Mr. Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale. Hope Anthony
me to walk up.”
“I’m very glad you did. There’s nothing you can’t hear.”
“Oh, I say, Neaera!” Gerald hastily exclaimed.
“Why shouldn’t he hear?” demanded Neaera, turning on him in superb indignation. “Are you afraid that he’ll believe it?”
“No; but we all thought – ”
“I meant Mr. George Neston,” said Neaera.
“George!” exclaimed Tommy.
“And I’ll tell you why.” And, in spite of Gerald’s protest, she poured her tale of wrong into Tommy’s sympathetic and wide-opened ears.
“There! Don’t tell any one else. Lord Tottlebury says we mustn’t. I don’t mind, for myself, who knows it.”
Tommy was overwhelmed. His mind refused to act. “He’s a lunatic!” he declared. “I don’t believe it’s safe to live with him. He’ll cut my throat, or something.”
“Oh no; his lunacy is under control – a well-trained, obedient lunacy,” said Neaera, relapsing into mystery.
“We all hope,” said Gerald, “he’ll soon find out his mistake, and nothing need come of it. Keep your mouth shut, my boy.”
“All right. I’m silent as the cold tomb. But I’m da – ”
“Have some more tea?” said Neaera, smiling very graciously. Should she not reward so warm a champion?
When the two young men took their leave and walked away together, Tommy vied even with Gerald in the loudness of his indignation.
“A lie! Of course it is, though I don’t mean that old George don’t believe it – the old ass! Why, the mere fact of her insisting on telling me about it is enough. She wouldn’t do that if it’s true.”
“Of course not,” assented Gerald.
“She’d be all for hushing it up.”
Gerald agreed again.
“It’s purely for George’s sake we are so keen to keep it quiet,” he added. “Though, of course, Neaera even wouldn’t want it all over the town.”
“I suppose I’d better tell George I know?”
“Oh yes. You’ll be bound to show it in your manner.”
George showed no astonishment at hearing that Neaera had made a confidant of Tommy Myles. It was quite consistent with the part she was playing, as he conceived it. Nor did he resent Tommy’s outspoken rebukes.
“Don’t mix yourself up in unpleasant things when you aren’t obliged, my son,” was all he said in reply to these tirades. “Dine at home?”
“No,” snorted Tommy, in high dudgeon.
“You won’t break bread with the likes of me?”
“I’m going to the play, and to supper afterwards.”
“With whom?”
“Eunice Beauchamp.”
“Dear me, what a pretty name!” said George. “Short for ‘Betsy Jones,’ I suppose?”
“Go to the devil,” said Tommy. “You ain’t going to accuse her of prigging, are you?”
“She kidnaps little boys,” said George, who felt himself entitled to some revenge, “and keeps them till they’re nearly grown up.”
“I don’t believe you ever saw her in your life.”
“Oh yes, I did – first piece I ever went to, twenty years ago.”
And so, what with Eunice Beauchamp, alias Betsy Jones, and Neaera Witt, alias– what? – two friends parted for that evening with some want of cordiality.
“She plays a bold game,” thought George, as he ate his solitary chop; “but too bold. You overdo it, Mrs. Witt. An innocent girl would not tell that sort of thing to a stranger, however false it was.”
Which reflection only showed that things strike different minds differently.
George needed comfort. The Serpent-in-Eden feeling was strong upon him. He wanted somebody who would not only recognise his integrity but also admire his discretion. He had a card for Mrs. Pocklington’s at-home, and Isabel was to be there. He would go and have a talk with her; perhaps he would tell her all about it, for surely Neaera’s confidence to Tommy Myles absolved him from the strict letter of his pledge of secrecy. Isabel was a sensible girl; she would understand his position, and not look on him as a cross between an idiot and a burglar because he had done what was obviously right. So George went to Mrs. Pocklington’s with all the rest of the world; for everybody went there. Mrs. Pocklington – Eleanor Fitzderham, who married Pocklington, the great shipowner, member for Dockborough – had done more to unite the classes and the masses than hundreds of philanthropic societies, and, it may be added, in a pleasanter manner; and if, at her parties, the bigwigs did not always talk to the littlewigs, yet the littlewigs were in the same room with the bigwigs, which is something even at the moment, and really very nearly as good for purposes of future reference.
George made his way across the crowded rooms, recognising many acquaintances as he went. There was Mr. Blodwell talking to the last new beauty – he had a wonderful knack of it, – and Sidmouth Vane talking to the last new heiress, who would refuse him in a month or two. An atheistic philosopher was discussing the stagnation of the stock-markets with a high-church Bishop – Mrs. Pocklington always aimed at starting people on their points of common interest: and Lady Wheedleton, of the Primrose League, was listening to Professor Dressingham’s description of the newest recipe for manure, with an impression that the subject was not quite decent, but might be useful at elections. General Sir Thomas Swears was asking if anybody had seen the Secretary for War – he had a word to say to him about the last rifle; but nobody had. The Countess Hilda von Someveretheim was explaining the problem of “Darkest England” to the Minister of the Republic of Compostella; Judge Cutter, the American mystic, was asking the captain of the Oxford Boat Club about the philosophy of Hegel, and Miss Zoe Ballance, the pretty actress, was discussing the relations of art and morality with Colonel Belamour of the Guards.
George was inclined to resent the air of general enjoyment that pervaded the place: it seemed a little unfeeling. But he was comforted by catching sight of Isabel. She was talking to a slight young man who wore an eye-glass and indulged in an expression of countenance which invited the conclusion that he was overworked and overstrained. Indeed, he was just explaining to Miss Bourne that it was not so much long hours as what he graphically described as the “tug on his nerves” that wore him out. Isabel had never suffered from this particular torture, but she was very sympathetic, said that she had often heard the same from other literary men (which was true), and promised to go down to supper with Mr. Espion later in the evening. Mr. Espion went about his business (for, the fact is, he was “doing” the party for the Bull’s-eye), and the coast was left clear for George, who came up with a deliberately lugubrious air. Of course Isabel asked him what was the matter; and, somehow or other, it happened that in less than ten minutes she was in possession of all the material facts, if they were facts, concerning Neaera Witt and the pair of shoes.
The effect was distinctly disappointing. Amiability degenerates into simplicity when it leads to the refusal to accept obvious facts merely because they impugn the character of an acquaintance; and what is the use of feminine devotion if it boggles over accepting what you say, just because you say something a little surprising? George was much annoyed.
“I am not mistaken,” he said. “I did not speak hastily.”
“Of course not,” said Isabel. “But – but you have no actual proof, have you, George?”
“Not yet; but I soon shall have.”
“Well, unless you get it very soon – ”
“Yes?”
“I think you ought to withdraw what you have said, and apologise to Mrs.