Kitabı oku: «Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale», sayfa 7
CHAPTER XIII.
CONTAINING MORE THAN ONE ULTIMATUM
It was fortunate that Mr. Blodwell was not very busy on Saturday morning, or he might have resented the choice of his chambers for a council, and not been mollified by being asked to take part in the deliberations. At eleven o’clock in the morning, Gerald Neston arrived, accompanied by Sidmouth Vane and Mr. Lionel Fitzderham, who was, in the first place, Mrs. Pocklington’s brother, and, in the second place, chairman of the committee of the Themis Club.
“We have come, sir,” said Gerald, “to ask you to use your influence with George. His conduct is past endurance.”
“Anything new?” asked Mr. Blodwell.
“No, that’s just it. This is Saturday. I’m to be married on Monday week; and George does nothing.”
“What do you want him to do?”
“Why, to acknowledge himself wrong, as he can’t prove himself right.”
Mr. Blodwell looked at Fitzderham.
“Yes,” said the latter. “It can’t stay as it is. The lady must be cleared, if she can’t be proved guilty. We arrived clearly at that conclusion.”
“We?”
“The committee of the Themis.”
“Oh, ah, yes. And you, Vane?”
“I concur,” said Vane, briefly. “I’ve backed George up to now: but I agree he must do one thing or the other.”
“Well, gentlemen, I suppose you’re right. Only, if he won’t?”
“Then we shall take action,” said Fitzderham.
“So shall I,” said Gerald.
Vane shrugged his shoulders.
Mr. Blodwell rang the bell.
“Is Mr. George in, Timms?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; just arrived.”
“Ask him to step in to me, if he will. I don’t see,” he continued, “why you shouldn’t settle it with him. I’ve nothing to do with it, thank God.”
George entered. He was surprised to see the deputation, but addressed himself exclusively to Blodwell.
“Here I am, sir. What is it?”
“These gentlemen,” said Mr. Blodwell, “think that the time has come for you to withdraw your allegations or to prove them.”
“You see, George,” said Vane, “it’s not fair to leave Mrs. Witt under this indefinite stigma.”
“Far from it,” said Fitzderham.
George stood with his back against the mantel-piece. “I quite agree,” he said. “Let’s see – to-day’s Saturday. When is the wedding, if there – ?”
“Monday week,” said Blodwell, hastily, fearing an explosion from Gerald.
“Very well. On Tuesday – ”
“A telegram for you, sir,” said Timms, entering.
“Excuse me,” said George.
He opened and read his telegram. It ran, “Yes – my handwriting. Will return by next post registered – Horne, Bournemouth.”
“On Monday,” continued George, “at five o’clock in the afternoon, I will prove all I said, or withdraw it.”
Gerald looked uneasy, but he tried to think, or at least to appear to think, that George’s delay was only to make his surrender less abrupt.
“Very well! Shall we meet here?”
“No,” said Gerald. “Mrs. Witt ought to be present.”
“Is that desirable?” asked George.
“Of course it is.”
“As you please. I should say not. But ask her, and be guided by her wishes.”
“Well, then, at Lord Tottlebury’s?” suggested Vane.
“By all means,” said George. And, with a slight nod, he left the room.
“I hope,” said Mr. Blodwell, “that you have done well in forcing matters to an extremity.”
“Couldn’t help it,” said Vane, briefly.
And the council broke up.
Mrs. Horne’s telegram made George’s position complete. It was impossible for Neaera to struggle against such evidence, and his triumph was assured from the moment when he produced the original document and contrasted it with Neaera’s doctored copy. Besides, Mrs. Bort was in the background, if necessary; and although an impulse of pity had led him to shield Neaera at Liverpool, he was in no way debarred by that from summoning Mrs. Bort to his assistance if he wanted her. The Neston honour was safe, an impostor exposed, and the cause of morality, respectability, truth, and decency powerfully forwarded. Above all, George himself was enabled to rout his enemies, to bring a blush to the unblushing cheek of the Bull’s-eye, and to meet his friends without feeling that perhaps they were ashamed to be seen talking to him.
The delights of the last-mentioned prospect were so great, that George could not make up his mind to postpone them, and, in the afternoon, he set out to call on the Pocklingtons. There could be no harm in giving them at least a hint of the altered state of his fortunes, due, as it was in reality, to Mrs. Pocklington’s kindness in presenting him to Lord Mapledurham. It would certainly be very pleasant to prove to the Pocklingtons, especially to Laura Pocklington, that they had been justified in standing by him, and that he was entitled, not to the good-natured tolerance accorded to honesty, but to the admiration due to success.
In matters of love, at least, George Neston cannot be presented as an ideal hero. Heroes unite the discordant attributes of violence and constancy: George had displayed neither. Isabel Bourne had satisfied his judgment without stirring his blood. When she presumed to be so ill-advised as to side against him, he resigned, without a pang, a prospect that had become almost a habit. Easily and insensibly the pretty image of Laura Pocklington had filled the vacant space. As he wended his way to Mrs. Pocklington’s, he smiled to think that a month or two ago he had looked forward to a life spent with Isabel Bourne with acquiescence, though not, it is true, with rapture. Had the rapture existed before, it is sad to think that perhaps the smile would have been broader now; for love, when born in trepidation and nursed in joy, is often buried without lamentation and remembered with amusement – kindly, even tender amusement, but still amusement. An easy-going fancy like George’s for Isabel cannot claim even the tribute of a tear behind the smile – a tear which, by its presence, causes yet another smile. George was not even grateful to Isabel for a pleasant dream and a gentle awakening. She was gone; and, what is more, she ought never to have come: and there was an end of it.
George, having buried Isabel, rang the bell with a composed mind. He might ask Laura Pocklington to marry him to-day, or he might not. He would be guided by circumstances in that matter: but at any rate he would ask her, and that soon; for she was the only girl he could ever be happy with, and, if he dawdled, his chance might be gone. Of course there was a crowd of suitors at her feet, and, although George had no unduly modest view of his own claims, he felt it behoved him to be up and doing. It is true that the crowd of suitors was not very much in evidence, but who could doubt its existence without questioning the sanity and eyesight of mankind?
As it so chanced, however, George did not see Laura. He saw Mrs. Pocklington, and that lady at once led the conversation to the insistent topic of Neaera Witt. George could not help letting fall a hint of his approaching victory.
“Poor woman!” said Mrs. Pocklington. “But, for your sake, I’m very glad.”
“Yes, it gets me out of an awkward position.”
“Just what my husband said. He thought that you were absolutely bound to prove what you said, or at least to give a good excuse for it.”
“Absolutely bound?”
“Well, I mean if you were to keep your place in society.”
“And in your house?”
“Oh, he did not go so far as that. Everybody comes to my house.”
“Yes; but, Mrs. Pocklington, I don’t want to come in the capacity of ‘everybody.’”
“Then, I think he did mean that you must do what I say, before you went on coming in any other capacity.”
George looked at Mrs. Pocklington. Mrs. Pocklington smiled diplomatically.
“Is Miss Pocklington out?” asked George.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Pocklington, “she is out.”
“Not back soon?” asked George, smiling in his turn.
“Not yet.”
“Not until – ?”
“Well, Mr. Neston, I dare say you know what I mean.”
“I think so. Fortunately, there is no difficulty. Shall we say Tuesday?”
“When Tuesday comes, we will see if we say Tuesday.”
“And, otherwise, I am – ?”
“Otherwise, my dear George, you have no one to persuade except – ”
“Ah, that is the most difficult task of all.”
“I don’t know anything about that. Only I hope you believe what you say. Young men are so conceited nowadays.”
“When Miss Pocklington comes in, you will tell her how sorry I was not to see her?”
“Certainly.”
“And that I look forward to Tuesday?”
“No; I shall say nothing about that. You are not out of the wood yet.”
“Oh yes, I am.”
But Mrs. Pocklington stood firm; and George departed, feeling that the last possibility of mercy for Neaera Witt had vanished. There is a limit to unselfishness; nay, what place is there for pity when public duty and private interest unite in demanding just severity?
CHAPTER XIV.
NEAERA’S LAST CARD
Neaera Witt had one last card to play. Alas, how great the stake, and how slight the chance! Still she would play it. If it failed, she would only drink a little deeper of humiliation, and be trampled a little more contemptuously under foot. What did that matter?
“You will not condemn a woman unheard,” she wrote, with a touch of melodrama. “I expect you here on Sunday evening at nine. You cannot be so hard as not to come.”
George had written that he would come, but that his determination was unchangeable. “I must come, as you ask me,” he said; “but it is useless – worse than useless.” Still he would come.
Bill Sykes likes to be tried in a black coat, and draggle-tailed Sal smooths her tangled locks before she enters the dock. Who can doubt, though it be not recorded, that the burghers of Calais, cruelly restricted to their shirts, donned their finest linen to face King Edward and his Queen, or that the Inquisitors were privileged to behold many a robe born to triumph on a different stage? And so Neaera Witt adorned herself to meet George Neston with subtle simplicity. Her own ill-chastened taste, fed upon popular engravings, hankered after black velvet, plainly made in clinging folds; but she fancied that the motive would be too obvious for an eye so rusé as George’s, and reluctantly surrendered her picture of a second Queen of Scots. White would be better; white could cling as well as black, and would so mingle suggestions of remorse and innocence that surely he could not be hard-hearted enough to draw the distinction. A knot of flowers, destined to be plucked to pieces by agitated hands – so much conventional emotion she could not deny herself, – a dress cut low, and open sleeves made to fall back when the white arms were upstretched for pity, – all this should make a combined assault on George’s higher nature and on his lower. Neaera thought that, if only she had been granted time and money to dress properly, she might never have seen the inside of Peckton gaol at all; for even lawyers are human, or, if that be disputed, let us say not superhuman.
George came in with all the awkwardness of an Englishman who hates a scene and feels himself a fool for his awkwardness. Neaera motioned him to a chair, and they sat silent for a moment.
“You sent for me, Mrs. Witt?”
“Yes,” said Neaera, looking at the fire. Then, with a sudden turn of her eyes upon him, she added, “It was only – to thank you.”
“I’m afraid you have little enough to thank me for.”
“Yes; your kindness at Liverpool.”
“Oh, it seemed the best way out. I hope you pardon the liberty I took?”
“And for an earlier kindness of yours.”
“I really – ”
“Yes, yes. When they gave me that money you sent, I cried. I could not cry in prison, but I cried then. It was the first time any one had ever been kind to me.”
George was embarrassed. He had an uneasy feeling that the sentiment was trite; but, then, many of the saddest things are the tritest.
“It is good of you,” he said, stumbling in his words, “to remember it, in face of all I have done against you.”
“You pitied me then.”
“With all my heart.”
“How did I do it? How did I? I wish I had starved; and seen my father starve first!”
George wondered whether it was food that the late Mr. Gale so urgently needed.
“But I did it. I was a thief; and once a thief, always a thief.” And Neaera smiled a sad smile.
“You must not suppose,” he said, as he had once before, “that I do not make allowances.”
“Allowances?” she cried, starting up. “Allowances – always allowances! never pity! never mercy! never forgetfulness!”
“You did not ask for mercy,” said George.
“No, I didn’t. I know what you mean – I lied.”
“Yes, you lied, if you choose that word. You garbled documents, and, when the truth was told, you called it slander.”
Neaera had sunk back in her seat again. “Yes,” she moaned. “I couldn’t let it all go – I couldn’t!”
“You yourself have made pity impossible.”
“Oh no, not impossible! I loved him so, and he – he was so trustful.”
“The more reason for not deceiving him,” said George, grimly.
“What is it, after all?” she exclaimed, changing her tone. “What is it, I say?”
“Well, if you ask me, Mrs. Witt, it’s an awkward record.”
“An awkward record! Yes, but for a man in love?”
“That’s Gerald’s look-out. He can do as he pleases.”
“What, after you have put me to open shame? And for what? Because I loved my father most, and loved my – the man who loved me – most!” George shook his head.
“If you were in love – in love, I say, with a girl – yes, if you were in love with me, would this thing stop you?” And she stood before him proudly and scornfully.
George looked at her. “I don’t think it would,” he said.
“Then,” she asked, advancing a step, and stretching out her clasped hands, “why ask more for another than for yourself?”
“Gerald will be the head of the family, to begin with – ”
“The family?”
“Certainly; the Neston family.”
“Who are they? Are they famous? I never heard of them till the other day.”
“I daresay not; we moved in rather different circles.”
“Do you take pleasure in being brutal?”
“I take pleasure in nothing connected with this confounded affair,” said George, impatiently.
“Then why not drop it?”
George shook his head.
“Too late,” he said.
“It’s mere selfishness. You are only thinking of what people will say of you.”
“I have a right to consider that.”
“It’s mean – mean and heartless!”
George rose. “Really, it’s no use going on with this,” said he. And, making a slight bow, he turned towards the door.
“I didn’t mean it – I didn’t mean it,” cried Neaera. “But I am out of my mind. Ah, have pity on me!” And she flung herself on the floor, right in his path.
George felt very absurd. He stood, his hat in one hand, his stick and gloves in the other, while Neaera clasped his legs below the knee, and, he feared, was about to bedew his boots with her tears.
“This is tragedy, I suppose,” he thought. “How the devil am I to get away?”
“I have never had a chance,” Neaera went on, “never. Ah, it is hard! And when at last – ” Her voice choked, and George, to his horror, heard her sob.
He nervously shifted his feet about, as well as Neaera’s eager clutches would allow him. How he wished he had not come!
“I cannot bear it!” she cried. “They will all write about me, and jeer at me; and Gerald will cast me off. Where shall I hide? – where shall I hide? What was it to you?”
Then she was silent, but George heard her stifled weeping. Her clasp relaxed, and she fell forward, with her face on the floor, in front of him. He did not seize his chance of escape.
“London is uninhabitable to me, if I do as you ask,” he said.
She looked up, the tears escaping from her eyes.
“Ah, and the world to me, if you don’t!”
George sat down in an arm-chair; he abandoned the hope of running away. Neaera rose, pushed back her hair from her face, and fixed her eyes eagerly on him. He looked down for an instant, and she shot a hasty glance at the mirror, and then concentrated her gaze on him again, a little anxious smile coming to her lips.
“You will?” she asked in a whisper.
George petulantly threw his gloves on a table near him. Neaera advanced, and knelt down beside him, laying her hand on his shoulder.
“You have made me cry so much,” she said. “See, my eyes are dim. You won’t make me cry any more?”
George looked at the bright eyes, half veiled in tears, and the mouth trembling on the brink of fresh weeping. And the eyes and mouth were very good.
“It is Gerald,” she said; “he is so strict. And the shame, the shame!”
“You don’t know what it means to me.”
“I do indeed: I know it is hard. But you are generous. No, no, don’t turn your face away!”
George still sat silent. Neaera took his hand in hers.
“Ah, do!” she said.
George smiled, – at himself, not at Neaera.
“Well, don’t cry any more,” said he, “or the eyes will be red as well as dim.”
“You will, you will?” she whispered eagerly.
He nodded.
“Ah, you are good! God bless you, George: you are good!”
“No. I am only weak.”
Neaera swiftly bent and kissed his hand. “The hand that gives me life,” she said.
“Nonsense,” said George, rather roughly.
“Will you clear me altogether?”
“Oh yes; everything or nothing,”
“Will you give me that – that character?”
“Yes.”
She seized his reluctant hand, and kissed it again.
“I have your word?”
“You have.”
She leapt up, suddenly radiant.
“Ah, George, Cousin George, how I love you! Where is it?”
George took the document out of his pocket.
Neaera seized it. “Light a candle,” she cried.
George with an amused smile obeyed her.
“You hold the candle, and I will burn it!” And she watched the paper consumed with the look of a gleeful child. Then she suddenly stretched her arms. “Oh, I am tired!”
“Poor child!” said George. “You can leave it to me now.”
“However shall I repay you? I never can.” Then she suddenly saw the cat, ran to him, and picked him up. “We are forgiven, Bob! we are forgiven!” she cried, dancing about the room.
George watched her with amusement.
She put the cat down and came to him. “See, you have made me happy. Is that enough?”
“It is something,” said he.
“And here is something more!” And she threw her arms round his neck, and kissed him.
“That’s better,” said George. “Any more?”
“Not till we are cousins.”
“Be gentle in your triumph.”
“No, no; don’t talk like that. Are you going?”
“Yes. I must go and put things straight.”
“Good-bye. I – I hope you won’t find it very hard.”
“I have been paid in advance.”
Neaera blushed a little.
“You shall be better paid, if ever I can,” she said.
George paused outside, to light a cigarette; then he struck into the park, and walked slowly along, meditating as he went. When he arrived at Hyde Park Corner, he roused himself from his reverie.
“Now the woman was very fair!” said he, as he hailed a hansom.
CHAPTER XV.
A LETTER FOR MR. GERALD
Mrs. Pocklington sat with blank amazement in her face, and a copy of the second edition of the Bull’s-eye in her hand. On the middle page, in type widely spaced, beneath a noble headline, appeared a letter from George Neston, running thus: —
“To the Editor of the Bull’s-eye
“Sir,
“As you have been good enough to interest yourself, and, I hope, fortunate enough to interest your readers, in the subject of certain allegations made by me in respect of a lady whose name has been mentioned in your columns, I have the honour to inform you that such allegations were entirely baseless, the result of a chance resemblance between that lady and another person, and of my own hasty conclusions drawn therefrom. I have withdrawn all my assertions, fully and unreservedly, and have addressed apologies for them to those who had a right to receive apologies.
“I have the honour to be, sir,“Your obedient servant,“George Neston.”
And then a column of exultation, satire, ridicule, preaching, praying, prophesying, moralising, and what not. The pen flew with wings of joy, and ink was nothing regarded on that day.
Mrs. Pocklington was a kind-hearted woman; yet, when she read a sister’s vindication, she found nothing better to say than —
“How very provoking!”
And it may be that this unregenerate exclamation fairly summed up public feeling, if only public feeling had been indecent enough to show itself openly. A man shown to be a fool is altogether too common a spectacle; a woman of fashion proved a thief would have been a more piquant dish. But in this world – and, indeed, probably in any other – we must take what we can get; and since society could not trample on Neaera Witt, it consoled itself by correcting and chastening the misguided spirit of George Neston. Tommy Myles shook his empty little head, and all the other empty heads shook solemnly in time. Isabel Bourne said she knew she was right, and Sidmouth Vane thought there must be something behind – he always did, as became a statesman in the raw. Mr. Espion re-echoed his own leaders, like a phonograph; and the chairman of the Themis thanked Heaven they were out of an awkward job.
But wrath and fury raged in the breast of Laura Pocklington. She thought George had made a fool of her. He had persuaded her to come over to his side, and had then betrayed the colours. There would be joy in Gath and Askelon; or, in other words, Isabel Bourne and Maud Neston would crow over her insupportably.
“I will never see him or speak to him again, mamma,” Laura declared, passionately. “He has behaved abominably!”
This announcement rather took the wind out of Mrs. Pocklington’s sails. She was just preparing to bear majestically down upon her daughter with a stern ultimatum to the effect that, for the present, George must be kept at a distance, and daughters must be guided by their mothers. At certain moments nothing is more annoying than to meet with agreement, when one intends to extort submission.
“Good gracious, Laura!” said Mrs. Pocklington, “you can’t care much for the man.”
“Care for him! I detest him!”
“My dear, it hardly looked like it.”
“You must allow me some self-respect, mamma.”
Mr. Pocklington, entering, overheard these words. “Hallo!” said he. “What’s the matter?”
“Why, my dear, Laura declares that she will have nothing to say to George Neston.”
“Well, that’s just your own view, isn’t it?” A silence ensued. “It seems to me you are agreed.”
It really did look like it; but they had been on the verge of a pretty quarrel all the same: and Mr. Pocklington was confirmed in the opinion he had lately begun to entertain that, when paradoxes of mental process are in question, there is in truth not much to choose between wives and daughters.
Meanwhile, George Neston was steadily and unflinchingly devouring his humble-pie. He sought and obtained Gerald’s forgiveness, after half an hour of grovelling abasement. He listened to Tommy Myles’s grave rebuke and Sidmouth Vane’s cynical raillery without a smile or a tear. He even brought himself to accept with docility a letter full of Christian feeling which Isabel Bourne was moved to write.
All these things, in fact, affected him little in comparison with the great question of his relations with the Pocklingtons. That, he felt, must be settled at once, and, with his white sheet yet round him and his taper still in his hand, he went to call on Mrs. Pocklington.
He found that lady in an attitude of aggressive tranquillity. With careful ostentation she washed her hands of the whole affair. Left to her own way, she might have been inclined to consider that George’s foolish recklessness had been atoned for by his manly retractation – or, on the other hand, she might not. It mattered very little which would have been the case; and, if it comforted him, he was at liberty to suppose that she would have embraced the former opinion. The decision did not lie with her. Let him ask Laura and Laura’s father. They had made up their minds, and it was not in her province or power to try to change their minds for them. In fact, Mrs. Pocklington took up the position which Mr. Spenlow has made famous – only she had two partners where Mr. Spenlow had but one. George had a shrewd idea that her neutrality covered a favourable inclination towards himself, and thanked her warmly for not ranking herself among his enemies.
“I am even emboldened,” he said, “to ask your advice how I can best overcome Miss Pocklington’s adverse opinion.”
“Laura thinks you have made her look foolish. You see, she took your cause up rather warmly.”
“I know. She was most generous.”
“You were so very confident.”
“Yes; but one little thing at the end tripped me up. I couldn’t have foreseen it. Mrs. Pocklington, do you think she will be very obdurate?”
“Oh, I’ve nothing to do with it. Don’t ask me.”
“I wish I could rely on your influence.”
“I haven’t any influence,” declared Mrs. Pocklington. “She’s as obstinate as a – as resolute as her father.”
George rose to go. He was rather disheartened; the price he had to pay for the luxury of generosity seemed very high.
Mrs. Pocklington was moved to pity. “George,” she said, “I feel like a traitor, but I will give you one little bit of advice.”
“Ah!” cried George, his face brightening. “What is it, my dear Mrs. Pocklington?”
“As to my husband, I say nothing; but as to Laura – ”
“Yes, yes!”
“Let her alone – absolutely.”
“Let her alone! But that’s giving it up.”
“Don’t call, don’t write, don’t be known to speak of her. There, I’ve done what I oughtn’t; but you’re an old friend of mine, George.”
“But I say, Mrs. Pocklington, won’t some other fellow seize the chance?”
“If she likes you best, what does that matter? If she doesn’t – ” And Mrs. Pocklington shrugged her shoulders.
George was convinced by this logic. “I will try,” he said.
“Try?”
“Yes, try to let her alone. But it’s difficult.”
“Stuff and nonsense. Laura isn’t indispensable.”
“I know those are not your real views.”
“You’re not her mother; for which you may thank Heaven.”
“I do,” said George, and took his leave, rather consoled. He would have been even more cheerful had he known that Laura’s door was ajar, and Laura was listening for the bang of the hall door. When she heard it, she went down to her mother.
“Who was your visitor, mamma?”
“Oh, George Neston.”
“What did he come about?”
“Well, my dear, to see me, I suppose.”
“And what did he find to say for himself?”
“Oh, we hardly talked about that affair at all. However, he seems in very good spirits.”
“I’m sure he has no business to be.”
“Perhaps not, my dear; but he was.”
“I didn’t know it was Mr. Neston. I’m so glad I didn’t come down.”
Mrs. Pocklington went on knitting.
“I expect he knew why.”
Mrs. Pocklington counted three pearl and three plain.
“Did he say anything about it, mamma?”
“One, two, three. About what, dear?”
“Why, about – about my not coming?”
“No. I suppose he thought you were out.”
“Did you tell him so?”
“He didn’t ask, my dear. He has other things to think about than being attentive to young women.”
“It’s very lucky he has,” said Laura, haughtily.
“My dear, he lets you alone. Why can’t you let him alone?”
Laura took up a book, and Mrs. Pocklington counted her stitches in a brisk and cheerful tone.
It will be seen that George had a good friend in Mrs. Pocklington. In truth he needed some kindly countenance, for society at large had gone mad in praise of Neaera and Gerald. They were the fashion. Everybody tried to talk to them; everybody was coming to the wedding; everybody raved about Neaera’s sweet patience and Gerald’s unwavering faith. When Neaera drove her lover round the park in her victoria, their journey was a triumphal progress; and only the burden of preparing for the wedding prevented the pair being honoured guests at every select gathering. Gerald walked on air. His open hopes were realised, his secret fears laid to rest; while Neaera’s exaggerated excuses for George betrayed to his eyes nothing but the exceeding sweetness of her disposition. Her absolute innocence explained and justified her utter absence of resentment, and must, Gerald felt, add fresh pangs to George’s remorse and shame. These pangs Gerald did not feel it his duty to mitigate.
Thursday came, and Monday was the wedding-day. The atmosphere was thick with new clothes, cards of invitation, presents, and congratulations. A thorny question had arisen as to whether George should be invited. Neaera’s decision was in his favour, and Gerald himself had written the note, hoping all the while that his cousin’s own good sense would keep him away.
“It would be hardly decent in him to come,” he said to his father.
“I daresay he will make some excuse,” answered Lord Tottlebury. “But I hope you won’t keep up the quarrel.”
“Keep up the quarrel! By Jove, father, I’m too happy to quarrel.”
“Gerald,” said Maud Neston, entering, “here’s such a funny letter for you! I wonder it ever reached.”
She held out a dirty envelope, and read the address —
“Mr. Nesston, Esq.,
“His Lordship Tottilberry,
“London.”
“Who in the world is it?” asked Maud, laughing.
Gerald had no secrets.
“I don’t know,” said he. “Give it me, and we’ll see.” He opened the letter. The first thing he came upon was a piece of tissue paper neatly folded. Opening it, he found it to be a ten-pound note. “Hullo! is this a wedding present?” said he with a laugh.
“Ten pounds! How funny!” exclaimed Maud. “Is there no letter?”
“Yes, here’s a letter!” And Gerald read it to himself.
The letter ran as follows, saving certain eccentricities of spelling which need not be reproduced: —
“Sir,
“I don’t rightly know whether this here is your money or Nery’s. Nor I don’t know where it comes from, after what you said when you was here with her Friday. I can work for my living, thanks be to Him to whom thanks is due, and I don’t put money in my pocket as I don’t know whose pocket it come out of.
“Your humble servant,“Susan Bort.”
“Susan Bort!” exclaimed Gerald. “Now, who the deuce is Susan Bort, and what the deuce does she mean?”
“Unless you tell us what she says – ” began Lord Tottlebury.
Gerald read the letter again, with a growing feeling of uneasiness. He noticed that the postmark was Liverpool. It so chanced that he had not been to Liverpool for more than a year. And who was Susan Bort?
He got up, and, making an apology for not reading out his letter, went to his own room to consider the matter.
“‘Nery?’” said he. “And if I wasn’t there, who was?”
It was generous of George Neston to shield Neaera at Liverpool. It was also generous of Neaera to send Mrs. Bort ten pounds immediately after that lady had treated her so cruelly. It was honest of Mrs. Bort to refuse to accept money which she thought might be the proceeds of burglary. To these commendable actions Gerald was indebted for the communication which disturbed his bliss.
