Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

“Now the woman was very fair!” said he, as he hailed a hansom.

CHAPTER XV.

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 I have withdrawn all my assertions, fully and unreservedly, and have addressed apologies for them to those who had a right to receive apologies.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.”