Ellery H. Clark

“Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or 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 I rang 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 doctor shook 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 there found, 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 the doctor 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 comparatively little 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 remarkable man, 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 to get 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—until it’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 to play 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 the kindness of it—damn it all—” and self-restraint at last giving way, he buried his face in his hands, 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.