Ellery H. Clark

“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 realized with 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 the night, 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 habitual overwork, 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’s good 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 in Cosmopolis was 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 in you?”

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 would better do justice to the situation, he repeated, with even greater emphasis, “The devil you 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 make good 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. “Colonel Graham?” he said, “did you say Colonel, 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,” he answered dryly, “and you used to be very good 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, with a 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 repressed disapproval. 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 and tinted 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. Then somewhere 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 as she 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?”