Kitabı oku: «Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale», sayfa 6

CHAPTER XI.
PRESENTING AN HONEST WOMAN

To fit square pegs into round holes is one of the favourite pastimes of Nature. She does it roughly, violently, and with wanton disregard of the feelings of the square pegs. When, in her relentless sport, she has at last driven the poor peg in and made it fit, by dint of knocking off and abrading all its corners, philosophers glorify her, calling the process evolution, and plain men wonder why she did not begin at the other end, and make the holes square to fit the pegs.

The square peg on which these trite reflections hang is poor Neaera Witt. Nature made her a careless, ease-loving, optimistic creature, only to drive her, of malice prepense, into an environment – that is to say, in unscientific phrase, a hole – where she had need of the equipment of a full-blooded conspirator.

She resisted the operation; she persistently trusted to chance to extricate her from the toils into which she, not being a philosopher, thought chance had thrown her. If she saw a weapon ready to her hand, she used it, as she had used the Bournemouth character, but for the most part she trusted to luck. George Neston would fail, or he would relent; or Gerald would be invincibly incredulous, or, she would add, smiling at her face in the glass, invincibly in love. Somehow or other matters would straighten themselves out; and, at the worst, ten days more would bring the marriage; and after the marriage – But really, ten days ahead is as far as one can be expected to look, especially when the ten days include one’s wedding.

Nevertheless, Sidmouth Vane had a knack of being correct in his information, and he was correct in stating that Neaera had gone to Liverpool on business. It was, of course, merely a guess that her errand might be connected with George’s, but it happened to be a right guess. Neaera knew well the weak spot in her armour. Hitherto she had been content to trust to her opponent not discovering it; but, as the decisive moment came nearer, a nervous restlessness so far overcame her natural insouciance as to determine her to an effort to complete her defences, in anticipation of any assault upon them. She was in happy ignorance of the chance that had directed George’s forces against her vulnerable point, and imagined that she herself was, in all human probability, the only person in London to whom the name of Mrs. Bort would be more than an unmeaning uneuphonious syllable. To her the name was full of meaning; for, from her youth till the day of the happy intervention of that stout and elderly deus ex machina, the late Mr. Witt, Mrs. Bort had been to Neaera the impersonation of virtue and morality, and the physical characteristics that had caught Lord Mapledurham’s frivolous attention had been to her merely the frowning aspect under which justice and righteousness are apt to present themselves.

Neaera was a good-hearted girl, and Mrs. Bort now lived on a comfortable pension, but no love mingled with the sense of duty that inspired the gift. Mrs. Bort had interpreted her quasi-maternal authority with the widest latitude, and Neaera shuddered to remember how often Mrs. Bort’s discipline had made her smart, in a way, against which apathy of conscience was no shield or buckler. Recorder Dawkins would have groaned to know how even judicial terrors paled in Neaera’s recollection before the image of Mrs. Bort.

These childish fears are hard to shake off, and Neaera, as she sped luxuriously to Liverpool, acknowledged to herself that, in that dreadful presence, no adventitious glories of present wealth or future rank would avail her. The governing fact in the situation, the fact that Neaera did not see her way to meet, was that Mrs. Bort was an honest woman. Neaera knew her, and knew that a bribe would be worse than useless, even if she dared to offer it.

“And I don’t think,” said Neaera, resting her pretty chin upon her pretty hand, “that I should dare.” Then she laughed ruefully. “I’m not at all sure she wouldn’t beat me; and if she did, what could I do?”

Probably Neaera exaggerated even the fearless rectitude of Mrs. Bort, but she was so convinced of the nature of the reception which any proposal of the obvious kind would meet with that she made up her mind that her only course was to throw herself on Mrs. Bort’s mercy, in case that lady proved deaf to a subtle little proposal which was Neaera’s first weapon.

So far as Neaera knew, Peckton and Manchester were the only places in which George Neston was likely to seek for traces of her. Liverpool, though remote from Peckton, was uncomfortably near Manchester. Every day now had great value. If she could get Mrs. Bort away to some remote spot as soon as might be, she gained no small advantage in her race against time and George Neston.

“If she will only go to Glentarroch, he will never find her.”

Glentarroch was the name of a little retreat in remote Scotland, whither Mr. Witt had been wont to betake himself for rest and recreation. It was Neaera’s now. It was a beautiful place, which was immaterial, and a particularly inaccessible one, which was most material. Would not Mrs. Bort’s despotic instincts lead her to accept an invitation to rule over Glentarroch? Neaera could not afford to pity the hapless wights over whom Mrs. Bort would rule.

Mrs. Bort received Neaera in a way most unbecoming to a pensioner. “Well, Nery,” she said, “what brings you here? No good, I’ll be bound. Where’s your mourning?”

Neaera said that she thought resignation to Heaven’s will not a subject of reproach, and that she came to ask a favour of Mrs. Bort.

“Ay, you come to me when you want something. That’s the old story.”

Neaera remembered that Mrs. Bort had often taken her own view of what the supplicant wanted, and given something quite other than what was asked; but, in spite of this unpromising opening, she persevered, and laid before Mrs. Bort a dazzling picture of the grandeur waiting her at Glentarroch.

“And I shall be so much obliged. Really, I don’t know what the servants – the girls, especially – may be doing.”

“Carryings-on, I’ll be bound,” said Mrs. Bort. “Why don’t you go yourself, Nery?”

“Oh, I can’t, indeed. I – I must stay in London.”

“Nasty, cold, dull little place it sounds,” said Mrs. Bort.

“Oh, of course I shall consider all that – ”

“He – he!” Mrs. Bort sniggered unpleasantly. “So it ain’t sech a sweet spot, as ye call it, after all?”

Neaera recovered herself without dignity, and stated that she thought of forty pounds a year and all found.

“Ah, if I knowed what you was at, Nery!”

Neaera intimated that it was simply a matter of mutual accommodation. “And there’s really no time to be lost,” she said, plaintively. “I’m being robbed every day.”

“Widows has hard times,” said Mrs. Bort. And Neaera did not think it necessary to say how soon her hard times were coming to an end.

“Come agin to-morrer afternoon, and I’ll tell ye,” was Mrs. Bort’s ultimatum. “And mind you don’t get into mischief.”

“Why afternoon?” asked Neaera.

“‘Cause I’m washing,” said Mrs. Bort, snappishly. “That’s why.”

Neaera in vain implored an immediate answer. Mrs. Bort said a day could not matter, and that, if Neaera pressed her farther, she should consider it an indication that something was “up,” and refuse to go at all. Neaera was silenced, and sadly returned to her hotel.

“How I hate that good, good woman!” she cried. “I’ll never see her again as long as I live, after to-morrow. Oh, I should like to hit her!”

The propulsions of cause upon cause are, as Bacon has said, infinite. If Mrs. Bort had not washed – in the technical sense, of course – on that particular Friday, Neaera would have come and gone – perhaps even Mrs. Bort might have gone too – before the train brought George Neston to Liverpool, and his eager inquiries landed him at Mrs. Bort’s abode. As it was, Mrs. Bort’s little servant bade him wait in the parlour, as her mistress was talking to a female in the kitchen. The little servant thought “female” the politest possible way of describing any person who was not a man, and accorded the title to Neaera on account of her rustling robes and gold-tipped parasol.

George did not question his informant, thereby showing that he, in the rôle of detective, was a square peg in a round hole. He heard proceeding from the kitchen a murmur of two subdued voices, one of which, however, dominated the other.

“That must be Mrs. Bort,” thought he. “I wish I could hear the female.”

Then his attention wandered, for he made sure the unknown could not be Neaera, as she had had a day’s start of him. He did not allow for Mrs. Bort’s washing. Suddenly the dominant voice was raised to the pitch of distinctness.

“Have ye told him,” it said, “or have ye lied to him, as you lied to me yesterday?”

“I didn’t – I didn’t,” was the answer. “You never asked me if I was going to be married.”

“Oh, go along! You know how I’d have answered that when ye lived with me.”

“How’s that?” asked George, with a slight smile.

“Have ye told him?”

“Told him what?” asked Neaera; for it was clearly Neaera.

“Told him you’re a thief.”

“This woman’s a brute,” thought George.

“Have ye?”

“No, not exactly. How dare you question me?”

“Dare!” said Mrs. Bort; and George knew she was standing with her arms akimbo. “Dare!” she repeated crescendo; and apparently her aspect was threatening, for Neaera cried,

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. Do let me go.”

“Tell the truth, if your tongue’ll do it. The truth, will ye?”

“The deuce!” said George; for, following on this last speech, he heard a sob.

“No, I haven’t. I – oh, do have mercy on me!”

“Mercy! It’s not mercy, it’s a stick you want. But I’ll tell him.”

“Ah, stop, for Heaven’s sake!”

There was a little scuffle; then the door flew open, and Mrs. Bort appeared, with Neaera clinging helplessly about her knees.

George rose and bowed politely. “I’m afraid I intrude,” said he.

“That’s easy mended,” said Mrs. Bort, with significance.

Neaera had leapt up on seeing him, and leant breathless against the door, looking like some helpless creature at bay.

“Who let you in?” demanded the lady of the house.

“Your servant.”

“I’ll let her in,” said Mrs. Bort, darkly. “Who are ye?”

George looked at Neaera. “My name is Neston,” he said blandly.

“Neston?”

“Certainly.”

“Then you’re in nice time; I wanted you, young man. D’ye see that woman?”

“Certainly; I see Mrs. Witt.”

“D’ye know what she is? Time you did, if you’re a-going to take her to church.”

Neaera started.

“I hope to do so,” said George, smiling; “and I think I know all about her.”

“Do ye, now? Happen ever to have heard of Peckton?”

Neaera buried her face in her hands, and cried.

“Ah, pity you haven’t something to cry for! Thought I’d see a sin done for ten pound a month, did ye?”

George interposed; he began to enjoy himself. “Peckton? Oh yes. The shoes, you mean?”

Mrs. Bort gasped.

“A trifle,” said George, waving the shoes into limbo.

“Gracious! You ain’t in the same line, are you?”

George shook his head.

“Anything else?” he asked, still smiling sweetly.

“Only a trifle of forging,” said Mrs. Bort. “But p’raps she got her deserts from me over that.”

“Forging?” said George. “Oh ah, yes. You mean about – ”

“Her place at Bournemouth? Ah, Nery, don’t you ache yet?”

Apparently Neaera did. She shivered and moaned.

“But I’ve got it,” continued Nemesis; and, she bounded across the room to a cupboard. “There, read that.”

George took it calmly, but read it with secret eagerness. It was the original character, and stated that Miss Gale began her service in May, not March, 1883.

“I caught her a-copying it, and altering dates. My, how I did – ”

“Dear, dear!” interrupted George. “I was afraid it was something new. Anything else, Mrs. Bort?”

Mrs. Bort was beaten.

“Go along,” she said. “If you likes it, it’s nothing to me. But lock up your money-box.”

“Let me congratulate you, Mrs. Bort, on having done your duty.”

“I’m an honest woman,” said Mrs. Bort.

“Yes,” answered George, “by the powers you are!” Then, turning to Mrs. Witt, he added, “Shall we go – Neaera dear?”

“You’ll both of you die on the gallows,” said Mrs. Bort.

“Come, Neaera,” said George.

She took his arm and they went out, George giving the little servant a handsome tip to recompense her for the prospect of being “let in” by her mistress.

George’s cab was at the door. He handed Neaera in. She was still half-crying and said nothing, except to tell him the name of her hotel. Then he raised his hat, and watched her driven away, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.

“Pheugh!” said he, “I’ve done it now – and what an infernal shame it is!”

CHAPTER XII.
NOT BEFORE THOSE GIRLS!

It is a notorious fact that men of all ages and conditions quarrel, and quarrel sometimes with violence. Women also, of a low social grade, are not strangers to discord, and the pen of satire has not spared the tiffs and wrangles that arise between elderly ladies of irreproachable position, and between young ladies of possibly not irreproachable morals. It is harder to believe, harder especially for young men whose beards are yet soft upon their chins, that graceful gentle girlhood quarrels too. Nobody would believe it, if there were not sisters in the world; but, unhappily, in spite of the natural tendency to suppose that all attributes distinctively earthy are confined to his own sisters, and have no place in the sisters of his friends, a man of reflection, checking his observations in the various methods suggested by logicians, is forced to conclude that here is another instance of the old truth, that a thing is not to be considered non-existent merely because it is not visible to a person who is not meant to see it. This much apology for the incident which follows is felt to be necessary in the interest of the narrator’s reputation for realism.

The fact is that there had been what reporters call a “scene” at Mrs. Pocklington’s. It so fell out that Isabel Bourne, accompanied by Maud Neston, called on Laura to receive congratulations. Laura did her duty, felicitated her friend on Tommy in possession and Tommy’s title in reversion, and loyally suppressed her personal opinion on the part these two factors had respectively played in producing the announced result. Her forbearance was ill-requited; for Maud, by way of clinching the matter and conclusively demonstrating the satisfactory position of affairs, must needs remark, “And what a lesson it will be for George!”

Laura said nothing.

“Oh, you mustn’t say that, dear,” objected Isabel. “It’s really not right.”

“I shall say it,” said Maud; “it’s so exactly what he deserves, and I know he feels it himself.”

“Did he tell you so?” asked Laura, pausing in the act of pouring out tea.

Maud laughed.

“Hardly, dear. Besides, we are not on speaking terms. But Gerald and Mr. Myles both said so.”

“Gerald and Mr. Myles!” said Laura.

“Please, don’t talk about it,” interposed Isabel. “What has happened made no difference.”

“Why, Isabel, you couldn’t have him after – ”

“No,” said Isabel; “but perhaps, Maud, I shouldn’t have had him before.”

“Of course you wouldn’t, dear. You saw his true character.”

“You never actually refused him, did you?” inquired Laura.

“No, not exactly.”

“Then what did you say?”

“What did I say?”

“Yes, when he asked you, you know,” said Laura, with a little smile.

Isabel looked at her suspiciously. “He never did actually ask me,” she said, with dignity.

“Oh! I thought you implied – ”

“But, of course, she knew he wanted to,” Maud put in. “Didn’t you, dear?”

“Well, I thought so,” said Isabel, modestly.

“Yes, I know you thought so,” said Laura. “Indeed, everybody saw that. Was it very hard to prevent him?”

Isabel’s colour rose. “I don’t know what you mean, Laura,” she said.

Laura smiled with an unpleasantness that was quite a victory over nature. “Men sometimes fancy,” she remarked, “that girls are rather in a hurry to think they want to propose.”

“Laura!” exclaimed Maud.

“They even say that the wish is father to the thought,” continued Laura, still smiling, but now a little tremulously.

Isabel grew more flushed. “I don’t understand you. One would think you meant that I had run after him.”

Laura remained silent.

“Everybody knows he was in love with Isabel for years,” said Maud, indignantly.

“He was very patient,” said Laura.

Isabel rose. “I shall not stay here to be insulted. It’s quite obvious, Laura, why you say such things.”

“I don’t say anything. Only – ”

“Well?”

“The next time, you might mention that among the reasons why you refused Mr. Neston was, that he never asked you.”

“I see what it is,” said Isabel. “Don’t you, Maud?”

“Yes,” said Maud.

“What is it?” demanded Laura.

“Oh, nothing. Only, I hope – I wish you joy of him.”

“If you don’t mind a slanderer,” added Maud.

“It’s not true!” said Laura. “How dare you say it?”

“Take care, dear, that he doesn’t fancy you’re in a hurry – What was your phrase?” said Isabel.

“It’s perfectly shameful,” said Maud.

“I don’t choose to hear a friend run down for nothing,” declared Laura.

“A friend? How very chivalrous you are! Come, Maud dear.”

“Good-bye, Laura,” said Maud. “I’m sure you’ll be sorry when you come to think.”

“No, I shan’t. I – ”

“There!” said Isabel. “I do not care to be insulted any more.”

The two visitors swept out, and Laura was left alone. Whereupon she began to cry. “I do hate that sort of vulgarity,” said she, mopping her eyes. “I don’t believe he ever thought – ”

Mrs. Pocklington entered in urbane majesty. “Well, is Isabel pleased with her little man?” she asked. “Why, child, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Laura.

“You’re crying.”

“No, I’m not. Those girls have been horrid.”

“What about?”

“Oh, the engagement, and – ”

“And what?”

“And poor Mr. Neston – George Neston.”

“Oh, poor George Neston. What did they say?”

“Isabel pretended he had been in love with her, and – and was in love with her, and that she had refused him.”

“Oh, and that made you cry?”

“No – not that – ”

“What, then?”

“Oh, please, mamma!”

Mrs. Pocklington smiled. “Stop crying, my dear. It used to suit me, but it doesn’t suit you. Stop, dear.”

“Very well, mamma,” said poor Laura, thinking it a little hard that she might not even cry.

“Did you cry before the girls?”

“No,” said Laura, with emphasis.

“Good child,” said Mrs. Pocklington. “Now, listen to me. You’re never to think of him again – ”

“Mamma!”

“Till I tell you.”

“Ah!”

“A tiresome, meddlesome fellow. Is your father in, Laura?”

“Yes, dear. Are you going to see him about – ?”

“Why, you’re as bad as Isabel!” said Mrs. Pocklington, with feigned severity, disengaging Laura’s arms from her neck. “He’s never asked you either!”

“No, dear; but – ”

“The vanity of these children! There, let me go; and for goodness’ sake, don’t be a cry-baby, Laura. Men hate water-bottles.”

Thus mingling consolation and reproof, Mrs. Pocklington took her way to her husband’s study.

“I want five minutes, Robert,” she said, sitting down.

“It’s worth a thousand pounds a minute, my dear,” said Mr. Pocklington, genially, laying down his pipe and his papers. “What with this strike – ”

“Strike!” said Mrs. Pocklington with indignation. “Why do you let them strike, Robert?”

“I can’t help it. They want more money.”

“Nonsense! They want to be taught their Catechisms. But I didn’t come to talk about that.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t, my dear. Your views are refreshing.”

“Robert, Laura’s got a fancy in her head about young George Neston.”

“Oh!”

“‘Oh!’ doesn’t tell me much.”

“Well, you know all about him.”

“He’s a very excellent young man. Not rich.”

“A pauper?”

“No. Enough.”

“All right. If you’re satisfied, I am. But hasn’t he been making a fool of himself about some woman?”

“Really, Robert, how strangely you express yourself! I suppose you mean about Neaera Witt?”

“Yes, that’s it. I heard some rumour.”

“Heard some rumour! Of course you read every word about it, and gossiped over it at the Club and the House. Now, haven’t you?”

“Perhaps I have,” her husband admitted. “I think he’s a young fool.”

“Am I to consider it an obstacle?”

“Well, what do you think yourself?”

“It’s your business. Men know about that sort of thing.”

“Is the child – eh?”

“Yes, rather.”

“And he?”

“Oh, yes, or will be very soon, when he sees she is.”

“Poor little Lally!” said Mr. Pocklington. Then he sat and pondered. “It is an obstacle,” he said at last.

“Ah!” said his wife.

“He must put himself right.”

“Do you mean, prove what he says?”

“Well, at any rate, show he had good excuse for saying it.”

“I think it’s a little hard. But it’s for you to decide.”

Mr. Pocklington nodded.

“Then, that’s settled,” said Mrs. Pocklington. “It’s a great comfort, Robert, to have a man who knows his mind on the premises.”

“Be gentle with her,” said he, and returned to the strike.

The other parties to the encounter over George’s merits had by a natural impulse taken themselves to Neaera Witt’s, with the hope of being thanked for their holy zeal. They were disappointed, for, on arriving at Albert Mansions, they were informed that Neaera, although returned from Liverpool, was not visible. “Mr. Neston has been waiting over an hour to see her, miss,” said Neaera’s highly respectable handmaid, “but she won’t leave her room.”

Gerald heard their voices, and came out.

“I can’t think what’s the matter,” he said.

“Oh, I suppose the journey has knocked her up,” suggested Isabel.

“Are you going to wait, Gerald?” asked Maud.

“Well, no. The fact is, she sent me a message to go away.”

“Then come home with me,” said Isabel, “and we will try to console you.” Gerald would enjoy their tale quite as much as Neaera.

Low spirits are excusable in persons who are camping on an active volcano, and Neaera felt that this was very much her position. At any moment she might be blown into space, her pleasant dreams shattered, her champions put to shame, and herself driven for ever from the only place in life she cared to occupy. Her abasement was pitiful, and her penitence, being born merely of defeat, offers no basis of edification. She had serious thoughts of running away; for she did not think she could face Gerald’s wrath, or, worse still, his grief. He would cast her off, and society would cast her off, and those dreadful papers would turn their thunders against her. She might have consoled herself for banishment from society with Gerald’s love, or, perhaps, for loss of his love with the triumphs of society; but she would lose both, and have not a soul in the whole world to speak to except that hateful Mrs. Bort. So she sat and dolefully mused, with the tailless cat, that gift of a friendly gaoler at Peckton prison, purring on the rug before her, unconsciously personifying an irrevocable past and a future emptied of delight.