Edith Wharton - Novella 01 (10 page)

 
          
  

 
          
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.”

 
          
  

 
          
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. Have 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!—”