Edith Wharton - Novella 01
Read Edith Wharton - Novella 01 Online
Authors: Fast (and) Loose (v2.1)
Fast and
Loose.
A Novelette
By
David Olivieri
1876/77, publ. 1938.
“Let
woman beware
How
she plays fast & loose thus with human despair
And the storm in man’s heart.”
Robert Lytton: Lucile.
To Cornelie
“[Donna] beataebella” [illegible]
Quinta.
(October 1876)
I.
Hearts and
Diamonds.
“’Tis best to be off with the old
love
Before
you are on with the new!”
Song.
A dismal
Autumn
afternoon in the country. Without, a soft
drizzle falling on yellow leaves & damp ground; within, two
people playing
chess by the window of the fire-lighted
drawing-room at Holly Lodge. Now, when two people play chess on a rainy
afternoon,
tête-à-tête
in a room with
the door shut, they are likely to be either very much bored, or rather
dangerously interested; & in this case, with all respect to romance, they
appeared overcome by the profoundest ennui. The lady—a girl of about 18, plump
& soft as a partridge, with vivacious brown eyes, & a cheek like a
sun-warmed peach—occasionally stifled a yawn, as her antagonist, curling a
slight blonde moustache (the usual sign of masculine perplexity) sat absently
meditating a move on which the game, in his eyes, appeared to depend; & at
last, pushing aside her chair, she rose & stood looking out of the window,
as though even the dreary Autumn prospect had more attraction for her than the
handsome face on the other side of the chess-board. Her movement seemed to
shake her companion out of his reverie, for he rose also, & looking over
her shoulder, at the soft, misty rain, observed rather languidly, “Cheerful
weather!” “Horrid!” said the girl, stamping her foot. “I am dying of stagnation.”
“Don’t you mean to finish the game?”
“If you choose.
I
don’t care.” “Nor I—
It’s
decidedly a bore.” No answer.
The bright brown eyes & the lazy blue ones stared out of the window for the
space of five slow minutes. Then the girl said: “Guy!”
“My
liege!”
“You’re not very amusing this afternoon.” “Neither are you, my
own!” “Gallant for a lover!” she cried, pouting & turning away from the
window. “How can I amuse a stone wall? I might talk all day!” She had a way of
tossing her pretty little head, & drawing her soft white forehead, that was
quite irresistible. Guy, as the most natural thing in the world, put his arm
about her, but was met with a sharp, “Don’t! You know I hate to be taken hold
of, Sir! Oh, I shall die of ennui if this weather holds.” Guy whistled, &
went to lean against the fireplace; while his betrothed stood in the middle of
the room, the very picture of “I-won’t-be-amused” crossness. “Delightful!” she
said, presently. “Really, your conversation today displays your wit &
genius to a remarkable degree.” “If I talk to you, you scold, Georgie,” said
the lover, pathetically. “No, I don’t! I only scold when you twist your arms
around me.” “I can’t do one without the other!” Georgie laughed. “You do say
nice things, Guy! But you’re a bore this afternoon, nevertheless.” “Isn’t
everything a bore?” “I believe so. Oh, I should be another person gallopping
over the downs on
Rochester
! ‘What’s his name is himself again!’ Shall we be able to hunt tomorrow?”
“Ask the clerk of the weather,” said Guy, rather dismally. “Guy! I do believe
you’re going to sleep! Doesn’t it rouse you to think of a tear ‘cross country
after the hounds? Oh, Guy, a red coat makes my blood run faster!” “Does it?—Georgie,
have you got ‘Je l’ai perdu’—the thing I sent you from
London
?” “Yes—somewhere.” “I am going to sing,”
said Guy.
“What
a treat!” “As you don’t object to my smoking, I thought you mightn’t mind my
singing.” “Well,” said Georgie, mischievously, “I don’t suppose it does matter
much which sense is offended. What are you going to sing?” Guy, without
answering, began to hunt through a pile of music, & at last laid a copy of “The
ballad to Celia” on the piano-rack. Georgie sat down, & while he leaned
against the piano, struck a few prelude-chords; then he began to sing in a rich
barytone, Ben Jonson’s sweet old lines. At the end of the first stanza, Georgie
shut the piano with a bang. “I will not play if you sing so detestably out of
time, tune & everything. Do make yourself disagreeable in some less noisy
way.” “I think I shall make myself agreeable—by saying goodbye.” “Very well,
do!” “Georgie—what is the matter?” He took her little hand as he spoke, but she
wrenched it away, stamping her foot again.
“Dont & dont
& dont!
I’m as cross as I can be & I won’t make friends!” she
cried in a sort of childish passion, running away from him to the other end of
the room. He stood for a moment, twirling his moustache; then, taking up his
hat, said, “Goodbye.” “Goodbye—Are you very angry?” she said, coming a step or
two nearer, & looking up through her soft lashes. “No, I suppose not. I
believe I have been boring you confoundedly.” “I suppose I have been very
cross.” “Not more than I deserved, probably. I am going to
London
for a few days. Will you give me your hand
for goodbye?” She stood still a moment, looking at him thoughtfully; then put
out her hand. “Ah, Guy, I am a worthless little thing,” she said, softly, as he
took it. It was her left hand & a ring set with diamonds twinkled on it. “Worth
all the
world to me!” he answered; then lifted the
hand to his lips & turned away. As his receding steps sounded through the
hall, Georgie Rivers, taking a screen from the mantel-piece, sat down on the
rug before the fire, with a thoughtful face out of which all the sauciness had
vanished. As she watched the fire-light play on her ring, she began to think
half-aloud as her childish fashion was; but Guy was cantering along the high
road to West Adamsborough, & if there had been anyone to tell him what she
said, he would [have] laughed—& [have] doubted it. As there was no one,
however, Georgie kept her meditations to herself. “I know he thinks me a
coquette,” she whispered, leaning her head against her hand, “& he thinks I
like to trifle with him—perhaps he is angry—(he looks very handsome when he is
angry) but he doesn’t know—how should he?—that I mean to break it off. I ought
to have done it today, & I might have ended that beginning of a quarrel by
giving him back the ring; but, oh dear, I wish—I wish I didn’t care for him
quite so much. He is so cool & handsome! And he is the only man I ever knew
who neither despises me nor is afraid of me. Oh, Georgie, Georgie, you
miserable little fool! I didn’t mean to let him kiss my hand; he surprised me
into it, just as he surprised me into accepting him. He always puts me off my
guard, somehow! But it must be done. Perhaps I am in love with him, but I hope
I haven’t quite lost my common sense. It must be done, I say! I declare, I
shall make an utter goose of myself in a minute! Where’s that letter?” She put
her hand into her pocket, & brought out an envelope, pompously sealed with
a large coat of arms & motto; &, drawing out the folded sheet which it
contained, slowly read aloud these words, written in a crabbed, old-fashioned
hand:
My
dear Miss Rivers: Ever since I was honoured by an introduction to you, my
admiration for your charms & accomplishments has increased; & I have
been sufficiently marked by your favour to hope that what I am about to say may
not seem an entirely unwarrantable liberty. Although we are separated by many
years, I do not perceive why that should be an obstacle to a happy union; &
I therefore venture to beg that, if the profoundest admiration & respect
can awaken responsive sentiments in your own bosom, you will honour me with
your hand. I shall await with impatience your reply to my proposals, & am,
my dear
Miss
Rivers
, with deep esteem,
Your
faithful Servant “Breton.”
Georgie
folded the letter again, & went on with her reflections in this wise. “I
suppose I should have let him know that I was engaged to Guy, but it was so
jolly to have an old Lord dangling about one, head over ears in love, &,
figuratively speaking, going down on his noble, gouty knees every time one came
into the room. And I really didn’t think it would come to a climax so soon! I
marked him by my favour, did I? And the poor old creature has got tipsy, like
an old blue-bottle on a little drop of syrup. He is really in love with me! Me,
Georgie Rivers, a wicked, fast, flirtatious little pauper—a lazy, luxurious coquette!
Oh, Guy, Guy!—I mean, Oh, Lord Breton, Lord—ha?
what’s
the matter?” For something dropped close by Georgie’s ring, that sparkled as
clearly in the fire-light as its own diamonds.
“Crying!
Crying! I thought I had no heart. I have always been told so.
Ah, the horrid thing.”
She brushed the bright thing that was
not a diamond away, but just then her eyes brimmed over with two more, &
she was obliged to dry them with her pocket handkerchief, talking on all the
while. “This is too ridiculous. Georgie getting sentimental! Georgie
booh-hoohing over a lover, when she’s got a real, live Lord, with a deer-park,
& a house in
London
& ever so much a year, at her feet! What else have I always wished
for? But, come, I will think of it calmly. Say I am in love with Guy (if I have
no heart, how can I love anybody?) say I am in love with him. He is poor,
rather extravagant, lazy & just as luxurious as I am. Now, what should we
live on? I should have to mend my clothes, & do the shopping, & I
should never ride or dance or do anything worth living for any more; but there
would be pinching & patching & starvation (politely called economy)
& I should get cross, & Guy would get cross, & we should fight,
fight,
fight
! Now—take the other side of the picture.
First, Lord B. is really in love with me. Second, he is venerable, sleepy &
fixed in his own ruts, & would give me twice as much liberty as a younger
man; third, I should have three fine houses, plenty of horses & as many
dresses as I could wear, (& I have a large capacity in that way!) &
nothing to do but coquet with all the handsome boys whose heads I chose to
turn; fourth, I should be Lady Breton of Lowood, & the first lady in the
county! Hurrah!” As Georgie ended this resume of the advantages of her ancient
suitor, she clapped her hands together & jumped up from the hearth-rug. “It
must be done. I am sure Guy & I could never be happy together, & I
shall write & tell him so, the sooner the better. I suppose Mamma will be a
little scandalized, but I can settle that. And when shall I ever have such a
chance again?” She reopened Lord Breton’s letter, read it for the third time,
& then went up to the writing table that stood between the two windows. “The
sooner the better, the sooner the better,” she repeated, as she sat down &
took out a sheet of paper stamped with the Rivers crest. She dipped her pen in
ink, dated the blank sheet—& then paused a moment, with contracting
eye-brows. “No. I suppose that I must write to Guy first. What shall I say? It
is so hard… I… hush, you little idiot! Are you going to change your mind again?”
With this self-addressed rebuke, she re-dipped her pen, & began to write
hastily—
Dear
Guy: I am sure we can never be happy as anything but friends, & I send you
back the ring which will be far better on someone else’s hand. You will get
over your fancy, & I shall
Always
be, Your
Affectionate Cousin G.R.
To Guy Hastings Esqr.
It
was soon over, & she laid the pen down & pushed the paper away quickly,
covering her eyes with her hand. The clock, striking the hour on the
chimney-piece, roused her with a start. “I suppose I had better take this ring
off,” she said, slowly, gazing at the hoop of diamonds. “There is no use in
hesitating—or the battle is lost. There—what is it, a ring? It will be replaced
by another (with bigger diamonds) tomorrow afternoon.” She drew it off
hurriedly, as though the operation were painful, & then looked at her
unadorned hand. “You change owners, poor little hand!” she said softly. Then
she kissed the ring & laid it away. After that it was easier to go on with
her next note, though she wrote two copies before she was satisfied that it was
proper to be sent to the great Lord Breton. The note finally ran thus:
My
dear Lord Breton: I was much flattered by your offer, which I accept, remaining
Yours
truly (I shall be at home tomorrow afternoon.)
Georgina Rivers.
“Like
answering a dinner-invitation,” commented Georgie; “but I can’t make it longer.
I don’t know what to say!”
II.
Enter Lord Breton.
“Auld Robin Gray cam
‘a courtin’ me.”
Lady Barnard.
