Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

“Yes, confound him! I’m beastly jealous of old Witt, though he is dead.”

“That’s ungrateful,” remarked George, “considering – ”

“Hush! You’ll wound his feelings,” said Tommy. “He’s forgotten all about the cash.”

“It’s all very well for you – ” Gerald began.

But George cut in, “What was his name?”

“Witt’s? Oh, Jeremiah, I believe.”

“Witt? No. Hang Witt! The father’s name.”

“Oh! – Gale. A queer old boy he seems to have been – a bit of a scholar as well as an artist.”

“That accounts for the ‘Neaera,’ I suppose,” said Tommy.

“Neaera Gale,” thought George. “I don’t remember that.”

“Pretty name, isn’t it?” asked the infatuated Gerald.

“Oh, dry up!” exclaimed Tommy. “We can’t indulge you any more. Go home to bed. You can dream about her, you know.”

Gerald accepted this hint, and retired, still in that state of confident bliss that filled George’s breast with trouble and dismay.

“I might as well be the serpent in Eden,” he said, as he lay in bed, smoking dolefully.

CHAPTER III.

“WHAT ARE QUARTER-SESSIONS?”

The atmosphere was stormy at No. 3, Indenture Buildings, Temple. It was four o’clock, and Mr. Blodwell had come out of court in the worst of bad tempers. He was savage with George Neston, who, being in a case with him, had gone away and left him with nobody to tell him his facts. He was savage with Tommy Myles, who had refused to read some papers for him; savage with Mr. Justice Pounce, who had cut up his speech to the jury, – Pounce, who had been his junior a hundred times! – savage with Mr. Timms, his clerk, because he was always savage with Timms when he was savage with other people. Tommy had fled before the storm; and now, to Mr. Blodwell’s unbounded indignation, George also was brushing his hat with the manifest intention of departure.

“In my time, rising juniors,” said Mr. Blodwell, with sarcasm, “didn’t leave chambers at four.”

“Business,” said George, putting on his gloves.

“Women,” answered his leader, briefly and scornfully.

“It’s the same thing, in this case. I am going to see Mrs. Witt.”

Mr. Blodwell’s person expressed moral reprobation. George, however, remained unmoved, and the elder man stole a sharp glance at him.

“I don’t know what’s up, George,” he said, “but take care of yourself.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“Then why did you jump?”

“Timms, a hansom,” cried George. “I’ll be in court all day to-morrow, and keep you straight, sir.”

“In Heaven’s name, do. That fellow Pounce is such a beggar for dates. Now get out.”

Mrs. Witt was living at Albert Mansions, the “swell villa” at Manchester having gone to join Mr. Witt in limbo. She was at home, and, as George entered, his only prayer was that he might not find Gerald in possession. He had no very clear idea how to proceed in his unpleasant task. “It must depend on how she takes it,” he said. Gerald was not there, but Tommy Myles was, voluble, cheerful, and very much at home, telling Neaera stories of her lover’s school-days. George chimed in as he best could, until Tommy rose to go, regretting the convention that drove one man to take his hat five minutes, at the latest, after another came in. Neaera pressed him to come again, but did not invite him to transgress the convention.

George almost hoped she would, for he was, as he confessed to himself, “funking it.” There were no signs of any such feeling in Neaera, and no repetition of the appealing attitude she had seemed to take up the night before.

“She means to bluff me,” thought George, as he watched her sit down in a low chair by the fire, and shade her face with a large fan.

“It is,” she began, “so delightful to be welcomed by all Gerald’s family and friends so heartily. I do not feel the least like a stranger.”

“I came last night, hoping to join in that welcome,” said George.

“Oh, I did not feel that you were a stranger at all. Gerald had told me so much about you.”

George rose, and walked to the end of the little room and back. Then he stood looking down at his hostess. Neaera gazed pensively into the fire. It was uncommonly difficult, but what was the good of fencing?

“I saw you recognised me,” he said, deliberately.

“In a minute. I had seen your photograph.”

“Not only my photograph, but myself, Mrs. Witt.”

“Have I?” asked Neaera. “How rude of me to forget! Where was it? Brighton?”

George’s heart hardened a little. Of course she would lie, poor girl. He didn’t mind that. But he did not like artistic lying, and Neaera’s struck him as artistic.

“But are you sure?” she went on.

George decided to try a sudden attack. “Did they ever give you that guinea?” he said, straining his eyes to watch her face. Did she flush or not? He really couldn’t say.

“I beg your pardon. Guinea?”

“Come, Mrs. Witt, we needn’t make it more unpleasant than necessary. I saw you recognised me. The moment Mr. Blodwell spoke of Peckton I recognised you. Pray don’t think I mean to be hard on you. I can and do make every allowance.”

Neaera’s face expressed blank astonishment. She rose, and made a step towards the bell. George was tickled. She had the amazing impertinence to convey, subtly but quite distinctly, by that motion and her whole bearing, that she thought he was drunk.

“Ring, if you like,” he said, “or, rather, ask me, if you want the bell rung. But wouldn’t it be better to settle the matter now? I don’t want to trouble Gerald.”

“I really believe you are threatening me with something,” exclaimed Neaera. “Yes, by all means. Go on.”

She motioned him to a chair, and stood above him, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece. She breathed a little quickly, but George drew no inference from that.

“Eight years ago,” he said, slowly, “you employed me as your counsel. You were charged with theft – stealing a pair of shoes – at Peckton Quarter-Sessions. You retained me at a fee of one guinea.”

Neaera was motionless, but a slight smile showed itself on her face. “What are Quarter-Sessions?” she asked.

“You pleaded guilty to the charge, and were sentenced to a month’s imprisonment with hard labour. The guinea I asked you about was my fee. I gave it to that fat policeman to give back to you.”