Chapter XIII
Villa Doria-Pamfili
“If thou canst reason, sure thou dost not love.” Old Play.
On one of those delicious languid days of Spring that follow in the footsteps of the short Roman Winter, the Grahams drove out to spend a long afternoon at the Villa Doria-Pamfili, where the violets & anemones were awake in every hollow, & the trees putting on their tenderest silver-green. Guy rode by the side of the carriage, having breakfasted that morning with its occupants & engaged to join them again in the afternoon. Day by day Madeline’s society had grown sweeter & more needful to him, her soft presence effacing as nothing else could the bitter past. Great sorrows cast long shadows; & in reality the gloom of his disappointed love still hung darkly over Hastings’ life; but it was a softened gloom when he was at Madeline’s side, losing his heart-loneliness in her sunny companionship. When a man marries without falling in love he always has at hand an elaborate course of reasoning to prove beyond all doubt the advisableness of the step he takes; & some such process was occupying Guy’s thoughts as he trotted along on his chesnut, Rienzi, beside the Grahams’ carriage. Since his engagement had been broken he had, as we have said, felt all hope & interest in life slipping away from his empty grasp; & now that he had met & known Madeline it struck him with what renewed dreariness he would return to his old, reckless ways when their paths divided. More than once he had dreamed of his motley studio with a fair figure moving continually about it, or a soft, flushed face bending over him as he worked; & had wondered if life would not get a new zest with someone beside him to be cherished & worked for until death. Madeline’s peculiar innocence & shy simplicity had soothed him in contrast to the gay, wilful charms with which his most cruel recollections were united; he thought that here was a shrinking, clinging creature who would need his tender protection & look up to him always for the help & love that another had despised. In short, on that sweet Spring afternoon, the impressions & reflections of the whole Winter had nearly resolved themselves into a determination to ask Madeline for his wife, when the whole party reached the gates of the Villa Doria. Giving Rienzi over to his groom, Guy stood by the carriage to help Madeline & her mother out; & then they all strolled along through the beautiful princely grounds. Madeline’s passion for flowers was very pretty that day; prettier than ever it seemed to Hastings, as she bent down to fill her hands with violets, or ran on in search of a new blossom under the greening boughs. Oh, the sunshiny peacefulness of that long Spring afternoon, under the soft Italian sky, with the wood-flowers underfoot & the tree-branches closing above, bubbling over with the earliest bird-music of the new-drest year! They wandered on in the delicious Spring-time idleness that had fallen upon them all; now & then resting on a bench in some quiet alley or soft, violet-sown slope, or pausing to admire a beautiful view—all forgetting that even in the Villa Doria-Pamfili, on a Heavenly day of Spring, the hours will fly & the sun stoop to the west. Strolling along by Madeline’s side, carrying her sunshade & her cloak, Guy recalled Robert Spencer’s bright words: “How lightly falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers!” He repeated them to her, adding as he glanced down at his feet, “literally true here, is it not, Miss Graham? You trample a violet at every step.” “Oh, I am so sorry for them!” said Madeline, earnestly; “but what can I do? My hands are quite full.” She was standing still, in her floating white dress, framed by rising boughs, & holding a great mass of the balmy purple treasures. Guy Hastings had never seen a fairer picture in a fairer setting. “If I had my pallette & canvas here, Miss Graham, I should paint you as you stand, for a Proserpine.” “I am glad you haven’t then,” returned Madeline, laughing, “for I should be longing to escape in search of some more flowers, & how tired I should get, standing so long.” “You will be tired now if you don’t rest a little,” said Guy. They were standing near an old grey stone bench, hidden in tree-shadows, with a cushioning of deep moss & anemones around it. “Let us sit down, Miss Graham,” he continued. “You are dropping your violets at every step & my practical mind suggests that they should be tied together to prevent further loss.” Madeline laughed, & sat down while he quietly folded her cloak about her, & then took his place at her side. Mr. and Mrs. Graham had walked on slowly, & were presently lost among the trees; but neither Guy nor Madeline noticed this—which is perhaps scarcely surprising. It suited Hastings very well to be sitting there, holding the violets, while Madeline’s soft hands took them from him one by one & bound them carefully together; he had never found her quite so lovely as on that golden afternoon. “Am I to have none as a reward for my help?” he asked, as she took the last violets to add to her bunch. “You are very miserly with your treasures, Miss Graham.” “Because I don’t think you love them as well as I do,” she said, smiling. “But you did hold them very well, & here is your reward.” She handed him two or three, with her soft blush, & he was very near kissing the white ungloved hand that offered them. But reflecting that so sudden a proceeding might startle his shy damsel, & break up the sweet, idle course of their tête à tête, he wisely refrained, & only thanked her as he put the violets in his coat. “I shall wear them as my Legion of honour,” he added, smiling. “But they will fade so soon! Do you know,” said Madeline, glancing up into the handsome blue eyes bent on her face, & then looking quickly downward with a blush, as if she had read some secret there too subtle to be put into words—“do you know, it always makes me a little sad—foolishly, I suppose—to gather flowers, when I think of that.” “Gather ye roses while ye may!” hummed Guy, laughing. “I don’t think the flowers are to be pitied, Miss Graham.” “Why not?” said Madeline, very low. “Why not? Because—I put myself in their place & judge their feelings by—my own.” Madeline’s heart beat quicker, & she sprang up suddenly. “Where is Papa, Mr. Hastings? I think…” Guy caught her hand. “Stay, Miss Graham,” he said as she rose. “Before you go, 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 sl
owly 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.
Chapter 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 of mine. I never proposed it to you, as I understood that—that you had a peculiar aversion to the game.” Georgie turned scarlet. “That is nothing,” she said, hastily. “I think there is a board in the sitting-room. I will ring.” She sent for the board, & the contest immediatly began. How was it that in this new impulse of self-sacrifice Georgie began to lose the lonely weight of her sorrow, & brighten herself in proportion as her efforts dispersed Lord Breton’s moody dullness? They were both good players, but Georgie being the quicker-witted would have won had her tact not shewn her that she could please Lord Breton better by allowing herself to be defeated. It was quite late when the game ended, & Georgie had absolutely forgotten her drive; but her husband had not. “Surely you are going out today, Georgina?” he said. “You should have gone earlier, indeed. I fear I unintentionally detained you…” “Not at all!” she returned, promptly. “I had not meant to go.” “Nevertheless you should take advantage of the favourable weather. It is not yet too late.” “I had rather stay here, please,” said Georgie, but Lord Breton would not hear of it. He ordered the carriage, & she went up to dress with a lighter heart than she carried for many a day. As she came down again, some impulse made her enter her husband’s room. “There is nothing I can do for you in the town?” she asked. “No, nothing at all, nothing at all,” returned Lord Breton in a gratified voice. “Be careful of the evening air. You are well-wrapped?” “Oh, yes,” she said, lingering. “I shall not be long gone. Goodbye.” “Goodbye.” She took a short drive in the mild Spring air, & came back, strengthened & freshened, before sundown. Strangely enough, there was no one to help her from the carriage but Sidenham, who always accompanied her; & in the hall she was met by her physician. A sudden foreboding rushed through her mind as she saw him coming towards her. “What is it?” she said faintly. He gave his arm & led her quietly into the empty salon. “Sit down, Lady Breton. Compose yourself, for Heaven’s sake,” he said. “Lord Breton is—very ill.” She looked at him in a dazed
way. “I—I don’t think I understand,” she gasped. “Your husband is very dangerously ill,” said the physician again. “How can that be? He was much better when I went out—tell me, tell me!” Sidenham had brought a glass of wine, which she swallowed hurriedly at a sign from the doctor. “Now tell me,” she repeated, wildly. “My dear Lady Breton, try to quiet yourself. You say he seemed better—in better spirits—when you went out?” “Yes—I thought so.” “So his servant tells me,” the physician continued gently. “He said he had not seen his master in such good spirits since he came to Nice.—Compose yourself—Take some more wine.—Half an hour ago I was sent for—” he paused, & in that pause she snatched at the truth he was trying gently to postpone. “He is dead?” she whispered. “Tell me at once. I am calm.” “He has been taken from us,” the physician answered, his voice tremulous with emotion. “Taken from us without suffering, thank God! His servant went into his room & found him…dead. I was sent for at once.” “Go on,” said Georgie, in a low voice, fixing her tearless eyes on his earnest, pitying face. “I can hear all. He died without…pain?” “Entirely. Nothing could have been more sudden or painless.” For a little while neither spoke; then Georgie rose suddenly. “Take me to him,” she said, in the same calm voice. “Take me, please.” “Can you bear it—so soon, Lady Breton?” “Take me,” she repeated. “I told him I would come back soon!” She put her hand on the doctor’s arm, & he led her out across the hall in silence; but at the door of her husband’s room she fainted suddenly, & fell back as she had done at Lochiel House. They carried her up to her room, & it was long before her consciousness could be restored. When she was roused from her stupour it changed into wild fever & delirium, & for nearly a week after Lord Breton’s sad & quiet funeral, she lay raving and moaning on her darkened bed. The fever was quieted at last, but she was terribly weakened & even when her mind returned scarcely realized that she had entered into the first days of her widowhood. It was talked of all over Nice, how the old English peer, Lord Breton of Lowood, had been carried off suddenly by the gout, while his wife was out driving; how rich & haughty he was; & how she, poor young creature, delicate, bright & beautiful, & just 21, had been left there in the sunny Mediterranean town, far from friends & home, with no one but her physician & her servants to care for her or to comfort her—had been left there—alone. But perhaps no one quite guessed all the peculiar bitterness that those words contained when, with her returning consciousness they dawned upon Georgie—“left alone.”
Fast and Loose Page 8
