IV
Grace and Irene had worn hats on the tragic adventure and their long dark cloaks covered their party dresses so that their entrance into the interurban car awakened little interest in the half-dozen dozing passengers. Fortunately Grace had her purse and paid the fares. The swift rush of the car exerted a quieting effect upon them. Irene had wrenched her shoulder when the machine leaped into the ditch, but Grace had escaped with only a few scratches. They conferred in low tones, still dazed by their close contact with death.
“I ought to have insisted on going home earlier. But I did the best I could. Tommy wouldn’t budge. Tell me that I did the best I could!”
“Of course you did! We should never have gone—any of us!” said Grace. “I’m as much to blame as any one. But Tommy would have gone anyhow, you know he would.”
“Ward’s wonderful,” said Irene. “I’ll never forget him as he stood there beside Tommy as we left. Those men loved each other; and Tommy was good, Grace. I’m glad I had it out with him—about quitting I mean. He was sober then; perfectly all right. It was just before you and Ward came back that he began drinking crazily. When I told him I thought it was all wrong and that I wanted to quit he talked to me in the finest way. He said he wouldn’t let me think I could be better than he was and he was going to live straight the rest of his life. But Tommy would never have quit. There would always have been some girl; and he just had to have his parties. I suppose there’s no use worrying about that!”
“No,” Grace consoled her, “things just have to be. You can’t change anything. Ward and I said good-bye to each other tonight. So that’s all over.”
“I’m not so sure,” Irene replied after a deliberate inspection of Grace’s face. “I wouldn’t count much on Ward giving you up. Love is a strange thing. You’ll go on loving each other and breaking your hearts about it and then some day you’ll meet and things will begin all over again. I’ve always been pretty cynical about these things, but I know love when I see it. It’s——”
“Don’t, Irene!” whispered Grace, a sob in her throat. “I can’t bear it! To think of Tommy——”
Her hand stole out and clasped Irene’s. The events of the night had made upon both an impression that never could be effaced. Aware of this, silence held them until the lights of the station flashed upon the windows.
Moore was on the platform, and they found a quiet corner of the waiting room where Irene told the story of the accident. John expressed no surprise, made no criticism; merely said that he was proud that they had thought of him. Trenton had suggested that they ask Moore to visit the newspaper offices and then go to Kemp’s house—Mrs. Kemp was still away—and notify the servants. John’s practical mind had considered every aspect of the matter after his brief talk with Craig over the telephone and he had already dispatched the coroner to the scene of the accident that there might be no delay or subsequent criticism.
“The sooner you both get home the better,” he said. “We’ll decide now that you were both with me all evening. I’ll account for my knowledge of the accident by explaining to the newspapers that Mr. Kemp’s chauffeur called me on the telephone after trying to get Judge Sanders, who’s Kemp’s lawyer and an old friend. It happens that the judge left for Washington tonight. I think that covers it all.”
It was not until Grace had crept into bed that she was able to think clearly. It was like a hideous dream that Kemp was dead—that she had seen him die. His death obscured the memory of her parting with Trenton, or blending with it, became a part of the dissolution of all things. Alone in the dark, remorse stole upon her like a nightmare. From the hour that she had met Kemp and Trenton a doom had followed her. In a few short months she had played havoc with her life. She groped back to her days at the University—happy days, they were; days of clean wholesome living and buoyant aspiration. And she never could be the same care-free girl again.
It was not till near dawn that she slept, to be wakened by her mother a little before the prompting of the alarm clock.
“Something awful’s happened, Grace. Thomas Kemp died last night, on the way home from his farm. There was an accident to his car but the paper says he died of heart disease. Mr. Trenton was with him. Your father’s terribly upset; he doesn’t know how it will affect his prospects. It’s a strange part of it that only yesterday Kemp closed a deal for the purchase of the Cummings Company. The paper says he’d gone out to the farm with Mr. Trenton to talk over the merger.”
It was necessary for Grace to hear Kemp’s death discussed in all its bearings at the breakfast table. The talk was chiefly between her mother and Ethel, Durland merely confirming or correcting, when appealed to, their statements as to items of the dead man’s history. They speculated fruitlessly as to the fate of Kemp’s business interests, and how much he was worth and whether he had left large sums to charity.
Grace read the account of the accident and the long biographical sketch of Kemp while this was in progress. Trenton and Moore had managed the thing well. Trenton’s statement as to the manner of his friend’s death bore every mark of veracity, and it was fortified by the coroner’s report and a statement from Kemp’s physician.
“I suppose,” remarked Ethel, “that Irene Kirby will be terribly shocked. It’s a wonder she wasn’t with him. They were always gadding about the country together. I’m relieved, Grace, that you weren’t mixed up in this mess.”
“Don’t speak so to your sister, Ethel,” admonished Mrs. Durland. “There are things about Mr. Kemp I never knew. It seems he gave large sums to some of our needy institutions and wouldn’t let it be known. And he was beautiful to all his employees. It’s not for us to say he wasn’t a good man.”