The lie died in his throat, and all at once he began to tremble violently as if the chill of the grave itself were upon him. He caught at the table again, his whole body shaking, collapsing, and with a harsh, strangling cry the floodgates were opened at last. Sinking to his knees, he buried his face in his arms lest the guilt which consumed him be revealed, and sobbed out his anguish unrestrained. He did not feel Julie’s arms about him, her tears against his cheek, nor know when her husband led her gently away. He was face to face with the warped and blackened thing which was his soul, and with that vision he descended to the nethermost depths.
Chapter IX.
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.