There was a pause. And then the woman spoke. “I can’t, Jack,” she parried, “I promised. I wouldn’t dare—”
He interrupted her. “Promised!” he echoed. “What’s a promise wrung out of one by force? Nothing. You can’t mean you’d let that stop you, Jeanne.”
She looked up at him, with appeal in her glance. “Jack,” she said desperately, “I’ll tell you the truth. I’m afraid. Afraid he’d kill me. You’re a man; you’re strong, and could fight. You don’t know how a woman dreads anything like that. He said that night he’d kill me, if I told. And I promised—I promised, Jack.”
Carleton gave an impatient sigh. “Nonsense, Jeanne,” he said sharply, “he wouldn’t dare. He only threatened, to frighten you. You—of all people. And can’t you see? He couldn’t afford to, if he would. Where’s his hold on me, then? Tell him, Jeanne, what you’re going to do, and then go away, if you’re frightened; go somewhere where you’ll be safe. Go straight to Marjory Graham, why don’t you, and stay with her.”
“Yes,” she flamed, “go to Marjory Graham! That’s just like a man. You don’t think of me, Jack, at all. Tell her everything! That’s such an easy thing to say. You don’t think of the shame—the disgrace—”
Carleton rose, and walking across the room, laid a hand upon her shoulder, looking down into her face, as he answered her. “Jeanne,” he said, wearily, “we’ve been over this so many times that there’s no use in saying anything more. Only this. I’m not asking you to do this for me, or for Marjory, or for Arthur, or for Rose, though if you do it, you’ll be doing it for all four of us at once. That isn’t the point. A man gets to thinking pretty hard when he’s in a fix like mine, and his own life dwindles down to something that doesn’t count for much, after all. But I tell you this, Jeanne, and you can call it preaching, and laugh at it, if you choose, but it’s so: there’s only one thing in the world worth doing, after all, and that’s to try to keep as near to what’s right and fair as we can. People can disagree about lots of things—you can criticize my life, and I can criticize yours—but some things are so plain that there’s no chance to differ about what’s right and what’s wrong. And the trouble we’re in now is one of them. You ought to tell Arthur Vaughan. You ought to tell Marjory. And then your part is done. You can leave the rest to fate. But to keep silence now, because of a promise that was forced from you—it isn’t square—it’s upsetting the belief that every one ought to have: that in the end the right’s a better thing than the wrong. And, Jeanne, I tell you this once more. If you won’t do what you ought to do; if you still keep silence; I tell you this: I won’t see harm come to Arthur Vaughan. I won’t see Rose’s life spoiled. There’s one thing I could do, and that’s to put myself out of the way, and stop everything; but that would be cowardly, I suppose. No, I’ll make my fight, but you know as well as I do, that it’s a losing one. My life is in your hands, Jeanne, and I’ve a right to ask you to do what’s fair. I’ve tried, for three years now, as hard as a man could try. I’ll never be anything famous in the world—I know that—but I’ve a right to want to bring some credit to my father’s name, even if it’s only by living an honest life, to marry, and to pass the name down to some one that can do better with it than I’ve done. That’s all, Jeanne. And there are only two days left. That’s as long as Vaughan will wait. So you’ve got to make up your mind quick. Think it over, Jeanne, and for every one’s sake, be fair.”
She rose from her chair, shaking off his hand. “I’m afraid, Jack;” she said once more, “I’m afraid.”
Carleton’s hand fumbled in his pocket; then, finding what he sought, he handed it to the girl. The light flickered upon the polished barrel. “You could use it?” he asked. The girl nodded. “Then you’ve no reason to fear him,” he said. “Tell him, Jeanne, when he comes to-morrow night, and then you go straight to Marjory’s, and tell her too.”
She looked up quickly, as if seeking to make one last plea. “You ask too much, Jack,” she cried. “If I had my life over—but I haven’t. I’ve lived out all that was ever good in me; there’s only one kind of life left for me now. And he’s been good to me—given me everything. And think of all I lose. All the life I’d see down there. All the money. All the good times. You’re not a woman, Jack. You don’t understand. Think of the fun—”
Once more he laid his hand upon her shoulder. “Is it worth it, Jeanne?” he said.