Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells

by William Dean Howells

  “I mean business, Maxwell; I haven’t mentioned this to anybody but my wife, yet; and if you don’t go in with me, nobody shall. I want you, old boy, and I’m willing to pay for you. If this thing goes through, I shall be in a position to name my own place and price on the Events. I expect to be managing editor before the year’s out, and then I shall secure the best talent as leading writer, which his name is Brice E. Maxwell, and don’t you forget it.

  “Now, you think it over, Maxwell. There’s no hurry. Take time. We’ve got to wait till the Soc. Sci. Congress meets, anyway, and we’ve got to let the professional pursuit die out. This letter of Northwick’s will set a lot of detectives after him, and if they can’t find him, or can’t work him after they’ve found him, they’ll get tired, and give him up for a bad job. Then will be the time for the gifted amateur to step in and show what a free and untrammelled press can do to punish vice and reward virtue.”

  XVI.

  Maxwell explained to Matt, as he had explained to Louise, that Pinney was the reporter who had written up the Northwick case for The Events. He said, after Matt had finished reading the letter, “I thought you would like to know about this. I don’t regard Pinney’s claim on my silence where you’re concerned; in fact, I don’t feel bound to him, anyway.”

  “Thank you,” said Matt. “Then I suppose his proposal doesn’t tempt you?”

  “Why, yes it does. But not as he imagines. I should like such an adventure well enough, because it would give me a glimpse of life and character that I should like to know something about. But the reporter business and the detective business wouldn’t attract me.”

  “No, I should suppose not,” said Matt. “What sort of fellow, personally, is this — Pinney?”

  “Oh, he isn’t bad. He is a regular type,” said Maxwell, with tacit enjoyment of the typicality of Pinney. “He hasn’t the least chance in the world of working up into any controlling place in the paper. They don’t know much in the Events office; but they do know Pinney. He’s a great liar and a braggart, and he has no more notion of the immunities of private life than — Well, perhaps it’s because he would as soon turn his life inside out as not, and in fact would rather. But he’s very domestic, and very kind-hearted to his wife; it seems they have a baby now, and I’ve no doubt Pinney is a pattern to parents. He’s always advising you to get married; but he’s a born Bohemian. He’s the most harmless creature in the world, so far as intentions go, and quite soft-hearted, but he wouldn’t spare his dearest friend if he could make copy of him; it would be impossible. I should say he was first a newspaper man, and then a man. He’s an awfully common nature, and hasn’t the first literary instinct. If I had any mystery, or mere privacy that I wanted to guard; and I thought Pinney was on the scent of it, I shouldn’t have any more scruple in setting my foot on him than I would on that snake.”

  A little reptile, allured by their immobility, had crept out of the stone wall which they were standing near, and lay flashing its keen eyes at them, and running out its tongue, a forked thread of tremulous scarlet. Maxwell brought his heel down upon its head as he spoke, and ground it into the earth.

  Matt winced at the anguish of the twisting and writhing thing. “Ah, I don’t think I should have killed it!”

  “I should,” said Maxwell.

  “Then you think one couldn’t trust him?”

  “Yes. If you put your foot on him in some sort of agreement, and kept it there. Why, of course! Any man can be held. But don’t let Pinney have room to wriggle.”

  They turned, and walked away, Matt keeping the image of the tormented snake in his mind; it somehow mixed there with the idea of Pinney, and unconsciously softened him toward the reporter.

  “Would there be any harm,” he asked, after a while, “in my acting on a knowledge of this letter in behalf of Mr. Northwick’s family?”

  “Not a bit,” said Maxwell. “I make you perfectly free of it, as far as I’m concerned; and it can’t hurt Pinney, even if he ought to be spared. He wouldn’t spare you.”

  “I don’t know,” said Matt, “that I could justify myself in hurting him on that ground. I shall be careful about him. I don’t at all know that I shall want to use it; but it has just struck me that perhaps — But I don’t know! I should have to talk with their attorney — I will see about it! And I thank you very much, Mr. Maxwell.”

  “Look here, Mr. Hilary!” said Maxwell. “Use Pinney all you please, and all you can; but I warn you he is a dangerous tool. He doesn’t mean any harm till he’s tempted, and when it’s done he doesn’t think it’s any harm. He isn’t to be trusted an instant beyond his self-interest; and yet he has flashes of unselfishness that would deceive the very elect. Good heavens!” cried Maxwell, “if I could get such a character as Pinney’s into a story or a play, I wouldn’t take odds from any man living!”

  His notion, whatever it was, grew upon Matt, so that he waited more and more impatiently for his mother’s return, in order to act upon it. When she did get back to the farm she could only report from the Northwicks that she had said pretty much what she thought she would like to say to Suzette concerning her wilfulness and obstinacy in wishing to give up her property; but Matt inferred that she had at the same time been able to infuse so much motherly comfort into her scolding that it had left the girl consoled and encouraged. She had found out from Adeline that their great distress was not knowing yet where their father was. Apparently he thought that his published letter was sufficient reassurance for the time being. Perhaps he did not wish them to get at him in any way, or to have his purposes affected by any appeal from them. Perhaps, as Adeline firmly believed, his mind had been warped by his suffering — he must have suffered greatly — and he was not able to reason quite sanely about the situation. Mrs. Hilary spoke of the dignity and strength which both the sisters showed in their trial and present stress. She praised Suzette, especially; she said her trouble seemed to have softened and chastened her; she was really a noble girl, and she had sent her love to Louise; they had both wished to be remembered to every one. “Adeline, especially, wished to be remembered to you, Matt; she said they should never forget your kindness.”

  Matt got over to Hatboro’ the next day, and went to see Putney, who received him with some ironical politeness, when Matt said he had come hoping to be useful to his clients, the Miss Northwicks.

  “Well, we all hope something of that kind, Mr. Hilary. You were here on a mission of that kind before. But may I ask why you think I should believe you wish to be useful to them?”

  “Why?”

  “Yes. Your father is the president of the company Mr. Northwick had his little embarrassment with, and the natural presumption would be that you could not really be friendly toward his family.”

  “But we are friendly! All of us! My father would do them any service in his power, consistent with his duty to — to — his business associates.”

  “Ah, that’s just the point. And you would all do anything you could for them, consistent with your duty to him. That’s perfectly right — perfectly natural. But you must see that it doesn’t form a ground of common interest for us. I talked with you about the Miss Northwicks’ affairs the other day — too much, I think. But I can’t to-day. I shall be glad to converse with you on any other topic — discuss the ways of God to man, or any little interest of that kind. But unless I can see my way clearer to confidence between us in regard to my clients’ affairs than I do at present, I must avoid them.”

  It was absurd; but in his high good-will toward Adeline, and in his latent tenderness for Suzette, Matt was hurt by the lawyer’s distrust, somewhat as you are hurt when the cashier of a strange bank turns over your check and says you must bring some one to recognize you. It cost Matt a pang; it took him a moment to own that Putney was right. Then he said, “Of course, I must offer you proof somehow that I’ve come to you in good faith. I don’t know exactly how I shall be able to do it. Would the assurance of my friend, Mr. Wade, the rector of St. Michael’s—
”

  The name seemed to affect Putney pleasantly; he smiled, and then he said, “Brother Wade is a good man, and his words usually carry conviction, but this is a serious subject, Mr. Hilary.” He laughed, and concluded earnestly, “You must know that I can’t talk with you on any such authority. I couldn’t talk with Mr. Wade himself.”

  “No, no; of course not,” Matt assented; and he took himself off crestfallen, ashamed of his own short-sightedness.

  There was only one way out of the trouble, and now he blamed himself for not having tried to take that way at the outset. He had justified himself in shrinking from it by many plausible excuses, but he could justify himself no longer. He rejoiced in feeling compelled, as it were, to take it. At least, now, he should not be acting from any selfish impulse, and if there were anything unseemly in what he was going to do, he should have no regrets on that score, even in the shame of failure.

  XVII.

  Matt Hilary gave himself time, on his way to the Northwick place, or at least as much time as would pass between walking and driving, but that was because he was impatient, and his own going seemed faster to his nerves than that of the swiftest horse could have seemed. At the crest of the upland which divides Hatboro’ from South Hatboro’, and just beyond the avenue leading to Dr. Morrell’s house, he met Sue Northwick; she was walking quickly, too. She was in mourning, but she had put aside her long, crape veil, and she came towards him with her proud face framed in the black, and looking the paler for it; a little of her yellow hair showed under her bonnet. She moved imperiously, and Matt was afraid to think what he was thinking at sight of her. She seemed not to know him at first, or rather not to realize that it was he; when she did, a joyful light, which she did not try to hide from him, flashed over her visage; and “Mr. Hilary!” she said as simply and hospitably as if their last parting had not been on terms of enmity that nothing could clear up or explain away.

  He ran forward and caught her hand. “Oh, I am so glad,” he said. “I was going out to see you about something — very important; and I might have missed you.”

  “No. I was just coming to the doctor’s, and then I was going back. My sister isn’t at all well, and I thought she’d better see the doctor.”

  “It’s nothing serious, I hope?”

  “Oh, no. I think she’s a little worn out.”’

  “I know!” said Matt, with intelligence, and nothing more was said between them as to the cause or nature of Adeline’s sickness. Matt asked if he might go up the doctor’s avenue with her, and they walked along together under the mingling elm and maple tops, but he deferred the matter he wished to speak of. They found a little girl playing in the road near the house, and Sue asked, “Is your father at home, Idella?”

  “Mamma is at home,” said the child. She ran forward, calling toward the open doors and windows, “Mamma! Mamma! Here’s a lady!”

  “It isn’t their child,” Sue explained. “It’s the daughter of the minister who was killed on the railroad, here, a year or two ago — a very strange man, Mr. Peck.”

  “I have heard Wade speak of him,” said Matt.

  A handsome and very happy looking woman came to the door, and stilled the little one’s boisterous proclamation to the hoarse whisper of, “A lady! A lady!” as she took her hand; but she did not rebuke or correct her.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Morrell,” said Suzette, with rather a haughty distance; but Matt felt that she kept aloof with the pride of a person who comes from an infected house, and will not put herself at the risk of avoidance. “I wished to see Dr. Morrell about my sister. She isn’t well. Will you kindly ask him to call?”

  “I will send him as soon as he comes,” said Mrs. Morrell, giving Matt that glance of liking which no good woman could withhold. “Unless,” she added, “you would like to come in and wait for him.”

  “Thank you, no,” said Suzette. “I must go back to her. Good-by.”

  “Good-by!” said Mrs. Morrell.

  Matt raised his hat and silently bowed; but as they turned away, he said to Suzette, “What a happy face! What a lovely face! What a good face!”

  “She is a very good woman,” said the girl. “She has been very kind to us. But so has everybody. I couldn’t have believed it.” In fact, it was only the kindness of their neighbors that had come near the defaulter’s daughters; the harshness and the hate had kept away.

  “Why shouldn’t they be kind?” Matt demanded, with his heart instantly in his throat. “I can’t imagine — at such a time — Don’t you know that I love you?” he entreated, as if that exactly followed; there was, perhaps, a subtle spiritual sequence, transcending all order of logic in the expression of his passion.

  She looked at him over her shoulder as he walked by her side, and said, with neither surprise nor joy, “How can you say such a thing to me?”

  “Because it is true! Because I can’t help it! Because I wish to be everything to you, and I have to begin by saying that. But don’t answer me now; you need never answer me. I only wish you to use me as you would use some one who loved you beyond anything on earth, — as freely as that, and yet not be bound or hampered by me in the least. Can you do that? I mean, can you feel, ‘This is my best friend, the truest friend that any one can have, and I will let him do anything and everything he wishes for me.’ Can you do that, — say that?”

  “But how could I do that? I don’t understand you!” she said, faintly.

  “Don’t you? I am so glad you don’t drive me from you—”

  “I? You!”

  “I was afraid — But now we can speak reasonably about it; I don’t see why people shouldn’t. I know it’s shocking to speak to you of such a thing at such a time. It’s dreadful; and yet I can’t feel wrong to have done it! No! If it’s as sacred as it seems to me when I think of it, then it couldn’t be wrong in the presence of death itself. I do love you; and I want you some day for my wife. Yes! But don’t answer that now! If you never answer me, or if you deny me at last, still I want you to let me be your true lover, while I can, and to do everything that your accepted lover could, whether you ever look at me again or not. Couldn’t you do that?”

  “You know I couldn’t,” she answered, simply.

  “Couldn’t you?” he asked, and he fell into a forlorn silence, as if he could not say anything more. He forced her to take the word by asking, “Then you are offended with me?”

  “How could I be?”

  “Oh—”

  “It’s what any girl might be glad of—”

  “Oh, my—”

  “And I am not so silly as to think there can be a wrong time for it. If there were, you would make it right, if you chose it. You couldn’t do anything I should think wrong. And I — I — love you, too—”

  “Suzette! Suzette!” he called wildly, as if she were a great way off. It seemed to him his heart would burst. He got awkwardly before her, and tried to seize her hand.

  She slipped by him, with a pathetic “Don’t! But you know I never could be your wife. You know that.”

  “I don’t know it. Why shouldn’t you?”

  “Because I couldn’t bring my father’s shame on my husband.”

  “It wouldn’t touch me, any more than it touches you!”

  “It would touch your father and mother — and Louise.”

  “They all admire you and honor you. They think you’re everything that’s true and grand.”

  “Yes, while I keep to myself. And I shall keep to myself. I know how; and I shall not give way. Don’t think it!”

  “You will do what is right. I shall think that.”

  “Don’t praise me! I can’t bear it.”

  “But I love you, and how can I help praising you? And if you love me—”

  “I do. I do, with all my heart.” She turned and gave him an impassioned look from the height of her inapproachability.

  “Then I won’t ask you to be my wife, Suzette! I know how you feel; I won’t be such a liar as to pretend I don’t. And I
will respect your feeling, as the holiest thing on earth. And if you wish, we will be engaged as no other lovers ever were. You shall promise nothing but to let me help you all I can, for our love’s sake, and I will promise never to speak to you of our love again. That shall be our secret — our engagement. Will you promise?”

  “It will be hard for you,” she said, with a pitying look, which perhaps tried him as sorely as anything could.

  “Not if I can believe I am making it easy for you.”

  They walked along, and she said with averted eyes, that he knew had tears in them, “I promise.”

  “And I promise, too,” he said.

  She impulsively put out her left hand toward him, and he held its slim fingers in his right a moment, and then let it drop. They both honestly thought they had got the better of that which laughs from its innumerable disguises at all stratagems and all devices to escape it.

  “And now,” he said, “I want to talk to you about what brought me over here to-day. I thought at first that I was only going to see your lawyer.”

  XVIII.

  Matt felt that he need now no longer practise those reserves in speaking to Sue of her father, which he had observed so painfully hitherto. Neither did she shrink from the fact they had to deal with. In the trust established between them, they spoke of it all openly, and if there was any difference in them concerning it, the difference was in his greater forbearance toward the unhappy man. They both spoke of his wrong-doing as if it were his infirmity; they could not do otherwise; and they both insensibly assumed his irresponsibility in a measure; they dwelt in the fiction or the persuasion of a mental obliquity which would account for otherwise unaccountable things.

  “It is what my sister has always said,” Sue eagerly assented to his suggestion of this theory. “I suppose it’s what I’ve always believed, too, somehow, or I couldn’t have lived.”