He went home quite eager for the fray, and his eagerness was not allowed
to flag. The favorite story came to his ears again and again. Men met
him in the streets, and stopped to speak of it; others dropped into his
rooms to hear the truth from himself, when he went to his hotel to dine;
talkers standing in groups in the lobbies turned to look at him, and
when he had passed them returned to their conversation with renewed
interest. To the first man who referred to the matter he listened until
he had said his say. Then he answered him.
"You want to hear the truth about that," he said, "don't you?"
"That, of course," was the reply.
"And you want to be able to _tell_ the truth about it when you are asked
questions?"
"Most certainly."
"Well, then, the truth is that there isn't a word of truth in it from
beginning to end; and if you want to _tell_ the truth, say it's a lie,
and add that I said so, and I am prepared to say so to every man who
wants to interview me; and, what is more, every man who tells another
that it is a lie does me a favor that gives him a claim on me."
He repeated the same thing in effect each time an opportunity presented
itself, and as these opportunities were frequent and each time he gained
something of heat and lost something of temper and patience, he was
somewhat tired and by no means in the best of humors when he sat down to
his dinner, in the big, glaring, crowded hotel dining-room, amid the
rattle of knives, forks, and crockery, the rushing to and fro of excited
waiters, and the incoming and outgoing of hungry people. His calmness
was not added to by observing that the diners at the tables near him
discovered him as with one accord almost as soon as he entered, and cast
glances of interest at him between the courses.
"Perfectly dreadful scene, they say," he heard one lady remark, with an
unconscious candor born of her confidence that the clatter of dishes
would drown all sound. "Went down on her knees to him and wrung her
hands, imploring him to have mercy on her. Husband disappeared next day.
Quite society people too. She has been a great deal admired."
What further particulars the speaker might have entered into there is no
knowing, as she was a communicative person and plainly enjoyed her
subject; but just at this juncture the lady to whom she was confiding
her knowledge of the topics of the hour uttered an uneasy exclamation.
"Gracious! Maria!" she said. "He has heard you! I am sure he has! He has
turned quite red--redder than he was--and he is looking at us! O Maria!"
in accents sepulchral with fright, "he is getting up! He is coming to
speak to us! O--Mari!"--
He was upon them at that very moment. He was accustomed to public
speaking, and his experience led him to the point at once. He held his
newspaper half folded in his hand, and, as had been said, he was a
trifle redder than usual; but his manner was too direct to be entirely
devoid of dignity.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "but my name is Blundel."
The most hopelessly terrified of the ladies found herself saying that he
"was very kind," and the one who had told the story gasped faintly, but
with an evident desire to propitiate, that she "had heard so."
"I take the liberty of mentioning it," he added, "because I have been
sitting quite near to you and chanced to overhear what you were saying,
and as you are evidently laboring under an impression I am interested
in correcting, I felt obliged to intrude on you with a view to
correcting it. I have been denying that story all day. It isn't true.
Not a word of it. I never said an unkind word to the lady you mention,
and I never had an unkind thought of her. No one has any right to speak
ill of her. I am her friend. You will excuse my interrupting you. Here
is my card." And he laid the card on the table, made a bow not so
remarkable for grace, perhaps, as for perfect respectfulness, and
marched back to his table.
There were few people in the room who did not turn to look at him as he
sat down again, and nine out of ten began to indulge in highly colored
speculations as to why he had addressed the women and who they were.
There had never been a more popular scandal than the Westoria land
scheme; the magnitude of it, the element of romance connecting itself
with it, the social position of the principal schemers, all endeared it
to the public heart. Blundel himself had become a hero, and had the
rumors regarding his irreproachable and dramatic conduct only been rife
at a time of election they would have assured him an overwhelming
majority. Perhaps as he approached the strangers' table there had been a
fond, flickering hope cherished that these two apparently harmless women
were lobbyists themselves, and that their disguise was to be rent from
them, and their iniquities to be proclaimed upon the spot. But the brief
episode ended with apparent tameness, and the general temperature was
much lowered, the two ladies sinking greatly in public opinion, and the
interest in Blundel himself flagging a little. There was one person,
however, who did not lose interest in him. This was a little, eager,
birdlike woman who sat at some distance from him, at a small table,
alone. She had seen his every movement since his entrance, and her
bright, dark eyes followed him with an almost wistful interest. It was
Miss Jessup; and Miss Jessup was full to the brim, and pressed down and
running over, with anecdotes of the great scandal, and her delicate
little frame almost trembled with anxious excitement as she gazed upon
him and thought of what might be done in an interview.
He had nearly finished his dinner before he caught sight of her, but as
he was taking his coffee he glanced down the room, saw and recognized
her.
"The very woman!" he exclaimed, under his breath. "Why didn't I think of
that before?" And in five minutes Miss Jessup's heart was thrilled
within her, for he had approached her, greeted her, and taken the seat
she offered him.
"I have come," he said, "to ask a favor of you."
"Of me!" said Miss Jessup. "That does not sound exactly natural. I have
generally asked favors of you. I have just been looking at you and
making up my mind to ask one."
"Wanted to interview me," he asked,--"didn't you?"
She nodded her head, and her bright eyes brightened.
"Well," sturdily, "I _want_ you to interview me. Go ahead and do it."
"You _want_ to be interviewed!" she exclaimed, positively radiant with
innocent joy. "No! Really?"
"I am here for that purpose," he answered.
She left her seat instantly.
"Come into the parlor," she said. "It is quiet there at this time. We
can sit where we shall not be disturbed at all."
They went into the parlor and found at the far end of it the quiet
corner they needed, and two chairs. Miss Jessup took one and Blundel the
other, which enabled him to present his broad back to all who entered.
Almost before he was seated Miss Jessup had produced her neat note-book
and a pencil.
"Now," she said, "I am ready for anything; but I must say I don't see
how I am favoring _you_."
"You are going to favor me by saving me the trouble of contradicting a
certain story every half-hour," he said.
"Ah!" ejaculated Miss Jessup, her countenance falling a little; "it is
not true?"
"Not a word of it."
Humane little creature as she was, as she glanced down at her note-book,
Miss Jessup felt that some one had been a trifle defrauded.
"And there was no scene?"
"No."
"And you did not threaten to expose her?"
"No."
"And you wish me to tell people that?"
"Yes, as pointedly as possible, in as few words as possible, and without
mentioning names if possible."
"Oh, it would not be necessary to mention names; everybody would
understand the slightest reference."
"Well, when you have done that," said Blundel, "you have granted me my
favor."
"And you want it to be brief?" said Miss Jessup.
"See here," said Blundel; "you are a woman. I want you to speak the
truth for another woman as plainly, and--as delicately as a woman can. A
man would say too much or too little; that is why I come to you."
She touched her book with her pencil, and evidently warmed at once.
"I always liked her," she said, with genuine good feeling, "and I could
not help hoping that the story was not true, after all. As it was public
property, it was my business to find out all about it if I could; but I
couldn't help being sorry. I believe I _can_ say the right thing, and I
will do my best. At any rate, it will be altogether different from the
other versions."
"There won't be any other versions if I can prevent it," returned
Blundel. "I shall have some interviews with newspaper men to-night,
which will accomplish that end, I hope."
"Ah!" exclaimed Miss Jessup, "then mine will be the only statement."
"I hope so," he answered. "It will be if I have any influence."
"Oh, then," she said, "you have done me a favor, after all."
"It won't balance the favor you will have done me," he replied, "if you
do your best in this matter. You see, I know what your best is, and I
depend on it."
"Well," she said, "it is very kind of you to say so, and I will try to
prove myself worth depending on, but"--And she scribbled a little in her
note-book. "I don't mind telling you that the reason that is strongest
in my mind is quite an unprofessional one. It is the one you spoke of
just now. It is because I am a woman, too."
"Then she is safe," he returned. "Nothing could make her safer. And I am
grateful to you beforehand, and I hope you will let me say so."
And they shook hands and parted the best of friends, notwithstanding
that the interview had dwindled down into proportions quite likely to be
regarded by the public as entirely insignificant.