Onthe following morning, Lord Tottlebury sat as arbitrator, gave an impartial consideration to both sides of the question, and awarded that George should apologise for his charges, and Gerald for his violence. Lord Tottlebury argued the case with ability, and his final judgment was able and conclusive. Unfortunately, however, misled by the habit before mentioned of writing to the papers about matters other than those which immediately concerned him, Lord Tottlebury forgot that neither party had asked him to adjudicate, and, although Maud Neston was quite convinced by his reasoning, his award remained an opinionin vacuo; and the two clear and full letters which hewrote expressing his views were consigned by their respective recipients to the waste-paper basket. Each of the young men thanked Lord Tottlebury for his kind efforts, but feared that the unreasonable temper displayed by the other would render any attempt at an arrangement futile. Lord Tottlebury sighed, and sadly returned to his article on “What the Kaiser should do next.” He was in a hurry to finish it, because he also had on hand a reply to Professor Dressingham’s paper on “The Gospel Narrative and the Evolution ofCrustaceain the Southern Seas.”
After his outburst, Gerald Neston had allowed himself to be taken home quietly, and the next morning he had so far recovered his senses as to promise Sidmouth Vane that he would not again have recourse to personal violence. He said he had acted on a momentary impulse—which Vane did not believe,—and, at any rate, nothing of the kind need be apprehended again; but as for apologising, he should as soon think of blacking George’s boots. In fact, he was, on the whole, well pleased with himself, and, in the course of the day, went offto Neaera to receive her thanks and approval.
He found her in very low spirits. She had been disappointed at the failure of her arrangement with George, and half inclined to rebel at Gerald’s peremptoryvetoon any attempt at hushing up the question. She had timidly tried the line of pooh-poohing the whole matter, and Gerald had clearly shown her that, in his opinion, it admitted of no such treatment. She had not dared to ask him seriously if he would marry her, supposing the accusation were true. A joking question of the kind had been put aside as almost in bad taste, and, at any rate, ill-timed. Consequently she was uneasy, and ready to be very miserable on the slightest provocation. But to-day Gerald came in a different mood. He was triumphant, aggressive, and fearless; and before he had been in the room ten minutes, he broached his new design—a design that was to show conclusively the esteem in which he held the vile slanders and their utterer.
“Be married directly! Oh, Gerald!”
“Why not, darling? It will be the best answer to them.”
“What would your father say?”
“I know he will approve. Why shouldn’t he?”
“But—but everybody is talking about me.”
“What do I care?”
It suits some men to be in love, and Gerald looked very well as he threw out his defianceurbi et orbi. Neaera was charmed and touched.
“Gerald dear, you are too good—you are, indeed,—too good to me and too good for me.”
Gerald said, in language too eloquent to be reproduced, that nobody could help being “good” to her, and nobody in the world was good enough for her.
“And are you content to take me entirely on trust?”
“Absolutely.”
“While I am under this shadow?”
“You are under no shadow. I take your word implicitly, as I would take it against gods and men.”
“Ah, I don’t deserve it.”
“Who could look in your eyes”—Gerald was doing so—“and think of deceit? Why do you look away, sweetheart?”
“I daren’t—I daren’t!”
“What?”
“Be—be—trusted like that!”
Gerald smiled. “Very well; then you shan’t be. I will treat you as if—as if Idoubtedyou. Then will you be satisfied?”
Neaera tried to smile at this pleasantry. She was kneeling by Gerald’s chair as she often did, looking up at him.
“Doubted me?” she said.
“Yes, since you won’t let your eyes speak for you, I will put you to the question. Will that be enough?”
Poor Neaera! she thought it would be quite enough.
“And I will ask you, what I have never condescended to ask yet, dearest, if there’s a word of truth in it all?” Gerald, still playfully, took one of her hands and raised it aloft. “Now look at me and say—what shall be your oath?”
Neaera was silent. This passed words; every time she spoke she made it worse.
“I know,” pursued Gerald, who was much pleased with his little comedy. “Say this, ‘On my honour and love, I am not the girl.’”
Why hadn’t she let him alone with hisnonsense about her eyes? That was not, to Neaera’s thinking, as bad as a lie direct. “On her honour and love!” She could not help hesitating for just a moment.
“I am not the girl, on my honour and love.” Her words came almost with a sob, a stifled sob, that made Gerald full of remorse and penitence, and loud in imprecations on his own stupidity.
“It was all a joke, sweetest,” he pleaded; “but it was a stupid joke, and it has distressed you. Did you dream I doubted you?”
“No.”
“Well, then, say you knew it was a joke.”
“Yes, dear, I know it was,—of course it was; but it—it rather frightened me.”
“Poor child! Never mind; you’ll be amused when you think of it presently. And, my darling, it really, seriously, does make me happier. I never doubted, but it is pleasant to hear the truth from your own sweet lips. Now I am ready for all the world. And what about the day?”
“The day?”
“Of course you don’t know what day! Shall it be directly?”
“What does ‘directly’ mean?” asked Neaera, mustering a rather watery smile.
“In a week.”
“Gerald!”
But, after the usual negotiations, Neaera was brought to consent to that day three weeks, provided Lord Tottlebury’s approval was obtained.
“And, please, don’t quarrel with your cousin any more!”
“I can afford to let him alone now.”
“And—— Are you going, Gerald?”
“No time to lose. I’m off to see the governor, and I shall come back and fetch you to dine in Portman Square. Good-bye for an hour, darling!”
“Gerald, suppose——”
“Well!”
“If—if—— No, nothing. Good-bye, dear; and——”
“What is it, sweet?”
“Nothing—well, and don’t be long.”
Gerald departed in raptures. As soon as he was out of the room, the tailless cat emerged from under the sofa. He hatedviolent motion of all kinds, and lovers are restless beings. Now, thank heaven! there was a chance of lying on the hearth-rug without being trodden upon!
“Did you hear that, Bob?” asked Neaera. “I—I went the whole hog, didn’t I?”
Lord Tottlebury, who was much less inflexible than he seemed, did not hold out long against Gerald’s vehemence, and the news soon spread that defiance was to be hurled in George’s face. TheBull’s-eyewas triumphant. Isabel Bourne and Maud Neston made a hero of Gerald and a heroine of Neaera. Tommy Myles hastened to secure the position of “best man,” and Sidmouth Vane discovered and acknowledged a deep worldly wisdom in Gerald’s conduct.
“Of course,” said he to Mr. Blodwell, on the terrace, “if it came out before the marriage, he’d stand pledged to throw her over, with the cash. But afterwards! Well, it won’t affect the settlement, at all events.”
Mr. Blodwell said he thought Gerald had not been actuated by this motive.
“Depend upon it, he has,” persisted Vane.“Before marriage, the deuce! After marriage, a little weep and three months on the Riviera!”
“Oh, I suppose, if it came out after marriage, George would hold his tongue.”
“Do you, by Jove? Then he’d be the most forgiving man in Europe. Why, he’s been hunted down over the business—simply hunted down!”
“That’s true. No, I suppose he’d be bound to have his revenge.”
“Revenge! He’d have to justify himself.”
Mr. Blodwell had the curiosity to pursue the subject with George himself.
“After the marriage? Oh, I don’t know. I should like to score off the lot of them.”
“Naturally,” said Mr. Blodwell.
“At any rate, if I find out anything before, I shall let them have it. They haven’t spared me.”
“Anything new?”
“Yes. They’ve got the committee at the Themis to write and tell me that it’s awkward to have Gerald and me in the same club.”
“That’s strong.”
“I have to thank Master Tommy for that. Of course it means that I’m to go; but I won’t. If they like to kick me out, they can.”
“What’s Tommy Myles so hot against you for?”
“Oh, those girls have got hold of him—Maud, and Isabel Bourne.”
“Isabel Bourne?”
“Yes,” said George, meeting Mr. Blodwell’s questioning eye. “Tommy has a mind to try his luck there, I think.”
“Viceyou retired.”
“Well, retired or turned out. It’s like the army, you know; the two come to pretty much the same thing.”
“You must console yourself, my boy,” said Mr. Blodwell, slyly. He heard of most things, and he had heard of Mrs. Pocklington’s last dinner-party.
“Oh, I’m an outcast now. No one would look at me.”
“Don’t be a humbug, George. Go and see Mrs. Pocklington, and, for heaven’s sake let me get to my work.”
It was Mr. Blodwell’s practice to inveigle people into long gossips, and then abusethem for wasting his time; so George was not disquieted by the reproach. But he took the advice, and called in Grosvenor Square. He found Mrs. Pocklington in, but she was not alone. Her visitor was a very famous person, hitherto known to George only by repute,—the Marquis of Mapledurham.
The Marquis was well known on the turf and also as a patron of art, but it is necessary to add that more was known of him than was known to his advantage. In fact, he gave many people the opportunity of saying they would not count him among their acquaintances; and he gave very few of them the chance of breaking their word. He and Mrs. Pocklington amused one another, and, whatever he did, he never said anything that was open to complaint.
For some time George talked to Laura. Laura, having once come over to his side, was full of a convert’s zeal, and poured abundant oil and wine into his wounds.
“How could I ever have looked at Isabel Bourne when she was there?” he began to think.
“Mr. Neston,” said Mrs. Pocklington, “Lord Mapledurham wants to know whether you aretheMr. Neston.”
“Mrs. Pocklington has betrayed me, Mr. Neston,” said the Marquis.
“I am one of the two Mr. Nestons, I suppose,” said George, smiling.
“Mr. George Neston?” asked the Marquis.
“Yes.”
“And you let him come here, Mrs. Pocklington?”
“Ah, you know my house is a caravanserai. I heard you remark it yourself the other day.”
“I shall go,” said the Marquis, rising. “And, Mrs. Pocklington, I shall be content if you say nothing worse of my house. Good-bye, Miss Laura. Mr. Neston, I shall have a small party of bachelors to-morrow. It will be very kind if you will join us. Dinner at eight.”
“See what it is to be an abused man,” said Mrs. Pocklington, laughing.
“In these days the wicked must stand shoulder to shoulder,” said the Marquis.
George accepted; in truth, he was rather flattered. And Mrs. Pocklington went awayfor quite a quarter of an hour. So that, altogether, he returned to the opinion that life is worth living, before he left the house.
Onceupon a time, many years before this story begins, a certain lady said, and indeed swore with an oath, that Lord Mapledurham had promised to marry her, and claimed ten thousand pounds as damages for the breach of that promise. Lord Mapledurham said his memory was treacherous about such things, and he never contradicted a lady on a question of fact: but the amount which his society was worth seemed fairly open to difference of opinion, and he asked a jury of his countrymen to value it. Thiscause célèbre, for such it was in its day, did not improve Lord Mapledurham’s reputation, but, on the other hand, it made Mr. Blodwell’s. That gentleman reduced the damages to onethousand, and Lord Mapledurham said that his cross-examination of the plaintiff was quite worth the money. Since then, the two had been friends, and Mr. Blodwell prided himself greatly on his intimacy with such an exclusive person as the Marquis. George enjoyed his surprise at the announcement that they would meet that evening at the dinner-party.
“Why the dickens does he ask you?”
“Upon my honour, I don’t know.”
“It will destroy the last of your reputation.”
“Oh, not if you are there, sir.”
When George arrived at Lord Mapledurham’s, he found nobody except his host and Mr. Blodwell.
“I must apologize for having nobody to meet you, Mr. Neston, except an old friend. I asked young Vane—whose insolence amuses me,—and Fitzderham, but they couldn’t come.”
“Three’s a good number,” said Mr. Blodwell.
“If they’re three men. But two men and a woman, or two women and a man—awful!”
“Well, we are men, though George is a young one.”
“I don’t feel very young,” said George, smiling, as they sat down.
“I am fifty-five,” said the Marquis, “and I feel younger every day,—not in body, you know, for I’m chockful of ailments; but in mind. I am growing out of all the responsibilities of this world.”
“And of the next?” asked Blodwell.
“In the next everything is arranged for us, pleasantly or otherwise. As to this one, no one expects anything more of me—no work, no good deeds, no career, no nothing. It’s a delicious freedom.”
“You never felt your bonds much.”
“No; but they were there, and every now and then they dragged on my feet.”
“Your view of old age is comforting,” said George.
“Only, George, if you want to realize it, you must not marry,” said Mr. Blodwell.
“No, no,” said the Marquis. “By the way, Blodwell, why did you never marry?”
“Too poor, till too late,” said Mr. Blodwell, briefly.
The Marquis raised his glass, and seemedto drink a respectful toast to a dead romance.
“And you, Lord Mapledurham?” George ventured to ask.
“Ay, ask him!” said Mr. Blodwell. “Perhaps his reason will be less sadly commonplace.”
“I don’t know,” said the Marquis, pondering. “Some of them expected it, and that disgusted me. And some of them didn’t, and that disgusted me too.”
“You put the other sex into rather a difficult position,” remarked George, laughing.
“Nothing to what they’ve put me into. Eh, Blodwell?”
“Now, tell me, Mapledurham,” said Mr. Blodwell, who was in a serious mood to-night. “On the whole, have you enjoyed your life?”
“I have wasted opportunities, talents, substance—everything: and enjoyed it confoundedly. I am no use even as a warning.”
“Ask a parson,” said Mr. Blodwell, dryly.
“I remember,” the Marquis went on, dreamily, “an old ruffian—another old ruffian—sayingjust the same sort of thing one night. I was at Liverpool for the Cup. Well, in the evening, I got tired of the other fellows, and went out for a turn; and down a back street, I found an old chap sitting on a doorstep,—a dirty old fellow, but uncommonly picturesque, with a long grey beard. As I came by, he was just trying to get up, but he staggered and fell back again.”
“Drunk?” asked Mr. Blodwell.
The Marquis nodded. “I gave him a hand, and asked if I could do anything for him. ‘Yes, give me a drink,’ says he. I told him he was drunk already, but he said that made no odds, so I helped him to the nearest gin-palace.”
“Behold this cynic’s unacknowledged kindnesses!” said Mr. Blodwell.
“Sat him down in a chair, and gave him liquor.
“‘Do you enjoy getting drunk?’ I asked him, just as you asked me if I had enjoyed life.
“His drink didn’t interfere with his tongue, it only seemed to take him in the legs. He put down his glass, and made me a little speech.
“‘Liquor,’ says he, ‘has been my curse; it’s broken up my home, spoilt my work, destroyed my character, sent me and mine to gaol and shame. God bless liquor! say I.’
“I told him he was an old beast, much as you, Blodwell, told me I was, in a politer way. He only grinned, and said, ‘If you’re a gentleman, you’ll see me home. Lying in the gutter costs five shillings, next morning, and I haven’t got it.’
“‘All right,’ said I; and after another glass we started out. He knew the way, and led me through a lot of filthy places to one of the meanest dens I ever saw. A red-faced, red-armed, red-voiced (you know what I mean) woman opened the door, and let fly a cloud of Billingsgate at him. The old chap treated her with lofty courtesy.
“‘Quite true, Mrs. Bort,’ says he; ‘you’re always right: I have ruined myself.’
“‘And yer darter!’ shrieked the woman.
“‘And my daughter. And I am drunk now, and hope to be drunk to-morrow.’
“‘Ah! you old beast!’ said she, just as I had, shaking her fist.
“He turned round to me, and said, ‘I amobliged to you, sir. I don’t know your name.’
“‘You wouldn’t be better off if you did,’ says I. ‘You couldn’t drink it.’
“‘Will you give me a sovereign?’ he asked. ‘A week’s joy, sir,—a week’s joy and life.’
“‘Give it me,’ said the woman, ‘then me and she’ll get something to eat, to keep us alive.’
“I’m a benevolent man at bottom, Mr. Neston, as Blodwell remarks. I said,
“‘Here’s a sovereign for you and her’ (I supposed she meant the daughter) ‘to help in keeping you alive; and here’s a sovereign for you, sir, to help in killing you—and the sooner the better, say I.’
“‘You’re right,’ said he. ‘The liquor’s beginning to lose its taste. And when that’s gone, Luke Gale’s gone!’”
“Luke who?” burst from the two men.
Lord Mapledurham looked up. “What’s the matter? Gale, I think. I found out afterwards that the old animal had painted water-colours—the only thing he had to do with water.”
“The Lord hath delivered her into your hand,” said Mr. Blodwell to George.
“Are you drunk too, Blodwell?” asked the Marquis.
“No; but——”
“What was the woman’s name?” asked George, taking out a note-book.
“Bort. Going to tell me?”
“Well, if you don’t mind——”
“Not a bit. Tell me later on, if it’s amusing. There are so precious few amusing things.”
“You didn’t see the daughter, did you?”
“Oh, of course it’s the daughter! No.”
“Did you ever know a man named Witt?”
“Never; but, Mr. Neston, I have heard of a Mrs. Witt. Now, Blodwell, either out with it, or shut up and let’s talk of something else.”
“The latter, please,” said Mr. Blodwell, urbanely.
And the Marquis, who had out-grown the vanity of desiring to know everything, made no effort to recur to the subject. Only, as George took his leave, he received a piece of advice, together with a cordial invitation to come again.
“Excuse me, Mr. Neston,” said the Marquis. “I fancy I have given you some involuntary assistance to-night.”
“I hope so. I shall know in a day or two.”
“To like to be right, Mr. Neston, is the last weakness of a wise man; to like to be thought right is the inveterate prejudice of fools.”
“That last is a hard saying, my lord,” said George, with a laugh.
“It really depends mostly on your income,” answered the Marquis. “Good-night, Mr. Neston.”
George said good-night, and walked off, shrugging his shoulders at the thought that even so acute a man as Lord Mapledurham seemed unable to appreciate his position.
“They all want me to drop it,” he mused. “Well, I will, unless——! But to-morrow I’ll go to Liverpool.”
He was restless and excited. Home and bed seemed unacceptable, and he turned into the Themis Club, whence the machinations of the enemy had not yet ejected him. There, extended on a sofa and smoking a cigar, he found Sidmouth Vane.
“Why didn’t you come to Lord Mapledurham’s, Vane?” asked George.
“Oh, have you been there? I was dining with my chief. I didn’t know you knew Mapledurham.”
“I met him yesterday for the first time.”
“He’s a queer old sinner,” said Vane. “But have you heard the news?”
“No. Is there any?”
“Tommy Myles has got engaged.”
George started. He had a presentiment of the name of the lady.
“Pull yourself together, my dear boy,” continued Vane. “Bear it like a man.”
“Don’t be an ass, Vane. I suppose it’s Miss Bourne?”
Vane nodded. “It would really be amusing,” he said, “if you’d tell me honestly how you feel. But, of course, you won’t. You’ve begun already to look as if you’d never heard of Miss Bourne.”
“Bosh!” said George.
“Now, I always wonder why fellows do that. When I’ve been refused by a girl, and——”
“I beg your pardon,” said George. “I haven’t been refused by Miss Bourne.”
“Well, you would have been, you know. It comes to the same thing.”
George laughed. “I dare say I should; but I never meant to expose myself to such a fate.”
“George, my friend, do you think you’re speaking the truth?”
“I am speaking the truth.”
“Not a bit of it,” responded Vane, calmly. “A couple of months ago you meant to ask her; and, what’s more, she’d have had you.”
George was dimly conscious that this might be so.
“It isn’t my moral,” Vane went on.
“Your moral?”
“No. I took it from theBull’s-eye.”
George groaned.
“They announce the marriage to-night, and add that they have reason to believe that the engagement has come about largely through the joint interest of the parties inl’affaire Neston.”
“I should say they are unusually accurate.”
“Meaning thereby, to those who have eyes, that she’s jilted you because of your goings-on, and taken up with Tommy. Inconsequence, you are to-night ‘pointing a moral and adorning a tale.’”
“The devil!”
“Yes, not very soothing, is it? But so it is. I looked in at Mrs. Pocklington’s, and they were all talking about it.”
“The Pocklingtons were?”
“Yes. And they asked me——”
“Who asked you?”
“Oh, Violet Fitzderham and Laura Pocklington,—if it was the fact that you were in love with Miss Bourne.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said it was matter of notoriety.”
“Confound your gossip! There’s not a word of truth in it.”
“I didn’t say there was. I said it was a matter of notoriety. So it was.”
“And did they believe it?”
“Did who believe it?” asked Vane, smiling slightly.
“Oh, Miss Pocklington, and—and the other girl.”
“Yes, Miss Pocklington and the other girl, I think, believed it.”
“What did they say?”
“The other girl said it served you right.”
“And——?”
“And Miss Pocklington said it was time for some music.”
“Upon my soul, it’s too bad!”
“My dear fellow, you know you were in love with her—in your fishlike kind of way. Only you’ve forgotten it. One does forget it when——”
“Well?” asked George.
“When one’s in love with another girl. Ah, George, you can’t escape my eagle eye! I saw your game, and I did you a kindness.”
George thought it no use trying to keep his secret. “That’s your idea of a kindness, is it?”
“Certainly. I’ve made her jealous.”
“Really,” said George, haughtily, “I think this discussion of ladies’ feelings is hardly in good taste.”
“Quite right, old man,” answered Vane, imperturbably. “It’s lucky that didn’t strike you before you’d heard all you wanted to.”
“I say, Vane,” said George, leaning forward, “did she seem——”
“Miss Pocklington, or the other girl?”
“Oh, damn the other girl! Did she, Vane, old boy?”
“Yes, she did, a little, George, old boy.”
“I’m a fool,” said George.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Vane, tolerantly. “I’m always a fool myself about these things.”
“I must go and see them to-morrow. No, I can’t go to-morrow; I have to go out of town.”
“Ah! where?”
“Liverpool, on business.”
“Liverpool, on business! Dear me! I’ll tell you another odd thing, George,—a coincidence.”
“Well?”
“You’re going to Liverpool to-morrow on business. Well, to-day, Mrs. Witt went to Liverpool on business.”
“The devil!” said George, for the second time.
Tofit square pegs into round holes is one of the favourite pastimes of Nature. She does it roughly, violently, and with wanton disregard of the feelings of the square pegs. When, in her relentless sport, she has at last driven the poor peg in and made it fit, by dint of knocking off and abrading all its corners, philosophers glorify her, calling the process evolution, and plain men wonder why she did not begin at the other end, and make the holes square to fit the pegs.
The square peg on which these trite reflections hang is poor Neaera Witt. Nature made her a careless, ease-loving, optimistic creature, only to drive her, of malice prepense, into an environment—that is to say, in unscientificphrase, a hole—where she had need of the equipment of a full-blooded conspirator.
She resisted the operation; she persistently trusted to chance to extricate her from the toils into which she, not being a philosopher, thought chance had thrown her. If she saw a weapon ready to her hand, she used it, as she had used the Bournemouth character, but for the most part she trusted to luck. George Neston would fail, or he would relent; or Gerald would be invincibly incredulous, or, she would add, smiling at her face in the glass, invincibly in love. Somehow or other matters would straighten themselves out; and, at the worst, ten days more would bring the marriage; and after the marriage—— But really, ten days ahead is as far as one can be expected to look, especially when the ten days include one’s wedding.
Nevertheless, Sidmouth Vane had a knack of being correct in his information, and he was correct in stating that Neaera had gone to Liverpool on business. It was, of course, merely a guess that her errand might be connected with George’s, but it happened to be a right guess. Neaera knew well the weakspot in her armour. Hitherto she had been content to trust to her opponent not discovering it; but, as the decisive moment came nearer, a nervous restlessness so far overcame her naturalinsoucianceas to determine her to an effort to complete her defences, in anticipation of any assault upon them. She was in happy ignorance of the chance that had directed George’s forces against her vulnerable point, and imagined that she herself was, in all human probability, the only person in London to whom the name of Mrs. Bort would be more than an unmeaning uneuphonious syllable. To her the name was full of meaning; for, from her youth till the day of the happy intervention of that stout and elderlydeus ex machina, the late Mr. Witt, Mrs. Bort had been to Neaera the impersonation of virtue and morality, and the physical characteristics that had caught Lord Mapledurham’s frivolous attention had been to her merely the frowning aspect under which justice and righteousness are apt to present themselves.
Neaera was a good-hearted girl, and Mrs. Bort now lived on a comfortable pension, but no love mingled with the sense of duty thatinspired the gift. Mrs. Bort had interpreted her quasi-maternal authority with the widest latitude, and Neaera shuddered to remember how often Mrs. Bort’s discipline had made her smart, in a way, against which apathy of conscience was no shield or buckler. Recorder Dawkins would have groaned to know how even judicial terrors paled in Neaera’s recollection before the image of Mrs. Bort.
These childish fears are hard to shake off, and Neaera, as she sped luxuriously to Liverpool, acknowledged to herself that, in that dreadful presence, no adventitious glories of present wealth or future rank would avail her. The governing fact in the situation, the fact that Neaera did not see her way to meet, was that Mrs. Bort was an honest woman. Neaera knew her, and knew that a bribe would be worse than useless, even if she dared to offer it.
“And I don’t think,” said Neaera, resting her pretty chin upon her pretty hand, “that I should dare.” Then she laughed ruefully. “I’m not at all sure she wouldn’t beat me; and if she did, what could I do?”
Probably Neaera exaggerated even the fearlessrectitude of Mrs. Bort, but she was so convinced of the nature of the reception which any proposal of the obvious kind would meet with that she made up her mind that her only course was to throw herself on Mrs. Bort’s mercy, in case that lady proved deaf to a subtle little proposal which was Neaera’s first weapon.
So far as Neaera knew, Peckton and Manchester were the only places in which George Neston was likely to seek for traces of her. Liverpool, though remote from Peckton, was uncomfortably near Manchester. Every day now had great value. If she could get Mrs. Bort away to some remote spot as soon as might be, she gained no small advantage in her race against time and George Neston.
“If she will only go to Glentarroch, he will never find her.”
Glentarroch was the name of a little retreat in remote Scotland, whither Mr. Witt had been wont to betake himself for rest and recreation. It was Neaera’s now. It was a beautiful place, which was immaterial, and a particularly inaccessible one, which was most material. Would not Mrs. Bort’s despotic instincts lead her to accept an invitationto rule over Glentarroch? Neaera could not afford to pity the hapless wights over whom Mrs. Bort would rule.
Mrs. Bort received Neaera in a way most unbecoming to a pensioner. “Well, Nery,” she said, “what brings you here? No good, I’ll be bound. Where’s your mourning?”
Neaera said that she thought resignation to Heaven’s will not a subject of reproach, and that she came to ask a favour of Mrs. Bort.
“Ay, you come to me when you want something. That’s the old story.”
Neaera remembered that Mrs. Bort had often taken her own view of what the supplicant wanted, and given something quite other than what was asked; but, in spite of this unpromising opening, she persevered, and laid before Mrs. Bort a dazzling picture of the grandeur waiting her at Glentarroch.
“And I shall be so much obliged. Really, I don’t know what the servants—the girls, especially—may be doing.”
“Carryings-on, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs. Bort. “Why don’t you go yourself, Nery?”
“Oh, I can’t, indeed. I—I must stay in London.”
“Nasty, cold, dull little place it sounds,” said Mrs. Bort.
“Oh, of course I shall consider all that——”
“He—he!” Mrs. Bort sniggered unpleasantly. “So it ain’t sech a sweet spot, as ye call it, after all?”
Neaera recovered herself without dignity, and stated that she thought of forty pounds a year and all found.
“Ah, if I knowed what you was at, Nery!”
Neaera intimated that it was simply a matter of mutual accommodation. “And there’s really no time to be lost,” she said, plaintively. “I’m being robbed every day.”
“Widows has hard times,” said Mrs. Bort. And Neaera did not think it necessary to say how soon her hard times were coming to an end.
“Come agin to-morrer afternoon, and I’ll tell ye,” was Mrs. Bort’s ultimatum. “And mind you don’t get into mischief.”
“Why afternoon?” asked Neaera.
“‘Cause I’m washing,” said Mrs. Bort, snappishly. “That’s why.”
Neaera in vain implored an immediate answer. Mrs. Bort said a day could not matter, and that, if Neaera pressed her farther, she should consider it an indication that something was “up,” and refuse to go at all. Neaera was silenced, and sadly returned to her hotel.
“How I hate that good, good woman!” she cried. “I’ll never see her again as long as I live, after to-morrow. Oh, I should like to hit her!”
The propulsions of cause upon cause are, as Bacon has said, infinite. If Mrs. Bort had not washed—in the technical sense, of course—on that particular Friday, Neaera would have come and gone—perhaps even Mrs. Bort might have gone too—before the train brought George Neston to Liverpool, and his eager inquiries landed him at Mrs. Bort’s abode. As it was, Mrs. Bort’s little servant bade him wait in the parlour, as her mistress was talking to a female in the kitchen. The little servant thought “female” the politest possible way of describing any person who was not a man, and accordedthe title to Neaera on account of her rustling robes and gold-tipped parasol.
George did not question his informant, thereby showing that he, in therôleof detective, was a square peg in a round hole. He heard proceeding from the kitchen a murmur of two subdued voices, one of which, however, dominated the other.
“That must be Mrs. Bort,” thought he. “I wish I could hear the female.”
Then his attention wandered, for he made sure the unknown could not be Neaera, as she had had a day’s start of him. He did not allow for Mrs. Bort’s washing. Suddenly the dominant voice was raised to the pitch of distinctness.
“Have ye told him,” it said, “or have ye lied to him, as you lied to me yesterday?”
“I didn’t—I didn’t,” was the answer. “You never asked me if I was going to be married.”
“Oh, go along! You know how I’d have answered that when ye lived with me.”
“How’s that?” asked George, with a slight smile.
“Have ye told him?”
“Told him what?” asked Neaera; for it was clearly Neaera.
“Told him you’re a thief.”
“This woman’s a brute,” thought George.
“Have ye?”
“No, not exactly. How dare you question me?”
“Dare!” said Mrs. Bort; and George knew she was standing with her arms akimbo. “Dare!” she repeatedcrescendo; and apparently her aspect was threatening, for Neaera cried,
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. Do let me go.”
“Tell the truth, if your tongue’ll do it. The truth, will ye?”
“The deuce!” said George; for, following on this last speech, he heard a sob.
“No, I haven’t. I—oh, do have mercy on me!”
“Mercy! It’s not mercy, it’s a stick you want. But I’ll tell him.”
“Ah, stop, for Heaven’s sake!”
There was a little scuffle; then the door flew open, and Mrs. Bort appeared, with Neaera clinging helplessly about her knees.
George rose and bowed politely. “I’m afraid I intrude,” said he.
“That’s easy mended,” said Mrs. Bort, with significance.
Neaera had leapt up on seeing him, and leant breathless against the door, looking like some helpless creature at bay.
“Who let you in?” demanded the lady of the house.
“Your servant.”
“I’ll letherin,” said Mrs. Bort, darkly. “Who are ye?”
George looked at Neaera. “My name is Neston,” he said blandly.
“Neston?”
“Certainly.”
“Then you’re in nice time; I wanted you, young man. D’ye see that woman?”
“Certainly; I see Mrs. Witt.”
“D’ye know what she is? Time you did, if you’re a-going to take her to church.”
Neaera started.
“I hope to do so,” said George, smiling; “and I think I know all about her.”
“Do ye, now? Happen ever to have heard of Peckton?”
Neaera buried her face in her hands, and cried.
“Ah, pity you haven’t something to cry for! Thought I’d see a sin done for ten pound a month, did ye?”
George interposed; he began to enjoy himself. “Peckton? Oh yes. The shoes, you mean?”
Mrs. Bort gasped.
“A trifle,” said George, waving the shoes into limbo.
“Gracious! You ain’t in the same line, are you?”
George shook his head.
“Anything else?” he asked, still smiling sweetly.
“Only a trifle of forging,” said Mrs. Bort. “But p’raps she got her deserts from me over that.”
“Forging?” said George. “Oh ah, yes. You mean about——”
“Her place at Bournemouth? Ah, Nery, don’t you ache yet?”
Apparently Neaera did. She shivered and moaned.
“But I’ve got it,” continued Nemesis; and, she bounded across the room to a cupboard. “There, read that.”
George took it calmly, but read it with secret eagerness. It was the original character, and stated that Miss Gale began her service in May, not March, 1883.
“I caught her a-copying it, and altering dates. My, how I did——”
“Dear, dear!” interrupted George. “I was afraid it was something new. Anything else, Mrs. Bort?”
Mrs. Bort was beaten.
“Go along,” she said. “If you likes it, it’s nothing to me. But lock up your money-box.”
“Let me congratulate you, Mrs. Bort, on having done your duty.”
“I’m an honest woman,” said Mrs. Bort.
“Yes,” answered George, “by the powers you are!” Then, turning to Mrs. Witt, he added, “Shall we go—Neaera dear?”
“You’ll both of you die on the gallows,” said Mrs. Bort.
“Come, Neaera,” said George.
She took his arm and they went out, George giving the little servant a handsome tip to recompense her for the prospect of being “let in” by her mistress.
George’s cab was at the door. He handedNeaera in. She was still half-crying and said nothing, except to tell him the name of her hotel. Then he raised his hat, and watched her driven away, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.
“Pheugh!” said he, “I’ve done it now—and what an infernal shame it is!”
Itis a notorious fact that men of all ages and conditions quarrel, and quarrel sometimes with violence. Women also, of a low social grade, are not strangers to discord, and the pen of satire has not spared the tiffs and wrangles that arise between elderly ladies of irreproachable position, and between young ladies of possibly not irreproachable morals. It is harder to believe, harder especially for young men whose beards are yet soft upon their chins, that graceful gentle girlhood quarrels too. Nobody would believe it, if there were not sisters in the world; but, unhappily, in spite of the natural tendency to suppose that all attributes distinctively earthy are confined to his own sisters, andhave no place in the sisters of his friends, a man of reflection, checking his observations in the various methods suggested by logicians, is forced to conclude that here is another instance of the old truth, that a thing is not to be considered non-existent merely because it is not visible to a person who is not meant to see it. This much apology for the incident which follows is felt to be necessary in the interest of the narrator’s reputation for realism.
The fact is that there had been what reporters call a “scene” at Mrs. Pocklington’s. It so fell out that Isabel Bourne, accompanied by Maud Neston, called on Laura to receive congratulations. Laura did her duty, felicitated her friend on Tommy in possession and Tommy’s title in reversion, and loyally suppressed her personal opinion on the part these two factors had respectively played in producing the announced result. Her forbearance was ill-requited; for Maud, by way of clinching the matter and conclusively demonstrating the satisfactory position of affairs, must needs remark, “And what a lesson it will be for George!”
Laura said nothing.
“Oh, you mustn’t say that, dear,” objected Isabel. “It’s really not right.”
“I shall say it,” said Maud; “it’s so exactly what he deserves, and I know he feels it himself.”
“Did he tell you so?” asked Laura, pausing in the act of pouring out tea.
Maud laughed.
“Hardly, dear. Besides, we are not on speaking terms. But Gerald and Mr. Myles both said so.”
“Gerald and Mr. Myles!” said Laura.
“Please, don’t talk about it,” interposed Isabel. “What has happened made no difference.”
“Why, Isabel, you couldn’t have him after——”
“No,” said Isabel; “but perhaps, Maud, I shouldn’t have had him before.”
“Of course you wouldn’t, dear. You saw his true character.”
“You never actually refused him, did you?” inquired Laura.
“No, not exactly.”
“Then what did you say?”
“What did I say?”
“Yes, when he asked you, you know,” said Laura, with a little smile.
Isabel looked at her suspiciously. “He never did actually ask me,” she said, with dignity.
“Oh! I thought you implied——”
“But, of course, she knew he wanted to,” Maud put in. “Didn’t you, dear?”
“Well, I thought so,” said Isabel, modestly.
“Yes, I know you thought so,” said Laura. “Indeed, everybody saw that. Was it very hard to prevent him?”
Isabel’s colour rose. “I don’t know what you mean, Laura,” she said.
Laura smiled with an unpleasantness that was quite a victory over nature. “Men sometimes fancy,” she remarked, “that girls are rather in a hurry to think they want to propose.”
“Laura!” exclaimed Maud.
“They even say that the wish is father to the thought,” continued Laura, still smiling, but now a little tremulously.
Isabel grew more flushed. “I don’t understand you. One would think you meant that I had run after him.”
Laura remained silent.
“Everybody knows he was in love with Isabel for years,” said Maud, indignantly.
“He was very patient,” said Laura.
Isabel rose. “I shall not stay here to be insulted. It’s quite obvious, Laura, why you say such things.”
“I don’t say anything. Only——”
“Well?”
“The next time, you might mention that among the reasons why you refused Mr. Neston was, that he never asked you.”
“I see what it is,” said Isabel. “Don’t you, Maud?”
“Yes,” said Maud.
“What is it?” demanded Laura.
“Oh, nothing. Only, I hope—I wish you joy of him.”
“If you don’t mind a slanderer,” added Maud.
“It’s not true!” said Laura. “How dare you say it?”
“Take care, dear, that he doesn’t fancy you’re in a hurry—— What was your phrase?” said Isabel.
“It’s perfectly shameful,” said Maud.
“I don’t choose to hear a friend run down for nothing,” declared Laura.
“A friend? How very chivalrous you are! Come, Maud dear.”
“Good-bye, Laura,” said Maud. “I’m sure you’ll be sorry when you come to think.”
“No, I shan’t. I——”
“There!” said Isabel. “I do not care to be insulted any more.”
The two visitors swept out, and Laura was left alone. Whereupon she began to cry. “I do hate that sort of vulgarity,” said she, mopping her eyes. “I don’t believe he ever thought——”
Mrs. Pocklington entered in urbane majesty. “Well, is Isabel pleased with her little man?” she asked. “Why, child, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” said Laura.
“You’re crying.”
“No, I’m not. Those girls have been horrid.”
“What about?”
“Oh, the engagement, and——”
“And what?”
“And poor Mr. Neston—George Neston.”
“Oh, poor George Neston. What did they say?”
“Isabel pretended he had been in love with her, and—and was in love with her, and that she had refused him.”
“Oh, and that made you cry?”
“No—not that——”
“What, then?”
“Oh, please, mamma!”
Mrs. Pocklington smiled. “Stop crying, my dear. It used to suit me, but it doesn’t suit you. Stop, dear.”
“Very well, mamma,” said poor Laura, thinking it a little hard that she might not even cry.
“Did you cry before the girls?”
“No,” said Laura, with emphasis.
“Good child,” said Mrs. Pocklington. “Now, listen to me. You’re never to think of him again——”
“Mamma!”
“Till I tell you.”
“Ah!”
“A tiresome, meddlesome fellow. Is your father in, Laura?”
“Yes, dear. Are you going to see him about——?”
“Why, you’re as bad as Isabel!” said Mrs. Pocklington, with feigned severity, disengagingLaura’s arms from her neck. “He’s never asked you either!”
“No, dear; but——”
“The vanity of these children! There, let me go; and for goodness’ sake, don’t be a cry-baby, Laura. Men hate water-bottles.”
Thus mingling consolation and reproof, Mrs. Pocklington took her way to her husband’s study.
“I want five minutes, Robert,” she said, sitting down.
“It’s worth a thousand pounds a minute, my dear,” said Mr. Pocklington, genially, laying down his pipe and his papers. “What with this strike——”
“Strike!” said Mrs. Pocklington with indignation. “Why do you let them strike, Robert?”
“I can’t help it. They want more money.”
“Nonsense! They want to be taught their Catechisms. But I didn’t come to talk about that.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t, my dear. Your views are refreshing.”
“Robert, Laura’s got a fancy in her head about young George Neston.”
“Oh!”
“‘Oh!’ doesn’t tell me much.”
“Well, you know all about him.”
“He’s a very excellent young man. Not rich.”
“A pauper?”
“No. Enough.”
“All right. If you’re satisfied, I am. But hasn’t he been making a fool of himself about some woman?”
“Really, Robert, how strangely you express yourself! I suppose you mean about Neaera Witt?”
“Yes, that’s it. I heard some rumour.”
“Heard some rumour! Of course you read every word about it, and gossiped over it at the Club and the House. Now, haven’t you?”
“Perhaps I have,” her husband admitted. “I think he’s a young fool.”
“Am I to consider it an obstacle?”
“Well, what do you think yourself?”
“It’s your business. Men know about that sort of thing.”
“Is the child—eh?”
“Yes, rather.”
“And he?”
“Oh, yes, or will be very soon, when he sees she is.”
“Poor little Lally!” said Mr. Pocklington. Then he sat and pondered. “It is an obstacle,” he said at last.
“Ah!” said his wife.
“He must put himself right.”
“Do you mean, prove what he says?”
“Well, at any rate, show he had good excuse for saying it.”
“I think it’s a little hard. But it’s for you to decide.”
Mr. Pocklington nodded.
“Then, that’s settled,” said Mrs. Pocklington. “It’s a great comfort, Robert, to have a man who knows his mind on the premises.”
“Be gentle with her,” said he, and returned to the strike.
The other parties to the encounter over George’s merits had by a natural impulse taken themselves to Neaera Witt’s, with the hope of being thanked for their holy zeal. They were disappointed, for, on arriving at Albert Mansions, they were informed that Neaera, although returned from Liverpool, was not visible. “Mr. Neston has beenwaiting over an hour to see her, miss,” said Neaera’s highly respectable handmaid, “but she won’t leave her room.”
Gerald heard their voices, and came out.
“I can’t think what’s the matter,” he said.
“Oh, I suppose the journey has knocked her up,” suggested Isabel.
“Are you going to wait, Gerald?” asked Maud.
“Well, no. The fact is, she sent me a message to go away.”
“Then come home with me,” said Isabel, “and we will try to console you.” Gerald would enjoy their tale quite as much as Neaera.
Low spirits are excusable in persons who are camping on an active volcano, and Neaera felt that this was very much her position. At any moment she might be blown into space, her pleasant dreams shattered, her champions put to shame, and herself driven for ever from the only place in life she cared to occupy. Her abasement was pitiful, and her penitence, being born merely of defeat, offers no basis of edification. She had serious thoughts of running away; for she did not think she could face Gerald’swrath, or, worse still, his grief. He would cast her off, and society would cast her off, and those dreadful papers would turn their thunders against her. She might have consoled herself for banishment from society with Gerald’s love, or, perhaps, for loss of his love with the triumphs of society; but she would lose both, and have not a soul in the whole world to speak to except that hateful Mrs. Bort. So she sat and dolefully mused, with the tailless cat, that gift of a friendly gaoler at Peckton prison, purring on the rug before her, unconsciously personifying an irrevocable past and a future emptied of delight.