Part 48 (1/2)
”Suppose I have. The 'Clarion' hasn't.”
”Isn't that rather a fine distinction?”
”On the contrary. Personally, I might refrain from saying anything about it. Journalistically, how can I? It's the business of the 'Clarion' to give the news. More than that: it's the honor of the 'Clarion.'”
”But what possible good will it do?”
”If it did no other good, it would warn other reckless drivers.”
”Let the police look to that. It's their business.”
”You know that the police dare do nothing to the daughter of Elias M.
Pierce. See here, Partner,”--Hal's tone grew gentle,--”don't you recall, in that long talk we had about the paper, one afternoon, how you backed me up when I told you what I meant to do in the way of making the 'Clarion' honest and clean and strong enough to be straight in its att.i.tude toward the public? Why, you've been the inspiration of all that I've been trying to do. I thought that was the true Esme. Wasn't it? Was I wrong? You're not going back on me, now?”
”But she's so young,” pleaded Esme, s.h.i.+fting her ground before this attack. ”She doesn't think. She's never had to think. Your article makes her look a--a murderess. It isn't fair. It isn't true, really. If you could have seen her here, so frightened, so broken. She cried in my arms. I told her it shouldn't be printed. I promised.”
Here was the Great American Pumess at bay, and suddenly splendid in her att.i.tude of protectiveness. In that moment, she had all but broken Hal's resolution. He rose and walked over to the window, to clear his thought of the overpowering appeal of her loveliness.
”How can I--” he began, coming back: but paused because she was holding out to him the proof. Across it, in pencil, was written, ”Must not,” and the initials, E.S.M.E.
”Kill it,” she urged softly.
”And my honesty with it.”
”Oh, no. It can't be so fatal, to be kind for once. Let her off, poor child.”
Hal stood irresolute.
”If it were I?” she insisted softly.
”If it were you, would you ask it?”
”I shouldn't have to. I'd trust you.”
The sweetness of it shook him. But he still spoke steadily.
”Others trust me, now. The men in the office. Trust me to be honest.”
Again she felt the solid wall of character blocking her design, and within herself raged and marveled, and more deeply, admired. Resentment was uppermost, however. Find a way through that barrier she must and would. Whatever scruples may have been aroused by his appeal to her she banished. No integer of the impressionable s.e.x had ever yet won from her such a battle. None ever should: and a.s.suredly not this one. The Great American Pumess was now all feline.
She leaned forward to him. ”You promised.”
”I?”
”Have you forgotten?”
”I have never forgotten one word that has pa.s.sed between us since I first saw you.”
”Ah; but when was that?”
”Seven weeks ago to-day, at the station.”