“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!—”

—

Someone led him gently from the room; & he knew that he had seen the face of his beloved for the last time on earth. The next morning word was brought him that Georgie had passed very quietly with the dawn, “to where, beyond these voices, there is Peace.”

Chapter XVII

Afterwards

“—But who that has loved forgets?” Old Song.

Five years, fruitful in many a silent change, have passed since the life-chronicle which filled these pages, closed with Georgie Breton’s peaceful death; fruitful in so great changes, that before parting with the different persons who have filled our story-world, it is tempting to take one last glance into their altered lives & households, that we may carry away with us the memory, not of what they were, but of what they are. The villa at Nice in which Lord Breton & his young wife died has passed into other hands; but the story of the old English Lord’s death, followed so soon & so tragically by that of the beautiful milady, still clings to it, & marks it with a peculiar interest. As for Mrs. Rivers, on her eldest daughter’s death she returned at once to the seclusion of Holly Lodge, where she spends her time in tears & retirement, overwhelmed by her crape trimmings, overwhelmed by the education of her children, & by everything, poor lady, which comes in her way.