Carteret did not forget what General Belmont had said in regard to Tom.
The major himself had been young, not so very long ago, and was inclined
toward indulgence for the foibles of youth. A young gentleman should
have a certain knowledge of life,--but there were limits. Clara's future
happiness must not be imperiled.
The opportunity to carry out this purpose was not long delayed. Old Mr.
Delamere wished to sell some timber which had been cut at Belleview, and
sent Tom down to the Chronicle office to leave an advertisement. The
major saw him at the desk, invited him into his sanctum, and delivered
him a mild lecture. The major was kind, and talked in a fatherly way
about the danger of extremes, the beauty of moderation, and the value of
discretion as a rule of conduct. He mentioned collaterally the
unblemished honor of a fine old family, its contemplated alliance with
his own, and dwelt upon the sweet simplicity of Clara's character. The
major was a man of feeling and of tact, and could not have put the
subject in a way less calculated to wound the _amour propre_ of a very
young man.
Delamere had turned red with anger while the major was speaking. He was
impulsive, and an effort was required to keep back the retort that
sprang once or twice to his lips; but his conscience was not clear, and
he could not afford hard words with Clara's guardian and his
grandfather's friend. Clara was rich, and the most beautiful girl in
town; they were engaged; he loved her as well as he could love anything
of which he seemed sure; and he did not mean that any one else should
have her. The major's mild censure disturbed slightly his sense of
security; and while the major's manner did not indicate that he knew
anything definite against him, it would be best to let well enough
alone.
"Thank you, major," he said, with well-simulated frankness. "I realize
that I may have been a little careless, more from thoughtlessness than
anything else; but my heart is all right, sir, and I am glad that my
conduct has been brought to your attention, for what you have said
enables me to see it in a different light. I will be more careful of my
company hereafter; for I love Clara, and mean to try to be worthy of
her. Do you know whether she will be at home this evening?"
"I have heard nothing to the contrary," replied the major warmly. "Call
her up by telephone and ask--or come up and see. You're always welcome,
my boy."
Upon leaving the office, which was on the second floor, Tom met Ellis
coming up the stairs. It had several times of late occurred to Tom that
Ellis had a sneaking fondness for Clara. Panoplied in his own
engagement, Tom had heretofore rather enjoyed the idea of a hopeless
rival. Ellis was such a solemn prig, and took life so seriously, that it
was a pleasure to see him sit around sighing for the unattainable. That
he should be giving pain to Ellis added a certain zest to his own
enjoyment. But this interview with the major had so disquieted him
that upon meeting Ellis upon the stairs he was struck by a sudden
suspicion. He knew that Major Carteret seldom went to the Clarendon
Club, and that he must have got his information from some one else.
Ellis was a member of the club, and a frequent visitor. Who more likely
than he to try to poison Clara's mind, or the minds of her friends,
against her accepted lover? Tom did not think that the world was using
him well of late; bad luck had pursued him, in cards and other things,
and despite his assumption of humility, Carteret's lecture had left him
in an ugly mood. He nodded curtly to Ellis without relaxing the scowl
that disfigured his handsome features.
"That's the damned sneak who's been giving me away," he muttered. "I'll
get even with him yet for this."
Delamere's suspicions with regard to Ellis's feelings were not, as we
have seen, entirely without foundation. Indeed, he had underestimated
the strength of this rivalry and its chances of success. Ellis had been
watching Delamere for a year. There had been nothing surreptitious about
it, but his interest in Clara had led him to note things about his
favored rival which might have escaped the attention of others less
concerned.
Ellis was an excellent judge of character, and had formed a very decided
opinion of Tom Delamere. To Ellis, unbiased by ancestral traditions,
biased perhaps by jealousy, Tom Delamere was a type of the degenerate
aristocrat. If, as he had often heard, it took three or four generations
to make a gentleman, and as many more to complete the curve and return
to the base from which it started, Tom Delamere belonged somewhere on
the downward slant, with large possibilities of further decline. Old
Mr. Delamere, who might be taken as the apex of an ideal aristocratic
development, had been distinguished, during his active life, as Ellis
had learned, for courage and strength of will, courtliness of bearing,
deference to his superiors, of whom there had been few, courtesy to his
equals, kindness and consideration for those less highly favored, and
above all, a scrupulous sense of honor; his grandson Tom was merely the
shadow without the substance, the empty husk without the grain. Of grace
he had plenty. In manners he could be perfect, when he so chose. Courage
and strength he had none. Ellis had seen this fellow, who boasted of his
descent from a line of cavaliers, turn pale with fright and spring from
a buggy to which was harnessed a fractious horse, which a negro
stable-boy drove fearlessly. A valiant carpet-knight, skilled in all
parlor exercises, great at whist or euchre, a dream of a dancer,
unexcelled in Cakewalk or "coon" impersonations, for which he was in
large social demand, Ellis had seen him kick an inoffensive negro out of
his path and treat a poor-white man with scant courtesy. He suspected
Delamere of cheating at cards, and knew that others entertained the same
suspicion. For while regular in his own habits,--his poverty would not
have permitted him any considerable extravagance,--Ellis's position as a
newspaper man kept him in touch with what was going on about town. He
was a member, proposed by Carteret, of the Clarendon Club, where cards
were indulged in within reasonable limits, and a certain set were known
to bet dollars in terms of dimes.
Delamere was careless, too, about money matters. He had a habit of
borrowing, right and left, small sums which might be conveniently
forgotten by the borrower, and for which the lender would dislike to
ask. Ellis had a strain of thrift, derived from a Scotch ancestry, and a
tenacious memory for financial details. Indeed, he had never had so much
money that he could lose track of it. He never saw Delamere without
being distinctly conscious that Delamere owed him four dollars, which he
had lent at a time when he could ill afford to spare it. It was a
prerogative of aristocracy, Ellis reflected, to live upon others, and
the last privilege which aristocracy in decay would willingly
relinquish. Neither did the aristocratic memory seem able to retain the
sordid details of a small pecuniary transaction.
No doubt the knowledge that Delamere was the favored lover of Miss
Pemberton lent a touch of bitterness to Ellis's reflections upon his
rival. Ellis had no grievance against the "aristocracy" of Wellington.
The "best people" had received him cordially, though his father had not
been of their caste; but Ellis hated a hypocrite, and despised a coward,
and he felt sure that Delamere was both. Otherwise he would have
struggled against his love for Clara Pemberton. His passion for her had
grown with his appreciation of Delamere's unworthiness. As a friend of
the family, he knew the nature and terms of the engagement, and that if
the marriage took place at all, it would not be for at least a year.
This was a long time,--many things might happen in a year, especially to
a man like Tom Delamere. If for any reason Delamere lost his chance,
Ellis meant to be next in the field. He had not made love to Clara, but
he had missed no opportunity of meeting her and making himself quietly
and unobtrusively agreeable.
On the day after this encounter with Delamere on the stairs of the
Chronicle office, Ellis, while walking down Vine Street, met old Mrs.
Ochiltree. She was seated in her own buggy, which was of ancient build
and pattern, driven by her colored coachman and man of all work.
"Mr. Ellis," she called in a shrill voice, having directed her coachman
to draw up at the curb as she saw the young man approaching, "come here.
I want to speak to you."
Ellis came up to the buggy and stood uncovered beside it.
"People are saying," said Mrs. Ochiltree, "that Tom Delamere is drinking
hard, and has to be carried home intoxicated, two or three times a week,
by old Mr. Delamere's man Sandy. Is there any truth in the story?"
"My dear Mrs. Ochiltree, I am not Tom Delamere's keeper. Sandy could
tell you better than I."
"You are dodging my question, Mr. Ellis. Sandy wouldn't tell me the
truth, and I know that you wouldn't lie,--you don't look like a liar.
They say Tom is gambling scandalously. What do you know about that?"
"You must excuse me, Mrs. Ochiltree. A great deal of what we hear is
mere idle gossip, and the truth is often grossly exaggerated. I'm a
member of the same club with Delamere, and gentlemen who belong to the
same club are not in the habit of talking about one another. As long as
a man retains his club membership, he's presumed to be a gentleman. I
wouldn't say anything against Delamere if I could."
"You don't need to," replied the old lady, shaking her finger at him
with a cunning smile. "You are a very open young man, Mr. Ellis, and I
can read you like a book. You are much smarter than you look, but you
can't fool me. Good-morning."
Mrs. Ochiltree drove immediately to her niece's, where she found Mrs.
Carteret and Clara at home. Clara was very fond of the baby, and was
holding him in her arms. He was a fine baby, and bade fair to realize
the bright hopes built upon him.
"You hold a baby very naturally, Clara," chuckled the old lady. "I
suppose you are in training. But you ought to talk to Tom. I have just
learned from Mr. Ellis that Tom is carried home drunk two or three times
a week, and that he is gambling in the most reckless manner imaginable."
Clara's eyes flashed indignantly. Ere she could speak, Mrs. Carteret
exclaimed:--
"Why, Aunt Polly! did Mr. Ellis say that?"
"I got it from Dinah," she replied, "who heard it from her husband, who
learned it from a waiter at the club. And"--
"Pshaw!" said Mrs. Carteret, "mere servants' gossip."
"No, it isn't, Olivia. I met Mr. Ellis on the street, and asked him
point blank, and he didn't deny it. He's a member of the club, and
ought to know."
"Well, Aunt Polly, it can't be true. Tom is here every other night, and
how could he carry on so without showing the signs of it? and where
would he get the money? You know he has only a moderate allowance."
"He may win it at cards,--it's better to be born lucky than rich,"
returned Mrs. Ochiltree. "Then he has expectations, and can get credit.
There's no doubt that Tom is going on shamefully." Clara's
indignation had not yet found vent in speech; Olivia had said all that
was necessary, but she had been thinking rapidly. Even if all this had
been true, why should Mr. Ellis have said it? Or, if he had not stated
it directly, he had left the inference to be drawn. It seemed a most
unfair and ungentlemanly thing. What motive could Ellis have for such an
act?
She was not long in reaching a conclusion which was not flattering to
Ellis. Mr. Ellis came often to the house, and she had enjoyed his
society in a friendly way. That he had found her pleasant company had
been very evident. She had never taken his attentions seriously,
however, or regarded his visits as made especially to her, nor had the
rest of the family treated them from that point of view. Her engagement
to Tom Delamere, though not yet formally ratified, was so well
understood by the world of Wellington that Mr. Ellis would, scarcely
have presumed to think of her as anything more than a friend.
This revelation of her aunt's, however, put a different face upon his
conduct. Certain looks and sighs and enigmatical remarks of Ellis, to
which she had paid but casual attention and attached no particular
significance, now recurred to her memory with a new meaning. He had now
evidently tried, in a roundabout way, to besmirch Tom's character and
undermine him in her regard. While loving Tom, she had liked Ellis well
enough, as a friend; but he had abused the privileges of friendship, and
she would teach him a needed lesson.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Ochiltree's story had given Clara food for thought.
She was uneasily conscious, after all, that there might be a grain of
truth in what had been said, enough, at least, to justify her in
warning Tom to be careful, lest his enemies should distort some amiable
weakness into a serious crime.
She put this view of the case to Tom at their next meeting, assuring
him, at the same time, of her unbounded faith and confidence. She did
not mention Ellis's name, lest Tom, in righteous indignation, might do
something rash, which he might thereafter regret. If any subtler or more
obscure motive kept her silent as to Ellis, she was not aware of it; for
Clara's views of life were still in the objective stage, and she had not
yet fathomed the deepest recesses of her own consciousness.
Delamere had the cunning of weakness. He knew, too, better than any one
else could know, how much truth there was in the rumors concerning him,
and whether or not they could be verified too easily for him to make an
indignant denial. After a little rapid reflection, he decided upon a
different course.
"Clara," he said with a sigh, taking the hand which she generously
yielded to soften any suggestion of reproach which he may have read into
her solicitude, "you are my guardian angel. I do not know, of course,
who has told you this pack of lies,--for I can see that you have heard
more than you have told me,--but I think I could guess the man they came
from. I am not perfect, Clara, though I have done nothing of which a
gentleman should be ashamed. There is one sure way to stop the tongue of
calumny. My home life is not ideal,--grandfather is an old, weak man,
and the house needs the refining and softening influence of a lady's
presence. I do not love club life; its ideals are not elevating. With
you by my side, dearest, I should be preserved from every influence
except the purest and the best. Don't you think, dearest, that the major
might be induced to shorten our weary term of waiting?"
"Oh, Tom," she demurred blushingly, "I shall be young enough at
eighteen; and you are barely twenty-one."
But Tom proved an eloquent pleader, and love a still more persuasive
advocate. Clara spoke to the major the same evening, who looked grave at
the suggestion, and said he would think about it. They were both very
young; but where both parties were of good family, in good health and
good circumstances, an early marriage might not be undesirable. Tom was
perhaps a little unsettled, but blood would tell in the long run, and
marriage always exercised a steadying influence.
The only return, therefore, which Ellis received for his well-meant
effort to ward off Mrs. Ochiltree's embarrassing inquiries was that he
did not see Clara upon his next visit, which was made one afternoon
while he was on night duty at the office. In conversation with Mrs.
Carteret he learned that Clara's marriage had been definitely agreed
upon, and the date fixed,--it was to take place in about six months.
Meeting Miss Pemberton on the street the following day, he received the
slightest of nods. When he called again at the house, after a week of
misery, she treated him with a sarcastic coolness which chilled his
heart.
"How have I offended you, Miss Clara?" he demanded desperately, when
they were left alone for a moment.
"Offended me?" she replied, lifting her eyebrows with an air of puzzled
surprise. "Why, Mr. Ellis! What could have put such a notion into your
head? Oh dear, I think I hear Dodie,--I know you'll excuse me, Mr.
Ellis, won't you? Sister Olivia will be back in a moment; and we're
expecting Aunt Polly this afternoon,--if you'll stay awhile she'll be
glad to talk to you! You can tell her all the interesting news about
your friends!"