Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

THERE IS AN EXPLOSION

Mr. Blodwell was entertaining Lord Mapledurham at luncheon at the Themis Club. The Marquis was not in an agreeable mood. He was ill, and when he was ill he was apt to be cross. His host’s calm satisfaction with the issue of the Neston affair irritated him.

“Really, Blodwell,” he said, “I sometimes think a lawyer’s wig is like Samson’s hair. When he takes it off, he takes off all his wits with it. Your simplicity is positively childish.”

Mr. Blodwell gurgled contentedly over a basin of soup.

“I think no evil unless I’m paid for it,” he said, wiping his mouth. “George found he was wrong, and said so.”

“I saw the girl in the Park yesterday,” the Marquis remarked. “She’s a pretty girl.”

“Uncommonly. But I’m not aware that being pretty makes a girl a thief.”

“No, but it makes a man a fool.”

“My dear Mapledurham!”

“Did he ever tell you what he found out at Liverpool?”

“Did he go to Liverpool?”

“Did he go? God bless the man! Of course he went, to look for – ”

Lord Mapledurham stopped, to see who was throwing a shadow over his plate.

“May I join you?” asked Sidmouth Vane, who thought he was conferring a privilege. “I’m interested in what you are discussing.”

“Oh, it’s you, is it? Have you been listening?”

“No, but everybody’s discussing it. Now, I agree with you, Lord Mapledurham. It’s a put-up job.”

“I expect you thought it was a put-up job when they baptised you, didn’t you?” inquired the Marquis.

“And looked for poison in your bottle?” added Blodwell.

Vane gently waved his hand, as if to scatter these clumsy sarcasms. “A man may not be sixty and yet not be an ass,” he languidly observed. “Waiter, some salmon, and a pint of 44.”

“And may be sixty and yet be an ass, eh?” said the Marquis, chuckling.

“Among ourselves, why do you suppose he let her off?” asked Vane.

The Marquis pushed back his chair. “My young friend, you are too wise. Something will happen to you.”

“Hallo!” exclaimed Vane, “here’s Gerald Neston.”

Gerald came hastily up to Mr. Blodwell. “Do you know where George is?” he asked.

“I believe he’s in the club somewhere,” answered Mr. Blodwell.

“No, he isn’t. I want to see him on business.”

Lord Mapledurham rose. “I know your father, Mr. Neston,” he said. “You must allow me to shake hands with you, and congratulate you on your approaching marriage.”

Gerald received his congratulations with an absent air. “I must go and find George,” he said, and went out.

“There!” said Vane, triumphantly. “Don’t you see there’s something up now?”

The elder men tried to snub him, but they glanced at one another and silently admitted that it looked as if he were right.

Mrs. Bort’s letter had stirred into activity all the doubts that Gerald Neston had tried to stifle, and had at last succeeded in silencing. There was a darkly mysterious tone about the document that roused his suspicions. Either there was a new and a more unscrupulous plot against his bride, or else – Gerald did not finish his train of thought, but he determined to see Neaera at once, as George could not be found without a journey to the Temple, and a journey to the Temple was twice as far as a journey to Albert Mansions. Nevertheless, had Gerald known what was happening at the Temple, he would have gone there first; for in George’s chambers, at that very moment, George was sitting in his chair, gazing blankly at Neaera Witt, who was walking restlessly up and down.

“You sent her ten pounds?” he gasped.

“Yes, yes,” said Neaera. “I can’t let the creature starve.”

“But why in the world did she send it back to Gerald?”

“Oh, can’t you see? Why, you said you were Gerald; at least, it came to that.”

“And she meant to send it to me?”

“Yes, but I had told her my Mr. Neston was Lord Tottlebury’s son; so I suppose the letter has gone to Gerald. It must have, if you haven’t got it.”

“But why should she send it to either of us?”

“Oh, because I said I sent it with Mr. Neston’s approval.”

“That wasn’t true.”

“Of course not. But it sounded better.”

“Ah, it’s dangerous work.”

“I should never have done it, if I had foreseen this.”

George knew that this represented Neaera’s extreme achievement in penitence, and did not press the question.

“What a wretch the woman is,” Neaera continued. “Oh, what is to be done? Gerald is sure to ask for an explanation.”

“Quite possible, I should think.”

“Well, then, I am lost.”

“You’d better tell him all about it.”

“I can’t; indeed I can’t. You won’t, will you? Oh, you will stand by me?”

“I don’t know what Mrs. Bort has said, and so – ”