Is He Popenjoy?. Trollope Anthony
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