Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

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.”

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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