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."
"He shall withdraw it, or prove it."
Mr. Blodwell shrugged his shoulders and became ostentatiously busy with
the case of _Pigg_ v. _the Local Board of Slushton-under-Mudd_. "A very
queer point this," he remarked. "The drainage system of Slushton is----"
And he stopped with a chuckle at the sight of Gerald's vanishing back.
He called after him--
"Are you going to Mrs. Witt's this afternoon?"
"No," answered Gerald. "This evening."
Mr. Blodwell sat at work for ten minutes more. Then he rang the bell.
"Mr. Neston gone, Timms?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then get a four-wheeler." And he added to himself, "I should like to
see her again, under this new light. I wonder if she'll let me in."
Neaera did let him in. In fact, she seemed very glad to see him, and
accepted with meekness her share of his general censure on the
"babbling" that had gone on.
"You see," she said, handing him a cup of tea, "it scarcely seemed a
serious matter to me. I was angry, of course, but almost more amused
than angry."
"Naturally," answered Mr. Blodwell. "But, my dear young lady, everything
which is public is serious. And this thing is now public, for no doubt
to-morrow's _Bull's-eye_ will give all your names and addresses."
"I don't care," said Neaera.
Mr. Blodwell shook his head. "You must consider Gerald and his people."
"Gerald doesn't doubt me. If he did----" Neaera left her recreant
lover's fate to the imagination.
"But Lord Tottlebury and the world at large? The world at large always
doubts one."
"I suppose so," said Neaera, sadly. "Fortunately, I have conclusive
proof."
"My dear Mrs. Witt, why didn't you say so before?"
"Before there was anything to meet? Is that your way, Mr. Blodwell?"
"George may bring back something to meet."
Neaera rose and went to her writing-table. "I don't know why I shouldn't
show it to you," she said. "I was just going to send it to Lord
Tottlebury. It will be a pleasant surprise for Mr. George Neston when
he comes back from Peckton with his proofs!" She handed Mr. Blodwell a
sheet of note-paper.
He took it, throwing one quick glance at Neaera. "You wish me to read
this?"
"It's letting you into the secrets of my early days," she said. "You
see, I wasn't always as well off as I am now."
Mr. Blodwell adjusted his eye-glass and perused the document, which set
forth that Miss N. Gale entered the service of Mrs. Philip Horne, of
Balmoral Villa, Bournemouth, as companion to that lady, in March, 1883,
and remained in such service until the month of July, 1883; that, during
the whole of such period, she conducted herself with propriety; that she
read aloud with skill, ordered a household with discretion, and humoured
a fussy old lady with tact (this is a paraphrase of the words of the
writer); finally, that she left, by her own desire, to the regret of the
above-mentioned Susan Horne.
Neaera watched Mr. Blodwell as he read.
"Eighteen eighty-three?" said he; "that's the year in question?"
"Yes, and April is the month in question--the month I am supposed to
have spent in prison!"
"You didn't show this to George?"
"No. Why should I? Besides, I didn't know then when he dated my crime."
Mr. Blodwell thought it a little queer that she had not asked him. "He
should certainly see it at once. Have you seen anything of Mrs. Horne
lately?"
"Oh no; I should be afraid she must be dead. She was an old lady, and
very feeble."
"It is--it may be--very lucky--your having this."
"Yes, isn't it? I should never have remembered the exact time I went to
Mrs. Horne's."
Mr. Blodwell took his departure in a state of mind that he felt was
unreasonable. Neaera had been, he told himself, most frank, most
charming, most satisfactory. Yet he was possessed with an overpowering
desire to cross-examine Neaera.
"Perhaps it's only habit," he said to himself. "A protestation of
innocence raises all my fighting instincts."
The next day witnessed the publication of the "Second Paragraph," and
the second paragraph made it plain to everybody that somebody must
vindicate his or her character. The public did not care who did it, but
it felt itself entitled to an action, wherein the whole matter should be
threshed out for the furtherance of public justice and entertainment.
The _Bull's-eye_ itself took this view. It implored Neaera, or George,
or somebody to sue it, if they would not sue one another. It had given
names, addresses, dates, and details. Could the most exacting plaintiff
ask more? If no action were brought, it was clear that Neaera had stolen
the shoes, and that George had slandered her, and that the Nestons in
general shrank from investigation into the family history; all this
was still clearer, if they pursued their extraordinary conduct in not
forwarding personal narratives for the information of the public and the
accommodation of the _Bull's-eye_.
Into this turmoil George was plunged on his return from Peckton. He had
been detained there two days, and did not reach his rooms till late
on Friday evening. He was greeted by two numbers of the _Bull's-eye_,
neatly displayed on his table; by a fiery epistle from Gerald, demanding
blood or apologies; by two penitential dirges from Isabel Bourne and
Tommy Myles; and, lastly, by a frigid note from Lord Tottlebury,
enclosing the testimony of Mrs. Philip Horne to the character and
accomplishments of Miss N. Gale. In Lord Tottlebury's opinion, only one
course was, under the circumstances, open to a gentleman.
Philanthropists often remark, _à propos_ of other philanthropists, that
it is easier to do harm than good, even when you are, as it were, an
expert in doing good. George began to think that his amateur effort
at preserving the family reputation and punishing a wrongdoer looked
like vindicating the truth of this general principle. Here was a
hornets'-nest about his ears! And would what he brought back with him
make the buzzing less furious or the stings less active? He thought not.
"Can a girl be in two places at once," he asked,--"in one of her
Majesty's prisons, and also at--where is it?--Balmoral Villa,
Bournemouth?" And he laid side by side Mrs. Horne's letter and a certain
photograph which was among the spoils of his expedition.
George had not the least doubt that it was a photograph of Neaera
Witt, for all that it was distinctly inscribed, "Nelly Game." Beyond
all question it was a photograph of the girl who stole the shoes,
thoughtfully taken and preserved with a view to protecting society
against future depredations at her hands. It was Crown property,
George supposed, and probably he had no business with it, but a man can
get many things he has no business with for half a sovereign, the sum
George had paid for the loan of it. It must be carefully remembered
that Peckton is exceptional, not typical, in the laxity of its
administration, and a long reign of solitary despotism had sapped the
morality of the fat policeman.
The art of photography has made much progress in recent years. It is
less an engine for the reduction of self-conceit than it used to be,
and less a means of revealing how ill-looking a given person can appear
under favourable circumstances. But Peckton was behind the time, here as
everywhere. Nelly Game's portrait did faint justice to Neaera Witt, and
eight years' wear had left it blurred and faded almost to the point of
indistinctness. It was all very well for George to recognise it. In
candour he was bound to admit that he doubted if it would convince
the unwilling. Besides, a great change comes between seventeen and
five-and-twenty, even when Seventeen is not half-starved and clad in
rags, Five-and-twenty living in luxury, and decked in the glories of
millinery.
"It won't do alone," he said, "but it will help. Let's have a look at
this--document." When he had read it he whistled gently. "Oh, ho! an
alibi. Now I've got her!" he exclaimed.
But had he? He carefully re-read the letter. It was a plausible enough
letter, and conclusive, unless he was prepared to charge Mrs. Witt
with deeper schemes and more dangerous accomplishments than he had yet
thought of doing.
Men are mistaken sometimes, said a voice within him; but he would not
listen.
"I'll look at that again to-morrow," he said, "and find out who 'Susan
Horne' is."
Then he read his letters, and cursed his luck, and went to bed a
miserable man.
The presentment of truth, not the inculcation of morality, being the end
of art, it is worth while to remark that he went to bed a miserable man
simply and solely because he had tried to do his duty.