Ellery H. Clark

“Distance sometimes endears friendship, and absence sweeteneth it.”

Howell.

Helmar had covered perhaps half the distance to the house, when ahead of him he caught sight of a little girl, sitting cross-legged under the shade of one of the big elms, her head bent low over the buttercup wreath she was weaving, and at her side a young woman—from her dress, evidently the child’s nurse or companion—sitting with her back against the tree, deep buried in her book. At the sound of Helmar’s footsteps the child glanced up quickly, and catching sight of the spaniel advancing manfully with head in air, and tail wagging in friendliest of greetings, she scrambled to her feet, and tossing her half-finished wreath aside, came flying across the lawn to meet him. Evidently with both it was a case of love at first sight, for the child stooped and picked the dog up bodily in her arms, pressing his face to hers, and calling him by the hundred pet names which spring so readily to the lips of any true woman—whatever her age. “Oh, you dear,” she cried softly, “you darling; aren’t you a pretty dog!” while the spaniel lay quietly in her arms, only striving to lick her face with his little red tongue. Then, as Helmar approached, she looked up. “Isn’t he a beauty!” she said. “Does he belong to you?”

Helmar stood smiling down at her, thinking that unconsciously she made a very pretty picture with the spaniel’s head pressed against her cheek. She was a dainty little fairy, slender and graceful, dressed in an airy frock of white muslin, with a broad sash of blue ribbon, her straw hat dangling neglected down her back, her big, serious dark eyes gazing solemnly up into his. He nodded in answer. “Yes, he belongs to me,” he said, “but do you suppose you could look after him while I go in to see your uncle?”

The little girl nodded in eager assent. “Oh, yes, indeed,” she cried. “I’ll take care of him. I’ll give him my buttercup wreath. Come now, you darling, come with me,” and with the spaniel still in her arms, she walked back toward the shelter of the big elm.

At Helmar’s nearer approach, the child’s nurse, too, had risen, laying aside her book, and as he passed, naturally enough their glances met—for an instant only—and then Helmar again strode along upon his way, carrying with him the impression of a charming face, and a most alluring smile.

What was there, he wondered, about the girl, that was so vaguely disquieting? She was dressed quietly enough in simple black, with a little snugly-fitting white apron, reaching, by mere chance, just to the height of her bosom, and held in place by smart little shoulder-straps, about it all a daintily vague impression of ribbon and lace. Her figure, indeed, was perfect; deliciously rounded; and the closely-fitting dress seemed to bring out, with significant emphasis, all the beauty of her form. Her face, moreover, was more striking still; her pretty blonde hair appeared to curl so naturally as utterly to defy the mode of convention; her big blue eyes drooped modestly as soon as she had become conscious of his gaze, just long enough to show the heavy fringed eyelashes above, and then almost as quickly glanced up again; there had been a flush of rose in her cheeks, and a deeper scarlet on the lips that had smiled at him. Perhaps it was in the smile itself—slow, langourous, inviting—that the whole woman had seemed suddenly to lie revealed; and scarcely able as yet to define it, Helmar felt that the girl’s seeming simplicity was the dangerous charm of the highest art, and that he had gazed on the guile of the serpent, and not on the innocence of the dove.

Puzzling a little as he walked along, he cast back in his mind to chance words that from time to time had fallen haphazard from Jack Carleton’s lips, and finally, in one sudden flash of memory, he came upon the clue. “Jeanne,” he said to himself, half aloud, “of course; that’s who it is; Jeanne.” Then, falling back unconsciously into the slang of college days, he added, “and she is a peach, too; Jack told the truth for once; no wonder he had his little affair.” And finally, as he mounted the steps of the broad piazza, he spoke again. “But pretty risky fun,” he muttered, “playing with fire, all right; there are some women in the world that a man wants to steer clear of, and I should put that girl down for one of them.”

He rang the bell, and almost immediately there appeared in answer a butler, thin, pale, and of uncertain age, but even to Helmar’s unpractised eye superlatively autocratic, hopelessly correct. He seemed, indeed, to be not so much a human being as the living embodiment of all known rules of social etiquette, condensed, as it were, into the final perfect expression of a type, before whom and whose vast store of knowledge one could only bow, humbly praying that the mistakes of honest ignorance might graciously be forgiven. Helmar, following in his wake, felt properly sensible of the honor done him, as he was ushered up the broad, winding staircase to the entrance of the big square room at the front of the house, where his guide stopped, and most decorously knocked. In answer a great voice called lustily, “Come in!” and the butler promptly stepped to one side. “Mr. Carleton, sir,” he observed, “left orders that you were to be admitted at once,” and thereupon, opening the door, he stood respectfully back, and as Helmar entered, closed it softly behind him.

Edward Carleton, attired in an old-fashioned quilted dressing-gown, was sitting up, reading, in his huge, high, square bed, his back propped with pillows innumerable. Well upward of seventy, he looked strong and active still; gaunt, with a wrinkled, weather-beaten face, a great bushy square-cut gray beard, and fiercely tufted eyebrows, while in the eyes beneath them, as he slowly took off his horn-rimmed spectacles and glanced up at his visitor, Helmar caught an expression of lurking, humorous kindliness that put him at once in mind of Jack Carleton himself.

As Helmar advanced, the old man reached out a gnarled and sinewy hand. “Good morning, sir,” he said pleasantly, “I take it that you’re Doctor Morrison’s young man.”

Helmar, as he took the proffered hand, smiled to himself at the old-fashioned quaintness of the phrase. “Yes, sir,” he answered, “that’s my professional title. In private life I’m Franz Helmar, and in either capacity very much at your service.”

Edward Carleton nodded. “Thank you,” he answered courteously, and then, more abruptly, “you think you’ve come out here to see a sick man, Doctor, but you haven’t. Just a bit of a chill—I managed to let myself get caught in that shower yesterday afternoon—and maybe a little fever with it. But I’m not sick. It’s all Henry’s nonsense. Just because he’s twenty years younger than I am, he has to look after me as if I were a baby.”

He spoke with assumed indignation, yet Helmar could detect in his tone a note of satisfaction at being so well cared for; and when he answered him, he aimed to fall in with the old man’s mood.

“Why, I think myself that I’m out here under false pretenses,” he said good-humoredly, “you don’t look at all like an invalid to me; but still the ounce of prevention, you know, it never does any harm. So many things nowadays start with a cold. It’s just as well to step right in and stop them before they get a hold on us. Now, then, we’ll see where we are, at any rate,” and as he spoke, he deftly slipped the little temperature tube under Edward Carleton’s tongue, and closed his fingers lightly on the lean brown wrist. A minute or two passed in silence, the old man’s eyes fixed on Helmar’s face with the scrutinizing interest of the patient who awaits the professional verdict. Then Helmar withdrew the tube, studied it an instant, nodded as if satisfied, asked a few questions, and then hastened to give his opinion.

“Oh, well,” he said reassuringly, “this is all right. We’ll fix you up, Mr. Carleton. Just a little tonic, and a few days’ rest, and you’ll be as good as new; better than new, really, because a day or two off is a benefit to anybody, at any time. You’d better stay in bed, though, to-day, I think; and personally I rather envy you. I see you have good company.”

He pointed as he spoke, to the three stout little volumes that lay by Mr. Carleton’s side. Roderick Random was the first; Tom Jones, the second; Tristram Shandy, the third. Their owner nodded in pleased assent.“Yes, indeed,” he answered, “they’ll last me through the day, all right. I never get tired of them, Doctor. I was just reading, when you came in, how Tom Bowling came to see the old curmudgeon who was about to die. ‘So, old gentleman,’ he says, ‘you’re bound for the other shore, I see, but in my opinion most damnably ill-provided for the voyage’; and later on, after the old fellow’s dead, he tells some one, that asks after him, that they might look for him ‘somewhere about the latitude of hell.’ There’s good, sound, human nature for you. Smollett knew his sailors, and the rest of his world, too, and enjoyed them both, I imagine. And he wasn’t a hypocrite; that’s what I like most about him. He saw things as they were.”

Helmar smiled. “I agree with you,” he answered, “but the modern school of readers doesn’t care for him, just the same. He’s either too simple for them, or too coarse; I don’t know which.”

Edward Carleton looked his scorn. “Modern school!” he ejaculated. “Let me tell you, sir, I have but very little opinion of your modern school, writers or readers either. But Henry stands up for ’em, and brings ’em all to me to read. Good Lord above, the different kinds! There’s some that tell you whether John Smith had one egg for breakfast, or two, and whether either of ’em was bad, and if it was, what John Smith said to his wife, and what she said to him—and Henry claims those books are modern classics. Then he’s got another lot—romantic school, I believe they are—all dashing cavaliers and lovely ladies and flashing swords and general moonshine—stuff about fit for idiots and invalids; and last of all—” he glared at Helmar as if he were the unfortunate embodiment of all the literary sins of the day day—“he’s got a crowd—Heaven knows what he calls ’em; the pig-sty school’s my name—that seem to be having a regular game; trying to see which can write the dirtiest book, and yet have it stop just enough short of the line so they can manage to get it published without the danger of having it suppressed. And the mean, hypocritical excuses they make—they’re always teaching a moral lesson, you know, or something like that. It makes me sick, sir; it makes me sick; and I don’t hesitate to tell Henry so, either.”

Helmar nodded assentingly, and yet, with a twinkle in his eye, he could not resist the temptation to reach forward and pick up from the bed the volume of Sterne. “I agree with a great deal of what you say, sir,” he answered, “especially the latter part, and yet—it isn’t wholly a modern vice. There was old Rabelais, for instance, and his imitators, and even Tristram here I suppose you could hardly recommend for a Sunday-school.”

Edward Carleton was no casuist. He loved to fight, but he always fought fair. “I grant it,” he answered quickly; “Laurence Sterne did have a little sneaking peep-hole way with him at times—he was modern there—but you can forgive a great deal to the man who gave us Uncle Toby and Corporal Trim. And then, he isn’t a fair example; he was a kind of literary exception to all rules; but take Smollett or Henry Fielding. They struck straight out from the shoulder, every time. What they meant, they said. They painted vice, I grant you, but they painted her naked and repulsive, as she should be, and that’s fair enough; you can go back to your Aristotle for that, Doctor. But they didn’t disguise her, sir; they didn’t call her something that she never was and never could be; and these modern swine, they dress out vice in silks and satins, and make you believe she’s the most beautiful thing in the world—so beautiful that no man can be happy unless he may possess her; and there’s no Henry Fielding to come along with his big, scornful laugh, and strip her of all her frippery and finery, and show you the stark, naked sin that lies there underneath it all. Oh, I’m right, Doctor, and I’m always telling Henry so, but I can’t convince him. He says it’s art, whatever that means, and he’s all for the modern school.”

Helmar rose, smiling. “You are right, I believe,” he said heartily, “and if we all read more of the old worthies, and less of this flood of modern trash, we’d do better, beyond a doubt. Well, I must get my train, I suppose. I’m going to leave the medicine with your butler; I’ll give him full directions; and you’ll be all right, without any question. If you should want anything, telephone Doctor Morrison or me at once. I’m very glad to have had the chance of meeting you, sir. Oh, and there was one other thing I meant to tell you: I knew your son Jack very well in college. We used to be the best of friends.”

Edward Carleton looked up quickly, but without speaking, and when at last he did so, there was a new note of cordiality in his tone. “You knew Jack,” he repeated, “why, I’m glad to hear that, I’m sure. I’m very fond of my boy, Doctor. Boy? He’s a man now, though I can never seem to realize it. He’s only a little boy to me still, for all his six feet and his forty inches around the chest. Do you ever see him nowadays, Doctor?”

Helmar nodded. “Yes, indeed,” he answered readily, “not very often, of course. We’re in different lines of work, and both busy, I guess. But I run across him every once in a while. And this week we’re going to dine together. Jack and I and another fellow who was in our class—a sort of small reunion, to celebrate being five years out of college. He’ll be interested to know I’ve been out here.”The old man nodded, gazing straight before him. “Doctor,” he asked suddenly, with apparent irrelevance, “you took my pulse to-day. What did you think of my heart?”

Helmar, surprised, parried with the clumsiness of a man not fond of deception. “Why,” he evaded, “I wouldn’t worry about that. All you have is a cold. You’ve got a pretty good heart, I think. We none of us grow any younger, though. That’s sure.”

Edward Carleton smiled a little grimly. “Thanks,” he said, “sometimes a patient knows more about himself than a doctor thinks he does. And I suppose I could guess pretty well what certain things mean. Never mind, though. As you say, we don’t grow any younger, more’s the pity.”

Both were silent, Helmar pausing a moment, uncertainly, with one hand on the knob of the door. Then the old man glanced up at him, with a smile genial and friendly, if a trifle wistful. “Good-by, Doctor,” he said courteously, “thank you for your interest. And tell Jack he’s always welcome, whenever he finds time to run out. The Birches is always his home, and his room stands ready for him—always.”

Five minutes later Helmar again passed down the broad steps of the piazza into the cheerful, dazzling sunlight. The little girl and her nurse were still seated under the shade of the big elm, and at once the spaniel, breaking away from his new friends, came tearing across the lawn to his master, ruthlessly scattering buttercups at every bound. With a laugh Helmar picked him up in his arms, and took him back to make his proper farewells. For the little girl the final moment of parting was a hard one, and she gazed longingly at her playmate, as though unwilling to have him go. Her nurse, observing her, shook her head in reproof. “Don’t be so foolish, Miss Rose,” she chided, “he’s only a little dog; you mustn’t be silly;” then, suddenly, she looked squarely at Helmar. “Will you excuse me, please,” she said softly, “but I know that you’re a friend of Mr. Jack’s. Would you tell me where a letter would reach him?”

Helmar eyed her keenly, and before his gaze the blue eyes dropped, and this time were not raised again. A faint flush stole into her cheeks. Helmar, in his turn, looked away. “Yes,” he answered shortly, “Mayflower Club, City, is his present address.”

He had his reward. At once the girl’s eyes were raised again, and her look sought his with the same smile that he had seen before. It was not a smile of the lips alone, but of the eyes as well, and a certain nameless something that flashed from still deeper within, a piquant frankness, a dangerous friendliness. Again he started to turn away, then stopped; his eyes, though half against his will, still seeking hers.

On the silence broke in the voice of the little girl. “Is it Cousin Jack?” she demanded, “do you know Cousin Jack?” And as Helmar nodded, she cried, “I wish you’d tell him to come out and see me. He hasn’t been here for an awfully long time. Will you tell him, please?”

Helmar promised, and with a glance at his watch, took a hasty leave. Thoughtfully enough he made his way back to the station, and yet, before he reached it, one meeting more was destined to give him food for further meditation. Nearing the entrance to the station lane, the vigorous and friendly bark of his faithful body-guard struck suddenly on his ear, and turning the corner, he paused in quick surprise at the sight of the girl who knelt upon the grass, parasol, hat and gloves tossed carelessly aside, holding the spaniel’s head imprisoned caressingly between her dainty hands, and talking to him with mock severity the while. As she glanced up, perceiving Helmar, she somewhat hastily arose, and as he approached, smilingly extended her hand in greeting.

Very attractive, indeed, she looked. Fashionably dressed, yet simply, as well; young—she could scarcely have been over twenty, at the most—and with a face that one could hardly choose but like at once—the clear-cut, regular features, the honest, straightforward brown eyes, the pretty color in the dimpled cheeks, the firm little chin, the laughing, yet sensitive mouth. One liked too the erectness of her slender figure, and the well-poised head, crowned with its masses of soft brown hair. If one had been ungracious enough to venture a criticism, the thought might have come that she shared, perhaps, the fault of so many American girls of the well-to-do class, the excusable habit of taking the good things of life too much as a matter of course, of being too easily satisfied with the doings and standards of their own particular class and “set,” of having no real knowledge, and worse still, perhaps, of desiring none, of the great world at large. Yet even if the criticism had been hazarded, the critic must still have been forced to admit that plenty of character showed in the girl’s face, and while of her mere good looks alone there could be no question, in seeming paradox, the more one looked at her the more one forgot her mere prettiness, granting it carelessly enough as something secondary, so much more uncommon and striking were the other qualities written there—strength and sympathy and above all, that holy and beautiful thing before which any man may well stand in reverent admiration—the innate goodness of the true woman, pure in thought and deed.

As he took her hand, Helmar’s face showed his surprise. “Well, Marjory Graham,” he cried, “who’d have thought of seeing you?”

Laughingly the girl mimicked him. “Why, Franz Helmar,” she said in turn, “you’re not the one to be surprised. You knew I lived in Eversley. But what are you doing out here?”

“Old Mr. Carleton,” he answered, “he’s a little under the weather. I ran out to see how he was getting along.”

The girl’s face clouded. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “he’s such a dear old man. And he’s my father’s greatest friend, you know. I hope it’s nothing serious.”

Helmar shook his head. “No, I think not,” he answered, “he’ll be all right—for this time. And he is a first-class old chap, too. Do you know, I think Jack is awfully like him, in many ways?”

At the words a sudden change came over the girl’s expressive face. For a moment she hesitated, then raised her eyes to his. “Franz,” she said, “how often do you see Jack now?”

Helmar glanced at her quizzically. “Oh,” he answered, “every once in a while. Not so often as you do, though, I guess.”

He spoke jestingly, but the girl gave him no answering smile, and he hastened to add, “Why, I expect to see him Wednesday night, Marjory, to make arrangements for a little dinner we’re going to have Thursday—Jack and Arthur Vaughan and I. Is there anything I can do?”

The girl colored faintly. “It’s only this,” she said, “and I ought to write to him and not bother you. But when you see Jack, would you mind telling him that I shall be at home Friday evening, if he cares to come out?”

Seemingly, there was more in the words than appeared on the surface, but Helmar, with a certain instinctive chivalry, chose to treat the request with apparent lightness. “Of course I’ll tell him,” he answered, “with all the pleasure in life.”

She looked her gratitude. “Thank you very much, Franz,” she said, “and you will remember, won’t you?”

He nodded reassuringly. “I surely will,” he answered, and as he spoke, the train burst shrieking, around the near-by curve. “Oh, don’t miss it!” she cried. “Thank you, Franz; thank you so much; good-by.”

Breaking into a swift run, Helmar, with the spaniel racing excitedly at his heels, reached the station platform just in time. Boarding the train, and taking a seat far forward in the almost deserted car, he sat for some time in thoughtful silence, and then at last voiced his reflections to the one friend who never betrayed his confidence. “Rex, my boy,” he said slowly, “our friend Jack seems to have achieved the secret of universal popularity.”

The spaniel, listening with head cocked knowingly to one side, gave a sharp, quick bark in reply, and Helmar laughed. “Does that mean you think so, or you don’t think so?” he asked, but the little dog refused further to commit himself, and curling up in his master’s lap, went promptly and comfortably to sleep.