“Hello, Michael.”
Neither of them made any move to shake hands but after a moment Charley collapsed abruptly into a chair.
“I’d like a glass of water,” he said huskily, “it’s hot as hell.”
Without a word Michael went into the house—returned with a glass of water which Charley drank in great noisy gulps.
“Thanks,” he said, gasping, “I thought I was going to pass away.”
He looked about him with eyes that only pretended to take in his surroundings.
“Nice little place you’ve got here,” he remarked; his eyes returned to Michael. “Do you want me to get out?”
“Why—no. Sit and rest if you want to. You look all in.”
“I am. Do you want to hear about it?”
“Not in the least.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you anyhow,” said Charley defiantly. “That’s what I came out here for. I’m in trouble, Michael, and I haven’t got anybody to go to except you.”
“Have you tried your friends?” asked Michael coolly.
“I’ve tried about everybody—everybody I’ve had time to go to. God!” He wiped his forehead with his hand. “I never realized how hard it was to raise a simple two thousand dollars.”
“Have you come to me for two thousand dollars?”
“Wait a minute, Michael. Wait till you hear. It just shows you what a mess a man can get into without meaning any harm. You see, I’m the treasurer of a society called the Independent Artists’ Benefit—a thing to help struggling students. There was a fund, thirty-five hundred dollars, and it’s been lying in my bank for over a year. Well, as you know, I live pretty high—make a lot and spend a lot—and about a month ago I began speculating a little through a friend of mine—”
“I don’t know why you’re telling me all this,” interrupted Michael impatiently, “I—”
“Wait a minute, won’t you—I’m almost through.” He looked at Michael with frightened eyes. “I used that money sometimes without even realizing that it wasn’t mine. I’ve always had plenty of my own, you see. Till this week,” he hesitated, “this week there was a meeting of this society and they asked me to turn over the money. Well, I went to a couple of men to try and borrow it and as soon as my back was turned one of them blabbed. There was a terrible blow-up last night. They told me unless I handed over the two thousand this morning they’d send me to jail—” His voice rose and he looked around wildly. “There’s a warrant out for me now—and if I can’t get the money I’ll kill myself, Michael; I swear to God I will; I won’t go to prison. I’m an artist—not a business man. I—”
He made an effort to control his voice.
“Michael,” he whispered, “you’re my oldest friend. I haven’t got anyone in the world but you to turn to.”
“You’re a little late,” said Michael uncomfortably, “you didn’t think of me four years ago when you asked my wife to run away with you.”
A look of sincere surprise passed over Charley’s face.
“Are you mad at me about that?” he asked in a puzzled way. “I thought you were mad because I didn’t come to your party.”
Michael did not answer.
“I supposed she’d told you about that long ago,” went on Charley. “I couldn’t help it about Marion. I was lonesome and you two had each other. Every time I went to your house you’d tell me what a wonderful girl Marion was and finally I—I began to agree with you. How could I help falling in love with her, when for a year and a half she was the only decent girl I knew?” He looked defiantly at Michael. “Well, you’ve got her, haven’t you. I didn’t take her away. I never so much as kissed her—do you have to rub it in?”
“Look here,” said Michael sharply, “just why should I lend you this money?”
“Well—” Charley hesitated, laughed uneasily, “I don’t know any exact reason. I just thought you would.”
“Why should I?”
“No reason at all, I suppose, from your way of looking at it.”
“That’s the trouble. If I gave it to you it would just be because I was slushy and soft. I’d be doing something that I don’t want to do.”
“All right,” Charley smiled unpleasantly, “that’s logical. Now that I think, there’s no reason why you should lend it to me. Well—” he shoved his hands into his coat pocket and throwing his head back slightly seemed to shake the subject off like a cap, “I won’t go to prison—and maybe you’ll feel differently about it tomorrow.”
“Don’t count on that.”
“Oh, I don’t mean I’ll ask you again. I mean something—quite different.”
He nodded his head, turned quickly and walking down the gravel path was swallowed up in the darkness. Where the path met the road Michael heard his footsteps cease as if he were hesitating. Then they turned down the road toward the station a mile away.
Michael sank into his chair, burying his face in his hands. He heard Marion come out the door.
“I listened,” she whispered, “I couldn’t help it. I’m glad you didn’t lend him anything.”
She came close to him and would have sat down in his lap but an almost physical repulsion came over him and he got up quickly from his chair.
“I was afraid he’d work on your sentiment and make a fool of you,” went on Marion. She hesitated. “He hated you, you know. He used to wish you’d die. I told him that if he ever said so to me again I’d never see him any more.”
Michael looked up at her darkly.
“In fact, you were very noble.”
“Why, Michael—”
“You let him say things like that to you—and then when he comes here, down and out, without a friend in the world to turn to, you say you’re glad I sent him away.”
“It’s because I love you, dear—”
“No, it isn’t!” He interrupted savagely. “It’s because hate’s cheap in this world. Everybody’s got it for sale. My God! What do you suppose I think of myself now?”
“He’s not worth feeling that way about.”
“Please go away!” cried Michael passionately. “I want to be alone.”
Obediently she left him and he sat down again in the darkness of the porch, a sort of terror creeping over him. Several times he made a motion to get up but each time he frowned and remained motionless. Then
