Ellery H. Clark

“Why comes temptation, but for man to meet
And master and make crouch beneath his foot,
And so be pedestaled in triumph?”

Browning.

Slowly and thoughtfully Carleton ascended the stairs; reached his room; entered it; had even begun, with the mechanical force of habit, to fumble in his pockets for a match—and then, all at once, with a sudden shock of surprise, he awoke from his abstraction. The lamp on the center table was already lighted, though turned low, and from the shadow beyond, a dark figure rose, and came forward to meet him.

In an instant, he had reached out his hand; the next moment, the lamp light flooded the room; and then, as he recognized his visitor, there swept over his face a medley of emotions—amazement, displeasure, perhaps some other feeling as well. For an instant he stood motionless; then, frowning, again stepped forward, pitching his voice little louder than a whisper. “What the devil does this mean, Jeanne?” he asked.

The girl’s lips were smiling; her eyes dancing with suppressed amusement. Plainly enough, she was in nowise disconcerted at her greeting, but instead met his glance with the expression of one who feels herself mistress of the situation. She too stepped forward, until only the width of the table separated them; then spoke, in the same low key, half, it seemed, in real precaution, half in mocking mimicry of his own anxious tone. “Aren’t you glad to see me, Jack?” she whispered. “I thought you’d be so pleased.”

Carleton’s expression did not change, except that his frown deepened, and his mouth grew stern. “What are you thinking of?” he said again, and in the same tone as before. “Coming here! At this time of night! Are you crazy, Jeanne?”

Smiling still, the girl came closer, laying her hand appealingly on his arm, and looking up into his face with the innocent gaze of a child unjustly wronged. “Now, Jack—” she began.

Carleton, with a quick intake of his breath, stepped back, shaking off the slender hand. “Drop it, Jeanne,” he said sharply. “Here—” he thrust the arm-chair toward her, “sit down, and tell me what all this means, and then, for God’s sake, go away!”

With an amused shrug of her shoulders, the girl complied, seating herself leisurely and comfortably, as if she were far from being in a hurry to depart, and glanced up at him with a look charming and demure enough to have driven away the frown which still lingered on his brow. And then, as she made no move to speak, he broke the silence.

“How on earth,” he asked, “did you get here?”

She smiled back at him, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Bribery,” she answered. “The maid at the door said it was as much as her place was worth. I told her it was a matter of great importance—I really did it rather well, I think—and then I told her that no one would ever know and—persuaded her. And here I am.”“So I perceive,” he observed dryly, and then, more gravely, “And now what is it, Jeanne? Be quick, please. It must be close to midnight. If any one found you here—”

The girl laughed, low and mockingly. “Why, Jack,” she said, “how awfully moral we’ve grown. You never used to be so particular about appearances. Don’t you remember—”

He held up a silencing hand. “I remember a great many things, Jeanne. We had our good times, and we enjoyed them, too. But they’re all gone by for me, my dear. If you dance, you’ve got to pay the piper. That’s the truest thing that ever was said. And I’m paying him now. You heard all about the smash, of course. And you know that I’m a poor man. My sporting days are over, for good and all.”

The girl nodded. For the first time, the smile had left her face, and her tone, when she spoke, was as grave as his own. “I know all about it, Jack,” she said, “it isn’t the money I care about. I thought it was—once—but it wasn’t; it was you. And you haven’t sent me word now for so long. And I wrote you, and you never answered. And then—I was lonesome, and so—I came.”

He looked back at her steadily. “I didn’t put things quite right, Jeanne,” he said, “I didn’t mean that it was wholly because I didn’t have money any more. That is part of it, I guess, but there’s more to it than just that. I’m sorry for a lot of foolish things I’ve done, and I mean to quit them.”

She raised her eyebrows at the words, and a new expression came over her face. “Oh,” she said. “I see. So going around with me was foolish, was it? That’s strange. You didn’t seem to think so, when you were doing it, Jack.”

If she had expected to hear him withdraw his words, she was disappointed. “You don’t understand me, Jeanne,” he said, “there was no question about my enjoying it. I didn’t mean that. I enjoyed it too much—that was all. But that doesn’t alter the fact that it was foolishness for both of us. It was all my fault. It was only because I got used to seeing you around the place, out at The Birches, and you were so pretty, and so nice, that I wasn’t strong enough to resist temptation. And we had some great old times together. Don’t think I’ve turned preacher all at once, because I haven’t. We had some bully times, and I shall always remember them. But I was injuring you, Jeanne, and I was injuring myself, too. We were going ahead with something that could turn out only one way—we were playing the devil’s pet game. And I thank God we pulled up in time.”

The girl stiffled a little yawn; then smiled up at him more brightly than before, motioning, as she did so, to the arm of the chair. “You have turned preacher, Jack,” she said. “Don’t do it any more, please; it’s so stupid. And don’t stand, either. There’s lots of room.”

He shook his head. There came into her eyes a gleam of something other than mirth, and as she spoke, she raised her voice a trifle. “Sit down, Jack,” she said again.

Carleton threw an anxious glance over his shoulder, and then, unwillingly enough, drew up to the table the only other chair in the room. Again the gleam flashed, far back in her eyes, and once more she tapped on the arm of the chair. “Sit here,”she said imperiously, and heedful, not of the words, but of the tone, he obeyed.

At once her slender hand had stolen into his. “Look at me, Jack,” she commanded, and reluctantly enough he gazed down into the face that in the past had fascinated him beyond his strength. As if in a silent trial of their wills, her eyes held his, “Jack,” she murmured, “have I changed?”

Carleton’s teeth came together sharply; unconsciously the hand that held hers tightened so that she gave a little cry of pain, before it again relaxed. “No,” he muttered hoarsely, “only you’re prettier than ever, Jeanne.”

Her other hand crept upward until it rested on his shoulder; still her eyes were fixed on his, and still he did not look away. And then, “Ah, Jack,” she whispered, “you foolish boy! What did you think, anyway? That I thought you’d marry me? Of course I didn’t. I wanted a good time too. ‘Only end one way,’ Jack. Of course. That was the way I wanted it to end. That’s why I came here to-night, Jack, dear—”

At last he had wrenched his eyes free from her gaze. “Don’t Jeanne!” he cried. “Don’t—” but she clung the closer to him.

“Jack,” she said, as though not understanding, “Jack, what’s changed you? Don’t you want me?” and then, her whole tone altering in one instant’s flash, “There’s some one else, then,” she cried. “You were never like this before. Isn’t there, Jack? Isn’t there?”

Once more he met her glance. “Yes, Jeanne,” he said, very low, “there is.”

On the instant, her eyes flamed; instinctively she drew back, and Carleton, freed from her grasp, started to his feet. She rose also, quivering from head to foot.

“It’s that Graham girl!” she cried. “That doll! Don’t do it Jack! Don’t marry her! She’d never love you the way I would. Don’t do it, Jack! We can have such a good time. I’ve got some money; we can get more. We can go abroad together. You’ve made me love you, Jack; you can’t cast me off now. It isn’t fair. I’m not asking much. You can have me Jack, the whole of me—as long as you want me—and then, when you’re tired of me, you can leave me, and go your way. Jack, please—”

She stood there, breathing quick and hard, and gazing at him with such a look on her face that half against his will, he stepped forward, and took her hand in his. “Jeanne,” he said, “God knows I’m sorry. I never meant things to end like this; I never thought you really cared. But I can’t do what you say. It is Marjory Graham; I’ve asked her to marry me, and I’ve promised her, this very night, to live straight from now on. Don’t think it’s easy for me, dear; it isn’t. Don’t think I don’t appreciate—everything. But we wouldn’t be happy, Jeanne—either of us. It wouldn’t be right; it wouldn’t be square; we’d both regret—we mustn’t do it, Jeanne. I’m sorry, from the bottom of my heart, if I’ve hurt you; but I never meant it. You must go your way, Jeanne; and I must go mine.”

Even as he spoke, his heart smote him. The girl stood, her eyes cast down, her breast heaving—“My way,” she muttered, half under her breath. “My way; oh, God!” and then, slowly and uncertainly, she lifted her eyes to his and Carleton saw that they were filled with tears. For the first time she seemed to realize her dismissal, and to accept it. “Very well,” she said wearily, “I’ll go,” and then, after a pause, “kiss me, Jack.”

Carleton bent and kissed her; then, almost roughly, released her, and as she turned away, stood silent, with averted face, not daring to trust himself to look.

The silence deepened. Then, very softly, the door closed. He raised his eyes. He was alone in the room. Like a man physically spent, he threw himself down into the arm-chair, and buried his face in his hands.