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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 Hôtel 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 Hôtel 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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