The Carleton Case Part 6

Turner gazed at him, frowning. "Nonsense," he cried, and Carleton could have laughed hysterically to hear his own words of ten minutes before coming back to him: "You've got to get it. You told me you were all right, Jack. You can't do this now. Last night was the time to settle or sell. You can't turn around now. It's too late."

Carleton's face was haggard, his mouth dry. He shook his head stubbornly. "I can't get it," he said again.

The broker's eyes grew suddenly hard. "Of course you can," he cried, "you said you could; you know you can get it, Jack; go ahead!"

But Carleton only shook his head once more. "It's no use," he answered wearily, "I _can't_ get it, I say. I wouldn't lie to you."

It was an unfortunate phrase. The broker sneered. "Oh, no," he cried, "of course not. You wouldn't lie to me. How about this morning?" And then, struck suddenly by the expression on Carleton's face, and perhaps a little ashamed of his own loss of self-control, he hastened to add, in a tone kindlier by far, "Come, come, Jack, this isn't like you. There's something queer here. You told me you had friends who'd see you through.

You told me that not three hours ago. And if you lied to me, it was a dirty thing to do, and a foolish thing, as well. Because now I've got to sell you out; there's no other way; and it leaves you ruined, and costs me money, besides. But I won't preach. Thank G.o.d, that's one thing I've never done yet. You've been a good customer here, and a good friend of mine, too. So give it to me straight, Jack. If you lied to me, tell me so. It's bad enough for you; I won't make it any worse. I'll keep my head shut, and you can pay me back as you're able. But now look here--"

and his tone hardened again--"if it isn't that; if it's somebody else that's lied to _you_, and fooled us both, why that's a different story altogether. There's nothing to stop us then, and by G.o.d, we won't let it stop us, either. We'll tell the story all over this town, till we make somebody good and sorry for what he's done. Give it to me straight, Jack. How did it happen? Is this whole business up to somebody else, or is it up to you? Was it the truth you told me, or was it a lie?"

For a moment Carleton stood silent. Through his tired brain flashed evil thoughts--suspicion--conjecture--the possibility of a just revenge.

And yet--it was all so confused--so uncertain. Blame there was somewhere--but where? What could he really do? And then, curiously enough, once more he seemed to see before his eyes the dark face of Henry Carleton; once again he seemed to hear him say, "The Carletons must stand together, Jack. We mustn't bring dishonor on the name." And in that sudden instant Jack Carleton ceased all at once to be a boy, and became a man. Low and hesitating came the words, the words that in the broker's eyes branded him for ever as a coward, beaten and disgraced, and yet his gaze, fixed on Turner's face, never faltered. "Jim," he said, "I'm sorry. It's up to me. I told you a lie."

CHAPTER VI

DEATH COMES

"Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,--nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so n.o.ble."

_Milton._

Through the gathering darkness of the short, chilly December day the carriage swung up the driveway of The Birches, and in front of the porch came to a sudden halt. Doctor Morrison, hastily alighting, ran quickly up the piazza steps to find Henry Carleton, worried and anxious, already awaiting him at the open door.

"I'm glad you've come, Doctor," he said, his relief plainly enough showing in his tone, "I've been reproaching myself for not letting you know before. Step into the parlor for a moment, though, and warm yourself before you go up. You must be cold."

Pulling off his gloves, and laying aside his overcoat and bag, Doctor Morrison followed Carleton into the room, rubbing his hands and holding them out to the warmth of the open blaze. Then he turned. "And how is he now?" he asked. "Any change for the worse?"

"No, I think not," Carleton answered, "he appears to be comfortable enough, and says he has no pain. Yet there seems something curious about it, too. It was almost a week ago, I suppose, that he first began to complain. There was nothing that you could fix on definitely, though.

Only that he didn't seem to be quite himself--not as bright as usual, or so interested in things--and wanted to sleep a great deal, even in the daytime; something, as you know, most unusual for him. I thought then of sending for you, and then I felt that that might alarm him, and to tell the truth, I expected every day to see him begin to pick up again; he's had times like this before. And so things went along until to-day. But this morning, as I telephoned you, he didn't get up at all--complained of feeling very weak and faint--so of course I rang you up at once. I only hope I've made no mistake in waiting so long."

Doctor Morrison shook his head. "Oh, no, I don't think so for a moment,"

he answered, "I doubt if it's anything serious at all. All men, as they get on in years, are apt to get queer notions at times, especially about their health. I'll go right up and see him now, but I don't antic.i.p.ate that we'll find there's the slightest cause for alarm."

For half an hour Henry Carleton sat alone in the firelight, in spite of all the doctor had said still anxious and disturbed. Then he rose quickly as he heard footsteps descending the stairs, and stood waiting, expectant and apprehensive. As the doctor entered the room, it was easy to see from the expression on his face that his news was certainly none of the best. Abruptly Henry Carleton stepped forward. "Is it serious?"

he asked.

The doctor did not keep him in suspense. He nodded gravely. "Yes," he answered, "I suppose I should tell you so at once. It is," and then, seeing the unspoken question in the other's eyes, he added quickly, "No, I don't mean anything immediate, necessarily; but he's failed terribly since I saw him last. I suppose it's been all of six months now, at least, since I came out before; and probably to you, living with him and seeing him every day, the change has been so gradual that you haven't noticed it, but it's been going on steadily just the same, all the time.

He's certainly failed--alarmingly."

Slowly Henry Carleton nodded. "I see," he said half-mechanically, then added, "Is it anything particular, Doctor, or just a general breaking up?"

"Just that," the doctor answered. "Just old age. It's the same story with all of us, after all. The machine is built to run about so long.

Sometimes it wears out gradually; sometimes, as in Mr. Carleton's case, even at the allotted age, it seems almost as good as new; and those are the cases, where, when anything does go wrong, it's apt to go wrong very suddenly indeed, so that to every one the shock is proportionately greater, and just so much harder to bear."

Again Henry Carleton nodded. "Nothing that one can do, I suppose?" he asked, and the doctor shook his head. "No," he answered, "practically nothing; it's really his own fight. I'll leave some directions about medicine and diet, of course, and I rather think, on the whole, though it's probably a needless precaution, that I'll stay here with you for the night. You might fix me up a sofa in his room, if you don't mind; I think perhaps I should feel better satisfied to stay until morning, anyway. His heart isn't quite what I'd like it to be."

By nine o'clock Edward Carleton seemed to be in better spirits, and to be resting more comfortably, and neither Henry Carleton, nor, for that matter, Doctor Morrison himself, retired with any thought of an immediate turn for the worse. Henry Carleton, indeed, resigned himself to sleep with all the comfort that comes from a conscience serenely at peace with every one, and a knowledge that one's worldly affairs--deprecated but not despised--are going magnificently to one's advantage. Calmly enough he balanced his spiritual accounts with his Creator and his fellow-men, and found that with both his credit was good. Placidly he pa.s.sed in review on matters more material, and there found, if such a thing could be, his credit better still; and then, as a good man should, dropped off to sleep with no disturbing or vexing thoughts to mar his rest.

Yet after all, the night was not destined to be a peaceful one, for somewhere in the long, silent s.p.a.ces that lie between midnight and the dawn, the bell connecting Edward Carleton's room with his rang once, twice, thrice; insistent and shrill, piercing his dreams with a sudden foreboding of evil. In a moment he was up and across the hall, to find, in the dim light, the doctor, half-dressed, supporting the old man's figure, swaying as he strove to prop him against the pillows. Sharply the doctor spoke. "On the mantel," he cried, "my case. Quick, please.

No, come here. I'll get it myself. Keep his head up--there--that way--so. Just a minute, now; just a minute--"

It was but the fraction of a minute, at the most, until he returned, but in the interval the old man's eyes had opened and had gazed at Henry Carleton with an expression of recognition. Instantly, too, he strove to speak, but in vain, and then, just as the doctor reached his side, his eyes closed, and his head dropped back among the pillows. Edward Carleton was dead.

It was seven o'clock the next morning when Doctor Morrison, tired and pale with the strain of his long, sleepless night, entered his office, to meet Helmar just coming down the stairs. "Old Mr. Carleton's gone, Franz," he said abruptly, "heart failure. He died early this morning."

Helmar glanced up quickly. "I'm very sorry indeed," he said, "but it's not a surprise. I remember when I saw him I didn't give him over six months, or a year, at the most. His heart action was none too good even then, and there were other things."

Doctor Morrison nodded, then looked at him with a rather curious expression. "Franz," he said, "you know your friend Jack Carleton?"

Helmar's eyes met his frankly. "I was just thinking of him," he said, "I'm afraid it will be a terrible shock. I think he scarcely realized that his father was failing at all. Poor old Mr. Carleton! And what a difference it all makes. To think that Jack will come into his fortune now."

Again Doctor Morrison eyed him curiously. "Come into his fortune," he repeated, and again Helmar looked up quickly, struck by his tone.

"Why, yes," he answered, "why not? I always understood that Jack would have the estate on his father's death. There's been no change, has there? Jack hasn't been cut off in any way?"

Doctor Morrison shook his head. "No," he answered, "nothing like that, exactly; but suppose I have nothing, and give you all I have; that doesn't do you such a tremendous lot of good."

Helmar's expression sufficiently showed his astonishment. "You don't mean it!" he cried. "Why, that can't be so! I always understood from every one that Edward Carleton was a very rich man. Why, just look at his place, for one thing; it can't be so."

Doctor Morrison shrugged his shoulders. "It's the same old story," he said, "you know yourself how often it happens, and how surprised people are on a man's death to find how comparatively little he has.

Sometimes, of course, you'll find it just reversed, and the man that's rated at fifty thousand dies worth half a million. But that's the exception, these days, and the other's the rule. For one man that sc.r.a.pes and saves, there are a dozen who live on a big scale, spend their income to the last cent, and maybe draw on the princ.i.p.al, too. And Edward Carleton spent money very freely, I suppose."

Helmar looked entirely unconvinced. "Well, suppose he did," he answered, "admit that he did, even; for he did give a lot to charity and things like that; I know that for a fact. But even then--think of the different enterprises he was in in his day, and practically all big, successful ones. Oh, it can't be that he left nothing; it's an impossibility."

Doctor Morrison shook his head. "No, sir, it's true," he replied, "I'm not speculating about it; I know it positively, because I got it from Henry Carleton's own lips. He surely ought to know, if any one does, and he'd hardly care to publish the fact if it wasn't really so. He's a most remarkable man, Helmar. I've always admired him, but I don't think I ever really quite appreciated him before. Sometimes I seemed to find him a little self-centered, a little too sure of himself, if you know what I mean. But I know better now, for what he's done in his brother's case is really as fine a thing as you ever heard. It seems that the old gentleman had always managed his own affairs, but about a year ago he came to Henry and asked him to take charge of everything for him. I suppose he felt that he was getting a little out of touch with things, perhaps; anyway, whether he suspected it or not, the sequel proved that he'd managed to put matters off a little too long. He had some very unfortunate investments, and he'd looked out for lots of other people ahead of himself, and the long and short of it was that when the panic blew along, it simply wiped Edward Carleton off the map."

Helmar nodded grudgingly. "Well, on those facts, I can understand it, then," he replied. "But I always thought he was too conservative a man to get caught in anything like that. He had plenty of company, though."

"No doubt of that," Doctor Morrison a.s.sented, "and then what do you suppose Henry Carleton did? Straightened out what was left of the wreck as well as he could, told the old gentleman that everything was all right, and has kept the estate going ever since, letting him have whatever he wanted, right out of his own pocket, and without a word to any one that things were any different from what they always had been.

He's even kept on paying Jack the allowance his father gave him, and that, too, after he and Jack had had another row, more serious than any that had gone before. And he'd have kept on like that, he told me, if the old gentleman had lived ten years instead of one. If that isn't doing one's duty, in the best sense of the word, I'd like to have you tell me what is."

For a moment, Helmar did not reply. To all that Doctor Morrison had said he had listened with the closest attention. "He told you all this himself, you say?" he queried at length.

At once the doctor felt the unspoken criticism in his tone. "And why not?" he retorted. "This has been a time of great strain for him, and we were together there for the rest of the night. At a time like that a man's tongue is loosened perhaps a little more than usual."

Helmar made no answer, either of denial or a.s.sent. Then, after a little while, "Does Jack know?" he asked.

"Not yet," the doctor answered. "There seemed nothing to be gained by telephoning. I told Henry Carleton I'd go up at once myself."

Helmar reached for his hat. "If you don't mind," he said, "let me go instead," and Doctor Morrison, spent and weary, readily enough nodded a.s.sent.

Carleton, as Helmar entered the door of his room at the Mayflower, turned with some surprise to greet his friend. "Why, h.e.l.lo, Franz," he cried. "What the devil brings you here?" Then noticing the look on Helmar's face, he added quickly, and in a very different tone, "What is it? Anything wrong?"