XIX.

Putney accepted Suzette's authorization of Matt with apparent

unconsciousness of anything but its immediate meaning, and they talked

Pinney's scheme intimately over together. In the end, it still remained

a question whether the energies of such an investigator could be

confined to the discovery of Northwick's whereabouts; whether his

newspaper instincts would not be too strong for any sense of personal

advantage that could be appealed to in him. They both believed that it

would not be long before Northwick followed up the publication of his

letter by some communication with his family.

But time began to go by again, and Northwick made no further sign; the

flurry of activity which his letter had called out in the detectives

came to nothing. Their search was not very strenuous; Northwick's

creditors were of various minds as to the amount of money he had carried

away with him. Every one knew that if he chose to stay in Canada, he

could not be molested there; and it seemed very improbable that he could

be persuaded to put himself within reach of the law. The law had no

terms to offer him, and there was really nothing to be done.

Putney forecast all this in his talk with Matt, when he held that they

must wait Northwick's motion. He professed himself willing to wait as

long as Northwick chose, though he thought they would not have to wait

long, and he contended for a theory of the man's whole performance which

he said he should like to have tested before a jury.

Matt could not make out how much he really meant by saying that

Northwick could be defended very fairly on the ground of insanity; and

that he would enjoy managing such a defence. It was a common thing to

show that a murderer was insane; why not a defaulter? Tilted back in his

chair, with one leg over the corner of his table, and changing the

tobacco in his mouth from one cheek to the other as he talked, the

lawyer outlined the argument which he said could be made very effective.

There was the fact to begin with, that Northwick was a very wealthy man,

and had no need of more money when he began to speculate; Putney held

that this want of motive could be made a strong point; and that the

reckless, almost open, way in which Northwick used the company's money,

when he began to borrow, was proof in itself of unsound mind: apparently

he had no sense whatever of _meum_ and _tuum_, especially _tuum_. Then,

the total collapse of the man when he was found out; his flight without

an effort to retrieve himself, although his shortage was by no means

hopelessly vast, and could have been almost made up by skilful use of

the credit that Northwick could command, was another evidence of shaken

reason. But besides all this, there was his behavior since he left home.

He had been absent nearly five months, and in that time he had made no

attempt whatever to communicate with his family, although he must have

known that it was perfectly safe for him to do so. He was a father who

was almost dotingly fond of his children, and singularly attached to his

home; yet he had remained all that time in voluntary exile, and he had

left them in entire uncertainty as to his fate except so far as they

could accept the probability of his death by a horrible casualty. This

inversion of the natural character of a man was one of the most striking

phenomena of insanity, and Putney, for the purpose of argument,

maintained that it could be made to tell tremendously with a jury.

Matt was unable to enjoy the sardonic metaphysics of the case with

Putney. He said gravely that he had been talking of the matter with Dr.

Morrell, and he had no doubt that there was a taint of insanity in every

wrong-doer; some day he believed the law would take cognizance of the

fact.

"I don't suppose the time is quite ripe yet, though I think I could make

out a strong case for Brother Northwick," said Putney. He seemed to

enter into it more fully, as if he had a mischievous perception of

Matt's uneasiness, and chose to torment him; but then apparently he

changed his mind, and dealt with other aspects of their common interest

so seriously and sympathetically, that Matt parted from him with a

regret that he could not remove the last barrier between them, and tell

the lawyer that he concerned himself so anxiously in the affairs of that

wretched defaulter because his dearest hope was that the daughter of the

criminal would some day be his wife.

But Matt felt that this fact must first be confided to those who were

nearest him; and how to shape it in terms that would convey the fact and

yet hide the repulsiveness he knew in it, was the question that teased

him all the way back to Vardley, like some tiresome riddle. He

understood why his love for Suzette Northwick must be grievous to his

father and mother; how embarrassing, how disappointing, how really in

some sort disastrous; and yet he felt that if there was anything more

sacred than another in the world for him, it was that love, he must be

true to it at whatever cost, and in every event, and he must begin by

being perfectly frank with those whom it would afflict, and confessing

to himself all its difficulties and drawbacks. He was not much afraid of

dealing with his father; they were both men, and they could look at it

from the man's point of view. Besides, his father really cared little

what people would say; after the first fever of disgust, if he did not

change wholly and favor it vehemently, he would see so much good in it

that he would be promptly and finally reconciled.

But Matt knew that his mother was of another make, and that the blow

would be much harder for her to bear; his problem was how to lighten it.

Sometimes he thought he had better not try to lighten it, but let it

fall at once, and trust to her affection and good sense for the rest.

But when he found himself alone with her that night, he began by making

play and keeping her beyond reach. He was so lost in this perverse

effort that he was not aware of some such effort on her part, till she

suddenly dropped it, and said, "Matt, there is something I wish to speak

to you about--very seriously."

His heart jumped into his throat, but he said "Well?" and she went on.

"Louise tells me that you think of bringing this young man down to the

shore with you when you come to see us next week."

"Maxwell? I thought the change might do him good; yes," said Matt, with

a cowardly joy in his escape from the worst he feared. He thought she

was going to speak to him of Suzette.

She said, "I don't wish you to bring him. I don't wish Louise to see him

again after she leaves this place--ever again. She is fascinated with

him."

"Fascinated?"

"I can't call it anything else. I don't say that she's in love; but

there's no question but she's allowed her curiosity to run wild, and her

fancy to be taken; the two strongest things in her--in most girls. I

want to break it all up."

"But do you think--"

"I _know_. It isn't that she's with him at every moment, but that her

thoughts are with him when they're apart. He puzzles her; he piques her;

she's always talking and asking about him. It's their difference in

everything that does it. I don't mean to say that her heart is touched,

and I don't intend it shall be. So, you mustn't ask him to the shore

with you, and if you've asked him already, you must get out of it. If

you think he needs sea air, you can get him board at some of the

resorts. But not near us." She asked, in default of any response from

her son, "You _don't_ think, Matt, it would be well for the acquaintance

to go on?"

"No, I don't mother; you're quite right as to that," said Matt, "if

you're not mistaken in supposing--"

"I'm not; you may depend upon it. And I'm glad you can see the matter

from my point of view. It is all very well for you to have your queer

opinions, and even to live them. I think it's all ridiculous; but your

father and I both respect you for your sincerity, though your course has

been a great disappointment to us."

"I know that, mother," said Matt, groaning in spirit to think how much

worse the disappointment he was meditating must be, and feeling himself

dishonest and cowardly, through and through.

"But I feel sure," Mrs. Hilary went on, "that when it's a question of

your sister, you would wish her life to be continued on the same plane,

and in the surroundings she had always been used to."

"I should think that best, certainly, for a girl of Louise's ideas,"

said Matt, trying to get his own to the surface.

"Ideas!" cried his mother. "She _has_ no ideas. She merely has impulses,

and her impulses are to do what people wish. But her education and

breeding have been different from those of such a young man, and she

would be very unhappy with him. They never could quite understand each

other, no matter how much they were in love. I know he is very talented,

and all that; and I shouldn't at all mind his being poor. I never minded

Cyril Wade's being poor, when I thought he had taken her fancy, because

he was one of ourselves; and this young man--Matt, you _can't_ pretend,

that with all his intellectual qualities, he's what one calls a

gentleman. With his origin and bringing up; his coarse experiences; all

his trials and struggles; even with his successes, he couldn't be; and

Louise could not be happy with him for that very reason. He might have

all the gifts, all the virtues, under the sun; I don't deny that he

has--"

"He has some very serious faults," Matt interrupted.

"We all have," said Mrs. Hilary, tolerantly. "But he might be a perfect

saint--a hero--a martyr, and if he wasn't what one calls a gentleman,

don't you see? We can't be frank about such things, here, because we

live in a republic; but--"

"We get there, just the same," said Matt, with unwonted slang.

"Yes," said his mother. "That is what I mean."

"And you're quite right, as to the facts, mother." He got up, and began

to walk about the long, low living-room of the farmhouse where they were

sitting. Louise had gone to direct her maid in packing for her flitting

to the seaside in the morning; Matt could see a light in the ell-chamber

where Maxwell was probably writing. "The self-made man can never be the

society equal of the society-made man. He may have more brains, more

money, more virtue, but he's a kind of inferior, and he betrays his

inferiority in every worldly exigency. And if he's successful, he's so

because he's been stronger, fiercer, harder than others in the battle of

life. That's one reason why I say that there oughtn't to _be_ any battle

of life. Maxwell has the defects of his disadvantages--I see that. He's

often bitter, and cynical, and cruel because he has had to fight for his

bread. He isn't Louise's social equal; I quite agree with you there,

mother; and if she wants to live for society, he would be always in

danger of wounding her by his inferiority to other people of her sort.

I'm sorry for Maxwell, but I don't pity him, especially. He bears the

penalty of his misfortunes; but he is strong enough to bear it. Let him

stand it! But there are others--weaker, unhappier--Mother! You haven't

asked me yet about--the Northwicks." Matt stopped in front of her chair,

and looked down into her lifted face, where the satisfaction his

acquiescence in her views concerning Louise was scarcely marred by her

perception that he had not changed his mind at all on other points. She

was used to his way of thinking, and she gratefully resolved to be more

and more patient with it, and give him time for the change that was sure

to come. She interpreted the look of stormy wistfulness he wore as an

expression of his perplexity in the presence of the contradictory facts

and theories.

"No," she said, "I expected to do that. You know I've seen them so very

lately, and with this about Louise on my mind--How are they? That poor

Adeline--I'm afraid it's killing her. Were you able to do anything for

them?"

"Ah, I don't know," the young man sighed. "They have to suffer for their

misfortunes, too."

"It seems to be the order of Providence," said Mrs. Hilary, with the

resignation of the philosophical spectator.

"No!" Matt protested. "It's the disorder of improvidence. There's

nothing of the Divine will in consequences so unjust and oppressive.

Those women are perfectly innocent; they've only wished to do right, and

tried to do it; but they're under a ban the same as if they had shared

their father's guilt. They have no friends--"

"Well, Matt," said his mother, with dignity, "I think you can hardly say

that. I'm sure that as far as we are concerned, we have nothing to

reproach ourselves with. I think we've gone to the extreme to show our

good-will. How much further do you want us to go? Come; I don't like

your saying this!"

"I beg your pardon. I certainly don't blame you, or Louise, or father. I

blame myself--for cowardice--for--for unworthiness in being afraid to

say--to tell you--Mother," he burst out suddenly, after a halt, "I've

asked Suzette Northwick to marry me."

Matt had tried to imagine himself saying this to his mother, and the

effect it would have, ever since he had left Suzette's absorbing

presence; all through his talk with Putney, and all the way home, and

now throughout what he and his mother had been saying of Maxwell and

Louise. But it always seemed impossible, and more and more impossible,

so that when he found the words spoken in his own voice, it seemed

wholly incredible.