Brief notes from Leila announced the happy course of her honeymoon in the New England hills. She wrote to her father as though there had been nothing extraordinary in her flight. Mills’s mortification that his daughter should have married over his protest was ameliorated by the satisfaction derived from dealing magnanimously with her. The Mills dignity required that she have a home in keeping with the family status, and he would provide for this a sum equal to the amount he had given Shep to establish himself. He avoided Shep and Connie—the latter misguidedly bent upon trying to reconcile him to the idea that Leila had not done so badly. He suspected that Connie, in her heart, was laughing at him, rejoicing that Leila had beaten him.
He saw Millicent occasionally; but for all her tact and an evident wish to be kind, he suspected that her friendliness merely expressed her sympathy, and sympathy from any quarter was unbearable. He felt age clutching at him; he questioned whether Millicent could ever care for him; his dream of marrying again had been sheer folly. The summer wore on monotonously. Mills showed himself at the country club occasionally, usually at the behest of some of his old friends, and several times he entertained at Deer Trail.
Shep and Connie were to dine with him in the town house one evening, and when he had dressed he went, as he often did, into Leila’s room. He sat down and idly drew the books from a rack on the table. One of them was a slender volume of George Whitford’s poems, printed privately and inscribed, “To Leila, from her friend, the author.” Mills had not heard of the publication and he turned over the leaves with more curiosity than he usually manifested in volumes of verse. Whitford’s lyrics were chiefly in a romantic and sentimental vein. One of them, the longest in the book, was called “The Flower of the World,” and above the title Leila had scrawled “Connie.”
The lines were an ardent tribute to a lady whom the poet declared to be his soul’s ideal. Certain phrases underscored by Leila’s impious pencil were, when taken collectively, a very fair description of Constance. Mills carried the book to the library for a more deliberate perusal. If Leila knew that Constance was the subject of the verses, others must know it. What his sister had said about Whitford’s devotion to Constance was corroborated by the verses; and there had been that joint appearance of Constance and Whitford in the dramatic club play—another damning circumstance. Mills’s ire was aroused. He was standing in the middle of the room searching for other passages that might be interpreted as the author’s tribute to Constance when Shep entered.
“Good evening, father,” he said. “We’re a little early—I thought we might take a minute to speak of those B. and F. bonds. You know——”
He paused as his father, without preliminary greeting, advanced toward him with an angry gleam in his eyes.
“Look at that! Have you seen this thing?”
“Why, yes, I’ve seen it,” Shepherd answered, glancing at the page. “It’s a little book of George’s; he gave copies to all his friends—said nobody would ever buy it!”
“Gave copies to all his friends, did he? Do you see what Leila’s written here and those marked lines? Do you realize what it means—that it’s written to your wife?”
“That’s ridiculous, father,” Shep stammered. “It’s not written to Connie any more than to any other young woman—a sort of ideal of George’s, I suppose. Connie’s name written there is just a piece of Leila’s nonsense.”
“How many people do you suppose thought the same thing? Don’t you know that there’s been a good deal of unpleasant talk about Connie and Whitford? There was that play they appeared in—written by Whitford! I’ve heard about that! It caused a lot of talk, and you’ve stood by, blind and deaf, and haven’t done a thing to stop it!”
“I can’t have you make such statements about Connie! There was nothing wrong with that play—absolutely nothing! It was one of the finest things the club ever had. As for George having Connie in mind when he wrote that poem—why, that’s ridiculous! George is my friend as much as Connie’s. Why, I haven’t a better friend in the world than George Whitford!”
“You’re blind; you’re stupid!” Mills stormed. “How many people do you suppose have laughed over that—laughed at you as a fool to let a man make love to your wife in that open fashion? I tell you the thing’s got to stop!”
“But, father,” said Shep, lowering his voice, “you wouldn’t insult Connie. She’s downstairs and might easily hear you. You know, father, Connie isn’t exactly well! Connie’s going—Connie’s going—to have a baby! We’re very, very happy—about it——”
Shep, stammering as he blurted this out, had endeavored to invest the announcement with the dignity it demanded.
“So there’s a child coming!” There was no mistaking the sneer in Mills’s voice. “Your wife has a lover and she is to have a child!”
“You shan’t say such a thing!” cried Shep, his voice tremulous with wrath and horror. “You’re crazy! It’s unworthy of you!”
“Oh, I’m sane enough. You ought to have seen this and stopped it long ago. Now that you see it, I’d like to know what you’re going to do about it!”
“But I don’t see it! There’s nothing to see! I tell you I’ll not listen to such an infamous charge against Connie!”
“I’ll say what I please about Connie!” Mills shouted. “You children—you and Leila—what have I got from you but disappointment and shame? Leila runs away and marries a scoundrel out of the divorce court and now your wife—a woman I tried to save you from—has smirched us all with dishonor. I didn’t want you to marry her; I begged you not to do it. But I yielded in the hope of making you happy. I wanted you and Leila to take the place you’re entitled to in this town. Everything was done for you! Look up there,” he went on hoarsely, pointing to the portraits above the book shelves, “look at those men and women—your forebears—people who laid the foundations of this town, and they look down on you and what do they see? Failure! Disgrace! Nothing but failure! And you stand here and pretend—pretend——”
Mills’s arm fell to his side and the sentence died on his lips. Constance stood in the door; there were angry tears in her eyes and her face was white as she advanced a little way into the room and paused before Mills.
“I did not know how foul—how base you could be! You needn’t fear him, Shep! Only a coward would have bawled such a thing for the servants to hear—possibly the neighbors. You’ve called upon your ancestors, Mr. Mills, to witness your shame and disgrace at having admitted me into your sacred family circle! Shep, have you ever noticed the resemblance—it’s really quite remarkable—of young Mr. Storrs to your grandfather Mills? It’s most curious—rather impressive, in fact!”
She was gazing at the portrait of Franklin Mills III, with a contemptuous smile on her lips.
“Connie, Connie——” Shep faltered.
“Storrs! What do you mean by that?” demanded Mills. His mouth hung open; with his head thrust forward he gazed at the portrait as if he had never seen it before.
“Nothing, of course,” she went on slowly, giving every effect to her words. “But when you spent some time in that town with the singular name—Laconia, wasn’t it?—you were young and probably quite fascinating—Storrs came from there—an interesting—a wholly admirable young man!”
“Connie—I don’t get what you’re driving at!” Shep exclaimed, his eyes fastened upon his grandfather’s portrait.
“Constance is merely trying to be insolent,” Mills said, but his hand shook as he took a cigarette from a box and lighted it. When he looked up he was disconcerted to find Shep regarding him with a blank stare. Constance, already at the door, said quietly:
“Come, Shep. I think we must be going.”
The silence of the house was broken in a moment by the closing of the front door.
Shep and Constance drove in silence the few blocks that lay between Mills’s house and their own. Constance explained their return to the maid by saying that she hadn’t felt well and ordered a cold supper served in the breakfast room. Shep strolled aimlessly about while she went upstairs and reappeared in a house gown. When they had eaten they went into the living-room, where she turned the leaves of a book while he pretended to read the evening newspaper. After a time she walked over to him and touched his arm, let her hand rest lightly on his head.
“Yes, Connie,” he said.
“There’s something I want to say to you, Shep.”
“Yes, Connie.”
He got up and she slipped into his chair.
“It’s a lie, Shep. What your father said is a lie!”
“Yes; of course,” he said, but he did not look at her.
“You’ve got to believe me; I’ll die if you don’t tell me you believe in me!” and her voice broke in a sob.
He walked away from her, then went back, staring at her dully.
“I’ve been foolish, Shep. George and I have been good friends; we’ve enjoyed talking books and music. I like the things he likes, but that’s all. You’ve got to believe me, Shep; you’ve got to believe me!”
There was deep passion in the reiterated appeal.
When he did not reply she rose, clasped his cheeks in her hands so that he could not avoid her eyes.
“Look at me, Shep. I swear before God I am telling you the truth!”
“Yes, Connie.” He freed himself, walked to the end of the room, went back to her, regarding her intently. “Connie—what did you mean by what you said to father about Bruce Storrs?”
“Oh, nothing! Your aunt Alice spoke of the resemblance one night at the country club, where she saw Bruce with Millicent. It’s rather striking when you think of it. And then at Bruce’s jollification the other night Arthur said your father once spent some time at Laconia. I thought possibly he had relatives there.”
“No; never, I think.”
“That’s what your aunt Alice said; but the portrait does suggest Bruce Storrs.”
“Or a hundred other men,” Shep replied with a shrug. “You must be tired, Connie—you’d better go to bed.”
“I don’t believe we’ve quite finished, Shep. I can’t leave you like this! Your father is a beast! A low, foul beast!”
“I suppose he is,” he said indifferently.
“Is that all you have to say to me—Shep?”
She regarded him with growing terror in her eyes. He had said he believed her, but it was in a tone of unbelief.
“I suppose a wife has a right to the protection of her husband,” she said challengingly.
“You heard what I said to father, didn’t you? I told him it was a lie. I’ll never enter his house again. That ought to satisfy you,” he said with an air of dismissing the matter finally.
“And this is all you have to say, Shep?”
“It’s enough, isn’t it? I don’t care to discuss the matter further.”
“Then this is the end—is that what you mean?”
“No,” he replied in a curious, strained tone. “It’s foolish to say what the end of anything is going to be.”
She looked at him a moment pleadingly and with a gesture of helplessness started toward the door. He opened it for her, followed her into the hall, pressed the buttons that lighted the rooms above, and returned to the living-room.…
Their routine continued much as it had been for the past two years, but to her tortured senses there was something ominous now in the brevity of their contacts. Shep often remained away late and on his return crept softly upstairs to his room without speaking to her, though she left her light burning brightly.
Constance kept to her room, she hadn’t been well, and the doctor told her to stay in bed for a few days. For several nights she heard Shep moving about his room, and the maid told her that he had been going over his clothing and was sending a box of old suits to some charitable institution. A few days later he went into her room as she was having breakfast in bed. She asked him to shift the tray for her, more for something to say than because the service was necessary, and inquired if he were feeling well, but without dispelling the hard glitter that had become fixed in his eyes.
“Do you know when Leila’s coming home?” he inquired from the foot of the bed.
“No; I haven’t heard. I’ve seen no one; the doctor told me to keep quiet.”
“Yes; I suppose you have to do that,” he said without emotion. He went out listlessly and as he passed her she put out her hand, touched his sleeve; but he gave no sign that he was aware of the appeal the gesture implied....
It was on a Saturday morning that he went in through his dressing room, bade her good morning in much his old manner and rang for her coffee. He had breakfasted, he said, and merely wanted to be sure that she was comfortable.
“Thank you, Shep. I’m all right. I’ve been troubled about you, dear—much more than about myself. But you look quite fit this morning.”
“Feeling fine,” he said. “This is a half day at the office and I want to get on the job early. I’m dated up for a foursome this afternoon with George, Bruce and Carroll; so I won’t be home till after the game. You won’t mind?”
“Why, I’m delighted to have you go, Shep!”
“I always do the best I can, Connie,” he went on musingly. “I probably make a lot of mistakes. I don’t believe God intended me for heavy work; if he had he’d have made me bigger.”
“How foolish, Shep. You’re doing wonderfully. Isn’t everything going smoothly at the office?”
“Just fine! I haven’t a thing to complain of!”
“Is everything all right now?” she asked, encouraged to hope for some assurance of his faith in her.
“What isn’t all right will be—there’s always that!” he replied with a laugh.
He lingered beside the bed and took her hand, bent over and kissed her, let his cheek rest against hers in an old way of his.
“Good-bye,” he said from the door, and then with a smile—Shep’s familiar, wistful little smile—he left her.
Shep and Whitford won the foursome against Bruce and Carroll, a result due to Whitford’s superior drives and Carroll’s bad putting. They were all in high humor when they returned to the clubhouse, chaffing one another about their skill as they dressed. Shep made a tour of the verandas, greeting his friends, answering questions as to Connie’s health. The four men were going in at once and Shep, who had driven Carroll out, suggested that he and Bruce change partners for the drive home.
“There are a few little points about the game I want to discuss with George,” he explained as they walked toward the parking sheds.
“All right,” Bruce assented cheerfully. “You birds needn’t be so set up; next week Carroll and I will give you the trimming of your young lives!”
“Ah, the next time!” Shep replied ironically, and drove away with Whitford beside him....
“Shep’s coming on; he’s matured a lot since he went into the trust company,” remarked Carroll, as he and Bruce followed Shep’s car.
“Good stuff in him,” said Bruce. “One of those natures that develops slowly. I never saw him quite as gay as he was this afternoon.”
“He was always a shy boy, but he’s coming out of that. I think his father was wise in taking him out of the battery plant.”
“No doubt,” Bruce agreed, his attention fixed on Shep’s car.
Shep had set a pace that Bruce was finding it difficult to maintain. Carroll presently commented upon the wild flight of the car ahead, which was cutting the turns in the road with reckless abandon, leaving a gray cloud behind.
“The honor of my car is at stake!” said Bruce grimly, closing his windshield against the dust.
“By George! If Shep wasn’t so abstemious you’d think he’d mixed alcohol with his gas,” Carroll replied. “What the devil’s got into him!”
“Maybe he wants a race,” Bruce answered uneasily, remembering Shep’s wild drive the night of their talk on the river. “There’s a bad turn at the creek just ahead—he can’t make it at that speed!”
Bruce stopped, thinking Shep might check his flight if he found he wasn’t pursued; but the car sped steadily on.
“Shep’s gone nutty or he’s trying to scare George,” said Carroll. “Go ahead!”
Bruce started his car at full speed, expecting that at any minute Shep would stop and explain that it was all a joke of some kind. The flying car was again in sight, careening crazily as it struck depressions in the roadbed.
“Oh, God!” cried Carroll, half-rising in his seat. Shep had passed a lumbering truck by a hair’s breadth, and still no abatement in his speed. Bruce heard a howl of rage as he swung his own car past the truck. A danger sign at the roadside gave warning of the short curve that led upward to the bridge, and Bruce clapped on his brakes. Carroll, on the running board, peering ahead through the dust, yelled, and as Bruce leaped out a crash ahead announced disaster. A second sound, the sound of a heavy body falling, greeted the two men as they ran toward the scene....
Shep’s car had battered through the wooden fence that protected the road where it curved into the wooden bridge and had plunged into the narrow ravine. Bruce and Carroll flung themselves down the steep bank and into the stream. Shep’s head lay across his arms on the wheel; Whitford evidently had tried to leap out before the car struck. His body, half out of the door, had been crushed against the fence, but clung in its place through the car’s flight over the embankment.
To the world Franklin Mills showed what passed for a noble fortitude and a superb resignation in Shep’s death. Carroll had carried the news to him; and Carroll satisfied the curiosity of no one as to what Mills had said or how he had met the blow. Carroll himself did not know what passed through Franklin Mills’ mind. Mills had asked without emotion whether the necessary things had been done, and was satisfied that Carroll had taken care of everything. Mills received the old friends who called, among them Lindley. It was a proper thing to see the minister in such circumstances. The rector of St. Barnabas went away puzzled. He had never understood Mills, and now his rich parishioner was more of an enigma than ever.
A handful of friends chosen by Constance and Mills heard the reading of the burial office in the living-room of Shep’s house. Constance remained in her room; and Mills saw her first when they met in the hall to drive together to the cemetery, an arrangement that she herself had suggested. No sound came from her as she stood between Mills and Leila at the grave as the last words were said. A little way off stood the bearers, young men who had been boyhood friends of Shep, and one or two of his associates from the trust company. When the grave was filled Constance waited, watching the placing of the flowers, laying her wreath of roses with her own hands.
She took Mills’s arm and they returned to their car. No word was spoken as it traversed the familiar streets. The curtains were drawn; Mills stared fixedly at the chauffeur’s back; the woman beside him made no sign. Nothing, as he thought of it, had been omitted; his son had been buried with the proper rites of the church. There had been no bungling, no hysterical display of grief; no crowd of the morbidly curious. When they reached Shep’s house he followed Constance in. There were women there waiting to care for her, but she sent them away and went into the reception parlor. The scent of flowers still filled the rooms, but the house had assumed its normal orderly aspect. Constance threw back her veil, and Mills saw for the first time her face with its marks of suffering, her sorrowing eyes.
“Had you something to say to me?” she asked quietly.
“If you don’t mind——” he answered. “I couldn’t come to you before—but now—I should like you to know——”
As he paused she began to speak slowly, as if reciting something she had committed to memory.
“We have gone through this together, for reasons clear to both of us. There is nothing you can say to me. But one or two things I must say to you. You killed him. Your contempt for him as a weaker man than you, as a gentle and sweet soul you could never comprehend; your wish to manage him, to thwart him in things he wanted to do, your wish to mold him and set him in your own little groove—these are the things that destroyed him. You shattered his faith in me—that is the crudest thing of all, for he loved me. So strong was your power over him and so great was his fear of you that he believed you. In spite of himself he believed you when you charged me with unfaithfulness. You drove him mad,” she went on monotonously; “he died a madman—died horribly, carrying an innocent man down with him. The child Shep wanted so much—that he would have loved so dearly—is his. You need have no fear as to that. That is all I have to say, Mr. Mills.”
She left him noiselessly, leaving behind her a quiet that terrified and numbed him. He found himself groping his way through the hall, where someone spoke to him. The words were unintelligible, though the voice was of someone who meant to be kind. He walked to his car, carrying his hat as if he were unequal to the effort of lifting it to his head. The chauffeur opened the door, and as he got in Mills stumbled and sank upon the seat.
When he reached home he wandered aimlessly about the rooms, oppressed by the intolerable quiet. One and another of the servants furtively peered at him from discreet distances; the man who had cared for his personal needs for many years showed himself in the hope of being called upon for some service.
“Is that you, Briggs?” asked Mills. “Please call the farm and say that I’m coming out. Yes—I’ll have dinner there. I may stay a day or two. You may pack a bag for me—the usual things. Order the car when you’re ready.”
He resumed his listless wandering, found himself in Leila’s old room, and again in the room that had been Shep’s. It puzzled him to find that the inspection of these rooms brought him no sensations. He felt no inclination to cry out against the fate that had wrought this emptiness, laid this burden of silence upon his house. Leila had gone; and he had seen them put Shep into the ground.
“You killed him.” This was what that woman in black had said. She had said other things, but these were the words that repeated themselves in his memory like a muffled drum-beat. On the drive to the farm he did not escape from the insistent reiteration. He was mystified, bewildered. No one had ever spoken to him like that; no one had ever before accused him of a monstrous crime or addressed him as if he were a contemptible and odious thing. And yet he was Franklin Mills. This was the astounding thing,—that Franklin Mills should have listened to such words and been unable to deny them....
At the farm he paused on the veranda, turned his face westward where the light still lingered in pale tints of gold and scarlet. He remained staring across the level fields, hearing the murmur of the wind in the maples, the rustle of dead leaves in the grass, until the chauffeur spoke to him, took his arm and led him into the house.