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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 drawing-room 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.

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