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.