I felt sorry for Helen then. We were all bewildered, but for her alone
bewilderment was defeat. And Terry hardly noticing her, smoked his pipe,
as if embarrassed rather than upset by the turn that events had taken.
It was Severn who took up the cross-examination, but did it so calmly
and sympathetically that even Terry's embarrassment was soon dispelled.
Apparently he had had an idea that Karelsky "might have stolen" his
work. He hadn't troubled much about it because what really mattered to
him most of all was the revelation that his work was sound. "Sound
enough to be stolen?" interposed Severn, and Terry replied smilingly:
"Yes, if you like. Only really, you know, you can't steal _work_, can
you? It's just _done_, and it doesn't very much matter who does it."
"It's easy enough to steal credit," said Severn.
"Credit? Yes, but who wants that? I should hate all this newspaper
puffing--it would worry me. It's just as well Karelsky's saved me from
it. If he'd asked me I'd have given him full permission to do all he has
done.... And besides, do I deserve credit? I'd done all that work, and
yet I hadn't enough confidence in it or myself to make it public. The
world owes something to Karelsky."
"And you may be sure Karelsky will collect the debt in full," replied
Severn.
Then June said laughingly: "Do you know, Terry, father had a wonderful
idea that you should bring an action against Karelsky for theft or
plagiarism, or whatever it is, and that he--father, I mean--would take
up your case in court? It would have been rather fine, wouldn't it?"
"So fine," interposed Severn, "that the very ushers would have wept at
my eloquence."
Perhaps it was as well to make a joke of it like that. June and her
father were in some strange and mystic harmony--I had never been so
certain of it as then. They laughed and chattered and made witticisms,
and all the time Terry was growing younger and happier before their
eyes. The Karelsky business didn't really matter; you had only to look
at him to see that. "It's what's done in the world that matters, not who
does it," was his way of summing it all up.
It was a happy ending--for all of us except Helen. She stayed, pale and
silent, for a while, and then suddenly whispered something to Severn and
went out of the room. He told us afterwards, with perhaps the faintest
touch of cynicism, that she had begged to be excused owing to a bad
headache.
And the conversation went on....