Kitabı oku: «Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale», sayfa 5

CHAPTER IX.
GERALD NESTON SATISFIES HIMSELF

On the 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 opinion in vacuo; and the two clear and full letters which he wrote 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 of Crustacea in 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 off to 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 peremptory veto on 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 defiance urbi 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 I doubted you. 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 his nonsense 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 hated violent 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. The Bull’s-eye was 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.”

“Vice you 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 abuse them 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 are the Mr. 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 away for quite a quarter of an hour. So that, altogether, he returned to the opinion that life is worth living, before he left the house.

CHAPTER X.
REMINISCENCES OF A NOBLEMAN

Once upon 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. This cause 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 one thousand, 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 seemed to 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 – saying just 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 am obliged 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 the Bull’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 in l’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. In consequence, 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.