Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

“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.”

“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.

THERE IS AN EXPLOSION

Mr. Blodwell was entertaining Lord Mapledurham at luncheon at the Themis Club. The Marquis was not in an agreeable mood. He was ill, and when he was ill he was apt to be cross. His host’s calm satisfaction with the issue of the Neston affair irritated him.

“Really, Blodwell,” he said, “I sometimes think a lawyer’s wig is like Samson’s hair. When he takes it off, he takes off all his wits with it. Your simplicity is positively childish.”

Mr. Blodwell gurgled contentedly over a basin of soup.

“I think no evil unless I’m paid for it,” he said, wiping his mouth. “George found he was wrong, and said so.”

“I saw the girl in the Park yesterday,” the Marquis remarked. “She’s a pretty girl.”

“Uncommonly. But I’m not aware that being pretty makes a girl a thief.”

“No, but it makes a man a fool.”

“My dear Mapledurham!”

“Did he ever tell you what he found out at Liverpool?”

“Did he go to Liverpool?”

“Did he go? God bless the man! Of course he went, to look for – ”

Lord Mapledurham stopped, to see who was throwing a shadow over his plate.

“May I join you?” asked Sidmouth Vane, who thought he was conferring a privilege. “I’m interested in what you are discussing.”

“Oh, it’s you, is it? Have you been listening?”

“No, but everybody’s discussing it. Now, I agree with you, Lord Mapledurham. It’s a put-up job.”

“I expect you thought it was a put-up job when they baptised you, didn’t you?” inquired the Marquis.

“And looked for poison in your bottle?” added Blodwell.

Vane gently waved his hand, as if to scatter these clumsy sarcasms. “A man may not be sixty and yet not be an ass,” he languidly observed. “Waiter, some salmon, and a pint of 44.”

“And may be sixty and yet be an ass, eh?” said the Marquis, chuckling.

“Among ourselves, why do you suppose he let her off?” asked Vane.

The Marquis pushed back his chair. “My young friend, you are too wise. Something will happen to you.”

“Hallo!” exclaimed Vane, “here’s Gerald Neston.”

Gerald came hastily up to Mr. Blodwell. “Do you know where George is?” he asked.

“I believe he’s in the club somewhere,” answered Mr. Blodwell.

“No, he isn’t. I want to see him on business.”

Lord Mapledurham rose. “I know your father, Mr. Neston,” he said. “You must allow me to shake hands with you, and congratulate you on your approaching marriage.”

Gerald received his congratulations with an absent air. “I must go and find George,” he said, and went out.

“There!” said Vane, triumphantly. “Don’t you see there’s something up now?”

The elder men tried to snub him, but they glanced at one another and silently admitted that it looked as if he were right.

Mrs. Bort’s letter had stirred into activity all the doubts that Gerald Neston had tried to stifle, and had at last succeeded in silencing. There was a darkly mysterious tone about the document that roused his suspicions. Either there was a new and a more unscrupulous plot against his bride, or else – Gerald did not finish his train of thought, but he determined to see Neaera at once, as George could not be found without a journey to the Temple, and a journey to the Temple was twice as far as a journey to Albert Mansions. Nevertheless, had Gerald known what was happening at the Temple, he would have gone there first; for in George’s chambers, at that very moment, George was sitting in his chair, gazing blankly at Neaera Witt, who was walking restlessly up and down.

“You sent her ten pounds?” he gasped.

“Yes, yes,” said Neaera. “I can’t let the creature starve.”

“But why in the world did she send it back to Gerald?”

“Oh, can’t you see? Why, you said you were Gerald; at least, it came to that.”

“And she meant to send it to me?”

“Yes, but I had told her my Mr. Neston was Lord Tottlebury’s son; so I suppose the letter has gone to Gerald. It must have, if you haven’t got it.”

“But why should she send it to either of us?”

“Oh, because I said I sent it with Mr. Neston’s approval.”

“That wasn’t true.”

“Of course not. But it sounded better.”

“Ah, it’s dangerous work.”

“I should never have done it, if I had foreseen this.”

George knew that this represented Neaera’s extreme achievement in penitence, and did not press the question.

“What a wretch the woman is,” Neaera continued. “Oh, what is to be done? Gerald is sure to ask for an explanation.”

“Quite possible, I should think.”

“Well, then, I am lost.”

“You’d better tell him all about it.”

“I can’t; indeed I can’t. You won’t, will you? Oh, you will stand by me?”

“I don’t know what Mrs. Bort has said, and so – ”

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. George rose and opened it. “What is it, Timms?”

“Mr. Gerald, sir, wants to see you on important business.”

“Is he in his room?”

“Yes, sir. I told him you were engaged.”

“You didn’t tell him Mrs. Witt was here?”

“No, sir.”

“Say I’ll be with him in a few minutes.”

George shut the door, and said, “Gerald’s here, and wants to see me.”

“Gerald! Then he has got the letter!”

“What do you propose to do, Mrs. Witt?”

“How can I tell? I don’t know what she said. She only told me she had sent back the money, and told him why.”

“If she told him why – ”

“I’m ruined,” said Neaera, wringing her hands.

George stood with his back to the fireplace, and regarded her critically. After a moment’s pause, he said, with a smile,

“I knew it all – and you were not ruined.”

“Ah, you are so good!”

“Nonsense,” said George, with a broader smile.

Neaera looked up at him, and smiled too.

“Mightn’t you risk it? Of course, truth is dangerous, but he’s very fond of you.”

“Won’t you help me?”

A heavy step and the sound of impatient pushing of furniture were heard from the next room.

“Gerald is getting tired of waiting,” said George.

“Won’t you do anything?” asked Neaera again, barely repressing a sob.

“Supposing I were willing to lie, where is a possible lie? How can I explain it?”

Timms knocked and entered. Gerald begged for a minute’s interview, on pressing business.

“In a moment,” said George. Then, turning to Neaera, he added brusquely, “Come, you must decide, Mrs. Witt.”

Neaera was no longer in a condition to decide anything. Tears were her ready refuge in time of trouble, and she was picturesquely weeping – for she possessed that rare gift – in the old leathern arm-chair.

“Will you leave it to me?” asked George. “I’ll do the best I can.”

Neaera sobbed forth the opinion that George was her only friend.

“I shall tell him everything,” said George. “Do you authorise me to do that?”

“Oh, how miserable I am! – oh, yes, yes.”

“Then stop crying, and try to look nice.”

“Why?”

“Because I shall bring him in.”

“Oh!” cried Neaera in dismay. But when George went out, she made her hair a little rougher – for so paradoxically do ladies set about the task of ordering their appearance – and anointed her eyes with the contents of a mysterious phial, produced from a recondite pocket. Then she sat up straight, and strained her ears to catch any sound from the next room, where her fate was being decided. She could distinguish which of the two men was speaking, but not the words. First Gerald, then George, then Gerald again. Next, for full five minutes, George talked in low but seemingly emphatic tones. Then came a sudden shout from Gerald.

“Here!” he cried. “In your room!”

They had risen, and were moving about. Neaera’s heart beat, though she sat still as a statue. The door was flung open, and she rose to meet Gerald, as he entered with a rush. George followed, with a look of mingled anger and perplexity on his face. Gerald flung a piece of paper at Neaera; it was Mrs. Bort’s letter, and, as it fell at her feet, she sank back again in her chair, with a bitter little cry. The worst had happened.

“Thank God for an honest woman!” cried Gerald.

“Gerald!” she murmured, stretching out her hands to him.

“Ah, you can do that to him!” he answered, pointing to George.

“I – I loved you,” she said.

“He’ll believe you, perhaps – or help you in your lies. I’ve done with you.”

He passed his hand over his brow, and went on. “I was easy to hoodwink, wasn’t I? Only a little wheedling and fondling – only a kiss or two – and a lie or two! I believed it all. And you,” he added, turning on George, “you spared her, you pitied her, you sacrificed yourself. A fine sacrifice!”

George put his hands in his pockets, and shrugged his shoulders.

“I shouldn’t go on before Mrs. Witt,” he remarked.

“Not go on! No, no. She’s so pure, so innocent, isn’t she? Worth any sacrifice?”

“What do you mean, Gerald?” said Neaera.

“You don’t know?” he asked, with a sneer. “What does a man ask for what he’s done? and what will a woman give? Will give? Has given?”

“Hold your tongue!” said George, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Neaera sat still, gazing at her lover with open eyes: only a little shudder ran over her.

“You duped me nicely between you,” Gerald continued, “me and all the world. No truth in it all! A mistake! – all a mistake! He found out – his mistake!” His voice rose almost to a shriek, and ended in a bitter laugh.

“You needn’t be a brute,” said George, coldly.

Gerald looked at him, then at Neaera, and uttered another sneering laugh. George was close by him now, seeming to watch every motion of his lips. Neaera rose from her chair, and flung herself at the feet of the angry man.

“Ah, Gerald, my love, have pity!” she wailed.

“Pity!” he echoed, drawing back, so that she fell on her face before him. “Pity! I might pity a thief, I might pity a liar, I have no pity for a – ”

The sentence went unfinished, for, with a sudden motion, George closed on him, and flung him through the open door out of the room.

“Finish your blackguardism outside!” he said, as he shut the door and turned the key.

CHAPTER XVII.

LAURA DIFFERS

Ira brevis furor, says the moralist; and the adjective is the only part of the saw that is open to exception. Gerald Neston’s wrath burnt fiercely, but it burnt steadily also, and reflection brought with it nothing but a stronger conviction of his wrongs. To George, the interpretation his cousin put on his action in shielding Neaera seemed to argue that uncommon degree of wrong-headedness that is hardly distinguishable from immorality. Yet, in the recesses of George’s heart lurked the knowledge that Mrs. Witt, plain, old, unattractive, might have reaped scant mercy, at his hands; and Gerald, if he did not believe all he had brutally hinted, believed quite enough of it to make him regard George as a traitor and Neaera as an intriguer. What sane man could have acted as George had acted, unless under a woman’s fascination? Jealousy did the rest, for Neaera herself had sapped the strength of her lover’s trust in her, and he doubted not that she who had deluded him in everything else had not hesitated to practise on him the last deceit. She and George were confederates. Need any one ask how they became so, or what the terms of the alliance were?

It was hardly wonderful that this theory, strange as it seemed, should find a place in Gerald’s disordered mind, or that, having done so, it should vent itself in intemperate words and reckless sneers. It was, however, more remarkable that the opinion gained some general favour. It pleased the cynical, for it explained away what seemed like a generous action; it pleased the gossips, for it introduced into the Neston affair the topic most congenial to gossips; it pleased the “unco guid,” for it pointed the moral of the ubiquity of sin; it pleased men as a sex, because it made George’s conduct natural and explicable; it pleased women as a sex, because it ratified the opinion they had always held of beautiful mysterious widows in general, and of Neaera Witt in particular. And amid this chorus, the voice of the charitable, admitting indiscretion, but asserting generosity, was lost and hushed, and George’s little band of friends and believers were dubbed blind partisans and, by consequence, almost accomplices.

Fortunately for George, among his friends were men who cared little for public reprobation. Mr. Blodwell did his work, ate his dinner, said what he thought, and esteemed the opinion of society much at the value the Duke of Wellington set upon the views of the French nation. As for Lord Mapledurham and Sidmouth Vane, unpopularity was the breath of their nostrils; and Vane did not hesitate to purchase the pleasure of being in a minority by a sacrifice of consistency; he abandoned the theory which he had been among the first to suggest, as soon as the suggestion passed by general acceptance into vulgarity.

The three men gave George Neston a dinner, drank Neaera’s health, and allowed themselves an attitude of almost contemptuous protest against the verdict of society – a verdict forcibly expressed by the Bull’s-eye, when it declared with not unnatural warmth that it had had enough of this “sordid affair.” But then the Bull’s-eye had hardly shown its wonted perspicacity, and Mr. Espion declared that he had not been treated in a respectful way. There was no traversing the fact; George’s party fell back on a denial of the obligation.

Mankind is so constructed that the approbation of man does not satisfy man, nor that of woman woman. If all the clubs had been ringing with his praises, George Neston would still have turned his first and most eager glance to Mrs. Pocklington’s. As it was, he thought of little else than what view of his conduct would gain the victory there. Alas! he knew only too soon. Twice he called: twice was entrance refused him. Then came a note from Mrs. Pocklington – an unanswerable note; for the lady asserted nothing and denied nothing; she intrenched herself behind common opinion. She, as George knew, was a tolerably independent person so far as her own fame was concerned: but where her daughter was interested, it was another thing; Laura’s suitor must not be under a cloud; Laura’s future must not be jeopardied; Laura’s affections must be reposed only where absolute security could be guaranteed. Mr. Pocklington agreed with his wife to the full. Hence there must be an end of everything – so far as the Pocklington household was concerned, an end of George Neston. And poor George read the decree, and groaned in his heart. Nevertheless, strange events were happening behind that door, so firmly, so impenetrably closed to George’s eager feet – events to Mrs. Pocklington inconceivable, even while they actually happened; to her husband, alarming, reprehensible, extraordinary, puzzling, amusing, almost, in a way, delightful. In fine, Laura rebelled. And the declaration of independence was promulgated on this wise.