes as George
rose and padded off in his flapping slippers down the hall. There
still remained the Brewsters, and his sudden collapse in their
presence was enough of itself to arouse their suspicion aside from the
wild words which might have issued unbidden from his lips. He must
learn what had taken place!
When George returned with the glass Storm drained it and then asked
weakly:
“Went to pieces, didn’t I?”
“You sure did, but it was coming to you,” George affirmed. “You’re all
right now, though, so just rest and try not to think of anything. Carr
fixed you up in good shape——”
“Oh, Lord!” groaned Storm. “Carr! I didn’t even know he was here! How
did you get rid of the Brewsters?”
“Well, it wasn’t easy!” A faint smile lighted George’s tired face.
“Dick’s got sense enough, but that little scatter-brained wife of his
wanted to stay and take care of you! It was all I could do to persuade
her to go home.”
“And all that while I was making an exhibition of myself before them!”
Storm exclaimed bitterly.
“You were not,” retorted George. “You broke down, of course, just as I
knew you must, sooner or later. I hadn’t been easy in my mind about
you all day, and I didn’t like the look on your face when you went
down to the library to see them, so I stuck around, not eavesdropping,
old boy, but to be at hand in case you needed me. I could hear their
voices, and then you gave a kind of a cry, and I butted in.
“I found Julie fussing over you, and I motioned to her husband to get
her away into the drawing-room. He came back and we put you on the
couch, and that’s all there is to it. I told them to stop in at Carr’s
and send him here.”
“What did I say? I mean,” Storm hastily amended, “I don’t remember
anything. Julie and Dick came to tell me how Leila had brought them
together again when they were on the point of a separation. You
remember when she told us that she had been out to the Ferndale Inn
with Julie? That wasn’t only to keep her visit to old Jaffray’s office
secret, but because she had promised Julie to lie for her. They
thought I might have misunderstood, and that it would comfort me to
know she had made peace between them, but instead it—it broke me up!
The full realization came over me of all that I had lost, and I went
off my head, I guess. Tell me what I said, George.”
“Why, nothing! You just—hang it all, man, you gave way to your
feelings, that’s all! You didn’t say anything,” George replied
uncomfortably. “When the doctor came he gave you a good stiff
hypodermic, and you dropped off to sleep like a baby. You’re bound to
feel rocky, you know, but you’re over the worst of it!”
“Poor old George!” With renewed confidence there came to Storm a
twinge of compunction. “You look as though you needed the doctor
yourself! You must have had a rotten night.”
“Never you mind about me!” returned George gruffly. “Here! Carr said
you were to take this when you woke up and not to talk too much.”
Obediently Storm took the medicine and almost immediately drifted off
into troubled sleep.
It was broad noon when he awakened once more with the fragrant odor of
coffee in the air and George standing before him, dressed for
departure.
“Sorry, old boy, but I’ve got to run up to town, you know. You’ll be
all right for a few hours, and I’ll be back before night. Drink your
coffee, take a cold bath and get out on the veranda in the sun.
Nobody’ll bother you; I’ve seen to that.”
Storm tried faintly to protest against George’s return; he didn’t need
any care, he would be better off alone, and the other mustn’t neglect
his business affairs any longer. But George was not to be swerved from
his purpose, and after a few hours of solitude Storm was in a mood to
welcome his return. In his weakened state he did not find it easy to
keep his truant thoughts from straying to the past, and a horror which
he was unable to combat made him shun his own society.
For the next few days, while the flood of condolences still poured in,
he clung to George as to an anchor; but when the last dismal
conventions had been observed and the household had settled down to
something like order, his old feeling of irritation against his friend
returned. George’s eternal pussy-footing about the house as though
death yet lingered there, his lugubrious face and labored attempts at
cheer and consolation became insupportable, and his host breathed a
sigh of relief when he ultimately departed.
Spring advanced, and with returning strength Storm’s nerves steadied;
and, secure in the knowledge that his guilt was buried forever, he
took up the daily round once more.
A week after the funeral, he returned to his sinecure at the offices
of the Mammoth Trust Company. The neighbors, possibly because of
George’s forewarning, had left him considerately alone in the interim,
but now as he stood on the station platform awaiting his customary
train for the city, the ubiquitous Millard advanced beaming.
“By Jove, this is good, old chap! Glad you are getting back into the
harness again; best thing for you!” he exclaimed. “Fine weather we’re
having now, and the course is in wonderful condition; never better!
I’m in topping form, if I do say it myself; and I haven’t missed a
day.”
Despite his volubility, there was an odd constraint in his manner, and
Storm eyed him curiously. Could it be a latent suspicion?
“You’ll be going in for the tournament?” he enquired briefly.
“Surest thing you know! Too bad you——” Millard caught himself up. “I
say, though, why don’t you get up early now and then and play a round
or two with me before breakfast? Nobody else out then, it would do you
no end of good. How about to-morrow?”
Storm shook his head, checking the shudder which came involuntarily at
the suggestion.
“Thanks, but I’m not quite up to it. I think I’ll let golf alone for a
while,” he replied, adding hastily as he saw signs of remonstrance in
the other’s face, “I’ve got too much to do, reinvestments to make and
that sort of thing.”
“Of course,” Millard nodded. “You’ll have your hands full, but you
would find that an occasional round would set you up wonderfully.
Nothing like it to straighten you out and take your mind off things.
Just ’phone me if you feel like it any day, old chap, and I’ll join
you.”
The appearance of several belated fellow-commuters saved Storm from
the necessity of a reply, and as they came up to greet him he eyed
each in turn furtively.
They were cordial enough, but none alluded directly to his
bereavement, and the same constraint was evident in their bearing that
Millard had manifested. He continued to study them on the train from
behind the shelter of his newspaper. Unmistakable relief had
registered itself on their faces when the train came, and now a few of
them were ostentatiously buried in the market reports; but for the
most part, in groups of two and three, they were discussing their
business affairs, and to the listener their tones seemed unnecessarily
raised. Not one had ventured to take the vacant seat beside him.
Had the Brewsters spread broadcast the story of his emotional outburst
in their presence, and could it have occasioned remark, started vague
rumor and conjecture which might yet lead to the discovery of the
truth? In vain he told himself that he was over-analytical, that these
old friends shrank not from him but from dilating upon his tragic
loss. To his apprehensive imagination their manner held a deeper
significance than that of mere masculine inability to voice their
sympathy, and with gnawing persistency the menacing possibilities
rankled in his brain.
At the office, after the formal condolences of his associates, Storm
slipped mechanically into the old, well-ordered routine; but here,
too, he fancied that he was being eyed askance. He could at least
avoid running the gauntlet of his clubs for a time without occasioning
remark, but the thought of Greenlea itself and all that it held for
him had become obnoxious, hideous! The return to that empty house day
after day; could he endure it without going mad?
He caught the club car in a mood of surly defiance, but he had
scarcely taken his accustomed place when Richard Brewster appeared and
without waiting for an invitation seated himself beside him.
“Awfully glad to see you on the job again.” He spoke heartily, and his
beaming face corroborated his words. “We were worried about you, you
know, the other night; Julie wanted to stay and take care of you, but
Holworthy wouldn’t hear of it. I hope you’ve forgiven us for
intruding.”
Storm eyed him watchfully, but the guileless friendliness of the
younger man was patent, and the other sighed in relief.
“I understand your motive, and I thank you both for coming,” he said
after a moment’s pause. “Sorry I lost control of myself, but I’d been
keeping up for so long——”
“It was only natural,” Brewster interrupted. “You’ll be leaving us, I
suppose, for a time anyway, as soon as you’ve got the estate settled.
We’ll miss you——”
“Leaving?” Storm stared.
“You’ll go away for a—a rest, won’t you? New scenes and all that sort
of thing? It will be hard for you to go on here——” The younger man
broke off and added hastily: “Julie was saying only this morning at
breakfast that if you decided to keep the house open you would need a
housekeeper, and she knows of a splendid woman, an elderly widow in
reduced circumstances——”
Storm halted him with an abrupt gesture of negation.
“I haven’t made any plans yet, Brewster. The maids I’ve got are used
to my ways and capable of running things temporarily, although it will
be necessary to make other arrangements, of course, if I decide to
remain in Greenlea.” The reply was mechanical, for his thoughts were
busied with the new vista which the other’s assumption had opened
before his mental vision. “I am grateful to Mrs. Brewster for her
interest, and if I need the woman of whom she spoke I will let her
know. Just now I am drifting; I haven’t looked ahead.”
Barker met him as usual at the station, and during the short drive
home he glanced about him at the smug, familiar scene with a buoyant
sense of coming escape. To get away! To cut loose now, at once, from
all these prying people, the petty social intercourse, the thousand
and one things which reminded him of Leila and of what he had done!
The revulsion of feeling from the contentment of past years which had
swept over him that day culminated with a sudden rush of hatred for it
all. The house loomed before him a veritable nightmare, and the coming
days had appeared each a separate ordeal from the prospect of which he
shrank with unutterable loathing.
He had felt chained to the old order of things by the fear of arousing
suspicion if he ran away precipitately, but the one man of whose
opinion he had been most apprehensive had himself suggested the way
out as the most natural course in the world.
Storm could have laughed at his uneasiness of the morning; the other
fellows had been merely embarrassed, that was all, reluctant to
mention his tragic bereavement, and trying with awkward constraint to
bridge over the chasm. If they took it for granted, as Brewster did,
that he would seek a temporary change of scene, the main obstacle was
removed from his path. It would be a simple matter to sell the house,
and then the world would be before him.
On the hall table he found a letter from George Holworthy, and tore it
open with an absent-minded smile. He would soon be free even from old
George!
Dear Norman, (he read):
Tried to get out to see you to-night, but must meet Abbott. Had a
talk with Jim Potter yesterday. The firm has ordered him to the
Coast immediately and he is winding up his affairs here and wants to
get rid of his apartment. Willing to rent furnished, just as it
stands, cheap, until his lease is up in October. It is a bully
little place up on the Drive and the stuff he has there is all a
fellow would want to keep a bachelor hall. Why don’t you take it off
his hands and close up the house out there? Jim will take his man
with him, but you can get another, and New York is the best little
old summer resort in the world. Take my advice and get out of that
place for a while anyway. I told Jim I’d write you, but you’ve got
to speak quick if you want to take him up on it. Think it over.
Yours,
George
Storm folded the letter slowly. He knew Potter, knew the comfortable,
even luxurious sort of place his ease-loving soul would have demanded,
yet he had wished to go farther afield. The first thought of escape
had entailed a vague dream of other countries—South America, perhaps,
or the Far East—but now he forced himself sternly back to the
realities of the situation.
Such an adventure would mean money, more ready cash than he could
command at the moment. It would mean waiting until the house was sold,
and burning his bridges as far as the Trust Company was concerned.
Moreover, the few thousands the house would bring would not last long,
and unless he connected with new business wherever he went, he had
nothing to fall back upon but the beggarly three thousand a year which
was left from his share of his father’s estate. He must convert the
capital into cash, and Foulkes had warned him that that would take
time. Could he wait there, within those four walls which had witnessed
what he had done?
He dined in a meditative silence, oblivious of the anxious
ministrations of Agnes. The empty place opposite, the chair in its
new, unaccustomed position against the wall, the silence and shadows
all worked upon his mood. Potter’s quarters in town would at least
bear no reminders to mock and accuse him at every turn, and drag his
treacherous thoughts back to a past which must be buried. He would be
free, too, from Brewster and Millard and the rest of them; but on the
other hand George would be constantly thrusting his society upon him.
Undecided, he wandered out to the veranda, but the vines which Leila
had tended peered at him over the rail and whispered together; in the
library her books, her desk, the foolish, impractical reading lamp she
had bought for him all mutely recalled her vanished presence. There
remained only the drawing-room, where her body had lain, the den—!
With a shudder he turned and mounted the stairs. The blank, closed
door of her room stared at him, and within his own were evidences on
every hand of feminine thoughtfulness and care. Her influence vibrated
like a living thing, all about him, clutching him by the throat,
smothering him! Anything, anywhere would be preferable to this!
It was only half-past nine. He could not go to the country club, he
shrank from the society of any of his neighbors; he could neither
sleep, nor read, nor find a corner which did not cry aloud of Leila!
There would be other nights like this, weeks of them . . . .
In swift rebellion he descended to the library and seized the
telephone.
. . . . “Mr. Holworthy, please . . . . That you, George? . . . . Yes,
Norman. I’ve got your letter and you’re right. I can’t stand it out
here. I’ll take Potter’s rooms at his own price, and I want possession
by Monday . . . . All right, fix it, will you? . . . . No, but it’s
got on my nerves; I can’t go on. I—it’s hell!”