MR. WITT'S WIDOW
[Illustration: "Neaera was no longer in a condition to decide
anything. Tears were her ready refuge in time of trouble, and she
was picturesquely weeping." (Page 203.)
_Mr. Witt's Widow_] [_Frontispiece_]
MR. WITT'S WIDOW.
_A FRIVOLOUS TALE._
BY
ANTHONY HOPE,
AUTHOR OF "THE PRISONER OF ZENDA," "RUPERT OF HENTZAU,"
"PHROSO," ETC., ETC.
"Habent sua fata--cothurni."
WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO
1912.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. HOW GEORGE NESTON JUMPED 1
II. WHY GEORGE NESTON JUMPED 15
III. "WHAT ARE QUARTER SESSIONS?" 26
IV. A SERPENT IN EDEN 38
V. THE FIRST PARAGRAPH--AND OTHERS 52
VI. A SUCCESSFUL ORDEAL 65
VII. AN IMPOSSIBLE BARGAIN 82
VIII. THE FRACAS AT MRS. POCKLINGTON'S 95
IX. GERALD NESTON SATISFIES HIMSELF 109
X. REMINISCENCES OF A NOBLEMAN 122
XI. PRESENTING AN HONEST WOMAN 136
XII. NOT BEFORE THOSE GIRLS! 150
XIII. CONTAINING MORE THAN ONE ULTIMATIUM 162
XIV. NEAERA'S LAST CARD 172
XV. A LETTER FOR MR. GERALD 183
XVI. THERE IS AN EXPLOSION 197
XVII. LAURA DIFFERS 208
XVIII. GEORGE NEARLY GOES TO BRIGHTON 219
XIX. SOME ONE TO SPEAK TO 227
XX. FATE'S INSTRUMENTS 237
MR. WITT'S WIDOW.
CHAPTER I.
HOW GEORGE NESTON JUMPED.
The Nestons, of Tottlebury Grange in the county of Suffolk, were an
ancient and honourable family, never very distinguished or very rich,
but yet for many generations back always richer and more distinguished
than the common run of mankind. The men had been for the most part able
and upright, tenacious of their claims, and mindful of their duties; the
women had respected their betters, exacted respect from their inferiors,
and educated their brothers' wives in the Neston ways; and the whole
race, while confessing individual frailties, would have been puzzled to
point out how, as a family, it had failed to live up to the position in
which Providence and the Constitution had placed it. The error, if any,
had indeed been on the other side in one or two cases. The last owner
of the Grange, a gay old bachelor, had scorned the limits of his rents
and his banking-account, and added victories on the turf to the family
laurels at a heavy cost to the family revenues. His sudden death had
been mourned as a personal loss, but silently acknowledged as a dynastic
gain, and ten years of the methodical rule of his brother Roger had gone
far to efface the ravages of his merry reign. The younger sons of the
Nestons served the State or adorned the professions, and Roger had spent
a long and useful life in the Office of Commerce. He had been a valuable
official, and his merits had not gone unappreciated. Fame he had neither
sought nor attained, and his name had come but little before the public,
its rare appearances in the newspapers generally occurring on days when
our Gracious Sovereign completed another year of her beneficent life,
and was pleased to mark the occasion by conferring honour on Mr. Roger
Neston. When this happened, all the leader-writers looked him up in "Men
of the Time," or "Whitaker," or some other standard work of reference,
and remarked that few appointments would meet with more universal public
approval, a proposition which the public must be taken to have endorsed
with tacit unanimity.
Mr. Neston went on his way, undisturbed by his moments of notoriety,
but quietly pleased with his red ribbon, and, when he entered into
possession of the family estate, continued to go to the office with
unabated regularity. At last he reached the pinnacle of his particular
ambition, and, as Permanent Head of his Department, for fifteen years
took a large share in the government of a people almost unconscious of
his existence, until the moment when it saw the announcement that on his
retirement he had been raised to the peerage by the title of Baron
Tottlebury. Then the chorus of approval broke forth once again, and the
new lord had many friendly pats on the back he was turning to public
life. Henceforth he sat silent in the House of Lords, and wrote letters
to the _Times_ on subjects which the cares of office had not previously
left him leisure to study.
But fortune was not yet tired of smiling on the Nestons. Lord
Tottlebury, before accepting his new dignity, had impressed upon his
son Gerald the necessity of seeking the wherewith to gild the coronet
by a judicious marriage. Gerald was by no means loth. He had never made
much progress at the Bar, and felt that his want of success contrasted
unfavourably with the growing practice of his cousin George, a state of
things very unfitting, as George represented a younger branch than
Gerald. A rich marriage, combined with his father's improved position,
opened to him prospects of a career of public distinction, and, what was
more important, of private leisure, better fitted to his tastes and less
trying to his patience; and, by an unusual bit of luck, he was saved
from any scruples about marrying for money by the fact that he was
already desperately in love with a very rich woman. She was of no high
birth, it is true, and she was the widow of a Manchester merchant; but
this same merchant, to the disgust of his own relatives, had left her
five thousand a year at her absolute disposal. The last fact easily
outweighed the two first in Lord Tottlebury's mind, while Gerald rested
his action on the sole ground that Neaera Witt was the prettiest girl in
London, and, by Jove, he believed in the world; only, of course, if she
had money too, all the better.
Accordingly, the engagement was an accomplished fact. Mrs. Witt had
shown no more than a graceful disinclination to become Mrs. Neston. At
twenty-five perpetual devotion to the memory of such a mere episode as
her first marriage had been was neither to be desired nor expected,
and Neaera was very frankly in love with Gerald Neston, a handsome,
open-faced, strapping fellow, who won her heart mainly because he was so
very unlike the late Mr. Witt. Everybody envied Gerald, and everybody
congratulated Neaera on having escaped the various chasms that are
supposed to yawn in the path of rich young widows. The engagement was
announced once, and contradicted as premature, and then announced again;
and, in a word, everything pursued its pleasant and accustomed course in
these matters. Finally, Lord Tottlebury in due form entertained Mrs.
Witt at dinner, by way of initiation into the Neston mysteries.
It was for this dinner that Mr. George Neston, barrister-at-law,
was putting on his white tie one May evening in his chambers off
Piccadilly. George was the son of Lord Tottlebury's younger brother.
His father had died on service in India, leaving a wife, who survived
him but a few years, and one small boy, who had developed into a rising
lawyer of two or three-and-thirty, and was at this moment employed in
thinking what a lucky dog Gerald was, if all people said about Mrs. Witt
were true. Not that George envied his cousin his bride. His roving days
were over. He had found what he wanted for himself, and Mrs. Witt's
beauty, if she were beautiful, was nothing to him. So he thought with
mingled joy and resignation. Still, however much you may be in love with
somebody else, a pretty girl with five thousand a year is luck, and
there's an end of it! So concluded George Neston as he got into his
hansom, and drove to Portman Square.
The party was but small, for the Nestons were not one of those families
that ramify into bewildering growths of cousins. Lord Tottlebury of
course was there, a tall, spare, rather stern-looking man, and his
daughter Maud, a bright and pretty girl of twenty, and Gerald, in a
flutter ill concealed by the very extravagance of _nonchalance_. Then
there were a couple of aunts and a male cousin and his wife, and George
himself. Three of the guests were friends, not relatives. Mrs. Bourne
had been the chosen intimate of Lord Tottlebury's dead wife, and
he honoured his wife's memory by constant attention to her friend.
Mrs. Bourne brought her daughter Isabel, and Isabel had come full of
curiosity to see Mrs. Witt, and also hoping to see George Neston, for
did she not know what pleasure it would give him to meet her? Lastly,
there towered on the rug the huge form of Mr. Blodwell, Q.C., an old
friend of Lord Tottlebury's and George's first tutor and kindly guide in
the law, famous for rasping speeches in court and good stories out of
it, famous, too, as one of the tallest men and quite the fattest man at
the Bar. Only Neaera Witt was wanting, and before Mr. Blodwell had got
well into the famous story about Baron Samuel and the dun cow Neaera
Witt was announced.
Mrs. Witt's widowhood was only two years old, and she was at this time
almost unknown to society. None of the party, except Gerald and his
father, had seen her, and they all looked with interest to the door when
the butler announced her name. She had put off her mourning altogether
for the first time, and came in clothed in a gown of deep red, with a
long train that gave her dignity, her golden hair massed low on her
neck, and her pale, clear complexion just tinged with the suspicion of a
blush as she instinctively glanced round for her lover. The entry was,
no doubt, a small triumph. The girls were lost in generous admiration;
the men were startled; and Mr. Blodwell, finishing the evening at the
House of Commons, remarked to young Sidmouth Vane, the Lord President's
private secretary (unpaid), "I hope, my boy, you may live as long as I
have, and see as many pretty women; but you'll never see a prettier than
Mrs. Witt. Her face! her hair! and Vane, my boy, her waist!" But here
the division-bell rang, and Mr. Blodwell hastened off to vote against
a proposal aimed at deteriorating, under the specious pretence of
cheapening, the administration of justice.
Lord Tottlebury, advancing to meet Neaera, took her by the hand and
proudly presented her to his guests. She greeted each gracefully and
graciously until she came to George Neston. As she saw his solid jaw
and clean-shaved keen face, a sudden light that looked like recollection
leaped to her eyes, and her cheek flushed a little. The change was so
distinct that George was confirmed in the fancy he had had from the
first moment she came in, that somewhere before he had seen that golden
hair and those dark eyes, that combination of harmonious opposites that
made her beauty no less special in kind than in degree. He advanced a
step, his hand held half out, exclaiming--
"Surely----"
But there he stopped dead, and his hand fell to his side, for all signs
of recognition had faded from Mrs. Witt's face, and she gave him only
the same modestly gracious bow that she had bestowed on the rest of the
party. The incident was over, leaving George sorely puzzled, and Lord
Tottlebury a little startled. Gerald had seen nothing, having been
employed in issuing orders for the march in to dinner.
The dinner was a success. Lord Tottlebury unbent; he was very cordial
and, at moments, almost jovial. Gerald was in heaven, or at least
sitting directly opposite and in full view of it. Mr. Blodwell enjoyed
himself immensely: his classic stories had never yet won so pleasant a
reward as Neaera's low rich laugh and dancing eyes. George ought to have
enjoyed himself, for he was next to Isabel Bourne, and Isabel, heartily
recognising that she was not to-night, as, to do her justice, she often
was, the prettiest girl in the room, took the more pains to be kind and
amusing. But George was ransacking the lumber-rooms of memory, or, to
put it less figuratively, wondering, and growing exasperated as he
wondered in vain, where the deuce he'd seen the girl before. Once or
twice his eyes met hers, and it seemed to him that he had caught her
casting an inquiring apprehensive glance at him. When she saw that he
was looking, her expression changed into one of friendly interest,
appropriate to the examination of a prospective kinsman.
"What do you think of her?" asked Isabel Bourne, in a low voice.
"Beautiful, isn't she?"
"She is indeed," George answered, "I can't help thinking I've seen her
somewhere before."
"She is a person one would remember, isn't she? Was it in Manchester?"
"I don't think so. I haven't been in Manchester more than two or three
times in my life."
"Well, Maud says Mrs. Witt wasn't brought up there."
"Where was she brought up?"
"I don't know," said Isabel, "and I don't think Maud knew either.
I asked Gerald, and he said she probably dropped down from heaven
somewhere a few years ago."
"Perhaps that's how I come to remember her," suggested George.
Failing this explanation, he confessed himself puzzled, and determined
to dismiss the matter from his thoughts for the present. Aided by Isabel
Bourne, he was very successful in this effort: a pretty girl's company
is the best modern substitute for the waters of Lethe.
Nevertheless, his interest remained strong enough to make him join the
group which Gerald and Mr. Blodwell formed with Neaera as soon as the
men went upstairs. Mr. Blodwell made no secret of the fact that it was
with him a case of love at first sight, and openly regretted that his
years prevented him fighting Gerald for his prize. Gerald listened
with the complacent happiness of a secure lover, and Neaera gravely
apologised for not having waited to make her choice till she had seen
Mr. Blodwell.
"But at least you had heard of me?" he urged.
"I am terribly ignorant," she said. "I don't believe I ever did."
"Neaera's not one of the criminal classes, you see, sir," Gerald put in.
"He taunts me," exclaimed Mr. Blodwell, "with the Old Bailey!"
George had come up in time to hear the last two remarks. Neaera saw him,
and smiled pleasantly.
"Here's a young lady who knows nothing about the law, George," continued
Blodwell. "She never heard of me--nor of you either, I dare say. It
reminds me of what they used to say about old Dawkins. Old Daw never
had a brief, but he was Recorder of some little borough or other--place
with a prisoner once in two years, you know--I forget the name. Let's
see--yes, Peckton."
"Peckton!" exclaimed George Neston, loudly and abruptly.
Neaera made a sudden motion with one hand--a sudden motion suddenly
checked--and her fan dropped with a clatter on the polished boards.
Gerald dived for it, so did Mr. Blodwell, and their heads came in
contact with such violence as to drive all reminiscences of Recorder
Dawkins out of Mr. Blodwell's brain. They were still indulging in
recriminations, when Neaera swiftly left them, crossed to Lord
Tottlebury, and took her leave.
George went to open the door for her. She looked at him curiously.
"Will you come and see me, Mr. Neston?" she asked.
He bowed gravely, answering nothing.
The party broke up, and as George was seeing Mr. Blodwell's bulk fitted
into a four-wheeler, the old gentleman asked,
"Why did you do that, George?"
"What?"
"Jump, when I said Peckton."
"Oh, I used to go sessions there, you know."
"Do you always jump when people mention the places you used to go
sessions at?"
"Generally," replied George.
"I see," said Mr. Blodwell, lighting his cigar. "A bad habit, George; it
excites remark. Tell him the House."
"Good night, sir," said George. "I hope your head is better."
Mr. Blodwell snorted indignantly as he pulled up the window, and was
driven away to his duties.