Page:Weird Tales Volume 4 Number 2 (1924-05-07).djvu/85

 The doctor stiffened in his chair. "Brooding, eh? Now, why should you suspect him of brooding? His eyes, perhaps? A certain expression—"

"My friend, I practise the art of cross-examination for a living," the other interrupted, a slight annoyance in his voice. "I know just what you are after. You have decided that the verdict must be insanity, and you wish my evidence to confirm the verdict. But I tell you again—in my opinion Philip was not mad. Indeed, ever since his marriage he seemed to me to be extraordinarily sane. When I say I suspected him of brooding over his friend's death, I mean, not that he exhibited any eccentricity of manner or appearance, but merely that there was about him at times an air of sadness that seemed not to belong to a young man newly and happily married."

The doctor leaned baek in his chair. "Well—break the seal," he said.

HE lawyer glanced up from the typewritten sheets he had drawn from the envelope and spread upon the table. His air was puzzled.

"But this is not Philip's—" he began, and stopped short when he thought he detected a sardonic light in the other's eyes. "I do not know what you expected, but I thought the envelope would contain Philip's explanation of his rash act. But, apparently—" He left the sentence uncompleted, and stared at the paper under his hand.

"Apparently it contains Chadwick Graves' explanation?" ventured the doctor.

"Eh!" exclaimed the lawyer, startled. "Now, how—but apparently it does. Here is a title in capitals at the head of the writing, and it says, 'The Confession of Chadwick Graves.' I don't understand—what can a man more than a year dead have to do with last week's tragedy?"

"Read on. You will understand," counseled the doctor.

The lawyer read aloud in his clipped professional voice:

I am writing these lines on the night of April 11th, 1922. They are for the instruction and enlightenment of Doctor Morton and Judge Cumberland, the executors of Philip Vallejo's estate. To them this confession is addressed.

The facts I relate are incredible; but you must believe them. You must believe that Chadwick Graves writes this message, although his body has lain in its grave for a year and a month. You must believe that Philip Vallejo died upon his wedding day, although his flesh continued to live, another man's dwelling.'

"Great heavens, this is sheer lunacy!" cried the lawyer.

"Ah—yes?" murmured the doctor.

Abruptly the lawyer resumed reading.

For the first and only time in my life, I, Chadwick Graves, acknowledge defeat. Tomorrow I shall adjust my affairs—or rather, I shall adjust Philip Vallejo's affairs—and then I shall end an imposture which has become intolerable to me, and which is killing my—no, Vallejo's wife. As for the child—if it lives, I beg of you gentlemen that you act toward it as she, whom I have so cruelly wronged, directs.

It is for her sake that I make this confession. It is for her sake that day aftei1 tomorrow I make an end of myself. What is done cannot be undone, but my act, I trust, will bring her peace, and drive the horror from her eyes. I cannot continue to live. I have failed. I deceived the world, but not Mary. I cannot compel her love. She knows me. She sees me through my mask of Philip's flesh.

All my life I have loved Mary Varnady. I hated Philip Vallejo. Not because he had all that I lacked—wealth, physical beauty, a personality that won affection—I cared little for these things. I had brains and will-power, and he was putty in my hands. In school, in college, in business, I used Vallejo to advance my prospects. I confess this frankly and without shame. I used him because he was necessary to my advancement. I did not hate him because he was a weakling; I merely despised his weakness. I hated him with a deep, abiding, ever-growing hatred because he was the obstacle between me and Mary Varnady.

I loved her, and she loved Philip. Me she disliked, and endured only because I was Philip's shadow. Him she loved, and for long the fool never knew it.

I kept him blind to her love, and charm. I kept him amused with other women. I encouraged his dissipations; I even arranged them. But Mary's will matched my own in strength. She compelled his attention. He became her devoted slave, her betrothed, and I was helpless.

Can you realize what it meant to a man of my temperament? Can you imagine the furious envy that consumed me? The distrait nights, the days of self-torture? God—the agony of spirit I endured! It was during the period of their engagement that I began to wish myself Philip Vallejo. Can you appreciate that? I wished with all the force of my mind that I were this pretty weakling who had Mary Varnady's love. I wished that I were actually he.

I hid my fury. I deceived the world, and Philip—but not Mary. I could see her knowledge in her eyes. She feared me, hated me. That was my one ray of comfort. Even her hatred was better than her indifference.

Since I was Philip's best friend, I was best man at the wedding. Immediately following the ceremony, we carried through a program Philip had carefully planned. He and Mary wished to elude the congratulations, the rice and newspaper cameras, so the three of us slipped through the vestry door out into the side street where I had parked my car. Before the people in the church realized we were gone, I was racing them to the railway station.

Can you imagine my state as I drove through the streets that morning? Turmoil. Pain so keen my brain seemed skewered with hot pins. Rage so furious it seemed about to burst my body asunder. Longing, above all that longing. It had become an obsession during the last weeks. From the driving seat I could see, in the rear-sight mirror, the two of them in the seat behind. They sat with hands inter-clasped, like two children; and her eyes adored him. Oh, the longing that surged through me. It was an imperious desire. With mind and body, with every atom of my being, I longed to be Philip Vallejo.

I swung the car into the avenue which parallels the railway tracks. I was speeding. It seemed to help to go fast, and faster. I saw things through a mist—the street, the staring and gesticulating people, and a train coming toward me. Faster and faster I drove. The wind roared past me. Behind me Philip was shouting, but I ignored his voice. For I knew now what I must do.

As soon as I saw the train I knew I must do it. The law of my being compelled it. I was not born to survive defeat. That is why day after tomorrow—

A burst of light lay now upon my path, a great flame of light. It licked up the mist. Faster, faster, I drove. The car was a live thing beneath my hand, obedient to my will. A great joy surged in my breast, a cry of triumph was in my mouth. For I was about to wring victory from defeat.

I heard Mary shriek as I wrenched the steering wheel, and the car swerved from the road and plunged across the tracks. I saw the expression of dismay and fright upon the face in the cab