Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

“‘Ah! you old beast!’ said she, just as I had, shaking her fist.

“He turned round to me, and said, ‘I am obliged to you, sir. I don’t know your name.’

“‘You wouldn’t be better off if you did,’ says I. ‘You couldn’t drink it.’

“‘Will you give me a sovereign?’ he asked. ‘A week’s joy, sir, – a week’s joy and life.’

“‘Give it me,’ said the woman, ‘then me and she’ll get something to eat, to keep us alive.’

“I’m a benevolent man at bottom, Mr. Neston, as Blodwell remarks. I said,

“‘Here’s a sovereign for you and her’ (I supposed she meant the daughter) ‘to help in keeping you alive; and here’s a sovereign for you, sir, to help in killing you – and the sooner the better, say I.’

“‘You’re right,’ said he. ‘The liquor’s beginning to lose its taste. And when that’s gone, Luke Gale’s gone!’”

“Luke who?” burst from the two men.

Lord Mapledurham looked up. “What’s the matter? Gale, I think. I found out afterwards that the old animal had painted water-colours – the only thing he had to do with water.”

“The Lord hath delivered her into your hand,” said Mr. Blodwell to George.

“Are you drunk too, Blodwell?” asked the Marquis.

“No; but – ”

“What was the woman’s name?” asked George, taking out a note-book.

“Bort. Going to tell me?”

“Well, if you don’t mind – ”

“Not a bit. Tell me later on, if it’s amusing. There are so precious few amusing things.”

“You didn’t see the daughter, did you?”

“Oh, of course it’s the daughter! No.”

“Did you ever know a man named Witt?”

“Never; but, Mr. Neston, I have heard of a Mrs. Witt. Now, Blodwell, either out with it, or shut up and let’s talk of something else.”

“The latter, please,” said Mr. Blodwell, urbanely.

And the Marquis, who had out-grown the vanity of desiring to know everything, made no effort to recur to the subject. Only, as George took his leave, he received a piece of advice, together with a cordial invitation to come again.

“Excuse me, Mr. Neston,” said the Marquis. “I fancy I have given you some involuntary assistance to-night.”

“I hope so. I shall know in a day or two.”

“To like to be right, Mr. Neston, is the last weakness of a wise man; to like to be thought right is the inveterate prejudice of fools.”

“That last is a hard saying, my lord,” said George, with a laugh.

“It really depends mostly on your income,” answered the Marquis. “Good-night, Mr. Neston.”

George said good-night, and walked off, shrugging his shoulders at the thought that even so acute a man as Lord Mapledurham seemed unable to appreciate his position.

“They all want me to drop it,” he mused. “Well, I will, unless – ! But to-morrow I’ll go to Liverpool.”

He was restless and excited. Home and bed seemed unacceptable, and he turned into the Themis Club, whence the machinations of the enemy had not yet ejected him. There, extended on a sofa and smoking a cigar, he found Sidmouth Vane.

“Why didn’t you come to Lord Mapledurham’s, Vane?” asked George.

“Oh, have you been there? I was dining with my chief. I didn’t know you knew Mapledurham.”

“I met him yesterday for the first time.”

“He’s a queer old sinner,” said Vane. “But have you heard the news?”

“No. Is there any?”

“Tommy Myles has got engaged.”

George started. He had a presentiment of the name of the lady.

“Pull yourself together, my dear boy,” continued Vane. “Bear it like a man.”

“Don’t be an ass, Vane. I suppose it’s Miss Bourne?”

Vane nodded. “It would really be amusing,” he said, “if you’d tell me honestly how you feel. But, of course, you won’t. You’ve begun already to look as if you’d never heard of Miss Bourne.”

“Bosh!” said George.

“Now, I always wonder why fellows do that. When I’ve been refused by a girl, and – ”

“I beg your pardon,” said George. “I haven’t been refused by Miss Bourne.”

“Well, you would have been, you know. It comes to the same thing.”

George laughed. “I dare say I should; but I never meant to expose myself to such a fate.”

“George, my friend, do you think you’re speaking the truth?”

“I am speaking the truth.”

“Not a bit of it,” responded Vane, calmly. “A couple of months ago you meant to ask her; and, what’s more, she’d have had you.”

George was dimly conscious that this might be so.