VIII
When the Girls Came Out to Play
EORGIE was always a most shocking boy!" His mother beamed proudly at me over her embroidery. "I can remember the time when there wasn't a single complete pack of cards in the house. Old Mr. Borricole used to get terribly annoyed when he dropped in to play picquet with me in the evenings. He counted only fifty-one cards in each of six new packs one night. It really was annoying when you come to think of it."
"Yes," said I puzzled. "But I don't quite see what use Georgie—"
She laughed heartily. This handsome lady has an infectious jolly laugh, and her son inherits it.
"In every case," said she, "it was the Queen of Hearts which was missing. That disgraceful boy had stolen them to send away as valentines. Six of them!"
"Well," said I thoughtfully, "he still carries out his young promise. I don't know his pretty Diana very well, but she seems a young woman of strong principles. She keeps him in order even more than Anne did. Now the Goddess Girl!" I drew a deep breath. "I could understand his feelings there."
"Ah, you always had a weak spot for her. I wonder Drusilla wasn't jealous. But Georgie says the Goddess Girl never held his heart as Diana does. She never blinded and deafened him to other people's charms. This time I think it is more than a mere fancy. He says she's so unexpected. He never knows if she will burst into the wildest school boy slang, or preach to him in texts. He has put her on a very high pedestal indeed."
"Yes," said I, "she's a quaint little lady. And she worships him. There's no doubt about that."
Georgia's mother assumed the "who could help it" expression which is natural to her on these occasions. "I do wish they hadn't had this last absurd quarrel," she sighed. "Georgia can't help taking a little notice of other girls. Really she is most exacting, and knowing what he is, Martin, you can't wonder that the boy is always so besieged."
I laughed.
"I'm sorry he is in the wars again," said I. "Send him down to Drusilla, and let her try her hand with him at consolation."
The next evening he came, and when I fathomed the deep depths of gloomy despair into which he was apparently plunged I was almost sorry I had asked him. I left him as soon as possible to Drusilla, trusting to her tact and sympathy to clear away the clouds which overhung his youthful brow, but I had a short respite, for in ten minutes she called me in. Georgie was standing by the fire, his face hidden in his arms, which rested on the mantlepiece. Drusilla, in her pretty pale gown, stood erect and excited by his side. Her blue eyes were full of tears and her cheeks flushed a vivid rose-color. Her hand rested lightly on Georgie's coat sleeve.
"Oh, Martin," she said quickly, "poor Georgie is in such dreadful trouble."
My thoughts, of course, flew to Diana.
"Ride over and make it up," I suggested cheerfully.
He lifted his head.
"I can't he said curtly, "now."
I waited, puzzled, for him to explain.
"It appears," said he, "that my mother has been investing money for the last few years under old Borricole's advice. She has not been lucky in her investments. That's all."
I stared at him.
"My mother," he flung his head back, "was perfectly right to do as she liked, of course. And she meant to make money for me; to double the sum my father left. Unfortunately she went for advice to a thick-headed, antediluvian old ass, instead of consulting me."
"Do you mean to say"—I began
"Everything, except the estate, has gone," Drusilla broke in. Georgie will have to earn his own living. "Isn't it terrible, Martin?"
"Your mother's lawyer—" I began again. "Old Foxcroft—"
"Yes," said Georgie, "Foxcroft was pretty strong in his remarks. In fact, he was not very careful about what he said to my mother. He told her she'd been behaving like a child, and I nearly kicked him down the terrace steps. Only his bald head saved him. No one shall blame my mother. It was pure unselfishness on her part. She was thinking of me all the time—but—Oh, damn old Borricole!" he finished hastily.
Drusilla was not angry. She stroked his sleeve again, brimming over with sympathy.
"I beg your pardon, Drusilla, but I'm not a bit myself. It—it's rather a nasty knock for a chap, isn't it?"
"Oh, come," said I hopefully, "Let's hope it isn't quite as black as it 's painted. There must be something left, and after all, Georgie, the Manor Estate—"
"Good Lord!" he interrupted me, indignantly. "We sha'n't starve, if that's what you mean, and if you think I mind having to work you 're jolly well mistaken. There are heaps of things a man can do that are simply ripping. Ranching, and horse-training, and mounted police, and fighting—oh, I could go out and help those jolly little Japs like anything. It isn't that. It's Diana."
"I see." It hadn't occurred to me to think of that as a complication.
"Her father's affairs are a bit shaky, don't you see? He was looking to me to restore the fallen fortunes of the ancient house, to give his prehistoric name a leg up, and all that sort of thing, don't you know. He'll never let me have Di now, and even if he did, how could I go to her when we've quarreled, and ask to be taken back—penniless? 'Please will you forgive me? I've lost my money.' Not much."
Drusilla rubbed her eyes.
"Oh," said she, "you don't know what love is, Georgie. Money is nothing, nothing, compared with love. If she loves you, she'll be glad to have you back and glad to help you to bear your troubles. She'll be glad you've lost your money, to have the chance of showing you that she loves you for yourself alone. You don't understand how a nice girl feels, the least little bit."
Georgie played with a Chelsea cup and saucer and said nothing.
"Yes," said I consolingly. "Unless her father puts his foot down and—"
"That's just it," said poor Georgie quietly. "And it's the devil of a foot when he does. Diana told me once that the fifth commandment was the most beautiful thing in the whole prayer-book. She's been very well brought up. Her father sings psalms to wipe out his disreputable past, and drown his losses on the races, and Diana would rather die than disobey either her father or her mother. I sha'n't go near her again. The less I see of her now, the better for both of us."
"If she loves you," Drusilla persisted, "she won't let you give her up."
Georgie sighed.
"You're very sweet, Drusie," he said, with a whole-hearted forgetfulness of the past. "You're as true as steel yourself, so you think every other woman the same. But they aren't, and even in the best of them there is something they put before love. Diana's principles come first, and always will. And—" he added loyally, "I'm not sure that I don't admire her for it. I reverence Diana even more than I love her."
"Ah," said Drusilla quietly, "Diana's only a woman, Georgie, and in spite of principles you never quite know what a woman will do. Besides, don't you think you will be rather cruel to keep away from her without giving her an opportunity? Oh, my dear boy, don't break her poor little heart for the sake of your own silly pride."
But Georgie threw back his shoulders and set his teeth in his admirable British way.
"Thank you Drusie," he said, "you mean well, but you don't quite understand. There are some things a decent chap can't do. This is one of 'em."
Drusilla grew crimson, but she kept back the torrent of words on her tongue's end, and let the matter rest where it was.
"He would never see my point of view," she said sadly to me afterward. "He would spoil a girl's life with a light heart for the sake of his precious self-respect. It isn't self-respect. It's fear of what people will say."
"Drusilla," replied I thoughtfully, "isn't all this fuss a bit unnecessary. Even if Georgie and his mother have nothing else, the estate will bring them in fifteen hundred a year or so. That's three times as much as we have to live on. Yet you both talk as if the workhouse was waiting with open arms for them."
"Ye-es;" she looked doubtful. But they will have to give up their horses and things. Georgie says if his mother keeps even a pony cart he will have to sell the Scarlet Runner, and he means her to keep one. He hates selfishness, and she'll never be able to economize, Martin. She's a darling, but she never could see the point of being careful in little things. She's nearly as extravagant as she's generous. Can you imagine her riding in a tram to save a cab fare, or going to town second class? I don't know what's to become of them now."
"The poor lady must be very much upset," said I thoughtfully.
"Oh, of course—what a brute I am!" Drusilla jumped up. We were sitting at breakfast the morning after Georgie's revelation.
"I'll run up see her at once," cried she. "She's been perfectly sweet to me always. I only hope there's something I can do for her now. It's terrible to see people unhappy unless you can do things for them at once."
She didn't come back till long after lunch, and I met her at the gate. Her face was pale, and I could see that she had been crying. Drusilla's sympathetic heart will wear her out in time, I feel assured.
"Well?" I asked.
"Oh, Martin that poor thing—"
"Does she take it so much to heart?" I asked gently. "She feels, of course, that she has done Georgie an injury. Well—I am not surprised at that."
Drusilla looked surprised. "I am not talking about Georgie's mother," she said. "She's as jolly as anything. It's Diana."
"Diana?"
"Yes. Georgie's mother wrote to her last night and confessed what she had done, and the child rushed off at once. Ingraham is an awful place to get out of, and I am afraid she is the kind of poor little thing who always misses trains or gets into wrong ones. She was three hours on the way. I was sitting with Georgie's mother when she rushed in, and her face was ghastly."
"Well?"
Drusilla rubbed her eyes.
"I wanted to go away, but they wouldn't let me. Diana flung her arms round both our necks and burst out crying. She said she would never have spoken to Georgie as she did if she had known that he was in trouble, and that she had disobeyed her father in now coming to see him."
"Ah," said I thoughtfully.
"Yes, indeed," Drusilla went on with a rush, "I was quite right and so was Georgie. She has been ordered to give him up. She came to tell them that she loves him with all her heart, and forgave him for anything he had ever done. She wanted to tell him herself that her parents said she was to give him up. You see, Martin, the poor child has another admirer, an affluent neighbor of theirs, and now, of course, an infinitely better match."
"Poor Georgie," said I. "What did he say?"
"Oh!" Drusilla stamped her foot. "I've no patience with Georgie. He stood there as sulky as an owl and said nothing. He didn't even take her to the station, but let the coachman do it in the dog-cart. When she had gone, he cried. He didn't seem to mind me being there, but I wish he had done it before Diana. It would have been kinder. His mother cried too, for sympathy, I was crying all the time. Oh we have had a happy afternoon. Georgie's mother doesn't seem to mind the money being gone, but she was dreadfully upset when Georgie said he was going to earn his own living. How funny people are."
"Perhaps a little honest hard work will do our precious boy a power of good," said I hopefully. "Who knows but it might be the making of him."
Drusilla sighed.
"I rather like the way Georgie's made," she murmured. "But perhaps you are right."
"Of course I'm right," said I.
We are told that adversity shows up our friends in their true colors, and certainly Georgie's disasters bore strange fruit.
It was whilst I was very busy with the last proofs of my "The Lost Columbine" that my sister-in-law came into my study for a strictly private interview, and I studied her agitated face with much surprise. I was at a loss to understand such a radiant excitement in Anne. We still disliked each other considerably.
She sat down in the chair opposite to me and leaned her elbows on my table.
"Martin," she began in her quiet voice, "I want you to help me in something. I know you don't like me, and perhaps you don't quite understand me, but you are the only person I can come to now."
I was very much surprised.
"My dear girl," said I, with an effort to be affectionate and polite. "I shall be delighted to do anything for you, of course. But what can I do?"
She played nervously with an inky ruler.
"A long time ago," said she, "when I was first engaged to Georgie, you kindly and candidly showed me that I was going to spoil his life. You brought poor Mr. Muggeridge here to divert my affections, and free poor Georgie from my snares. It was partly your fault that Georgie broke off from me under a misconception, wasn't it? But perhaps you have forgotten."
I was conscious of a sudden reddening, and moved uncomfortably in my chair. It was not like peaceable Anne to begin such an unpleasant discussion.
"I suppose," she went on softly, "that you were surprised when I refused your friend. I don't think you quite realized that I happened, unfortunately for myself, to be fond of Georgie."
I was silent; perhaps a little ashamed into the bargain.
"When Mr. Muggeridge died and I found he had left me all that money," she went on, "I was surprised. But I was very glad, of course, because I'm tired of being poor. One does get tired of it. The pleasure of being careful always about very little things palls in time, don't you find? Now, Georgie is poor and Diana Leigh has thrown him over, and I believe—I'm almost certain, Martin, that he—that he likes me still."
"What! Georgie?" I asked in amazed and unflattering disbelief.
"You are cruel." Her tone almost moved me to pity. "He was in love with Diana, but he has been in love with other girls, hasn't he, and he always gets over that, doesn't he?" Don't you think, Martin, that the quiet, steady affection which comes from sympathy, and friendship, and understanding, is a better thing to build a home and one's happiness on, then these wild, short love-fancies of Georgie's?"
Still I had no response ready. My feeling of compassion grew stronger.
"I am rich, Martin. I've more money than poor Georgie has lost. And I can't tell him. I thought—Georgie always comes to you for advice, doesn't he? I thought perhaps when he did come, you might point out to him, point out to him—"
Her steady voice faltered.
"Yes?" said I gravely.
"That it might be the wisest thing he could do for his mother's sake and his own. Martin," her earnest voice touched me, "we all love Georgie. Everybody does. He is so young and kind and strong. He is a kind of Prince Charming, you see, and one can't help wanting him to be happy. I used to lecture him, and try to influence his mind, but I don't want to do any stupid thing like that, now. I only want—" She stopped with a choking sound.
This from Anne!
"I will put the case to Georgie," said I gently, and held out my hand to her across the table. "Very strongly." Perhaps it was not quite the first time that I had felt my old opinion of her shaken, but it was certainly the first time I had wanted to help her to her ends. Anne's brown eyes were not calculating now; they were wet.
"Thank you, Martin." She said no more and presently she left me. That very night I went to find Georgie; to give my advice with the utmost diplomacy and tact. But I might have saved the breath I spent on it.
"Thank you," said Georgie loftily. "It's the kind of thing a man doesn't do. I broke off with Anne when she was poor and I was rich. I'm not going back to whine at her feet now the tables are turned. Besides, I don't approve of her ways. You know what I told you of Peterkin? It's any means to an end, with Anne."
"Suppose she is still fond of you?" I ventured mildly.
"She'll have to get over it then. It's time she did. Hang it all, Martin, a chap can't marry all the girls who're fond of him. It isn't allowed in a Christian country."
The conceited brutality of this was too much for me and I went away. Of course I did n't betray Anne to him, but I told Drusilla.
She received my news with a sigh.
"Poor Anne," said she, "of course she loves him. You never understood that, but I knew. And of course Georgie won't hear of her now. Do you know?" She blushed a little. "I don't believe Georgie ever really cared for any of these girls in the right way."
"You think he was driven to propose to them all in the last recklessness of despair when he lost you?" I asked gravely, knowing very well that this was exactly what she did think.
She leaned over her boy, sleepy and rosy in his crib, and carefully covered an out-flung arm.
"Matthew Arnold," she said, "when you're a man you'll pay your daddy out, for all these jeers at your sainted Mammy, won't you?"
Until "The Lost Columbine" was off my hands I saw little of Georgie, and although I didn't mean to be selfish I am afraid I thought still less of him. But he rooted me out one evening, and I saw by his face that something fresh had happened. His expression was one of triumph and resigned misery. His mouth was firm. There was a wonderful amount of strength in Georgie's mouth in spite of its girlish size and shape.
"I have had a letter from Diana," said he. "You can read it if you like."
"If you are to give each other up," said I slowly, "wouldn't it be better for both of you if there were no letters?"
He handed it to me.
"I should like you to read it," said he. "Then you can see just what I am giving up."
"But—is it fair to her?"
"See what you think of it!" curtly.
If I am to honor my parents I must obey them and give you up. There would be no blessing from above on the disobedient act of an undutiful child, and I must tread the thorny path alone and bear my sorrow as a holy cross. [Here there was a blot and a large splash. A tear?] I've been thinking it over and it seems to me that love is the most holy thing of all, and rather than be cruel and mercenary and break your heart, I think, oh, Georgie, I'll cut the whole show and do anything you ask me to do. Write to me, Georgie—I want to do my Christian duty, but perhaps if I owe a duty to you as well I may be forgiven.
Your heartbroken and always true,
I was very much touched, but I smiled in spite of it. Her letter was so very like her conversation. Also it bore out Drusilla's prophecy.
"Poor little girl!" murmured I. "What are you going to say to her, Georgie? Shall you encourage her to cut the show?"
He lifted his head and met my gaze with clear, stern blue eyes.
"Can't you see?" said he.
"See what?"
"I worshipped that girl for her goodness, and now she's ready to chuck her principles and obedience and everything else she thinks sacred to the winds. She'd bolt with me to-morrow if I whistled to her. She isn't a bit better than anybody else when she wants a thing badly. When I think of the way she used to preach about honor. Ugh!"
"Georgie!"
"Yes," said Georgie. "I'm sorry for her, but I am disappointed in her too, and I shall show her that a man's idea of honor isn't a woman's. I wrote her a kind, unselfish letter. I put myself entirely on one side. I told her that she must forget me at once, and that I should never be quite easy in my mind until I saw her happily married to someone else. I told her she must put me out of her thoughts altogether if she wanted me to be happy. I don't mean to spoil her life. I'm not a selfish beast."
"And so that's your idea of an unselfish letter, is it?" said I slowly. "I suppose it will cheer her up immensely."
He looked puzzled, and I hastily went on.
"She will have to get over it, I suppose—like Anne. As you say, Georgie, you can't marry all these girls and perhaps—"
"Who the devil's that?" Georgie, facing my study window, broke out with an amazed stare. Something in bright and beautiful summer colors had drifted past, framed for one brief second against the green of the beech tree.
Voices in the hall. Not Drusilla's, for she, of course, was out with Matthew Arnold. A tap at my study door! then someone flung it widely open to disclose a radiant vision; softly rustling, delicately and faintly perfumed, and gowned in exquisite primrose color, her glowing, charming face dazzling us from a wonderful white hat, tied with fresh filmy strings under her delightful chin! Of all people in the world, the Goddess Girl!
"Oh, Georgie!" she cried, with afresh ripple of a laugh. "I've come back!"
I was not there apparently.
Georgie stood hesitating, flushing, and—could it be?—annoyed.
"Oh, is it all true?" asked the Goddess Girl delightfully. "Do tell!"
"Is what true?" he asked sternly.
She came further into the room and laid her useless and expensive parasol on a chair.
"Say, Georgie," murmured she. "Have you really run away from the little Leigh girl?"
"I'm afraid I don't quite understand you." The blood mounted quickly to his forehead.
"Why, I heard there was a little rift in the psalm-singing lute," said she. "Is that true, Georgie? Are you free?"
"My engagement to Miss Leigh is at an end," said Georgie impressively. "Though I fail to see—"
The eyes of the Goddess Girl lit up and she held out her pretty hand to him.
"My! Georgie!" she said. "I'm afraid you're a vurry disgraceful boy. I guess you lick creation, with these rapid engagements of yours. I heard that you'd lost your money. Is that true, too? Do tell."
"That's true, too," said Georgie.
She laughed.
"Then I guess I'll have to ask you to see me home," with a sly and most bewitching smile.
Georgie flushed. "I am afraid I must beg you to excuse me," he answered firmly. I don't know how he could.
Phillida gave a little gasp—then laughed nervously. Obviously she saw that this was no moment for maidenly reticence.
"I guess I'll have to take you back myself," said she quickly. "I guess you'll have to help me to spend all those dollars. There's too much for one bit of a gurl to spend. And I do my vurry best."
I regarded the summery delicacy of her lovely gown, and felt that here she did indeed speak the truth. But Georgie edged away from her towards the window.
"It's very noble of you," he said hurriedly, "and all that sort of thing, but it's quite impossible. I couldn't marry a rich girl now."
The Goddess Girl's sapphire eyes blazed with horror and bewilderment. I was not surprised—but then neither did Georgie's attitude surprise me.
"You see," said he, "I can't marry now at all. And I'm very sorry, Phillida, but you did give me up yourself, didn't you? I am sure if you think it over calmly, you'll find that you still like the Yankee kind of husband best."
Phillida collapsed suddenly on to a chair, and I could see her lips tremble. I tried to slip out of the room, but Georgie stopped me with a quick gesture of appeal.
"I guess I'd better make tracks," said the poor Goddess Girl with limp despair.
"Yes," said Georgie grimly, "and thank you very much for your—kind charity."
She rose without a word and left the room. I followed her meekly, and at the hall door she turned her charming face to me, with pleading eyes;—eyes as full of tears as Anne's had been, and oh, so much more beautiful.
"Say," she whispered with a sob, "you're his friend. I guess you can see that Georgie's throwing away a real good thing?"
"I can, indeed," said I with heartfelt fervor, but she passed this by.
"Georgie doesn't know the first thing about real love," she said. "He cayn't see why I came back. I just worship that boy. I guess he's tired of his little Puritan by now. And I cayn't do without him. I've never had to do without anything before, and it hurts some. The thought of fever sent me crazy that day I went away, but I felt meaner'n two cents when I cooled down and saw what a fool I'd been. I guess I've spoiled my eyes for good crying over Georgie ever since."
I was silent, and she laid her hand on my coat-sleeve.
"If you and your little peach of a wife talk to him nicely," said she, "he might be taught to see what he's throwing away. Won't you please open his eyes for him? I'm going 'way back to his mother right now."
"I assure you," said I earnestly, "that I will do my very best for you—but Georgie's a bit of a mule, you know. He has an unnatural tendency to go strongly in the opposite direction at times."
"That's so," said she dejectedly. "Then I guess you'd better go to him and blacken my character considerable."
We parted. She to float sadly and gracefully down the garden path; I, back to Georgie.
"Georgie," said I, with my usual diplomacy, "it was a forward thing for that girl to do."
Georgie laughed bitterly.
"Gone off a bit in her looks, do you think?" I asked cautiously.
"Rot!" said Georgie.
"Seriously," said I, "she's a Goddess Girl, and she loves you, Georgie."
"Oh, shut up!" said he rudely.
"You might do worse than think it over," I murmured mildly.
He flung himself into a chair and scattered my papers with his manly elbows.
"These women will drive me mad," said he.
"Take a reasonable view of the thing," said I. "Make a judicious choice. Sit on your silly pride. If you love a girl you won't mind being called a fortune-hunter—"
"I don't love any of 'em enough for that," cried he with some force. "It's getting a bit too sultry for me, Martin. How'd you like it if all the girls you knew came back crying over you, and forgiving you all your sins, because you'd lost something. Oh, these women! When a chap's a bit worried with something really important, they all come and chuck themselves at his head. As if you could fight the world any better with a silly woman hanging round your neck. Blithering sentimental rot!"
"Upon my word!" His sentiments appalled me.
"Yes," said he firmly. "I've done with girls."
And for the present I really think he has, for a few days ago I had a letter from him, post-marked Lisbon and written from the Royal Mail steamer "Danube." Here it is:
I am going out to the Argentine, ranching, and may come in for a revolution with a bit of luck. No one knows yet but my mother, and she quite sees with me that it's the only decent, manly kind of life for a chap who isn't in the Army. She's coming out to me later on, she says, to make butter and cheese and things. There's no one like my mother when it comes to real practical good sense.
I was sorry not to say good-bye to Drusie and the little chap, but I felt it better to keep my plans quite dark till we get safely out of the river.
Good-bye, old boy. Thanks for all your good advice. I don't believe I ever took any of it, and perhaps it's as well, but you'll wish me luck, won't you?
Always yours,
P.S. You might slip round and break it to the girls.
THE END.