“Ay me, how many perils do enfold the righteous man!”Spenser.
“Ay me, how many perils do enfold the righteous man!”
Spenser.
Across the rampart of his desk Henry Carleton gazed regretfully at his visitor; then once again shook his head. “I’m sorry, Van Socum,” he said, “I hate to refuse such a call, and I hate to refuse you of all men. A year ago I should have felt differently, but now as you know, we’re in the midst of hard times, and first and last, one has to meet so many demands. I’m afraid I shall really have to ask you to excuse me. But I’m sorry, though; extremely sorry; I only wish I felt able to respond. Perhaps some time a little later—”
Slowly the Reverend William Van Socum nodded his head. From his general appearance—his bland, plump, rosy face; his stout, well-fed littlebody; his ultra correct ministerial garb—one would scarcely have divined his really unusual talents. For the Reverend William Van Socum was the man whose remarkable ability to assist his church in a certain deprecated, but much needed and excessively practical department of its activities, had gained for him among his clerical associates the title, bestowed in ungrudging admiration, of “The Painless Separator.”
And now, while the gentle inclination of his head was meant to convey the most sympathetic understanding, at the same time he made no move to rise, but on the contrary kept his seat, and unflinchingly returned Henry Carleton’s gaze. For Van Socum’s pride was touched. He had made up his mind, before entering the great man’s office, that its doors should not again be closed behind him until in the neat little space opposite Henry Carleton’s name he had seen inserted the pleasantly round sum of five hundred dollars. And now to all appearances he had met a foeman worthy of his steel—of his brass, possibly some envious detractor might have preferred to say—a man every whit assmooth and polished as himself, a man who was both ready and able to defend his little garrison of beleaguered dollars with a skill of fence and a completeness of repulse which could not but arouse Van Socum’s somewhat unwilling admiration. Accustomed to success as he had become, defeat seemed now well-nigh assured. Whimsically he thought of the ancient problem of the irresistible force and its contact with the immovable body, and as an afterthought he added grudgingly to himself, “This man’s wasted in business; he ought to be one of us.”
But these, of course, were thoughts merely. Outwardly, the reverend gentleman gave no sign that he dreaded, or even expected, a refusal. His little oily professional smile was as winning and as confident as ever. Yet he realized that he was dealing with a busy man, and prudently determined, while the chance yet remained to him, to play his last card without delay.
“I understand, my dear Mr. Carleton,” he exclaimed, “I perfectly understand. For a man like yourself, a man of your standing in the community, none can realize better than I what a tax these constantdemands must be, on patience and on pocket-book as well.” He paused for just the veriest instant, inwardly to smack his lips; he loved a well-turned phrase, above all if it had about it a flavor of alliteration, and “On patience and on pocket-book as well” struck him as distinctly good. Then, with a swift return to business methods,
“But I did feel, Mr. Carleton, that this time you would favor us. The project of the new altar seems to have made a wide appeal to all those most interested in the beautifying of our beloved church, and example—the example, let us say, of a man of your type, Mr. Carleton—does mean so much to some of the weaker brethren. Not every one, perhaps, realizes this, but I myself know it to be a matter of the greatest consequence, and it was this same power of example that I had in mind when I arranged to have the preliminary list made public to-morrow in six of the leading dailies. And for my part, I can see nothing out of the way in such a proceeding. The press and the pulpit—or rather, let us say, the pulpit and the press—why should they not proceed together hand in hand, so that allthings, spiritual and secular, may at last work together for good. That, at least, is my conception of it. And the papers have been very kind. Almost invariably, I think I may say. To a laborer in the vineyard, to one who bears the burden and heat of the day, it is gratifying—I must confess it—very gratifying indeed.”
He spoke but the truth, as Henry Carleton well knew. The Reverend William Van Socum had the reputation of being the greatest ecclesiastical advertiser in the city. Just how he did it, none but himself seemed to know, yet stony-hearted editors and impervious reporters were but as wax in his hands. “The pulpit and the press” was not simply another of his favorite catch-words; it meant something substantial as well. Hand in hand they traveled, in very truth, and it was the bland and smiling Van Socum who managed to unite them in this touching amity.
“Yes,” he said reminiscently, “six of the leading dailies. And good position in all of them, too. It’s a splendid thing for us. So far the Honorable Samuel Rogers has made the largest individualsubscription—two hundred and fifty dollars—and his name at the head of the list will of course mean a great deal. We consider that he has acted very handsomely. But—” the smile again appeared, like the sun from behind the clouds, deprecating, wistful, with just a hint of gentle reproach, and oily enough to have turned an ocean into calm—“but above that of Mr. Rogers we had hoped to have one other name, one other name still more widely and—if you will pardon me—still more favorably known than even that of Mr. Rogers himself.”
Henry Carleton looked, as he felt, a trifle uncomfortable. “I deplore,” he said, a little stiffly, “any publicity in such matters. The right hand, and the left, Van Socum, you know.”
Occasionally an expert boxer, for some reason of his own, will leave himself unguarded, purposely to invite a blow. With joy the Reverend William Van Socum foresaw the beginning of the end. “True! true!” he cried, “as far as the giver is concerned. But for the effect on others, Mr. Carleton.That is where you are in error. Let your light so shine! That is the injunction which covers the case. The shining light, Mr. Carleton! The shining light!”
The blow sped home. Henry Carleton meekly inclined his head, as it seemed, a willing sacrifice. “I deplore publicity—” he again began, but his tone was feebler by far; and then he added, metaphorically throwing up the sponge, “in six papers, did you say?”
Van Socum bore his honors modestly. “Six,” he answered, again producing the subscription book from his pocket, “six; and excellent position in all. And of course our own paper,The Flaming Torch, which in itself has a circulation by no means contemptible. Let me see. Five hundred, Mr. Carleton? A thousand, perhaps, would be almost too large a sum.”
Inwardly Henry Carleton was returning the compliment the Reverend Doctor had just paid to him. “This fellow,” he thought, “is thrown away on the church. I could use a man like him to excellentadvantage.” “Yes,” he answered, “five hundred, I think. I shouldn’t wish to be criticized on the score of ostentation.”
The victor drew out his pencil; then, almost in the act of writing, paused, as if suddenly recalling something to mind.
“By the way, Mr. Carleton,” he asked, “did some one tell me the other day that your nephew had returned from the West?”
Henry Carleton’s face was expressionless. “Yes,” he answered, “he is back. He has been in town several days.”
Van Socum nodded amiably. “How very pleasant!” he said smoothly. “He is—improved—I trust?”
A slight frown seemed to hover about the banker’s brow. He appeared to place a curb on his speech. “Greatly, thank you,” he answered briefly.
The clerical smile again burst into bloom. “So glad; so very glad to hear it,” he murmured; then continued brightly, “but I felt sure that it would be so. There was such a field for it. When he left us, one might almost have dared to uproot the tareswithout feeling that the wheat would be in danger. So glad—so very glad.”
He paused a moment; then, as if tentatively feeling his way toward a possible germ for a sermon, he moralized, “Three years! How swiftly time passes us by! What changes it brings to us all! To you—to me—to your nephew—” He stopped abruptly, his ideas swinging suddenly into another channel, “And speaking of the passage of time, Mr. Carleton, what a change it has brought in your daughter, Rose! I remember her as a charming child, and behold, I met her the other afternoon at a little tea—why, Mr. Carleton, I assure you I could scarcely believe my eyes. A young lady—grown-up, self-possessed, a half-dozen young men around her. Why, I was amazed. The passage of time—”
He half paused; perhaps, if the truth were told, Henry Carleton half broke in upon him. “Yes,” the banker agreed, “it passes, as you say. And it’s valuable, Van Socum. We can’t afford to waste it, any of us.”
The minister smiled—forgivingly—and bendingover his book, he wrote—yet did not at once vanish. Of a man so comfortably portly, of a plumpness so suggestive of a certain counterpart in the animal creation, perhaps that could hardly have been expected. Instead he rose slowly, beaming on his conquered antagonist. “By their fruits—” he murmured.
Henry Carleton nodded, handing the check across the desk. “Exactly,” he said dryly. “By the way, Van Socum, I heard a capital story the other day. It was told—this time—about a man high up in municipal office. ‘Is that fellow Blank,’ asked some one who didn’t know just what position he really occupied, ‘is that fellow Blank a politician—or just acommon thief?’ Good, wasn’t it?”
The Reverend William Van Socum laughed heartily. “Oh, capital,” he cried, and then, casually, he added, “you say that was told about a politician?”
Henry Carleton met his glance. “Yes,” he answered, “that time—it was told about a politician. Well, good-by, Van Socum; call again. Alwaysglad to see you, you know, at any time. Good-by.”
Half way to the door Van Socum turned. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Carleton,” he said, “are any of these rumors that I hear true, by any chance? Are you going to give your friends an opportunity in the near future to see you reaping still further and still higher honors? Or is it merely gossip? For my part, I most sincerely hope that it’s all true.”
Henry Carleton’s expression and tone were alike inscrutable. “Thank you very much, I’m sure,” he returned, “but really I’m not at liberty to talk just now.”
Van Socum nodded. “I perfectly understand,” he answered. “Well, in any event I shall hope. And don’t forget, Mr. Carleton, the shining light. It’s most important. Good-by,” and a little hastily he passed from the room, with a certain satisfied feeling that verbal honors were at least easy, and that from the field of more practical warfare he had again returned a triumphant victor.
Left alone, Henry Carleton, smiling a little to himself, once more leaned comfortably back in hischair. As he sat there, the waning sunlight, slanting through the tall window, fell pleasantly upon him, lighting up the dark, black-bearded face, with the full red lips, and the keen and scrutinizing eyes. A noticeable man, in almost any company, he would have been, and justly so as well. Doing many things, he did them all with skill. And still, in spite of the activities in which he was actually engaged, his friends were wont to talk of the many other things he might have done—living his life over for him in retrospect, as people will—and it was significant of his many-sidedness to note the different views which different people held of him. Some said that the bar had been robbed of a great lawyer, others that the universities had lost a great teacher and instructor of youth, others still, like Mr. Van Socum, that the church alone should rightfully have claimed his great talents. No one, perhaps, had ever suggested that the stage had lost a great actor.
And now, not satisfied with the active benevolence that he had just displayed, Henry Carleton was passively showing the same praiseworthy spiritwhich actuated his every deed and word. His day’s work was done. It was ten minutes after five, and there seemed to be no possible reason why he should longer wait for the young man with whom he had made an appointment at five o’clock sharp. Adding to the fact that the young man was late, the further information that Henry Carleton felt tolerably sure he was coming to ask some sort of favor of him, we behold the heights to which it is possible for a man to rise.
Even patience, however, has its definite limits, and at a quarter past five Henry Carleton snapped his watch with a click, and had one hand already outstretched to close the top of his desk, when the clerk knocked, and opened the door far enough to announce Mr. Vaughan. Henry Carleton nodded, sighed, again leaned back in his chair, and relinquished the idea of getting the five-thirty home.
A moment later Arthur Vaughan entered the office with the rather breathless haste of the man who is thoroughly aware that to keep a great financier waiting for a quarter of an hour is an offense not lightly to be condoned. Indeed, about hiswhole manner, in spite of his thirty years, there was still something boyish and deprecating, the air of a man who is perhaps too modest, too slow to assert himself, yet who, if these be faults, is perhaps all the more likable for possessing them.
He came quickly forward. “I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Carleton,” he began, “I know I’m late; but really I couldn’t help it.”
There may have been something a little less cordial than usual in the manner in which Henry Carleton shook the young man’s proffered hand. Yet his voice, when he answered, was politeness itself. Early in life he had made it his invariable rule to treat every man who had once crossed the threshold of his office with complete and unvarying courtesy, until he had found out exactly what the visitor’s business might be. After that, there was of course room for wider discretion. And so now, “Don’t mention it,” he said; “a trifle late, perhaps, but never mind. And what may I be able to do for you, Mr. Vaughan?”
Once seated, Vaughan appeared to be even more ill at ease than before. His eyes were fixed on thefloor. His hat revolved aimlessly and sheepishly enough between his nervous fingers. “Why,” he began, “why, the fact is, Mr. Carleton—you see what I wanted to tell you about—you see—” and then he came to a full and embarrassed stop.
Henry Carleton, through a long and varied experience, was nothing if not a shrewd reader of men. The same awkward hesitation, the same nervousness, the same half-cringing expression; he had seen them all displayed many times before by men who had sat there in the inner office in the selfsame seat which Vaughan was occupying now. And nine times out of ten it all meant but one thing. In the brief pause analysis and deduction in his mind were practically one. Vaughan’s manner showed embarrassment. Vaughan was a would-be literary man. All would-be literary men, in greater or less degree, were poor. Vaughan, presuming on a rather slight acquaintanceship, had come to borrow money. The whole matter was painfully plain.
And then, even at the very instant when Henry Carleton had sorrowfully, but with philosophy, arrived at this inevitable conclusion, Vaughan,drawing a long breath, at last found his tongue. “Why,” he said, speaking with a seeming boldness and hardihood which in reality were but the result of the most extreme embarrassment, “it’s like this, Mr. Carleton; I want to marry Rose.”
The proverbial bombshell, exploding at Henry Carleton’s feet, could hardly have made the same havoc with his body that Vaughan’s few words managed to create in his mind. And yet, to his credit be it said, his habitual self-control now stood him in such stead that after the one first uncontrollable glance of sheer surprise, he at once contrived to conceal not only his amazement, but as well any other feeling that might have been agitating his soul. And in another moment, indeed, he had even successfully achieved a very fair imitation of a jocular smile. “Rose,” he echoed, “my daughter Rose! Why, you’re joking with me, my dear fellow. She’s not eighteen yet. She’s a child.”
Vaughan, now that the worst was over, did not seem to be properly disconcerted at the reply. “Oh, I know she’s quite young,” he answered readilyenough, “but that doesn’t seem to make any particular difference. We’re both prepared for a long engagement. I’m not well off, in the least. It’s bound to be some time before I could dream of providing for her in any proper way at all. But I love her, Mr. Carleton—as much, I think, as any man could—and she loves me, and we think, after all, that’s the main thing. The other details we’ll work out somehow, I guess.”
Henry Carleton had now perfectly regained his self-possession. He gazed at the young man with benevolence in his eye. “Yes, yes,” he assented, a little dreamily, “love, of course; that’s the great essential. With that I thoroughly agree. And yet, while with me Rose’s wishes are the first consideration—no, rather I should say the only consideration—still, as I understand you to say yourself, it must equally be a point of proper pride with every man to know that he is earning an honest living, amply sufficient for all future needs. I take it that you would hardly quarrel with that, Mr. Vaughan?”
To Vaughan it appeared that he was progressingfamously. “No, indeed,” he cried readily enough, “I should say not. That’s the first thing to consider, of course. But I think I’m going to be able to solve that difficulty in a short time now. I think I’m fairly on my way to a little luck at last. You know, of course, Mr. Carleton, in any of the arts it isn’t exactly the same proposition for a man as if he’d chosen a business career. There, if he gets a start, and then sticks to his job, and shows any kind of ability at all, after a while he’s almost certain to get somewhere or other. But with any of the arts—that’s the chance a man takes when he turns his back on the solid, steady kind of things—you can work along for a devil of a while, putting in the very best that’s in you, too, and yet you always stand a good chance of not arriving at all, or, if you do, perhaps not till two or three hundred years after you’re dead. And of course, while even that, in a sense, is very gratifying, still it’s hardly practical. Dining late, but in select company, in Landor’s phrase, is all very well, if you can afford it, but the majority of us poor fellows have todine in the middle of the day. The other thing’s a luxury we can’t afford.”
Henry Carleton nodded. “Quite so, quite so,” he said, “I know something of that myself. I thoroughly appreciate all the difficulties in the way of combining devotion to art with a large income. It’s one of the least gratifying things about our life of the present day. And still, too, each year I believe the artist is coming more and more fully into his own. But you were going to say—about your immediate prospects—”
Vaughan flushed a little. “I didn’t mean to ramble on into so long a preface,” he said, “I’m afraid it was nothing but a desire to excuse myself, anyway. However, here’s where I think I really have a chance at last. I’ve written a book—a novel—and it’s in the hands of Small and White now. Of course I needn’t tell you what it would mean to have their imprint on a book—it would be half the battle to start with. And I’ve been able to get a little information in a roundabout way, so that I have some idea of what’s happening. I knowthe book has got by the preliminary stages, anyway; I know that they’re really considering it seriously, and that is something in its favor. But I’m hoping for more than that; I’m hoping that they will really accept it, and launch it in good style; and if they do, why—I know of course you’ll think I’m conceited and over-fond of myself to say such a thing—but, with all sincerity, Mr. Carleton, I think the book would be a success; I think it makes an approach to something like literary merit. Oh, if I could once get my start—get some pretext for thinking that I had a right to put more and more time into writing, and less and less into what is really only the merest hack work, that has to be done so hastily and superficially that in the end it would kill any man’s style—then I’d work as nobody ever worked before—I’d kill myself to learn to write as I want to write—”
He broke off suddenly, his hands clenched, his face ablaze with the passion of the artist who craves to express in concrete form the dreams and visions that float athwart his brain. Henry Carleton sat regarding him narrowly, his face expressionless,but when he spoke, his tone could hardly have been kinder or more sympathetic.
“Yes, yes, I understand your feeling exactly,” he said, “and your ambition is a most worthy one. I’m delighted to hear about the book, and if you will allow me to do so, I should be very happy to try to help a little. There are one or two ways that occur to me off-hand—understand me, of course,—ways perfectly legitimate and businesslike in every particular, in which I think a word from me with Small and White might at least do no harm. Won’t you try to get me a list of the men who do their reading for them? We’ll leave no stone unturned that properly may be turned to give your effort a fair show. Rose’s happiness is my happiness, and to see you in a position when you may rightfully pay your addresses to her—that I most earnestly desire. And in the meantime, you must come out to The Birches—let me see—come out to-morrow night, won’t you, and dine with us? Jack’s coming, and another man, I think. I shall be delighted to have you join us, and I think, after what you have told me, I may safely answer for Rose.”
He rose as he finished speaking, extending his hand in farewell. Vaughan, rising also, could only stammer his thanks. “You’re too kind, altogether, Mr. Carleton,” he managed to say. “I know how any word from you would meet with the most respectful consideration from Small and White. It would help immensely. And as for to-morrow night, nothing could please me more. And how is Jack? I haven’t seen him since he got back from the West.”
“Jack is greatly improved, I think,” Henry Carleton answered, as it seemed to Vaughan, a trifle shortly, “however, you’ll see him to-morrow night, and can judge for yourself.”
Vaughan nodded. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I got the impression from his letters that he was doing far better in every way, and I’m awfully glad if it’s so. Well, I must go, Mr. Carleton. You’ve been very kind to take everything the way you have. I know, of course, in one way, at least, what a disappointment this must be for you. I don’t care such a lot myself. Family trees and all that never meant such a great deal to me, andmoney bags even less, but for Rose’s sake, why, I wish I were the wealthiest man in the world, and the most aristocratic; she ought to have everything that a girl can have. So you’re awfully good not to make a row.”
Again Henry Carleton smiled. “Nonsense,” he said heartily, “those things make no difference with me, either. You’ve chosen a great career, and all we must do now is to make success assured, so that you can come to me as I know you want to come, saying, ‘Mr. Carleton, I’m earning a fair living; I can keep your daughter from want; I wish to marry her.’ That’s the way you’ll be coming some day, and you’ll find no one more ready to congratulate you than I. Good-by again; good-by.”
As Vaughan left the office, Carleton slowly reseated himself. “Strange,” he murmured, “a prospective son-in-law in young Vaughan, and I never even dreamed of it. Very prospective, too; that’s one comfort; and he seems actually to believe he may succeed in a literary career. Odd, what a time youth is for such dreams. He seems rather an inoffensive young man, at least; plastic, Ishould imagine, and rather easy to influence, if one only goes about it in the right way. That, I judge, is his weak point; that, and too great a tendency to confide in others. Due, I suppose, to the lack of a sound business training.” He sat silently for some moments, then repeated thoughtfully, “The lack of a sound business training,” and reached for the telephone. And then, a moment later, “Is Mr. Cummings in? Oh, it’s you, is it, Jim? Want to run over for a moment? Important? Yes, I should call it so. Thank you. Good-by,” and restoring the receiver to its hook, he gave himself up to earnest thought.
“The ancient grudge I bear him.”Shakespeare.
“The ancient grudge I bear him.”
Shakespeare.
Opposite the gateway of the Eversley train, the three men stood grouped together, with growing impatience awaiting Jack Carleton’s arrival. The gilded hands of the big clock, embedded in the solid masonry of the station wall, now pointed to three minutes of five; the Eversley “flyer” left at five precisely; and the long train was filling more rapidly each instant. Henry Carleton’s tone plainly enough showed his displeasure. “Whatever else it may have done for him,” he observed, “I can’t see that a residence in Montana has improved Jack’s habits of punctuality. Perhaps, Vaughan, you wouldn’t mind waiting here for him and letting us go ahead and make sure of getting seats. What do you say, Cummings?”
Cummings nodded with alacrity. He was a man between thirty and thirty-five, tall and heavily built. His face, while rather of the bulldog type, yet to the eye of the careful observer seemed to disclose a certain weakness under the outward show of strength. His complexion was of a vivid red, plentifully ornamented with those souvenirs which come at length as badges of distinction to those who have had the perseverance to drink hard and steadily over a long enough term of years. His hair was very black and very curly; his tie perfectly matched his complexion; and his clothes, though of excellent make and cut, yet seemed a little obtrusive as well, as if the effort at gentility had been somehow overdone. Possibly several small trifles in his apparel—the conspicuously high polish on his shoes, the violet-bordered corner of the immaculate handkerchief, just visible above the breast pocket of his coat, the pair of very new tan gloves that he carried in his left hand—all proclaimed something of the inner man; a man not lacking in a certain force and aggressiveness, even in a kind of blustering self-assertion and desire for recognition, yet one who still realizedwith vague discomfort, that there was something wrong about him. Jim Cummings was far from being a fool. He was well-versed in the ways of the city; had “been around,” had “seen life;” was altogether a pretty shrewd and capable young man. And yet—spite of all—there was still a mysterious something somewhere lacking. To save his soul, he could not have told what it was. Perhaps Henry Carleton could.
“What do I say?” he echoed. “Sure, Mr. Carleton; suit me fine. Just as cheap to sit down as to stand, you know. Sure, let’s get along.”
In thus voicing his delight, it chanced that he spoke the truth, as sometimes, indeed, he was wont to do. Merely to be seen alone with Henry Carleton, in what would doubtless have been his phrase, “meant a lot” to him. And to have an hour’s ride with this versatile man of affairs, who had made a great name for himself in “straight” business, in the stock market, and in politics; who was possessed of “inside information”; who, if he chose, could give a friend a “straight tip”; and who had now been kind enough again to ask him out to spend thenight, as on two or three memorable occasions he had done before; why, this was a chance that might well “mean a lot” to him in more senses than one.
Arthur Vaughan, no great admirer of Cummings, appeared, as indeed he was, equally well pleased at Henry Carleton’s words. “Yes, indeed,” he assented cordially, “don’t run the risk of missing a seat, Mr. Carleton. I remember Jack’s habits of old. You go right along, and I’ll wait here for him.”
Forthwith the two men took their departure, and Vaughan, waiting until only a scant half minute remained, was just on the point of leaving his post, when he espied Carleton threading his way hastily through the crowd. With only the briefest of greetings, they swung aboard the rear car, by good fortune found the one remaining vacant seat, and then Vaughan turned and slowly surveyed his friend from head to foot. At once he gave a quick smile of satisfaction. “Well, Jack,” he said, “you are looking fit. I don’t think you ever looked better in your life.”
“Oh, pretty fair, thanks,” Carleton answered,but his appearance, indeed, far more than bore out his words. He had regained and increased the physical vigor of his college days. He was broader, thicker, more solidly built, with an impression of reserve strength which he had lacked before. Nor did the change stop there. In face and feature, in his manner, in his whole bearing, there had come a change, and a change, too, in every way for the better. In his expression, the old uncertainty of purpose had given place to a look of determined resolve; in his manner there was a new alertness, a new interest; from his eyes and mouth a certain indescribable something had vanished, leaving them pleasantly frank and wholesome.
With a pleased laugh, Vaughan looked down at his friend’s big brown hand, and placed his own, white and slender, beside it. “I guess,” he said, “if it came to a fight, Jack, you could probably manage to lick me.”
Carleton smiled, and with equal interest returned Vaughan’s gaze. To him, Vaughan appeared scarcely to have changed at all. About him there was something of the man who is given to habitualoverwork, yet otherwise, in his rather delicate way, he looked healthy and vigorous, and his face itself was still as pleasant and as kindly as of old. Carleton shook his head. “I don’t think there will be any fight, Arthur,” he said, “my fighting days are over. I’ve learned that much since I went away. I’ve come to believe that they don’t pay—fights of any kind.”
Vaughan nodded, quick to take his meaning. “Good,” he answered, “I’m mighty glad to hear it, Jack.”
Carleton’s glance had been roaming up and down the aisle. “By the way,” he said, “where’s the rest of our merry party? Where’s my respected uncle? And wasn’t there somebody else he was going to bring out with him?”
Vaughan’s eyes searched the car in vain. “I guess Mr. Carleton’s up ahead,” he returned, “probably in the smoker with Cummings.”
Jack Carleton frowned. “Cummings?” he queried, “which Cummings? Jim?”
“Yes, Jim,” Vaughan assented, “why? Know him?”
Carleton nodded. “Yes, I know him, all right.” From his tone it would have been possible to draw the inference that his opinion of Cummings was scarcely favorable. But when, after a pause, he turned again to his friend, it was not of Cummings, but of Henry Carleton that he spoke. “And how’s Henry been standing it?” he asked. “I’ve hardly heard anything, you see, for practically three years now. I’m away behind the times.”
“Why,” Vaughan answered, “he’s a bigger man than ever, Jack. I guess I’m pretty well posted on him. Being on the paper, you know, you pick up a lot. He’s a power on the Street now, and he’s been making big strides in politics, besides. Some folks think he’s right in line for the vacancy in the United States senatorship. And I’m not sure but what it’s so, too. Then he’s doing more for charity now than he used to. He gave five thousand at one crack the other day to something or other—a musical conservatory, I think it was. And he does a lot here at Eversley. The people out this way think he’s just about right. Gave a thousand last month to the Eversley library, they say. Oh, I tell you it’sgood to see a man on the crest of the wave who still has an eye for the poor devils down in the hollow;” he paused for a moment, then added, with a smile, “of whom I have the honor to be one, Jack. You know I haven’t made more than a million out of reporting. It’s funny, but journalists don’t seem to get appreciated in the salary line. But then, I oughtn’t to complain. I’ve made a living, and kept out of debt, and if I hadn’t had the folks down home to look after, I might have had a little put by, too. I’m not discouraged, either. I still consider it a privilege to be alive, and not to be kicked.
“But I was going to tell you about Mr. Carleton, and what he’s going to do for me. I’ve written a novel that I’m trying to get published, and he’s going to help me. I don’t mean, of course, that such things don’t go strictly on their merits, but still, even then, a friend at court doesn’t do any harm. I’ve seen a lot of it, or I wouldn’t talk that way. There’s an inside story, I’ve come to believe, and an inside track, in everything, even in art, where of all places there shouldn’t be. Not always, of course, but, I believe, oftener than you’d think.And Mr. Carleton’s surprisingly well known, everywhere. I’ve been amazed at it. I can’t for the life of me see how he manages to get the time for all his different interests, but he does it somehow, and what’s more remarkable still, he contrives to do everything well. His last bit of literary criticism inCosmopoliswas really excellently done. It’s been well spoken of everywhere. So now that he’s going to turn to and help, I’m immensely encouraged.”
For a moment or two Carleton sat silent, as if perplexed. Then, “But why on earth,” he asked, “is Henry taking all this sudden interest inyou?”
With a laugh of enjoyment, Vaughan leaned forward. “I knew you’d ask that, Jack,” he said triumphantly. “That’s what I was leading up to. He’s interested in me because—there’s a very good chance that some day he’s going to have the delightful pleasure of welcoming me as his son-in-law.”
For an instant Carleton stared at him; then puckered his lips in a whistle of amazement. “The devil you say,” he ejaculated, and then, after a moment, as if he could think of nothing that wouldbetter do justice to the situation, he repeated, with even greater emphasis, “Thedevilyou say.”
Vaughan sat silently enjoying his surprise; then, as his friend did not speak again, he said, a little anxiously, “I hope you’re pleased, Jack.”
Carleton recovered a little from his astonishment. The grip he gave Vaughan’s hand was sufficient answer, even before he found his tongue. “Pleased,” he echoed, “of course I am. I couldn’t be more so. You know that without my saying it. But more than surprised, Arthur. I didn’t know you were even interested in that direction. I can’t realize it yet. Rose! Why, she hadn’t put away her dolls when I left home. But three years. Let’s see. Thirteen—fourteen—seventeen—that’s right, she’s almost eighteen, now. A child and a woman—I suppose that’s the size of it. Well, well, Arthur, this is fine. And she’s a splendid little girl, too. You’re a lucky man. Any idea when you’ll be married?”
Vaughan shook his head. “No, indeed,” he answered, “I only wish I had. You see it’s just as I told you. I’m a poor man, and I’ve got to makegood first, before I can decently ask her to leave a home like the one she’s got now. Mr. Carleton put all that part of it to me plainly enough yesterday. Plainly enough, and fairly enough, too. I have to admit that. But I can’t help wishing, just the same, for once in my life, that I did have a little money to fall back on, or that my prospects were a little brighter. However, I surely can’t complain; and now, Jack, it’s your turn. How about yourself, and how about the ranching? Is it all you thought it would be?”
But Carleton did not seem disposed to talk of himself. “Oh, yes,” he answered absently, “all that, and more. It’s the greatest ever—” then, breaking off abruptly, he asked, “Do you know, Arthur, when Colonel Graham’s expected back from England?”
Vaughan looked at him with a smile. “ColonelGraham?” he said, “did you sayColonel, Jack?”
Carleton nodded. “That’s what I said,” he answered, “Colonel Graham. You know I used to be pretty good friends with him once on a time.”
Vaughan’s smile broadened. “Yes, I know,” heanswered dryly, “and you used to beverygood friends with some one else. Are you sure it isn’t Marjory you mean, Jack, and not the colonel?”
At last Carleton smiled too. “Well,” he returned, “I won’t argue about it. You can put it that way if you like. When do they get back?”
“Three months, I believe,” answered Vaughan, “I think that was what Rose said.” He paused, then added with sympathy, “Sounds like a long time, too, I’ll bet.”
Carleton made no answer. Slackening speed, the train came to a halt, and rising, they filed down the aisle, and out on the Eversley platform, to find Henry Carleton and Cummings awaiting them. Somewhat perfunctorily Jack Carleton shook hands with Cummings; then turned to his uncle. “Wait for me just a minute,” he said, “I’ve got a bag here somewhere,” and he strode off into the station, while the others turned the corner, and took their places in Carleton’s waiting motor, Cummings and Vaughan ushered by their host into the tonneau, while he himself took his seat in front with the chauffeur, a short, thick-set young fellow, witha round, pleasant face, honest eyes, and a frank and good-humored smile. He touched his cap, and Henry Carleton nodded in return. “Everything all right, Satterlee?” he asked, and the chauffeur quickly responded, “Yes, sir; everything all right, sir;”—then, very respectfully, as if he realized that his interest was leading him into a breach of strict decorum, “Isn’t Mr. Jack coming, sir?”
“Oh, yes, he’ll be here in a moment,” answered his employer, and even as he spoke, Carleton appeared around the corner of the station, tossed his bag into the tonneau, and came up to the front of the machine with outstretched hand. “Well, Tom, old man,” he cried, “and how are you? Looking fine. You couldn’t drive anything but horses when I went away. How do you like this kind of thing? More speed, I guess, all right.”
The chauffeur’s answering smile was the friendliest imaginable, although his taking of Carleton’s outstretched hand was a little reluctant, as if he were aware that this was a freedom hardly likely, in a servant, to find favor in his master’s eyes. Henry Carleton, indeed, frowned with represseddisapproval. Kindness and even affability toward one’s dependents were permissible—but this frank friendship, with its implication of equality, of which Jack was guilty, was apt to be destructive of a proper domestic régime. “We’re waiting, Jack,” he said, his meaning perfectly manifest in his tone, “jump in behind, please.”
Jack Carleton was about to comply; then suddenly, either the beauty of the day or his lack of pleasure in Jim Cummings’ society, served to make him change his mind. He stepped quickly back. “I guess I’ll walk it, after all,” he said, “just for the sake of old times. See you at the house,” and before he had gone a quarter of the length of the station lane, a cloud of powdery dust was the only memento of the big motor left in sight.
Thoughtfully he traversed the familiar path, the meadow lying smooth and fair before him, still peaceful and serene as on the day when Helmar had walked there three years ago. The same outward world, the same green underfoot, the same glory of blue above. But though Helmar had found nothing but pleasure in the scene, now, mellowed andtinted with the oncoming of the summer night, Carleton’s meditation ran in a quieter and sadder strain.
Midway at the bank of the little stream, he paused, and his thoughts, casting backward, were of the little boy who had sailed his boat in the pool below the bridge, and who had searched so patiently along the pleasant, grass-grown banks to gather and bring home in triumph to his mother the earliest violets of the spring. Tinged all with vague regret were his dreamings, as backward glances in one sense always must be, but even as his thoughts came down the years, his face did not seem to brighten with them.
“Three years,” he muttered, “of good resolutions. Three years of killing out old hatred, and honestly trying to feel toward him as I ought. And now—almost the first day home—to be put back just where I was before. To find him the same as ever, so smooth, so self-satisfied, and so cursedly successful, too. And if I told any one what I believe—why, they’d think I was mad, I suppose.”
Once more he started on his homeward way,taking the old familiar short-cut through the woods, as the twilight deepened and the shadows of the tall elms lengthened down the quiet road. Still lost in thought, he strode along unheeding; then all at once, struck with a sense of something unfamiliar, he pulled up sharply and glanced about him. The path he was following now was new to him, there was something about it which he could not call to mind, tax his memory as he would. And then suddenly, as he turned a sharp corner, tucked away amid the shelter of a grove of birches which rose about it on every hand, a little cottage appeared before his eyes.
For a moment he stood silent, staring in astonishment. Of this Henry had told him nothing. The Birches itself was still a good half mile away. “What in the world—” he muttered to himself, and then, obeying a sudden impulse, he turned aside, walked quickly up the path to the little house, mounted the steps leading to the porch, and knocked.
For a moment or two he waited. Thensomewhere above him, a window opened; a woman’s voice called low, “Is it you?”
At the sound Carleton threw back his head with an uncontrollable start of astonishment; and then without raising his voice, he answered, “Yes, it’s I.”
The window closed. A moment still he waited in suspense, until the door cautiously opened. And then, suddenly, through the dusk there sounded a surprised cry, “Jack, Jack!”
Carleton took a quick step forward. Three long years, as far as seeing women of any attraction went, he had spent practically alone. Three long years, and in the girl before him what a change. Charming she had always been, yet now in looks, in dress, in bearing, in every way she had altered for the better a hundredfold. Almost with a gasp, the memories of old days came flooding over heart and mind and soul. His voice, when at last he spoke, sounded hoarse with stifled emotion; “Jeanne,” he cried, “you!”
As of old, the woman seemed to dominate the situation. She laughed the old friendly laugh asshe stepped backward into the gloom. Her words were commonplace enough, but not the tone in which she uttered them. “I’m glad to see you back, Jack,” she said. “Won’t you come in?”