Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale. Hope Anthony
shirked this pointed question, and, as the interview was really less soothing than he had expected, took an early opportunity of escaping.
Mr. Espion came back, and asked why Neston had gone away looking so sulky. Isabel smiled and said Mr. Neston was vexed with her. Could anybody be vexed with Miss Bourne? asked Mr. Espion, and added,
“But Neston is rather crotchety, isn’t he?”
“Why do you say that?” asked Isabel.
“Oh, I don’t know. Well, the fact is, I was talking to Tommy Myles at the Cancan – ”
“Where, Mr. Espion?”
“At the theatre, and he told me Neston had got some maggot in his head – ”
“I don’t think he ought to say that.”
But need we listen longer? And whose fault was it – Neaera’s, or George’s, or Isabel’s, or Tommy’s, or Mr. Espion’s? That became the question afterwards, when Lord Tottlebury was face to face with the violated compact, – and with next day’s issue of the Bull’s-eye.
CHAPTER V.
THE FIRST PARAGRAPH – AND OTHERS
Under pressure of circumstances men very often do what they have declared they cannot possibly do; it happens with private individuals no less than with political parties. George declared he could not possibly go to Peckton before Saturday; but he was so disgusted with his position, that he threw all other engagements to the winds, and started early on Thursday morning, determined not to face his friends again without attempting to prove his words. Old Dawkins was dead, but the clerk was, and the policeman might be, alive; and, on his return to town, he could see Jennings, the clerk’s son, who had settled down to conveyancing in Lincoln’s Inn, and try to refresh his memory with materials gathered on the spot. For George had already seen Mr. Jennings, and Mr. Jennings remembered nothing about it – it was not his first brief, – but was willing to try to recall the matter if George would get him the details and let him see a picture of the person wanted – a request George did not wish to comply with at the moment.
So he went to Peckton, and found out perhaps as much as he could reasonably expect to find out, as shall in due course appear. And during his absence several things happened. In the first place, the Bull’s-eye was published, containing what became known as the “First Paragraph.” The “First Paragraph” was headed “Strange Charge against a Lady – Rumoured Proceedings,” and indicated the Neston family, Neaera Witt, and George, in such a manner as to enable their friends to identify them. This paragraph was inserted with the object of giving Neaera, or George, or both of them, as the case might be, or anybody else who could be “drawn,” an opportunity of contradicting it. The second event was that the Nestons’ friends did identify them, and proceeded to open the minds of everybody who did not.
Then Mr. Blodwell read the Bull’s-eye, as his custom was, and thoughtfully ejaculated “Peckton!” and Lord Tottlebury, being at the club, was shown the Bull’s-eye by a friend, who really could not do less, and went home distracted; and Tommy Myles read it, and, conscience-stricken, fled to Brighton for three days’ fresh air; and Isabel read it, and confessed to her mother, and was scolded, and cried; and Gerald read it, and made up his mind to kick everybody concerned, except, of course, Neaera; and, finally, Neaera read it, and was rather frightened and rather excited, and girt on her armour for battle.
Gerald, however, was conscious that the process he had in his mind, satisfying as it would be to his own feelings, would not prove in all respects a solution of the difficulty, and, with the selfishness which a crisis in a man’s own affairs engenders, he made no scruple about taking up a full hour of Mr. Blodwell’s time, and expounding his views at great length, under the guise of taking counsel. Mr. Blodwell listened to his narrative of facts with interest, but cut short his stream of indignant comment.
“The mischief is that it’s got into the papers,” he said. “But for that, I don’t see that it matters much.”
“Not matter much?” gasped Gerald.
“I suppose you don’t care whether it’s true or not?”
“It’s life or death to me,” answered Gerald.
“Bosh! She won’t steal any more shoes now she’s a rich woman.”
“You speak, sir, as if you thought – ”
“Haven’t any opinion on the subject, and it wouldn’t be of any importance if I had. The question is shortly this: Supposing it to be true, would you marry her?”
Gerald flung himself into a chair, and bit his finger nail.
“Eight years is a long while ago; and poverty’s a hard thing; and she’s a pretty girl.”
“It’s an absurd hypothesis,” said Gerald. “But a thief’s a thief.”
“True. So are a good many other people.”
“I should have to consider my father and – and the family.”
“Should you? I should see the family damned. However, it comes to this – if it were true, you wouldn’t marry her.”
“How could I?” groaned Gerald. “We should be cut.”
Mr. Blodwell smiled.
“Well, my ardent lover,” he said, “that being so, you’d better do nothing till you see whether it’s true.”
“Not at all. I only took the hypothesis; but I haven’t the least doubt that it’s a lie.”
“A mistake – yes. But it’s in the Bull’s-eye, and a mistake in the newspapers needs to be reckoned with.”
“What shall I do?”
“Wait till George comes back. Meanwhile, hold your tongue.”
“I shall contradict that lie.”
“Much better not. Don’t write to them, or see them, or let anybody else till George comes back. And, Gerald, if I were you, I shouldn’t quarrel with George.”
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