Mr. Witt's Widow Part 35

"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?"