"DROP IT."
For ten or twelve days after the little dinner in Berkeley Square Guss
Mildmay bore her misfortunes without further spoken complaint. During
all that time, though they were both in London, she never saw Jack De
Baron, and she knew that in not seeing her he was neglecting her. But
for so long she bore it. It is generally supposed that young ladies
have to bear such sorrow without loud complaint; but Guss was more
thoroughly emancipated than are some young ladies, and when moved was
wont to speak her mind. At last, when she herself was only on foot with
her father, she saw Jack De Baron riding with Lady George. It is quite
true that she also saw, riding behind them, her perfidious friend, Mrs.
Houghton, and a gentleman whom at that time she did not know to be Lady
George's father. This was early in March, when equestrians in the park
are not numerous. Guss stood for a moment looking at them, and Jack De
Baron took off his hat. But Jack did not stop, and went on talking with
that pleasant vivacity which she, poor girl, knew so well and valued so
highly. Lady George liked it too, though she could hardly have given
any reason for liking it, for, to tell the truth, there was not often
much pith in Jack's conversation.
On the following morning Captain De Baron, who had lodgings in Charles
Street close to the Guards' Club, had a letter brought to him before
he was out of bed. The letter was from Guss Mildmay, and he knew the
handwriting well. He had received many notes from her, though none so
interesting on the whole as was this letter. Miss Mildmay's letter to
Jack was as follows. It was written, certainly, with a swift pen, and,
but that he knew her writing well, would in parts have been hardly
legible.
"I think you are treating me very badly. I tell you openly and
fairly. It is neither gentlemanlike or high spirited, as you know
that I have no one to take my part but myself. If you mean to cut
me, say so, and let me understand it at once. You have taken up
now with that young married woman just because you know it will
make me angry. I don't believe for a moment that you really care
for such a baby-faced chit as that. I have met her too, and I know
that she hasn't a word to say for herself. Do you mean to come and
see me? I expect to hear from you, letting me know when you will
come. I do not intend to be thrown over for her or anyone. I
believe it is mostly Adelaide's doing, who doesn't like to think
that you should really care for anyone. You know very well what my
feelings are, and what sacrifice I am ready to make. And you know
what you have told me of yourself. I shall be at home all this
afternoon. Papa, of course, will go to his club at three. Aunt
Julia has an afternoon meeting at the Institute for the
distribution of prizes among the Rights-of-Women young men, and I
have told her positively that I won't go. Nobody else will be
admitted. Do come and at any rate let us have it out. This state
of things will kill me,--though, of course, you don't mind that.
"G.
"I shall think you a coward if you don't come. Oh, Jack, do come."
She had begun like a lion, but had ended like a lamb; and such was the
nature of every thought she had respecting him. She was full of
indignation. She assured herself hourly that such treachery as his
deserved death. She longed for a return of the old times,--thirty years
since,--and for some old-fashioned brother, so that Jack might be shot
at and have a pistol bullet in his heart. And yet she told herself as
often that she could not live without him. Where should she find
another Jack after her recklessness in letting all the world know that
this man was her Jack? She hardly wanted to marry him, knowing full
well the nature of the life which would then be before her. Jack had
told her often that if forced to do that he must give up the army and
go and live in ----, he had named Dantzic as having the least alluring
sound of any place he knew. To her it would be best that things should
go on just as they were now till something should turn up. But that she
should be enthralled and Jack free was not to be borne! She begrudged
him no other pleasure. She was willing that he should hunt, gamble,
eat, drink, smoke, and be ever so wicked, if that were his taste; but
not that he should be seen making himself agreeable to another young
woman. It might be that their position was unfortunate, but of that
misfortune she had by far the heavier share. She could not eat, drink,
smoke, gamble, hunt, and be generally wicked. Surely he might bear it
if she could.
Jack, when he had read the letter, tossed it on to the counterpane, and
rolled himself again in bed. It was not as yet much after nine, and he
need not decide for an hour or two whether he would accept the
invitation or not. But the letter bothered him and he could not sleep.
She told him that if he did not come he would be a coward, and he felt
that she had told him the truth. He did not want to see her,--not
because he was tired of her, for in her softer humours she was always
pleasant to him,--but because he had a clear insight into the misery of
the whole connection. When the idea of marrying her suggested itself,
he always regarded it as being tantamount to suicide. Were he to be
persuaded to such a step he would simply be blowing his own brains out
because someone else asked him to do so. He had explained all this to
her at various times when suggesting Dantzic, and she had agreed with
him. Then, at that point, his common sense had been better than hers,
and his feeling really higher. "That being so," he had said, "it is
certainly for your advantage that we should part." But this to her had
been as though he were striving to break his own chains and was
indifferent as to her misery. "I can take care of myself," she had
answered him. But he knew that she could not take care of herself. Had
she not been most unwise, most imprudent, she would have seen the
wisdom of letting the intimacy of their acquaintance drop without any
further explanation. But she was most unwise. Nevertheless, when she
accused him of cowardice, must he not go?
He breakfasted uncomfortably, trying to put off the consideration, and
then uncomfortably sauntered down to the Guard House, at St. James's.
He had no intention of writing, and was therefore not compelled to make
up his mind till the hour named for the appointment should actually
have come. He thought for a while that he would write her a long
letter, full of good sense; explaining to her that it was impossible
that they should be useful to each other, and that he found himself
compelled, by his regard for her, to recommend that their peculiar
intimacy should be brought to an end. But he knew that such a letter
would go for nothing with her,--that she would regard it simply as an
excuse on his part. They two had tacitly agreed not to be bound by
common sense,--not to be wise. Such tacit agreements are common enough
between men, between women, and between men and women. What! a sermon
from you! No indeed; not that. Jack felt all this,--felt that he could
not preach without laying himself open to ridicule. When the time came
he made up his mind that he must go. Of course it was very bad for her.
The servants would all know it. Everybody would know it. She was
throwing away every chance she had of doing well for herself. But what
was he to do? She told him that he would be a coward, and he at any
rate could not bear that.
Mr. Mildmay lived in a small house in Green Street, very near the Park,
but still a modest, unassuming, cheap little house. Jack De Baron knew
the way to it well, and was there not above a quarter-of-an-hour after
the appointed time. "So aunt Ju has gone to the Rights of Women, has
she?" he said, after his first greeting. He might have kissed her if he
would, but he didn't. He had made up his mind about that. And so had
she. She was ready for him, whether he should kiss her or not,--ready
to accept either greeting, as though it was just that which she had
expected.
"Oh, yes; she is going to make a speech herself."
"But why do they give prizes to young men?"
"Because the young men have stood up for the old women. Why don't you
go and get a prize?"
"I had to be here instead."
"Had to be here, sir!"
"Yes, Guss; had to be here! Isn't that about it? When you tell me to
come, and tell me that I am a coward if I don't come, of course I am
here."
"And now you are here, what have you got to say for yourself?" This she
attempted to say easily and jauntily.
"Not a word."
"Then I don't see what is the use of coming?"
"Nor I, either. What would you have me say?"
"I would have you,--I would have you----" And then there was something
like a sob. It was quite real. "I would have you tell me--that
you--love me."
"Have I not told you so a score of times; and what has come of it?"
"But is it true?"
"Come, Guss, this is simple folly. You know it is true; and you know,
also, that there is no good whatever to be got from such truth."
"If you loved me, you would like--to--see me."
"No, I shouldn't;--no, I don't;--unless it could lead to something.
There was a little fun to be had when we could spoon together,--when I
hardly knew how to ask for it, and you hardly knew how to grant it;
when it was a little shooting bud, and had to be nursed by smiles and
pretty speeches. But there are only three things it can come to now.
Two are impossible, and therefore there is the other."
"What are the three?"
"We might get married."
"Well?"
"One of the three I shall not tell you. And we might--make up our
minds to forget it all. Do what the people call, part. That is what I
suggest."
"So that you may spend your time in riding about with Lady George
Germain."
"That is nonsense, Guss. Lady George Germain I have seen three times,
and she talks only about her husband; a pretty little woman more
absolutely in love I never came across."
"Pretty little fool!"
"Very likely. I have nothing to say against that. Only, when you have
no heavier stone to throw against me than Lady George Germain, really
you are badly off for weapons."
"I have stones enough, if I chose to throw them. Oh, Jack!"
"What more is there to be said?"
"Have you had enough of me already, Jack?"
"I should not have had half enough of you if either you or I had fifty
thousand pounds."
"If I had them I would give them all to you."
"And I to you. That goes without telling. But as neither of us have got
the money, what are we to do? I know what we had better not do. We had
better not make each other unhappy by what people call recriminations."
"I don't suppose that anything I say can affect your happiness."
"Yes, it does; very much. It makes me think of deep rivers, and high
columns; of express trains and prussic acid. Well as we have known each
other, you have never found out how unfortunately soft I am."
"Very soft!"
"I am. This troubles me so that I ride over awfully big places,
thinking that I might perhaps be lucky enough to break my neck."
"What must I feel, who have no way of amusing myself at all?"
"Drop it. I know it is a hard thing for me to say. I know it will sound
heartless. But I am bound to say so. It is for your sake. I can't hurt
myself. It does me no harm that everybody knows that I am philandering
after you; but it is the very deuce for you." She was silent for a
moment. Then he said again emphatically, "Drop it."
"I can't drop it," she said, through her tears.
"Then what are we to do?" As he asked this question, he approached her
and put his arm round her waist. This he did in momentary vacillating
mercy,--not because of the charm of the thing to himself, but through
his own inability not to give her some token of affection.
"Marry," she said, in a whisper.
"And go and live at Dantzic for the rest of our lives!" He did not
speak these words, but such was the exclamation which he at once made
internally to himself. If he had resolved on anything, he had resolved
that he would not marry her. One might sacrifice one's self, he had
said to himself, if one could do her any good; but what's the use of
sacrificing both. He withdrew his arm from her, and stood a yard apart
from her, looking into her face.
"That would be so horrible to you!" she said.
"It would be horrible to have nothing to eat."
"We should have seven hundred and fifty pounds a year," said Guss, who
had made her calculations very narrowly.
"Well, yes; and no doubt we could get enough to eat at such a place as
Dantzic."
"Dantzic! you always laugh at me when I speak seriously."
"Or Lubeck, if you like it better; or Leipsig. I shouldn't care the
least in the world where we went. I know a chap who lives in Minorca
because he has not got any money. We might go to Minorca, only the
mosquitoes would eat you up."
"Will you do it? I will if you will." They were standing now three
yards apart, and Guss was looking terrible things. She did not
endeavour to be soft, but had made up her mind as to the one step that
must be taken. She would not lose him. They need not be married
immediately. Something might turn up before any date was fixed for
their marriage. If she could only bind him by an absolute promise that
he would marry her some day! "I will, if you will," she said again,
after waiting a second or two for his answer. Then he shook his head.
"You will not, after all that you have said to me?" He shook his head
again. "Then, Jack De Baron, you are perjured, and no gentleman."
"Dear Guss, I can bear that. It is not true, you know, as I have never
made you any promise which I am not ready to keep; but still I can bear
it."
"No promise! Have you not sworn that you loved me?"
"A thousand times."
"And what does that mean from a gentleman to a lady?"
"It ought to mean matrimony and all that kind of thing, but it never
did mean it with us. You know how it all began."
"I know what it has come to, and that you owe it to me as a gentleman
to let me decide whether I am able to encounter such a life or not.
Though it were absolute destruction, you ought to face it if I bid
you."
"If it were destruction for myself only--perhaps, yes. But though you
have so little regard for my happiness, I still have some for yours. It
is not to be done. You and I have had our little game, as I said
before, and now we had better put the rackets down and go and rest
ourselves."
"What rest? Oh, Jack,--what rest is there?"
"Try somebody else."
"Can you tell me to do that!"
"Certainly I can. Look at my cousin Adelaide."
"Your cousin Adelaide never cared for any human being in her life
except herself. She had no punishment to suffer as I have. Oh, Jack! I
do so love you." Then she rushed at him, and fell upon his bosom, and
wept.
He knew that this would come, and he felt that, upon the whole, this
was the worst part of the performance. He could bear her anger or her
sullenness with fortitude, but her lachrymose caresses were
insupportable. He held her, however, in his arms, and gazed at himself
in the pier glass most uncomfortably over her shoulder. "Oh, Jack," she
said, "oh, Jack,--what is to come next?" His face became somewhat more
lugubrious than before, but he said not a word. "I cannot lose you
altogether. There is no one else in the wide world that I care for.
Papa thinks of nothing but his whist. Aunt Ju, with her 'Rights of
Women,' is an old fool."
"Just so," said Jack, still holding her, and still looking very
wretched.
"What shall I do if you leave me?"
"Pick up some one that has a little money. I know it sounds bad and
mercenary, and all that, but in our way of life there is nothing else
to be done. We can't marry like the ploughboy and milkmaid?"
"I could."
"And would be the first to find out your mistake afterwards. It's all
very well saying that Adelaide hasn't got a heart. I dare say she has
as much heart as you or me."
"As you;--as you."
"Very well. Of course you have a sort of pleasure in abusing me. But
she has known what she could do, and what she could not. Every year as
she grows older she will become more comfortable. Houghton is very good
to her, and she has lots of money to spend. If that's heartlessness
there's a good deal to be said for it." Then he gently disembarrassed
himself of her arms, and placed her on a sofa.
"And this is to be the end?"
"Well,--I think so really." She thumped her hand upon the head of the
sofa as a sign of her anger. "Of course we shall always be friends?"
"Never," she almost screamed.
"We'd better. People will talk less about it, you know."
"I don't care what people talk. If they knew the truth, no one would
ever speak to you again."
"Good bye, Guss." She shook her head, as he had shaken his before. "Say
a word to a fellow." Again she shook her head. He attempted to take her
hand, but she withdrew it. Then he stood for perhaps a minute looking
at her, but she did not move. "Good bye, Guss," he said again, and then
he left the room.
When he got into the street he congratulated himself. He had undergone
many such scenes before, but none which seemed so likely to bring the
matter to an end. He was rather proud of his own conduct, thinking that
he had been at the same time both tender and wise. He had not given way
in the least, and had yet been explicit in assuring her of his
affection. He felt now that he would go and hunt on the morrow without
any desire to break his neck over the baron's fences. Surely the thing
was done now for ever and ever! Then he thought how it would have been
with him at this moment had he in any transient weakness told her that
he would marry her. But he had been firm, and could now walk along with
a light heart.
She, as soon as he had left her, got up, and taking the cushion off the
sofa, threw it to the further end of the room. Having so relieved
herself, she walked up to her own chamber.