Carleton’s face was haggard, his mouth dry. He shook his head stubbornly. “I can’t get it,” he said again.
The broker’s eyes grew suddenly hard. “Of course you can,” he cried, “you said you could; you know you can get it, Jack; go ahead!”
But Carleton only shook his head once more. “It’s no use,” he answered wearily, “I can’t get it, I say. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
It was an unfortunate phrase. The broker sneered. “Oh, no,” he cried, “of course not. You wouldn’t lie to me. How about this morning?” And then, struck suddenly by the expression on Carleton’s face, and perhaps a little ashamed of his own loss of self-control, he hastened to add, in a tone kindlier by far, “Come, come, Jack, this isn’t like you. There’s something queer here. You told me you had friends who’d see you through. You told me that not three hours ago. And if you lied to me, it was a dirty thing to do, and a foolish thing, as well. Because now I’ve got to sell you out; there’s no other way; and it leaves you ruined, and costs me money, besides. But I won’t preach. Thank God, that’s one thing I’ve never done yet. You’ve been a good customer here, and a good friend of mine, too. So give it to me straight, Jack. If you lied to me, tell me so. It’s bad enough for you; I won’t make it any worse. I’ll keep my head shut, and you can pay me back as you’re able. But now look here—” and his tone hardened again—“if it isn’t that; if it’s somebody else that’s lied to you, and fooled us both, why that’s a different story altogether. There’s nothing to stop us then, and by God, we won’t let it stop us, either. We’ll tell the story all over this town, till we make somebody good and sorry for what he’s done. Give it to me straight, Jack. How did it happen? Is this whole business up to somebody else, or is it up to you? Was it the truth you told me, or was it a lie?”
For a moment Carleton stood silent. Through his tired brain flashed evil thoughts—suspicion—conjecture—the possibility of a just revenge. And yet—it was all so confused—so uncertain. Blame there was somewhere—but where? What could he really do? And then, curiously enough, once more he seemed to see before his eyes the dark face of Henry Carleton; once again he seemed to hear him say, “The Carletons must stand together, Jack. We mustn’t bring dishonor on the name.” And in that sudden instant Jack Carleton ceased all at once to be a boy, and became a man. Low and hesitating came the words, the words that in the broker’s eyes branded him for ever as a coward, beaten and disgraced, and yet his gaze, fixed on Turner’s face, never faltered. “Jim,” he said, “I’m sorry. It’s up to me. I told you a lie.”
CHAPTER VI
DEATH COMES
“Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail
Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt,
Dispraise, or blame,—nothing but well and fair,
And what may quiet us in a death so noble.”