Edith Wharton - Novella 01

by Fast (and) Loose (v2. 1)

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  XV.

  A Summons.

  “Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,

  In the old likeness that I knew!” Miss Mulock: “Douglas.”

  Lord Breton died early in March; & it was three weeks later that Guy Hastings, returning from a certain eventful visit to Villa Doria-Pamfili which I have recorded in a previous chapter, found awaiting him at his studio a black-bordered letter with a Nice postmark. If he had not recognized the writing, this post-mark would have told him in an instant that it was from Georgie; for though all intercourse had ceased between them he had heard through some English friends that she was passing the Winter at Nice. The black edge & black seal of the envelope, united to the well-known manuscript, were a deep shock; & it was several minutes before he could compose himself sufficiently to read the letter.

  “Nice, March th—Dear Guy, I should never venture to write this if I did not feel sure that I shall not live very long. Since Lord Breton’s death I have been much worse, they say; but I only know that my heart is breaking, & that I must see you once for goodbye. If you can forgive all the wrong I have done you—what bitter suffering it has brought me since!—come to me as soon as possible. Georgie.”

  Hastings could scarcely read the end of the few, trembling lines for the tears that blinded him. Those heart-broken, pleading words seemed to melt away in an instant all the barriers of disappointment & wounded pride, & to wake up the old estranged love that was after all not dead—but sleeping! He scarcely noticed the mention of Lord Breton’s death, which reached him now for the first time—he only felt that Georgie was dying, that she had been unhappy & that she loved him still. Then there came a rebellious cry against the fate that reunited them only to part once more. Why must she die when a new promise of brightness was breaking through the storm of life? Why must she die when he was there once more to shield & cherish her as he had dreamed long ago? She should not die! Life must revive with reviving happiness, & the shadow of death wane in the sunrise of their joy. So he raved, pacing his lonely studio, through the long hours of the evening until in the midst of the incoherent flood of thought that overwhelmed him, there flashed suddenly the harsh reality that he had for the moment lost. What if Georgie lived? He was not free! How the self-delusion, the hasty mistake of that day, started up cruelly before him in this new light. It was he, then, who had been unfaithful & impatient, & she who had loved on through all, to this cruel end. Thus he reproached himself, as the hopeless cloud of grief closed around him once more. I know not what wild temptations hurried through his mind in that terrible night’s struggle. A faint fore-hint of dawn was climbing the gray Orient when at last he threw himself on his bed to seize a few hours sleep before he brought the resolutions of this night into action. He had decided that come what would, he must see Georgie at once—even though it were for the last time, & only to return into the deeper desolation which his error had brought upon him. In this last revolution of feeling he had almost entirely lost sight of the fact that Georgie was dying, & that even in the case of his being free, their parting was inevitable. It seemed to him now that his madness (as he called it in his hopeless self-reproach) had alone exiled him from a renewed life of love & peace with the girl of his heart. He had forgotten, in the whirl of despairing grief, that the shadow of the Angel of Death fell sternly between him & Georgie. When after a short, unrestful sleep he rose & dressed, the morning sun was high over Rome; & he found he had no time to lose if he should attempt to start for Civita Vecchia by the early train. He would not breakfast, but thinking that the early air might freshen him for his long journey, walked immediatly to the Grahams’ apartment. He had meant to ask for Mr. Graham, but when he reached the door his heart failed, & he merely told the servant he would not disturb him. Taking one of his cards, he wrote on it hurriedly in pencil: “I am called suddenly to Nice for a few days. Cannot tell when I will be back. Start this morning via Civita Vecchia.” He left this for Madeline, knowing that any more elaborate explanation of the object of his journey would be useless; & an hour later he was on his way to Civita Vecchia to meet a steamer to Genoa. The weary, interminable hours drew slowly towards the night; but it seemed to Hastings that the sad journey would never come to an end. When he reached Nice the next morning after a day & a night of steady travel, the strain of thought & fatigue had been so great that he was scarcely conscious of his surroundings, & having driven to the nearest Hotel went at once up to his room to rest, if indeed rest were possible. A blinding headache had come on, & he was glad to lie on the bed with his windows darkened until the afternoon. He had almost lost the power of thinking now; a dull, heavy weight of anguish seemed to press down destroying all other sensation. When at last he felt strong enough to rouse himself, he rang for a servant & enquired for Lady Breton’s villa in the hope that someone in the Hotel might direct him thither—for poor Georgie, in her hasty note, had forgotten to give her address. Lord Breton’s death had made too much noise in Nice for his residence to remain unknown; but Guy, not feeling as well as he had fancied, sat down & wrote a few lines asking when he should find Georgie prepared for him—& despatched these by the servant. It was a great relief when, about an hour later, a note was brought back in the meek, ladylike handwriting of Mrs. Rivers, who had of course joined her daughter on Lord Breton’s death. Dear Guy, it ran, We think our darling Georgie is a little better today, but not strong enough to see you. If she is no worse tomorrow, can you come in the afternoon at about four o’clock? This is a time of great anxiety for us all, which I am sure you must share. My poor child longs to see you. Your loving Cousin, M.A. Rivers.

  Hastings scarcely knew how that miserable day passed. He had intended writing to Mr. Graham, but he had lost all power of self-direction, & the one absorbing thought that pressed upon him drowned every lesser duty in its vortex of hopeless pain. Early the next morning he sent to the Villa to enquire after Georgie, & word was brought that my lady was no worse, so that a faint hope began to buoy him up as the hours crept on towards the time appointed for their meeting. His agitation was too intense for outward expression, & he was quite calm when at four o’clock he started out on foot through the sunny streets. It was not a long way to the white villa in its fragrant rose-garden; & before long a servant dressed in black had ushered him into the cool salon where a slight, pink-eyed personage in heavier black than of old, came tearfully forward to meet him. “She will be so glad to see you, Guy,” wept poor Mrs. Rivers. “She said you were to come at once. Are you ready? This is the way.”

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  XVI.

  Too Late.

  “Tis better to have loved & lost Than never to have loved at all.” Tennyson. In Memoriam.

  Guy followed Mrs. Rivers in silence as she led the way across the polished hall & up a short flight of stairs. Leaving him a moment in a small, sunny boudoir bright with pictures & flowers, she went on into an inner room where there was a faint sound of voices. Returning a moment later, she came up & laid an appealing hand of his arm. “You will be careful, dear Guy, not to agitate her? She is so easily excited, so weak, poor darling! Come now.” She threw the door open, standing back for him to enter the room, & then closed it softly upon him. It was a large room, with two windows through which the mellow afternoon sunlight streamed; & beside one of these windows, in a deep, cushioned arm-chair Georgie sat with a pale, expectant face. So fragile, so sad & white she looked that he scarcely knew her as he crossed the threshold; then she held out her thin little hand & called softly: “Guy!” It was the old voice; that at least had not changed! He came forward almost blindly, & felt his hand grasped in the soft, trembling fingers on which his parting kiss had fallen more than a year ago. He could not speak at first, & she too was silent; both lost in the intensity of their emotion. “Sit down beside me,” she said at last, still clasping his hand gently; & then he looked up again & met the wide, burning hazel eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, Guy,” she cried, “I never thought to see you again. Ha
ve you come to forgive me?” “Do not talk of that,” he answered with an effort. “Only tell me that you are stronger, that you will be well soon.” She shook her head quietly. “I cannot tell you that; & I must tell you how I have suffered through my folly—my wicked folly.” Her tears were falling softly, but she made no attempt to hide them. “I think,” she went on, still holding Guy’s hand, “that the thought—which pursued me always & everywhere—of the wrong I did you, has killed me. When I look back at the hours of shame & suffering I have passed, I almost wonder I lived through them—I almost feel glad to die! Surely, surely there never was so wicked & miserable a creature in the world—I shudder at the mere thought of my hard, silly selfishness.” She paused, her voice broken by a sob; then hurried on, as if to relieve herself of a great weight. “Oh, Guy, it would not have been so bad if all this time I had not cared; but I did. There was no one like you—no one with whom I could feel really happy as with you. Then I thought I would drown all these sad recollections by going into society; but under all the gayety & the noise, Guy, my heart ached—ached so cruelly! Listen a moment longer. When I thought how you must despise me & hate me, I felt like killing myself. I seemed to have been such a traitor to you, although you were the only man I ever loved! I gave up all thought of seeing you again until—until I heard them say I was dying, & then I got courage, remembering how tender & how generous you always were—& as I lay there after the fever left me, I could think nothing but: ‘I must see Guy, I must be forgiven,’ over & over again.” Her voice failed again, & she leaned back among her cushions.

  “And you came,” she continued, presently, “you came though I had wronged you & insulted you and—and deserved nothing but your contempt. You have come to forgive me!” “Hush, dearest,” Guy answered, struggling to master his voice, “try to forget everything that is past. Let us be happy—for a little while.” “Oh, I am so happy,” she cried; “perhaps, after all, then, you did not think of me quite so hardly—as I deserved. Perhaps—you understood a little—you felt sorry—” “My dearest,” he answered, passionately; “I did more; I—loved you.” A new light seemed to flash over her face; he could feel the hand that clasped his tighten & tremble. “Don’t—don’t,” she gasped, in a voice full of pain, “it can’t be true—don’t try to love me—I—I only meant to be forgiven.” “Forgiven!” said Guy, with a sudden bitterness, “it is I who need to be forgiven, if there is forgiveness in Heaven or earth for such folly & madness as have been mine! Oh, Georgie darling, I think I have been in a horrible dream.” Startled by the sudden wildness of his words, Georgie lifted her eyes full of sorrowful questioning to his. “What is it, Guy? Are we all to be unhappy?” And then, in a few, broken words of shame & self-reproach, he told her how when all the hope & sacredness of life was slipping from him, he had met Madeline, & thinking that such a pure presence might hallow his days, & recall him from the reckless path to which despair had beckoned him, had asked her to be his wife. When he ended, Georgie sat quite still, a grave pity shining in the eyes that seemed too large for her little, wasted face. “I am so glad, Guy,” she said, in her sweet, tremulous tone, still clasping his hand; “so glad that I may die without that dreadful thought of having spoiled your life as well as my own. Oh, Guy, I am quite happy now! I am sure she must be good & gentle, because you are fond of her; & I am sure she will be a good wife to you, because—no one could help it.” She paused a moment, but he could not trust himself to speak, & gathering strength, she went on with touching earnestness, “Guy, you will be good to her, will you not? And you will make her home pleasant, & forget everything that is gone for her sake? And kiss her, Guy, on her wedding-day, from some one who calls herself her sister. Do you promise?” “Anything, dearest girl,” he answered, brokenly. She smiled; one of those rare, brilliant smiles that to his tear-dimmed eyes made her face as the face of an Angel. “My own brave Guy,” she whispered. “And you will go back to your painting, & your work—& when I am dead, no one will say ‘She ruined his life.’” “They will say, dearest, that if forgiving love & tenderness could wash out his folly, when he thought that nothing but despair was left in life, she did so as no one else could.” “Hush, Guy, hush,” she faltered, as he kissed the trembling hand laid on his own, “you pain me. I do not deserve so much. I do not deserve to die so happy—so unspeakably happy.” “To die!” he repeated, passionately. “Darling, do [not] say that—I had almost forgotten! They said you were better.” She shook her head, again with that sweet, flitting smile. “It is better you should know, Guy—& indeed all is best! I have not courage to live, if I had the strength. But you must go back to a braver & a happier life, & then to die will be like going to sleep with the consciousness that the day is over, & when I wake there will be… no more sorrow & regrets….” There was a long pause. The clock ticked steadily; the afternoon sunshine waned, & the sand in an hour-glass on the table trickled its last grains through to mark the ended hour. Guy sat clasping the little wasted fingers, & leaning his face against his hand in the hopeless silence of grief. At last Georgie, bending towards him, spoke, very tenderly & quietly: “Look Guy; the twilight is coming. We must say goodbye.” “Goodbye?” he echoed vaguely, only half-startled out of his bitter dream by the strangely calm, low words. “For the last time,” Georgie went on, drawing her hand softly away. “Oh, Guy, say again before you go that you forgive me everything—everything.” He had risen, dazzled by his tears, & turned to the window that she might not see his white face & quivering lips; he could not answer. “Guy, Guy,” she repeated passionately, “you forgive me? Guy, come closer; bend down, so, that I may see your face—for it is growing dark. Say ‘I forgive you,’ Guy!” “I—forgive you.” Once more the old, radiant smile, transfiguring her pale features as health & enjoyment had never done, answered his broken words. “Thank you—that is all I wanted,” she whispered, gazing up into the haggard face bent over her. “If you knew, Guy, how happy I am… now” Silence again. “Now kiss me, Guy, & bid me goodnight.” Almost childishly, she held up her little, trembling lips; & stifling back his anguish he stooped & kissed them solemnly. “Guy, goodnight.” “Goodnight… my Love! my Love!—”

  *****

  Someone led him gently from the room; & he knew that he had seen the face of his beloved for the last time on earth. The next morning word was brought him that Georgie had passed very quietly with the dawn, “to where, beyond these voices, there is Peace.”

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  XVII.

  Afterwards.

  “—But who that has loved forgets?” Old Song.

  Five years, fruitful in many a silent change, have passed since the life-chronicle which filled these pages, closed with Georgie Breton’s peaceful death; fruitful in so great changes, that before parting with the different persons who have filled our story-world, it is tempting to take one last glance into their altered lives & households, that we may carry away with us the memory, not of what they were, but of what they are. The villa at Nice in which Lord Breton & his young wife died has passed into other hands; but the story of the old English Lord’s death, followed so soon & so tragically by that of the beautiful milady, still clings to it, & marks it with a peculiar interest. As for Mrs. Rivers, on her eldest daughter’s death she returned at once to the seclusion of Holly Lodge, where she spends her time in tears & retirement, overwhelmed by her crape trimmings, overwhelmed by the education of her children, & by everything, poor lady, which comes in her way. A distant cousin of the late Lord Breton’s (a grave married man with a large family) has inherited his title & his estates; & there are three blooming, marrigeable girls at Lowood; for whom the new Lord & Lady Breton are continually giving croquet-parties, dinners & balls in the hope that the eligible young men of the county may be attracted thither, & discover their charms. Mr. and Mrs. Graham have come back to England too, & have bought a pretty, well-kept little place not far from London, whose walls are adorned with many foreign works of art, collected during their memorable tour on the continent.
The honest couple live very quietly, keeping occasional feast-days when the postman leaves at the door a thick blue envelope with a foreign stamp; an envelope containing a pile of close-written sheets beginning “Darling Mamma & Papa” & ending “Your own loving daughter, Madeline.” And with what pride will they shew you a photograph, which was enclosed in one of these very letters, of a little, earnest, bright-eyed man of two or three, on the back of which a loving hand has written “Baby’s picture.” One more English household calls our attention before we wander back for the last time to Italian skies; a comfortable London house in a pleasant neighbourhood, near all the clubs. Jack Egerton is established there; our Bohemian Jack, who has come into a nice fortune in the course of these last years, & has also met with a pale, melancholy, fascinating French Marquise, who so far disturbed his cherished theories of misogynism, that a very quiet wedding was the result of their intimacy, & who now presides with a tact, a grace, & a dignity of which he may well be proud, at his friendly table. So we leave him; to turn once more before parting, to a familiar, though now a changed scene—the old studio on the third floor of the Roman palazzo, where in the old days, Hastings & Egerton lounged & painted. A Signore Inglese has rented the whole floor now; & that Signore is Guy. The studio is essentially as it was; but the glamour of a woman’s presence has cast the charm of order & homelikeness over its picturesque chaos, & the light footsteps of a woman cross & recross the floor as Hastings sit[s] at his easel in the sunshine. For, as will have been divined, Guy has fulfilled Georgie’s latest prayer, & for nearly five years Madeline Graham has been his wife. They spend their Winters always in Rome, for the sake at once of Madeline’s health & Hastings’ art-studies; & there is a younger Guy who is beginning to toddle across the studio floor to his father’s knee, guided by a little, blushing velvet-eyed Italian Nurse whom he has been taught to call Teresina. Guy works harder than of old, & is on a fair road to fame. He has not forgotten his old friend & Mentor, Egerton, but I doubt if he will ever accept the constant invitations to England which kind-hearted Jack sends him. For there are certain memories which time cannot kill, & change cannot efface. So Madeline is happy in a sunny, peaceful household; in returning health, & new & pleasant duties; in the most beautiful boy that mother ever sung to sleep or woke with a laughing kiss; & in a husband, who is the soul of grave courtesy & kindness. But Guy Hastings’ heart is under the violets on Georgie’s grave.