"Of course," Carleton answered eagerly, and at his manner Vaughan found himself all at once marveling. Whatever else of emotion he might feel in the medley of sensations which swept over him, above everything else he was conscious of a stinging disappointment, an open shame, for this man--his friend. He turned away, his voice as he answered, sounding dully in his own ears. "All right," he said. Then suddenly a new difficulty struck him with stunning force. "But what's the use, Jack?"

he cried, "Mrs. Satterlee--"

Carleton took one quick step forward. "Everything's the use," he said, almost menacingly. "Do as I tell you, for G.o.d's sake! Don't worry about the woman. Her testimony will be the same as ours. n.o.body knows anything. Can't you see? Or don't you know what sort of woman--"

Across the lawn Rose Carleton's voice sounded, vibrant with anxiety.

"Arthur, Cousin Jack," she called, "you're wanted at once. The medical examiner is here."

The _Columbian_ reporter, jotting down a note or two, rose from his seat at the examiner's desk. "I'm very much obliged, sir," he said. "That clears _that_ matter up. You've told me exactly what I wanted to know.

And on this last case that came in to-day, the coachman out at the Carleton place, you say there won't be anything doing?"

The medical examiner shook his head in decided negative. "The coroner's verdict," he answered, "not of course speaking officially, or for quotation in any way, will be one of accidental death. Of that I am morally certain. There wasn't a shred of evidence to prove anything different. Or, one chance in ten, perhaps, at the most, it might be 'death at the hands of persons unknown.'"

The reporter sighed. "It's too bad, though, isn't it?" he rejoined.

"All the elements of a great story there somewhere"--he paused a moment; then added thoughtfully, "I'm not jollying, you know; I really am awfully disappointed. Because--it's a queer thing--if there was any evidence for a starter, I could furnish some mighty interesting information in a certain direction. Do you know anything about the wife of this man that was killed, this Mrs. Satterlee?"

The examiner shook his head. "Nothing," he answered, "excepting that I couldn't help but notice that she was a remarkably beautiful woman.

Entirely out of her cla.s.s as the wife of a coachman, I should have said."

"Exactly," the reporter exclaimed. "Well, now, listen to this. If anybody wanted to hear some mighty funny evidence concerning this woman, and concerning one of the men who was at the Carleton place the night this happened--not gossip, you know, but something that I actually know about, saw with my own eyes--if anybody wanted to get hold of that, why, I rather think--"

The examiner raised a restraining hand. "Well, don't think," he said curtly. "You ought to know enough about the laws of evidence to stop you from figuring that two and two make five. And, anyway, don't think too hard. It's an awful strain on a man. Your business, as I understand it, as a reporter on the _Columbian_, is to report facts, and not to come any of these gum-shoe sleuth tricks."

The reporter smiled, wrinkling his forehead whimsically. "Your ideas of facts and mine," he rejoined, "might not tally, exactly, but in the main, yes, I guess you're right." He rose to take his leave. "And still," he said again, "I can't help wishing there was just a little evidence to go to the district attorney's office. If there should be, now--"

"Well, there won't," snapped the examiner, "you needn't worry. I tell you the case ends here."

The reporter raised his eyebrows, at the same time making a deprecating gesture with arms and shoulders. "Oh, all right, all right," he said soothingly. "Just as you say." He held the door fully open now. "Oh, and look," he added, "which c.u.mmings was it that was spending the night out there? The railroad man, or Jim?"

The examiner did not look up from his writing. "Jim," he answered shortly.

The reporter half closed the door again. "Say," he observed engagingly, "now that's another mighty funny thing--"

The medical examiner wheeled suddenly on him. "Oh, come, come," he said, "get out. You make me tired. You know too much altogether. There's one thing you don't know, though. That I'm busy sometimes--even too busy to listen to you and your 'funny things,' as you call them. Now, get out."

The reporter was on the farther side of the threshold now. He paused for one parting shot. "I'll bet you a dollar," he said, "that things don't stop here for good. I'll bet you a dollar--I'll bet you five--that some day we hear of this case again."

There was no response. He waited a moment in silence. And then the door at last closed behind him.

CHAPTER XIII

VAUGHAN DOUBTS

"Truth is the highest thing that man may keep."

_Chaucer._

Once again the household at The Birches had settled down into its wonted routine of daily life. Yet with a difference, too, for over the whole place the shadow of the tragedy still hung. Henry Carleton, deeply affected at the loss of a faithful and valued servant, showed his sorrow by making no attempt to replace him, letting the motor lie idle, and promoting Saunders, the former groom, to the coachman's vacant post.

Mrs. Satterlee herself, very pretty and very sad in deepest black, continued to live alone at the cottage, going out but seldom and seemingly well-nigh inconsolable in her grief. Just once, Rose Carleton, feeling vaguely repulsed in the visit or two she had made to her one time nurse, had gone to her father's study to question him in regard to the widow's position. "Is it quite proper, father," she had asked, "for her to live there now, all alone? Don't you think people may begin to talk ill-naturedly about her?"

Henry Carleton had sat thoughtfully for a time before he had made answer, and then, "Poor woman," he said, with deep feeling, "this has been a heavy blow for her. And but such a short time married, too.

Really, I hardly know what to say, and yet, for the present, at least, I think I should allow her to remain. To me it would seem heartless to do otherwise. Too much as if, just because poor Satterlee were of no further use to me, I was anxious to cast off his widow also. I understand your feeling in the matter, Rose, and I appreciate the kindness you have shown in speaking of it, but in time of sorrow and affliction, the breath of scandal seems but a secondary consideration.

Duty first, my child, come what may," and Rose, ashamed of her prudishness, had risen and kissed him.

"You're right, father," she cried hastily, "as you always are. If there's anything I can do to make things easier for her, you've only to tell me." Henry Carleton, with a little smile, had thanked her, and the incident had been closed.

Across Jack Carleton's path the shadow of Satterlee's tragic death seemed to lie dark and unforgettable. For a day or two, indeed, morose and grave, he continued to make The Birches his home; then, suddenly, he took his departure, going back to his in-town lodgings, and The Birches knew him no more.

But of all the changes caused by the doings of the night, the most marked had taken place in Arthur Vaughan. With him, indeed, all else apart, things had been going badly enough to warrant discouragement.

First of all, after a week or two of indulgence in ever strengthening hope, coming home one hot and breathless evening to his lodging house, he had found an envelope with Small and White's name in the corner awaiting him on the table in the hall. With it there appeared no bulky parcel of type-written sheets, and on the instant his heart beat rapidly at twice its usual speed. Could it be at last the turning point in the long, straight path of disappointments? Somehow he could not bring himself to open the letter there, and in spite of weariness, of the almost overpowering heat of the day, he ran up the three flights of stairs, never stopping until he had reached the shelter of his own bare and simply furnished room.

Even then he still hesitated, scarcely even bringing himself to glance at the missive that burned in his hand. Once more he looked about him, at the familiar, friendly old arm-chair, at the battered desk in the window, with the ma.n.u.script sheets of his new story scattered over its surface, then out at the restful green of the big elm tree whose spreading branches almost touched his window, screening the whole room with their welcome shade. All of these he had come to know and hail as friends, and natural enough it seemed to him that now in the hour of his joy he should wish to take them into his confidence, and to bid them rejoice with him at last. With a final look from the window down into the quiet, deserted street below, he resolutely tore open the letter, and ran his eye over the first line or two of its contents--then, with a sharp intake of breath he raised his eyes, and stood silent and motionless, his face suddenly white, as though he had received some mortal blow. It was over, then. The first three lines were enough.

He knew that stereotyped form so well. "We are returning to you to-day"--that was sufficient--he could have gone on and completed the letter, with scarcely the miscalling of a single word. Yet presently, with a self-contemptuous smile, he took up the letter again, and read it, slowly and deliberately, as a man might run a sword inch by inch into his body, stopping now and again to give it a little extra twist or turn stoically to watch himself twinge and wince with the pain, eyes closing, mouth contorted.

And anguish of soul, indeed, every whit as bitter Arthur Vaughan now knew. Hardly had he realized, after his friendly chat with Henry Carleton, and the words of encouragement he had received from that practised man of affairs, how thoroughly he had discounted the future.

Down in the bottom of his heart he knew now that for a fortnight he had really cherished the belief that all would at last come right, that the book would be taken, that his name would be made, that his marriage with Rose would be but a question of a longer or shorter time; and now, hopes dashed, he was back again where he had started; nay, worse off, indeed, for another possible chance was lost to him, another publisher had set the seal of disapproval on his work--oh, it was all too bitter!

Mechanically he read and re-read the letter. All were there--all the little catch words, the honeyed phrases which said one thing, yet were made to say it so smoothly and courteously that at the end he half doubted that after all, his work had been refused;--all were there. "We are returning"--yes, that seemed enough, almost, but still they had to go on,--"ma.n.u.script you have been so kind as to submit,"--oh, of course, it had been such a kindness on his part,--"reading it has occasioned us much pleasure,"--pleasure! Of what sort, Vaughan wondered; "it has many obvious merits,"--why didn't they take it, then?--"and some equally obvious defects."--Ah, yes, the defects; that was it, of course, the defects; that phrase, he felt, at least was sincere.--"Only after careful deliberation--at last unwillingly compelled to come to the conclusion--present state of the public taste--certain practical considerations inevitably to be considered--on the whole--again thanking you--" More and more hastily, as he neared the end, Vaughan read, almost with a feeling of physical disgust. Then he tossed the letter on his desk, and stood, with folded arms, looking out once more into the silent street, where the shadows were beginning to fall deeper and deeper, merging gradually into the dusk of twilight. At last he spoke. "I wouldn't care," he said, "if it was bad work; if it was work that I'd slighted; if it was work I'd done in a hurry, letting a word and a phrase go when I knew that somewhere, if I hunted long enough, I could find the one that really fitted. But it isn't like that. I can't reproach myself. It's been three years of the best I've got in me.

Everything in the world I know of style, every bit of incident I wanted, every turn and twist of character. It isn't vanity; it isn't conceit; I don't care _who_ wrote the book; it's good, and I know it's good; and yet to have them, one after the other--"

Practical, prosaic, monotonous, boomed the supper gong. With a sorry laugh Vaughan turned from the window, and then paused, irresolute. Must he go down again, as he had done so many times before; to compare himself, as he knew that in his present mood he so inevitably must, to his fellow lodgers around the well-worn board. The clerk in the down-town bank, the dapper young shoe salesman, the would-be humorist who made no secret of the fact that he was "pulling down" fifty a week out of his "knock 'em silly" insect powder, the old graybeard who tottered away each morning to haunt the reading-room of the public library, staying there the livelong day until he tottered home again at night--look at it as he would, one fact remained: these men, all of them, however much he might see in them to criticize, were, each in his way, successful men. Each, in his turn, to do them full justice, had stepped up at the sound of the bell, had wrestled his fall with the practical world, and had come out on top. And he, as the world judges success, had failed and failed, and now had failed once more. A money getter, it seemed, he would never be. Never before had his inability to make and lay away the dollars struck him with such tantalizing force.

What good was he in the world, he asked himself, and with a sudden envy for every plain, practical, plodding man who was doing his daily round in the treadmill for his appointed wage, he felt himself to be an idle dreamer, absolutely unfitted for battle with the sane and commonplace world in which he lived; and with a savage fluency of bitter self disgust of which he was for ever after ashamed, he cursed himself, and his art, tore the letter vengefully into little pieces, slammed the door behind him, and went grimly down to his waiting supper.

It was ten o'clock the next morning, when, no whit less discouraged and sick at heart, he contrived to gain an audience with Henry Carleton.

Even the great man's unfailing affability, this morning, it seemed, even kindlier and more p.r.o.nounced than ever, for once failed to awaken in Vaughan's downcast face any semblance of an answering gleam. "Bad news, Mr. Carleton," he said, briefly, "it's been rejected again."

Carleton's face clouded with ready sympathy.

"Why, my dear boy," he cried, "I am sorry indeed. That is a shame. I had trusted so much that this time you would be successful. Indeed, I had almost in a way begun to feel as if your success were mine. I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am."

Gloomily Vaughan nodded a.s.sent. "It does make things bad," he said. "I hoped so much. And now I'm as far from Rose as ever."

Carleton cleared his throat. "My dear Vaughan," he said, "since you've chanced to mention the subject, I believe I ought to tell you that I've been thinking a great deal of late--as is only natural--about the position you and Rose are in. You know, of course, that I desire only her happiness, and yours, too. You know that. You believe that, I'm confident. Do you not, my boy?"

Vaughan, although not altogether without a vague feeling of uneasiness, hastened to a.s.sent to this self-evident proposition, and Carleton at once went on.

"Now then, my only feeling in the whole matter is this. You're neither of you really happy now; not in the least. Long engagements, as a rule, never are provocative of much happiness. And of course, as we've said before, you wouldn't want to get married, and have me support you. No, no, I'm sure you wouldn't wish that; no, of course you wouldn't--" he spoke a little hastily, himself answering the question he had appeared to ask--"and so," he continued, "I have been wondering, wouldn't it be better--fairer, perhaps, to Rose--not to see her so much for a while.

She's very young, you know. And if it gets to be understood that you two are practically engaged, she's cut off from a great deal of pleasure which a young girl at her age ought rightfully to enjoy. So why won't it be best for you to go back in earnest to your work--try as you've never tried before--and I know that ultimately you'll succeed. I envy you your ability, Arthur; I envy you your choice of a profession; and I know that success is only a matter of time--only a matter of time--" he repeated a little dreamily. "But you can't do it and have all this strain of a long love affair at the same time. I know how that distracts one; it would scarcely be worthy the name of love if it were otherwise.

I remember--"

He sat silent for a moment, as if lost in the contemplation of the past; and then suddenly coming to the present again, continued, in a far brisker and more practical tone, "And so, about Rose--remember, I'm not attempting to dictate, I'm not urging it, even; I'm only suggesting to your own sense of what is fairest and in the end best for both of you, how it would be if perhaps you didn't see her for a time. How does it seem to you, Arthur? I want you to be perfectly frank with me, of course, just as I have been with you."

To some men, possessing the defects of their virtues, any appeal to their spirit of fairness transforms their strongest into their weakest side. Vaughan nodded miserably. "Perhaps," he said, a little faintly, "you're right. I hadn't thought of it in just that way before. But I want to do what's best for Rose, of course. And I'll own up that having the book rejected this last time has taken all the confidence out of me.

Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I'm not being fair to her."