“Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wailOr knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt,Dispraise, or blame,—nothing but well and fair,And what may quiet us in a death so noble.”Milton.
“Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wailOr knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt,Dispraise, or blame,—nothing but well and fair,And what may quiet us in a death so noble.”
Milton.
Through the gathering darkness of the short, chilly December day the carriage swung up the driveway of The Birches, and in front of the porch came to a sudden halt. Doctor Morrison, hastily alighting, ran quickly up the piazza steps to find Henry Carleton, worried and anxious, already awaiting him at the open door.
“I’m glad you’ve come, Doctor,” he said, his relief plainly enough showing in his tone, “I’ve been reproaching myself for not letting you know before. Step into the parlor for a moment, though, and warm yourself before you go up. You must be cold.”
Pulling off his gloves, and laying aside his overcoat and bag, Doctor Morrison followed Carleton into the room, rubbing his hands and holding them out to the warmth of the open blaze. Then he turned. “And how is he now?” he asked. “Any change for the worse?”
“No, I think not,” Carleton answered, “he appears to be comfortable enough, and says he has no pain. Yet there seems something curious about it, too. It was almost a week ago, I suppose, that he first began to complain. There was nothing that you could fix on definitely, though. Only that he didn’t seem to be quite himself—not as bright as usual, or so interested in things—and wanted to sleep a great deal, even in the daytime; something, as you know, most unusual for him. I thought then of sending for you, and then I felt that that might alarm him, and to tell the truth, I expected every day to see him begin to pick up again; he’s had times like this before. And so things went along until to-day. But this morning, as I telephoned you, he didn’t get up at all—complained of feeling very weak and faint—so of course Irang you up at once. I only hope I’ve made no mistake in waiting so long.”
Doctor Morrison shook his head. “Oh, no, I don’t think so for a moment,” he answered, “I doubt if it’s anything serious at all. All men, as they get on in years, are apt to get queer notions at times, especially about their health. I’ll go right up and see him now, but I don’t anticipate that we’ll find there’s the slightest cause for alarm.”
For half an hour Henry Carleton sat alone in the firelight, in spite of all the doctor had said still anxious and disturbed. Then he rose quickly as he heard footsteps descending the stairs, and stood waiting, expectant and apprehensive. As the doctor entered the room, it was easy to see from the expression on his face that his news was certainly none of the best. Abruptly Henry Carleton stepped forward. “Is it serious?” he asked.
The doctor did not keep him in suspense. He nodded gravely. “Yes,” he answered, “I suppose I should tell you so at once. It is,” and then, seeing the unspoken question in the other’s eyes, he added quickly, “No, I don’t mean anything immediate,necessarily; but he’s failed terribly since I saw him last. I suppose it’s been all of six months now, at least, since I came out before; and probably to you, living with him and seeing him every day, the change has been so gradual that you haven’t noticed it, but it’s been going on steadily just the same, all the time. He’s certainly failed—alarmingly.”
Slowly Henry Carleton nodded. “I see,” he said half-mechanically, then added, “Is it anything particular, Doctor, or just a general breaking up?”
“Just that,” the doctor answered. “Just old age. It’s the same story with all of us, after all. The machine is built to run about so long. Sometimes it wears out gradually; sometimes, as in Mr. Carleton’s case, even at the allotted age, it seems almost as good as new; and those are the cases, where, when anything does go wrong, it’s apt to go wrong very suddenly indeed, so that to every one the shock is proportionately greater, and just so much harder to bear.”
Again Henry Carleton nodded. “Nothing that one can do, I suppose?” he asked, and the doctorshook his head. “No,” he answered, “practically nothing; it’s really his own fight. I’ll leave some directions about medicine and diet, of course, and I rather think, on the whole, though it’s probably a needless precaution, that I’ll stay here with you for the night. You might fix me up a sofa in his room, if you don’t mind; I think perhaps I should feel better satisfied to stay until morning, anyway. His heart isn’t quite what I’d like it to be.”
By nine o’clock Edward Carleton seemed to be in better spirits, and to be resting more comfortably, and neither Henry Carleton, nor, for that matter, Doctor Morrison himself, retired with any thought of an immediate turn for the worse. Henry Carleton, indeed, resigned himself to sleep with all the comfort that comes from a conscience serenely at peace with every one, and a knowledge that one’s worldly affairs—deprecated but not despised—are going magnificently to one’s advantage. Calmly enough he balanced his spiritual accounts with his Creator and his fellow-men, and found that with both his credit was good. Placidly he passed in review on matters more material, and therefound, if such a thing could be, his credit better still; and then, as a good man should, dropped off to sleep with no disturbing or vexing thoughts to mar his rest.
Yet after all, the night was not destined to be a peaceful one, for somewhere in the long, silent spaces that lie between midnight and the dawn, the bell connecting Edward Carleton’s room with his rang once, twice, thrice; insistent and shrill, piercing his dreams with a sudden foreboding of evil. In a moment he was up and across the hall, to find, in the dim light, the doctor, half-dressed, supporting the old man’s figure, swaying as he strove to prop him against the pillows. Sharply the doctor spoke. “On the mantel,” he cried, “my case. Quick, please. No, come here. I’ll get it myself. Keep his head up—there—that way—so. Just a minute, now; just a minute—”
It was but the fraction of a minute, at the most, until he returned, but in the interval the old man’s eyes had opened and had gazed at Henry Carleton with an expression of recognition. Instantly, too, he strove to speak, but in vain, and then, just as thedoctor reached his side, his eyes closed, and his head dropped back among the pillows. Edward Carleton was dead.
It was seven o’clock the next morning when Doctor Morrison, tired and pale with the strain of his long, sleepless night, entered his office, to meet Helmar just coming down the stairs. “Old Mr. Carleton’s gone, Franz,” he said abruptly, “heart failure. He died early this morning.”
Helmar glanced up quickly. “I’m very sorry indeed,” he said, “but it’s not a surprise. I remember when I saw him I didn’t give him over six months, or a year, at the most. His heart action was none too good even then, and there were other things.”
Doctor Morrison nodded, then looked at him with a rather curious expression. “Franz,” he said, “you know your friend Jack Carleton?”
Helmar’s eyes met his frankly. “I was just thinking of him,” he said, “I’m afraid it will be a terrible shock. I think he scarcely realized that his father was failing at all. Poor old Mr. Carleton!And what a difference it all makes. To think that Jack will come into his fortune now.”
Again Doctor Morrison eyed him curiously. “Come into his fortune,” he repeated, and again Helmar looked up quickly, struck by his tone.
“Why, yes,” he answered, “why not? I always understood that Jack would have the estate on his father’s death. There’s been no change, has there? Jack hasn’t been cut off in any way?”
Doctor Morrison shook his head. “No,” he answered, “nothing like that, exactly; but suppose I have nothing, and give you all I have; that doesn’t do you such a tremendous lot of good.”
Helmar’s expression sufficiently showed his astonishment. “You don’t mean it!” he cried. “Why, that can’t be so! I always understood from every one that Edward Carleton was a very rich man. Why, just look at his place, for one thing; it can’t be so.”
Doctor Morrison shrugged his shoulders. “It’s the same old story,” he said, “you know yourself how often it happens, and how surprised people are on a man’s death to find how comparativelylittle he has. Sometimes, of course, you’ll find it just reversed, and the man that’s rated at fifty thousand dies worth half a million. But that’s the exception, these days, and the other’s the rule. For one man that scrapes and saves, there are a dozen who live on a big scale, spend their income to the last cent, and maybe draw on the principal, too. And Edward Carleton spent money very freely, I suppose.”
Helmar looked entirely unconvinced. “Well, suppose he did,” he answered, “admit that he did, even; for he did give a lot to charity and things like that; I know that for a fact. But even then—think of the different enterprises he was in in his day, and practically all big, successful ones. Oh, it can’t be that he left nothing; it’s an impossibility.”
Doctor Morrison shook his head. “No, sir, it’s true,” he replied, “I’m not speculating about it; I know it positively, because I got it from Henry Carleton’s own lips. He surely ought to know, if any one does, and he’d hardly care to publish the fact if it wasn’t really so. He’s a most remarkableman, Helmar. I’ve always admired him, but I don’t think I ever really quite appreciated him before. Sometimes I seemed to find him a little self-centered, a little too sure of himself, if you know what I mean. But I know better now, for what he’s done in his brother’s case is really as fine a thing as you ever heard. It seems that the old gentleman had always managed his own affairs, but about a year ago he came to Henry and asked him to take charge of everything for him. I suppose he felt that he was getting a little out of touch with things, perhaps; anyway, whether he suspected it or not, the sequel proved that he’d managed to put matters off a little too long. He had some very unfortunate investments, and he’d looked out for lots of other people ahead of himself, and the long and short of it was that when the panic blew along, it simply wiped Edward Carleton off the map.”
Helmar nodded grudgingly. “Well, on those facts, I can understand it, then,” he replied. “But I always thought he was too conservative a man toget caught in anything like that. He had plenty of company, though.”
“No doubt of that,” Doctor Morrison assented, “and then what do you suppose Henry Carleton did? Straightened out what was left of the wreck as well as he could, told the old gentleman that everything was all right, and has kept the estate going ever since, letting him have whatever he wanted, right out of his own pocket, and without a word to any one that things were any different from what they always had been. He’s even kept on paying Jack the allowance his father gave him, and that, too, after he and Jack had had another row, more serious than any that had gone before. And he’d have kept on like that, he told me, if the old gentleman had lived ten years instead of one. If that isn’t doing one’s duty, in the best sense of the word, I’d like to have you tell me what is.”
For a moment, Helmar did not reply. To all that Doctor Morrison had said he had listened with the closest attention. “He told you all this himself, you say?” he queried at length.
At once the doctor felt the unspoken criticism in his tone. “And why not?” he retorted. “This has been a time of great strain for him, and we were together there for the rest of the night. At a time like that a man’s tongue is loosened perhaps a little more than usual.”
Helmar made no answer, either of denial or assent. Then, after a little while, “Does Jack know?” he asked.
“Not yet,” the doctor answered. “There seemed nothing to be gained by telephoning. I told Henry Carleton I’d go up at once myself.”
Helmar reached for his hat. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “let me go instead,” and Doctor Morrison, spent and weary, readily enough nodded assent.
Carleton, as Helmar entered the door of his room at the Mayflower, turned with some surprise to greet his friend. “Why, hello, Franz,” he cried. “What the devil brings you here?” Then noticing the look on Helmar’s face, he added quickly, and in a very different tone, “What is it? Anything wrong?”
Helmar nodded. Between man and man, he was no believer in striving to break bad news gently. “It’s your father, Jack,” he said. “He died this morning. It was very sudden. Doctor Morrison was there. It was his heart. There was nothing that could be done. And he didn’t suffer, Jack; and that means a great deal.”
He stopped, making no empty protestations of sympathy. Carleton, turning on his heel, stepped quickly to the window, and stood, with his back to Helmar, gazing blankly out into the street. Presently he turned again; his eyes were moist; and his voice, when he spoke, was pitched low. “The poor old Governor,” he said. “He was awfully good to me. I never thought—I wish now—I wish somehow I’d been different with him.”
With the vast freemasonry of experience Helmar divined his thoughts. “I know, Jack,” he said, “I know how I felt when my father died. I’ve known since, a hundred times, what sons and daughters might be to their parents, but somehow we’re not. It’s just the fact of being young, I suppose. We don’t understand; we don’t appreciate—untilit’s too late; and then we never can repay; only remember, I suppose, when we have children of our own, that we’ve got to make allowances, too—”
He broke off abruptly, and for a moment there was silence. Then, with evident constraint, he spoke again. “Doctor Morrison was coming up here himself, Jack,” he said, “but I asked him to let me come instead. There was something I wanted to tell you especially—about the estate. Henry has told Doctor Morrison that in the panic your father lost about everything he had, so that practically there’s nothing left. I wanted to tell you first—”
Carleton nodded, but the expression on his face showed no new emotion. “Thank you, Franz,” he said, “I understand, and I appreciate; you’ve always been a good friend to me. But I don’t care about the money; it isn’t that; I only wish—”
In spite of himself his voice faltered and broke, and he again turned hastily away, while Helmar waited in silence, scarce knowing what to do or say. At length Carleton turned to him once more,speaking as one speaks only to a tried friend, his voice steady enough now, yet hardly sounding like his own. “Memory’s a queer thing, Franz,” he said. “Of all that I remember about my father, what do you suppose comes back to me now? Something that happened almost twenty years ago, when we used to spend our summers down at the shore. A little trivial thing, too, I suppose any one would say. I was just a youngster then—nine or ten, maybe—and we had two little sail-boats that were the apple of my eye. Poor enough craft I guess they were, looking back at them now, but no two cup defenders to-day could look to me as those two boats did then.
“I wasn’t considered big enough to go out in them alone, but one Saturday afternoon my father promised me that if Henry, when he came down from town, would take one boat, I could take the other, and we could have a race. As long as I live, I’ll never forget that morning. A thousand times I looked out to where the two boats lay moored; crazy with excitement; planning everything; the start, the course; looking at the wind;right on edge—and somehow it never even occurred to me that Henry wouldn’t want to go. I suppose I honestly couldn’t imagine that any man, woman or child could possibly refuse a chance to sail a boat race.
“Well, Henry arrived, and you can imagine what Henry did. He hated me even then; I believe he’d always hated me, though of course I didn’t realize it. Poor little rascal that I was, I’d never learned to think about hating any one. He heard me out—I can even remember how I grabbed hold of him as he was getting out of the station wagon, and how he shook me off, too—and then he looked at me with a queer kind of a smile that wasn’t really a smile—I can imagine now just what fun it must have been for him—and said he was afraid there wasn’t wind enough to go sailing. That was just to tantalize me—to see me argue and run out on the piazza and point to the ripples and the big American flag on the Island waving in the breeze—and then he had to turn away, and pretend to yawn, and say he didn’t believe he cared to go, that anyway he was going over to the Country Club toplay tennis. And then he went into the house to get ready, and left me out there on the piazza alone.
“I can laugh now, and shrug my shoulders at the whole thing, but then—why, it was black tragedy for me. I guess I was a pretty solemn-looking little chap, swallowing hard and trying not to cry, when my father found me there half an hour later. He’d been fishing all the morning, I remember, and I guess he was good and tired—he hadn’t been well that summer, anyway—and he had a cigar in his mouth, and had his hand on the long piazza chair, just going to pull it into the shade, and settle down with a book and a paper for a nice, quiet afternoon. I told him, I remember, and he looked at his chair, and looked out on the water—the sun was strong, and pretty hot, and to tell the truth, though there was a little light air close to shore, about a quarter of a mile out to sea it was getting rather flat—and then he looked again at his chair, and then at me, and then he put down his book and his paper, and drew me up to him with one hand, and gave a smile—that was a smile.
“‘Come on, my old sailor,’ he said ‘and we’ll see if we can’t have a little boat race of our own.’ Oh, how my heart jumped—the poor old Governor, I think my expression must pretty nearly have paid him—and then we toiled down over the rocks, with me hanging to his hand, the way a kid that really likes his father will; and out we went in the skiff, with me doing the rowing, splashing and jerking, and very proud, and then we got up sail, and drifted around the little course for a couple of hours—I can remember how hot it was—and of course I won. I didn’t dream then that he let me, and perhaps, for him to hear me telling my mother about it over and over again at the supper table—perhaps—”
He stopped, unable to go on, and then, after a little pause, he added half-wistfully, in a voice that shook in spite of him, “It’s queer, Helmar—isn’t it?—how a little thing like that can stand out in your memory, and so many other things you utterly forget. It’s just the—what is the word—just thekindnessof it—damn it all—” and self-restraint at last giving way, he buried his face in hishands, and for the first time in many a long year, cried like a child.
Helmar for a moment stood still in troubled silence; then turned upon his heel, and softly left the room.
“For of fortunes sharpe adversite,The worst kind of infortune is this,—A man that hath been in prosperite,And it remember when it passed is.”Chaucer.
“For of fortunes sharpe adversite,The worst kind of infortune is this,—A man that hath been in prosperite,And it remember when it passed is.”
Chaucer.
Marjory Graham rose from her seat as Carleton entered the room, her hand outstretched in friendly greeting. “I’m glad you came out, Jack,” she said, “it’s seemed like a long time.”
Carleton, as he seated himself, unconsciously kept his eyes fixed on the girl’s face, thinking to himself that he had never seen her looking prettier, or more charming. He gave a nod of assent. “Ithasbeen a long time,” he answered, “but you know how much has happened. I should have come before, but I thought I’d wait until things were settled first.”
The girl looked at him, with sympathy in her glance. “I was so sorry, Jack,” she said, “about your father.”
He nodded again. “I know you were, Marjory,” he answered, “you were always kind to him, and he valued your friendship, I know. He used to speak to me about you, many a time. And I never dreamed—he seemed so well—it’s so hard for me to realize, even now, that we’ll never see him again.”
There followed a moment’s silence. And then the girl spoke once more. “And I’m sorry, Jack, about all the rest, too.”
His answering glance was grateful enough, yet somehow he appeared to wince a little at her words. “You needn’t be, Marjory,” he said, “because I don’t deserve it. I’ve made a fool of myself. Your father told you everything, I suppose.”
“Yes, Jack, he told me,” she answered, “I don’t think he liked doing it—he hates talking about other people’s business—but he said you asked him to.”
“Yes, I wanted him to,” Carleton assented. “Iwanted you to know all about it, before I came out. I thought I’d make a clean breast of things. I’ve paid my debts, thank Heaven, but I’m left practically without a cent; I’m no better than a beggar. And I’m living in a lodging-house, down-town. Quite a change, all right, from the Mayflower.”
Her face clouded. “I won’t bother you with sympathy, Jack,” she said, “if you don’t want me to; but I am awfully sorry, just the same; I’ve thought of you so many times. And Jack,” she added, “I wish you’d promise me to think more about yourself now. You’ve been through such a lot, and really you don’t look well at all. You’re thin, and tired-looking, and different—somehow—every way.”
Carleton nodded. What the inward change had been, he knew better than any one else. And outwardly, indeed, he did appear more careworn, more thoughtful, than he had ever done before. In his whole manner there was a new poise, and a new gravity as well. “Oh, I’m all right, thanks,” he answered, “only when you get worried, and begin not to sleep, it makes a difference, you know.Thank you, though, Marjory, for being sorry. I appreciate it more than I can say. But I didn’t mean to bother you with all my troubles like this. I came out to tell you something different altogether, and I find it’s awfully hard to begin.”
Momentarily he paused. Intent on what he was saying, he had sat looking straight before him, never lifting his eyes to the girl’s face. Had he done so, he could scarcely have failed to note the expression there, a look as if already she both knew and dreaded what it was that he wished to say, and had it been possible, would gladly have checked the words before he could give them utterance. But all absorbed in his desire to express himself as he wished, Carleton still sat gazing fixedly into the firelight, and after a pause, went on.
“I wonder how I can make you understand. Did you ever have something, Marjory, that you wanted to do very much; something that you were always on the point of doing, and yet somehow kept putting off from day to day, until at last something else happened that made it impossible ever to do it at all, and left you just saying over and over to yourself,‘Why didn’t I? Why didn’t I when I could?’”
The girl gave a nod of assent. “Yes, Jack,” she answered, “I understand.”
“Then you’ll know what I mean,” he continued, “by what I’m going to tell you now. It’s only this, and I think you know what it is before I say it, even. I love you, Marjory; I always have loved you, even when you were only a little girl. That was the trouble all along, I suppose. I always thought of you as so young that I kept saying to myself that I oughtn’t to bother you, that there would be plenty of time when you were older. And then—when youwereolder—I’d got started on a foolish way of living. I don’t really know how I began—just seemed to drift into it somehow. And I didn’t keep on because I enjoyed it—for I didn’t—it was just the habit of it that gripped me so I couldn’t seem to break away. And now that I’ve come to my senses again, Marjory—now that I can come to you, feeling that I’ve a right to tell you that I love you—why now it’s too late. I’ve got to begin at the foot of the ladder; I can’t askyou to marry me; but I want to know if you’ll wait—let me show that I’m able to make good—give me another chance. That’s all I ask, Marjory; all that I’ve a right to ask.”
Slowly and unwillingly, her gaze met his, “Jack,” she began, “you know the money would make no difference; I’d never think of that, of course. It isn’t that—”
She hesitated, and stopped. Carleton’s eyes sought hers with the look of a man who feels the whole world reel beneath him.
“Marjory,” he cried, “do you mean you don’t care—you don’t love me?”
There was a moment’s silence. And then the girl slowly shook her head. “No, Jack, I don’t mean that. Of course I care. I’ve always cared. You must have known. Any time, from the day you graduated from college, up to a year ago, if you’d come to me and asked me to marry you, I’d have been the happiest girl you could find anywhere—”
For an instant she paused, and Carleton raised his eyes to hers, as if both knowing and dreadingwhat her next words would be. “Well?” he asked.
“And then, Jack,” she went on, even more slowly, as if the words cost her greater and greater effort, “you began to change. And caring isn’t enough, Jack. For a girl really to love a man, she’s got to respect him—and trust him. And you know how you’ve lived, Jack, for this last year. First I only heard things—you know how girls gossip among themselves—and each one has a brother, or a cousin or a sweetheart, who tells her things; so first I heard, and then, little by little, I could see for myself. I tried to think just as much of you as ever, Jack. I pretended to laugh at the stories they told. And then there came one night at a dance, when you weren’t yourself at all—I hate to remember it even—and I knew then that things couldn’t go on like that; that we’d have to come to some kind of an understanding. So I sent word by Franz Helmar, to ask you to come out to see me that Friday night. I’d made up my mind that we’d talk everything all over, between ourselves—about your drinking, andabout that girl—I’d heard all people were saying; you can’t keep those things from being known. And then, after I’d waited and waited for you all that evening, and finally given you up—then to come across you, the way we did, by accident, out motoring with her—with that common girl—I don’t see how you could do it, Jack! I don’t see how men can do things like that, and respect themselves; much less expect other people to respect them. And you, Jack, of all people—that was a terrible night for me. If I hadn’t cared for you—if I didn’t care for you, Jack—I wouldn’t have minded; I wouldn’t mind now. But for me to know that you’d been as devoted to me as you had—that every one talked about us as if we were really engaged—and then to know that all the time you’d been—oh, Jack, I had such faith in you! I thought you were different from other men. I don’t see how you could.”
Carleton had sat listening, his eyes fixed on the ground, wincing under her words. Gradually, as she spoke, a dull red flush had mounted to his very temples, and when she ended he at once madeanswer, speaking rapidly, as if the words were fairly wrung, by force, from his lips. “Don’t, Marjory!” he cried. “For God’s sake, don’t! It’s all true enough. I’ve been selfish, thoughtless, brutal; anything you please. I don’t know why I did it. Men are queer things, that way, I guess. Because I loved you just as much, Marjory, all the time. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. And it wasn’t so bad, Marjory. It was foolishness, but that was all. The girl’s none the worse for me. Don’t condemn me for all our lives, because I’ve failed once. Let me make my fight. Let me show that I can be the kind of a man a girl can respect. And then it will be all right again. You’ll marry me then, Marjory; say that you will.”
Perhaps the straightforward vehemence of his speech helped him as nothing else could have done. The girl hesitated a moment before she answered; and finally, half-doubtfully, shook her head. “Ah, Jack,” she said, “ifyou would. Then things would be all right again. But would you, Jack?Canyou change your way of living, as you think you can? Suppose you did, for a time. Supposewe should marry, even. And then—if anything should happen. I’m different from most women, perhaps. But my husband has to bemine, the whole of him. And if you did—things like this—again, it would kill me, Jack. I couldn’t bear the misery, and the shame. I want to trust you, Jack; I want to, more than anything in the world. But can I? Would you do as you say?”
Impulsively he rose, and walked over to the fireplace, leaning a hand on the mantel, and looking down into her face. “I can’t blame you, Marjory,” he cried, “if I would. And I won’t waste time in words. But let me tell you what I’ll do. I’ve two chances now. One here in town—that Henry’s got for me—it’s steady and sure, and pays fifteen hundred a year. And the other’s to go ranching it out West, with a fellow I used to know in college. He always wanted me, and he’ll take me now. There’s a chance there, too; a chance to make money; a chance to get rich, even. I’ve been hesitating—I wanted to stay, to be near you—but I won’t delay any longer. I’ll go out there and take my chance. It means three years,anyway; maybe more. If I can come back then, with some prospect ahead of me—if I can come back then, and tell you, on my word of honor, that I’ve done nothing in all that time for which you need to feel ashamed—then things would be right again, wouldn’t they? You’d marry me, Marjory, then.”
Her face had clouded as he spoke. “Ah, Jack,” she said, “it seems so hard to have you go away like that. I don’t want you to; I’d rather have you here. And yet—I suppose it’s best for both of us. I know you’re right, Jack; that you ought to go, and make your fight. And I’ll trust to what you tell me; and I’ll wait—I’ll wait three years, or twice three years.”
His face had brightened with her words. He bent over her, and took her hand in his. “God bless you, Marjory,” he said. “I’ll go, and I’ll fight as no man ever fought before.”
For an instant longer he stood gazing down into her eyes; then turned abruptly. A moment later the portières had rustled behind him, and then were still.
“Why comes temptation, but for man to meetAnd master and make crouch beneath his foot,And so be pedestaled in triumph?”Browning.
“Why comes temptation, but for man to meetAnd master and make crouch beneath his foot,And so be pedestaled in triumph?”
Browning.
Slowly and thoughtfully Carleton ascended the stairs; reached his room; entered it; had even begun, with the mechanical force of habit, to fumble in his pockets for a match—and then, all at once, with a sudden shock of surprise, he awoke from his abstraction. The lamp on the center table was already lighted, though turned low, and from the shadow beyond, a dark figure rose, and came forward to meet him.
In an instant, he had reached out his hand; the next moment, the lamp light flooded the room; and then, as he recognized his visitor, there swept over his face a medley of emotions—amazement, displeasure,perhaps some other feeling as well. For an instant he stood motionless; then, frowning, again stepped forward, pitching his voice little louder than a whisper. “What the devil does this mean, Jeanne?” he asked.
The girl’s lips were smiling; her eyes dancing with suppressed amusement. Plainly enough, she was in nowise disconcerted at her greeting, but instead met his glance with the expression of one who feels herself mistress of the situation. She too stepped forward, until only the width of the table separated them; then spoke, in the same low key, half, it seemed, in real precaution, half in mocking mimicry of his own anxious tone. “Aren’t you glad to see me, Jack?” she whispered. “I thought you’d be so pleased.”
Carleton’s expression did not change, except that his frown deepened, and his mouth grew stern. “What are you thinking of?” he said again, and in the same tone as before. “Coming here! At this time of night! Are you crazy, Jeanne?”
Smiling still, the girl came closer, laying her hand appealingly on his arm, and looking up intohis face with the innocent gaze of a child unjustly wronged. “Now, Jack—” she began.
Carleton, with a quick intake of his breath, stepped back, shaking off the slender hand. “Drop it, Jeanne,” he said sharply. “Here—” he thrust the arm-chair toward her, “sit down, and tell me what all this means, and then, for God’s sake, go away!”
With an amused shrug of her shoulders, the girl complied, seating herself leisurely and comfortably, as if she were far from being in a hurry to depart, and glanced up at him with a look charming and demure enough to have driven away the frown which still lingered on his brow. And then, as she made no move to speak, he broke the silence.
“How on earth,” he asked, “did you get here?”
She smiled back at him, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Bribery,” she answered. “The maid at the door said it was as much as her place was worth. I told her it was a matter of great importance—I really did it rather well, I think—and then I told her that no one would ever know and—persuaded her. And here I am.”
“So I perceive,” he observed dryly, and then, more gravely, “And now what is it, Jeanne? Be quick, please. It must be close to midnight. If any one found you here—”
The girl laughed, low and mockingly. “Why, Jack,” she said, “how awfully moral we’ve grown. You never used to be so particular about appearances. Don’t you remember—”
He held up a silencing hand. “I remember a great many things, Jeanne. We had our good times, and we enjoyed them, too. But they’re all gone by for me, my dear. If you dance, you’ve got to pay the piper. That’s the truest thing that ever was said. And I’m paying him now. You heard all about the smash, of course. And you know that I’m a poor man. My sporting days are over, for good and all.”
The girl nodded. For the first time, the smile had left her face, and her tone, when she spoke, was as grave as his own. “I know all about it, Jack,” she said, “it isn’t the money I care about. I thought it was—once—but it wasn’t; it was you. And you haven’t sent me word now for solong. And I wrote you, and you never answered. And then—I was lonesome, and so—I came.”
He looked back at her steadily. “I didn’t put things quite right, Jeanne,” he said, “I didn’t mean that it was wholly because I didn’t have money any more. That is part of it, I guess, but there’s more to it than just that. I’m sorry for a lot of foolish things I’ve done, and I mean to quit them.”
She raised her eyebrows at the words, and a new expression came over her face. “Oh,” she said. “I see. So going around with me was foolish, was it? That’s strange. You didn’t seem to think so, when you were doing it, Jack.”
If she had expected to hear him withdraw his words, she was disappointed. “You don’t understand me, Jeanne,” he said, “there was no question about my enjoying it. I didn’t mean that. I enjoyed it too much—that was all. But that doesn’t alter the fact that it was foolishness for both of us. It was all my fault. It was only because I got used to seeing you around the place, out at The Birches, and you were so pretty, and so nice, that I wasn’t strong enough to resist temptation.And we had some great old times together. Don’t think I’ve turned preacher all at once, because I haven’t. We had some bully times, and I shall always remember them. But I was injuring you, Jeanne, and I was injuring myself, too. We were going ahead with something that could turn out only one way—we were playing the devil’s pet game. And I thank God we pulled up in time.”
The girl stiffled a little yawn; then smiled up at him more brightly than before, motioning, as she did so, to the arm of the chair. “Youhaveturned preacher, Jack,” she said. “Don’t do it any more, please; it’s so stupid. And don’t stand, either. There’s lots of room.”
He shook his head. There came into her eyes a gleam of something other than mirth, and as she spoke, she raised her voice a trifle. “Sit down, Jack,” she said again.
Carleton threw an anxious glance over his shoulder, and then, unwillingly enough, drew up to the table the only other chair in the room. Again the gleam flashed, far back in her eyes, and once more she tapped on the arm of the chair. “Sit here,”she said imperiously, and heedful, not of the words, but of the tone, he obeyed.
“Jack,” she murmured, “have I changed?”“Jack,” she murmured, “have I changed?”—Page145
At once her slender hand had stolen into his. “Look at me, Jack,” she commanded, and reluctantly enough he gazed down into the face that in the past had fascinated him beyond his strength. As if in a silent trial of their wills, her eyes held his, “Jack,” she murmured, “have I changed?”
Carleton’s teeth came together sharply; unconsciously the hand that held hers tightened so that she gave a little cry of pain, before it again relaxed. “No,” he muttered hoarsely, “only you’re prettier than ever, Jeanne.”
Her other hand crept upward until it rested on his shoulder; still her eyes were fixed on his, and still he did not look away. And then, “Ah, Jack,” she whispered, “you foolish boy! What did you think, anyway? That I thought you’d marry me? Of course I didn’t. I wanted a good time too. ‘Only end one way,’ Jack. Of course. That was the way Iwantedit to end. That’s why I came here to-night, Jack, dear—”
At last he had wrenched his eyes free from hergaze. “Don’t Jeanne!” he cried. “Don’t—” but she clung the closer to him.
“Jack,” she said, as though not understanding, “Jack, what’s changed you? Don’t you want me?” and then, her whole tone altering in one instant’s flash, “There’s some one else, then,” she cried. “You were never like this before. Isn’t there, Jack? Isn’t there?”
Once more he met her glance. “Yes, Jeanne,” he said, very low, “there is.”
On the instant, her eyes flamed; instinctively she drew back, and Carleton, freed from her grasp, started to his feet. She rose also, quivering from head to foot.
“It’s that Graham girl!” she cried. “That doll! Don’t do it Jack! Don’t marry her! She’d never love you the way I would. Don’t do it, Jack! We can have such a good time. I’ve got some money; we can get more. We can go abroad together. You’ve made me love you, Jack; you can’t cast me off now. It isn’t fair. I’m not asking much. You can have me Jack, the whole of me—as long as you want me—and then, when you’retired of me, you can leave me, and go your way. Jack, please—”
She stood there, breathing quick and hard, and gazing at him with such a look on her face that half against his will, he stepped forward, and took her hand in his. “Jeanne,” he said, “God knows I’m sorry. I never meant things to end like this; I never thought you really cared. But I can’t do what you say. ItisMarjory Graham; I’ve asked her to marry me, and I’ve promised her, this very night, to live straight from now on. Don’t think it’s easy for me, dear; it isn’t. Don’t think I don’t appreciate—everything. But we wouldn’t be happy, Jeanne—either of us. It wouldn’t be right; it wouldn’t be square; we’d both regret—we mustn’t do it, Jeanne. I’m sorry, from the bottom of my heart, if I’ve hurt you; but I never meant it. You must go your way, Jeanne; and I must go mine.”
Even as he spoke, his heart smote him. The girl stood, her eyes cast down, her breast heaving—“My way,” she muttered, half under her breath. “My way; oh, God!” and then, slowly and uncertainly,she lifted her eyes to his and Carleton saw that they were filled with tears. For the first time she seemed to realize her dismissal, and to accept it. “Very well,” she said wearily, “I’ll go,” and then, after a pause, “kiss me, Jack.”
Carleton bent and kissed her; then, almost roughly, released her, and as she turned away, stood silent, with averted face, not daring to trust himself to look.
The silence deepened. Then, very softly, the door closed. He raised his eyes. He was alone in the room. Like a man physically spent, he threw himself down into the arm-chair, and buried his face in his hands.