LAURA DIFFERS.
_Ira brevis furor_, says the moralist; and the adjective is the only
part of the saw that is open to exception. Gerald Neston's wrath burnt
fiercely, but it burnt steadily also, and reflection brought with it
nothing but a stronger conviction of his wrongs. To George, the
interpretation his cousin put on his action in shielding Neaera seemed
to argue that uncommon degree of wrong-headedness that is hardly
distinguishable from immorality. Yet, in the recesses of George's heart
lurked the knowledge that Mrs. Witt, plain, old, unattractive, might
have reaped scant mercy, at his hands; and Gerald, if he did not believe
all he had brutally hinted, believed quite enough of it to make him
regard George as a traitor and Neaera as an intriguer. What sane
man could have acted as George had acted, unless under a woman's
fascination? Jealousy did the rest, for Neaera herself had sapped the
strength of her lover's trust in her, and he doubted not that she who
had deluded him in everything else had not hesitated to practise on him
the last deceit. She and George were confederates. Need any one ask how
they became so, or what the terms of the alliance were?
It was hardly wonderful that this theory, strange as it seemed, should
find a place in Gerald's disordered mind, or that, having done so, it
should vent itself in intemperate words and reckless sneers. It was,
however, more remarkable that the opinion gained some general favour. It
pleased the cynical, for it explained away what seemed like a generous
action; it pleased the gossips, for it introduced into the Neston affair
the topic most congenial to gossips; it pleased the "unco guid," for
it pointed the moral of the ubiquity of sin; it pleased men as a sex,
because it made George's conduct natural and explicable; it pleased
women as a sex, because it ratified the opinion they had always held
of beautiful mysterious widows in general, and of Neaera Witt in
particular. And amid this chorus, the voice of the charitable, admitting
indiscretion, but asserting generosity, was lost and hushed, and
George's little band of friends and believers were dubbed blind
partisans and, by consequence, almost accomplices.
Fortunately for George, among his friends were men who cared little for
public reprobation. Mr. Blodwell did his work, ate his dinner, said what
he thought, and esteemed the opinion of society much at the value the
Duke of Wellington set upon the views of the French nation. As for Lord
Mapledurham and Sidmouth Vane, unpopularity was the breath of their
nostrils; and Vane did not hesitate to purchase the pleasure of being in
a minority by a sacrifice of consistency; he abandoned the theory which
he had been among the first to suggest, as soon as the suggestion passed
by general acceptance into vulgarity.
The three men gave George Neston a dinner, drank Neaera's health,
and allowed themselves an attitude of almost contemptuous protest
against the verdict of society--a verdict forcibly expressed by the
_Bull's-eye_, when it declared with not unnatural warmth that it had had
enough of this "sordid affair." But then the _Bull's-eye_ had hardly
shown its wonted perspicacity, and Mr. Espion declared that he had not
been treated in a respectful way. There was no traversing the fact;
George's party fell back on a denial of the obligation.
Mankind is so constructed that the approbation of man does not satisfy
man, nor that of woman woman. If all the clubs had been ringing with his
praises, George Neston would still have turned his first and most eager
glance to Mrs. Pocklington's. As it was, he thought of little else than
what view of his conduct would gain the victory there. Alas! he knew
only too soon. Twice he called: twice was entrance refused him. Then
came a note from Mrs. Pocklington--an unanswerable note; for the lady
asserted nothing and denied nothing; she intrenched herself behind
common opinion. She, as George knew, was a tolerably independent person
so far as her own fame was concerned: but where her daughter was
interested, it was another thing; Laura's suitor must not be under a
cloud; Laura's future must not be jeopardied; Laura's affections must
be reposed only where absolute security could be guaranteed. Mr.
Pocklington agreed with his wife to the full. Hence there must be an end
of everything--so far as the Pocklington household was concerned, an end
of George Neston. And poor George read the decree, and groaned in his
heart. Nevertheless, strange events were happening behind that door, so
firmly, so impenetrably closed to George's eager feet--events to Mrs.
Pocklington inconceivable, even while they actually happened; to her
husband, alarming, reprehensible, extraordinary, puzzling, amusing,
almost, in a way, delightful. In fine, Laura rebelled. And the
declaration of independence was promulgated on this wise.
Mrs. Pocklington had conveyed to her daughter, with all delicacy
requisite and imaginable, the new phase of the affair. It shocked and
distressed her to allude to such things; but Laura was a woman now,
and must know--and so forth. And Laura heard it all with no apparent
shock--nay, with a calmness approaching levity; and when she was told
that all communications between herself and George must cease, she
shook her pretty head and retired to her bedroom, neither accepting nor
protesting against the decision.
The next morning after breakfast she appeared, equipped for a walk,
holding a letter in her hand. Mrs. Pocklington had ordered her
household, and had now sat down to a comfortable hour with a novel
before luncheon. _Dis aliter visum._
"I am going out, mamma," Laura began, "to post this note to Mr. Neston."
Mrs. Pocklington never made mistakes in the etiquette of names, and
assumed a like correctness in others. She imagined her daughter referred
to Gerald. "Why need you write to him?" she asked, looking up. "He's
nothing more than an acquaintance."
"Mamma! He's an intimate friend."
"Gerald Neston an intimate friend! Why----"
"I mean Mr. George Neston," said Laura, in a calm voice, but with a
slight blush.
"George!" exclaimed Mrs. Pocklington. "What in the world do you want to
write to George Neston for? I have said all that is necessary."
"I thought I should like to say something too."
"My dear, certainly not. If you had been--if there had been anything
actually arranged, perhaps a line from you would have been right;
though, under the circumstances, I doubt it. As it is, for you to write
would simply be to give him a chance of reopening the acquaintance."
Laura did not sit down, but stood by the door, prodding the carpet with
the point of her parasol. "Is the acquaintance closed?" she asked, after
a pause.
"You remember, surely, what I said yesterday? I hope it's not necessary
to repeat it."
"Oh no, mamma; I remember it." Laura paused, gave the carpet another
prod, and went on, "I'm just writing to say I don't believe a word of
it."
"Jack's Darling" fell from Mrs. Pocklington's paralysed grasp.
"Laura, how dare you? It is enough for you that I have decided what is
to be done."
"You see, mamma, when everybody is turning against him, I want to show
him he has one friend, at least, who doesn't believe these hateful
stories."
"I wonder you haven't more self-respect. Considering what is said about
him and Neaera Witt----"
"Oh, bother Mrs. Witt!" said Laura, actually smiling. "Really, mamma,
it's nonsense; he doesn't care that for Neaera Witt!" And she tried
to snap her fingers; but, happily for Mrs. Pocklington's nerves, the
attempt was a failure.
"I shall not argue with you, Laura. You will obey me, and there is an
end of it."
"You told me I was a woman yesterday. If I am, I ought to be allowed to
judge for myself. Anyhow, you ought to hear what I have to say."
"Give me that letter, Laura."
"I'm very sorry, mamma; but----"
"Give it to me."
"Very well; I shall have to write another."
"Do you mean to defy me, Laura?"
Laura made no answer.
Mrs. Pocklington opened and read the letter.
"DEAR MR. NESTON," (it ran)--
"I want you to know that I do not believe a single word of what
they are saying. I am very sorry for poor Mrs. Witt, and I think
you have acted _splendidly_. Isn't it charming weather? Riding in
the park in the morning is a positive delight.
"With kindest regards,
"Yours very sincerely,
"LAURA F. POCKLINGTON."
Mrs. Pocklington gasped. The note was little better than an assignation!
"I shall show this to your father," she said, and swept out of the room.
Laura sat down and wrote an exact copy of the offending document,
addressed it, stamped it, and put it in her pocket. Then, with
ostentatious calmness, she took up "Jack's Darling," and appeared to
become immersed in it.
Mrs. Pocklington found it hard to make her husband appreciate the
situation; indeed, she had scarcely risen to it herself. Everybody talks
of heredity in these days: the Pocklingtons, both people of resolute
will, had the opportunity of studying its working in their own
daughter. The result was fierce anger in Mrs. Pocklington, mingled anger
and admiration in her husband, perplexity in both. Laura's position was
simple and well defined. By coercion and imprisonment she might, she
admitted, be prevented sending her letter and receiving a reply, but
by no other means. Appeals to duty were met by appeals to justice; she
parried entreaty by counter-entreaty, reproofs by protestations of
respect, orders by silence. What was to be done? Laura was too old, and
the world was too old, for violent remedies. Intercepting correspondence
meant exposure to the household. The revolt was appalling, absurd,
unnatural; but it was also, as Mr. Pocklington admitted, "infernally
awkward." Laura realised that its awkwardness was her strength, and,
having in vain invited actual physical restraint, in its absence walked
out and posted her letter.
Then Mrs. Pocklington acted. At a day's notice she broke up her
establishment for the season, and carried her daughter off with her.
She gave no address save to her husband. Laura was not allowed to know
whither she was being taken. She was, as she bitterly said, "spirited
away" by the continental mail, and all the communications cut. Only,
just as the brougham was starting, when the last box was on, and Mr.
Pocklington, having spoken his final word of exhortation, was waving
good-bye from the steps, Laura jumped out, crossed the road, and dropped
a note into a pillar-box.
"It is only," she remarked, resuming her seat, "to tell Mr. Neston that
I can't give him any address at present."
What, asked Mrs. Pocklington of her troubled mind, were you to do with a
girl like that?