Ellery H. Clark

“I trust in God,—the right shall be the right
And other than the wrong, while he endures.”

Browning.

Henry Carleton leaned back contentedly in his office chair. The afternoon was drawing to a close; another good day’s work was done; the pathway of the future lay bright before him. Money? He had his fill of it. Except as the trophy, the stakes in the game, for which, coolly and half-disdainfully, it still suited him to play, he had come scarcely to value it at all. Fame? That, too, had come to him. His reputation, first made in the city, had spread later throughout the state, and now, thanks to that long and well-laid net of carefully adjusted wires, was to become national as well. Member-elect of the United States senate! It was enough. Fame—and power—and patronage—more glory to add to that of the long line of ancestors whose dignified faces looked down at him from the walls of the gallery at The Birches. He had done well; he knew it; and was content. Nor was he an old man yet. A glorious prospect lay before him still, filled with pleasures—of many kinds. Only this one matter to be adjusted now, and whichever way fate tipped the scales, he could not lose. How pleasant it was to look back over all his struggles with Jack! How pleasant to know, with the lifelong enmity between them, that in every encounter, he had decisively outwitted and got the better of his nephew! And now—either Jack must suffer, or if Vaughan’s silence could not be bought, Jack’s scruples must somehow be overcome. The latter, of course, everything considered, would be the better way. For Jack—much as he hated him—was a Carleton, and Jack’s fate, in a way, was bound up with his own. And Vaughan was a nobody, a mere scribbler, of no use to the world. He must be silenced—somehow. Yet there was danger too. In spite of himself, the matter troubled him.As he sat, thus musing, his clerk appeared at his elbow. “A young lady to see you, sir,” he announced, “Miss Graham, from Eversley. I showed her into the private office.”

Carleton nodded. “All right,” he answered briefly. “Tell her I’ll see her at once,” and a moment or so later he was bowing deferentially over the girl’s outstretched hand. “I’m delighted to see you back, Miss Graham,” he said cordially, “if I thought a trip abroad would do me the good it’s done you, I’d start to-morrow. You’re looking splendidly. And what may I do for you? Is this a business call?”

The girl shook her head. “No, Mr. Carleton,” she returned, “it’s not; and I should apologize, I know, for coming to see you at your office. Yet I didn’t want to go to The Birches either. I wanted to ask—I want to see you, Mr. Carleton—about Jack.”

She paused, and as he waited, she did not at once continue, but sat with her eyes fixed on the ground, as if embarrassed, and uncertain how to proceed. So that presently he broke the silence. “And what about Jack?” he asked lightly, though his watchful gaze was upon her face, “I rather thought that you and Jack could settle your own affairs. But if you can’t—”

She glanced up quickly. “Oh, don’t joke, Mr. Carleton, please,” she said, “you wouldn’t, if you knew how anxious I am. I can’t seem to understand it at all. You know what good friends Jack and I always were; we were more than that; you know what I mean. And then—something happened. That was when Jack went West. And I was so glad when I heard how well he’d done—how well, I mean, in every way—and when he came back, everything would have been all right again. I had written him—and he’d written me. We had everything arranged. He was to meet the steamer in New York. And then—when we got in, he wasn’t there. Only a message at the hotel that he’d been called away on business, and would see me soon. And that was a week ago; and I haven’t seen him, or even heard from him, since then. I’ve asked all his friends. Franz Helmar doesn’t know anything about him. Neither does Rose. And when I asked Arthur Vaughan, he acted as if he knew something, but didn’t want to tell me what it was. So I’ve come to you, Mr. Carleton. If there’s something about Jack that I don’t know, and that I ought to know, I want you to tell me.”

Henry Carleton sat listening to her, as she talked, his face expressionless, yet keenly attentive, all the while. And as she ended, he hesitated, before replying, as if struggling with some inward temptation which finally, in spite of himself, overcame him. At length he spoke. “My dear Miss Graham,” he said, “I am so many years older than you, that I’m going to ask you to let me give you a piece of advice. I have felt uneasy—very uneasy—for a long time, concerning Jack’s attentions to you. Not, of course, that one could blame him—” the girl ignored the somewhat mechanical smile which accompanied the words words—“but the man who aspires to win your hand, Miss Graham, should be of a type very different from my nephew. I’m not talking at random; I know whereof I speak; and as a friend, I want to tell you that it would be better for you to forget all about Jack—not to try to find out anything concerning him—but to dismiss him entirely from your mind. And I don’t think—” he added significantly, “that you will find yourself troubled by him any more.”

The girl’s expression was one of bewilderment. “Troubled by him,” she repeated. “Jack trouble me. You don’t understand, Mr. Carleton. I haven’t made myself clear. I’m as fond of Jack as he is of me. I’ve promised to be his wife. And all I’m asking now is what has happened to keep him away from me. There’s some mystery about it, and I want to know what it is.”

Henry Carleton gave a little apologetic cough. “Really, my dear Miss Graham,” he said, “you make this very hard for me. I was trying to intimate, without putting things too plainly—I thought you would understand—you know that Jack’s character is none of the strongest; you know his weaknesses as well as I do. You don’t want me to go on, Miss Graham, I know. Why should I pain you? Let us leave things as they are.”

At last the girl seemed to comprehend, yet she did not take his words without protest. “Jack isn’t weak,” she cried indignantly, “you’ve no right to say that, Mr. Carleton. If you knew all that he’s conquered—all that he’s overcome—you’d know that he’s strong, not weak. And please don’t hint or insinuate about him; this is too serious for that. If you’ve something to say against him, say it. Don’t half say it, and then stop. It’s neither fair to him, nor to me.”

Henry Carleton raised his eyebrows. “As you will,” he responded evenly, “I only sought to spare you, Miss Graham. But if you want me to tell you, I suppose you know as well as any one that before Jack went away, he’d made himself conspicuous by going around in public with the girl who later married my chauffeur, Satterlee. There was nothing improper, I believe, about it all; simply a bit of boyish folly and bravado; nothing worse. But on Jack’s return—I don’t know, of course, what his life in the West has been; I suppose that perhaps one might hazard a guess—he fell in with this woman again, and this time—I’m speaking plainly, Miss Graham, because you’ve asked me to—this time their relations have passed the bounds of decency. He visits her openly. And that, I suppose, is the reason that he keeps away from you.”

A little red spot flamed in the girl’s cheeks. “It’s not true!” she cried, “I don’t believe it—not a word. I know Jack too well. No man could have written me the letters he has—it’s a lie; a lie!” Face and figure alike were tense and rigid with emotion.

Henry Carleton’s eyes gleamed, yet when he spoke, his tone was calm. “My dear Miss Graham,” he said, “pardon me for suggesting it, but isn’t your conduct rather extraordinary. You come here, in my office hours, knowing that I am a busy man—a man of varied interests—you come here, on your private affairs, which surely have no special interest for me—and then, upon my giving you all the assistance in my power, you inform me that I lie. Really, Miss Graham—”

The girl rose quickly, yet her expression seemed to show little of contrition. “I beg your pardon, if I was rude,” she said, “you are quite right to remind me that I am taking up your time. I will go at once.”

She did not give him her hand in parting, nor did he stir from where he stood, as she walked toward the door of the office. Before she reached it, he spoke again. “If you care,” he said smoothly, “to hear the rest—”

She turned upon him. “I do not,” she said, “I care to hear nothing more. And you say, upon your honor, that what you’ve told me is true?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “You’re very hard to convince,” he said. “I don’t blame you. It’s not a pleasant thing to hear. But it is true. He’s not away on business. He goes there constantly. In fact, if you care to see him, I dare say you would find him there now.”

The words struck home. For an instant the girl stood gazing at him, as if she would have spoken; then quickly turned, and left the room.

A chance shaft sometimes cleaves to the very center of the mark. At the hour and minute when Marjory Graham was leaving Henry Carleton’s office, Jack Carleton sat with Jeanne Satterlee in the parlor of the little cottage at Eversley. His face was pale and drawn, and he was talking tensely, earnestly, evidently striving, with all the power within him, to convince and persuade with his words. The woman sat with her eyes averted, as if she listened half against her will. Three years of life had wrought their change. She was beautiful—beyond all question—more beautiful than ever; and yet a nameless something had crept into her face—hardly to be detected, even—a certain look of restlessness—of discontent—a vague change for the worse.

“And so, Jeanne,” Carleton concluded, “that’s all I ask. I say nothing about that panic in the stock market—I say nothing about the property. You know, and I know, what he did, and how he did it; I got it all out of that sneak, Cummings; but all that’s past and done with now. Even if I wanted to make the scandal, I’m not sure that he’s answerable legally; he’s a wonderfully clever man. And I say nothing about poor Vaughan, and his book. You know, and I know, how he worked that with Cummings, but once more, that’s done with now. And Vaughan’s come into his own, at last. But about the other thing, that’s different, Jeanne. You must speak. You can’t say that you won’t, where it’s life and death. You must do it, Jeanne; I’ve a right to make my fight; you must.”

There was a pause. And then the woman spoke. “I can’t, Jack,” she parried, “I promised. I wouldn’t dare—”

He interrupted her. “Promised!” he echoed. “What’s a promise wrung out of one by force? Nothing. You can’t mean you’d let that stop you, Jeanne.”

She looked up at him, with appeal in her glance. “Jack,” she said desperately, “I’ll tell you the truth. I’m afraid. Afraid he’d kill me. You’re a man; you’re strong, and could fight. You don’t know how a woman dreads anything like that. He said that night he’d kill me, if I told. And I promised—I promised, Jack.”

Carleton gave an impatient sigh. “Nonsense, Jeanne,” he said sharply, “he wouldn’t dare. He only threatened, to frighten you. You—of all people. And can’t you see? He couldn’t afford to, if he would. Where’s his hold on me, then? Tell him, Jeanne, what you’re going to do, and then go away, if you’re frightened; go somewhere where you’ll be safe. Go straight to Marjory Graham, why don’t you, and stay with her.”

“Yes,” she flamed, “go to Marjory Graham! That’s just like a man. You don’t think of me, Jack, at all. Tell her everything! That’s such an easy thing to say. You don’t think of the shame—the disgrace—”

Carleton rose, and walking across the room, laid a hand upon her shoulder, looking down into her face, as he answered her. “Jeanne,” he said, wearily, “we’ve been over this so many times that there’s no use in saying anything more. Only this. I’m not asking you to do this for me, or for Marjory, or for Arthur, or for Rose, though if you do it, you’ll be doing it for all four of us at once. That isn’t the point. A man gets to thinking pretty hard when he’s in a fix like mine, and his own life dwindles down to something that doesn’t count for much, after all. But I tell you this, Jeanne, and you can call it preaching, and laugh at it, if you choose, but it’s so: there’s only one thing in the world worth doing, after all, and that’s to try to keep as near to what’s right and fair as we can. People can disagree about lots of things—you can criticize my life, and I can criticize yours—but some things are so plain that there’s no chance to differ about what’s right and what’s wrong. And the trouble we’re in now is one of them. You ought to tell Arthur Vaughan. You ought to tell Marjory. And then your part is done. You can leave the rest to fate. But to keep silence now, because of a promise that was forced from you—it isn’t square—it’s upsetting the belief that every one ought to have: that in the end the right’s a better thing than the wrong. And, Jeanne, I tell you this once more. If you won’t do what you ought to do; if you still keep silence; I tell you this: I won’t see harm come to Arthur Vaughan. I won’t see Rose’s life spoiled. There’s one thing I could do, and that’s to put myself out of the way, and stop everything; but that would be cowardly, I suppose. No, I’ll make my fight, but you know as well as I do, that it’s a losing one. My life is in your hands, Jeanne, and I’ve a right to ask you to do what’s fair. I’ve tried, for three years now, as hard as a man could try. I’ll never be anything famous in the world—I know that—but I’ve a right to want to bring some credit to my father’s name, even if it’s only by living an honest life, to marry, and to pass the name down to some one that can do better with it than I’ve done. That’s all, Jeanne. And there are only two days left. That’s as long as Vaughan will wait. So you’ve got to make up your mind quick. Think it over, Jeanne, and for every one’s sake, be fair.”

She rose from her chair, shaking off his hand. “I’m afraid, Jack;” she said once more, “I’m afraid.”

Carleton’s hand fumbled in his pocket; then, finding what he sought, he handed it to the girl. The light flickered upon the polished barrel. “You could use it?” he asked. The girl nodded. “Then you’ve no reason to fear him,” he said. “Tell him, Jeanne, when he comes to-morrow night, and then you go straight to Marjory’s, and tell her too.”

She looked up quickly, as if seeking to make one last plea. “You ask too much, Jack,” she cried. “If I had my life over—but I haven’t. I’ve lived out all that was ever good in me; there’s only one kind of life left for me now. And he’s been good to me—given me everything. And think of all I lose. All the life I’d see down there. All the money. All the good times. You’re not a woman, Jack. You don’t understand. Think of the fun—”

Once more he laid his hand upon her shoulder. “Is it worth it, Jeanne?” he said.