Early Short Fiction of Edith Wharton-Part 1 [39]
looking quieter--smoothed out," McCarren smiled.
"Yes: that's what I'm here for--to rest. And I've taken the opportunity to write out a clearer statement--"
Granice's hand shook so that he could hardly draw the folded paper from his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the reporter was accompanied by a tall man with grave compassionate eyes. It came to Granice in a wild thrill of conviction that this was the face he had waited for. . .
"Perhaps your friend--he IS your friend?--would glance over it-- or I could put the case in a few words if you have time?" Granice's voice shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him he felt that his last hope was gone. McCarren and the stranger looked at each other, and the former glanced at his watch.
"I'm sorry we can't stay and talk it over now, Mr. Granice; but my friend has an engagement, and we're rather pressed--"
Granice continued to proffer the paper. "I'm sorry--I think I could have explained. But you'll take this, at any rate?"
The stranger looked at him gently. "Certainly--I'll take it." He had his hand out. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye," Granice echoed.
He stood watching the two men move away from him through the long light hall; and as he watched them a tear ran down his face. But as soon as they were out of sight he turned and walked hastily toward his room, beginning to hope again, already planning a new statement.
Outside the building the two men stood still, and the journalist's companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous rows of barred windows.
"So that was Granice?"
"Yes--that was Granice, poor devil," said McCarren.
"Strange case! I suppose there's never been one just like it? He's still absolutely convinced that he committed that murder?"
"Absolutely. Yes."
The stranger reflected. "And there was no conceivable ground for the idea? No one could make out how it started? A quiet conventional sort of fellow like that--where do you suppose he got such a delusion? Did you ever get the least clue to it?"
McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked up in contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his bright hard gaze on his companion.
"That was the queer part of it. I've never spoken of it--but I DID get a clue."
"By Jove! That's interesting. What was it?"
McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. "Why--that it wasn't a delusion."
He produced his effect--the other turned on him with a pallid stare.
"He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the merest accident, when I'd pretty nearly chucked the whole job."
"He murdered him--murdered his cousin?"
"Sure as you live. Only don't split on me. It's about the queerest business I ever ran into. . . DO ABOUT IT? Why, what was I to do? I couldn't hang the poor devil, could I? Lord, but I was glad when they collared him, and had him stowed away safe in there!"
The tall man listened with a grave face, grasping Granice's statement in his hand.
"Here--take this; it makes me sick," he said abruptly, thrusting the paper at the reporter; and the two men turned and walked in silence to the gates.
The End
THE DILETTANTE as first published in Harper's Monthly, December 1903
It was on an impulse hardly needing the arguments he found himself advancing in its favor, that Thursdale, on his way to the club, turned as usual into Mrs. Vervain's street.
The "as usual" was his own qualification of the act; a convenient way of bridging the interval--in days and other sequences--that lay between this visit and the last. It was characteristic of him that he instinctively excluded his call two days earlier, with Ruth Gaynor, from the list of his visits to Mrs. Vervain: the special conditions attending it had made it no more like a visit to Mrs. Vervain than an engraved dinner invitation is like a personal letter. Yet it was to talk over his call with Miss Gaynor that he was now returning to the scene of that episode; and it was because Mrs. Vervain could be trusted to handle the talking
"Yes: that's what I'm here for--to rest. And I've taken the opportunity to write out a clearer statement--"
Granice's hand shook so that he could hardly draw the folded paper from his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the reporter was accompanied by a tall man with grave compassionate eyes. It came to Granice in a wild thrill of conviction that this was the face he had waited for. . .
"Perhaps your friend--he IS your friend?--would glance over it-- or I could put the case in a few words if you have time?" Granice's voice shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him he felt that his last hope was gone. McCarren and the stranger looked at each other, and the former glanced at his watch.
"I'm sorry we can't stay and talk it over now, Mr. Granice; but my friend has an engagement, and we're rather pressed--"
Granice continued to proffer the paper. "I'm sorry--I think I could have explained. But you'll take this, at any rate?"
The stranger looked at him gently. "Certainly--I'll take it." He had his hand out. "Good-bye."
"Good-bye," Granice echoed.
He stood watching the two men move away from him through the long light hall; and as he watched them a tear ran down his face. But as soon as they were out of sight he turned and walked hastily toward his room, beginning to hope again, already planning a new statement.
Outside the building the two men stood still, and the journalist's companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous rows of barred windows.
"So that was Granice?"
"Yes--that was Granice, poor devil," said McCarren.
"Strange case! I suppose there's never been one just like it? He's still absolutely convinced that he committed that murder?"
"Absolutely. Yes."
The stranger reflected. "And there was no conceivable ground for the idea? No one could make out how it started? A quiet conventional sort of fellow like that--where do you suppose he got such a delusion? Did you ever get the least clue to it?"
McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked up in contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his bright hard gaze on his companion.
"That was the queer part of it. I've never spoken of it--but I DID get a clue."
"By Jove! That's interesting. What was it?"
McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. "Why--that it wasn't a delusion."
He produced his effect--the other turned on him with a pallid stare.
"He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the merest accident, when I'd pretty nearly chucked the whole job."
"He murdered him--murdered his cousin?"
"Sure as you live. Only don't split on me. It's about the queerest business I ever ran into. . . DO ABOUT IT? Why, what was I to do? I couldn't hang the poor devil, could I? Lord, but I was glad when they collared him, and had him stowed away safe in there!"
The tall man listened with a grave face, grasping Granice's statement in his hand.
"Here--take this; it makes me sick," he said abruptly, thrusting the paper at the reporter; and the two men turned and walked in silence to the gates.
The End
THE DILETTANTE as first published in Harper's Monthly, December 1903
It was on an impulse hardly needing the arguments he found himself advancing in its favor, that Thursdale, on his way to the club, turned as usual into Mrs. Vervain's street.
The "as usual" was his own qualification of the act; a convenient way of bridging the interval--in days and other sequences--that lay between this visit and the last. It was characteristic of him that he instinctively excluded his call two days earlier, with Ruth Gaynor, from the list of his visits to Mrs. Vervain: the special conditions attending it had made it no more like a visit to Mrs. Vervain than an engraved dinner invitation is like a personal letter. Yet it was to talk over his call with Miss Gaynor that he was now returning to the scene of that episode; and it was because Mrs. Vervain could be trusted to handle the talking