Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

“You’re not her mother; for which you may thank Heaven.”

“I do,” said George, and took his leave, rather consoled. He would have been even more cheerful had he known that Laura’s door was ajar, and Laura was listening for the bang of the hall door. When she heard it, she went down to her mother.

“Who was your visitor, mamma?”

“Oh, George Neston.”

“What did he come about?”

“Well, my dear, to see me, I suppose.”

“And what did he find to say for himself?”

“Oh, we hardly talked about that affair at all. However, he seems in very good spirits.”

“I’m sure he has no business to be.”

“Perhaps not, my dear; but he was.”

“I didn’t know it was Mr. Neston. I’m so glad I didn’t come down.”

Mrs. Pocklington went on knitting.

“I expect he knew why.”

Mrs. Pocklington counted three pearl and three plain.

“Did he say anything about it, mamma?”

“One, two, three. About what, dear?”

“Why, about – about my not coming?”

“No. I suppose he thought you were out.”

“Did you tell him so?”

“He didn’t ask, my dear. He has other things to think about than being attentive to young women.”

“It’s very lucky he has,” said Laura, haughtily.

“My dear, he lets you alone. Why can’t you let him alone?”

Laura took up a book, and Mrs. Pocklington counted her stitches in a brisk and cheerful tone.

It will be seen that George had a good friend in Mrs. Pocklington. In truth he needed some kindly countenance, for society at large had gone mad in praise of Neaera and Gerald. They were the fashion. Everybody tried to talk to them; everybody was coming to the wedding; everybody raved about Neaera’s sweet patience and Gerald’s unwavering faith. When Neaera drove her lover round the park in her victoria, their journey was a triumphal progress; and only the burden of preparing for the wedding prevented the pair being honoured guests at every select gathering. Gerald walked on air. His open hopes were realised, his secret fears laid to rest; while Neaera’s exaggerated excuses for George betrayed to his eyes nothing but the exceeding sweetness of her disposition. Her absolute innocence explained and justified her utter absence of resentment, and must, Gerald felt, add fresh pangs to George’s remorse and shame. These pangs Gerald did not feel it his duty to mitigate.

Thursday came, and Monday was the wedding-day. The atmosphere was thick with new clothes, cards of invitation, presents, and congratulations. A thorny question had arisen as to whether George should be invited. Neaera’s decision was in his favour, and Gerald himself had written the note, hoping all the while that his cousin’s own good sense would keep him away.

“It would be hardly decent in him to come,” he said to his father.

“I daresay he will make some excuse,” answered Lord Tottlebury. “But I hope you won’t keep up the quarrel.”

“Keep up the quarrel! By Jove, father, I’m too happy to quarrel.”

“Gerald,” said Maud Neston, entering, “here’s such a funny letter for you! I wonder it ever reached.”

She held out a dirty envelope, and read the address —

“Mr. Nesston, Esq.,

“His Lordship Tottilberry,

“London.”

“Who in the world is it?” asked Maud, laughing.

Gerald had no secrets.

“I don’t know,” said he. “Give it me, and we’ll see.” He opened the letter. The first thing he came upon was a piece of tissue paper neatly folded. Opening it, he found it to be a ten-pound note. “Hullo! is this a wedding present?” said he with a laugh.

“Ten pounds! How funny!” exclaimed Maud. “Is there no letter?”

“Yes, here’s a letter!” And Gerald read it to himself.

The letter ran as follows, saving certain eccentricities of spelling which need not be reproduced: —

“Sir,

“I don’t rightly know whether this here is your money or Nery’s. Nor I don’t know where it comes from, after what you said when you was here with her Friday. I can work for my living, thanks be to Him to whom thanks is due, and I don’t put money in my pocket as I don’t know whose pocket it come out of.

    “Your humble servant,
    “Susan Bort.”

“Susan Bort!” exclaimed Gerald. “Now, who the deuce is Susan Bort, and what the deuce does she mean?”

“Unless you tell us what she says – ” began Lord Tottlebury.

Gerald read the letter again, with a growing feeling of uneasiness. He noticed that the postmark was Liverpool. It so chanced that he had not been to Liverpool for more than a year. And who was Susan Bort?

He got up, and, making an apology for not reading out his letter, went to his own room to consider the matter.

“‘Nery?’” said he. “And if I wasn’t there, who was?”

It was generous of George Neston to shield Neaera at Liverpool. It was also generous of Neaera to send Mrs. Bort ten pounds immediately after that lady had treated her so cruelly. It was honest of Mrs. Bort to refuse to accept money which she thought might be the proceeds of burglary. To these commendable actions Gerald was indebted for the communication which disturbed his bliss.

“I wonder if Neaera can throw any light on it,” said Gerald. “It’s very queer. After lunch, I’ll go and see her.”

CHAPTER XVI.