Ellery H. Clark

“The pains and penalties of idleness.”

Pope.

It was after eight o’clock, yet still faintly light out-of-doors, as Jack Carleton left his rooms at the Mayflower Club, and came slowly down the winding staircase, with one hand groping for the railing, as if uncertain of his way.

At first sight he looked extremely well, and in his fashionably-cut street suit of light gray, his tall and well-built figure showed to excellent advantage, though in the five years which had passed since his graduation he had seemingly grown heavier and stouter, and somehow distinctly softer looking, as if the active exercise of former days had come now to be the exception, and not the rule. And this impression, as he paused midway on the stairs to light a cigarette, was still further borne out by the appearance of his face. He was handsome enough still, and his complexion, indeed, from a distance, in contrast with his fair hair and closely-clipped mustache, seemed the perfection of ruddy health; yet the tell-tale spurt of the match, as he held it to his lips, told a far different story. His color, naturally high, was beginning now to be patched with red and white, giving his face a significantly mottled look, and if any further hint had been needed, it was furnished by his eyes, which stared straight ahead of him with a curiously glassy expression. Plainly enough, Jack Carleton was drunk.

Still holding fast to the rail, he accomplished the remainder of his journey in safety; then started a little unsteadily toward the door of the lounging room, stopping short at the entrance, and staring vacantly in at the half dozen figures looming mistily through the haze of smoke. Instantly he was hailed by two or three at once. “Hullo, Jack, what’ll you have?” “Come on in, Jack.” “Make a fourth at bridge, Jack?” Carleton, standing motionless, with one hand fumbling in his pocket for a match with which to relight his cigarette, still gazed aimlessly and apparently without recognition into the room. “Make a fourth at bridge, Jack?” some one called again sharply, and Carleton, starting, jerkily, but with intense gravity, shook his head. “No, not t’night,” he said slowly, as if settling some matter of immense moment to all concerned, “can’t play t’night; very shorry; got date.” He stood a moment longer; then, half mechanically, as it seemed, turned and slowly walked toward the outer door that led into the street.

With a little exclamation, one of the loungers hastily rose, and followed him out into the hall. Jim Turner was a stock broker, and a most successful one. He was a man of middle age, short, stout, and unattractive looking. He had a round, fat face, pale reddish hair and mustache, small, nondescript, expressionless eyes, a pasty complexion, and white, pudgy hands, which he took pains to have manicured regularly three times a week. He was entirely unimaginative, practical, commonplace—and very successful. He had one favorite motto; “Look at things as they are, and not as you’d like ’em to be.”

He quickly overtook Carleton—a feat, indeed, not difficult of accomplishment—and laid a detaining hand on his shoulder. “See here, Jack,” he said in a low tone, “I want you to let me sell out some of your things. We get advices that there’s trouble coming—and pretty quickly, too. And by this time you’re really carrying quite a big line. So I guess it wouldn’t do any harm if you began gradually to unload a little. Don’t you think so yourself, Jack?”

Carleton gazed at him from eyes in which there was no understanding. He shook his head slightly. “Don’ want t’sell,” he said at last, “ain’t I ’way ’head th’ game?”

“Oh, sure,” Turner assented. “You’re ahead of the game, all right, but I want to have you stay there. And when things start to go in a top-heavy market, why—they go almighty quick. That’s all. There’s your Suburban Electric, now. That’s had a big rise. Let me sell five hundred of that, anyway. You’ve got a good profit. And you’ll find you can get out and in again, too. You won’t have any trouble doing that.”

Again Carleton obstinately shook his head. “No,” he said, with an almost childish delight in contradiction, “I don’ get ’ny ’dvices like that. I get ’dvices S’burban ’Lectric’s going to hundred’n fifty. I don’ want t’sell now. Not such fool.”

Turner, seeing the futility of further argument, shrugged his shoulders impassively. “Well, drop in at the office and see me to-morrow, anyway, Jack,” he said.

Carleton nodded. “Sure,” he answered cheerfully, “I’ll be in. Got t’get ’long now,” and he made again for the door.

Turner slowly made his way back into the lounging room. One of the smokers looked up at him with a laugh. “Old Jack’s pretty full, isn’t he?” he said, “growing on him, I should say.”

A second lounger caught up the remark. “Full,” he echoed, “oh, no, not for him. He’s sober as a church now. When he can walk, and see where he’s going, he’s all right. You ought to see him around the Club here some nights. Talk about raising hell!”

The first man yawned. “Well,” he said slowly, “it’s like lots of other things. It’s all right and good fun for once in a way, but for a steady thing—why, Heaven help the poor devil that gets going it and can’t stop. There isn’t any humor in it then. Nothing jovial, or convivial, or anything else. It’s just simply damnable; that’s what it is. And Jack Carleton’s too good a fellow to go that way. It’s a shame.”

The second man nodded in answer. “That’s right enough,” he assented, “and it’s rough on his old man, too. He’s an awfully good sort, the old chap. And Jack could amount to something, if he wanted to. That’s the bad part. He was never cut out for a soak.”

“Doesn’t he do anything at all?” some one asked.

The first man shook his head. “Not a thing,” he answered. “The old man gives him an allowance, I understand, or else he inherited something from his mother; I don’t really know which. And Jack’s playing Alcohol to win, I guess, and Suburban Electric for place.” He grinned at his own joke.

The second man turned suddenly to Turner. “Say, Jim, you know everything,” he said; “what about this uncle of Jack’s—this Henry Carleton? I seem to hear a lot about him lately. He’s the whole shooting-match down-town. What sort of man is he, anyway?”

Turner launched a little family of smoke rings into the air, and watched them float upward before he replied. “Oh, I don’t know,” he answered indifferently, “he’s smart as the devil, for one thing. I know that for a fact.”

“Yes, that’s right,” the first man chimed in, “everybody says that. And yet, you know, it’s funny, but there’s always something that strikes me as disagreeable about that man’s looks. He seems so confoundedly self-assertive, and sure of himself, somehow.”

Turner rose to take his departure. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said again. “First we sit here and damn a man for being a sport, and then we turn around and damn another man because he’s smart, and we don’t like his face. It’s mighty easy to criticize.” He paused a moment, then added, with what for him was almost an excess of feeling, “I’m really sorry about Jack, though. It’s too bad.”

Meantime, once out in the street, the air seemed for the moment to steady Carleton, and he started off briskly enough for the South Station. As he walked along, he pulled a letter from his pocket, read it through carefully, and then, as though striving to recall something that had escaped him, proceeded on his way with a puzzled and dissatisfied expression on his face. “Friday, Friday,” he muttered to himself, “something else, but can’t seem to think what. Guess nothing important. Anyway, can’t think.”

In due time he reached the station, and took his stand opposite the gateway through which the passengers from the incoming Eversley train would pass. There he stood, from time to time absent-mindedly consulting his watch, until at length from a distant rumble and cloud of smoke emerged the big engine, with flashing headlight and clanging bell, and huge wheels revolving more and more slowly until at length, with one last jerk, the whole train came suddenly to a stand. Then under the arc-light bustled forth the figures of the incoming passengers—first one, then another, then twos and threes, lines, groups—all hurrying, intent and eager, bound for their destination, and restlessly anxious to get there at once, wasting as little time as possible in transit. Scrutinizing them with care, it was not until the very end of the procession was reached that Carleton started suddenly forward. At the same instant the girl discovered him, and came quickly toward him.

Carleton’s masculine eye could hardly have appreciated all the details of her dress, yet the general effect was certainly not lost on him. Knowledge of the name of the dainty gown of blue and white would probably have conveyed no impression to his mind, but the way in which it fitted and the significant emphasis it lent to the graceful lines of the girl’s figure were matters which he viewed with no unappreciative eye. Surveying her critically as she advanced, from head to foot, from the hat of simple straw, with its clusters of blue flowers, to the tip of the dainty slipper, with just a glimpse of silken stocking above, he nodded in gracious approval. The girl was certainly looking her best, her pretty hair curling about her forehead in little clustering rings, her face just delicately flushed with color, her blue eyes very coquettish and very sparkling. Doubtless, too, these same practised eyes lost nothing of Carleton’s condition, for it was with a certain easy assurance that she came up to him and slipped her arm familiarly through his with a gentle welcoming pressure, glancing up almost impudently into his face. “Hullo, dear,” she said, “and how’s Jack?”

Carleton looked down at her, an odd mixture of emotions showing in his face; a certain satisfaction, a certain shame, above all, a certain recklessness—the recklessness of the aristocrat who, with a shrug of his shoulders, goes voluntarily out of his class, fascinated beyond his strength, half scornful of himself, and wholly regardless of what the consequences may be.“Oh, fine, thanks,” he answered absently, and then, as they emerged from the station into the street, he returned the pressure of her arm. “You’re looking very pretty, Jeanne,” he said, “I’m glad I got your note.”

They sauntered slowly up Union Street, the girl chattering vivaciously, and glancing up at Carleton as she talked, with a subtle and flattering attention; Carleton for the most part listening, from time to time nodding or answering in monosyllables. At the up-town crossing they came to a brief irresolute halt. “Well,” said Carleton, “and whash going to be to-night? The river?”

The girl, with a little smile, shook her head. “No,” she answered capriciously, “I’m tired of the river. We’ve done that so often. I want a motor to-night. A nice long ride. We’ll have a beautiful time.”

Carleton doubtfully shook his head. He was in a distinctly contradictory mood. “Nice long ridsh,” he observed, “in nice big motors, damn ’xpensive things for man that’s short money. Motors ’xpensive things; so’s girls.”The girl laughed, but did not lack the cleverness to see how her point might best be gained. “Are you short of money, really?” she said, with quick sympathy. “Why, you poor old Jack, it’s a shame. We’ll go on the river, then, in a little boat, all snug and nice. You dear boy; you need some one to comfort you,” and the big blue eyes gazed up into his, bold and unashamed.

She had comprehended his mood perfectly. Instantly his tone changed. “No, no,” he answered quickly, “won’t do an’thing of the kind. Got little money left for frens.” He laughed uncertainly. “’F you want motor, you’re going t’ have motor. That’s all there’sh to it. Do an’thing for you, Jeanne.”

She smiled up at him with dangerous sweetness. “You’re so good to me, Jack,” she murmured, and the gentle pressure on his arm was in nowise diminished. “You do everything for me. I only wish sometimes I could do something for you.”

He gazed down at her, all that was weakest and worst in his nature uppermost in his face. “Maybe can,” he said thickly, “maybe can; come on; we’re goin’ get motor now.”

At about the same hour that Carleton had left the Mayflower, farther up-town, in the reception-room at the Press Club, Arthur Vaughan sat waiting for his friend Helmar to return. He was a young man of medium height and build, inclined to be a trifle careless about his dress; his clothes a little threadbare; his brown hair and mustache allowed to grow a little too long; his carelessly knotted tie a good year out of style. Yet his face, looked at more closely, was distinctly good; a face somewhat thin and worn; the mouth and chin nervous, sensitive; the forehead high; the brown eyes straightforward and kindly,—the eyes of a man a little detached from the world about him, a little inclined, on his way through life, unconsciously to pause and dream.

Presently the door opened, and Helmar entered, the expression on his face one of half-humorous disgust. “Same old Jack Carleton,” he said. “He’s not down-stairs, and it’s five minutes of eight. You’re sure he understood?”Vaughan nodded. “Oh, perfectly,” he answered, “I saw him Wednesday night, and told him that your meeting had been changed to Thursday, so that we’d have to put this thing over until to-night; and then I gave him Miss Graham’s message, and told him he’d have to square himself with her, because we couldn’t put things off again. And I remember his saying that it was all right for him; I even recall his repeating it after me, as if he wanted to make sure of it, ‘seven-thirty, Press Club; eight o’clock, theater; eleven o’clock, Press Club, supper and talk’; oh, no, he understood all right. I’m sure of it.”

Helmar considered. “Well,” he said at length, “just because Jack’s got a poor memory, I can’t see why we should miss a good show. Let’s leave his ticket at the desk, and if he happens to drift in, all right. Then he can come on after us. Isn’t that O. K.?” and on Vaughan’s assent, they left the club for the theater, where in due course the curtain rose, and later fell again upon an excellent performance, indeed, but without revealing any sign of the absent Carleton. Once outside in the street, Helmar turned to Vaughan. “Well, what next?” he queried.

Vaughan shrugged his shoulders. “Why, the supper’s ordered,” he answered, “so I suppose we might as well go ahead in solitary state. But it rather takes the edge off the thing. It’s too bad,” and a moment or two later he added, half to himself, and half to his companion, “I don’t know what to think of Jack, really.”

Helmar made no answer, and it was not until the supper was served in the little private room, and the waiter had withdrawn, that they again returned to the subject. “What is it about Jack, anyway?” Helmar asked. “I was out at his place the other day, and he seemed to be making no end of trouble; everybody stirred up about him. What’s he been doing?”

Vaughan helplessly shook his head. “Search me,” he answered, “you know I scarcely see him now. He travels with a different crowd these days. But I guess since he joined the Mayflower he’s changed quite a lot; playing the market, I hear, and drinking pretty hard, and sort of gone to pieces generally.”

Helmar looked thoughtful. “That’s bad,” he said shortly, and after a pause, “Never happen to hear any gossip about him and a girl, do you?”

Again Vaughan shook his head. “No, I don’t,” he answered, “if he’s doing anything of that sort, it’s news to me. That is, I mean, anything really out of the way. Jack likes a good time, of course; we’ve always known that; but I don’t believe he’s that kind. I guess he’s all right enough that way. At any rate, I’ve always understood that he was about as good as engaged to Marjory Graham, and that ought to keep a fellow straight, if anything could.”

Helmar nodded. “Yes,” he answered abruptly, “I should say it ought. Well, never mind. Now I want to hear how things are going with you, Arthur. We’ll talk about Jack later on.”

And then, with the progress of the supper, the talk ran along as such talks will; each telling of past experiences, losses, gains; of future plans, hopes, fears; speaking of classmates and friends; skimming the passing events of the day; comparing notes on the thousand and one subjects that crowd the lips so readily when friends of long standing, who meet but seldom, settle down to the luxury of a leisurely, comfortable talk.

Meanwhile, far out on the Escomb Road, the big motor bowled swiftly along. Carleton’s arm was around the girl’s waist, her head was on his shoulder, and she was smiling up into his face. Very charming, very young and innocent she looked, unless, in some occasional passing flash of light, one could have seen the look in her eyes which lay behind the smile. “Oh, this is so nice, Jack,” she murmured; even the tone of her voice was a subtle caress, and she nestled a little closer to his side; “I could keep on like this for ever; you were so good to take me, dear.”

Carleton did not at once answer, and when he did, his tone seemed scarcely sentimental. Drowsiness, indeed, brought on by his many potations, rather than sentiment, appeared to be the spell which bound him, and his mind wandered irresponsibly in a dozen different directions at one and the same time. “Say,” he asked suddenly, “how’d you know where a letter’d get me, anyway?”

Had the girl’s mood been real, the matter-of-fact, commonplace tone must have driven her to sudden anger; as it was, her sense of humor saved her, and after a moment or two, half in spite of herself, she gave a little laugh. “Why,” she answered lightly, “from your good-looking friend, Doctor Helmar, of course,” and the next instant she could have bitten her tongue out for the chance words, as Carleton, for the moment startled into his senses, with a sudden exclamation sat bolt upright in his seat. “Helmar,” he cried, as everything in one instant’s flash came back to him, “to-night was the night. Oh, Lord, I wouldn’t have done this for a thousand dollars.” Then leaning forward, to the chauffeur, “Here there, you, stop a minute!” he cried; and fumbling in his pocket for his watch, he glanced at it, and then looked quickly around him. “Ten o’clock,” he muttered, “we can make it;” then, aloud, “Put her round now, driver, and head her straight for town; let her out, and let her go!”

With a surprised grin, the chauffeur slowly slackened speed, reversed his power, and ponderously turned the big car about. The girl meantime protested vigorously. “No, no,” she cried, “why, Jack, we’re almost out there now; what do you care for him, anyway? You wouldn’t do a thing like that, Jack. You’ve got better manners than to leave me now. How shall I get home? Now, Jack—”

Carleton, with a most disconcerting lack of gallantry, obstinately shook his head. “This very important,” he said, “we’ll go back way of Birches; leave you there; this ’xceedingly important. You don’t understand. You never went college. Quincentennial—no, quinquecentennial, no, quinquen—oh, damn, five years out of college, that’s what it is. Special dinner. Oh, what a fool I was to forget. How could I?”

The girl sat with frowning brows. “Oh, very well,” she said, offended, “you needn’t ask me to go anywhere with you again; that’s all;” and then, this remark having no noticeable effect, she began softly to cry.

Instantly Carleton’s shifting mood had veered again, and in a moment his arm was once more around her waist, and he leaned protectingly over her.

“Come, come,” he cried, “don’ do that. Can’t stan’ that. We’ll go out there s’mother time, my dear. But not t’night, not t’night; special t’night; special; awful good fellows, both of ’em; better’n I am, damn sight. Both good fellows. Don’t cry.”

With a quick, sinuous movement she wrenched herself free, putting half the distance of the broad cushioned seat between them. “Don’t,” she cried, “I hate you!” and in constrained and moody silence the big motor whirred along upon its homeward way.

Nor was home to be gained without further misadventure. Presently, even before they had covered half the distance to The Birches, something went wrong with the machine, and the chauffeur, steering in close to the side of the road, dismounted and began to search for the trouble, spurred on by the accompaniment of Carleton’s speech, which seemed every moment to gain in picturesqueness and force. Suddenly out of the darkness appeared two broad white streaks of dazzling light, the wail of a horn sounded in their ears, and another automobile passed them, to draw up, just beyond, with a quick grinding and jarring of brakes. A friendly voice hailed them. “Anything wrong? Help you out?” Carleton started at the words. He leaned forward in the seat, and whispered hastily to the chauffeur. Instantly the latter answered, “No thank you, sir, nothing wrong,” and the second motor sped along upon its way. Carleton’s brow contracted. “Wonder if he saw,” he muttered, “light’s pretty bright; looked like Marjory, too; didn’t know the colonel drove much at night, anyway.” There was a moment’s pause; then all at once, he added, “Friday! Friday! Good God! that was the other thing. Damn the luck! Damn everything!” and mingling threats and entreaties, he renewed his urging to the worried chauffeur.An hour later, at the Press Club, Vaughan’s cigar was well under way, and Helmar was helping himself to a second cup of coffee, when suddenly the door burst open, and there appeared before them the somewhat unsteady figure of their absent friend. Before either of them could speak, he had begun a rambling and incoherent apology, continuing it as he sank limply into the chair reserved for him.

“Must ’scuse me,” was the burden of his speech, “mem’ry comple’ly wen’ back on me; thoroughly ’shame myself—” and there was much more in the same vein; then, all at once reaching the sentimental stage of his orgy, he began to develop a vein of maudlin self-pity; “Helmar,” he cried despairingly, “you been good fren’ me always. I tell you, ’s no good. I try—I try ’s hard’s anyone—and oh, Helmar—” his voice broke, and with a mixture of the ridiculous and the pathetic that made both his hearers choke a little hysterically, even while their eyes were moist, he culminated despairingly, “’S no use, fellers; ’s no use; I’ll tell you where’m going; I’m going to hell in a hack; thash what I am,” and forthwith he laid his head upon the table, and began to weep.

It was long after midnight when Helmar and Vaughan finally deposited him, remonstrating and unwilling, in safety at the Mayflower, leaving him in skilful hands well versed in the treatment of his malady, and found themselves, flushed, weary, and not in the best of humors, again in the street.

“And so ends our great reunion,” said Vaughan, mopping his heated forehead. “Jack ought to feel pleased with himself; he’s certainly succeeded in knocking all the pleasure out of it for everybody, about as well as any one could. And I think, on the whole, that I’m inclined to agree with him about where he’s bound.”

Helmar sighed, a sigh of honest disappointment and anxiety. “Jack’s a mighty good fellow,” he answered, “but he’s certainly in a bad way now. If he ever means to amount to anything, he’s got to fight, and fight hard, too. Well, come on, Arthur, I suppose we’d better get to bed,” and thus the long-planned quinquennial reunion came sadly and dismally to an end.