Part 4 (2/2)
”That's Grinell, from the _Times_,” Barrow muttered sourly. ”Come on; let's get away from here. I suppose he's after you for an interview.
Everybody in Granville's talking about that legacy, it seems to me.”
Hazel turned in beside him silently. Right at the start she found herself resenting Barrow's tone, his manner. She had done nothing to warrant suspicion from him. But she loved him, and she hoped she could convince him that it was no more than a pa.s.sing unpleasantness, for which she was nowise to blame.
”Hang it!” Barrow growled, before they had traversed the first block.
”Here comes Grinell! I suppose that old cat of a landlady pointed us out. No dodging him now.”
”There's no earthly reason why I should dodge him, as you put it,”
Hazel replied stiffly. ”I'm not an escaped criminal.”
Barrow shrugged his shoulders in a way that made Hazel bring her teeth together and want to shake him.
Grinell by then was hurrying up with long strides. Hat in hand, he bowed to her. ”Miss Hazel Weir, I believe?” he interrogated.
”Yes,” she confirmed.
”I'm on the _Times_, Miss Weir,” Grinell went straight to the business in hand. ”You are aware, I presume, that Mr. Andrew Bush willed you a sum of money under rather peculiar conditions--that is, the bequest was worded in a peculiar way. Probably you have seen a reference to it in the papers. It has caused a great deal of interest. The _Times_ would be pleased to have a statement from you which will tend to set at rest the curiosity of the public. Some of the other papers have indulged in unpleasant innuendo. We would be pleased to publish your side of the matter. It would be an excellent way for you to quiet the nasty rumors that are going the rounds.”
”I have no statement to make,” Hazel said coolly. ”I am not in the least concerned with what the papers print or what the people say. I absolutely refuse to discuss the matter.”
Grinell continued to point out--with the persistence and persuasive logic of a good newspaper man bent on learning what his paper wants to know--the desirability of her giving forth a statement. And in the midst of his argument Hazel bade him a curt ”good evening” and walked on. Barrow kept step with her. Grinell gave it up for a bad job evidently, for he turned back.
They walked five blocks without a word. Hazel glanced at Barrow now and then, and observed with an uncomfortable sinking of her heart that he was sullen, openly resentful, suspicious.
”Johnnie-boy,” she said suddenly, ”don't look so cross. Surely you don't blame me because Mr. Bush wills me a sum of money in a way that makes people wonder?”
”I can't understand it at all,” he said slowly. ”It's very peculiar--and deucedly unpleasant. Why should he leave you money at all? And why should he word the will as he did? What wrong did he ever do you?”
”None,” Hazel answered shortly. His tone wounded her, cut her deep, so eloquent was it of distrust. ”The only wrong he has done me lies in willing me that money as he did.”
”But there's an explanation for that,” Barrow declared moodily.
”There's a key to the mystery, and if anybody has it you have. What is it?”
”Jack,” Hazel pleaded, ”don't take that tone with me. I can't stand it--I won't. I'm not a little child to be scolded and browbeaten.
This morning when you telephoned you were almost insulting, and it hurt me dreadfully. You're angry now, and suspicious. You seem to think I must have done some dreadful thing. I know what you're thinking. The _Gazette_ hinted at some 'affair' between me and Mr. Bush; that possibly that was a sort of left-handed reparation for ruining me. If that didn't make me angry, it would amuse me--it's so absurd. Haven't you any faith in me at all? I haven't done anything to be ashamed of.
I've got nothing to conceal.”
”Don't conceal it, then,” Barrow muttered sulkily. ”I've got a right to know whatever there is to know if I'm going to marry you. You don't seem to have any idea what this sort of talk that's going around means to a man.”
Hazel stopped short and faced him. Her heart pounded sickeningly, and hurt pride and rising anger choked her for an instant. But she managed to speak calmly, perhaps with added calmness by reason of the struggle she was compelled to make for self-control.
”If you are going to marry me,” she repeated, ”you have got a right to know all there is to know. Have I refused to explain? I haven't had much chance to explain yet. Have I refused to tell you anything? If you ever thought of anybody beside yourself, you might be asking yourself how all this talk would affect a girl like me. And, besides, I think from your manner that you've already condemned me--for what?
Would any reasonable explanation make an impression on you in your present frame of mind? I don't want to marry you if you can't trust me. Why, I couldn't--I _wouldn't_--marry you any time, or any place, under those conditions, no matter how much I may foolishly care for you.”
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