Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

“It was stupid of me,” said Neaera, penitently; “but I never thought of there being any mistake. What difference does it make?”

George’s heart was hardened. He was sure she had, if not tried to pass off the copy as an original from the first, at any rate taken advantage of the error.

“Have you the original?” he asked.

“No,” said Neaera. “I sent it to somebody ever so long ago, and never got it back.”

“When did you make this copy?”

“When I sent away the original.”

“To whom?” began George again.

“I won’t have it,” cried Gerald. “You shan’t cross-examine her with your infernal insinuations. Do you mean that she forged this?”

George grew stubborn.

“I should like to see the original,” he said.

“Then you can’t,” retorted Gerald, angrily.

George shrugged his shoulders, turned, and left the room.

And they all comforted and cosseted Neaera, and abused George, and made up their minds to let the world know how badly he was behaving.

“It’s our duty to society,” said Lord Tottlebury.

CHAPTER VII.

AN IMPOSSIBLE BARGAIN

“I should eat humble-pie, George,” said Mr. Blodwell, tapping his eye-glasses against his front teeth. “She’s one too many for you.”

“Do you think I’m wrong?”

“On the whole, I incline to think you’re right. But I should eat humble-pie if I were you, all the same.”

The suggested diet is palatable to nobody, and the power of consuming it without contortion is rightly put high in the list of virtues, if virtue be proportionate to difficulty. To a man of George Neston’s temperament penance was hard, even when enforced by the consciousness of sin; to bend the knees in abasement, when the soul was erect in self-approval, came nigh impossibility.

Still it was unquestionably necessary that he should assume the sheet and candle, or put up with an alternative hardly, if at all, less unpleasant. The “Fourth Paragraph” had appeared. It was called a paragraph for the sake of uniformity, but it was in reality a narrative, stretching to a couple of columns, and giving a detailed account of the attempted identification. For once, George implicitly believed the editor’s statement that his information came to him on unimpeachable authority. The story was clearly not only inspired by, but actually written by the hand of Gerald himself, and it breathed a bitter hostility to himself that grieved George none the less because it was very natural. This hostility showed itself, here and there, in direct attack; more constantly in irony and ingenious ridicule. George’s look, manner, tones, and walk were all pressed into the service. In a word, the article certainly made him look an idiot; he rather thought it made him look a malignant idiot.

“What can you do?” demanded Mr. Blodwell again. “You can’t bring up any more people from Peckton. You chose your witnesses, and they let you in.”

George nodded.

“You went to Bournemouth, and you found – what? Not that Mrs. What’s-her-name – Horne – was a myth, as you expected, or conveniently – and, mind you, not unplausibly – dead, as I expected, but an actual, existent, highly respectable, though somewhat doting, old lady. She had you badly there, George my boy!”

“Yes,” admitted George. “I wonder if she knew the woman was alive?”

“She chanced it; wished she might be dead, perhaps, but chanced it. That, George, is where Mrs. Witt is great.”

“Mrs. Horne doesn’t remember her being there in March, or indeed April.”

“Perhaps not; but she doesn’t say the contrary.”

“Oh, no. She said that if the character says March, of course it was March.”

“The ‘of course’ betrays a lay mind. But still the character does say March – for what it’s worth.”

“The copy of it does.”

“I know what you mean. But think before you say that, George. It’s pretty strong; and you haven’t a tittle of evidence to support you.”

“I don’t want to say a word. I’ll let them alone, if they’ll let me alone. But that woman’s Nelly Game, as sure as I’m – ”

“An infernally obstinate chap,” put in Mr. Blodwell.

Probably what George meant by being “let alone,” was the cessation of paragraphs in the Bull’s-eye. If so, his wish was not gratified. “Will Mr. George Neston” – George’s name was no longer “withheld” – “retract?” took, in the columns of that publication, much the position occupied by Delenda est Carthago in the speeches of Cato the Elder. It met the reader on the middle page; it lurked for him in the leading article; it appeared, by way of playful reference, in the city intelligence; one man declared he found it in an advertisement, but this no doubt was an oversight – or perhaps a lie.

George was not more sensitive than other men, but the annoyance was extreme. The whole world seemed full of people reading the Bull’s-eye, some with grave reprobation, some with offensive chucklings.

But if the Bull’s-eye would not leave him alone, a large number of people did. He was not exactly cut; but his invitations diminished, the greetings he received grew less cordial than of yore: he was not turned out of the houses he went to, but he was not much pressed to come again. He was made to feel that right-minded and reasonable people – a term everybody uses to describe themselves – were against him, and that, if he wished to re-enter the good graces of society, he must do so by the strait and narrow gate of penitence and apology.

“I shall have to do it,” he said to himself, as he sat moodily in his chambers. “They’re all at me – uncle Roger, Tommy Myles, Isabel – all of them. I’m shot if I ever interfere with anybody’s marriage again.”

The defection of Isabel rankled in his mind worst of all. That she, of all people, should turn against him, and, as a last insult, send him upbraiding messages through Tommy Myles! This she had done, and George was full of wrath.

“A note for you, sir,” said Timms, entering in his usual silent manner. Timms had no views on the controversy, being one of those rare people who mind their own business; and George had fallen so low as to be almost grateful for the colourless impartiality with which he bore himself towards the quarrel between his masters.

George took the note. “Mr. Gerald been here, Timms?”

“He looked in for letters, sir; but went away directly on hearing you were here.”

Timms stated this fact as if it were in the ordinary way of friendly intercourse, and withdrew.

“Well, I am – !” exclaimed George, and paused.

The note was addressed in the handwriting he now knew very well, the handwriting of the Bournemouth character.

“Dear Mr. Neston,

“I shall be alone at five o’clock to-day. Will you come and see me?

    “Yours sincerely,
    “Neaera Witt.”

“You must do as a lady asks you,” said George, “even if she does steal shoes, and you have mentioned it. Here goes! What’s she up to now, I wonder?”