Ellery H. Clark

“Whoever fights, whoever falls,
Justice conquers evermore.”

Emerson.

The butler had withdrawn to superintend the bringing in of the dinner’s final course. Helmar, with his hand outstretched toward his wine glass, for a moment hesitated, and looking first at Rose and then at Vaughan, came to a puzzled, half-humorous pause. “I realize,” he said, “that this is the proper time for a toast, yet my tongue is tied. Not through diffidence, either. I never have stage fright, and I know exactly what I’m going to say. In fact, I’ve been working all day on it, and if anything should happen now to prevent me from inflicting it on you, it would be the bitterest of disappointments—to me, I mean. But the question of proper precedence is what I can’t make up my mind about. For the life of me, I don’t know whether I ought to drink first to Rose, and reserve a separate glass for our rising author here, or whether my first duty is to drink to you both, in celebration of your engagement’s being formally made public to-morrow. By the latter plan, you see, I’m forced to drink alone, which is always bad; by the former, I manage to be in good company each time. And on the whole, I believe that’s the proper way. So here goes. Arthur, I propose the health of Miss Rose Carleton. In order not to embarrass her, I intend to refrain from any fulsome praise, merely observing that the fact that she is herself, suffices for everything. Youth, beauty, virtue; Arthur, you’re a fortunate man, and the only drawback to the whole affair is the horde of envious enemies you’re going to make for yourself. But that you’ll have to stand for; and the reward is certainly worth it.”

He bowed with exaggerated deference as he concluded, and the girl, laughing, softly clapped her hands. “Oh, beautiful, beautiful, Franz,” she cried, “I’m overcome. I suppose I ought to respond, but in the presence of two such distinguished beings, I’m actually dumb. But, believe me, Mr. Toastmaster, I deeply appreciate your effort. It’s fully worth all the time you must have spent on it.”

Vaughan, touching his glass to Helmar’s, laughed also. “There, Franz,” he cried, “isn’t that a fitting reward? And as for your enemies, and their envy, let them come, all of them. I’m safe; nothing matters now,” and the look in Rose Carleton’s eyes, as their glances met, was more eloquent than any response could have been.

The toast drunk, Helmar turned to the girl. “And now, Rose,” he said, “actually words fail. Here comes the really difficult part. How shall we try to describe such greatness? The literary man; the author fairly launched; the coming all-around novelist of the century, who has shown himself a romanticist by aspiring to the hand of Miss Carleton and a realist by winning it. There, how does that suit you? Will that do?”

The girl smiled. “Indeed it will,” she answered. “But if it’s permissible ever to amend a toast, even such a good one as that, I’m going to venture to do it. Something so nice happened to-day. Tell him, Arthur, do.”

Vaughan shook his head. “Not I,” he answered, “I wouldn’t dare. I’m having a hard enough time as it is, trying to make all these remarkable things seem real. I still walk around pinching myself, and pulling out letters and telegrams and re-reading them, to make sure they’re genuine, after all. But if I should start to talk, I’d know I was a liar before I said five words. I don’t mind listening, though, a bit. Go ahead and tell him, Rose, if you want to, and I’ll sit still and try to look the part of modest but intensely deserving merit. That’s the best I can do.”

Rose turned eagerly to Helmar. “Well, then,” she cried, “he got word to-day. The book’s gone into a third large edition. In three months! And his first book! Think of it. And he’s had more fine letters and notices, besides. And two other magazines have written to see if he has any short stories he’d let them see. So he’s going to be a great success, and I’m awfully proud of him, and when we drink our toast, I want it to be to the author, the book and the third edition.”

Helmar nodded in vigorous assent. “By all means,” he exclaimed, “if all amendments were as good as that one, no maker of an original motion could ever object. We’ll drink to the third edition, of course, and I hope, before we’re done, there’ll be thirty of them. There,” he added, as he put down his glass, “my pleasant duty’s done, and I think I may claim well done. Unless, Arthur, you can think of anything I’ve omitted.”

Vaughan shook his head. “No, no,” he answered, “you’ve been a great success; said a lot of things about us both that aren’t true, and successfully reduced us to just the proper stage of uncomfortable embarrassment.”

Helmar laughed. “It’s a pity, though,” he said, “that we didn’t have our full attendance. Think of all the other nice things I might have had a chance to say. Wasted opportunities. Marjory unable to come; Jack kept away on business; Mr. Carleton started for his big time in town. That is a banquet, though, with a vengeance, isn’t it! Think of it; United States Senator! But of course every one knew he’d make it. I never saw such a man. Success in everything. He’s certainly a wonder. You must feel awfully proud of him, Rose.”

She nodded gaily. “Of course I do,” she answered. “We must drink his health, anyway. He deserves it. What shall we say? The man who has brought new honors to the Carleton name!”

As they drank the toast, the butler entered with the coffee and cigars, and the girl rose, smiling down at Vaughan. “Don’t be too long, now,” she said, “remember I’m all alone.”

As the portiÈres closed behind her, Helmar turned to Vaughan. “Well, Arthur,” he said, “you’re certainly a lucky man. Engaged to such a girl as Rose, and fairly on your literary feet into the bargain. It’s fine about the book. I didn’t realize it was doing so well.”

Vaughan nodded. “It was queer,” he said meditatively, “about the whole thing. I guess I ought to be ashamed of myself for claiming, once upon a time, that there was a pull in literature. Because look how it worked with me. There I had Mr. Carleton using all his influence, and three times that book was turned down. And then, just because Jack kept after me to do it, when I took the manuscript back and began plugging ahead with it on my own account, just see what happened. It was accepted the very next crack.”

Helmar puffed thoughtfully at his cigar. “It does look that way,” he assented, then, after a little pause, he asked abruptly, “Arthur, how about Jack and Marjory? Was it just a coincidence they didn’t come to-night, or was it something more than that? I don’t believe they’re hitting things off, somehow. And Jack himself—I never saw a fellow so changed. Ever since that time he was out at The Birches he has seemed awfully down on his luck. I was wondering—”

Vaughan rose quickly. “Oh, he’s worried about his business, I think that’s all.” Then added abruptly, “Would you mind smoking in the other room, Franz? Rose doesn’t object, and I hate to leave her alone.”

Helmar rose also. “Of course not,” he said, “why didn’t you say so sooner? Let’s go right in.”

Half way down the hall, Henry Carleton’s valet approached them, a letter in his outstretched hand. “For you, Mr. Vaughan,” he said.

Vaughan, taking the letter, hastily opened it, and read its contents. A puzzled frown wrinkled his forehead. “H’m,” he muttered, “that’s queer,” and as they entered the parlor, he spoke at once to his fiancÉe. “Rose,” he said, “I’m sorry, but everything about to-night seems to be fated. First our guests disappoint us, and now I’m called away myself. But only for an hour. I’ll be back just as soon as I can.”

The girl’s face clouded. “Oh, no, Arthur,” she cried, “not to-night. You oughtn’t to go to-night, no matter who it is. Tell them to wait—”

He broke in upon her. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he said gravely, “but this is something that can’t be delayed. I must go at once.”

There was no misunderstanding his tone. “All right, then, Arthur,” she said, “but be back as soon as you can,” and nodding, he left the room.The waiting motor made short work of the distance between The Birches and Colonel Graham’s home; and a short half hour later Vaughan was ushered across the threshold of the big drawing-room. Marjory Graham came forward to meet him, and then, as she led the way across the room, he stared in surprise at the sight of the second figure that rose from the seat by the open fire. Yet Marjory Graham seemed to see nothing unusual in the situation. “I think you know Mrs. Satterlee, Arthur,” she said, and Vaughan, his wonderment increasing every moment, bowed, and took his seat.

The lights were turned low; only the firelight flickered and gleamed about the room. Marjory Graham reached out and took the woman’s hand in hers. “Tell him, Jeanne,” she said.

There followed a pause, and then at last, slowly and with evident effort, Jeanne Satterlee began to speak. “Mr. Vaughan,” she said, “the fewer words the better. You’ve made up your mind to tell the story of that night. If it’s going to be told, it must be the true one. I’ve promised Jack to tell what I know to Miss Graham and to you. I’ve already told her.”

She paused, while Vaughan sat waiting breathlessly, his eyes fixed upon her face. And then she spoke again. “There’s no need to ask you,” she went on, “whether you remember all that happened on that night. You remember how you were all together at The Birches; how Jack said he was going to bed early; how you and Miss Rose sat out on the piazza; how Mr. Carleton played billiards with Jim Cummings, and then how he came down and told you he was going for a walk about the grounds. You remember every bit of that, of course?”

Vaughan assented silently. “And then,” she went on, “you went for a stroll yourself; you came to the rock opposite the cottage, and saw Tom when he came in. You heard the noise; you saw some one run out of the house, with Tom after him; and then you saw Tom fall, and a minute afterward you saw Jack bending over him, with Tom’s head on his knee.”

Again she stopped for his assent; again Vaughan nodded; and once more she continued, “You thought it was Jack who was in my room; you thought it was Jack who ran from the cottage. And no one could blame you, Mr. Vaughan, for what you thought. But I’m going to tell you the true story of that night—to my shame. Jack Carleton wasn’t in the cottage; there was never anything between Jack and me—though I tried—never mind, I’ve told Miss Graham—but there was some one in my room that night, and that man was the father of the girl whom you are going to marry.”

Vaughan’s heart seemed to stop beating; there came a ringing in his ears; his voice, when he spoke, sounded faint and far-away. “Henry Carleton?” he gasped.

Jeanne Satterlee bowed her head. “I said the fewer words the better,” she went on. “It wasn’t the first time. Things had been—that way—for nearly two years.”

Vaughan’s face flushed with anger. “Henry Carleton!” he cried again, “it’s impossible. How dare you say it?”

Jeanne Satterlee’s tone did not alter, its very calmness carrying conviction with it. “It’s true,” she said, “every word. And more, Mr. Vaughan, that you will never know. It’s all true. Jack knows—”

Vaughan started at the name. “But how did Jack—” he began. She broke in upon him. “Jack suspected,” she answered. “He saw me at the cottage that afternoon. He talked with Tom. He put two and two together. And you know what he thinks of his uncle, anyway. So he came down to the cottage that evening, early. He was hidden outside. And after Henry Carleton got away—he struck Tom from behind to do it—then Jack came down into the drive to help Tom—and you had to see him. And that was all.”

Vaughan sat as if stunned. “My God!” he muttered, under his breath, “my God!”

Once more Mrs. Satterlee broke the silence. “And then,” she said, “you went to Henry Carleton, and told him what you thought you knew. And he sat there, and listened to you telling him that Jack did the murder. He came to the cottage that night. He was furious. He’d have killed you, I truly believe, if he’d dared. He threatened me, even. He told me I must stick to the story that Jack was in my rooms, and murdered Tom; and that he’d see that no harm came to Jack; that money could do anything; that he’d get Jack out of the country; and that it would be better for every one; and I was frightened—and promised. And then—”

Gradually, as she talked, the whole sequence of events had been shaping in Vaughan’s brain. And now, all at once, and more to himself than to the others, he voiced his thoughts in words. “I see; I see;” he cried; “that was why I could never seem to believe it. Poor Jack! Poor Jack! Oh, what a fool I’ve been!”

Again he was silent, and she concluded. “And then Jack came to me—I did all this for him—don’t think it was easy for me. And I told Henry to-night, before I came here. He was going in town, and came to the cottage first. And I told him—with a loaded pistol in my hand. He wouldn’t believe me at first. He never knew that I—that I was fond of Jack—and when he realized I was in earnest, I thought he was going out of his mind. I never saw a man so changed. He said I’d ruined him—ruined his whole life—and then, all at once, he put his hand to his head, and stopped right in the middle of what he was saying, and turned, and went away. And I came here, to keep my promise. I told Jack to come here at eight; he ought to be here now.”

Vaughan pulled out his watch. “Quarter past,” he said, “I suppose he’ll be here soon.”

Marjory Graham turned to him. “Mr. Carleton lied to me, Arthur,” she said, “tried to make me believe awful things of Jack. And I knew—I knew all the time that he lied. Think of it. Think how Jack—”

Vaughan nodded, yet even on the instant another thought flashed through his mind. “But, Rose!” he cried, “I never thought. Rose! Good God!”

“I know; I know;” cried the girl, “I’ve been thinking about her. You mustn’t speak now, Arthur. Jack didn’t, even before he knew. And you mustn’t. It would kill Rose.”Vaughan drew a long breath. “Marjory—” he began, but the sentence was never finished. A quick step sounded in the hall outside, and Jack Carleton came hastily into the room. In an instant, as if unmindful of all else, Marjory Graham had risen, and crossed the room, her face transfigured—“Oh, Jack!” she cried, “Jack!”

For a moment he drew her to him; then, without speaking, his arm still around her, came forward to meet the others. Vaughan, too, had risen, and stood with outstretched hand. “Jack,” he said, “I never knew—I never dreamed—can you forgive me?”

In answer Carleton took his friend’s hand in his, yet without uttering a word. His face was haggard, his eyes wild. Jeanne Satterlee started to her feet. “What is it, Jack?” she cried, “something’s wrong.”

Carleton looked from one to the other, moistening his lips with his tongue before at last the words would come. “It’s Henry,” he said hoarsely, “he’s dead. At the station. He fell in front of the train. He slipped—an accident—”For an instant there fell silence—utter; horror-stricken. And then Vaughan’s eyes sought Carleton’s face. He spoke in a tone scarcely above a whisper. “An accident—” he said.

Carleton met his gaze squarely. The silence deepened; and then, “An accident,” he said again, “he must have thought of Rose—and the Carleton name. And Rose must never know.”

Assentingly Vaughan bowed his head; then stood, gazing straight before him, a dawning horror in his eyes. Jeanne Satterlee sank back in her chair, covering her face with her hands. Drawing a long breath, Carleton seemed again to come to himself. Very gently he drew Marjory closer to his side. Neither spoke, for no words were needed. Her glance told him all that he wished to know; he bent over her, and their lips met.

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes:

1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters’ errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author’s words and intent.

2. The original book from which this etext was transcribed did not have a Table of Contents; one has been added for the reader’s convenience.