The hope of happiness

by Meredith Nicholson

V

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.