Helmar nodded. Between man and man, he was no believer in striving to break bad news gently. "It's your father, Jack," he said. "He died this morning. It was very sudden. Doctor Morrison was there. It was his heart. There was nothing that could be done. And he didn't suffer, Jack; and that means a great deal."

He stopped, making no empty protestations of sympathy. Carleton, turning on his heel, stepped quickly to the window, and stood, with his back to Helmar, gazing blankly out into the street. Presently he turned again; his eyes were moist; and his voice, when he spoke, was pitched low. "The poor old Governor," he said. "He was awfully good to me. I never thought--I wish now--I wish somehow I'd been different with him."

With the vast freemasonry of experience Helmar divined his thoughts. "I know, Jack," he said, "I know how I felt when my father died. I've known since, a hundred times, what sons and daughters might be to their parents, but somehow we're not. It's just the fact of being young, I suppose. We don't understand; we don't appreciate--until it's too late; and then we never can repay; only remember, I suppose, when we have children of our own, that we've got to make allowances, too--"

He broke off abruptly, and for a moment there was silence. Then, with evident constraint, he spoke again. "Doctor Morrison was coming up here himself, Jack," he said, "but I asked him to let me come instead. There was something I wanted to tell you especially--about the estate. Henry has told Doctor Morrison that in the panic your father lost about everything he had, so that practically there's nothing left. I wanted to tell you first--"

Carleton nodded, but the expression on his face showed no new emotion.

"Thank you, Franz," he said, "I understand, and I appreciate; you've always been a good friend to me. But I don't care about the money; it isn't that; I only wish--"

In spite of himself his voice faltered and broke, and he again turned hastily away, while Helmar waited in silence, scarce knowing what to do or say. At length Carleton turned to him once more, speaking as one speaks only to a tried friend, his voice steady enough now, yet hardly sounding like his own. "Memory's a queer thing, Franz," he said. "Of all that I remember about my father, what do you suppose comes back to me now? Something that happened almost twenty years ago, when we used to spend our summers down at the sh.o.r.e. A little trivial thing, too, I suppose any one would say. I was just a youngster then--nine or ten, maybe--and we had two little sail-boats that were the apple of my eye.

Poor enough craft I guess they were, looking back at them now, but no two cup defenders to-day could look to me as those two boats did then.

"I wasn't considered big enough to go out in them alone, but one Sat.u.r.day afternoon my father promised me that if Henry, when he came down from town, would take one boat, I could take the other, and we could have a race. As long as I live, I'll never forget that morning. A thousand times I looked out to where the two boats lay moored; crazy with excitement; planning everything; the start, the course; looking at the wind; right on edge--and somehow it never even occurred to me that Henry wouldn't want to go. I suppose I honestly couldn't imagine that any man, woman or child could possibly refuse a chance to sail a boat race.

"Well, Henry arrived, and you can imagine what Henry did. He hated me even then; I believe he'd always hated me, though of course I didn't realize it. Poor little rascal that I was, I'd never learned to think about hating any one. He heard me out--I can even remember how I grabbed hold of him as he was getting out of the station wagon, and how he shook me off, too--and then he looked at me with a queer kind of a smile that wasn't really a smile--I can imagine now just what fun it must have been for him--and said he was afraid there wasn't wind enough to go sailing.

That was just to tantalize me--to see me argue and run out on the piazza and point to the ripples and the big American flag on the Island waving in the breeze--and then he had to turn away, and pretend to yawn, and say he didn't believe he cared to go, that anyway he was going over to the Country Club to play tennis. And then he went into the house to get ready, and left me out there on the piazza alone.

"I can laugh now, and shrug my shoulders at the whole thing, but then--why, it was black tragedy for me. I guess I was a pretty solemn-looking little chap, swallowing hard and trying not to cry, when my father found me there half an hour later. He'd been fishing all the morning, I remember, and I guess he was good and tired--he hadn't been well that summer, anyway--and he had a cigar in his mouth, and had his hand on the long piazza chair, just going to pull it into the shade, and settle down with a book and a paper for a nice, quiet afternoon. I told him, I remember, and he looked at his chair, and looked out on the water--the sun was strong, and pretty hot, and to tell the truth, though there was a little light air close to sh.o.r.e, about a quarter of a mile out to sea it was getting rather flat--and then he looked again at his chair, and then at me, and then he put down his book and his paper, and drew me up to him with one hand, and gave a smile--that was a smile.

"'Come on, my old sailor,' he said 'and we'll see if we can't have a little boat race of our own.' Oh, how my heart jumped--the poor old Governor, I think my expression must pretty nearly have paid him--and then we toiled down over the rocks, with me hanging to his hand, the way a kid that really likes his father will; and out we went in the skiff, with me doing the rowing, splashing and jerking, and very proud, and then we got up sail, and drifted around the little course for a couple of hours--I can remember how hot it was--and of course I won. I didn't dream then that he let me, and perhaps, for him to hear me telling my mother about it over and over again at the supper table--perhaps--"

He stopped, unable to go on, and then, after a little pause, he added half-wistfully, in a voice that shook in spite of him, "It's queer, Helmar--isn't it?--how a little thing like that can stand out in your memory, and so many other things you utterly forget. It's just the--what is the word--just the _kindness_ of it--d.a.m.n it all--" and self-restraint at last giving way, he buried his face in his hands, and for the first time in many a long year, cried like a child.

Helmar for a moment stood still in troubled silence; then turned upon his heel, and softly left the room.

CHAPTER VII

A PARTING

"For of fortunes sharpe adversite, The worst kind of infortune is this,-- A man that hath been in prosperite, And it remember when it pa.s.sed is."

_Chaucer._

Marjory Graham rose from her seat as Carleton entered the room, her hand outstretched in friendly greeting. "I'm glad you came out, Jack," she said, "it's seemed like a long time."

Carleton, as he seated himself, unconsciously kept his eyes fixed on the girl's face, thinking to himself that he had never seen her looking prettier, or more charming. He gave a nod of a.s.sent. "It _has_ been a long time," he answered, "but you know how much has happened. I should have come before, but I thought I'd wait until things were settled first."

The girl looked at him, with sympathy in her glance. "I was so sorry, Jack," she said, "about your father."

He nodded again. "I know you were, Marjory," he answered, "you were always kind to him, and he valued your friendship, I know. He used to speak to me about you, many a time. And I never dreamed--he seemed so well--it's so hard for me to realize, even now, that we'll never see him again."

There followed a moment's silence. And then the girl spoke once more.

"And I'm sorry, Jack, about all the rest, too."

His answering glance was grateful enough, yet somehow he appeared to wince a little at her words. "You needn't be, Marjory," he said, "because I don't deserve it. I've made a fool of myself. Your father told you everything, I suppose."

"Yes, Jack, he told me," she answered, "I don't think he liked doing it--he hates talking about other people's business--but he said you asked him to."

"Yes, I wanted him to," Carleton a.s.sented. "I wanted you to know all about it, before I came out. I thought I'd make a clean breast of things. I've paid my debts, thank Heaven, but I'm left practically without a cent; I'm no better than a beggar. And I'm living in a lodging-house, down-town. Quite a change, all right, from the Mayflower."

Her face clouded. "I won't bother you with sympathy, Jack," she said, "if you don't want me to; but I am awfully sorry, just the same; I've thought of you so many times. And Jack," she added, "I wish you'd promise me to think more about yourself now. You've been through such a lot, and really you don't look well at all. You're thin, and tired-looking, and different--somehow--every way."

Carleton nodded. What the inward change had been, he knew better than any one else. And outwardly, indeed, he did appear more careworn, more thoughtful, than he had ever done before. In his whole manner there was a new poise, and a new gravity as well. "Oh, I'm all right, thanks," he answered, "only when you get worried, and begin not to sleep, it makes a difference, you know. Thank you, though, Marjory, for being sorry. I appreciate it more than I can say. But I didn't mean to bother you with all my troubles like this. I came out to tell you something different altogether, and I find it's awfully hard to begin."

Momentarily he paused. Intent on what he was saying, he had sat looking straight before him, never lifting his eyes to the girl's face. Had he done so, he could scarcely have failed to note the expression there, a look as if already she both knew and dreaded what it was that he wished to say, and had it been possible, would gladly have checked the words before he could give them utterance. But all absorbed in his desire to express himself as he wished, Carleton still sat gazing fixedly into the firelight, and after a pause, went on.

"I wonder how I can make you understand. Did you ever have something, Marjory, that you wanted to do very much; something that you were always on the point of doing, and yet somehow kept putting off from day to day, until at last something else happened that made it impossible ever to do it at all, and left you just saying over and over to yourself, 'Why didn't I? Why didn't I when I could?'"

The girl gave a nod of a.s.sent. "Yes, Jack," she answered, "I understand."

"Then you'll know what I mean," he continued, "by what I'm going to tell you now. It's only this, and I think you know what it is before I say it, even. I love you, Marjory; I always have loved you, even when you were only a little girl. That was the trouble all along, I suppose. I always thought of you as so young that I kept saying to myself that I oughtn't to bother you, that there would be plenty of time when you were older. And then--when you _were_ older--I'd got started on a foolish way of living. I don't really know how I began--just seemed to drift into it somehow. And I didn't keep on because I enjoyed it--for I didn't--it was just the habit of it that gripped me so I couldn't seem to break away.

And now that I've come to my senses again, Marjory--now that I can come to you, feeling that I've a right to tell you that I love you--why now it's too late. I've got to begin at the foot of the ladder; I can't ask you to marry me; but I want to know if you'll wait--let me show that I'm able to make good--give me another chance. That's all I ask, Marjory; all that I've a right to ask."

Slowly and unwillingly, her gaze met his, "Jack," she began, "you know the money would make no difference; I'd never think of that, of course.

It isn't that--"

She hesitated, and stopped. Carleton's eyes sought hers with the look of a man who feels the whole world reel beneath him.

"Marjory," he cried, "do you mean you don't care--you don't love me?"

There was a moment's silence. And then the girl slowly shook her head.

"No, Jack, I don't mean that. Of course I care. I've always cared. You must have known. Any time, from the day you graduated from college, up to a year ago, if you'd come to me and asked me to marry you, I'd have been the happiest girl you could find anywhere--"

For an instant she paused, and Carleton raised his eyes to hers, as if both knowing and dreading what her next words would be. "Well?" he asked.

"And then, Jack," she went on, even more slowly, as if the words cost her greater and greater effort, "you began to change. And caring isn't enough, Jack. For a girl really to love a man, she's got to respect him--and trust him. And you know how you've lived, Jack, for this last year. First I only heard things--you know how girls gossip among themselves--and each one has a brother, or a cousin or a sweetheart, who tells her things; so first I heard, and then, little by little, I could see for myself. I tried to think just as much of you as ever, Jack. I pretended to laugh at the stories they told. And then there came one night at a dance, when you weren't yourself at all--I hate to remember it even--and I knew then that things couldn't go on like that; that we'd have to come to some kind of an understanding. So I sent word by Franz Helmar, to ask you to come out to see me that Friday night. I'd made up my mind that we'd talk everything all over, between ourselves--about your drinking, and about that girl--I'd heard all people were saying; you can't keep those things from being known. And then, after I'd waited and waited for you all that evening, and finally given you up--then to come across you, the way we did, by accident, out motoring with her--with that common girl--I don't see how you could do it, Jack! I don't see how men can do things like that, and respect themselves; much less expect other people to respect them. And you, Jack, of all people--that was a terrible night for me. If I hadn't cared for you--if I didn't care for you, Jack--I wouldn't have minded; I wouldn't mind now. But for me to know that you'd been as devoted to me as you had--that every one talked about us as if we were really engaged--and then to know that all the time you'd been--oh, Jack, I had such faith in you! I thought you were different from other men. I don't see how you could."

Carleton had sat listening, his eyes fixed on the ground, wincing under her words. Gradually, as she spoke, a dull red flush had mounted to his very temples, and when she ended he at once made answer, speaking rapidly, as if the words were fairly wrung, by force, from his lips.

"Don't, Marjory!" he cried. "For G.o.d's sake, don't! It's all true enough. I've been selfish, thoughtless, brutal; anything you please.

I don't know why I did it. Men are queer things, that way, I guess.

Because I loved you just as much, Marjory, all the time. I didn't know it then, but I do now. And it wasn't so bad, Marjory. It was foolishness, but that was all. The girl's none the worse for me. Don't condemn me for all our lives, because I've failed once. Let me make my fight. Let me show that I can be the kind of a man a girl can respect.

And then it will be all right again. You'll marry me then, Marjory; say that you will."

Perhaps the straightforward vehemence of his speech helped him as nothing else could have done. The girl hesitated a moment before she answered; and finally, half-doubtfully, shook her head. "Ah, Jack," she said, "_if_ you would. Then things would be all right again. But would you, Jack? _Can_ you change your way of living, as you think you can?

Suppose you did, for a time. Suppose we should marry, even. And then--if anything should happen. I'm different from most women, perhaps.

But my husband has to be _mine_, the whole of him. And if you did--things like this--again, it would kill me, Jack. I couldn't bear the misery, and the shame. I want to trust you, Jack; I want to, more than anything in the world. But can I? Would you do as you say?"

Impulsively he rose, and walked over to the fireplace, leaning a hand on the mantel, and looking down into her face. "I can't blame you, Marjory," he cried, "if I would. And I won't waste time in words. But let me tell you what I'll do. I've two chances now. One here in town--that Henry's got for me--it's steady and sure, and pays fifteen hundred a year. And the other's to go ranching it out West, with a fellow I used to know in college. He always wanted me, and he'll take me now. There's a chance there, too; a chance to make money; a chance to get rich, even. I've been hesitating--I wanted to stay, to be near you--but I won't delay any longer. I'll go out there and take my chance.

It means three years, anyway; maybe more. If I can come back then, with some prospect ahead of me--if I can come back then, and tell you, on my word of honor, that I've done nothing in all that time for which you need to feel ashamed--then things would be right again, wouldn't they?

You'd marry me, Marjory, then."

Her face had clouded as he spoke. "Ah, Jack," she said, "it seems so hard to have you go away like that. I don't want you to; I'd rather have you here. And yet--I suppose it's best for both of us. I know you're right, Jack; that you ought to go, and make your fight. And I'll trust to what you tell me; and I'll wait--I'll wait three years, or twice three years."

His face had brightened with her words. He bent over her, and took her hand in his. "G.o.d bless you, Marjory," he said. "I'll go, and I'll fight as no man ever fought before."