Munsey's Magazine/Volume 93/Issue 2/Derelict

HE private office was dim in the gray light of a March dusk; through the open window a chilly wind came blowing, with a fine drizzle of rain. Wickham Hackett sat at his desk, in a circle of light from the shaded lamp that illumined sharply his fine, haggard face, and made the graying hair on his temples glisten like silver. He had the look of some worn and ascetic recluse, sitting there in the chill and shadowy room.

He was making notes for his address to the board of directors. He knew very well that he could do this far better in the morning, that he was too tired now for any efficient work; but he was too tired to think of resting. The strain of his day had left him horribly tense, filled with an almost unbearable sense of exasperation and urgency.

His stenographer came to the open door.

“Will you want me any longer, Mr. Hackett?” she asked.

He was silent for a moment, struggling gallantly against his savage mood. He wanted to shout at her, to swear at her, to tell her that it was her business to stay as long as he did, and that she was a little fool, with her high heels and her powdered nose; but he held his tongue, turned away his head so that he need not see her, and answered mildly:

“No. You can go, Miss Johnson.”

After she had gone, he rose and went to the window. The pavement far below was glistening, the lights were blurred. The rain blew in on him, cold and fine. He liked the feel of it. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

“By Heaven, I won't quit!” he said to himself. “I won't give in! I won't go home until I've got this thing straight in my mind, if I stay here all night!”

A great exultation seized him, a sense of power and energy. It was often like this. He would reach what would seem to be the very limit of his endurance, but if he held on, and would not rest, would not yield, this curious new vigor would come to him, this feeling of triumph, as if he had passed the boundary of normal endeavor and had become superhuman. He would pay for this later, in a long night of sleeplessness, but it was worth it.

He saw before him now, with perfect clarity, just the words he would use in his address. He drew back from the window, in a hurry to set them down, and as he turned he saw a tall figure standing near his desk. The shock made him dizzy for a moment.

“What—” he began furiously, and stopped, staring. “Oh, it's you, is it, Charley?” he said.

“It's me,” replied the other cheerfully. “Knocked at the outer door and nobody answered, so I walked in. Sorry I startled you.”

“Nerves, I suppose,” murmured Wickham Hackett. “I'm very tired. Sit down, man. I have something to tell you.”

But the other remained standing. He was a tall man, lean and sunburned, with a handsome, arrogant face and a swaggering air. He seemed like a man from another age, who should have worn a sword at his side. An adventurer, surely, but down on his luck now, with a frayed and threadbare overcoat, a shabby hat, and deep lines about his gray eyes.

“Sit down, man!” Wickham Hackett repeated impatiently. “Here, have a smoke. I have some news for you, Charley.”

“Can't refuse!” said Charles Hackett, and he sat down, with one long leg over the arm of the chair. “That's good!” he added, at the first puff of the cigar.

Wickham Hackett looked down at the papers on his desk, because the sight of this battered rover stirred him almost intolerably. He could remember such a different Charles, years and years ago—such a careless, joyous, and triumphant Charles; and to see him now, like this—

The returned wanderer had come into his brother's office two weeks ago, in his old casual way, as if the twelve years of his absence were nothing at all.

“Touch of fever,” he had said. “The doctors tell me I can't live in a tropical climate any more, so I've come home. Do you think you can find me some sort of a job, Wick? There's not a damned thing I can do that's any use; but you're such a big fellow now, you might be able to find me something, eh?”

“I'll find you a job,” Wickham Hackett had promised.

Then Charley had begun asking about old friends. This one was dead, that one gone away; all the inevitable vicissitudes of twelve years were starkly revealed. It had been horrible, as if Charles were a ghost come back to a world that had long forgotten him.

“Well, yes, of course—it's natural,” he had said. “The life there, in the West Indies—quite different, you know. I like it.”

“That's hard luck, Charley,” Wickham Hackett had said.

“No,” Charles had said. “No luck about it, Wick. I had it coming to me. I've lived hard, and now I've got to pay. I'm forty, my health is broken, and I haven't a damned cent. That's not bad luck, Wick—it's bad management;” and he had smiled, his teeth very white against his sunburned face.

That was the worst of it, to Wickham Hackett's thinking—that incurable carelessness and swagger of his brother's. He was not sobered or steadied by whatever misfortunes had befallen him. He still laughed, as a man of another day might have laughed, with his back to the wall and nothing left him but the sword in his hand. In a way, it was admirable, but it was hard to witness that flashing smile, that debonair manner—with the threadbare overcoat and the shabby hat!

Wickham had taken his brother home with him.

“But you're married now,” Charles had protested. “Perhaps your wife—”

“She'll be glad to see you,” Wickham had answered.

He had not felt at all sure of that, but one thing he did know—whether Madeline was glad or sorry to see Charles, she would receive him kindly and graciously.

“I can always count on her,” Wickham had thought.

That was the best thing in his life, the feeling he had about Madeline. It was not the thing people usually speak of as “being in love.” In his early youth he had known what that was. He had been in love, miserably, bitterly, hotly in love, and he had come out of it, not unscarred; but this, his feeling for Madeline, was different. This was a love of dignity and utter trust. He honored her above all women on earth, and he profoundly admired her reserved beauty. He gave her everything freely, and put his very soul into her keeping.

He never told her things like that. In the course of his first disastrous love affair he had done plenty of talking, and he wished never to use those words again. He had proved to Madeline, in their five years of life together, what he thought of her, how he valued her, and of course she would understand.

She had been quite as kind and gracious to Charley as her husband had expected. She had looked after the poor fellow's comfort, had made him feel at ease and happy. It had been good to see him so happy.

“And now,” thought Wickham, “his troubles are pretty well over. He'll be all right.” Aloud he said: “Yes, I have news for you, Charley. I've—”

“Hold on a minute!” said Charles Hackett. “I have some news myself, Wick. Wait! Where is it? Here!”

He drew an envelope from his breast pocket, took out the letter inside, and spread it out on his knee.

“From a fellow I knew down in Nicaragua,” he observed. “He's got a deal on there. Wants me to come in with him. Where is it? Here! 'Your experience will be better than capital,' he says. 'I'll put up the money and you'll do the work.' He says—”

“What are you talking about?” Wickham interrupted impatiently. “You can't go down there. Now look here, Charley! I saw Carrick again to-day, and he's willing to take you in there. It's a remarkable opportunity.”

“Yes, but I—”

“Don't belittle yourself!” said Wickham. “You've got certain qualities that 'll be mighty useful to him. You've got brains, Charley—although you don't like to use 'em. I've been after Carrick for the last ten days. and at last I've made him see the point. He wants to meet you to-morrow, and then we'll make a definite arrangement.”

“Yes, but—” objected Charley. “I see; but—I think this Nicaragua job would suit me better, Wick.”

“Don't be such a fool!” cried Wickham. “You know damned well that that climate would kill you in a year; and here I'm offering you a chance any other man would give his ears for!”

“Yes, I know,” said Charles. “Very good of you, Wick. I appreciate it; but—”

Wickham sprang to his feet, shaken with a terrible anger.

“You fool!” he shouted. “After I've—” He stopped suddenly, and stood there visibly making a tremendous effort at self-control; and he won it. “Sorry!” he said. “The truth is, I'm a bit tired. We won't talk any more about it now, eh? We'll go along home, and after dinner—”

“Yes,” said Charles; “but the thing is, Wick, I was thinking of having dinner in town to-night. You see, there's a boat to-morrow—”

“No, you don't!” said Wickham. “You're not going to do any such foolish and suicidal thing as that until we've had a talk.”

“Yes, but—”

“Charley,” said the other, “look here—I'm pretty tired. I can't talk to you properly now, and I want to. I'm not demonstrative, and never was. Perhaps I haven't let you see how much”—he paused, looking down at his desk—“how much I have your welfare at heart,” he ended stiffly.

“Wick, of course I've seen,” replied Charles, profoundly touched. “I've appreciated everything; only you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. I'm a born tramp, Wick. I'd really better go.”

“For the Lord's sake, shut up!” said Wickham, half laughing. “I can't talk to you until after dinner. Come along now and we'll just make the five forty.”

was Wickham's habit to read a newspaper on the train going home, not because his preoccupied mind felt any great interest in the outside world, but because it was a protection. It kept people from talking to him.

This time, however, sitting beside Charles, he did not open his paper. He showed his brother an almost exaggerated courtesy. For Charles's sake he made an effort he would have made for no one else. He tried to talk about old friends and old days, turning his worn and sensitive face toward the other with a look of fixed attention; but his mind wandered. A thousand little anxieties and exasperations stirred him, and he grew silent and distrait.

Then his glance fell upon the sleeve of that threadbare overcoat, upon a worn shoe carefully polished, and an almost unbearable compassion seized him. Charley come home again, penniless and broken in health at forty!

It was dark when they reached the suburban station, and the rain fell steadily. They crossed the covered platform to Wickham's car. The chauffeur held the door open, they got in, and the car started.

“I don't know how it was,” said Charles, “but whenever I used to think of home it was always like this—cold, rainy. nights, and the little houses lighted up. Sort of a charm about it, don't you think?”

There was some curious quality about Charles, something vivid in him, which conjured up visions for the wanderer's brother. He looked out of the window, and it seemed to him that he could see as Charles saw—the pleasant suburban street, lined with bare trees, and the comfortable houses, lighted now, here a window with a red-shaded lamp, here a bedroom light behind curtains, all of them so snug and safe from the wind and the cold rain. Men were coming home and dinners were being served, as men had been coming home to rest and eat since the dark beginning of things. A bitter thing, to have no home, no welcome or refuge!

“Yes, I see,” said Wickham.

At least Charles could share his home.

“Unless he marries,” thought Wickham. “No reason why he shouldn't do well with Carrick—soon be in a position to marry and have a place of his own. No reason at all!”

A peculiar feeling of disquiet came over him, something shadowy and elusive. He felt abashed, as if some one had rebuked him. Well, perhaps it was a little hard to imagine Charles working in an office, making money, catching the five forty to go home to some cozy little house of his own; but it was not impossible.

“He's only forty,” thought Wickham, “and I have influence enough to help him. No reason why it shouldn't be like that!”

He glanced uneasily at his brother. The car was lighted, and he could see clearly that bold and arrogant profile.

“No reason at all!” he told himself once more.

But his disquiet persisted, like a warning of disaster.

“He didn't want to come back with me to-night. He wants to get away, to go down there—to a climate that means the end of him. What's the matter with him? Is it pride? Doesn't he want to accept favors from me?”

Wickham knew it was not that, for Charles had asked him for a job.

“And I've been careful,” he thought. “I haven't said a word or done a thing to hurt him.”

He had never even mentioned the threadbare overcoat and the shabby hat, or suggested a loan of money. He had noticed that Charles was always supplied with tobacco, that he was able to pay car fares and buy newspapers, and so on. He must have a little money left.

“And he can start in next week with Carrick,” thought Wickham. “Then he'll be all right.”

But why did he want to get away?

“Restless,” his brother decided. “He's lived in the tropics so long that the idea of going to Nicaragua appealed to him, just for the moment.”

The car turned in at the gates of Wickham's place. He saw before him the lights of his own home shining through the rain; and mechanically he braced himself for an ordeal.

It was his inflexible rule to enter his house with an amiable and agreeable manner. When the parlor maid opened the door, he gave her something as much like a smile as he could manage, bade her good evening, and entered the drawing-room.

“Hello, Madeline!” he said.

His wife came toward him. He put his hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek.

“Nice and warm in here,” he observed. “I'll go and have a wash and brush up, and get ready for dinner.”

It was hard for him to speak at all, fatigue so weighed upon him. He went up the stairs, forcing himself to a brisk pace, entered his room, and locked the door. Then suddenly he thought of things for his speech to-morrow—just the things he had wanted. He pulled out his notebook and fountain pen and began to make notes.

“Mustn't be late for dinner, though,” he thought.

He took off his coat and went toward his bathroom. Then he thought of a most effective sentence and hurried back to the table.

“If I could have a quiet hour now!” he thought. “But that's not fair to Madeline.”

He came down at the proper time, with more and more ideas for that speech running through his mind, and entered the drawing-room again. Madeline was sitting there, stretched out in a lounge chair, and Charles stood beside her. They were laughing at something.

Again that curious disquiet seized Wickham Hackett. He stood in the doorway, looking at her, and it seemed to him that somehow she had changed.

All through dinner Wickham's eyes sought his wife's face with covert anxiety. She was as cool, as gay, as gracious as ever—a tall young creature, exquisitely cared for, with shining dark hair and a delicate, half disdainful face. He had never seen her ill-tempered or impatient, had never known her to be anything but kind to him, and courteous and lovely; and she was so to-night. He must have been dreaming to fancy that there was a change, a shadow upon her unruffled beauty!

Dinner finished, they went back into the drawing-room for coffee.

“Wickie,” said Madeline, “you've been sleeping better lately, haven't you?”

He had not, but because she looked anxious he said yes, he thought he had.

“Ah!” she cried triumphantly. “I knew it! Wickie, I've been deceiving you. I've been giving you a new sort of coffee, with no caffeine in it!”

“Shouldn't have known it,” he said, smiling at her.

She had risen, and was standing by the radio. She smiled back at him over her shoulder and then began to turn the dial.

“There!” she said.

An orchestra was playing a waltz—a Spanish rhythm, with clicking castanets.

“Charles!” she said.

But Charles Hackett did not answer. He sat smoking a cigarette, with his coffee cup before him, and staring down at his worn and carefully polished shoes.

“Charles!” she cried, laughing. “You're not very gallant this evening. Do I have to ask you to dance?”

“Well, not twice,” said Charles.

He put down his cigarette, rose, crossed the room to her, and put his arm about her, and they began to dance.

What was the matter? Every evening since Charles had come he and Madeline had had a dance or two after dinner.

“Charles is the most wonderful dancer,” Madeline had said, and Wickham had felt a little sorry for him, with only so futile an accomplishment to his credit.

If it made them happy, Madeline's husband had been pleased; but he was not pleased to-night. He was uneasy, the music worried him, and he moved restlessly in his chair.

“Perhaps it's this new coffee,” he thought. “I need the stimulation of the real thing. Poor girl!”

“Wickie, I've been deceiving you!” The words came back to him with a horrible shock.

“Good God!” he cried to himself. “What's the matter with me? This is—shameful!”

He closed his eyes for a moment, and tried not to hear the music.

“I ought to take her out more,” he thought. “She's so much younger than I am. It's dull for her here, but she's never complained—never once. The best wife a man ever had—the finest, straightest girl!”

If she would come behind his chair now and lay her slender hand over his closed eyes! Of course, she didn't do things like that. There was beneath her gayety a fastidious and almost austere reserve. That was what he most respected in her. She was kind, always kind, but always aloof.

Well, he wanted it so. He would not have it otherwise; but if only just this once he could feel her hand on his eyes, if she would stop and kiss him!

He opened his eyes, ashamed of his weakness; and he saw his brother's face.

had gone upstairs, and the two men were alone together in the library. Charles sat beside a lamp, with its light full upon him, but Wickham had moved into a shadowy corner.

Some neighbors had come in to play bridge, there had been more dancing and a little supper; and through it all, all the time, Wickham had been thinking of that look on his brother's face—a look of terrible pain and regret and tenderness. He was never going to forget it.

“I can't—just go on,” he thought. “It's not possible. It's—oh, God! It's my fault—I've thrown them together, and she's so lovely and sweet that I might have known. Oh, poor devil! That's why he wants to go away!”

“Well, Wick,” said Charles, with a sigh. “Now for that talk, eh?”

It was hard for Wickham Hackett to begin.

“Charley,” he said, “I don't want you to go.”

“I know, Wick. You've been more than decent—about everything; but, to tell you the truth, I have a hankering for the old life—see? I'm sorry to let you down, when you've taken so much trouble to get me a job, but I feel I've got to get South again, in the sun.”

“Charley—”

“The doctors don't always know what they're talking about, you know. Personally I think it 'll do me good to get down there in the sun.”

“Charley,” said Wickham, with a monstrous effort, “I—I think you have another reason.”

“Eh?”—said Charles, glancing up sharply.

Their eyes met for an instant.

“I wanted to tell you,” said Wickham, still with a painful effort, “that it needn't matter.”

“But—it does,” murmured Charles.

“I wanted to tell you that—I don't blame you. You can't help it. Who could? I'm sure she doesn't know. I was watching her this evening. I'm sure she doesn't suspect.”

“No,” said Charles. “She doesn't know.”

“She needn't ever. You can put up at a hotel, Charley, and just come out for a visit now and then.”

“No, old man,” said Charles quietly. “Wouldn't do.”

“Yes, it would. See here, Charley—that's a remarkable opportunity with Carrick. You'll—”

“I know,” said Charles; “but I think I'll go down to Nicaragua, Wick.”

“Charley, don't do it! She doesn't know; and as for me—I want you here. It's suicide to go down there. Stay here, Charley!”

“Can't, Wick,” said Charles. Then he glanced up, with his flashing smile. “I'm off to-morrow, Wick. It's the best thing. I'm going to make my fortune down there—see?”

“Charley, this is foolish melodrama stuff! You're not a boy. It can't be as bad as that.”

“It is, Wick—as bad as that.”

Wickham was silent for a long time.

“Charley—” he said, and held out his hand.

“Wick, old man!” said Charles, taking it in his.

was still raining the next morning, still blowing. Charles Hackett had made his adieus, had been driven to the station in Wickham's car, caught an early train, and got into the city. He came out of the Grand Central into the steady downpour, pulled the shabby hat down on his forehead, turned up the collar of the threadbare overcoat, and set off on foot.

The wet and the mud soaked through his worn shoes, and the fine polish was hopelessly lost. A very battered rover he looked; but the girl in the florist's shop thought him a splendid figure.

“Charley!” she cried.

There was no one else in the shop at this early hour, and he went with her into the little back room, dim and chilly and bare, with a long table, upon which the carnations she had been sorting lay scattered.

“You're so wet! Won't you take off your coat, Charley?”

“Can't, Betty. I'm sailing at eleven, and there are things—”

“Sailing, Charley? But—you're not going away?”

She stood before him, a slender, fair-haired girl in a green smock. He had known her years ago in Havana, in the days of her father's prosperity; and he had found her again here, a lonely, plucky little exile, earning her own bread. No one quite like her, he thought—no one else with eyes so clear and candid, with so generous and sweet a smile; but she was twenty-two and he was forty, and he hadn't fifty dollars to his name.

“Yes, I'm going,” he said. “I don't fit in here, you know, Betty.”

“But—I thought you were going to get a job and stay here.”

“Well,” Charles told her, “I've only had one job offered me, and it doesn't suit me; so I'm going down to Nicaragua.”

“That's quite a long way, isn't it?” she said casually.

“Yes, it is,” replied Charles.

They were both silent for a time. The rain was rattling against the window. The room was filled with the spicy fragrance of the carnations.

“I—I thought you'd stay here,” the girl said.

He knew well enough that she was crying, but he took care not to look at fer.

“No,” he said gravely. “I don't fit in here. I'm a derelict, and a derelict can be a danger to navigation. I've known some pretty good craft wrecked that way.” He was talking half to himself. When she looked at him in troubled surprise, he smiled cheerfully. “So I've come to say good-by, Betty,” he ended.

“I'm sure I could help you to find something to do, Charley.”

He shook his head, still smiling, his teeth white against his sunburned face. She saw the fine lines about his eyes, his shabbiness, his invincible gallantry.

“Charley!” she cried, and threw her arms about his neck. “Oh, don't, don't go, Charley!”

He held her tight, clasped to his wet coat, and with one hand stroked her fair head lying on his shoulder.

“Oh, don't, don't go away, Charley!” she sobbed. “I do—need you so!”

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face, streaming with tears. He looked straight into her eyes, and smiled again. There was something almost terrible in that smile, something inflexible, hard as steel.

“No, you don't!” he said. “You're a sentimental kid, that's all. You're going to forget all about me, like a nice kid, and six months from now you're going to write me a letter and tell me about the wonderful boy you've got.”

She could smile, too, quite as steadily as he.

“All right!” she said. “All right, if you want to pretend it's that way; but you know I won't forget.”

He did not smile any more.

“Anyhow,” he said, “it's good-by now.”

She raised her head and kissed him. For a moment he crushed her against him; then, with just the lightest kiss on her young head, he let her go, took up his hat, and hurried off. He knew she had come to the door to watch him go, but he did not look back.

All gray the harbor was that morning, and noisy with the hoarse din of whistles and fog horns; but Charles Hackett stood on deck, in the rain, to see the last of it.

A lucky thing, he thought, that Wick hadn't brought her down to see him off! Lucky that last night Wick had looked at his face, not hers! It had been so plain there to read—the doubt, the question, the fear, in the eyes of Wickham's wife. She didn't know yet, but she was beginning to know.

“Why am I to have no life? Why am I to be shut out, denied everything that is real?”

She had turned with her unspoken question not to Wickham, but to his brother. Charles had come to her, almost as if the sun of the tropics had risen in the cool skies of her homeland. He had danced with her, talked to her, with his vivid smile, his immeasurable careless vitality. He had had for her not only his innate charm, but the charm of the unknown.

Even his very shabbiness had enchanted her, because it was a regal thing. He, too, might have had his pockets well filled, but he had not cared for money. He had thrown everything away, and had laughed a careless laugh.

Then he had seen what was coming. He had seen the doubt, the dismay, which she herself did not understand. He had seen her turn to him, not to her husband.

Well, she wouldn't turn to him any more, for he would not be there. There would only be Wickham, chivalrous and quiet. She would forget the doubt and the question that would never be asked and never be answered. It was essential for Charles to go, never to be there again.

The rain and the mist almost hid the shores from his sight now. He could see only the tops of great buildings, like castles on a mountain top. His girl was there, the girl who had clung to him so.

He turned away from the rail, wet through.

“Not for me!” he said to himself.