I want to say a few words to you. Will you hear me?” He led her quietly back to her shady seat, & sat down beside her again, leaning forward to catch sight of her half-turned face & dropped lashes. “I do not know,” he went on, in his low, winning voice, “what right I have to say these words, or to expect an answer; for I feel, day by day, as I watch you, so young, so happy, so beautiful—pardon me—I feel how little I can give in return for what your kindness has encouraged me to ask.” He spoke with a calm grave gentleness as far removed from the anxious, entangled faltering of a lover as if he had been offering friendly criticism or long-prepared advice. Madeline’s only answer was the rising crimson on her cheek; & he continued, in the same quiet, undisturbed tones: “I told you once that there was little interest or happiness left in my life—a wasted life I fear it has been!—but since I have known you, Miss Graham, it has seemed as though an Angel were beckoning me back to a new existence—a more peaceful one than I have ever known.” He paused. His eyes had wandered from the flushed face at his side to the golden streaks of sunset barring the soft Western sky. It seemed to Madeline as if the wild, hot beating of her heart must drown her voice; she could not speak. “You know—you must know—” he said presently, “how miserably little I have to offer—the battered remains of a misspent life! Heaven forbid that I should claim the same right as another man to this little hand, (let me hold it). Heaven forbid that I should call myself worthy of the answer I have dared to hope for!” She had half-risen again, with a faint attempt to free her hand; but he rose also, & quietly drew her closer. “Madeline, can you guess that I want to ask you to be my wife?” He had possession of both her hands, & she did not struggle but only stood before him with eyes downcast & burning cheeks. “Will you give me no answer, Madeline?” he said, gently. There was a faint movement of her tremulous lips, & bending down he caught a soft, fluttering “Yes.” He lifted her right hand to his lips & for a moment neither spoke. Then Madeline said, in a frightened, half-guilty voice, “Oh, let us go to Papa.” “They are coming to us,” returned Guy, still detaining her, as he caught sight of Mr. & Mrs. Graham moving slowly towards them under the shadowy ilex-clumps. “Why do you want to run away from me, Madeline? I have the right to call you so now, have I not?” “Yes,” she murmured, still not daring to meet his kind, searching eyes. “But, come, please, let us go & meet them. I … I must tell Mamma, you know …” “One moment. I have another right also, dear one!” He stooped & kissed her quickly as he spoke, then drawing her trembling hand through his arm, led her forward to the advancing couple under the trees. Madeline’s tearful confusion alone would have betrayed everything to her mother’s quick eyes. “Oh, Mamma, Mamma,” she cried, running to Mrs. Graham & hiding her face. Guy came up, in his quiet easy way, looking frankly into the mother’s rosy, troubled face. “I have asked Madeline to be my wife,” he said, “& she has consented.” “Maddy, Maddy,” cried Mrs. Graham, tearfully, “is it so, my dear?” But Mr. Graham was disposed to view things more cheerfully, & while the mother & daughter were weeping in each other’s arms, shook Hastings’ hand with ill-concealed delight. “She is our only one, Hastings, & we could not trust you with a dearer thing, but—there, I won’t exactly say ‘No’!” “Believe me,” Guy returned, “I know how precious is the treasure I have dared to ask for. I shall try to make myself worthy of her by guarding her more tenderly than my own life—if indeed you consent….” Madeline turned a shy, appealing glance at Mr. Graham as she stood clinging to her mother. “Eh, Maddy?” said the merchant, goodnaturedly, “what can the old father say, after all? Well—I don’t know how to refuse. We must think, we must think.” “Madeline,” said Hastings, bending over her, “will you take my arm to the carriage?” They did not say much as they walked along in the dying sunset light; but a pleasant sense of possessorship came over Guy as he felt the shy hand lying on his arm—& who can sum up the wealth of Madeline’s silent happiness? And so they passed through the gates, & the Spring twilight fell over Villa Doria-Pamfili.
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XIV.
Left Alone.
“Death, like a robber, crept in unaware.”
Old Play. (From the Spanish)
Three slow weeks of illness followed Georgie’s imprudence at Lochiel House; & in September when she began to grow a little better, she was ordered off to the Mediterranean for the Winter. She scarcely regretted this; the trip in Lord Breton’s yacht would be pleasant, & any change of scene welcome for a time—but as far as her health was concerned, she cared very little for its preservation, since life in every phase grew more hopelessly weary day by day. Favourable winds made their passage short & smooth, but when they reached the Mediterranean Georgie was too poorly to enjoy the short cruise along its coast which had been planned, & they made directly for Nice. After a few dreary days of suffering at a Hôtel, Lord Breton gave up all idea of prolonging his yachting & by his physician’s advice moved at once into a small sunny villa where Georgie could have perfect quiet for several months. She was very ill again, & it was long before she recovered from the exhaustion of the journey. Even when she began to grow better & lie on her lounge or creep downstairs, it was a cheerless household; for Lord Breton, cut off by recurring attacks of gout from any exercise or amusement that the town might have afforded, grew daily more irritable & gloomy. Nor did Georgie attempt at first to rouse herself for his sake; it was hard enough, she thought, to be shut up forever face to face with her own unquenchable sorrow & remorse. It did not occur to her that wherever her heart might be, her duty lay with her husband. She learned this one March day, as we do learn all our great heart-lessons, suddenly & plainly. Her physician had been to see her, & in taking leave said very gravely: “in truth, Lady Breton, I am just now more anxious about your husband’s welfare than your own. He suffers a great deal, & needs constant distraction. You will excuse my saying, frankly, that I think the loneliness, the want of—may I say sympathy? in his life, is preying upon him heavily. I cannot tell you to be easy, where I see such cause for anxiety.” These words—grave & direct, as a good physician’s always are—affected Georgie strangely. Could it be that he too suffered, & felt a bitter want in his life? she questioned herself. Could it be that she had failed in her duty? that something more was demanded of her? And with this there came over her with a great rush, the thought of her own selfish absorption & neglect. Had he not, after all, tried to be a kind & a generous husband? Had she not repulsed him over & over again? In that hour of sad self-conviction the first unselfish tears that had ever wet her cheek sprang to Georgie Breton’s eyes. Remorse had taken a new & a more practical form with her. For once she saw how small, how base & petty had been her part in the great, harmonious drama of life; how mean the ends for which she had made so great a sacrifice; how childish the anger & disappointment she had cherished—how self-made the fate against which she had railed. She had looked forward that day to a drive, the chief pleasure & excitement of her monotonous hours; but ringing the bell, she countermanded her carriage, & went downstairs to her husband’s room. Lord Breton was sitting helpless in his arm-chair, the sun dazzling his eyes through the unshaded window, & his newspapers pushed aside as if whatever interest they contained had long ago been exhausted. He looked up with some surprise when Georgie entered with her slow, feeble step, & crossing the room quietly dropped the Venetian shade. “Thank you,” he said. “The sun was blinding. I hope you are feeling better today, Georgina?” “Oh, yes, I think so,” she returned with a brave effort at gaiety, as she sank down in a low chair. “But I am afraid you are suffering. I … I am awfully sorry.” Lord Breton’s amazement waxed stronger. He even forgave the slang in which this unusual sympathy was clothed. “My pain is not very great,” he replied, affably, “& I think has been slightly alleviated thanks to Dr. W. I hope soon to be released from my imprisonment.” “You must be bored,” assented Georgie, then added suddenly as a new thought struck her: “I think you said once you liked … you were fond of playing chess. I … shall we play a game today?” Lord Breton wondered if the world were upsidedown. “Yes,” he said, even more affably, “I was once a good player, & it has always been a favourite pastime
