Part 22 (1/2)
He folded the telegram, laid it at Hammerton's elbow, got up and stood with his hands on the back of his chair, looking down. At the thought that he had ever hoped to call the reporter off, to stop this deadly machinery of journalism, once it had been started, he could have laughed. The _Daily_ telegram showed how impossible that had always been. Now it was suddenly and overwhelmingly plain that to force a fight on Hammerton, which had been his favorite purpose from the beginning, even to seize and lock him up, would be of no avail whatever.
Other reporters in endless procession, waited behind him, ready to step into his place; and the pitiless machinery, in which he, Varney, happened to be caught at the moment, would go steadily grinding on till it had crushed out the heart of the hidden truth.
He saw no way out at all. His mind revolved at fever heat, while he said calmly: ”Go back to your employers, Mr. Hammerton, and report that you have no story to sell them. Say further that since they knowingly printed a lying slander about me this morning, you, as an honorable man, insist upon their making full retractions and apologies to-morrow.”
Hammerton, who had taken his interview as a foregone conclusion, looked momentarily astounded; but on top of that his manner changed again, to meet Varney's changed one, in the wink of an eye.
”You can't mean,” he said briskly, ignoring Varney's last remark entirely, ”that you decline to make a statement for our readers?”
”Why should I encourage your readers to stick their infernal noses into my business?”
”For your own sake, Mr. Varney--because everybody has started asking questions. To refuse to answer them, from your point of view, is the worst thing you could do. As you know, newspapers always have other sources of information, and also ways of making intelligent guesses.
While these guesses are usually surprisingly accurate, it sometimes happens that we work out a theory that is a whole lot worse than the truth.”
”Of course,” said Varney, with sudden absentness. ”That's the way you sell your dirty papers, is n't it?”
”Mr. Varney, why did you come--?” began Hammerton, but stopped short, perceiving that the other no longer listened, and quite content to leave him to a little reflection.
For Varney, struck by a thought so new that it was overwhelming, had unexpectedly turned away. He leaned upon the rail and looked out over the blue, sunny water. A brilliant plan had flashed into his mind--a big daring plan which, far more than anything else he had thought of, might be effective and final. Instead of making an enemy of Hammerton, which could accomplish nothing, it would turn him into a champion, which meant victory.
It was a desperate solution, but it was a solution.
After all, what else remained? To dismiss the boy with nothing would be to send him straight to the Carstairs house with no one knew what results. To manhandle him would be simply to start another sleuth on the trail. But this plan, if it worked, would avoid that, and every other, risk of trouble. And if it failed, he would be no worse off than he was now; for in that case he would not allow Hammerton to go back to the _Gazette_ at all that day.
He dropped his cigarette over the side, turned and found the eye of the press firmly fastened upon him.
”Mr. Varney,” said Hammerton, with swift acuteness, ”maybe I'm not as bad a fellow as you think. Why can't you trust me with this story--of what brought you to Hunston, and what made you run away this morning and hide? If it's really something that newspapers haven't got anything to do with, I'll go straight back to the office and make them leave you alone. Oh, I have enough influence to do it, all right! And if it's something different and--well, a little unusual, I'll promise to put you in the best light possible. Why don't you trust me with it?”
”Well,” said Varney with a stormy smile, ”suppose I do, then!”
”Good!” cried Hammerton cordially, observing him, however, with some intentness. ”Honestly, it's the very best thing you could do.”
Varney rested upon the back of his chair again and stood staring down at the reporter for some time in silence.
”Mr. Hammerton,” he began presently, ”I know that the great majority of newspaper men are fair and honorable and absolutely trustworthy. I know that it is a part of their capital to be able to keep a secret as well as to print one. For this reason, I have upon reflection decided to confide--certain facts to you, feeling sure that they will never go any further--”
”Of course, Mr. Varney,” the reporter interrupted, ”you understand that I can't make any promises in advance.”
”Let the risk be mine,” said Varney. ”I am certain that when you have heard what I have to tell you, you will report to your papers that my 'mysterious errand' turns out to be simply a matter of personal and private business, with which the public has no concern, and whose publication at this time would hopelessly ruin it. Mr. Hammerton, I came to Hunston to see Miss Mary Carstairs.”
A gleam came into Hammerton's eye. Varney, watching that observant feature, knew that no detail of his story, or of his manner in telling it, would escape a most critical scrutiny.
”The fewer particulars the better,” he said grimly. ”I shall tell the substance because that seems now, after all, the best way to protect the interests of those concerned. Mr. Hammerton, as the _Daily_ told you, Mr. Carstairs and his wife have separated, though they are still on friendly terms with each other. Their only child remains with the mother. Mr. Carstairs is getting old. He is naturally an affectionate man, and he is very lonely. In short, he has become most anxious to have his daughter spend part of her time with him. Mrs. Carstairs entirely approves of this. The daughter, however, absolutely refuses to leave her mother, feeling, it appears, that nothing is due her father from her.
Arguments are useless. Well, what is to be done? Mr. Carstairs, because his great need of his daughter grows upon him, conceives an unusual plan. He will send an amba.s.sador to Hunston--unaccredited, of course, a man, young, not married, who--don't think me a c.o.xcomb--but who might be able to arouse the daughter's interest. This amba.s.sador is to go on Mr. Carstairs's own yacht, the name, of course, being erased, so that the daughter may not recognize it. He is to meet the young lady, cultivate her, make friends with her--all without letting her dream that he comes from her father, for that would ruin everything. And, then--”
He broke off, paused, considered. In Hammerton's eye he saw a light which meant sympathy, kindly consideration, human interest. He knew that the battle was half won. He had only to say: ”And then talk to her about her poor old father, who loves her, and who is growing old in a big house all by himself; and tell her how he needs her so sorely that old grudges ought to be forgotten; and ask her, in the name of common kindness, to come down and pay him a visit before it is too late.” He had only to say that, and he knew, for he read it in Hammerton's whole softened expression, that the boy would go away with his lips locked.
But he couldn't say that, the reason being that it was not true.
”And then,” he said, with a truthfulness so bold that he was sure the reporter would not follow it, ”and then--don't you see? he is to try to _make_ her go down to New York and pay a visit to that lonely old father who needs her so badly. Since she is so obstinate about it, he must find some way to _make_ her go before it is too late. _Now_ do you understand, Mr. Hammerton? _Now_ do you perceive why the thought of having all this pitiful story scareheaded in a penny paper is insufferable to me?”