Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

George rose and bowed politely. “I’m afraid I intrude,” said he.

“That’s easy mended,” said Mrs. Bort, with significance.

Neaera had leapt up on seeing him, and leant breathless against the door, looking like some helpless creature at bay.

“Who let you in?” demanded the lady of the house.

“Your servant.”

“I’ll let her in,” said Mrs. Bort, darkly. “Who are ye?”

George looked at Neaera. “My name is Neston,” he said blandly.

“Neston?”

“Certainly.”

“Then you’re in nice time; I wanted you, young man. D’ye see that woman?”

“Certainly; I see Mrs. Witt.”

“D’ye know what she is? Time you did, if you’re a-going to take her to church.”

Neaera started.

“I hope to do so,” said George, smiling; “and I think I know all about her.”

“Do ye, now? Happen ever to have heard of Peckton?”

Neaera buried her face in her hands, and cried.

“Ah, pity you haven’t something to cry for! Thought I’d see a sin done for ten pound a month, did ye?”

George interposed; he began to enjoy himself. “Peckton? Oh yes. The shoes, you mean?”

Mrs. Bort gasped.

“A trifle,” said George, waving the shoes into limbo.

“Gracious! You ain’t in the same line, are you?”

George shook his head.

“Anything else?” he asked, still smiling sweetly.

“Only a trifle of forging,” said Mrs. Bort. “But p’raps she got her deserts from me over that.”

“Forging?” said George. “Oh ah, yes. You mean about – ”

“Her place at Bournemouth? Ah, Nery, don’t you ache yet?”

Apparently Neaera did. She shivered and moaned.

“But I’ve got it,” continued Nemesis; and, she bounded across the room to a cupboard. “There, read that.”

George took it calmly, but read it with secret eagerness. It was the original character, and stated that Miss Gale began her service in May, not March, 1883.

“I caught her a-copying it, and altering dates. My, how I did – ”

“Dear, dear!” interrupted George. “I was afraid it was something new. Anything else, Mrs. Bort?”

Mrs. Bort was beaten.

“Go along,” she said. “If you likes it, it’s nothing to me. But lock up your money-box.”

“Let me congratulate you, Mrs. Bort, on having done your duty.”

“I’m an honest woman,” said Mrs. Bort.

“Yes,” answered George, “by the powers you are!” Then, turning to Mrs. Witt, he added, “Shall we go – Neaera dear?”

“You’ll both of you die on the gallows,” said Mrs. Bort.

“Come, Neaera,” said George.

She took his arm and they went out, George giving the little servant a handsome tip to recompense her for the prospect of being “let in” by her mistress.

George’s cab was at the door. He handed Neaera in. She was still half-crying and said nothing, except to tell him the name of her hotel. Then he raised his hat, and watched her driven away, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.

“Pheugh!” said he, “I’ve done it now – and what an infernal shame it is!”

CHAPTER XII.

NOT BEFORE THOSE GIRLS!

It is a notorious fact that men of all ages and conditions quarrel, and quarrel sometimes with violence. Women also, of a low social grade, are not strangers to discord, and the pen of satire has not spared the tiffs and wrangles that arise between elderly ladies of irreproachable position, and between young ladies of possibly not irreproachable morals. It is harder to believe, harder especially for young men whose beards are yet soft upon their chins, that graceful gentle girlhood quarrels too. Nobody would believe it, if there were not sisters in the world; but, unhappily, in spite of the natural tendency to suppose that all attributes distinctively earthy are confined to his own sisters, and have no place in the sisters of his friends, a man of reflection, checking his observations in the various methods suggested by logicians, is forced to conclude that here is another instance of the old truth, that a thing is not to be considered non-existent merely because it is not visible to a person who is not meant to see it. This much apology for the incident which follows is felt to be necessary in the interest of the narrator’s reputation for realism.

The fact is that there had been what reporters call a “scene” at Mrs. Pocklington’s. It so fell out that Isabel Bourne, accompanied by Maud Neston, called on Laura to receive congratulations. Laura did her duty, felicitated her friend on Tommy in possession and Tommy’s title in reversion, and loyally suppressed her personal opinion on the part these two factors had respectively played in producing the announced result. Her forbearance was ill-requited; for Maud, by way of clinching the matter and conclusively demonstrating the satisfactory position of affairs, must needs remark, “And what a lesson it will be for George!”

Laura said nothing.

“Oh, you mustn’t say that, dear,” objected Isabel. “It’s really not right.”

“I shall say it,” said Maud; “it’s so exactly what he deserves, and I know he feels it himself.”

“Did he tell you so?” asked Laura, pausing in the act of pouring out tea.

Maud laughed.