I
NOTHING happened for nearly a week. Terry stayed at Hindhead; the
Karelsky sensation died down a little; and I, after my adventures at
Crewe and elsewhere, had no time to visit the End House. On Friday,
however, Severn telephoned me to come to dinner the next day, and by the
late evening post there came this note from June:
"DEAR HILTON,--I hear you are dining with us to-morrow, and I want you
to be on your guard. Father is sure to ask your advice about the
Karelsky affair. I've argued with him for hours over it, but it hasn't
seemed to be much use so far; and apparently he's rooted out some
discreditable part of K's past, which of course makes him keener than
ever on action. He likes Terry, and wants to help him, but it's so hard
to get him to understand how things are. I think, though, that if you
back me up, as you promised, we may just manage it. Yours,
"JUNE."
But I _hadn't_ promised! At least, I ransacked my memory for any word or
incident that might have given her such an impression, and I couldn't
find any.... Even when I sat down at Severn's table the next night, I
was by no means certain what I would do. There was nobody there but the
four of us. Helen was very quiet and June rather nervously subdued; only
Severn, in his febrile way, possessed any degree of vivacity. There was
something slightly horrible in the contrast between the intense activity
of his mind and the dead incapacity of his body. During dinner he talked
principally politics, but afterwards, when the servants had disappeared,
he announced his newest Karelsky discovery. It was pretty shady--some
business about a student whom Karelsky had tricked and who, in despair,
had drowned himself. The affair had been partially hushed up at the
time, but under Severn's skilled manipulation it could doubtless be made
to live again. "It's just the very thing we wanted," he exclaimed
rapturously. "Nothing could have been better--except a scandal about a
woman.... It's just possible we might even get a verdict--you never
know. Anyhow, we shall certainly achieve our object, which is, I take
it, to give our hero a good boost at the expense of our villain."
"No," said June quietly, and looked at me.
He smiled. "June," he went on, quite good-humouredly, "has some rather
peculiar ideas on the subject. May I assume that she has hammered them
into you as well as into me?"
She said (and I could feel before she said it, that it was what she was
going to say): "Yes, I've told Hilton what I think. And he agrees with
me, too. Absolutely."
"_What_?" And Severn laughed. "What's that? _Do_ you agree with her? Do
you agree that we should all do nothing and say nothing and let Karelsky
go on his way rejoicing?"
And the extraordinary thing is that I heard myself answering: "Well, you
know, there is something in what she says."
It astonished me; it was as if something sudden and impulsive jerked me
into position--into position by her side. I even began to argue the
matter--at first as an impromptu defender of something I wasn't very
certain about, but later on with conviction and even enthusiasm. I think
I made an impression on Severn, for he heard me very attentively. I
assured him that, from my own knowledge, Terry was quite ignorant of the
fact that he had been duped. "Not only that, but he's actually
delighted--because he sees that the work he did is really of value.
Probably the idea that he has any proprietary right to the results of
his own work has never occurred to him."
"And you don't want it to occur to him?"
"Well, as things are, I feel that I don't. The thought that's he's
scored such a success has worked a miracle with him, and one's always
rather afraid of a relapse after a miracle."
"Do you think he can possibly go on without knowing?"
"There's an odd chance that he might."
He made a grimace. "All these arguments, you know, Hilton, are June's.
I've heard them over and over again during the past week.... Haven't you
anything new--something you've only just thought of--something bright
and original--anything--anything--I don't care a damn what it is so long
as I haven't heard it before?"
I thought he was sneering until I saw his eyes. They were full of a
curious, child-like eagerness--an eagerness that almost _tore_ through
them. Something new--something bright and original--something he hadn't
heard before ... it was his heart-cry always.
I said: "I'm sorry. There isn't anything new to say. It's just that,
quite sincerely, June and I believe that the best service we can do for
Terry is to leave things alone."
"You've changed your mind, then, since the last time we talked about
it?"
"Yes, I have."
Then he said, quietly and almost casually: "Very well then, we'll drop
the matter."