Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

“I think it’s a little hard. But it’s for you to decide.”

Mr. Pocklington nodded.

“Then, that’s settled,” said Mrs. Pocklington. “It’s a great comfort, Robert, to have a man who knows his mind on the premises.”

“Be gentle with her,” said he, and returned to the strike.

The other parties to the encounter over George’s merits had by a natural impulse taken themselves to Neaera Witt’s, with the hope of being thanked for their holy zeal. They were disappointed, for, on arriving at Albert Mansions, they were informed that Neaera, although returned from Liverpool, was not visible. “Mr. Neston has been waiting over an hour to see her, miss,” said Neaera’s highly respectable handmaid, “but she won’t leave her room.”

Gerald heard their voices, and came out.

“I can’t think what’s the matter,” he said.

“Oh, I suppose the journey has knocked her up,” suggested Isabel.

“Are you going to wait, Gerald?” asked Maud.

“Well, no. The fact is, she sent me a message to go away.”

“Then come home with me,” said Isabel, “and we will try to console you.” Gerald would enjoy their tale quite as much as Neaera.

Low spirits are excusable in persons who are camping on an active volcano, and Neaera felt that this was very much her position. At any moment she might be blown into space, her pleasant dreams shattered, her champions put to shame, and herself driven for ever from the only place in life she cared to occupy. Her abasement was pitiful, and her penitence, being born merely of defeat, offers no basis of edification. She had serious thoughts of running away; for she did not think she could face Gerald’s wrath, or, worse still, his grief. He would cast her off, and society would cast her off, and those dreadful papers would turn their thunders against her. She might have consoled herself for banishment from society with Gerald’s love, or, perhaps, for loss of his love with the triumphs of society; but she would lose both, and have not a soul in the whole world to speak to except that hateful Mrs. Bort. So she sat and dolefully mused, with the tailless cat, that gift of a friendly gaoler at Peckton prison, purring on the rug before her, unconsciously personifying an irrevocable past and a future emptied of delight.

CHAPTER XIII.

CONTAINING MORE THAN ONE ULTIMATUM

It was fortunate that Mr. Blodwell was not very busy on Saturday morning, or he might have resented the choice of his chambers for a council, and not been mollified by being asked to take part in the deliberations. At eleven o’clock in the morning, Gerald Neston arrived, accompanied by Sidmouth Vane and Mr. Lionel Fitzderham, who was, in the first place, Mrs. Pocklington’s brother, and, in the second place, chairman of the committee of the Themis Club.

“We have come, sir,” said Gerald, “to ask you to use your influence with George. His conduct is past endurance.”

“Anything new?” asked Mr. Blodwell.

“No, that’s just it. This is Saturday. I’m to be married on Monday week; and George does nothing.”

“What do you want him to do?”

“Why, to acknowledge himself wrong, as he can’t prove himself right.”

Mr. Blodwell looked at Fitzderham.

“Yes,” said the latter. “It can’t stay as it is. The lady must be cleared, if she can’t be proved guilty. We arrived clearly at that conclusion.”

“We?”

“The committee of the Themis.”

“Oh, ah, yes. And you, Vane?”

“I concur,” said Vane, briefly. “I’ve backed George up to now: but I agree he must do one thing or the other.”

“Well, gentlemen, I suppose you’re right. Only, if he won’t?”

“Then we shall take action,” said Fitzderham.

“So shall I,” said Gerald.

Vane shrugged his shoulders.

Mr. Blodwell rang the bell.

“Is Mr. George in, Timms?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; just arrived.”

“Ask him to step in to me, if he will. I don’t see,” he continued, “why you shouldn’t settle it with him. I’ve nothing to do with it, thank God.”

George entered. He was surprised to see the deputation, but addressed himself exclusively to Blodwell.

“Here I am, sir. What is it?”

“These gentlemen,” said Mr. Blodwell, “think that the time has come for you to withdraw your allegations or to prove them.”

“You see, George,” said Vane, “it’s not fair to leave Mrs. Witt under this indefinite stigma.”

“Far from it,” said Fitzderham.

George stood with his back against the mantel-piece. “I quite agree,” he said. “Let’s see – to-day’s Saturday. When is the wedding, if there – ?”

“Monday week,” said Blodwell, hastily, fearing an explosion from Gerald.

“Very well. On Tuesday – ”

“A telegram for you, sir,” said Timms, entering.

“Excuse me,” said George.

He opened and read his telegram. It ran, “Yes – my handwriting. Will return by next post registered – Horne, Bournemouth.”

“On Monday,” continued George, “at five o’clock in the afternoon, I will prove all I said, or withdraw it.”

Gerald looked uneasy, but he tried to think, or at least to appear to think, that George’s delay was only to make his surrender less abrupt.

“Very well! Shall we meet here?”

“No,” said Gerald. “Mrs. Witt ought to be present.”

“Is that desirable?” asked George.