Nevius raised a hand in protest. “It is not her fault. It’s that father-in-law of mine.”
“Father-at-law you mean. But that’s neither here nor there. The thing is done, and a more abominable iniquity never was committed. That your wife should wish a divorce, passe encore. But that in her effort to get it she should put a young girl into leaded type, a girl who was her intimate friend; a girl whose people were governors of New York at a time when the Snaiths, if they existed, were cleaning the streets; no, in the entire history of civilized life there is no parallel for it. And who is this other correspondent? Why didn’t she stick to her and let Miss Adulam out?”
“Hilda had nothing to do with it!” Nevius answered dejectedly. “Don’t say anything against her. I can’t and won’t permit it.”
“Bosh.”
But the novelist spoke in an undertone. From a box on the table he took a gold-tipped cigarette, at which article of London luxury he sniffed, and for a while there was silence in that room.
But presently Nevius, who had sat, his face in his hands, looked wearily up at his friend. “What do they say?”
“Who? People in general? Everyone seems to be very well pleased. Some of the men are indignant at the publicity, knowing how, in similar circumstances, they would feel themselves. Others are indignant, too, but their indignation is partly envy, partly disgust, at having no such chances themselves. As for the women, that is a different guitar. You have got one of their sacred sex into trouble, and as a body they won’t forgive. Though individually, were you not rather compromising at present, you might toss monogrammed cambrics as before. On the whole, then, I may say that people in general are rather pleased than otherwise. There is a land where there is much joy over the sinner that repents. In the world we live in the joy is at his detection.”
Nevius leaned across the table.
“Do you mean to say that it is believed?”
“Well, you know—” And for a second the unembarrassable Jones actually hesitated. “You see, Carol, to be frank with you, more or less, don’t you know, for some time past people have connected Miss Adulam’s name with yours. And they say, you know, that there were times when she—well, when she came to see you.”
Nevius sank back.
“But even so,” he queried. “Even so—”
“Oh, if you put it in that light, in any light for that matter, I am with you. Of course it was sufficient for me to see it stated that you had made a confession, to know that you had done nothing of the sort. It is what we don’t do that gets into the papers, never what we have done, which after all,” the novelist added to himself, “is sufficient for most of us. The point is here, however, people had doubts, now they have none. Naturally you will declare Miss Adulam innocent, and the world will treat her as though you had never opened your head. But tell me, what sort of evidence have they?”
“Evidence! As God is my witness that girl is as straight as your sister.”
The reply came so abruptly, in a voice so indignant, and yet so earnest, that the novelist stared. Not for a moment had he doubted but that the facts were as Mrs. Nevius stated them.
His anger, his sympathy, too, were due to the knowledge that people of ordinary refinement do not permit certain forms of publicity. That Miss Adulam had taken a step aside, that Nevius had aided and abetted in the taking of that step, were matters which concerned him not in the least. To his thinking the wantonness of the whole affair consisted in the fact that Mrs. Nevius, in her desire for a divorce, had not gone about it in such a way that no one, not even the attorneys, could suspect that there was so much as a shred of linen which needed the services of a laundress. Men and women of decent breeding sunk their private grievances and separated with mutual delight, no doubt, but also with common courtesy. The act which Mrs. Nevius had committed was the act of a scullion, at best of a young person in Harlem. No matter how outraged she had felt, refinement should have inhibited her from disgracing a girl before the eyes of the multitude. It was that which had aroused his wrath, not once had the suspicion come to him that the charge might not be true.
But now as he stared at Nevius he saw that it was false. He was far too old a bird to be caught with chaff. He was far too good a critic of private theatricals not to know the true ring when he heard it, and as he saw in Nevius’ face, in his bearing and attitude, that transfiguring innocence which only the guiltless can display, he pounded the table with his fist.
“By George then, if that’s the case this whole matter is more damnable than it was before. Why, Carol, Bernhardt isn’t in it with your wife.”
“It isn’t my wife, I tell you, it’s her people. You know how they acted in regard to Montrion. They have done the same thing to me, with this difference, Fanny Montrion was behind the scenes, and Hilda knew nothing until they got their trumped charges in shape. It must have nearly killed her, though, puzzle as I may, I don’t see how they ever got her to believe them, and what’s more, I don’t believe they have. When I see her tomorrow it will take me just one minute to disabuse her mind. Her mother says she is ill, and God knows I am too.”
“You’ve seen the mother, have
