Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale. Hope Anthony
Gerald had seen nothing, having been employed in issuing orders for the march in to dinner.
The dinner was a success. Lord Tottlebury unbent; he was very cordial and, at moments, almost jovial. Gerald was in heaven, or at least sitting directly opposite and in full view of it. Mr. Blodwell enjoyed himself immensely: his classic stories had never yet won so pleasant a reward as Neaera’s low rich laugh and dancing eyes. George ought to have enjoyed himself, for he was next to Isabel Bourne, and Isabel, heartily recognising that she was not to-night, as, to do her justice, she often was, the prettiest girl in the room, took the more pains to be kind and amusing. But George was ransacking the lumber-rooms of memory, or, to put it less figuratively, wondering, and growing exasperated as he wondered in vain, where the deuce he’d seen the girl before. Once or twice his eyes met hers, and it seemed to him that he had caught her casting an inquiring apprehensive glance at him. When she saw that he was looking, her expression changed into one of friendly interest, appropriate to the examination of a prospective kinsman.
“What do you think of her?” asked Isabel Bourne, in a low voice. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”
“She is indeed,” George answered, “I can’t help thinking I’ve seen her somewhere before.”
“She is a person one would remember, isn’t she? Was it in Manchester?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t been in Manchester more than two or three times in my life.”
“Well, Maud says Mrs. Witt wasn’t brought up there.”
“Where was she brought up?”
“I don’t know,” said Isabel, “and I don’t think Maud knew either. I asked Gerald, and he said she probably dropped down from heaven somewhere a few years ago.”
“Perhaps that’s how I come to remember her,” suggested George.
Failing this explanation, he confessed himself puzzled, and determined to dismiss the matter from his thoughts for the present. Aided by Isabel Bourne, he was very successful in this effort: a pretty girl’s company is the best modern substitute for the waters of Lethe.
Nevertheless, his interest remained strong enough to make him join the group which Gerald and Mr. Blodwell formed with Neaera as soon as the men went upstairs. Mr. Blodwell made no secret of the fact that it was with him a case of love at first sight, and openly regretted that his years prevented him fighting Gerald for his prize. Gerald listened with the complacent happiness of a secure lover, and Neaera gravely apologised for not having waited to make her choice till she had seen Mr. Blodwell.
“But at least you had heard of me?” he urged.
“I am terribly ignorant,” she said. “I don’t believe I ever did.”
“Neaera’s not one of the criminal classes, you see, sir,” Gerald put in.
“He taunts me,” exclaimed Mr. Blodwell, “with the Old Bailey!”
George had come up in time to hear the last two remarks. Neaera saw him, and smiled pleasantly.
“Here’s a young lady who knows nothing about the law, George,” continued Blodwell. “She never heard of me – nor of you either, I dare say. It reminds me of what they used to say about old Dawkins. Old Daw never had a brief, but he was Recorder of some little borough or other – place with a prisoner once in two years, you know – I forget the name. Let’s see – yes, Peckton.”
“Peckton!” exclaimed George Neston, loudly and abruptly.
Neaera made a sudden motion with one hand – a sudden motion suddenly checked – and her fan dropped with a clatter on the polished boards.
Gerald dived for it, so did Mr. Blodwell, and their heads came in contact with such violence as to drive all reminiscences of Recorder Dawkins out of Mr. Blodwell’s brain. They were still indulging in recriminations, when Neaera swiftly left them, crossed to Lord Tottlebury, and took her leave.
George went to open the door for her. She looked at him curiously.
“Will you come and see me, Mr. Neston?” she asked.
He bowed gravely, answering nothing.
The party broke up, and as George was seeing Mr. Blodwell’s bulk fitted into a four-wheeler, the old gentleman asked,
“Why did you do that, George?”
“What?”
“Jump, when I said Peckton.”
“Oh, I used to go sessions there, you know.”
“Do you always jump when people mention the places you used to go sessions at?”
“Generally,” replied George.
“I see,” said Mr. Blodwell, lighting his cigar. “A bad habit, George; it excites remark. Tell him the House.”
“Good night, sir,” said George. “I hope your head is better.”
Mr. Blodwell snorted indignantly as he pulled up the window, and was driven away to his duties.
CHAPTER II.
WHY GEORGE NESTON JUMPED
“How could I ever have forgotten?” said George, aloud, as he walked home. “I remember her now as if it was yesterday.”
Memory, like much else that appertains to man, is a queer thing, and the name of Peckton had supplied the one link missing in his recollection. How, indeed, had he ever forgotten it? Can a man forget his first brief any more than his first love? – so like are they in their infinite promise, so like in their very finite results!
The picture was now complete in his mind: the little, muggy court at Peckton; old Dawkins, his wig black with age, the rest of him brown with snuff; the fussy clerk; the prosecuting counsel, son to the same fussy clerk; he himself, thrusting his first guinea into his pocket with shaking hand and beating heart (nervous before old Daw! Imagine!); the fat, peaceful policeman; the female warder, in her black straw-bonnet trimmed with dark-blue ribbons; and last of all, in the dock, a young girl, in shabby, nay, greasy, black, with pale cheeks, disordered hair, and swollen eyelids, gazing in blank terror on the majesty of the law, strangely expressed in the Recorder’s ancient person. And, beyond all doubt or imagination of a doubt, the girl was Gerald’s bride, Neaera Witt.
“I could swear to her to-day!” cried George.
She had scraped together a guinea for his fee. “I don’t know where she got it from,” the fat policeman said with professional cynicism as he gave it to George. “She pleads guilty and wants you to address the court.” So George had, with infinite trepidation, addressed the court.
The girl had a father – drunk when not starving, and starving when not drunk. Now he was starving, and she had stolen the shoes (oh! the sordidness of it all!) to pawn, and buy food – or drink. It was a case for a caution merely – and – and – and George himself, being young to the work, stammered and stuttered as much from emotion as from fright. You see the girl was pretty!
All old Daw said was, “Do you know anything about her, policeman?” and the fat policeman said her father was a bad lot, and the girl did no work, and —
“That’s enough,” said old Daw; and, leaning forward, he pronounced his sentence:
“I’ll deal lightly with you. Only” – shaking a snuffy forefinger – “take care you don’t come here again! One calendar month, with hard labour.”
And the girl, gazing back at honest old Daw, who would not have hurt a fly except from the Bench, softly murmured, “Cruel, cruel, cruel!” and was led away by the woman in the black straw bonnet.
Whereupon George did a very unprofessional thing. He gave his guinea, his firstborn son, back to the fat policeman, saying, “Give it her when she comes out. I can’t take her money.” At which the policeman smiled a smile that convicted George of terrible youthfulness.
It was all complete – all except the name by which the fussy clerk had called on the girl to plead, and which old Dawkins