A SERPENT IN EDEN.
On mature reflection, Gerald Neston declined to be angry. At first,
when he had heard George's tale, he had been moved to wrath, and had
said bitter things about reckless talking, and even about malicious
backbiting. But really, when you came to look at it, the thing was too
absurd--not worth a moment's consideration--except that it had, of
course, annoyed Neaera, and must, of course, leave some unpleasantness
behind it. Poor old George! he had hunted up a mare's nest this time,
and no mistake. No doubt he couldn't marry a thief; but who in his sober
senses would attach any importance to this tale? George had done what
he was pleased to think his duty. Let it rest. When he saw his folly,
Neaera would forgive him, like the sweet girl she was. In fact, Gerald
pooh-poohed the whole thing, and not the less because he had, not
unnaturally, expected an accusation of quite another character, more
unforgivable because not so outrageously improbable and wild.
Lord Tottlebury could not consent to treat what he described as "the
incident" in quite so cavalier a fashion. He did not spare his hearers
the well-worn precedent of Caesar's wife; and although, after an
interview with Neaera, he was convinced of her innocence, it was in his
opinion highly desirable that George should disabuse his own mind of
this strange notion by some investigation.
"The marriage, in any case, will not take place for three months. Go and
convince yourself of your mistake, and then, my dear George, we will
make your peace with the lady. I need not caution you to let the matter
go no further."
To be treated as a well-intentioned but misguided person is the most
exasperating thing in the world, and George had hard work to keep his
temper under the treatment. But he recognised that he might well have
fared worse, and, in truth, he asked no more than a suspension of
the marriage pending inquiry--a concession that he understood Lord
Tottlebury was prepared to make, though proof must, of course, be
forthcoming in reasonable time.
"I feel bound to look into it," he said. "As I have begun it, I will
spare no pains. Nobody wishes more heartily than myself that I may have
made an ass of myself." And he really did come as near to this laudable
state of mind as it is in human nature to come.
Before the conference broke up, Lord Tottlebury suggested that there
was one thing George could do at once--he could name the date of the
trial at Peckton. George kept no diary, but he knew that the fateful
expedition had been among his earliest professional journeys after his
call to the Bar. Only very junior men went to Peckton, and, according to
his recollection, the occurrence took place in the April following his
call.
"April, eight years ago, was the time," he said. "I don't pledge myself
to a day."
"You pledge yourself to the month?" asked his uncle.
"Yes, to the month, and I dare say I shall be able to find the day."
"And when will you go to Peckton?"
"Saturday. I can't possibly before."
The interview took place on the Tuesday evening, and on Wednesday Gerald
went to lay the state of affairs before Neaera.
Neaera was petulant, scornful, almost flippant. More than all this, she
was mysterious.
"Mr. George Neston has his reasons," she said. "He will not withdraw his
accusation. I know he will not."
"My dearest, George is a first-rate fellow, as honourable as the day. If
he finds--rather, when he finds----"
All Neaera said was, "Honourable!" But she put a great deal into
that one word. "You dear, simple fellow!" she went on, "you have no
suspicions of anybody. But let him take care how he persists."
More than this could not be got out of her, but she spoke freely about
her own supposed misdoings, pouring a flood of ridicule and bitterness
on George's unhappy head.
"A fool you call him!" she exclaimed, in reply to Gerald's half-hearted
defence. "I don't know if he's a fool, but I hope he is no worse."
"Who's getting it so precious warm, Mrs. Witt?" inquired Tommy
Myles's cheerful voice. "The door was ajar, and your words forced
themselves--you know."
"How do you do, Mr. Myles?"
"As you'd invited me, and your servant wasn't about, the porter-fellow
told me to walk up."
"I'm very glad you did. There's nothing you can't hear."
"Oh, I say, Neaera!" Gerald hastily exclaimed.
"Why shouldn't he hear?" demanded Neaera, turning on him in superb
indignation. "Are you afraid that he'll believe it?"
"No; but we all thought----"
"I meant Mr. George Neston," said Neaera.
"George!" exclaimed Tommy.
"And I'll tell you why." And, in spite of Gerald's protest, she poured
her tale of wrong into Tommy's sympathetic and wide-opened ears.
"There! Don't tell any one else. Lord Tottlebury says we mustn't. I
don't mind, for myself, who knows it."
Tommy was overwhelmed. His mind refused to act. "He's a lunatic!" he
declared. "I don't believe it's safe to live with him. He'll cut my
throat, or something."
"Oh no; his lunacy is under control--a well-trained, obedient lunacy,"
said Neaera, relapsing into mystery.
"We all hope," said Gerald, "he'll soon find out his mistake, and
nothing need come of it. Keep your mouth shut, my boy."
"All right. I'm silent as the cold tomb. But I'm da----"
"Have some more tea?" said Neaera, smiling very graciously. Should she
not reward so warm a champion?
When the two young men took their leave and walked away together, Tommy
vied even with Gerald in the loudness of his indignation.
"A lie! Of course it is, though I don't mean that old George don't
believe it--the old ass! Why, the mere fact of her insisting on telling
me about it is enough. She wouldn't do that if it's true."
"Of course not," assented Gerald.
"She'd be all for hushing it up."
Gerald agreed again.
"It's purely for George's sake we are so keen to keep it quiet," he
added. "Though, of course, Neaera even wouldn't want it all over the
town."
"I suppose I'd better tell George I know?"
"Oh yes. You'll be bound to show it in your manner."
George showed no astonishment at hearing that Neaera had made a
confidant of Tommy Myles. It was quite consistent with the part she
was playing, as he conceived it. Nor did he resent Tommy's outspoken
rebukes.
"Don't mix yourself up in unpleasant things when you aren't obliged, my
son," was all he said in reply to these tirades. "Dine at home?"
"No," snorted Tommy, in high dudgeon.
"You won't break bread with the likes of me?"
"I'm going to the play, and to supper afterwards."
"With whom?"
"Eunice Beauchamp."
"Dear me, what a pretty name!" said George. "Short for 'Betsy Jones,' I
suppose?"
"Go to the devil," said Tommy. "You ain't going to accuse her of
prigging, are you?"
"She kidnaps little boys," said George, who felt himself entitled to
some revenge, "and keeps them till they're nearly grown up."
"I don't believe you ever saw her in your life."
"Oh yes, I did--first piece I ever went to, twenty years ago."
And so, what with Eunice Beauchamp, _alias_ Betsy Jones, and Neaera
Witt, _alias_--what?--two friends parted for that evening with some want
of cordiality.
"She plays a bold game," thought George, as he ate his solitary chop;
"but too bold. You overdo it, Mrs. Witt. An innocent girl would not tell
that sort of thing to a stranger, however false it was."
Which reflection only showed that things strike different minds
differently.
George needed comfort. The Serpent-in-Eden feeling was strong upon him.
He wanted somebody who would not only recognise his integrity but also
admire his discretion. He had a card for Mrs. Pocklington's at-home, and
Isabel was to be there. He would go and have a talk with her; perhaps he
would tell her all about it, for surely Neaera's confidence to Tommy
Myles absolved him from the strict letter of his pledge of secrecy.
Isabel was a sensible girl; she would understand his position, and not
look on him as a cross between an idiot and a burglar because he had
done what was obviously right. So George went to Mrs. Pocklington's
with all the rest of the world; for everybody went there. Mrs.
Pocklington--Eleanor Fitzderham, who married Pocklington, the great
shipowner, member for Dockborough--had done more to unite the classes
and the masses than hundreds of philanthropic societies, and, it may be
added, in a pleasanter manner; and if, at her parties, the bigwigs did
not always talk to the littlewigs, yet the littlewigs were in the same
room with the bigwigs, which is something even at the moment, and really
very nearly as good for purposes of future reference.
George made his way across the crowded rooms, recognising many
acquaintances as he went. There was Mr. Blodwell talking to the last
new beauty--he had a wonderful knack of it,--and Sidmouth Vane talking
to the last new heiress, who would refuse him in a month or two. An
atheistic philosopher was discussing the stagnation of the stock-markets
with a high-church Bishop--Mrs. Pocklington always aimed at starting
people on their points of common interest: and Lady Wheedleton, of the
Primrose League, was listening to Professor Dressingham's description of
the newest recipe for manure, with an impression that the subject was
not quite decent, but might be useful at elections. General Sir Thomas
Swears was asking if anybody had seen the Secretary for War--he had a
word to say to him about the last rifle; but nobody had. The Countess
Hilda von Someveretheim was explaining the problem of "Darkest England"
to the Minister of the Republic of Compostella; Judge Cutter, the
American mystic, was asking the captain of the Oxford Boat Club about
the philosophy of Hegel, and Miss Zoe Ballance, the pretty actress, was
discussing the relations of art and morality with Colonel Belamour of
the Guards.
George was inclined to resent the air of general enjoyment that pervaded
the place: it seemed a little unfeeling. But he was comforted by
catching sight of Isabel. She was talking to a slight young man who wore
an eye-glass and indulged in an expression of countenance which invited
the conclusion that he was overworked and overstrained. Indeed, he was
just explaining to Miss Bourne that it was not so much long hours as
what he graphically described as the "tug on his nerves" that wore him
out. Isabel had never suffered from this particular torture, but she
was very sympathetic, said that she had often heard the same from other
literary men (which was true), and promised to go down to supper with
Mr. Espion later in the evening. Mr. Espion went about his business
(for, the fact is, he was "doing" the party for the _Bull's-eye_), and
the coast was left clear for George, who came up with a deliberately
lugubrious air. Of course Isabel asked him what was the matter; and,
somehow or other, it happened that in less than ten minutes she was in
possession of all the material facts, if they were facts, concerning
Neaera Witt and the pair of shoes.
The effect was distinctly disappointing. Amiability degenerates into
simplicity when it leads to the refusal to accept obvious facts merely
because they impugn the character of an acquaintance; and what is the
use of feminine devotion if it boggles over accepting what you say, just
because you say something a little surprising? George was much annoyed.
"I am not mistaken," he said. "I did not speak hastily."
"Of course not," said Isabel. "But--but you have no actual proof, have
you, George?"
"Not yet; but I soon shall have."
"Well, unless you get it very soon----"
"Yes?"
"I think you ought to withdraw what you have said, and apologise to Mrs.
Witt."
"In fact, you think I was wrong to speak at all?"
"I think I should have waited till I had proof; and then, perhaps----"
"Everybody seems to think me an ass."
"Not _that_, George; but a little--well--reckless."
"I shan't withdraw it."
"Not if you get no proof?"
George 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_.