Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

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 gods, 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 passers-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.

“I beg your pardon,” said he. “Can I help?”

Neaera looked up with a start. The upright figure, bravely resisting a growing weight of years, the iron-grey hair, the hooked nose, and pleasant keen eyes seemed familiar to her. Surely she had seen him in town!

“Why, it’s Mrs. Witt!” he said. “We are acquaintances, or we ought to be.” And he held out his hand, adding, with a smile, “I am Lord Mapledurham.”

“Oh!” said Neaera.

“Yes,” said the Marquis. “Now, I know all about it, and it’s a burning shame. And, what’s more, it’s all my fault.”

“Your fault?” she said, in surprise.

“However, I warned George Neston to let it alone. But he’s a hot-headed fellow.”

“I never thought him that.”

“He is, though. Well, look at this. He asks Blodwell, and Vane, and me – at least, he didn’t ask me, but Blodwell did – to make a party here. We agree. The next moment – hey, presto! he’s off at a tangent!”

Neaera could not make up her mind whether Lord Mapledurham was giving this explanation merely to account for his own presence or also for her information.

“The fact is, you see,” the Marquis resumed, “his affairs are rather troublesome. He’s out of favour with the authorities, you know – Mrs. Pocklington.”

“Does he mind about Mrs. Pocklington?”

“He minds about Miss Pocklington, and I suspect – ”

“Yes?”

“That she minds about him. I met Pocklington at the club yesterday, and he told me his people had gone abroad. I said it was rather sudden, but Pocklington turned very gruff, and said ‘Not at all.’ Of course that wasn’t true.”

“Oh, I hope she will be good to him,” said Neaera. “Fancy, if I were the cause – ”

“As I said at the beginning,” interrupted the Marquis, “I’m the cause.”

“You!”

Then he settled himself by her side, and told her how his reminiscence had been the first thing to set George on the track of discovery, whence all the trouble had resulted.

“So you see,” he ended, “you have to put all your woes down to my chatter.”

“How strange!” she said, dreamily, looking out to sea.

The Marquis nodded, his eyes scanning her face.

Then she turned to him suddenly, and said, “I was very young, you know, and – rather hungry.”

“I am a sinner myself,” he answered, smiling.

“And – and what I did afterwards, I – ”

“I came to make my confession, not to hear yours. How shall I atone for all I have brought on you? What shall I do now?”

“I – I only want some friends, and – and some one to speak to,” said Neaera, with a forlorn little sigh.

The Marquis took her hand and kissed it gallantly. “If that is all,” said he, smiling, “perhaps we may manage.”

“Thanks,” said Neaera, putting her handkerchief into her pocket.

“That’s right! Blodwell and Vane are here too, and – ”

“I don’t much care about them; but – ”

“Oh, they’re all on your side.”

“Are they? I needn’t see more of them than I like, need I?”

The Marquis was not young, no, nor inexperienced; but, all the same, he was not proof against this flattery. “Perhaps they won’t stay long,” he said.

“And you?” she asked.

He smiled at her, and, after a moment of innocent seriousness, her lips wavered into an answering smile.

The Marquis, after taking tea with Neaera and satisfying himself that the lady was not planning immediate flight, strolled back to his hotel in a thoughtful mood. He enjoyed a little triumph over Mr. Blodwell and Sidmouth Vane at dinner; but this did not satisfy him. For almost the first time in his life, he felt the need of an adviser and confidant: he was afraid that he was going to make a fool of himself. Mr. Blodwell withdrew after dinner, to grapple with some papers which had pursued him, and the Marquis sat smoking a cigar on a seat with Vane, struggling against the impulse to trust that young man with his thoughts. Vane was placidly happy: the distant, hypothetical relations between himself and Neaera, the like of which his busy idle brain constructed around every attractive marriageable woman he met, had no power to disturb either his soul or his digestion. If it so fell out, it would be well; but he was conscious that the object would wring from him no very active exertions.

“Mrs. Witt expected to find George here, I suppose?” he asked, flicking the ash from his cigar.

“Yes, I think so.”

“Anything on there?”