# "Georgie"/Plain Anne

I
"Plain Anne"
RUSILLA spread her arms on the wide stone coping of the crumbling wall, to hide her face, and the utter despair of her attitude chilled me. The orchard was cool and green and beautiful. The thrushes and linnets and blackbirds held their deafening spring carnival in the red thorn and the sycamore. Drusilla wore a linen gown as blue as her eyes, or the sky between the boughs of the Morella cherry shadowing our quiet corner, but for me the sun had gone in. With my clouded hopes the brightness of the day, too, had clouded over.
"What does it all mean?" I asked sternly. "I can't believe that you have merely been amusing yourself."
Her face was hidden.
​"It is not very—amusing, is it? I am so sorry—so very sorry—if I had only known—"
"Don't lie," said I harshly and rudely, "You did know."
She rose indignantly.
"I did not know. And if I guessed, I couldn't do anything. I couldn't be rude to you, could I, because you—you liked me too much?"
"I wish to heaven you had," cried I. "It would have been kinder than this."
"I think perhaps I had better go in," said she, in a low voice. "You are very cruel. I—I—couldn't—" she caught her breath with a sob.
"You couldn't what?"
"I couldn't help its being—too late."
"Too late?" I turned abruptly. "You are not—"
"Ah," said she sadly, "that's just it. I am. But it is a secret. You must never, never tell anyone. No one knows but Anne."
"What do you mean? For God's sake ​tell me the truth. You owe me that at least."
"I am engaged to Georgie!"
I stared at her, amazed. Then I opened my mouth to speak—remembered in time, a rash promise, and shut it again. She was crying openly.
"To Georgie?" I said at last, in a low voice. "Georgie? Good Lord! For how long?"
"For six months. Only we don't want it known till he comes of age. He thinks it better not, and so does Anne."
"Why?"
"Because of his mother, Anne says. She says you never know how people will take things, and Georgie will be twenty-one in August. Georgie thinks a secret engagement is more exciting and romantic. He says all the gilt is off the ginger-bread directly the thing is made official. It is a little too exciting for me. I almost think sometimes that I should prefer my ginger-bread plain."
"I should think so," said I sternly. "I ​suppose, confound him, that you are fond of him?"
Her cheeks flamed.
"Am I the sort of girl to promise to marry a man I don't love?" she cried quickly.
"No," said I sadly, "I don't think you are. He is a lucky beggar. Georgie always was the darling of the gods."
"He is the dearest boy in the world," said Drusilla, with an inexplicable sob as I left her, and I had to listen to that, still holding my tongue; still keeping back what I knew.
But after dinner that night I went to look for the young hound, and found him oiling his bat with a light heart. He greeted me with a hearty shout, and I noticed the breadth of his shoulders, and measured his six feet with a disgusted eye.
"A straight nose; an arm like the stump of a tree," I told myself, "and the best bat in the town. I might have guessed. What more can a girl want ​than she finds in Georgie. Curse everything!"
"Come in," cried Georgie happily. "I'm getting my bat ready for the match to-morrow, and the weather's a dream. I'm nearly off my head with joy. It's a ripping world."
"I'm glad you find it so," said I shortly. "I don't agree with you, and I should like to have a few words with you when you've finished with that beastly bat."
He looked up with a good-tempered surprise.
"Hallo!" he said, "something's put you out. What's wrong, old chap?"
"Come into the garden," said I curtly, "and I'll tell you what's wrong."
In the privacy of his mother's rose garden I turned and faced him indignantly.
"Look here, you blithering young idiot," said I without preface, "what the devil do you mean by it?"
"Mean by what?" in amazement.
"How many girls do you happen to be engaged to at the present moment?"
​His face crimsoned under the tan.
"What the"——
"Yes," said I, "I am interested to know."
"You are, are you? Then you can jolly well——"
"Two months ago," I went on firmly, "you confided your love affairs to me in your open and engaging way, and in the simplicity of my heart I listened and sympathized. Her name, you said, was Violet, and you have talked about her morning, noon and night, every time we've been alone since you first mentioned her name. You told me that she lived in Staffordshire, and wrote to you three times a week."
Georgie smiled.
"So she does," he said. "It's all quite true. She is the prettiest little girl in the world. I wouldn't have spoken about her to anyone but you, and I can't tell you what a comfort it's been to me to have someone sympathetic to rave to. I'm afraid I've bored you dreadfully, old chap."
​"You have," said I, with unflattering truth, "but that's not the point. What about Drusilla?"
"Drusilla!" He was evidently thunderstruck.
"Yes," said I. "You can't lie artistically, Georgie. It isn't in you. And you may as well be frank with me, because you see it's hardly an hour since Drusilla herself told me all about it."
Georgie began to look uneasy.
"What the deuce——Drusilla told you? Why on earth should she tell you?"
"Never mind why she told me," I said bitterly; "I will leave the details to her. You will enjoy them together no doubt. But you can understand that the news was rather a shock to me—knowing what I know of Violet."
He groaned.
"Don't speak of it," said he; "it's awful. The worry of it is wearing me into my grave."
I regarded his sunburnt, open face, his cloudless, candid eyes, his frank, con​fiding air; then smiled in spite of my disgust.
"You needn't smile," cried he, "I lie awake thinking about the awfulness of everything, night after night, and I'm losing my appetite steadily, day by day. I hardly ever enjoy my meals now."
We had dined together the night before. I smiled again.
"If you only knew," said he, "what I feel, you would be sorry for a chap. You'd sympathize instead of standing there smiling in that beastly supercilious way."
"How on earth did you get into such a disgraceful position?" I asked in a more kindly tone. He was very young, and I was fond of him. Most people were, curiously enough. "You had better tell me all about it. Perhaps I might help you."
As his high spirits declined, my low ones, for some inexplicable reason, rose.
With obvious agitation, he pushed a big oily hand through his light hair.
"I hardly know," said he. "I've been ​sweet on Violet ever since I was at school, and spent my holidays with her people. She's so pretty, you know. As pretty as paint, with fluffy hair, all golden and—oh, you should see it in the sun. It's a fair treat. And then her eyes, and her little hands, and her complexion! Talk about rose leaves!"
"I don't," said I shortly. "Suppose you cut Violet's charms and get to the horses!"
"Well," said he sadly, "you've never been in love, or you'd feel for a chap and I suppose I have told you about Violet pretty often."
"Yes," said I, "you have—too often. What about Drusilla?"
He groaned again.
"Oh," said he, "it's awful. She's charming too. A perfect peach—a regular little kitten of a girl. I can't tell you how fond I am of her. She's such good fun and so plucky—and—"
"That'll do," said I hastily. "There's no reason why you shouldn't admire her. ​Everyone does. But why did you get engaged to her? That's the point."
Georgie rumpled his hair again.
"I can't think," said he, perplexedly. "These things happen before you know where you are. There was a dance, you know, and a champagne supper, and places for sitting out on the stairs, and landings. She wore a rose-colored frock and her cheeks were rose-color too. They're generally so pale, aren't they? and you know how it is when you want to kiss a girl awfully, and feel all at once that you simply loathe the idea of her belonging to any one else."
"Yes," said I grimly. I did know.
"Well, that's how it was with me." He finished with an engaging simplicity which inspired me with an ardent desire to punch his head.
"Oh," said I, "that was it, was it? And Violet?"
"Ah," Georgie sighed, "you don't know how I love that girl and yet—for the moment I seemed to have quite for​gotten Violet. It is a bit of a mess, isn't it?"
"Yes." My hopes were growing. "I can only think of one thing to be done now."
"You're deuced clever, "said he gloomily, "if you can think of anything. I've tried hard enough."
"You will have to tell one of them the truth," I announced with stern decision.
Georgie flung down his newly oiled bat and plunged his hands into his pockets.
"I'm damned if I'll do that," said he stubbornly.
I went on unflinchingly.
"You'll find yourself in precious hot water if you don't. There's nothing else for it. It is cruel of you to treat them like this, and you are behaving disgracefully to both of them. Write to Violet and tell her that you were mistaken in your feelings, and too young to know your own mind. You had mistaken friendship for love, you might say. You know the sort of thing?"
​In suggesting this I felt that a diplomatist of the first water had been lost to the courts of Europe.
Georgie set his teeth as I had expected.
"I'm hanged if I will," said he. "I'd rather lose the other one. I'm not going to behave like a cad to Violet. It'd break her heart. You don't know what a lot that girl thinks of me."
"Perhaps, "I suggested mildly, "she, too, may have changed her mind. She may welcome the idea of a—release."
Georgie's face grew crimson.
"On the contrary," said he, "she's absolutely wrapped up in me. And I've not changed my mind. I love her every bit as much as I did when I proposed to her."
"Be a man," said I softly, "and get it over. Break it off."
"Thank you," said he loftily, "I prefer to behave like a gentleman and keep it on."
"With both of them?" I suggested mildly.
​He collapsed.
"Oh, Lord! You might help a chap, Martin, instead of jeering. I can't give Violet up. I can't."
"Then tell the truth to Drusilla instead. Explain about the rose-colored dance, and the rest of it."
Georgie flushed again. His skin, where the sun had not caught it, was as fair as a lily.
"I'd rather cut my throat," said he. "You don't know what it would mean to me to lose her. You don't know what that girl is to me."
I knew what she was to me and held my tongue; still diplomatic.
"She's the sweetest little thing on God's earth," said he, with flowery pathos, "and miles too good for me."
"Yes, I think she is. Does she?—is she fond of you, do you suppose?"
"Oh, Lord, yes," Georgie answered readily. "Anne says she worships the very ground I walk on. Keeps my photograph in her Tennyson and that sort of ​thing. Presses the flowers I give her—don't you know, and looks at 'em every day."
"Oh, then Anne knows all about it?"
"Oh, yes, she's known from the beginning. I've always told her things all my life, she's so sympathetic. You find yourself telling her things before you know where you are, and she'll listen for hours without getting bored. She's been frightfully interested in Violet ever since I can remember."
"Violet? Georgie, you don't mean to say that you told Anne about Violet?"
"Yes, I did. From the beginning. She's a plain little thing, but chock full of sympathy and goodness. I never knew a kinder heart than Anne's."
"I wonder," said I slowly, "that she hasn't told Drusilla the truth. One would think her only sister—"
"Anne never breaks a promise," cried he hastily. "But she's awfully sorry for her sister, of course. Even before that—that dance she told me how Drusilla cried ​herself to sleep when I forgot to go and see them for a few days. I thought of that at the dance before I spoke."
"Oh," said I thoughtfully, "you did, did you?"
"Yes. It's a terrible hole to be in when you come to think it over."
I acknowledged to myself that he was right, and though the situation would have seemed almost laughable in its absurdity to an onlooker, for me it was almost a tragedy.
I thought of Drusilla with her dark hair and merry eyes; her round, dimpled face and sweet, alluring voice, and under my breath I cursed Georgie's soft heart; also his broad shoulders and Greek profile. So she cried when he neglected her! I felt suddenly that the moment for diplomacy on my own account was past. At all costs Drusilla must be happy. If she wanted Georgie, Georgie she must have. I had never had much real happiness in my life, and there was no reason why I should expect it now. Drusilla, young and kind and ​merry, had a right to it. At her age it was only what was due. I didn't know Violet, and the thought of her broken heart gave me no pangs at all. The golden hair and rose-leaf complexion would procure her other happiness no doubt.
"Georgie," said I gently, "it is much easier to write a letter than to say hard things in person. Write to Violet to-night."
"I'd rather blow my brains out," cried he.
"She will be very unhappy at first," I went on, " but she will get over it in time. One always does. And it will be much easier for you afterwards, because she doesn't live next door, as Drusilla does, and you won't run across each other's path twenty times a day."
"Yes," said Georgie, "that's what Anne says; but it doesn't seem to make things much easier for me. I'm such a soft-hearted beggar, you see."
I groaned. "I am not interested in Anne's opinions," said I briefly, for I had no particular liking for Drusilla's sister. ​She fully realized the value of Georgie's inheritance, I felt sure.
"She's a wonderful head. It's a pity she's such a plain little thing. There's no doubt about it, women ought all to be pretty."
"That you might propose to a few more of them?" I asked. "Doesn't Anne ever tell you how shocking your behavior is?"
"No," said he indignantly, "she's a sensible girl. You don't catch Anne saying snappy things to a fellow. She just listens and sympathizes, and every now and then she advises me to write and break it to poor little Vi. But I shall never have the heart to. Her life's happiness is bound up in me. Besides, I couldn't bear to part with her."
"You'll have to part with one of 'em. What about Drusilla's life's happiness?"
"It's that that's worrying me," said he sadly.
In despair I rose to go.
"Well," said I, "I leave you to it. I hope you'll enjoy your match to-morrow."
​His dejected air vanished, and his handsome, boyish face lit up. Georgie is always charming when he is happy.
"You didn't bring a late edition of to-day's 'News' said he; "Maclaren's latest was ninety-four not out, and—"
I escaped.
Back in my lonely rooms I flung myself into a chair, and in unvarnished terms told my drab wall paper what I thought of the universe in general, and Georgie in particular. I wished with all my heart that I was not so absurdly fond of the young fool; that I had not promised to keep silent about his secret engagement to Violet; that I had had his broad shoulders and good looks to help me in my own wooing; and last of all, even, that I had never met Drusilla, to disturb my peace of mind in this unpleasant way.
I determined to keep out of her way. It was the only thing left to me.
"Every time I see her," said I to myself, "I have the whole unhappy struggle over again. I will try to forget ​her." And so on, for three weeks. Then one evening Georgie dropped in.
"I can't bear it," he said; "it's wearing me to a shadow."
"What's the matter now?" I asked with scant sympathy, for I had never seen a larger or more aggressively healthy youth.
"Drusilla. She's fretting about something. Anne says it's the secrecy. She's a kind-hearted girl."
"Who—Drusilla?"
"No—Anne. She wants me to have our engagement made public on my birthday in August."
"She is quite right," said I gravely, but the thought of Drusilla in tears was a knife in my heart.
"If you think," said Georgie hotly, "that I'm going to ruin Violet's whole life you're jolly well mistaken—see?"
"If you go on as you have begun," I retorted, "I see that you are more likely to ruin it by marrying her."
He left me in disgust, but he had left ​also a poisoned shaft to rankle in my heart, and presently I got up and strolled over to the tumble-down old Rectory where Drusilla and Anne lived with their decrepit father.
Before I reached the front door I met Anne—a little brown mouse of a girl with quiet manners and calculating eyes. We did not like each other much, and she told me that her sister had gone to bed with a headache.
"I will go in and see the Rector," said I coolly, and walked on to the house. But I was glad to find that he was not in the library or the dining-room. The house seemed to be deserted, and the side door opening on to the tennis lawn stood open as usual. I went out and crossed the daisied and dandelioned lawn. I might as well go home this shorter way, I thought. Down the weedy path through the kitchen garden, and so into the orchard, and under the fruit trees to—ah! what was that?
A low sound of sobbing had suddenly ​caught my ear. Someone was evidently in deep distress, not very far away. I looked round, and right away in the corner under the Morella cherry tree a glimpse of something blue caught my eye. Then I knew who was so unhappy.
She was lying on her face in the grass, sobbing; and in a minute I was kneeling beside her touching her shoulder gently.
"Drusilla!" I said, "what is it? Don't cry like this. What is it?"
At the sound of my voice she shivered.
"You?" she said. "Go away, oh, please, please, go away!"
"I can't leave you like this. Do tell me what—"
"I can't tell you. Go away!"
"Is it—" I asked slowly, "is it—what has Georgie done to make you cry like this?"
"He hasn't done anything. You had better go away please."
"Miserable young hound!" cried I savagely.
Drusilla raised her head suddenly.
​"He's nothing of the kind," said she. "Don't you dare to call him names. If anyone is a hound it's me. And nobody could be more miserable."
"Tell me why you are so unhappy," said I sadly. "I should like to help you if I can. I can't tell you how pleased I should be to do something for you."
"No one," she said with a despairing sob, "can help me now. Least of all you."
I looked at her in astonishment, and she rose to face me defiantly.
"Why?" I asked, for I didn't understand even then.
"Because it is through you that,—oh, why do you force me to tell you? Don't you see? Can't you understand?"
"What—" I took a step nearer. "Drusilla!—You don't mean"—
"Yes," said she desperately, "that's exactly what I do mean. And I'm false to Georgie. The dearest and best and truest boy in the world."
I caught her hands in mine, but she
Georgie
​wrenched them away again, and she read the question in my eyes.
"Yes," she whispered, "I do. I can't help it. I try not to. You don't know how hard I've tried. You have bewitched me, I think. I am not myself—and—oh, it is awful—awful. It will break Georgie's heart, if he knows."
I began to speak hastily—then remembered once more my promise to that wretched boy, and stopped.
"I can't believe it," said I slowly. I was half dazed with joy at my discovery. "It is too good to be true—it—"
"No," said she bitterly. "It is so awful that it must be true. What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?"
"If you don't love him," I said slowly, "why did you ever—"
She groaned.
"I did love him," she said in an ashamed voice, "or I thought I did. He is so strong and straightforward and handsome and—and such a dear boy. I couldn't help being fond of him, and how was I to ​know that it was the wrong kind of love?"
"When did you find out?" I asked.
"When—oh, you know—you know—no—you mustn't kiss me. I belong to Georgie."
I said something forcible about Georgie under my breath.
"I wanted to break off with him," she went on in a low voice, "long ago; but Anne wouldn't let me."
"Anne!"
"Yes, Georgie's rich, you know—or will be, and we are so wretchedly poor. Anne said that by hook or by crook, money had to be brought into the family. She said we must keep Georgie at any cost. She said she was such a plain little thing that it was out of the question for her to do it. There was only me. Anne doesn't believe in love. She says this sort of feeling doesn't last. Comfort, she says, is the only thing that really matters. But I—I can't quite see it in the same light—I am sure she is wrong."
​"Love is the thing that matters," said I quietly; "we must tell Georgie the truth."
"Oh, I can't—I can't! He is so fond of me, and such a dear boy."
"Yes," said I grimly, "he is a very dear boy, but there are moments when even the dearness of Georgie may be too dear. Even Georgie's peace of mind may be too dearly bought, and as for Anne—what are all those letters on the grass?" with a hasty and expedient change of subject.
"I brought them out to take to the village—I must have dropped them—when—when—oh, I hope it's not too late for the post—"
I looked at my watch.
"I'll take them down myself," I said; "there's just time." Ten minutes later as I slipped them into the box, a gray envelope addressed in Anne's neat, round hand caught my eye—it was to Miss Violet something or other, at an address somewhere in Staffordshire.
​I wondered.
All the next day I thought the thing over, as calmly, and as dispassionately as possible from every point of view, even Georgie's, and in the end I made up my mind unalterably. Then I slept on it and at ten o'clock the next morning went to look for him. I found him sitting over his breakfast, apparently in the deepest depths of gloomy despair.
"Cheer up," I said, "I've good news for you."
"Thanks. It's about time I got some from somewhere. It's a beastly world."
"I've found a way for you out of your muddle," I said.
He looked up and stared, and then I noticed at his right hand a little lilac envelope.
"Drusilla," I said, in an off-hand way, "made a mistake in her feelings. Luckily for you, she had transferred her affections to someone else—"
"It's not true," Georgie cried hotly. "It's a—"
​"It is true," said I, "but like you she is too soft-hearted to break her engagement. She is as afraid of spoiling your life as you were of spoiling hers. You must tell her the truth yourself, Georgie. As a point of honor you must do this. Then you can make love to your pretty Violet with a clean conscience. It's a clear intervention of Providence."
Georgie laughed bitterly.
"Thanks," he said again. "You are most comforting, Martin, with your good news and your Providences. My pretty Violet! Yes. I have had a letter this morning from my pretty Violet. You can read it if you like."
With much surprise I took the little note—scented with Parma violets; stamped with a violet seal on delicate white wax, and opened it. It was short, but very much to the point:
Dear Old Georgie,
I am afraid you will think me very cruel and heartless, but I write to tell you that all is ​over between us. I was too young to know my own mind when I made that promise and I feel that I can't in perfect honor go on being engaged to you, when I have promised to marry the curate next March. Forgive me, dear, if I have made you unhappy, and believe me,
Always your true friend,
Violet.
I looked up from this effusion to poor Georgie's woeful face.
"Poor old boy," said I, "it is hard lines. I'm so sorry."
"It's a bit of a sickener, isn't it?" said Georgie. "And now Drusilla as well! Sort of hits a chap when he's down, don't you know. When I think of the way I've loved that girl—"
"Which?" said I quietly.
"Both of 'em," desperately. "So now you know."
"I'm very sorry for you," I murmured gravely.
He flushed and hesitated, then made a plunge. "Wait a bit," he cried, "Martin—I suppose I'd better tell you—"
​"Tell me what?" What now, I wondered.
"It is a nasty knock, and it's upset me frightfully. But I can't help feeling that perhaps it's all for the best. Three of them would have been just a bit too thick."
"What!"
"Yes," said Georgie, sadly. "I'm engaged to Anne."