In certain congested, poverty-stricken quarters, it is the basis of their easy, garrulous language, and as current as their slang or their profanity. Those who are both poor, humble, and meek are seldom mentioned—since they do nothing to attract attention. They may be said to be philosophers. Gossip, stealthy as the incoming tide, sweeps wide; like the sea’s long, feathery fingers, it spreads with a rapidity that is amazing. Gossip runs riot in a village. It tears down streets, runs frantically up lanes, and into houses, short-cuts to the next, flies around corners, climbs stairs, is passed over neighbors’ fences, seeks out the smallest nooks, is whispered through cracks and keyholes, and even bawled down cellars—lest there should be any one left below ground who has not heard the news.
Among those whom riches have thrown laughing into the lap of luxury and elected to the pinnacles of the most expensive society, women who move in those fashionable and exclusive circles, where every detail of their private lives, from their gowns and jewels to their marriages and divorces, the press so kindly keep the public informed of—over these gossip hovers like an ill-omened forerunner of scandal.
Scandal is the prime executioner; when scandal strikes it lays the naked truth bare to the bone—stark, hideous, undeniable. It takes a brave woman to stand firm in the face of scandal. Some totter and fall at the first blow; others struggle to their feet and survive. Some hide themselves.
There is something so frank and open about scandal that it becomes terrible—merciless and terrifying in its exposure of plain fact The hum of gossip may be compared to the mosquitoes, whose sting is trivial; scandal strikes as sudden as a thunderbolt; it shatters the four walls of a house with a single blow, and turns a search-light on its victim in the ruins.
That “Handsome Jack” Lamont should have said what he did to pretty Mrs. Benton as they met by chance coming out of the theatre, and that pretty Mrs. Benton’s husband, having gone himself to-night in search of his carriage, discovered it far down the line, signalled to his coachman, made his way again through the waiting group of women in theatre wraps and their escorts, and reached his wife’s side at the precise moment to overhear Lamont’s quick question to her, caught even her smiling, whispered promise to him—was unfortunate. The attack followed.
Before either were aware of his presence, Benton struck Lamont a stinging blow from behind, knocking off his hat. As he turned, Benton struck him again—two very courageous blows for so short a little man, red with rage and round as a keg. Pretty Mrs. Benton, who was tall and slim—an exquisite blonde—screamed; so did several women in the group about them, falling back upon their escorts for protection—but by this time, Lamont had the enraged little man by the shoulders and was shaking him like a rat, denouncing his attack as an outrage, demanding an apology, explaining to him exactly what he said, that nobody but a fool could have construed it otherwise, that he was making himself ridiculous. Pretty Mrs. Benton also explaining, and both being skilful liars in emergency, the dramatic incident closed, to the satisfaction of the two stalwart policemen, who had strolled up, swinging their long night-sticks—recognized Benton, the millionaire, as being too wealthy to arrest, and Lamont as an old friend of their chief at headquarters—dispersed the crowd with a “G’wan now about yer business”; waited until the lady and her still furious husband were safe in their carriage; shouted to the coachman to move on, and a moment later followed Lamont around the corner, where he explained the affair even more to their satisfaction. In their plain brogue they thanked him, and expressed their admiration over the skill with which he had pinioned the excited arms of the little man; that admiration which is common among men at prize-fights when the better of the two antagonists refuses to give the final knockout to the weaker man.
“Sure ye had him from the first!” they both agreed.
It had all happened quickly. By the time Lamont left the two patrolmen the theatre was dark and the doors locked for the night.
Let us discreetly draw down the dark-blue silk shades of the Benton equipage upon the scenes that ensued on their way home. Let us refrain from raising them even an inch to catch sight of the pretty face of the now thoroughly indignant though tearful lady, or the continued tirade of her lord and master, as they rumbled over the cobbles.