Mr. Witt's Widow Part 33

"I am going out, mamma," Laura began, "to post this note to Mr. Neston."

Mrs. Pocklington never made mistakes in the etiquette of names, and a.s.sumed a like correctness in others. She imagined her daughter referred to Gerald. "Why need you write to him?" she asked, looking up. "He's nothing more than an acquaintance."

"Mamma! He's an intimate friend."

"Gerald Neston an intimate friend! Why----"

"I mean Mr. George Neston," said Laura, in a calm voice, but with a slight blush.

"George!" exclaimed Mrs. Pocklington. "What in the world do you want to write to George Neston for? I have said all that is necessary."

"I thought I should like to say something too."

"My dear, certainly not. If you had been--if there had been anything actually arranged, perhaps a line from you would have been right; though, under the circ.u.mstances, I doubt it. As it is, for you to write would simply be to give him a chance of reopening the acquaintance."

Laura did not sit down, but stood by the door, prodding the carpet with the point of her parasol. "Is the acquaintance closed?" she asked, after a pause.

"You remember, surely, what I said yesterday? I hope it's not necessary to repeat it."

"Oh no, mamma; I remember it." Laura paused, gave the carpet another prod, and went on, "I'm just writing to say I don't believe a word of it."

"Jack's Darling" fell from Mrs. Pocklington's paralysed grasp.

"Laura, how dare you? It is enough for you that I have decided what is to be done."

"You see, mamma, when everybody is turning against him, I want to show him he has one friend, at least, who doesn't believe these hateful stories."

"I wonder you haven't more self-respect. Considering what is said about him and Neaera Witt----"

"Oh, bother Mrs. Witt!" said Laura, actually smiling. "Really, mamma, it's nonsense; he doesn't care that for Neaera Witt!" And she tried to snap her fingers; but, happily for Mrs. Pocklington's nerves, the attempt was a failure.

"I shall not argue with you, Laura. You will obey me, and there is an end of it."

"You told me I was a woman yesterday. If I am, I ought to be allowed to judge for myself. Anyhow, you ought to hear what I have to say."

"Give me that letter, Laura."

"I'm very sorry, mamma; but----"

"Give it to me."

"Very well; I shall have to write another."

"Do you mean to defy me, Laura?"

Laura made no answer.

Mrs. Pocklington opened and read the letter.

"DEAR MR. NESTON," (it ran)--

"I want you to know that I do not believe a single word of what they are saying. I am very sorry for poor Mrs. Witt, and I think you have acted _splendidly_. Isn't it charming weather? Riding in the park in the morning is a positive delight.

"With kindest regards,

"Yours very sincerely, "LAURA F. POCKLINGTON."

Mrs. Pocklington gasped. The note was little better than an a.s.signation!

"I shall show this to your father," she said, and swept out of the room.

Laura sat down and wrote an exact copy of the offending doc.u.ment, addressed it, stamped it, and put it in her pocket. Then, with ostentatious calmness, she took up "Jack's Darling," and appeared to become immersed in it.

Mrs. Pocklington found it hard to make her husband appreciate the situation; indeed, she had scarcely risen to it herself. Everybody talks of heredity in these days: the Pocklingtons, both people of resolute will, had the opportunity of studying its working in their own daughter. The result was fierce anger in Mrs. Pocklington, mingled anger and admiration in her husband, perplexity in both. Laura's position was simple and well defined. By coercion and imprisonment she might, she admitted, be prevented sending her letter and receiving a reply, but by no other means. Appeals to duty were met by appeals to justice; she parried entreaty by counter-entreaty, reproofs by protestations of respect, orders by silence. What was to be done? Laura was too old, and the world was too old, for violent remedies. Intercepting correspondence meant exposure to the household. The revolt was appalling, absurd, unnatural; but it was also, as Mr. Pocklington admitted, "infernally awkward." Laura realised that its awkwardness was her strength, and, having in vain invited actual physical restraint, in its absence walked out and posted her letter.

Then Mrs. Pocklington acted. At a day's notice she broke up her establishment for the season, and carried her daughter off with her.

She gave no address save to her husband. Laura was not allowed to know whither she was being taken. She was, as she bitterly said, "spirited away" by the continental mail, and all the communications cut. Only, just as the brougham was starting, when the last box was on, and Mr.

Pocklington, having spoken his final word of exhortation, was waving good-bye from the steps, Laura jumped out, crossed the road, and dropped a note into a pillar-box.

"It is only," she remarked, resuming her seat, "to tell Mr. Neston that I can't give him any address at present."

What, asked Mrs. Pocklington of her troubled mind, were you to do with a girl like that?

CHAPTER XVIII.

GEORGE NEARLY GOES TO BRIGHTON.

One evening, about a week after what Mr. Espion called the final _esclandre_, Tommy Myles made his appearance in the smoking-room of the Themis. More important matters have ousted the record of Tommy's marriage and blissful honeymoon, and he came back to find that a negligent world had hardly noticed his absence.

"How are you?" said he to Sidmouth Vane.

"How are you?" said Vane, raising his eyes for a moment from _Punch_.

Tommy sat down by him. "I say," he remarked, "this Neston business is rather neat. We read about it in Switzerland."

"Been away?"

"Of course I have--after my wedding, you know."

"Ah! Seen _Punch_?" And Vane handed it to him.

"I had a pretty shrewd idea of how the land lay. So had Bella."

"Bella?"