Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

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 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