Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. George rose and opened it. “What is it, Timms?”

“Mr. Gerald, sir, wants to see you on important business.”

“Is he in his room?”

“Yes, sir. I told him you were engaged.”

“You didn’t tell him Mrs. Witt was here?”

“No, sir.”

“Say I’ll be with him in a few minutes.”

George shut the door, and said, “Gerald’s here, and wants to see me.”

“Gerald! Then he has got the letter!”

“What do you propose to do, Mrs. Witt?”

“How can I tell? I don’t know what she said. She only told me she had sent back the money, and told him why.”

“If she told him why – ”

“I’m ruined,” said Neaera, wringing her hands.

George stood with his back to the fireplace, and regarded her critically. After a moment’s pause, he said, with a smile,

“I knew it all – and you were not ruined.”

“Ah, you are so good!”

“Nonsense,” said George, with a broader smile.

Neaera looked up at him, and smiled too.

“Mightn’t you risk it? Of course, truth is dangerous, but he’s very fond of you.”

“Won’t you help me?”

A heavy step and the sound of impatient pushing of furniture were heard from the next room.

“Gerald is getting tired of waiting,” said George.

“Won’t you do anything?” asked Neaera again, barely repressing a sob.

“Supposing I were willing to lie, where is a possible lie? How can I explain it?”

Timms knocked and entered. Gerald begged for a minute’s interview, on pressing business.

“In a moment,” said George. Then, turning to Neaera, he added brusquely, “Come, you must decide, Mrs. Witt.”

Neaera was no longer in a condition to decide anything. Tears were her ready refuge in time of trouble, and she was picturesquely weeping – for she possessed that rare gift – in the old leathern arm-chair.

“Will you leave it to me?” asked George. “I’ll do the best I can.”

Neaera sobbed forth the opinion that George was her only friend.

“I shall tell him everything,” said George. “Do you authorise me to do that?”

“Oh, how miserable I am! – oh, yes, yes.”

“Then stop crying, and try to look nice.”

“Why?”

“Because I shall bring him in.”

“Oh!” cried Neaera in dismay. But when George went out, she made her hair a little rougher – for so paradoxically do ladies set about the task of ordering their appearance – and anointed her eyes with the contents of a mysterious phial, produced from a recondite pocket. Then she sat up straight, and strained her ears to catch any sound from the next room, where her fate was being decided. She could distinguish which of the two men was speaking, but not the words. First Gerald, then George, then Gerald again. Next, for full five minutes, George talked in low but seemingly emphatic tones. Then came a sudden shout from Gerald.

“Here!” he cried. “In your room!”

They had risen, and were moving about. Neaera’s heart beat, though she sat still as a statue. The door was flung open, and she rose to meet Gerald, as he entered with a rush. George followed, with a look of mingled anger and perplexity on his face. Gerald flung a piece of paper at Neaera; it was Mrs. Bort’s letter, and, as it fell at her feet, she sank back again in her chair, with a bitter little cry. The worst had happened.

“Thank God for an honest woman!” cried Gerald.

“Gerald!” she murmured, stretching out her hands to him.

“Ah, you can do that to him!” he answered, pointing to George.

“I – I loved you,” she said.

“He’ll believe you, perhaps – or help you in your lies. I’ve done with you.”

He passed his hand over his brow, and went on. “I was easy to hoodwink, wasn’t I? Only a little wheedling and fondling – only a kiss or two – and a lie or two! I believed it all. And you,” he added, turning on George, “you spared her, you pitied her, you sacrificed yourself. A fine sacrifice!”

George put his hands in his pockets, and shrugged his shoulders.

“I shouldn’t go on before Mrs. Witt,” he remarked.

“Not go on! No, no. She’s so pure, so innocent, isn’t she? Worth any sacrifice?”

“What do you mean, Gerald?” said Neaera.

“You don’t know?” he asked, with a sneer. “What does a man ask for what he’s done? and what will a woman give? Will give? Has given?”

“Hold your tongue!” said George, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Neaera sat still, gazing at her lover with open eyes: only a little shudder ran over her.