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?"
"Nothing at all, my dear fellow," replied the Marquis, with more
confidence than he would have shown twelve hours before. "She knows he's
mad about little Laura Pocklington."
"I'll call on her to-morrow," said Vane, with his usual air of gracious
condescension.
"She's living very quietly," remarked the Marquis.
Vane turned towards him with a smile and almost a wink. "Oho!" he said.
"Be respectful to your elders, you young dog," said the Marquis.
"You make us forget your claims in that respect. You must be more
venerable," answered Vane.
After a moment's silent smoking, "Why don't you marry?" asked the
Marquis. It is a question which often means that the questioner's own
thoughts are trending in that direction.
"I'm waiting for that heiress." Then he added, perhaps out of good
nature, "If it comes to that, why don't you?"
"I'm not anxious to have people pointing at me for an old fool."
"Oh, hang people! Besides, you're not old."
"Fifty-six."
"That's nothing nowadays."
"You're laughing!" said the Marquis, suspiciously.
"Upon my honour, no."
The Marquis laughed too, and put his cigar back in his mouth. He took
it out again almost at once. "It wouldn't be bad to have a son," he
said. "I mean an heir, you know."
"The first step is a wife then, no doubt."
"Most women are so tedious. Still, you understand my feeling?"
"I might in your position. For myself, I hate brats."
"Ah, you will feel it some day."
Vane thought this rather barefaced. "When did it attack you?" he asked
with a smile.
"This afternoon," answered the Marquis, gravely.
Vane's cynical humour was tickled by the _dénoûment_ this admission
suggested. "Gad! I should like to see Gerald Neston's face!" he
chuckled, forgetting his own designs in his gratification.
"Of course she's--well, the deuce of a flirt," said the Marquis.
Vane risked a philosophical generalisation. "All nice women are flirts,"
he said. "That's what you mean when you call them nice."
"Very pretty and attractive, though."
"And the shoes?"
"Damn the shoes!" said the Marquis.
The next morning, Mr. Blodwell and Sidmouth Vane went to London; but the
society papers recorded that the Marquis of Mapledurham prolonged his
stay at Brighton.