Читать книгу The Carleton Case - Ellery H. Clark - Страница 4

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“Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright.”

Psalm xxxvii.

In Doctor Morrison’s breakfast-room the curtains were drawn back, and the windows stood wide open, letting in a flood of warm June sunshine, and filling the whole room with the fragrance of the soft June air. Even into the streets of the city, restricted and shut in, something of the freshness and beauty of the summer morning had managed to make their way, and to Franz Helmar, seated alone at the breakfast table, listening to the chatter of the sparrows and the cooing of the pigeons on the roofs outside, there came suddenly a sense of irritation at the monotony of dingy sidewalk and dusty street, of house after house of brick varied only by house after house of stone.

Irresistibly, there crept over him the whimsical fancy that he would like to see the whole vast city at one stroke fade and vanish completely before his eyes, and in its place behold once more hill and valley, river and plain; all the wide and boundless freedom of the country; the splendid, sunlit glory of out-of-doors.

Suddenly, across the current of his musing, there sounded once again the sharp, insistent ringing of the telephone, scattering all his day-dreams into flight, and for the moment he paused, his coffee-cup suspended in mid air, the better to listen to the doctor’s voice in the hall outside.

“Yes, this is Doctor Morrison,” he heard in the doctor’s sharp, alert, yet not unpleasant tones, his “professional” voice, and then, pitched in a lower key, far more intimate and cordial, he heard at broken intervals, “Ah, yes, good morning—I’m sorry to hear that—No, I’m afraid I can’t myself; not this morning, anyway—No, but I can send my colleague, Doctor Helmar—Oh, perfectly, no doubt of that; this is the day of young men, you know—All right—Eight-fifteen, South—All right; good-by,” and then the click of the receiver, and the doctor himself reëntered the room.

Doctor Morrison was a slender, wiry, middle-aged little man, with a quick, nervous manner, and a face pleasantly keen and inquisitive, clean-shaven, save for a little sandy mustache, and with hair—what was left of it—of the same color. Professionally, he ranked among the first half-dozen practitioners in the city. He was an autocrat in demanding obedience from his patients, and a very martinet in insisting that his rules should be obeyed, while he himself, in private life, with the most delightful inconsistency, contrived successfully to break them all. Cocktails he absolutely forbade—and drank them with infinite relish. Tobacco he denounced as one of the curses of modern life—and peacefully smoked cigarettes innumerable. Eight hours sleep he declared to be a necessity—and himself sat up until all hours of the night and morning. In him you met a doctor stern and awe-inspiring—terrifying, even—until you came to know him, and then, shorn of his “professional” voice and manner, you came suddenly upon a man, gentle-hearted, humane and kind.

Seating himself, he glanced up at Helmar, talking jerkily over his eggs and toast, in his absence now grown somewhat discouraged looking and cold.

“A job for you, Franz,” he said, “Edward Carleton—the man who owns that big place out at Eversley—Oaks? Beeches? What is the name? Some kind of tree. Birches. That’s it. Birches. Funny name to give a place, anyway. Well, the old man’s laid up with a cold. That was his brother who telephoned. Henry Carleton, you know, the bank man. He wanted me to come out at once, and I told him I couldn’t, but that I’d send you instead.—Train leaves South Station at eight-fifteen. So you’ve plenty of time. I’ll look after Colonel Wentworth myself, and drop in to see Mrs. Brooks. Nothing else, is there?”

Helmar shook his head. “No, that’s all,” he answered, “and I’m mighty glad to trade. For one thing, I was just thinking how the country would look to-day, and for another, I’d like to meet old Mr. Carleton. I knew Jack Carleton very well when we were in college—as well as I knew anyone, really. So I should enjoy meeting his father.”

Doctor Morrison paused a moment. He was rather a well-advised man on social affairs. ”Jack Carleton,” he repeated, “some trouble there somewhere, isn’t there? Isn’t he the one who doesn’t live at home?”

“Yes,” Helmar assented, “he’s the one. The trouble’s all between him and Henry, I believe. Uncle and nephew—it’s a queer combination for a family row. But I guess it’s a case where the old gentleman’s on the best of terms with both of them, and hardly feels like taking sides. And so, since Henry Carleton and Jack can’t get along together, why, it’s Henry that’s rather got the inside track. He always did live at The Birches, you know, even before his wife died. And then there’s his little girl—I understand that Edward Carleton is most devoted to her, and for the matter of that, that Jack is too. And she’s awfully fond of him, and of the old gentleman. Likes them fully as much as she does her father, from what I hear. But it’s Jack and his uncle that can’t agree. Never could, I guess. Maybe Jack’s a bit more jealous than he ought to be. Anyway, it was all right while he was in college—he wasn’t home a great deal then—but after he graduated, I understand things began to get a little raw, so he quit and branched out for himself.”

Doctor Morrison nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I see. I thought I recalled something of the sort,” and after a little pause, he added, “I suppose, as you intimate, it isn’t very hard to guess where the trouble lies, either. I’m afraid, Helmar, there’s something rather rattle-brained about your friend. An attractive looking fellow enough, though, as I remember him, but I’m afraid without much of his uncle’s ability, or, for that matter, of his character, either.”

Helmar looked thoughtful. “Well,” he began doubtfully, “I don’t really know. But somehow I think—”

Doctor Morrison cut him short. After the fashion of many clever men, he was possessed of an idea, and was going to deliver himself of it. Until he had done so, the privilege of the floor was his, and his alone. “I look upon Henry Carleton,” he continued, a little sententiously, “as one of our coming men. Some day he is sure to be regarded as one of the really solid men of the city; practically, I suppose he is that now. They tell me that he’s exceedingly able, and that he’s amassed a great deal of money of his own; and then they say he has all his brother’s fortune behind him, too. The old gentleman made his money away back in the days of the clipper ships, and the Chinese trade. One of the old time merchants, Edward Carleton was, shrewd and thrifty and far-seeing, and I guess Henry is all that his brother ever was, and more besides. And then he’s interested in so many other things. You know what a thorough musician he is, and what a lot he does to help the younger singers along. And confound it all, the man’s literary, too. Writes, you know, and presides at anniversaries and dedications and all that sort of thing. Oh, he’s one of our leading men, Helmar. Able, and public-spirited, and upright. I wish we had a hundred more like him.”

Helmar had listened patiently, but the thoughtful expression had not left his face. “Yes,” he assented at last, though scarcely with enthusiasm. “Yes, I suppose so. Certainly I never knew anybody more generally looked up to than Henry Carleton seems to be. And yet—it’s queer about him and Jack, because Jack’s a good fellow, too. In a different way, perhaps. I suppose he does lack balance; but there’s something awfully human and likeable about him, just the same. But I’m prejudiced in his favor, I’ll admit; I used to know him so well.”

He rose as he spoke, and started to leave the room; then paused a moment on the threshold, throwing a backward glance over his shoulder.

“Come on, Rex,” he called, and at the sound of his voice there came slowly from beneath the breakfast table a little brown and white spaniel, who first stopped leisurely to stretch himself, next shook his slender body mightily as if to get himself thoroughly awake, and finally trotted briskly away at Helmar’s heels. Then, outside in the hall, as he saw his master reach for his hat and bag, he became suddenly greatly excited, springing to and fro with quick, nervous bounds, his mouth open, his little red tongue hanging out, his brown eyes glowing, finally standing straight up on his hind legs, and waving his fore paws frantically, as in supplication. Helmar, observing him, held up a warning finger, and instantly the dog again subsided, sitting quietly down on his haunches, his head cocked inquiringly to one side, his brown eyes, now grown a trifle anxious, fixed on his master’s face, uncertain of his fate. Helmar looked gravely down at him, a twinkle in his eye, but speaking with assumed regret. “No,” he said slowly, “no, I guess not, sir. It’s a long ways for a little dog, and he might not behave himself, either. He might bark—he might run away—he might chase squirrels, even—he might be a bad, bad dog.” Now the little dog’s big, soft eyes looked very sorrowful, as if they were not far from tears; the head and ears drooped pathetically, the tail limp, discouraged and lifeless, every line of his body expressing the idea that for little dogs it was a very hard, a very sad, a very unkind world. Then suddenly he raised his head. Surely, even as he had despaired, a change had come; surely the admonishing finger was being lowered, and his master’s voice was speaking to him in the tones he loved best to hear. “But,” Helmar was slowly emphasizing, “seeing that on the whole you’re a pretty good little dog, perhaps if you’ll give me your word—your solemn word—to behave, and be a gentleman, why, I think—” his voice quickened perceptibly to a more encouraging tone—“I think, sir, I might let you go. Do you want to go, sir? Do you want to go?”

There was no mistaking the little dog’s answer. With one bound he hurled himself headlong like a miniature catapult against the solid oak of the door, then stood motionless, quivering with excitement, his tail waving jauntily, like a plume, over his back, giving vent to short, sharp barks of joyful impatience. It was a great world for little dogs, after all; a world of blue sky and long, waving grass, a world of running brooks and sunshine, a world perhaps of squirrels even. Helmar, regarding him, laughed. “Come on, then,” he cried, and in a moment the door had closed behind them.

The town clock was striking nine as Helmar got off the train at Eversley, walked up the station lane, and turned into the narrow footpath leading straight across the half mile of broad green meadow that lay between the station and The Birches. Rapidly and steadily his tall figure strode along, from time to time with a half smile on his dark, clean-shaven face, as he watched the little spaniel tearing on far ahead of him, in a very frenzy of delighted freedom, racing and circling desperately here and there in vain pursuit of butterfly and bird.

To the farther edge of the meadow they came. There Helmar, clearing the low rail fence at a bound, for a moment hesitated as he sought to recall Doctor Morrison’s directions, then turned sharp to the right along the shady country road; proceeding at first uncertainly, as on a journey into unknown country, then more confidently, as one by one he came on the landmarks the doctor had foretold: first the massive wall of stone and concrete that marked the limits of the Carleton boundaries, then grove after grove of the silver birches that had gained the place its name, and finally, almost before he expected it, a break in the high lilac hedge, a long, winding drive, green lawns shaded by towering elms, gardens fragrant with flowers, and in the background, just pleasantly distant from the road, the huge, rambling, many-chimneyed old house itself—Edward Carleton’s home.