Upon the departure of Dr. Carr and the officials, George Holworthy had to be told in detail the story of the night’s tragic event, and its reiteration drew heavily upon the store of self-control which was left to his companion after the ordeal through which he had passed; but Storm narrated it carefully, with a critical consciousness of every effect.
“I don’t know what is the matter with me!” he cried dramatically in conclusion. “I can’t break down, I can’t seem to feel, George! I saw her as she lay there, I tell myself that this ghastly, unbelievable thing is true, and yet it has no meaning for me! I catch myself listening for her step, waiting to hear her voice! Am I going mad?”
“It’s the shock,” George said quietly. “The stark horror of the thing has stunned you, Norman. You can’t feel it yet, you are numb, I suppose.”
He looked curiously shrunken and withered and years older as he sat hunched in his chair, his faded, red-rimmed eyes blinking fast. Storm felt a sense of impatience, almost of repugnance as he regarded him. His evident sorrow was a subtle reproach before which the other writhed. Could he endure his presence in the days which must decently elapse before the funeral? George would be useful, however, in the interim, and when it was all over he could shut himself away from everyone.
“That’s why I sent for you,” he observed. “I can’t seem to get a grip on things, and I thought you would take charge for me and keep off the mob of sympathizers——”
“I will. I’ll attend to everything, old man. There’s bound to be a certain amount of publicity, you know, but I’ll see the reporters myself, and fend off the neighbors. Carr will send in the undertaker, and I’ll ’phone Foulkes. Is there anyone else you want me to notify?”
George did indeed prove invaluable, for Millard had spread the tidings and soon the house was besieged by horror-stricken friends of the dead woman. They came from all walks of life, from the humblest country-folk about to the most arrogant of the aristocratic colony, in mute testimony to the breadth of her kindliness and the affection she had inspired. From earliest afternoon, too, reporters began filtering in on every train, but George held them off with surprising tact and diplomacy, and by nightfall a semblance of peace had fallen upon the bereft household.
The den was restored to its normal state, the door locked, and in the dainty drawing-room across the hall from the library Leila lay as if asleep, her golden hair falling low to hide the cruel wound and all about her the early spring flowers she had loved.
Now that they were alone together, George’s presence proved insufferable, and Storm, professing complete nervous exhaustion, suggested that they retire early.
George, worn out with his own emotions and the strain of the day, acquiesced in evident relief. He had dreaded a night-long vigil with his bereaved friend and rejoiced that the strange, seemingly dazed apathy which had held him in its grip was giving way to the demands of over-taxed nature.