Edith Wharton - Novella 01 (3 page)

 
          
Every
one of those few words came straight from Guy’s heart; for Georgie Rivers had
been his one “grande passion,” & his love for her perhaps the noblest,
strongest feeling he was capable of. Indeed, I am disposed to think that the
life of “a man about town” (the life which Guy had led since his college days
five years before) is apt to blunt every kind of feeling into a well-bred
monotone of ennui, & it is a wonder to me that he had preserved so strong
& intact the capacity of really “falling in love.” Of course, he had had a
dozen little affaires de coeurs here & there before his heart was really
touched; a man who lives as fast & free as Guy Hastings had done, seldom
escapes without “the least little touch of the spleen”—but he had outgrown them
one after another as people do outgrow those inevitable diseases, until the
fatal malady seized him in the shape of his pretty cousin. His love for her had
influenced his whole life, & blent itself into his one real talent, for
painting, so that he sketched her bewitching little head a thousand & one
times, & looked forward in the future, after his marriage, to turning his
brush to account, selling his pictures high, &, in the still dimmer To-be
becoming an R.A. How many an idle amateur has dreamed in this fashion!
Meanwhile, he had enjoyed himself, made love to her, & lived neither better
nor worse than a hundred other young men of that large class delightful for
acquaintance, but dangerous for matrimony,
whom
susceptible young ladies call “fascinating” & anxious mothers “fast.” Now,
though like takes to like, it is seldom that two people of the same social
tastes fall in love with each other; Mr. Rapid, who has been in all the
escapades going, & connected with a good many of the most popular scandals,
is attracted by Miss Slow, just out of a religious boarding-school, with
downcast eyes & monosyllabic conversation; Miss Rapid, who has always been
what Punch calls “a leetle fast,” settles down to domesticity with good,
meek-minded Mr. Slow. Such is the time-honoured law of contrasts. But Guy
Hastings & Georgie were one of those rare exceptions said to prove the rule
which they defy. If Guy had tasted the good things of life generously, his
cousin was certainly not wanting in a spice of fastness. Yet these two sinners
fell mutually in love at first sight, & remained in that ecstatic condition
until Georgie’s unaccountable note seemed to turn the world temporarily
upside-down. That unaccountable note! After answering it & calling for a
servant to post his answer, he thrust it away in his pocket, & since “there
was no help for it,” resolved to make the best of the matter by forgetting it
as quickly as possible. There are few young men who do not turn with an
instinct of abhorrence from the contemplation of anything painful; & some
possess the art of “drowning dull care” completely. Guy, however, could not
shake his disagreeable companion off; & he must have shewed it in his face,
for as he was leaving the club, in the forlorn hope of finding some note or
message from Georgie at his rooms, a familiar voice called out “Hullo, Guy
Fawkes, my boy! I didn’t know you were in town! Had a row? What makes your
mustachios look so horridly dejected?” “Jack Egerton!” exclaimed Guy, turning
to face the speaker, a short, wiry-built little man with reddish whiskers &
honest gray eyes, who laid a hand on his shoulder, & gravely scanned him at
arm’s length. Guy laughed rather uneasily. No man likes to think that another
has guessed his inmost feelings at first sight. “Yes,” said Egerton, slowly, “your
Fortunatus purse has run out again, & Poole has too much sense to send that
blue frock coat home, or you’ve had a row about some pretty little votary of
the drama, & been O jolly thrashed—or—Araminta, or Chloe or Belinda (we won’t
say which) has been shewing you some charming phase in her character usually
reserved for post-nuptial display. Come now, Knight of the Dolorous Visage,
which is it?” Jack Egerton (commonly called Jack-All, from his wonderful
capacity for doing everything, knowing everybody & being everywhere) although
by some years Guy’s senior, had known him at Cambridge (poor Jack was there
through several sets of new men) & had struck up a warm friendship with him
which nothing since had shaken. Egerton shared Guy’s artistic inclinations,
& was like him “a man about town,” & a general favourite, so that the
similarity of their life had thrown them together ever since they forsook the
shade of Alma Mater, Jack steering the “young Duke” as he always called Guy,
out of many a scrape, & Guy replenishing Jack’s purse when his own would
allow of such liberality. Guy then, who would not have betrayed himself to any
other living man, found it a great relief to unburden his woes to Jack Egerton,
knowing that he possessed the rare talent of keeping other people’s secrets as
jealously as his own. “Hang it, there is a row,” said the lover, pulling the
dejected moustache. “But for Heaven’s sake come out of this place. We shall be
seized upon by some proses in a minute. Come along.” He ran his arm through
Egerton’s, & the two sallied forth into the streets, making for the
deserted region of
Belgravia
. It was not until they were in the most
silent part of that dreary
Sahara
between the iron railings of a Duke who was off in
Scotland
, & the shut windows of an Earl who had
gone to
Italy
, that Jack, who knew his companion “au fond,” broke the silence by, “Well,
my boy?” Guy glared suspiciously at a dirty rag-picker who was expressing to
himself & his ragbag the deepest astonishment “that them two young swells
should be ’ere at this time o’ year”; but even that innocent offender soon
passed by, & left him secure to make his confession in entire privacy. “Look
here” he said, taking Georgie’s note from his pocket & handing it to
Egerton. (Although the engagement between them, which had been of short
duration, was kept private, he was shrewd enough to guess that his friend knew
of it.) Jack, leaning against the Duke’s railings, perused the short letter
slowly; then folded it up & relieved himself by a low whistle. “Well?”
groaned Guy, striking his stick sharply against His grace’s area-gate, “What do
you think of that? Of course you know that we were engaged, & she always
said she cared for me, & all that—until that thing came this morning.” Jack
looked meditatively at his friend. “I beg pardon,” he said, slowly, “but did
you have a row when you last saw her?”
“No, upon my honour
none that I was conscious of!
It was yesterday—beastly weather, you
remember, & we were a little cross, but we made it up all right—at least, I
thought so.” “Of course you thought so,” said Jack, calmly; “The question is,
who provoked the quarrel?” “God knows—if there was a quarrel—I did not. I would
go to the ends of the earth for her, Jack!” “Then—excuse me again, old boy—then
she tried to pick a quarrel?” Guy paused—it seemed treason to breathe a word
against his lady, & yet he could not but recall how strange her behaviour
had been—”I—I believe I bored her,” he stammered, not caring to meet Jack’s
eyes. “Did she tell you so?” “Well—yes; but, you know, she often chaffs, &
I thought—I thought…” “You thought it was a little love-quarrel to kill time,
eh?” said Jack, in his short, penetrating way. “Well, my dear boy, so it might
have been, but I don’t think it was.” “What do you think then?” said Guy,
anxiously. “Don’t be afraid to tell me, old fellow.” “Look here, then. You are
a handsome young
gaillard—
just the sort that women
like, the worse luck for you!—& I haven’t a doubt your cousin (she shall
not be named) fell in love with you. But—taking a slight liberty with the
proverb—“fall in love in haste, repent at leisure”—
How
much have you got to support a wife on?” “Deucedly little,” said Guy, bitterly.
“Exactly.
And you like to live like a swell, &
have plenty of money to pitch in the gutter, when society requires it of you.
Now, I dare say your cousin knows this.” “Well?” “Well—& she has more good
sense & just as much heart as most young ladies of our advanced
civilization. She has had the wit to see what you, poor fool, sublimely
overlooked—that what is comfort for one is pinching for two (or—ahem! three)—&
the greater wit to tell you so before it is too late.” Jack paused, &
looked Guy directly in the face. “Do you understand?” “I don’t know… I… for
Heaven’s sake, Jack, out with it,” groaned the lover. Jack’s look was of such
deep, kindly pity as we cast on a child, whom we are going to tell that its
goldfish is dead or its favourite toy broken. “My poor boy,” he said, gently, “don’t
you see that you have been—jilted?”—

 
          
  

 
          
The End of the
Idyl.

 
          
“Through you, whom once I loved so
well—
Through
you my life will be accursed.”

 
          
Georgie
had just come home from a ride to the meet with Lord Breton, on the day after
her engagement to that venerable peer, when her mother called to her that there
was a letter on her table upstairs in Guy’s handwriting. Georgie changed
colour; she had not expected this, & had thought to cast off “the old love”
more easily. It came now like a ghost that steals between the feaster & his
wine-cup; a ghost of old wrongs that he thought to have laid long ago but that
rises again & again to cast a shadow on life’s enjoyments. Georgie,
however, determined to take the bull by the horns, & went up to her room at
once; but she paused a moment before the pier-glass to smile back at the
reflection of her trim figure in the dark folds of a faultless habit, &
crowned by the most captivating little “topper” from under which a few little
brown curls would escape, despite the precaution which Georgie of course always
took to brush them back into their place. Then, setting her saucy, rosebud
mouth firmly, she turned from the glass & opened Guy’s letter. If she had
not been very angry at his having written at all, she might have been in danger
of giving Lord Breton the slip, & coming back to her first choice; for she
did love Guy, though such a poor, self-despising thing as love could have no
legitimate place in the breast of the worldly-wise Miss Rivers! But she was
angry with Guy, & having read his appeal tore it up, stamped her foot &
nearly broke her riding-whip in the outburst of her rage. After that, she
locked her door, & threw herself into what she called her “Crying-chair”; a
comfortable, cushioned seat which had been the confidante of many a girlish fit
of grief & passion. Having cried her eyes into the proper shade of
pinkness, all the while complaining bitterly of Guy’s cruelty & the
hardness of the world, & her own unhappy fate, she began to think that his
letter must nevertheless be answered, & having bathed her injured lids and
taken an encouraging look at Lord Breton’s ruby flashing on her left hand, she
wrote thus:

 
          
My
dear Guy: I don’t think I deserved your reproaches, or, if I did, you must see
that I am not worth your love. But I will tell you everything plainly. Knowing
(as I said before) that we could never be happy together, I have engaged myself
to Lord Breton. You will thank me some day for finding our feelings out &
releasing you before it was too late—though of course I expect you to be angry
with me now. Believe me, I wish that we may always be friends; & it is for
that reason that I speak to you so frankly. My engagement to Lord Breton will
not be announced yet.
With many wishes for your happiness,
Yours “Georgina” Rivers.
To Guy Hastings Esqr.
Swift’s Club, Regent St. London W.

 
          
Georgie
was clever & politic enough to know that such desperate measures were the
only ones which could put an end to this unpleasant matter; but she was really
sorry for Guy & wanted to make the note as kind & gentle as possible.
Perhaps Guy felt the sting none the less that it was so adroitly sheathed in
protestations of affection & unworthiness. He was alone in the motley
apartment, half-studio, half smoking-room & study, which opened off his bedroom
at his London lodgings. He had not had the heart to stay at the Club after he
had breakfasted; but pocketed Georgie’s note (which was brought to him there)
& went home at once. Inevitable business had detained him in town the day
before, but he had determined to run down to West Adamsborough that morning,
having prepared Georgie by his note. Now his plans, & indeed his whole
life, seemed utterly changed. There comes a time in the experience of most men
when their faith in womankind is shaken pretty nearly to its foundations; &
that time came to Guy Hastings as he sat by his fire, with a bust of Pallas
(adorned by a Greek cap & a faded blue breast-knot) presiding over him,
& read his dismissal. But here I propose to spare my reader. I suppose
every lover raves in the same rhetoric, when his mistress plays him false,
& when to you, Sylvia, or you, Damon, that bitter day comes, you will know
pretty accurately how Guy felt & what Guy said. Let us, then, pass over an
hour, & reenter our hero’s domain with Jack Egerton, who, at about 11 o’clock,
gave his sharp, short rap at the door of that sanctum. “Who the devil is it?”
said Guy, savagely, starting at the sound. “
Your
Mentor.” “Jack?—Confound you!—Well, come in if you like.” “I do like, most
decidedly,” said Egerton briskly, sending a puff of balmy Havana smoke before
him as he entered. “What’s the matter now? I’ve been at Swift’s after you,
& didn’t half expect to find you moping here.” “I don’t care where I am,”
said Guy with a groan. “Sit down. What is the use of living?” “Shall I answer
you from a scientific, theological or moral point of view?” “Neither. Don’t be
a fool.” “Oh,” with a slight shrug, “I thought you might like me to keep you
company.” Guy growled. “I don’t know whether you want to be kicked or not,” he
said, glaring at poor Jack, “but I feel deucedly like trying it.” “Do, my dear
fellow! If it will shake you out of this agreeable fit of the dumps I shall
feel that it is not paying too dearly.” Guy was silent for a moment; then he
picked up Georgie’s letter & held it at arm’s length, before his friend. “Look
there,” he said. Jack nodded.
“My death warrant.”
He
stooped down & pushed it deep into the smouldering coals—it burst into a
clear flame, & then died out & turned to ashes. “Woman’s love,”
observed Jack sententiously. Jack was a boasted misogynist, & if he had not
pitied Guy from the depths of his honest heart, might have felt some lawful
triumph in the stern way in which his favourite maxim, “Woman is false” was
brought home to his long unbelieving friend; such a triumph as that classic
bore, Mentor, doubtless experienced when Telemachus broke loose from the rosy
toils of Calypso. “There,” he continued. “If you have the pluck to take your
fancy—your passion—whatever you choose to call it, & burn it as you burned
that paper, I have some hopes for you.” Guy sat staring absently at the red
depths of the falling fire. “Did a woman ever serve you so, Jack?” he asked,
suddenly, facing about & looking at Egerton sharply; but Jack did not
flinch. “No,” he said in a voice of the profoundest scorn; “I never gave one of
them a chance to do it. You might as well
say,
did I
ever pick up a rattle-snake, let it twist round my arm & say: ‘Bite!’
No, decidedly not!”
“Then you believe that all women are the
same?” “What else have I always preached to you?” cried Jack, warming with his
favourite subject. “What does Pope say? “Every woman is at heart a rake’! And
Pope knew ’em. And I know ’em. Look here; your cousin is not the only woman you’ve
had to do with. How did the others treat you? Ah—I remember the innkeeper’s
daughter that vacation in Wales, my boy!” “Don’t,” said Guy reddening angrily. “It
was my own fault. I was only a boy, & I was a fool to think I cared for the
girl—that’s nothing. She is the only woman I ever loved!”
“So
much the better.
The more limited one’s experience, the less harm it
will do. Only guard yourself from repeating such a favourite folly.” “There’s
no danger of that!” “I hope not,” said Egerton. “But I have got a plan to
propose to you. After such a little complaint as you have been suffering from,
change of scene & climate is considered the best cure. Come to Italy with
me, old fellow!”
“To Italy!”
Guy repeated.
“When?
How soon?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“But-I-I meant—I hoped… to see her
again.” Jack rapped the floor impatiently with his stick. “What? Expose
yourself to the contempt & insult, or still worse, the pity, of a woman who
has jilted you? For Heaven’s sake, lad, keep hold of your senses!” “You think I
oughtn’t to go, then?” said Guy, anxiously. “Go!—out of the fryingpan into the
fire I should call it,” stormed Jack, pacing up & down the littered room. “No.
He must be a poor-spirited fellow who swims back for salvation to the ship that
his pitched him overboard! No. Come abroad with me, as soon as you can get your
traps together, & let the whole thing go to the deuce as fast as it can.”
Jack paused to let his words take effect; & Guy sat, with his head leaning
on his hand, still studying the ruins of the fire. At last he sprang up &
caught his shrewd-headed friend by the hand. “By Jove, Jack, you’re right. What
have we got to live for but our art? Come along. Let’s go to Italy—tomorrow, if
you can, Jack!” And go they did, the next day. As his friends used to say of
him, “Jack’s the fellow for an emergency.” His real, anxious affection for Guy,
& his disinterested kind-heartedness conquered every obstacle to so hasty
& unexpected a departure; & four days after he parted with Georgie in
the drawingroom of Holly Lodge, Guy Hastings was on his way to Calais, looking
forward, through the distorting spectacles of a disappointed love, to a long,
dreary waste of life which was only one degree better than its alternative, the
utter chaos of death.