“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.

Chapter 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.