THE PRODIGAL SON
"The pains and penalties of idleness."
_Pope._
It was after eight o'clock, yet still faintly light out-of-doors, as
Jack Carleton left his rooms at the Mayflower Club, and came slowly down
the winding staircase, with one hand groping for the railing, as if
uncertain of his way.
At first sight he looked extremely well, and in his fashionably-cut
street suit of light gray, his tall and well-built figure showed to
excellent advantage, though in the five years which had passed since his
graduation he had seemingly grown heavier and stouter, and somehow
distinctly softer looking, as if the active exercise of former days had
come now to be the exception, and not the rule. And this impression, as
he paused midway on the stairs to light a cigarette, was still further
borne out by the appearance of his face. He was handsome enough still,
and his complexion, indeed, from a distance, in contrast with his fair
hair and closely-clipped mustache, seemed the perfection of ruddy
health; yet the tell-tale spurt of the match, as he held it to his lips,
told a far different story. His color, naturally high, was beginning now
to be patched with red and white, giving his face a significantly
mottled look, and if any further hint had been needed, it was furnished
by his eyes, which stared straight ahead of him with a curiously glassy
expression. Plainly enough, Jack Carleton was drunk.
Still holding fast to the rail, he accomplished the remainder of his
journey in safety; then started a little unsteadily toward the door of
the lounging room, stopping short at the entrance, and staring vacantly
in at the half dozen figures looming mistily through the haze of smoke.
Instantly he was hailed by two or three at once. "Hullo, Jack, what'll
you have?" "Come on in, Jack." "Make a fourth at bridge, Jack?"
Carleton, standing motionless, with one hand fumbling in his pocket for
a match with which to relight his cigarette, still gazed aimlessly and
apparently without recognition into the room. "Make a fourth at bridge,
Jack?" some one called again sharply, and Carleton, starting, jerkily,
but with intense gravity, shook his head. "No, not t'night," he said
slowly, as if settling some matter of immense moment to all concerned,
"can't play t'night; very shorry; got date." He stood a moment longer;
then, half mechanically, as it seemed, turned and slowly walked toward
the outer door that led into the street.
With a little exclamation, one of the loungers hastily rose, and
followed him out into the hall. Jim Turner was a stock broker, and a
most successful one. He was a man of middle age, short, stout, and
unattractive looking. He had a round, fat face, pale reddish hair and
mustache, small, nondescript, expressionless eyes, a pasty complexion,
and white, pudgy hands, which he took pains to have manicured
regularly three times a week. He was entirely unimaginative, practical,
commonplace--and very successful. He had one favorite motto; "Look at
things as they are, and not as you'd like 'em to be."
He quickly overtook Carleton--a feat, indeed, not difficult of
accomplishment--and laid a detaining hand on his shoulder. "See here,
Jack," he said in a low tone, "I want you to let me sell out some of
your things. We get advices that there's trouble coming--and pretty
quickly, too. And by this time you're really carrying quite a big line.
So I guess it wouldn't do any harm if you began gradually to unload a
little. Don't you think so yourself, Jack?"
Carleton gazed at him from eyes in which there was no understanding. He
shook his head slightly. "Don' want t'sell," he said at last, "ain't I
'way 'head th' game?"
"Oh, sure," Turner assented. "You're ahead of the game, all right, but I
want to have you stay there. And when things start to go in a top-heavy
market, why--they go almighty quick. That's all. There's your Suburban
Electric, now. That's had a big rise. Let me sell five hundred of that,
anyway. You've got a good profit. And you'll find you can get out and
in again, too. You won't have any trouble doing that."
Again Carleton obstinately shook his head. "No," he said, with an almost
childish delight in contradiction, "I don' get 'ny 'dvices like that. I
get 'dvices S'burban 'Lectric's going to hundred'n fifty. I don' want
t'sell now. Not such fool."
Turner, seeing the futility of further argument, shrugged his shoulders
impassively. "Well, drop in at the office and see me to-morrow, anyway,
Jack," he said.
Carleton nodded. "Sure," he answered cheerfully, "I'll be in. Got t'get
'long now," and he made again for the door.
Turner slowly made his way back into the lounging room. One of the
smokers looked up at him with a laugh. "Old Jack's pretty full, isn't
he?" he said, "growing on him, I should say."
A second lounger caught up the remark. "Full," he echoed, "oh, no, not
for him. He's sober as a church now. When he can walk, and see where
he's going, he's all right. You ought to see him around the Club here
some nights. Talk about raising hell!"
The first man yawned. "Well," he said slowly, "it's like lots of other
things. It's all right and good fun for once in a way, but for a steady
thing--why, Heaven help the poor devil that gets going it and can't
stop. There isn't any humor in it then. Nothing jovial, or convivial, or
anything else. It's just simply damnable; that's what it is. And Jack
Carleton's too good a fellow to go that way. It's a shame."
The second man nodded in answer. "That's right enough," he assented,
"and it's rough on his old man, too. He's an awfully good sort, the old
chap. And Jack could amount to something, if he wanted to. That's the
bad part. He was never cut out for a soak."
"Doesn't he do anything at all?" some one asked.
The first man shook his head. "Not a thing," he answered. "The old man
gives him an allowance, I understand, or else he inherited something
from his mother; I don't really know which. And Jack's playing Alcohol
to win, I guess, and Suburban Electric for place." He grinned at his own
joke.
The second man turned suddenly to Turner. "Say, Jim, you know
everything," he said; "what about this uncle of Jack's--this Henry
Carleton? I seem to hear a lot about him lately. He's the whole
shooting-match down-town. What sort of man is he, anyway?"
Turner launched a little family of smoke rings into the air, and watched
them float upward before he replied. "Oh, I don't know," he answered
indifferently, "he's smart as the devil, for one thing. I know that for
a fact."
"Yes, that's right," the first man chimed in, "everybody says that. And
yet, you know, it's funny, but there's always something that strikes me
as disagreeable about that man's looks. He seems so confoundedly
self-assertive, and sure of himself, somehow."
Turner rose to take his departure. "Oh, I don't know," he said again.
"First we sit here and damn a man for being a sport, and then we turn
around and damn another man because he's smart, and we don't like his
face. It's mighty easy to criticize." He paused a moment, then added,
with what for him was almost an excess of feeling, "I'm really sorry
about Jack, though. It's too bad."
Meantime, once out in the street, the air seemed for the moment to
steady Carleton, and he started off briskly enough for the South
Station. As he walked along, he pulled a letter from his pocket, read it
through carefully, and then, as though striving to recall something that
had escaped him, proceeded on his way with a puzzled and dissatisfied
expression on his face. "Friday, Friday," he muttered to himself,
"something else, but can't seem to think what. Guess nothing important.
Anyway, can't think."
In due time he reached the station, and took his stand opposite the
gateway through which the passengers from the incoming Eversley train
would pass. There he stood, from time to time absent-mindedly consulting
his watch, until at length from a distant rumble and cloud of smoke
emerged the big engine, with flashing headlight and clanging bell, and
huge wheels revolving more and more slowly until at length, with one
last jerk, the whole train came suddenly to a stand. Then under the
arc-light bustled forth the figures of the incoming passengers--first
one, then another, then twos and threes, lines, groups--all hurrying,
intent and eager, bound for their destination, and restlessly anxious to
get there at once, wasting as little time as possible in transit.
Scrutinizing them with care, it was not until the very end of the
procession was reached that Carleton started suddenly forward. At the
same instant the girl discovered him, and came quickly toward him.
Carleton's masculine eye could hardly have appreciated all the details
of her dress, yet the general effect was certainly not lost on him.
Knowledge of the name of the dainty gown of blue and white would
probably have conveyed no impression to his mind, but the way in which
it fitted and the significant emphasis it lent to the graceful lines of
the girl's figure were matters which he viewed with no unappreciative
eye. Surveying her critically as she advanced, from head to foot, from
the hat of simple straw, with its clusters of blue flowers, to the tip
of the dainty slipper, with just a glimpse of silken stocking above, he
nodded in gracious approval. The girl was certainly looking her best,
her pretty hair curling about her forehead in little clustering rings,
her face just delicately flushed with color, her blue eyes very
coquettish and very sparkling. Doubtless, too, these same practised eyes
lost nothing of Carleton's condition, for it was with a certain easy
assurance that she came up to him and slipped her arm familiarly through
his with a gentle welcoming pressure, glancing up almost impudently into
his face. "Hullo, dear," she said, "and how's Jack?"
Carleton looked down at her, an odd mixture of emotions showing in his
face; a certain satisfaction, a certain shame, above all, a certain
recklessness--the recklessness of the aristocrat who, with a shrug of
his shoulders, goes voluntarily out of his class, fascinated beyond his
strength, half scornful of himself, and wholly regardless of what the
consequences may be.
"Oh, fine, thanks," he answered absently, and then, as they emerged from
the station into the street, he returned the pressure of her arm.
"You're looking very pretty, Jeanne," he said, "I'm glad I got your
note."
They sauntered slowly up Union Street, the girl chattering vivaciously,
and glancing up at Carleton as she talked, with a subtle and flattering
attention; Carleton for the most part listening, from time to time
nodding or answering in monosyllables. At the up-town crossing they came
to a brief irresolute halt. "Well," said Carleton, "and whash going to
be to-night? The river?"
The girl, with a little smile, shook her head. "No," she answered
capriciously, "I'm tired of the river. We've done that so often. I want
a motor to-night. A nice long ride. We'll have a beautiful time."
Carleton doubtfully shook his head. He was in a distinctly contradictory
mood. "Nice long ridsh," he observed, "in nice big motors, damn
'xpensive things for man that's short money. Motors 'xpensive things;
so's girls."
The girl laughed, but did not lack the cleverness to see how her point
might best be gained. "Are you short of money, really?" she said, with
quick sympathy. "Why, you poor old Jack, it's a shame. We'll go on the
river, then, in a little boat, all snug and nice. You dear boy; you need
some one to comfort you," and the big blue eyes gazed up into his, bold
and unashamed.
She had comprehended his mood perfectly. Instantly his tone changed.
"No, no," he answered quickly, "won't do an'thing of the kind. Got
little money left for frens." He laughed uncertainly. "'F you want
motor, you're going t' have motor. That's all there'sh to it. Do
an'thing for you, Jeanne."
She smiled up at him with dangerous sweetness. "You're so good to me,
Jack," she murmured, and the gentle pressure on his arm was in nowise
diminished. "You do everything for me. I only wish sometimes I could do
something for you."
He gazed down at her, all that was weakest and worst in his nature
uppermost in his face. "Maybe can," he said thickly, "maybe can; come
on; we're goin' get motor now."
* * * * *
At about the same hour that Carleton had left the Mayflower, farther
up-town, in the reception-room at the Press Club, Arthur Vaughan sat
waiting for his friend Helmar to return. He was a young man of medium
height and build, inclined to be a trifle careless about his dress; his
clothes a little threadbare; his brown hair and mustache allowed to grow
a little too long; his carelessly knotted tie a good year out of style.
Yet his face, looked at more closely, was distinctly good; a face
somewhat thin and worn; the mouth and chin nervous, sensitive; the
forehead high; the brown eyes straightforward and kindly,--the eyes of
a man a little detached from the world about him, a little inclined, on
his way through life, unconsciously to pause and dream.
Presently the door opened, and Helmar entered, the expression on his
face one of half-humorous disgust. "Same old Jack Carleton," he said.
"He's not down-stairs, and it's five minutes of eight. You're sure he
understood?"
Vaughan nodded. "Oh, perfectly," he answered, "I saw him Wednesday
night, and told him that your meeting had been changed to Thursday, so
that we'd have to put this thing over until to-night; and then I gave
him Miss Graham's message, and told him he'd have to square himself with
her, because we couldn't put things off again. And I remember his saying
that it was all right for him; I even recall his repeating it after me,
as if he wanted to make sure of it, 'seven-thirty, Press Club; eight
o'clock, theater; eleven o'clock, Press Club, supper and talk'; oh, no,
he understood all right. I'm sure of it."
Helmar considered. "Well," he said at length, "just because Jack's got a
poor memory, I can't see why we should miss a good show. Let's leave his
ticket at the desk, and if he happens to drift in, all right. Then he
can come on after us. Isn't that O. K.?" and on Vaughan's assent, they
left the club for the theater, where in due course the curtain rose, and
later fell again upon an excellent performance, indeed, but without
revealing any sign of the absent Carleton. Once outside in the street,
Helmar turned to Vaughan. "Well, what next?" he queried.
Vaughan shrugged his shoulders. "Why, the supper's ordered," he
answered, "so I suppose we might as well go ahead in solitary state. But
it rather takes the edge off the thing. It's too bad," and a moment or
two later he added, half to himself, and half to his companion, "I don't
know what to think of Jack, really."
Helmar made no answer, and it was not until the supper was served in the
little private room, and the waiter had withdrawn, that they again
returned to the subject. "What is it about Jack, anyway?" Helmar asked.
"I was out at his place the other day, and he seemed to be making no end
of trouble; everybody stirred up about him. What's he been doing?"
Vaughan helplessly shook his head. "Search me," he answered, "you know I
scarcely see him now. He travels with a different crowd these days. But
I guess since he joined the Mayflower he's changed quite a lot; playing
the market, I hear, and drinking pretty hard, and sort of gone to
pieces generally."
Helmar looked thoughtful. "That's bad," he said shortly, and after a
pause, "Never happen to hear any gossip about him and a girl, do you?"
Again Vaughan shook his head. "No, I don't," he answered, "if he's doing
anything of that sort, it's news to me. That is, I mean, anything really
out of the way. Jack likes a good time, of course; we've always known
that; but I don't believe he's that kind. I guess he's all right enough
that way. At any rate, I've always understood that he was about as good
as engaged to Marjory Graham, and that ought to keep a fellow straight,
if anything could."
Helmar nodded. "Yes," he answered abruptly, "I should say it ought.
Well, never mind. Now I want to hear how things are going with you,
Arthur. We'll talk about Jack later on."
And then, with the progress of the supper, the talk ran along as such
talks will; each telling of past experiences, losses, gains; of future
plans, hopes, fears; speaking of classmates and friends; skimming the
passing events of the day; comparing notes on the thousand and one
subjects that crowd the lips so readily when friends of long standing,
who meet but seldom, settle down to the luxury of a leisurely,
comfortable talk.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, far out on the Escomb Road, the big motor bowled swiftly
along. Carleton's arm was around the girl's waist, her head was on his
shoulder, and she was smiling up into his face. Very charming, very
young and innocent she looked, unless, in some occasional passing flash
of light, one could have seen the look in her eyes which lay behind the
smile. "Oh, this is so nice, Jack," she murmured; even the tone of her
voice was a subtle caress, and she nestled a little closer to his side;
"I could keep on like this for ever; you were so good to take me, dear."
Carleton did not at once answer, and when he did, his tone seemed
scarcely sentimental. Drowsiness, indeed, brought on by his many
potations, rather than sentiment, appeared to be the spell which bound
him, and his mind wandered irresponsibly in a dozen different directions
at one and the same time. "Say," he asked suddenly, "how'd you know
where a letter'd get me, anyway?"
Had the girl's mood been real, the matter-of-fact, commonplace tone must
have driven her to sudden anger; as it was, her sense of humor saved
her, and after a moment or two, half in spite of herself, she gave a
little laugh. "Why," she answered lightly, "from your good-looking
friend, Doctor Helmar, of course," and the next instant she could have
bitten her tongue out for the chance words, as Carleton, for the moment
startled into his senses, with a sudden exclamation sat bolt upright in
his seat. "Helmar," he cried, as everything in one instant's flash came
back to him, "to-night was the night. Oh, Lord, I wouldn't have done
this for a thousand dollars." Then leaning forward, to the chauffeur,
"Here there, you, stop a minute!" he cried; and fumbling in his pocket
for his watch, he glanced at it, and then looked quickly around him.
"Ten o'clock," he muttered, "we can make it;" then, aloud, "Put her
round now, driver, and head her straight for town; let her out, and let
her go!"
With a surprised grin, the chauffeur slowly slackened speed, reversed
his power, and ponderously turned the big car about. The girl meantime
protested vigorously. "No, no," she cried, "why, Jack, we're almost out
there now; what do you care for him, anyway? You wouldn't do a thing
like that, Jack. You've got better manners than to leave me now. How
shall I get home? Now, Jack--"
Carleton, with a most disconcerting lack of gallantry, obstinately shook
his head. "This very important," he said, "we'll go back way of Birches;
leave you there; this 'xceedingly important. You don't understand. You
never went college. Quincentennial--no, quinquecentennial, no,
quinquen--oh, damn, five years out of college, that's what it is.
Special dinner. Oh, what a fool I was to forget. How could I?"
The girl sat with frowning brows. "Oh, very well," she said, offended,
"you needn't ask _me_ to go anywhere with you again; that's all;" and
then, this remark having no noticeable effect, she began softly to cry.
Instantly Carleton's shifting mood had veered again, and in a moment his
arm was once more around her waist, and he leaned protectingly over her.
"Come, come," he cried, "don' do that. Can't stan' that. We'll go out
there s'mother time, my dear. But not t'night, not t'night; special
t'night; special; awful good fellows, both of 'em; better'n I am, damn
sight. Both good fellows. Don't cry."
With a quick, sinuous movement she wrenched herself free, putting half
the distance of the broad cushioned seat between them. "Don't," she
cried, "I hate you!" and in constrained and moody silence the big motor
whirred along upon its homeward way.
Nor was home to be gained without further misadventure. Presently, even
before they had covered half the distance to The Birches, something went
wrong with the machine, and the chauffeur, steering in close to the side
of the road, dismounted and began to search for the trouble, spurred on
by the accompaniment of Carleton's speech, which seemed every moment to
gain in picturesqueness and force. Suddenly out of the darkness appeared
two broad white streaks of dazzling light, the wail of a horn sounded in
their ears, and another automobile passed them, to draw up, just beyond,
with a quick grinding and jarring of brakes. A friendly voice hailed
them. "Anything wrong? Help you out?" Carleton started at the words. He
leaned forward in the seat, and whispered hastily to the chauffeur.
Instantly the latter answered, "No thank you, sir, nothing wrong," and
the second motor sped along upon its way. Carleton's brow contracted.
"Wonder if he saw," he muttered, "light's pretty bright; looked like
Marjory, too; didn't know the colonel drove much at night, anyway."
There was a moment's pause; then all at once, he added, "Friday! Friday!
Good God! that was the other thing. Damn the luck! Damn everything!" and
mingling threats and entreaties, he renewed his urging to the worried
chauffeur.
An hour later, at the Press Club, Vaughan's cigar was well under way,
and Helmar was helping himself to a second cup of coffee, when suddenly
the door burst open, and there appeared before them the somewhat
unsteady figure of their absent friend. Before either of them could
speak, he had begun a rambling and incoherent apology, continuing it as
he sank limply into the chair reserved for him.
"Must 'scuse me," was the burden of his speech, "mem'ry comple'ly wen'
back on me; thoroughly 'shame myself--" and there was much more in the
same vein; then, all at once reaching the sentimental stage of his orgy,
he began to develop a vein of maudlin self-pity; "Helmar," he cried
despairingly, "you been good fren' me always. I tell you, 's no good. I
try--I try 's hard's anyone--and oh, Helmar--" his voice broke, and with
a mixture of the ridiculous and the pathetic that made both his hearers
choke a little hysterically, even while their eyes were moist, he
culminated despairingly, "'S no use, fellers; 's no use; I'll tell you
where'm going; _I'm going to hell in a hack_; thash what I am," and
forthwith he laid his head upon the table, and began to weep.
It was long after midnight when Helmar and Vaughan finally deposited
him, remonstrating and unwilling, in safety at the Mayflower, leaving
him in skilful hands well versed in the treatment of his malady, and
found themselves, flushed, weary, and not in the best of humors, again
in the street.
"And so ends our great reunion," said Vaughan, mopping his heated
forehead. "Jack ought to feel pleased with himself; he's certainly
succeeded in knocking all the pleasure out of it for everybody, about as
well as any one could. And I think, on the whole, that I'm inclined to
agree with him about where he's bound."
Helmar sighed, a sigh of honest disappointment and anxiety. "Jack's a
mighty good fellow," he answered, "but he's certainly in a bad way now.
If he ever means to amount to anything, he's got to fight, and fight
hard, too. Well, come on, Arthur, I suppose we'd better get to bed," and
thus the long-planned quinquennial reunion came sadly and dismally to an
end.