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 I have withdrawn all my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.
"I wonder if Neaera can throw any light on it," said Gerald. "It's very
queer. After lunch, I'll go and see her."