THREE YEARS LATER
"Ay me, how many perils do enfold the righteous man!"
_Spenser._
Across the rampart of his desk Henry Carleton gazed regretfully at his
visitor; then once again shook his head. "I'm sorry, Van Socum," he
said, "I hate to refuse such a call, and I hate to refuse you of all
men. A year ago I should have felt differently, but now as you know,
we're in the midst of hard times, and first and last, one has to meet so
many demands. I'm afraid I shall really have to ask you to excuse me.
But I'm sorry, though; extremely sorry; I only wish I felt able to
respond. Perhaps some time a little later--"
Slowly the Reverend William Van Socum nodded his head. From his general
appearance--his bland, plump, rosy face; his stout, well-fed little
body; his ultra correct ministerial garb--one would scarcely have
divined his really unusual talents. For the Reverend William Van Socum
was the man whose remarkable ability to assist his church in a certain
deprecated, but much needed and excessively practical department of its
activities, had gained for him among his clerical associates the title,
bestowed in ungrudging admiration, of "The Painless Separator."
And now, while the gentle inclination of his head was meant to convey
the most sympathetic understanding, at the same time he made no move to
rise, but on the contrary kept his seat, and unflinchingly returned
Henry Carleton's gaze. For Van Socum's pride was touched. He had made up
his mind, before entering the great man's office, that its doors should
not again be closed behind him until in the neat little space opposite
Henry Carleton's name he had seen inserted the pleasantly round sum of
five hundred dollars. And now to all appearances he had met a foeman
worthy of his steel--of his brass, possibly some envious detractor might
have preferred to say--a man every whit as smooth and polished as
himself, a man who was both ready and able to defend his little garrison
of beleaguered dollars with a skill of fence and a completeness of
repulse which could not but arouse Van Socum's somewhat unwilling
admiration. Accustomed to success as he had become, defeat seemed now
well-nigh assured. Whimsically he thought of the ancient problem of the
irresistible force and its contact with the immovable body, and as an
afterthought he added grudgingly to himself, "This man's wasted in
business; he ought to be one of us."
But these, of course, were thoughts merely. Outwardly, the reverend
gentleman gave no sign that he dreaded, or even expected, a refusal. His
little oily professional smile was as winning and as confident as ever.
Yet he realized that he was dealing with a busy man, and prudently
determined, while the chance yet remained to him, to play his last card
without delay.
"I understand, my dear Mr. Carleton," he exclaimed, "I perfectly
understand. For a man like yourself, a man of your standing in the
community, none can realize better than I what a tax these constant
demands must be, on patience and on pocket-book as well." He paused
for just the veriest instant, inwardly to smack his lips; he loved
a well-turned phrase, above all if it had about it a flavor of
alliteration, and "On patience and on pocket-book as well" struck him
as distinctly good. Then, with a swift return to business methods,
"But I did feel, Mr. Carleton, that this time you would favor us.
The project of the new altar seems to have made a wide appeal to
all those most interested in the beautifying of our beloved church,
and example--the example, let us say, of a man of your type, Mr.
Carleton--does mean so much to some of the weaker brethren. Not every
one, perhaps, realizes this, but I myself know it to be a matter of the
greatest consequence, and it was this same power of example that I
had in mind when I arranged to have the preliminary list made public
to-morrow in six of the leading dailies. And for my part, I can see
nothing out of the way in such a proceeding. The press and the
pulpit--or rather, let us say, the pulpit and the press--why should they
not proceed together hand in hand, so that all things, spiritual and
secular, may at last work together for good. That, at least, is my
conception of it. And the papers have been very kind. Almost invariably,
I think I may say. To a laborer in the vineyard, to one who bears the
burden and heat of the day, it is gratifying--I must confess it--very
gratifying indeed."
He spoke but the truth, as Henry Carleton well knew. The Reverend
William Van Socum had the reputation of being the greatest XXXX
ecclesiastical advertiser in the city. Just how he did it, none but
himself seemed to know, yet stony-hearted editors and impervious
reporters were but as wax in his hands. "The pulpit and the press" was
not simply another of his favorite catch-words; it meant something
substantial as well. Hand in hand they traveled, in very truth, and it
was the bland and smiling Van Socum who managed to unite them in this
touching amity.
"Yes," he said reminiscently, "six of the leading dailies. And good
position in all of them, too. It's a splendid thing for us. So
far the Honorable Samuel Rogers has made the largest individual
subscription--two hundred and fifty dollars--and his name at the head
of the list will of course mean a great deal. We consider that he has
acted very handsomely. But--" the smile again appeared, like the sun
from behind the clouds, deprecating, wistful, with just a hint of gentle
reproach, and oily enough to have turned an ocean into calm--"but above
that of Mr. Rogers we had hoped to have one other name, one other name
still more widely and--if you will pardon me--still more favorably known
than even that of Mr. Rogers himself."
Henry Carleton looked, as he felt, a trifle uncomfortable. "I deplore,"
he said, a little stiffly, "any publicity in such matters. The right
hand, and the left, Van Socum, you know."
Occasionally an expert boxer, for some reason of his own, will leave
himself unguarded, purposely to invite a blow. With joy the Reverend
William Van Socum foresaw the beginning of the end. "True! true!" he
cried, "as far as the giver is concerned. But for the effect on others,
Mr. Carleton. That is where you are in error. Let your light so shine!
That is the injunction which covers the case. The shining light, Mr.
Carleton! The shining light!"
The blow sped home. Henry Carleton meekly inclined his head, as it
seemed, a willing sacrifice. "I deplore publicity--" he again began, but
his tone was feebler by far; and then he added, metaphorically throwing
up the sponge, "in six papers, did you say?"
Van Socum bore his honors modestly. "Six," he answered, again producing
the subscription book from his pocket, "six; and excellent position in
all. And of course our own paper, _The Flaming Torch_, which in itself
has a circulation by no means contemptible. Let me see. Five hundred,
Mr. Carleton? A thousand, perhaps, would be almost too large a sum."
Inwardly Henry Carleton was returning the compliment the Reverend Doctor
had just paid to him. "This fellow," he thought, "is thrown away on the
church. I could use a man like him to excellent advantage." "Yes," he
answered, "five hundred, I think. I shouldn't wish to be criticized on
the score of ostentation."
The victor drew out his pencil; then, almost in the act of writing,
paused, as if suddenly recalling something to mind.
"By the way, Mr. Carleton," he asked, "did some one tell me the other
day that your nephew had returned from the West?"
Henry Carleton's face was expressionless. "Yes," he answered, "he is
back. He has been in town several days."
Van Socum nodded amiably. "How very pleasant!" he said smoothly. "He
is--improved--I trust?"
A slight frown seemed to hover about the banker's brow. He appeared to
place a curb on his speech. "Greatly, thank you," he answered briefly.
The clerical smile again burst into bloom. "So glad; so very glad to
hear it," he murmured; then continued brightly, "but I felt sure that it
would be so. There was such a field for it. When he left us, one might
almost have dared to uproot the tares without feeling that the wheat
would be in danger. So glad--so very glad."
He paused a moment; then, as if tentatively feeling his way toward a
possible germ for a sermon, he moralized, "Three years! How swiftly time
passes us by! What changes it brings to us all! To you--to me--to your
nephew--" He stopped abruptly, his ideas swinging suddenly into another
channel, "And speaking of the passage of time, Mr. Carleton, what a
change it has brought in your daughter, Rose! I remember her as a
charming child, and behold, I met her the other afternoon at a little
tea--why, Mr. Carleton, I assure you I could scarcely believe my eyes. A
young lady--grown-up, self-possessed, a half-dozen young men around her.
Why, I was amazed. The passage of time--"
He half paused; perhaps, if the truth were told, Henry Carleton half
broke in upon him. "Yes," the banker agreed, "it passes, as you say. And
it's valuable, Van Socum. We can't afford to waste it, any of us."
The minister smiled--forgivingly--and bending over his book, he
wrote--yet did not at once vanish. Of a man so comfortably portly, of a
plumpness so suggestive of a certain counterpart in the animal creation,
perhaps that could hardly have been expected. Instead he rose slowly,
beaming on his conquered antagonist. "By their fruits--" he murmured.
Henry Carleton nodded, handing the check across the desk. "Exactly," he
said dryly. "By the way, Van Socum, I heard a capital story the other
day. It was told--this time--about a man high up in municipal office.
'Is that fellow Blank,' asked some one who didn't know just what
position he really occupied, 'is that fellow Blank a politician--or just
a _common thief_?' Good, wasn't it?"
The Reverend William Van Socum laughed heartily. "Oh, capital," he
cried, and then, casually, he added, "you say that was told about a
politician?"
Henry Carleton met his glance. "Yes," he answered, "that time--it was
told about a politician. Well, good-by, Van Socum; call again. Always
glad to see you, you know, at any time. Good-by."
Half way to the door Van Socum turned. "Oh, by the way, Mr. Carleton,"
he said, "are any of these rumors that I hear true, by any chance? Are
you going to give your friends an opportunity in the near future to see
you reaping still further and still higher honors? Or is it merely
gossip? For my part, I most sincerely hope that it's all true."
Henry Carleton's expression and tone were alike inscrutable. "Thank you
very much, I'm sure," he returned, "but really I'm not at liberty to
talk just now."
Van Socum nodded. "I perfectly understand," he answered. "Well, in any
event I shall hope. And don't forget, Mr. Carleton, the shining light.
It's most important. Good-by," and a little hastily he passed from the
room, with a certain satisfied feeling that verbal honors were at least
easy, and that from the field of more practical warfare he had again
returned a triumphant victor.
Left alone, Henry Carleton, smiling a little to himself, once more
leaned comfortably back in his chair. As he sat there, the waning
sunlight, slanting through the tall window, fell pleasantly upon him,
lighting up the dark, black-bearded face, with the full red lips, and
the keen and scrutinizing eyes. A noticeable man, in almost any company,
he would have been, and justly so as well. Doing many things, he did
them all with skill. And still, in spite of the activities in which he
was actually engaged, his friends were wont to talk of the many other
things he might have done--living his life over for him in retrospect,
as people will--and it was significant of his many-sidedness to note the
different views which different people held of him. Some said that the
bar had been robbed of a great lawyer, others that the universities had
lost a great teacher and instructor of youth, others still, like Mr. Van
Socum, that the church alone should rightfully have claimed his great
talents. No one, perhaps, had ever suggested that the stage had lost a
great actor.
And now, not satisfied with the active benevolence that he had just
displayed, Henry Carleton was passively showing the same praiseworthy
spirit which actuated his every deed and word. His day's work was done.
It was ten minutes after five, and there seemed to be no possible reason
why he should longer wait for the young man with whom he had made an
appointment at five o'clock sharp. Adding to the fact that the young man
was late, the further information that Henry Carleton felt tolerably
sure he was coming to ask some sort of favor of him, we behold the
heights to which it is possible for a man to rise.
Even patience, however, has its definite limits, and at a quarter past
five Henry Carleton snapped his watch with a click, and had one hand
already outstretched to close the top of his desk, when the clerk
knocked, and opened the door far enough to announce Mr. Vaughan.
Henry Carleton nodded, sighed, again leaned back in his chair, and
relinquished the idea of getting the five-thirty home.
A moment later Arthur Vaughan entered the office with the rather
breathless haste of the man who is thoroughly aware that to keep a great
financier waiting for a quarter of an hour is an offense not lightly to
be condoned. Indeed, about his whole manner, in spite of his thirty
years, there was still something boyish and deprecating, the air of a
man who is perhaps too modest, too slow to assert himself, yet who, if
these be faults, is perhaps all the more likable for possessing them.
He came quickly forward. "I'm awfully sorry, Mr. Carleton," he began, "I
know I'm late; but really I couldn't help it."
There may have been something a little less cordial than usual in the
manner in which Henry Carleton shook the young man's proffered hand. Yet
his voice, when he answered, was politeness itself. Early in life he had
made it his invariable rule to treat every man who had once crossed the
threshold of his office with complete and unvarying courtesy, until he
had found out exactly what the visitor's business might be. After that,
there was of course room for wider discretion. And so now, "Don't
mention it," he said; "a trifle late, perhaps, but never mind. And what
may I be able to do for you, Mr. Vaughan?"
Once seated, Vaughan appeared to be even more ill at ease than before.
His eyes were fixed on the floor. His hat revolved aimlessly and
sheepishly enough between his nervous fingers. "Why," he began, "why,
the fact is, Mr. Carleton--you see what I wanted to tell you about--you
see--" and then he came to a full and embarrassed stop.
Henry Carleton, through a long and varied experience, was nothing if not
a shrewd reader of men. The same awkward hesitation, the same
nervousness, the same half-cringing expression; he had seen them all
displayed many times before by men who had sat there in the inner office
in the selfsame seat which Vaughan was occupying now. And nine times out
of ten it all meant but one thing. In the brief pause analysis and
deduction in his mind were practically one. Vaughan's manner showed
embarrassment. Vaughan was a would-be literary man. All would-be
literary men, in greater or less degree, were poor. Vaughan, presuming
on a rather slight acquaintanceship, had come to borrow money. The whole
matter was painfully plain.
And then, even at the very instant when Henry Carleton had sorrowfully,
but with philosophy, arrived at this inevitable conclusion, Vaughan,
drawing a long breath, at last found his tongue. "Why," he said,
speaking with a seeming boldness and hardihood which in reality were but
the result of the most extreme embarrassment, "it's like this, Mr.
Carleton; I want to marry Rose."
The proverbial bombshell, exploding at Henry Carleton's feet, could
hardly have made the same havoc with his body that Vaughan's few words
managed to create in his mind. And yet, to his credit be it said, his
habitual self-control now stood him in such stead that after the one
first uncontrollable glance of sheer surprise, he at once contrived to
conceal not only his amazement, but as well any other feeling that might
have been agitating his soul. And in another moment, indeed, he had even
successfully achieved a very fair imitation of a jocular smile. "Rose,"
he echoed, "my daughter Rose! Why, you're joking with me, my dear
fellow. She's not eighteen yet. She's a child."
Vaughan, now that the worst was over, did not seem to be properly
disconcerted at the reply. "Oh, I know she's quite young," he answered
readily enough, "but that doesn't seem to make any particular
difference. We're both prepared for a long engagement. I'm not well off,
in the least. It's bound to be some time before I could dream of
providing for her in any proper way at all. But I love her, Mr.
Carleton--as much, I think, as any man could--and she loves me, and we
think, after all, that's the main thing. The other details we'll work
out somehow, I guess."
Henry Carleton had now perfectly regained his self-possession. He gazed
at the young man with benevolence in his eye. "Yes, yes," he assented, a
little dreamily, "love, of course; that's the great essential. With that
I thoroughly agree. And yet, while with me Rose's wishes are the first
consideration--no, rather I should say the only consideration--still, as
I understand you to say yourself, it must equally be a point of proper
pride with every man to know that he is earning an honest living, amply
sufficient for all future needs. I take it that you would hardly quarrel
with that, Mr. Vaughan?"
To Vaughan it appeared that he was progressing famously. "No, indeed,"
he cried readily enough, "I should say not. That's the first thing to
consider, of course. But I think I'm going to be able to solve that
difficulty in a short time now. I think I'm fairly on my way to a little
luck at last. You know, of course, Mr. Carleton, in any of the arts it
isn't exactly the same proposition for a man as if he'd chosen a
business career. There, if he gets a start, and then sticks to his job,
and shows any kind of ability at all, after a while he's almost certain
to get somewhere or other. But with any of the arts--that's the chance a
man takes when he turns his back on the solid, steady kind of
things--you can work along for a devil of a while, putting in the very
best that's in you, too, and yet you always stand a good chance of not
arriving at all, or, if you do, perhaps not till two or three hundred
years after you're dead. And of course, while even that, in a sense, is
very gratifying, still it's hardly practical. Dining late, but in select
company, in Landor's phrase, is all very well, if you can afford it, but
the majority of us poor fellows have to dine in the middle of the day.
The other thing's a luxury we can't afford."
Henry Carleton nodded. "Quite so, quite so," he said, "I know something
of that myself. I thoroughly appreciate all the difficulties in the way
of combining devotion to art with a large income. It's one of the least
gratifying things about our life of the present day. And still, too,
each year I believe the artist is coming more and more fully into his
own. But you were going to say--about your immediate prospects--"
Vaughan flushed a little. "I didn't mean to ramble on into so long a
preface," he said, "I'm afraid it was nothing but a desire to excuse
myself, anyway. However, here's where I think I really have a chance at
last. I've written a book--a novel--and it's in the hands of Small and
White now. Of course I needn't tell you what it would mean to have their
imprint on a book--it would be half the battle to start with. And I've
been able to get a little information in a roundabout way, so that I
have some idea of what's happening. I know the book has got by the
preliminary stages, anyway; I know that they're really considering it
seriously, and that is something in its favor. But I'm hoping for more
than that; I'm hoping that they will really accept it, and launch it in
good style; and if they do, why--I know of course you'll think I'm
conceited and over-fond of myself to say such a thing--but, with all
sincerity, Mr. Carleton, I think the book would be a success; I think it
makes an approach to something like literary merit. Oh, if I could once
get my start--get some pretext for thinking that I had a right to put
more and more time into writing, and less and less into what is really
only the merest hack work, that has to be done so hastily and
superficially that in the end it would kill any man's style--then I'd
work as nobody ever worked before--I'd kill myself to learn to write as
I want to write--"
He broke off suddenly, his hands clenched, his face ablaze with the
passion of the artist who craves to express in concrete form the dreams
and visions that float athwart his brain. Henry Carleton sat regarding
him narrowly, his face expressionless, but when he spoke, his tone
could hardly have been kinder or more sympathetic.
"Yes, yes, I understand your feeling exactly," he said, "and your
ambition is a most worthy one. I'm delighted to hear about the book, and
if you will allow me to do so, I should be very happy to try to help a
little. There are one or two ways that occur to me off-hand--understand
me, of course,--ways perfectly legitimate and businesslike in every
particular, in which I think a word from me with Small and White might
at least do no harm. Won't you try to get me a list of the men who do
their reading for them? We'll leave no stone unturned that properly may
be turned to give your effort a fair show. Rose's happiness is my
happiness, and to see you in a position when you may rightfully pay your
addresses to her--that I most earnestly desire. And in the meantime, you
must come out to The Birches--let me see--come out to-morrow night,
won't you, and dine with us? Jack's coming, and another man, I think. I
shall be delighted to have you join us, and I think, after what you have
told me, I may safely answer for Rose."
He rose as he finished speaking, extending his hand in farewell.
Vaughan, rising also, could only stammer his thanks. "You're too kind,
altogether, Mr. Carleton," he managed to say. "I know how any word from
you would meet with the most respectful consideration from Small and
White. It would help immensely. And as for to-morrow night, nothing
could please me more. And how is Jack? I haven't seen him since he got
back from the West."
"Jack is greatly improved, I think," Henry Carleton answered, as it
seemed to Vaughan, a trifle shortly, "however, you'll see him to-morrow
night, and can judge for yourself."
Vaughan nodded. "I'm glad to hear it," he said. "I got the impression
from his letters that he was doing far better in every way, and I'm
awfully glad if it's so. Well, I must go, Mr. Carleton. You've been very
kind to take everything the way you have. I know, of course, in one way,
at least, what a disappointment this must be for you. I don't care such
a lot myself. Family trees and all that never meant such a great deal to
me, and money bags even less, but for Rose's sake, why, I wish I were
the wealthiest man in the world, and the most aristocratic; she ought to
have everything that a girl can have. So you're awfully good not to make
a row."
Again Henry Carleton smiled. "Nonsense," he said heartily, "those things
make no difference with me, either. You've chosen a great career, and
all we must do now is to make success assured, so that you can come to
me as I know you want to come, saying, 'Mr. Carleton, I'm earning a fair
living; I can keep your daughter from want; I wish to marry her.' That's
the way you'll be coming some day, and you'll find no one more ready to
congratulate you than I. Good-by again; good-by."
As Vaughan left the office, Carleton slowly reseated himself. "Strange,"
he murmured, "a prospective son-in-law in young Vaughan, and I never
even dreamed of it. Very prospective, too; that's one comfort; and he
seems actually to believe he may succeed in a literary career. Odd, what
a time youth is for such dreams. He seems rather an inoffensive young
man, at least; plastic, I should imagine, and rather easy to influence,
if one only goes about it in the right way. That, I judge, is his weak
point; that, and too great a tendency to confide in others. Due, I
suppose, to the lack of a sound business training." He sat silently for
some moments, then repeated thoughtfully, "The lack of a sound business
training," and reached for the telephone. And then, a moment later, "Is
Mr. Cummings in? Oh, it's you, is it, Jim? Want to run over for a
moment? Important? Yes, I should call it so. Thank you. Good-by," and
restoring the receiver to its hook, he gave himself up to earnest
thought.