Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

“It is only,” she remarked, resuming her seat, “to tell Mr. Neston that I can’t give him any address at present.”

What, asked Mrs. Pocklington of her troubled mind, were you to do with a girl like that?

CHAPTER XVIII.

GEORGE NEARLY GOES TO BRIGHTON

One evening, about a week after what Mr. Espion called the final esclandre, Tommy Myles made his appearance in the smoking-room of the Themis. More important matters have ousted the record of Tommy’s marriage and blissful honeymoon, and he came back to find that a negligent world had hardly noticed his absence.

“How are you?” said he to Sidmouth Vane.

“How are you?” said Vane, raising his eyes for a moment from Punch.

Tommy sat down by him. “I say,” he remarked, “this Neston business is rather neat. We read about it in Switzerland.”

“Been away?”

“Of course I have – after my wedding, you know.”

“Ah! Seen Punch?” And Vane handed it to him.

“I had a pretty shrewd idea of how the land lay. So had Bella.”

“Bella?”

“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 impassioned 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 gratitude, her sorrow and sympathy, her friendship and fury, were all alike and equally delightful to him.

“The meanness of it!” she cried with flashing 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 damned 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.”