Part 19 (1/2)

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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sistance 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, c.u.mmings; 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 c.u.mmings, 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 pa.s.s 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--”