Mr. Witt's Widow Part 34

"Why, my wife."

"Oh, a thousand pardons. I thought you rather backed Mrs. Witt."

"My dear fellow, we wanted her to have fair play. I suppose there's no question of the marriage now?"

"I suppose not."

"What's the fair Mrs. Witt going to do?"

Vane wanted to be let alone, and Tommy worried him. He turned on the little gentleman with some ferocity. "My dear Tommy," he said, "you backed her through thick and thin, and blackguarded George for attacking her."

"Yes, but----"

"Well, whoever was right, you weren't, so hadn't you better say no more about it?" And Mr. Vane rose and walked away.

In fact, he was thoughtful. What would Mrs. Witt do next? And what would George Neston do? Vane knew of cases where the accusation suggests the crime; it seemed not unlikely that if George had to bear the contumely attaching to a connection with Mrs. Witt, he might think it as well to reap the benefit. He might not have sought to win her favour yet, but it was very possible he might do so now. If he didn't--well, some one would. And Mr. Vane considered that he might find it worth his while to be the man. His great relatives would cry aloud in horror; society would be shocked. But a man will endure something for a pretty woman and five thousand a year. Only, what did George Neston mean to do?

It will be seen that Sidmouth Vane did not share Laura Pocklington's conviction that George cared nothing for Mrs. Witt. Of course he had not Laura's reasons: and perhaps some difference between the masculine and feminine ways of looking at such things must be allowed for. As it happened, however, Vane was right--for a moment. After George had been for a second time repulsed from Mrs. Pocklington's doors, finding the support of his friends unsatisfying and yearning for the more impa.s.sioned approval that women give, he went the next day to Neaera's, and intruded on the sorrow-laden retirement to which that wronged lady had betaken herself. And Neaera's grief and grat.i.tude, her sorrow and sympathy, her friends.h.i.+p and fury, were all alike and equally delightful to him.

"The meanness of it!" she cried with flas.h.i.+ng eyes. "Oh, I would rather die than have a petty soul like that!"

Gerald was, of course, the subject of these strictures, and George was content not to contradict them.

"He evidently," continued Neaera, "simply cannot understand your generosity. It's beyond him!"

"You mustn't rate what you call my generosity too high," said George.

"But what are you going to do, Mrs. Witt?"

Neaera spread her hands out with a gesture of despair.

"What am I to do? I am--desolate."

"So am I. We must console one another."

This speech was indiscreet. George recognised it, when Neaera's answering glance reached him.

"That will make them talk worse than ever," she said, smiling. "You ought never to speak to me again, Mr. Neston."

"Oh, we are d.a.m.ned beyond redemption, so we may as well enjoy ourselves."

"No, you mustn't shock your friends still more."

"I have no friends left to shock," replied George, bitterly.

Neaera implored him not to say that, running over the names of such as might be supposed to remain faithful. George shook his head at each name: when the Pocklingtons were mentioned, his shake was big with sombre meaning.

"Well, well," she said with a sigh, "and now what are you going to do?"

"Oh, nothing. I think some of us are going to have a run to Brighton. I shall go, just to get out of this."

"Is Brighton nice now?"

"Nicer than London, anyhow."

"Yes. Mr. Neston----?"

"Yes, Mrs. Witt? Why don't you come too."

"At any rate, you'd--you and your friends--be somebody to speak to, wouldn't you?" said Neaera, resting her chin on her hand and gazing at George.

"Oh yes, you must come. We shall be very jolly."

"Poor us! But perhaps it will console us to mingle our tears."

"Will you come?" asked George.

"I shan't tell you," she said with a laugh. "It must be purely accidental."

"A fortuitous concurrence? Very well. We go to-morrow."

"I don't want to know when you go."

"No. But we do."

Neaera laughed again, and George took his leave, better pleased with the world than when he arrived. A call on a pretty woman often has this effect; sometimes, let us add, to complete our commonplace, just the opposite.

"Why shouldn't I?" he argued to himself. "I don't know why I should get all the blame for nothing. If they think it of me, I may as well do it."

But when George reached his lodgings, he found on the table, side by side with Mr. Blodwell's final letter about the Brighton trip, Laura Pocklington's note. And then--away went Brighton, and Neaera Witt, and the reckless defiance of public opinion, and all the rest of it! And George swore at himself for a heartless, distrustful, worthless person, quite undeserving to receive such a letter from such a lady. And when the second letter came the next morning, he swore again, at himself for his meditated desertion, and by all his G.o.ds, that he would be worthy of such favour.

"The child's a trump," he said, "a regular trump! And she shan't be worried by hearing of me hanging about in Mrs. Witt's neighbourhood."

The happy reflections which ensued were appropriate, but hackneyed, being in fact those of a man much in love. It is, however, worth notice that Laura's refusal to think evil had its reward: for if she had suspected George, she would never have shown him her heart in those letters; and, but for those letters, he might have gone to Brighton, and----; whereas what did happen was something quite different.

CHAPTER XIX.

SOME ONE TO SPEAK TO.

Being a public character, although an object of ambition to many, has its disadvantages. Fame is very pleasant, but we do not want everybody in the hotel to point at us when we come down to dinner. When Neaera went to Brighton--for it is surely unnecessary to say that she intended to go and did go thither--she felt that the fame which had been thrust upon her debarred her from hotels, and she took lodgings of a severely respectable type, facing the sea. There she waited two days, spending her time walking and driving where all the world walks and drives. There were no signs of George, and Neaera felt aggrieved. She sent him a line, and waited two days more. Then she felt she was being treated as badly as possible--unkindly, negligently, faithlessly, disrespectfully. He had asked her to come; the invitation was as plain as could be: without a word, she was thrown over! In great indignation she told her maid to pack up, and, meanwhile, sallied out to see if the waves would perform their traditional duty of soothing a wounded spirit. The task was a hard one; for, whatever Neaera Witt had suffered, neglect at the hands of man was a grief fortune had hitherto spared her.

She forsook the crowded parade, and strolled down by the water's edge.

Presently she sat down under the shade of a boat, and surveyed the waters and the future. She felt very lonely. George had seemed inclined to be pleasant but now he had deserted her. She had no one to speak to.

What was the use of being pretty and rich? Everything was very hard and she had done no real harm, and was a very, very miserable girl, and---- Under the shade of the boat, Neaera cried a little, choosing the moment when there were no pa.s.sers-by.

But one who came from behind escaped her vigilance. He saw the gleam of golden hair, and the slim figure, and the little shapely head bowing forward to meet the gloved hands; and he came down the beach, and, standing behind her for a moment, heard a little gurgle of distress.