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 passed 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 assent. "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 assented. "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 assent. "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 God'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. "God bless you, Marjory," he said. "I'll go, and I'll fight
as no man ever fought before."
For an instant longer he stood gazing down into her eyes; then turned
abruptly. A moment later the portieres had rustled behind him, and then
were still.