Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “If you would give me a hint about the subjects. Historical? One or two names would be very useful.”

  “Really I do not think that any of us care to see our names in the paper,” said Brett.

  “I will be as discreet as you wish — Mr.—”

  “My name is Brett.”

  “Mr. Brett,” repeated the reporter, making a note. “May I inquire, Mr. Brett, if you yourself take a part in the entertainment?”

  “Well — yes — I do.”

  “Any particular costume?”

  “Yes—” Brett hesitated slightly and smiled. “Yes. Particular costumes are rather the rule in tableaux.”

  “I do not wish to be indiscreet, of course.”

  “No, I daresay not. I believe I am to be Darnley.”

  “Thank you.” Here Mr. Wood made another note. “Miss Maylands as Queen Mary Stuart? Is the report correct?”

  “I believe so,” answered Brett, coldly.

  “Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Brett. If you could oblige me with one or two more names I could fix it nicely.”

  “I suppose, Mr. Wood, that you mean to say something about it whether I tell you or not?”

  “Well, now, Mr. Brett,” replied the reporter, assuming a more confidential manner, “to be quite frank, that is just what happens. We do not like to tire people out with questions they do not care to answer, but the social column has to be filled somehow, and if we do not get the news for it, it is sometimes made up in the office.”

  “So I have often been led to believe from reading it,” said Brett. “There are to be three tableaux, from well-known pictures, in which Miss Maylands, Mr. Russell Vanbrugh, myself, and a few others are to take part. The affair is to take place, I think, at Mrs. Trehearne’s house.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brett. Dancing afterwards?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Pardon me. Supper furnished by Delmonico, I suppose?”

  “Well I really have not asked. I daresay.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brett. Delmonico.” Mr. Wood’s pencil noted the fact. Brett began to think that he had had enough of the interview, and deliberately lighting a cigarette looked at the reporter. “Anything else you would like to know, Mr. Wood?”

  “Well, since you have been so very obliging, Mr. Brett, I would like to ask you a question.”

  “All right,” said Brett, resignedly. “Go ahead.”

  “Mrs. Darche is a widow, I understand.”

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Darche was the unfortunate victim of an accident several months ago, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then of course there can be no truth in the story that he arrived in New York yesterday?”

  “What story?” Brett asked, turning sharply upon the young man.

  “I thought perhaps you might have seen it in this morning’s paper,” answered Wood quietly. “But perhaps you would not have noticed it, as there was a misprint in the name. A man came to the office yesterday and told the editor in charge that Mr. John Darche, who fell overboard last spring from a steamer, and was supposed to have been drowned, had turned up, and that he had seen him. I guess he was a crank. There are lots of them hanging around the office, and sometimes they get a drink for a bit of sensation.”

  “Oh! is that the way news is manufactured?” inquired Brett, with some contempt.

  “Not in our office, Mr. Brett,” replied the reporter, drawing himself up. “You can see for yourself that we only get our information from the most reliable sources. If that were not so, I should not have disturbed you to-day. But as there is no doubt in your mind that Mr. Darche is positively dead, I daresay that Mrs. Darche would be glad to have the report of her husband’s return contradicted?”

  “I do not think it matters much, since the name was printed Drake.”

  “Pardon me,” said Wood. “Some of the papers printed it correctly, and others are going to do so. I just saw two gentlemen from an evening paper, and they have got it straight for this afternoon.”

  “You do not mean to say that the papers believe the story?” asked Brett in real or affected surprise.

  “Oh no, Mr. Brett, they give it for what it is worth.”

  “With headlines a foot high, I suppose?”

  “Well, perhaps some of the papers will do so,” answered the young man with a smile.

  Brett’s manner changed as he realised that he could not afford to let the reporter take away a wrong impression. He sat down and pointed to a chair. “Take a cigarette, Mr. Wood.”

  “No, I thank you, I do not smoke. Thank you.”

  Mr. Wood sat down upon the edge of the chair beside Brett, who looked at him fixedly for a moment before speaking. “I do not suppose that it is necessary for me to repeat that this story is an absurd fabrication, and that if there is a man who is going about and calling himself John Darche, he ought to be in jail.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Brett, I am quite of that opinion.”

  “Then would you mind helping me to get hold of him? Where is the man to be heard of?”

  “That is another matter, Mr. Brett. I shall be happy to see that the report is denied. But whether the man is an impostor or not, it will be hard to find him. That will not matter. We will explain everything to-morrow morning, and it will all be forgotten by the next day. You say you are quite sure, Mr. Brett, that Mr. Darche was not picked up when he fell overboard?”

  “Sure!” answered Brett, authoritatively.

  “I see,” said Wood. “Thank you. I understand that it was in winter, in rough weather, and that the efforts made to save him were in vain.”

  “On the contrary, it was a calm, warm night in May. It is certainly strange that they should not have been able to save him. That ought to prove beyond question that he sank at once.”

  “There is no doubt about that, I should think,” replied the reporter without much conviction. “I won’t detain you any longer, Mr. Brett. The report shall be denied at once. Will you allow me to use your name as authority for these details?”

  “Everybody knows the story.”

  “Pardon me. Our paper has a very large circulation in the West, and a well-known name like yours lends great weight to any statement.”

  “I did not know that my name was so particularly well known,” observed Brett.

  “Why, certainly, Mr. Brett. Your yacht won a race last year. I remember it very well.”

  “That might be a claim to distinction, but I never had a yacht.”

  “Not fond of the sea, Mr. Brett?”

  “Oh, yes, I like it well enough,” said Brett, rising, as though he wished it understood that the interview was at an end. “You will distinctly deny this report, will you not?”

  “You can rely upon me to say just what you have said to me, Mr. Brett.”

  “Very well. Thank you. Then you will be good enough to say that there is not a word of truth in it, and warn people against the man who calls himself Darche?”

  “Certainly, certainly. Thank you, Mr. Brett. Good morning, Mr. Brett.”

  “Good morning.”

  Brett followed the reporter with his eyes till the door closed behind him. He felt as though he had distinctly got the worst of it in the encounter, and yet he could not see how he could have said less. And that was how stories got about, he thought. If he had not seen the reporter, — if the latter had been turned away as Mrs. Darche had intended, the story of Darche’s return would have been reported again and again. That, at least, thought Brett, was prevented for the present.

  Nevertheless, as he stood alone during those few moments before sending word to Marion that the reporter was gone, Brett’s face betrayed his terrible anxiety. He hesitated. More than once his hand went out towards the bell and dropped again by his side. At last he made up his mind, touched the button, and sent Stubbs with his message to Mrs. Darche.

  “Well?” she asked as she entered the room.

  “It is all right,” he answered. “It was about the chari
ty tableaux. I did not want to go away without seeing you, so I sent Stubbs—”

  “You are not going this moment?” Marion looked at him in surprise.

  She was further than ever from understanding him. He seemed to act suddenly and irrationally. A quarter of an hour earlier he had been almost his old self, in spite of his strange references to a mystery which he could not communicate to her, and now he had changed again and resumed the incomprehensible manner he had affected of late. He seemed anxious to get away from her, even at the cost of seeming rude. Then, as he held out his hand to say good-bye, he surprised her more than ever.

  “If you will allow me,” he said, “I will come back in the course of the afternoon.”

  “Certainly,” she answered, staring at him as she shook hands.

  A moment later he was gone, leaving Marion in considerable perplexity and some anxiety of mind.

  When Brett left the house he went in search of Vanbrugh, whom he ultimately found at a club. The conversation which had taken place between three men who were spending the long afternoon between letter-writing, the papers, and gossip, is worth recording.

  It was about five o’clock. The names of the men were Goss, Greene, and Bewlay, and they were rather insignificant persons, but gentlemen, and all acquainted with the actors of this story. Goss was seated in a deep leathern easy-chair with a paper. Greene was writing a letter, and Bewlay was exceedingly busy with a cigar while waiting for some one to say something.

  “Well!” exclaimed Goss. “That beats the record!”

  “I say,” said Greene, looking up and speaking sharply, “I wish you would not startle a fellow in that way. My nerves are not of the best any way. What is the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular,” said the first speaker. “John Darche has come back to life again. I thought he was drowned last May.”

  “Stuff!” ejaculated Greene, testily.

  “All right. I do not want to disturb your correspondence.”

  “What is that about John Darche?” inquired Bewlay, delighted at hearing a voice.

  “Some rubbish or other,” answered Goss. “It is the fashion to resurrect people nowadays — sort of way the newspapers have of getting ahead of the day of judgment. If this goes on, that entertainment will not draw.”

  “What is it, any way?”

  “Headlines to begin with. ‘The return of the prodigal — John W. Darche, alive and asking questions. Accident — not suicide — interview with Mr. Henry C. Brett.’”

  “What the dickens has Brett got to do with it?” asked Greene, looking up from his letter again.

  “They say he is engaged to marry Mrs. Darche,” said Bewlay, in explanation.

  “That is another ridiculous story,” answered Greene. “I happen to know he is as good as engaged to Miss Maylands.”

  “Let me see the paper, please,” said Bewlay.

  “No, I will read it,” said Goss, shifting his position so as to get a better light. “Then you can all hear. ‘Our reporter called this afternoon at the house of Mrs. John W. Darche, the beautiful and accomplished widow who so long dispensed her hospitality in Lexington Avenue. The beauteous lady was doubtless engaged in the consideration of the costumes for certain charity tableaux in which her mourning prevents her from taking a part, but in which her artistic taste and advice are invaluable to the performers, and our reporter was received by Mr. Henry C. Brett, the well-known lawyer, yachtsman, and patron of the turf, who is to play the part of Darnley to Miss Maylands’ Queen Mary of Scotland in the artistic treat which awaits the favoured and charitable to whom invitations have been tendered. Mr. Brett was kind enough to answer a few questions regarding the report of Mr. John Darche’s return to New York which appeared in the morning papers. Mr. Brett affected to treat the story with unconcern, but it was evident from his anxious manner and from his somewhat nervous bearing that he was deeply moved, though he bravely “took arms against the sea of troubles.” Mr. Brett said repeatedly in the course of the conversation that the story was an absurd fabrication, and if there was a man going around calling himself John Darche he ought to be in jail. He professed to be quite sure that Mr. Darche was dead, but was obliged to admit that there was no evidence forthcoming to certify to the tragedy. “The accident,” said Mr. Brett, “happened on board of a channel steamer more than seven months ago. It was a calm, warm night in May. Two ladies were lying in their chairs on the quarter-deck engaged in conversation. Suddenly in the mysterious gloom they noticed the muffled figure of a gentleman passenger leaning over the rail hard by them. A moment later the figure was gone. There was a dull splash and all was over. They at once realised the horrid situation and cried aloud for help, but there seems to have been no one else on deck in that part of the boat. Many minutes elapsed before they could explain what they had seen, and the necessary orders were given for stopping the steamer. The Captain then retraced his course, lowered a number of boats, and every effort was made to prosecute the search until far into the night when the steamer, which carried mails, was reluctantly obliged to resume her way. His body,” said Mr. Brett in conclusion, “was never found.” Mr. Brett, as was very natural, was more than anxious that the report should be denied, but in the face of the facts he himself stated with such pellucid clearness, it is impossible to say conscientiously that the story of Mr. Darche’s return may not be true. The fact remains that a gentleman whose name is undoubtedly Darche is now in New York, and if he is really Mr. John Darche of Lexington Avenue, steps will be taken to set all doubts at rest before twenty-four hours have expired.’ I daresay you are not surprised at my exclamation now, after reading that,” said Goss, looking round at his hearers. “Pretty serious for Brett.”

  “Pretty serious for Mrs. Darche,” observed Greene.

  “Pretty serious for everybody,” said Bewlay, smoking thoughtfully.

  “That is,” suggested Greene, “if it is not all a fake, which is probably the truth about it.”

  “Has anybody seen Brett here?” inquired Goss.

  At this point the conversation was interrupted by the entry of Mr. Brown, who was also a member of the club.

  “Is Brett here?” he asked, looking about.

  “Just what I was asking,” answered Goss. “I suppose you have seen this?”

  “About Darche? Yes. I am afraid it is true.”

  “What! You do not believe it?” Greene was the most sceptical of the party.

  “Have you seen him?” asked Bewlay.

  “No,” answered Mr. Brown. “I have not seen him, but I mean to before long. This is much too serious to be flying about in the papers like this. Imagine what would happen if it fell into Mrs. Darche’s hands. Why it is enough to kill any ordinary woman on the spot! To think that that infernal blackguard may not be dead after all.”

  “You seem to feel rather strongly on the subject,” observed Greene. “Are you engaged to marry Mrs. Darche too?”

  “Nonsense!” ejaculated Brown. “I am in earnest. Just put yourself in her position.”

  “For my part I had rather not,” replied Goss with a smile. “But I agree with Brown. A more unmitigated blackguard than John Darche never breathed the unholy air of Wall Street. The only decent thing about him was his suicide, and now virtue is to be cheated of that.”

  “Mrs. Darche never speaks of him, I believe?” The question came from Bewlay.

  “He did not return the civility,” said Goss. “I have heard him talk about his wife in this very room — well — I won’t say how, but he was a brute.”

  “Judging from your language you must be talking about Darche,” said a fifth speaker. Vanbrugh had entered the room.

  “Yes,” answered Brown, “we were. The damning was going on, but we had not got to the faint praise. What do you think about all this, Vanbrugh?”

  “The question must be settled one way or the other before to-night,” answered the last comer. “If Darche is really alive the fact must be kept quiet until to-morrow and then some one m
ust tell his wife. I propose that we elect a committee of action, give up our dinner parties if we have any, and go and find the fellow.”

  “That sounds like good advice,” said Brown.

  “We might as well look for a Chinaman in Pekin,” put in Greene, “as to try to hunt out any particular tough in the Bowery at this time of day.”

  “We can try any way,” said Mr. Brown, who was of a hopeful temperament. “I am not engaged to dine anywhere, are you, Vanbrugh?”

  “No.”

  “Then come along.” They turned towards the door and were just going out when Brett met them, looking very white.

  “Hello, Brett!” exclaimed Brown. “You are the very man we have been looking for. Come along with us and find John Darche.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Vanbrugh, interposing. “Have you seen this interview?” He took the paper from Greene and gave it to Brett, who read rapidly while the others looked on, talking in undertones.

  “Damn!” he exclaimed, turning to the others. “Have you all been reading this stuff? I hope you do not believe that is what I said? A man came to the house after luncheon. You fellows had just gone and I was going. Mrs. Darche did not want to see him, but I advised her to let me tell him what ought to be said about this affair. He tried to pump me about the charity tableaux and then asked me about Darche. I told him that it was all an absurd fabrication, and he promised to say so and to deny all reports. And this is the result.”

  “Of course it is,” said Greene. “The natural result of putting yourself into any reporter’s hands.”

  “I would like to say a word for the reporter,” said Mr. Brown mildly. “The paper is not his. He does not edit it. He does not get a share of the profits, and when he interviews people he merely is doing what he has undertaken to do. He is earning his living.”

  “Marriage and death and reporters make barren our lives,” observed Greene sourly, and some of the men laughed.

  “I say, Brett, how much of this did you actually say?” asked Vanbrugh.

  “Not a word, it seems to me. And yet I see some of my own phrases worked in.” He picked up the paper and looked at it again. “Yes, I did say that it was a warm May night. I did say that his body was never found. Yes, that is true enough. How the deuce does the fellow manage to twist it so?”