# "Georgie"/The Scarlet Runner

V
The Scarlet Runner
UTSIDE in the drive, the Scarlet Runner snorted and puffed and grunted, thirsting, no doubt, for Georgie to come and begin his devil-may-care progress home across the county. But inside the hall, little Diana Leigh, who held for the moment Georgie's susceptible heart, was holding as well his two hands and begging him not to go.
"Oh, Georgie," she said sadly, "if you really cared, you would stay with me every moment you could spare; you would do everything I asked you to do; you would give up—"
"No," said Georgie firmly, "you don't understand. You think it's because I'm not in love with you. I love you—frightfully—and I ought to know what love is."
​"Yes." Diana was looking wistfully into the fire. She had let his hands go by this. "You have had—experience," said she.
She knew how many times he had lost his heart, and there were no illusions in her own. But she was fond of him and meant to keep him if she could. There would be an end to fancies some day, she supposed, when Princess Fortunate came along, and it might be that she—
"I don't think," said Georgie hotly, "that because a fellow has had fancies for other girls—and got over them—I don't think you ought to fling it in my face as you do. It isn't nice of you, when you know—"
She looked up at him as he stood there, tall and young and handsome; his long, shapeless coat giving extra width to his shoulders. She looked up and laughed a little.
"And what do I know, Georgie?"
He drew her to his side on the oak seat in the chimney nook. They had been left discreetly alone.
​"Di," he said in a low voice, "when I saw you first at the meet, riding that devil of a horse as if you were part of him—"
"Thank you," said she.
"By jingo—I—those others might never have lived, don't you know. A man can tell when he meets the only woman in the world, thank God! I never saw a girl sit a horse as you do—and such a horse!"
"Then Georgie "her dark eyes met his squarely, "if you care so much, can't you understand that I asked this favor of you—because—because—"
"Yes, dear?"
"Because I care, too. There was a man killed last winter quite near here in a Rugby match—kicked on the temple, I believe. Don't play! Oh, Georgie, it's because I love you so that I implore you not to play."
Georgie moved uncomfortably in his seat, and from the Scarlet Runner, waiting more and more impatiently, there came a hoot of derision.
"What on earth is that fool William ​doing with the motor?" said he. "If you loved me, you 'd want me to be happy. It's my first season with the county—and only my second match. Why, even my mother wouldn't dare to—"
Diana sighed.
"Mothers are used to giving up," she said quietly. "And she's had you always till now. Mothers expect to sit at home and wait for telegrams and tremble at every ring of the bell. They are broken in to anxiety, but I am not. I'm young, you see, and I haven't learnt to bear suspense. Even when the boys play—oh, I can't bear it."
Georgie turned and faced her grimly.
"Di," he said, "you are simply absurd. You aren't consistent. The percentage of people who are hurt in football is tiny—tiny—compared with—with hunting, for instance—or motoring."
The Scarlet Runner snorted indignant dissent and Diana shook her head.
"I don't believe there's any danger to you from the motor now," she said. "You ​understand it too well, and when you hunt, I'm there too. Danger isn't like danger when one can see what's going on, do you think?"
"No," said Georgie. "I think you're absurd—that's what I think. What do you suppose I feel like when I see you careering along on that mad red Irish horse of yours? And I don't forbid you to ride him. That's because I'm not selfish."
"Perhaps it's because you don't care," she cried quickly.
"Diana!"
"Oh, well, don't be indignant, Georgie. You do care I know, in your way. But it's not quite my way, you see. And I want you to give up football for my sake. The highest pleasure one can have is the pleasure of sacrifice."
"Don't see it," he said shortly. "Can't go back on the club at such short notice for a rotten reason like—"
"Georgie!"
He held out his hand, his lips tightly set.
"Good night, Di. I wish you were go​ing to watch the match. You'd enjoy it and forget my danger." He laughed and held her hands in his, bending to kiss her. She drew back.
"Georgie—what time does the train leave to-morrow?"
"Twelve o'clock. Lunch on the train. Kick-off at three"; he beamed with delight at the idea. "If this weather holds, it'll be a ripping game. We'll give those mountaineers beans."
"Of course," Diana flushed a little. "Georgie—if you don't start till midday—it's only three hours run across—why do you go to-night? Can't you stay and have early breakfast? You could start at half-past seven and have heaps of time."
He shook his head.
"Near thing," said he. "Too much a touch and go. I should like to stay awfully, but I couldn't leave it so late. Too risky. If I missed the train, I should let the team down and ten to one lose my place in the county altogether. It's sixty miles, you know."
​"What's sixty miles to the Scarlet Runner?" she asked persuasively.
He hesitated and looked longingly at the great red fire—at the glow it cast on Diana's hair and pleading eyes. Through the hall door, waiting ajar for him, a gust of keen wind rushed to dissuade him. The Scarlet Runner was for the moment speechless.
"Do the sporting thing, Georgie."
"It's not a sporting thing to let the county lose a match because they haven't got another full-back, and their own man fails them at the last minute."
"You never fail people," she said, "in your games."
He regarded her with a suspicion which reluctantly changed to admiration.
"It's a beastly cold night," he murmured.
She rose and laughed.
"Ah, do stay. You'll enjoy the run in the morning. It'll make you fit for the match. Stay, Georgie, stay. Don't refuse everything I ask you—"
​Georgie stayed. Diana's young brothers were in bed. Diana's parents dozed in the drawing-room. For two hours she talked to Georgie by the hall-fire of many things; of love a little; of Diana a little; of Georgie and Georgie's interests and occupations a good deal. To her, of course, they were quite enthralling because she was in love with him; and for him to be beside her, confiding his boyish and athletic dreams was still rapture. It was one of Georgie's charming ways to make you feel that you, out of the whole world, were quite the only one to whom he had chosen to unlock his heart; the only one who ever had understood, or been asked to understand the deep and sacred recesses of his soul. Diana felt the delicate flattery of this most keenly.
"There isn't another full-back in the north, just now," he said modestly. "Chaps are getting old, and crocked, don't you see, and there aren't any young ones coming on—"
"Except you, Georgie."
​"Well, I'm not much catch. It's just my luck to be playing well, when they want a man so badly. I'm not a safe player, you see, but I make a splash sometimes and—"
"You don't funk," she said proudly, with boyish slang.
"Of course not; but I don't really think I'm worth my place—at least—" He stopped and laughed.
"Well, Georgie?"
"I must be some good," he said softly, "because the Northern Union have been at me."
"No?"
"Yes, followed me to Ingraham. Bloated publican-looking man with a wonderful waistcoat approached me yesterday at the inn. They call it approaching, I believe. He didn't stay long."
"But—"
Georgie laughed again.
"Offered me two quid a week and fifty down; then called for a drink—for me—"
"What did you do, Georgie?"
​"Why—well, I was in the devil's own rage," he confessed frankly. "I poured the whiskey on to the floor over his beastly brown boots, and told him candidly what I thought of him and his—his dashed union."
"Well?" her face fell a little at his free language.
"He didn't like it much. I told him professionalism was the curse of sport and the ruin of the country, and I said the representatives of the Northern Union could knock spots off everyone else for blackguardism. I said if he came near me again with his beastly bribes, he'd find himself unexpectedly taking his first cold bath—in the river!"
"Georgie!"
"Yes," said Georgie pleasantly, "I'm afraid I did rather let myself go, but I apologized to him in the end. I told him that my remarks had no personal meaning, and I supposed he only did this sort of thing because he hadn't the brain to earn his living decently. I asked him to come ​over and see us play to-morrow. Told him it would be a nice change for him to see a little honest football."
"Poor fellow! Georgie, do you think we ought to judge others so—Don't you think you were rather—"
"Ugh!" Georgie shuddered. "It made me sick to look at the brute. It isn't a bit better than the old days before the Union when the unsophisticated collier found a sovereign over night, in his unprofessional boots."
"What did he say?" Her voice was quiet.
Georgie smiled.
"Well, he said a good deal. He was saying it after me all the way down the street. But I was in the Scarlet Runner, and didn't stop to listen to his sayings."
Diana gazed at him with eyes full of love in spite of her disapproval. The glasses through which she saw Georgie must have been extremely rose-colored, for in spite of his engaging ways, no girl had ever before followed his athletic ravings ​with such breathless interest. He felt this, and took advantage of it.
They went upstairs presently to tell her mother that he had changed his mind and was going to stay the night after all. The Scarlet Runner was ignominiously put to bed in a coach-house, and Georgie dreamed of the match, and played his Northern opponents furiously all night with a brilliant personal success. Diana dreamed a revolving dream of gold and rose-color, with Georgie, freely festooned with texts, as a central figure, and she got up two hours earlier than usual to pour out his coffee for him.
"Mr. George has gone out to bring his motor car round," a maid volunteered as she came downstairs; and Diana warmed herself over the breakfast-room fire and wished that the match were over.
It was twenty minutes past seven before Georgie came in, and he didn't attempt to kiss her or even to say "good-morning." His face was red and hot-looking, ​and his blue eyes held a hard look entirely new to her.
"Where is it?" he asked.
She looked surprised.
"Where is what? And aren't you going to say good-morning? You haven't much time for breakfast, but I've poured out your coffee and—"
"Thanks, "he said curtly. "Where is the Scarlet Runner?"
"The Scarlet Runner?" She stared at him blankly.
"Yes. For goodness' sake, Di, tell me at once. We must start at the half-hour. Where on earth have you had the thing put?"
"Georgie! Isn't it in the coach-house?"
"No," Georgie said curtly. "Curiously enough, it isn't. It has vanished in the night. Di—don't be a little goose. Tell me where the motor is, and I'll bring it round to the door before I have my breakfast."
Her face was white.
​"Georgie! I haven't the least idea where it is. William must have—but William doesn't understand it, does he?"
"William,"said Georgie, shortly, "swears he has not been inside the coach-house since he was there with me. And, as you say, he could no more manage the Scarlet Runner than he could fly. No one can, except you—and I almost wish I hadn't taught you now!"
"But Georgie—"
"The time," Georgie remarked moodily, "is going. It generally does. I shall have to go off without breakfast as it is, and I'm half famished. Give it up, Diana. It isn't a funny joke."
Diana swallowed a lump in her throat.
"I am not much inclined for jokes this morning," said she quietly. "I have not seen your motor. I know nothing at all about it. I'll go out and speak to William."
William, leaning for support against the coach-house door, shook his head feebly.
"I wouldn't touch one o' them hinformal ​machines for a fortune," said he. "I'd be afraid of it blowing up and brasting me an' it. An' I wouldn't cross Mr. George for a month's wage. He's a way with 'is fists when he's crossed that makes you think twice afore you cross 'im. I can't tell where 'is horrible hengine's got to. The devil come through the winder and flew away with 'is own, I shouldn't wonder."
She looked into the other out-buildings hopelessly and at the key in William's hand.
"Where do you keep the key?" she asked.
William looked injured.
"In my trousie's pocket," said he; "and there it's bin since last night."
"Did you go anywhere last night after we went in?"
William drew himself up.
"Not a blessed drop," said he, "since Saturday."
She turned miserably to Georgie, who laughed unpleasantly.
​"Georgia," she said, "I can't make it out. Perhaps father knows—"
Her father, however, sent down word emphatically that he did not know. He was not pleased to be waked up.
Georgie in the hall faced Diana with a determined face.
"You told me last night," he said slowly, "that you would give anything to persuade me not to play to-day. I suppose this means that you have taken the law into your own hands. I suppose this brilliant plan is to stop me playing this afternoon. It is a quarter to eight now. There is no train quick enough to do it, even if you were on the line."
Dickie, her young brother, on the stairs called out with friendly sympathy:
"Take the dog-cart, Georgie."
Georgie looked up.
"Perhaps," said he, "you can persuade your sister to tell you what she's done with my motor."
Diana flushed.
​"Georgie," she said in a low voice, "I don't tell lies."
He turned from her angrily and went round to the stables again. In a few minutes he drove the cart round to the front of the house, and Dickie jumped in.
Diana came up to the horse's head.
"Take Lucifer, and ride!" she said, swallowing her anger.
"Thank you. I've seen that red devil's pretty ways with a stranger. I shall drive into Ingraham and try to hire or borrow a motor somehow, and then perhaps if I drive like—"
"Georgie! You'll have an accident, if you go in a strange car." She was very white.
"Yes," said he grimly, "it'll be a bit more dangerous than county foot ball at the pace, but if I'm not pulled up, I '11 catch that train somehow—and Diana—"
"Yes," a low voice.
"It's the sort of thing a woman should never do, if she cares. It's the sort of ​thing a man doesn't get over, or forget It's the sort of thing—"
Diana lost her temper at last.
"It's the sort of thing which makes a man forget he's a gentleman," said she. "If the prospect of missing your game is the sort of thing to make you go away like this thinking and calling me a—a liar—"
He gathered up the reins impatiently, and she caught her breath.
"Why, then you needn't come back, Georgie," she said.
In a couple of hours Dickie was back again. Red-eyed, Diana came down from her room to demand his news.
"Georgie was wild," he said frankly. "I didn't know he had such a beastly temper. But it's enough to make a chap furious. He drove Peggy at a gallop all the way to Ingraham, and I thought she 'd be down on her knees every minute. My hat, we did whiz along!"
"Well, Dickie—well?"
​"We tried to hire a car all over the show. There are only four in the town, and Dr. Winnett had taken his on his rounds. Old Leather would have lent us his, but his uncle had been out over some new stones the day before, and busted the tires. The parson wouldn't lend his, of course. Said he made a rule never to lend a fountain pen, or a bicycle, or a motor car on account of the other person's feeling so bad, if anything happened.
"Well, Dickie? Do get on."
"Do you suppose anyone's prigged the Scarlet Runner?" Dickie asked. "It's a rum go."
"Did he find one?"
"Well," said Dickie, "Old Tubbs, at the White Dragon 's just bought one second-hand. It's called the Pearl of the Ages, or something like that, and he lets it out on hire."
"I see—and Georgie hired it. Thank goodness!"
"You needn't," said Dickie promptly, "’cause you're not so jolly clever as you ​seem to think. It hadn't come, although Tubbs has been expecting it every day for a month!"
She looked bewildered.
"Then—"
"Outside the sweetshop," said Dickie impressively, "what should we see but a lovely bran new car—olive picked out with white—a fair treat. Georgie just looked at it, and then up and down the street. There wasn't a soul to be seen; the shops had hardly begun to open. He said to me very quietly, 'Dickie I'll leave you five pounds. It's all I can spare. I'm going to commandeer this car for the day.'"
"Dickie!"
"Well, "said Dickie, "I told him he'd jolly well find himself in gaol if he didn't look out. But he took no notice. Said the honor of his county was at stake, and he'd honestly pay for the thing's hire. Said he knew the silly owner wouldn't give his consent if he asked him for it, and so he should jolly well take it without. ​Told me to give up his address and the five pounds when he was well out of the way, and then he asked me if I funked the owner's wrath. Of course I said I didn't. I said I thought it was a giddy lark, and so it was."
His sister was speechless. Dickie went on:
"He got in and began to turn the thing's silly handles. He tried and tried, but it must have been quite different from his own, for nothing happened. Georgie got redder and redder, and at last he sat quite still and gave it up."
"Oh, Dickie—what did he say?"
"He said 'Damn!'" said Dickie earnestly. "And then the swing door of the shop swung open, and the owner came out!"
"Dickie!"
"Yes, it did; with Georgie sitting there saying it. I don't wonder she was surprised."
"She?"
"Yes, it was a girl. A pretty sort of ​girl, with hair all fluffy and one of those silky veil things making you think how much you'd like her face if you could see all of it."
"Oh!—and she was angry?"
He thought a moment.
"More surprised than angry. When Georgie explained, she laughed. I never saw a girl laugh like that girl did. And Georgie told her everything."
Diana's heart throbbed with a sickening pang.
"Oh—he told her everything?"
"Yes,—and said all the nice things he could to bring her round and make her lend it to him, and show him the way to work it."
"Oh, he did, did he?"
"Yes. He told her he could see by the way she laughed that she was a real sportsman. He told her that hers was the prettiest little motor he had ever seen, and—"
"Did she let him have it, Dickie?" Her voice was pitifully earnest.
​Dickie laughed.
"When he'd finished saying things, she was quite quiet for a minute; then she looked straight up into Georgie's face, and he smiled at her."
"Oh!" in a miserable voice. "He smiled at her."
"The girl seemed to like the way he smiled. She jumped straight into the car, laughing like anything. 'If I'm a sportsman,' she said, 'I'll do the sporting thing. I'll drive you myself."
He stopped.
"Well?" Diana asked breathlessly.
"That's all," Dickie finished abruptly, and went downstairs, the banister way.
"She must have been very badly brought up, to drive all that way with a complete stranger." Diana returned to her room with an aching heart. She was very young and she didn't understand. Her brothers were little boys, and she knew nothing of young men; so, because Georgie had spoken rudely and unkindly to her, she threw herself on her bed and cried.
​Presently her mother came up to her, and the poor child between sobs told everything. She was, in fact, glad to tell.
"He wants to marry me," she finished piteously, "and he doesn't believe my word. He says he loves me, and he speaks to me as if I were a dog because there is a chance of his missing a football match. Oh, mother, I told him—I told him not to come back. I'm afraid’oh, I'm afraid—he'll think I meant it."
"Georgie is only a boy," her mother said wisely, "and his games are the most important thing in the world to him just now. He will come back to-morrow, and say he is sorry. I am quite sure he will come back. He will never think you meant it."
So Diana dried her tears and went down to make inquiries about the motor-car. She caught Dickie, in fits of laughter in the hall.
"Why didn't Georgie tell the police in Ingraham?" she asked indignantly.
​"I told him to, but he said he didn't think it was necessary. I believe he thought you had hidden it, Di."
She flushed.
"You seem very much amused," she said shortly.
"If you go into the coach-house," Dickie cried, "I'll bet my boots you'll be amused, too."
And on Sunday afternoon Georgie came—glowing and triumphant. Diana, in her prettiest frock, received him quietly.
"Did you see an evening paper?" he cried. "We won by eleven points. It was a ripping game. I've got my place now, I can tell you."
"I'm so glad." Diana was standing by the window of the library, which had been left to them.
He came up and put his arm round her with a laugh which sounded as if he might be a little ashamed.
"Di—I was a brute yesterday. I was ​mad, I think. I'm so sorry I spoke like that."
He waited, but she didn't speak.
"You see I had to catch that beastly train."
"Yes," said she quietly.
"Di, I know you only did it because you didn't want me to be hurt. I ought to have remembered it was because you were fond of me—I ought to think myself lucky you cared so much. And I do, of course, only—"
"Georgie!" She turned and looked straight at him. "Do you still think I lied to you?"
He looked surprised.
"Well," he said lightly, "a practical joke isn't exactly a lie, is it? It's all right now, dear, isn't it?"
"Not quite," said she gravely. "Do you know—did they tell you that the Scarlet Runner came back last night?"
Georgie smiled.
"Well," he said, "I rather expected it would, don't you know?"
​She put her two hands on his shoulders.
"I had nothing to do with its going away," said she. "Look in my face and tell me that you believe me—"
He stared.
"I won't marry you, Georgie, if you can't trust me."
His face changed, and then at last he understood how much in earnest she was. Georgie was not very quick.
"Good Kitty! Why on earth didn't you say so before?"
She smiled sadly.
"Didn't I? You believe me now?"
"Di!" His voice was indignant. "As if I could doubt your word for a moment. You oughtn't to ask such a thing!" But indignation changed to bewilderment. "But the motor? When on earth—"
She took a small scrap of note-paper from her hanging-pocket and handed it to him silently.
"This was pinned to the Scarlet Runner's cushions," said she, "when we found it in the yard."
​With amazed eyes he opened and read:
Dear Sir,
Re your invitation to watch you play this afternoon. I am sorry to say that it will be impossible for me or anyone else to do the same.
Re your insults of yesterday to me and professional football, I have taken the liberty of borrowing your motor for the day, and return it with thanks. I also borrowed the key of the coach-house from the groom William, having just treated him to four large whiskies. As manager of a motor-works, I was quite at home in your little car.
Trusting it did not inconvenience you,
Believe me,
Yours, etc.,
The Borrower.
Georgie grew crimson’then he laughed.
"Well," he said, "I should like to meet him in a lonely lane. Perhaps I did let myself go a bit when he made his offer. But I got there, and we won the match. Nothing else matters."
​"No," said Diana rather sadly. "As you say, nothing else matters. And the girl who drove you, Georgie—was she nice?"
"Oh, that girl!" he said coolly. "She wasn't much catch. Would talk about herself all the time. Narrow, don't you know. I do hate selfishness."