REPARATION
"Whoever fights, whoever falls,
Justice conquers evermore."
_Emerson._
The butler had withdrawn to superintend the bringing in of the dinner's
final course. Helmar, with his hand outstretched toward his wine glass,
for a moment hesitated, and looking first at Rose and then at Vaughan,
came to a puzzled, half-humorous pause. "I realize," he said, "that this
is the proper time for a toast, yet my tongue is tied. Not through
diffidence, either. I never have stage fright, and I know exactly what
I'm going to say. In fact, I've been working all day on it, and if
anything should happen now to prevent me from inflicting it on you, it
would be the bitterest of disappointments--to me, I mean. But the
question of proper precedence is what I can't make up my mind about.
For the life of me, I don't know whether I ought to drink first to Rose,
and reserve a separate glass for our rising author here, or whether my
first duty is to drink to you both, in celebration of your engagement's
being formally made public to-morrow. By the latter plan, you see, I'm
forced to drink alone, which is always bad; by the former, I manage to
be in good company each time. And on the whole, I believe that's the
proper way. So here goes. Arthur, I propose the health of Miss Rose
Carleton. In order not to embarrass her, I intend to refrain from any
fulsome praise, merely observing that the fact that she is herself,
suffices for everything. Youth, beauty, virtue; Arthur, you're a
fortunate man, and the only drawback to the whole affair is the horde of
envious enemies you're going to make for yourself. But that you'll have
to stand for; and the reward is certainly worth it."
He bowed with exaggerated deference as he concluded, and the girl,
laughing, softly clapped her hands. "Oh, beautiful, beautiful, Franz,"
she cried, "I'm overcome. I suppose I ought to respond, but in the
presence of two such distinguished beings, I'm actually dumb. But,
believe me, Mr. Toastmaster, I deeply appreciate your effort. It's fully
worth all the time you must have spent on it."
Vaughan, touching his glass to Helmar's, laughed also. "There, Franz,"
he cried, "isn't that a fitting reward? And as for your enemies, and
their envy, let them come, all of them. I'm safe; nothing matters now,"
and the look in Rose Carleton's eyes, as their glances met, was more
eloquent than any response could have been.
The toast drunk, Helmar turned to the girl. "And now, Rose," he said,
"actually words fail. Here comes the really difficult part. How shall we
try to describe such greatness? The literary man; the author fairly
launched; the coming all-around novelist of the century, who has shown
himself a romanticist by aspiring to the hand of Miss Carleton and a
realist by winning it. There, how does that suit you? Will that do?"
The girl smiled. "Indeed it will," she answered. "But if it's
permissible ever to amend a toast, even such a good one as that, I'm
going to venture to do it. Something so nice happened to-day. Tell him,
Arthur, do."
Vaughan shook his head. "Not I," he answered, "I wouldn't dare. I'm
having a hard enough time as it is, trying to make all these remarkable
things seem real. I still walk around pinching myself, and pulling out
letters and telegrams and re-reading them, to make sure they're genuine,
after all. But if I should start to talk, I'd know I was a liar before I
said five words. I don't mind listening, though, a bit. Go ahead and
tell him, Rose, if you want to, and I'll sit still and try to look the
part of modest but intensely deserving merit. That's the best I can do."
Rose turned eagerly to Helmar. "Well, then," she cried, "he got word
to-day. The book's gone into a third large edition. In three months! And
his first book! Think of it. And he's had more fine letters and notices,
besides. And two other magazines have written to see if he has any short
stories he'd let them see. So he's going to be a great success, and I'm
awfully proud of him, and when we drink our toast, I want it to be to
the author, the book and the third edition."
Helmar nodded in vigorous assent. "By all means," he exclaimed, "if all
amendments were as good as that one, no maker of an original motion
could ever object. We'll drink to the third edition, of course, and I
hope, before we're done, there'll be thirty of them. There," he added,
as he put down his glass, "my pleasant duty's done, and I think I may
claim well done. Unless, Arthur, you can think of anything I've
omitted."
Vaughan shook his head. "No, no," he answered, "you've been a great
success; said a lot of things about us both that aren't true, and
successfully reduced us to just the proper stage of uncomfortable
embarrassment."
Helmar laughed. "It's a pity, though," he said, "that we didn't have our
full attendance. Think of all the other nice things I might have had a
chance to say. Wasted opportunities. Marjory unable to come; Jack kept
away on business; Mr. Carleton started for his big time in town. That is
a banquet, though, with a vengeance, isn't it! Think of it; United
States Senator! But of course every one knew he'd make it. I never saw
such a man. Success in everything. He's certainly a wonder. You must
feel awfully proud of him, Rose."
She nodded gaily. "Of course I do," she answered. "We must drink his
health, anyway. He deserves it. What shall we say? The man who has
brought new honors to the Carleton name!"
As they drank the toast, the butler entered with the coffee and cigars,
and the girl rose, smiling down at Vaughan. "Don't be too long, now,"
she said, "remember I'm all alone."
As the portieres closed behind her, Helmar turned to Vaughan. "Well,
Arthur," he said, "you're certainly a lucky man. Engaged to such a girl
as Rose, and fairly on your literary feet into the bargain. It's fine
about the book. I didn't realize it was doing so well."
Vaughan nodded. "It was queer," he said meditatively, "about the whole
thing. I guess I ought to be ashamed of myself for claiming, once upon a
time, that there was a pull in literature. Because look how it worked
with me. There I had Mr. Carleton using all his influence, and three
times that book was turned down. And then, just because Jack kept after
me to do it, when I took the manuscript back and began plugging ahead
with it on my own account, just see what happened. It was accepted the
very next crack."
Helmar puffed thoughtfully at his cigar. "It does look that way," he
assented, then, after a little pause, he asked abruptly, "Arthur, how
about Jack and Marjory? Was it just a coincidence they didn't come
to-night, or was it something more than that? I don't believe they're
hitting things off, somehow. And Jack himself--I never saw a fellow so
changed. Ever since that time he was out at The Birches he has seemed
awfully down on his luck. I was wondering--"
Vaughan rose quickly. "Oh, he's worried about his business, I think
that's all." Then added abruptly, "Would you mind smoking in the other
room, Franz? Rose doesn't object, and I hate to leave her alone."
Helmar rose also. "Of course not," he said, "why didn't you say so
sooner? Let's go right in."
Half way down the hall, Henry Carleton's valet approached them, a letter
in his outstretched hand. "For you, Mr. Vaughan," he said.
Vaughan, taking the letter, hastily opened it, and read its contents. A
puzzled frown wrinkled his forehead. "H'm," he muttered, "that's queer,"
and as they entered the parlor, he spoke at once to his fiancee. "Rose,"
he said, "I'm sorry, but everything about to-night seems to be fated.
First our guests disappoint us, and now I'm called away myself. But only
for an hour. I'll be back just as soon as I can."
The girl's face clouded. "Oh, no, Arthur," she cried, "not to-night. You
oughtn't to go to-night, no matter who it is. Tell them to wait--"
He broke in upon her. "I'm sorry, my dear," he said gravely, "but this
is something that can't be delayed. I must go at once."
There was no misunderstanding his tone. "All right, then, Arthur," she
said, "but be back as soon as you can," and nodding, he left the room.
The waiting motor made short work of the distance between The Birches
and Colonel Graham's home; and a short half hour later Vaughan was
ushered across the threshold of the big drawing-room. Marjory Graham
came forward to meet him, and then, as she led the way across the room,
he stared in surprise at the sight of the second figure that rose from
the seat by the open fire. Yet Marjory Graham seemed to see nothing
unusual in the situation. "I think you know Mrs. Satterlee, Arthur," she
said, and Vaughan, his wonderment increasing every moment, bowed, and
took his seat.
The lights were turned low; only the firelight flickered and gleamed
about the room. Marjory Graham reached out and took the woman's hand in
hers. "Tell him, Jeanne," she said.
There followed a pause, and then at last, slowly and with evident
effort, Jeanne Satterlee began to speak. "Mr. Vaughan," she said, "the
fewer words the better. You've made up your mind to tell the story of
that night. If it's going to be told, it must be the true one. I've
promised Jack to tell what I know to Miss Graham and to you. I've
already told her."
She paused, while Vaughan sat waiting breathlessly, his eyes fixed upon
her face. And then she spoke again. "There's no need to ask you," she
went on, "whether you remember all that happened on that night. You
remember how you were all together at The Birches; how Jack said he was
going to bed early; how you and Miss Rose sat out on the piazza; how Mr.
Carleton played billiards with Jim Cummings, and then how he came down
and told you he was going for a walk about the grounds. You remember
every bit of that, of course?"
Vaughan assented silently. "And then," she went on, "you went for a
stroll yourself; you came to the rock opposite the cottage, and saw Tom
when he came in. You heard the noise; you saw some one run out of the
house, with Tom after him; and then you saw Tom fall, and a minute
afterward you saw Jack bending over him, with Tom's head on his knee."
Again she stopped for his assent; again Vaughan nodded; and once more
she continued, "You thought it was Jack who was in my room; you thought
it was Jack who ran from the cottage. And no one could blame you, Mr.
Vaughan, for what you thought. But I'm going to tell you the true story
of that night--to my shame. Jack Carleton wasn't in the cottage; there
was never anything between Jack and me--though I tried--never mind, I've
told Miss Graham--but there was some one in my room that night, and that
man was the father of the girl whom you are going to marry."
Vaughan's heart seemed to stop beating; there came a ringing in his
ears; his voice, when he spoke, sounded faint and far-away. "_Henry_
Carleton?" he gasped.
Jeanne Satterlee bowed her head. "I said the fewer words the better,"
she went on. "It wasn't the first time. Things had been--that way--for
nearly two years."
Vaughan's face flushed with anger. "Henry Carleton!" he cried again,
"it's impossible. How dare you say it?"
Jeanne Satterlee's tone did not alter, its very calmness carrying
conviction with it. "It's true," she said, "every word. And more, Mr.
Vaughan, that you will never know. It's all true. Jack knows--"
Vaughan started at the name. "But how did Jack--" he began. She broke in
upon him. "Jack suspected," she answered. "He saw me at the cottage that
afternoon. He talked with Tom. He put two and two together. And you know
what he thinks of his uncle, anyway. So he came down to the cottage that
evening, early. He was hidden outside. And after Henry Carleton got
away--he struck Tom from behind to do it--then Jack came down into the
drive to help Tom--and you had to see him. And that was all."
Vaughan sat as if stunned. "My God!" he muttered, under his breath, "my
God!"
Once more Mrs. Satterlee broke the silence. "And then," she said, "you
went to Henry Carleton, and told him what you thought you knew. And he
sat there, and listened to you telling him that Jack did the murder. He
came to the cottage that night. He was furious. He'd have killed you, I
truly believe, if he'd dared. He threatened me, even. He told me I must
stick to the story that Jack was in my rooms, and murdered Tom; and that
he'd see that no harm came to Jack; that money could do anything; that
he'd get Jack out of the country; and that it would be better for every
one; and I was frightened--and promised. And then--"
Gradually, as she talked, the whole sequence of events had been shaping
in Vaughan's brain. And now, all at once, and more to himself than to
the others, he voiced his thoughts in words. "I see; I see;" he cried;
"that was why I could never seem to believe it. Poor Jack! Poor Jack!
Oh, what a fool I've been!"
Again he was silent, and she concluded. "And then Jack came to me--I did
all this for him--don't think it was easy for me. And I told Henry
to-night, before I came here. He was going in town, and came to the
cottage first. And I told him--with a loaded pistol in my hand. He
wouldn't believe me at first. He never knew that I--that I was fond of
Jack--and when he realized I was in earnest, I thought he was going out
of his mind. I never saw a man so changed. He said I'd ruined
him--ruined his whole life--and then, all at once, he put his hand to
his head, and stopped right in the middle of what he was saying, and
turned, and went away. And I came here, to keep my promise. I told Jack
to come here at eight; he ought to be here now."
Vaughan pulled out his watch. "Quarter past," he said, "I suppose he'll
be here soon."
Marjory Graham turned to him. "Mr. Carleton lied to me, Arthur," she
said, "tried to make me believe awful things of Jack. And I knew--I knew
all the time that he lied. Think of it. Think how Jack--"
Vaughan nodded, yet even on the instant another thought flashed through
his mind. "But, Rose!" he cried, "I never thought. Rose! Good God!"
"I know; I know;" cried the girl, "I've been thinking about her. You
mustn't speak now, Arthur. Jack didn't, even before he knew. And you
mustn't. It would kill Rose."
Vaughan drew a long breath. "Marjory--" he began, but the sentence was
never finished. A quick step sounded in the hall outside, and Jack
Carleton came hastily into the room. In an instant, as if unmindful of
all else, Marjory Graham had risen, and crossed the room, her face
transfigured--"Oh, Jack!" she cried, "Jack!"
For a moment he drew her to him; then, without speaking, his arm still
around her, came forward to meet the others. Vaughan, too, had risen,
and stood with outstretched hand. "Jack," he said, "I never knew--I
never dreamed--can you forgive me?"
In answer Carleton took his friend's hand in his, yet without uttering a
word. His face was haggard, his eyes wild. Jeanne Satterlee started to
her feet. "What is it, Jack?" she cried, "something's wrong."
Carleton looked from one to the other, moistening his lips with his
tongue before at last the words would come. "It's Henry," he said
hoarsely, "he's dead. At the station. He fell in front of the train. He
slipped--an accident--"
For an instant there fell silence--utter; horror-stricken. And then
Vaughan's eyes sought Carleton's face. He spoke in a tone scarcely above
a whisper. "An accident--" he said.
Carleton met his gaze squarely. The silence deepened; and then, "An
accident," he said again, "he must have thought of Rose--and the
Carleton name. And Rose must never know."
Assentingly Vaughan bowed his head; then stood, gazing straight before
him, a dawning horror in his eyes. Jeanne Satterlee sank back in her
chair, covering her face with her hands. Drawing a long breath, Carleton
seemed again to come to himself. Very gently he drew Marjory closer to
his side. Neither spoke, for no words were needed. Her glance told him
all that he wished to know; he bent over her, and their lips met.
THE END
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise,
every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and
intent.