CHAPTER V
A QUESTION OF HONOR
“What is left when honour is lost?”
Publius Syrus.
Twilight was falling over The Birches, and Edward Carleton, seated alone on the piazza, gazed out over the darkening fields into a world of ever blending shadows and onward creeping dusk. Always, as long as the weather permitted, after his evening meal, he loved to sit there, puffing quietly at his big, old-fashioned, curved pipe, and letting his memory roam back at will through scene after scene from the long years that now lay behind him; or sometimes, more rarely, living in the present, content merely to gaze out on blossoming flower, and tree in full leaf; to watch the fiery colors of the sunset glow and die in the far-off west; to hear from the orchard across the road a robin singing his good night song; to listen to the thousand wonderful secrets which Nature at the last loves to whisper to those who have lived their lives pure in deed and word, and who have journeyed far onward into the shadow, still kindly and serene, with the wonderful dreams of childhood making beautiful their minds, and in their hearts the faith of little children.
Often Henry Carleton sat there with him, but to-night the old man was alone. An hour ago, a message had come from Henry, saying that he would not be home until the following evening—perhaps not even then—that business matters of importance had arisen, making it necessary that he should remain in town. Characteristic of Henry Carleton’s unfailing thoughtfulness the message had been, and it was of his brother, and, with a half-sigh, of Jack as well, that Edward Carleton was thinking now, as the darkness pressed closer and closer around the old house that had sheltered for so many generations so many fathers and sons of the Carleton blood.
From the entrance to the gravel walk, the sound of footsteps smote briskly on his ear and he glanced up to see a tall and familiar figure coming up the path. A moment later, and Jack had hastily mounted the steps, scarce seeming to heed his father’s greeting, and speaking at once, in a voice strangely unlike his own. “Father,” he said, “where’s Henry?”
The old man gazed at him in surprise. “He’s not at home, Jack,” he answered, and then, with a momentary foreboding, “What is it, my boy? Nothing wrong?”