“I did love him, I did care—I believe my heart is nearly broken too!” She tried to steady her voice, & went on hurriedly. “I was young & silly & ambitious. I fancied I didn’t care, but I did—did. I have suffered too, & the more bitterly because what you say is true. I have wronged him!” She sank down on a chair, hiding her face in her hands, & Jack, who had not expected this passionate outburst, was not a little appalled by what he had brought about. But it was too late now to undo it; Georgie was thoroughly shaken out [of] her habitual artificial composure. The mask had fallen off, & oh, how sadly, sadly human were the features behind it! “And you,” she went on, “are the first who has dared to tell me what I have felt so long! I could almost thank you—” She paused once more, & Jack knew that her tears were falling, though she screened her face with one lifted hand. “Instead of that,” he said, “you must forgive my frankness—my impertinence, rather—in speaking to you in this way.” “No—no. I think I feel better for it,” she almost whispered. “But one thing more. Does he—does he think of me as you do?” “Do not ask me,” said Jack, gently. “I think of you with nothing but pity.” “And he—he despises me? He thinks I do not care for him? Oh—it will break my heart. And yet,” she went on, with a moan, “what else have I deserved? Oh, my folly, my folly! But you believe I do love him? You see how wretched, how—” She did not notice, that, as she spoke, leaning toward Jack with her hand half outstretched, Lord Breton’s voice was sounding near the door; but Jack did. “Yes,” he said, composedly, taking up an album, “these photographs are charming. Have you seen the last of the Princess of Wales?” Georgie’s tact would ordinarily have exceeded his; but she had been carried far beyond external observances, & could only sit silent, with white, compressed lips as the gentleman entered. When Lord Breton came up to the tea-table, however, she rose, & said: “Will you excuse me? I do not feel quite well—it is very warm. Will you give me your arm?” She took her husband’s arm & he led her to the door. “Lady Breton’s delicate health is a continual source of anxiety to me,” he explained as he came back. But circumstantial evidence was against Jack, & there was a scowl of suspicion beneath my lord’s heavy politeness. A few days later, Egerton called at the house, but my lady was out; & although he saw her several times at balls & drums & races, always resplendent & always surrounded by a faithful retinue of adorers, he had no opportunity of exchanging a word with her.
IX.
Madeline Graham.
“The lady, in truth, was young, fair & gentle.”
Robert Lytton: Lucile.
Since his parting with Georgie Rivers, & the disappointment of his love, Guy Hastings had been, as Jack expressed it: “going rapidly to the dogs.” Now there are many modes of travelling on this road; the melodramatic one in which the dark-browed hero takes to murder, elopement, & sedition; the commonplace one in which drinking, gambling & duelling are prominent features; the precipitate one of suicide; & finally that one which Guy himself had chosen. He did not kill himself, as we have seen, nor did he run away with anyone, or fight a duel, or drink hard; but he seemed to grow careless of life, money & health, & to lose whatever faith & tenderness he had had in a sort of undefined skepticism. Perhaps this least perceptible is yet the most dangerous way of “going to the dogs”; it is like the noiseless dripping of lime-water which hardens the softest substance into stone. Guy’s life was no longer sweet to him. He felt himself sliding away from all ties of kindliness & affection, & did not care to stay his course; he thought his heart was withered & that nothing could revive it. Perhaps the first thing that came near touching it, & shewed that it had any vitality left, was Teresina. Not that he loved her; Jack need not have been anxious on that score. But there is a dangerous sort of interest & pity which may too easily be mistaken for love, & which Guy felt towards the little contadina. She appealed to the heart he thought dead by her shyness & her soft, leaning temper; & to his eye by the rich, languid beauty which could in no way bring to his mind another kind of prettiness with which his bitterest memories were associated. He painted the girl over & over again, & interested himself in her; but whatever danger might have been in store was warded off by a confession that Teresina made one April morning, with blushes & tears, to the Signore. She was in love, poor little soul, with Matteo, old Giovanni the blacksmith’s son; but Matteo was poor, & Teresina’s parents had destined her to be the wife of the rich carpenter, Pietro. So she told Guy; & her story so completely enlisted his sympathy that he not only went to see the Padre & bribed him largely to let Teresina marry where her heart was, but wrote to Mr. Graham, who had bought one of his pictures, & got a nice little sum from the generous merchant. This was some time after Jack’s departure, & a week after Guy left Rome for his Summer wanderings in Switzerland, followed by the gratitude of two honest peasant hearts.
The soft July day, a little more than two months after this, he was walking along the old covered bridge at Interlaken, when the sound of voices reached him from the other end, & a moment later a stout, fair lady, who seemed to move in an English atmosphere, so clear was her nationality, appeared with a girl by her side. The girl was tall & elancee, & bore an unmistakeable resemblance to the elder lady; & a few yards behind them Guy espied the florid, whiskered countenance of Mr. Graham. The merchant was the first to speak his recognition, in his usual loud tones, while the ladies fell back a littie, & the girl began to sketch with her parasol. “Mr. Hastings here!” exclaimed Mr. Graham. “This is a surprise! Been here long, eh? Mrs. Graham, my dear, this is Mr. Hastings, the gentleman who painted that pretty little face you make so much of; this is my daughter, Mr. Hastings.” These introductions over, Guy perforce turned his steps & recrossed the bridge with the family party. He talked to Mrs. Graham, while the girl walked behind with her father; but his quick artist’s eye had taken in a glance the impression that she was thin, but well-built, & exquisitely blonde, with large blue eyes, almost infantine in their innocent sweetness. She spoke very little, & seemed retiring & unaffected; & he noticed that her voice was low & musical. As for Mrs. Graham, she may best be described as being one of a large class. She was comely & simple-mannered, intensely proud of her husband & her daughter, & satisfied with life altogether; one of those dear, commonplace souls, without wit or style, but with an abundance of motherliness that might cover a multitude of fashionable defects. Guy was universally polite to women, but Mrs. Graham’s bland twaddle about hotels, scenery & railway carriages (the British matron’s usual fund of conversation when taking a relaxation from housekeeping on the continent) was not very absorbing, & his eyes wandered continually towards her daughter—Madeline, her father had called her. He wondered why the name suited her soft, blonde beauty so well; he wondered if she were as refined as she looked; & indulged in so many of those lazy speculations which a young man is apt to lavish on a beautiful girl, that Mrs. Graham’s account of their journey over the Cornice was almost entirely lost to his inattentive ears. Finally, as they drew near home, Madeline stopped to fill her hands with flowers, & he picked up her sunshade, falling back by her side to admire her nosegay. This young gentleman—who would have called himself “a man of the world” & thought he knew woman-kind pretty well, from the actress to the Duchess—had never seen before the phenomenon of an unsophisticated English beauty among the better classes. “I think that ladies’ hands were made for gathering flowers,” he observed. “It is the prettiest work they can do.” Madeline blushed; “It is the pleasantest work, I think,” she said, in her clear, shy tones, bending her tall head over her field-blossoms. Guy thought of “The Gardener’s Daughter,” & wondered whether her golden hair was as pale & soft as Madeline Graham’s. “But you can paint them,” the girl added. “How I envy you!” “If you are so fond of flowers, you should learn to paint them yourself, Miss Graham,” said Guy. “Ah—if I could. I don’t think I have any talent.” “You must let me find that out,” he returned, smiling. “I should like to teach you.” Madeline blushed again; indeed
, every passing emotion made her colour change & waver exquisitely. Guy liked to watch the wildrose flush deepen & fade on the pure cheek beside him; it was a study in itself to make an artist happy. “You know,” he went on, “all talents are not developped at once, but lie dormant until some magic touch awakens them. Your love for flowers may help you to find out that you are an artist.” “I am very fond of pictures,” said Madeline, simply. “I love the Madonna heads with their soft, sweet eyes & blue hoods. But then, you know, I am no judge of art—Papa is.” At another time, Guy would have smiled at this daughterly illusion; now it only struck him as a very rare & pretty thing. “One does not need to be a judge of art to love it,” he said. “The discrimination comes later; but the love is inborn.” She lifted her wide blue eyes shyly to his face. “I suppose you have both,” she said, gravely. “Very little of either, I am afraid,” said Guy, smiling. “I am little more than an amateur, you know.” Just then, Mr. Graham, who had gone forward with his wife, called Madeline. “Come, come, my dear. It is getting damp & we must be off to our hotel. Our paths divide, here, eh? Mr. Hastings. Come & see us.” “Goodbye,” said Madeline, with a smile. “Goodbye,” he answered; “shall you be at home tomorrow afternoon?” “Yes. I believe so. Shall we not, Mamma?” “What, my dear? Yes,” nodded Mrs. Graham. “Do come, Mr. Hastings. It’s a little dull for Madeline here.” And they parted, Guy lifting his hat, & lingering a moment to watch them on their way. “A very nice young fellow, eh?” said Mr. Graham, as Madeline slipped her hand through his arm. “Excellent family. Excellent family.” “And so polite,” cried Mrs. Graham. “I declare he talked beautifully.” “I think he is very handsome,” said Madeline, softly. “And how clever he is, Papa.” “Clever, eh? Yes—yes; a rising young fellow. And very good family.” “But it’s a wonder to me he took any notice of you, Maddy,” observed Mrs. Graham. “Those handsome young men in the best society don’t care for anything under an Earl’s wife.” “But he is a gentleman, Mamma!” said Madeline with a blush. The next afternoon, a servant was sent up to Mr. Graham’s apartments at the Hotel Belvidere with a card; which a maid carried into an inner room, where the following dialogue went on while the Hotel servant waited. “Mr. Hastings, Mamma—what shall I do?” “See him, love. I am not suffering much.” “Oh, Mamma, I can’t leave you alone!” “With Priggett, my dear? Of course. Perhaps he might know of a physician.” “Of course, Mamma! I will see him. Ask the man to shew Mr. Hastings up.” And when Guy was ushered into the stiffly-furnished sitting room a pale young lady with her crown of golden hair somewhat disturbed & her white dress rumpled, came forward to meet him. “Oh, Mr. Hastings…” “Has anything happened, Miss Graham?” The tears were hanging on Madeline’s lashes & her quiet manner was changed for a trembling agitation. “Mamma has sprained her ankle,” she said, “& Papa is away. He went to the Lauterbrunnen this morning, & an hour ago Mamma slipped on the staircase—” she ended rather abruptly by pressing her handkerchief to her eyes. “My dear Miss Graham, how unfortunate! Have you sent for a physician? Can I do anything for you?” “Oh, thanks,” said Madeline, “we have got the maid & I have bound her ankle up, but we didn’t know where to find a physician.” “How lucky that I came!” Guy exclaimed. “I believe there is no good native doctor, but Sir Ashley Patchem is at my Hotel & I will go back at once.” “Oh, thank you, thank you!” Madeline could scarcely control her tears, as she held her hand out. “May I come back & see if I can help you in any other way?” Guy said, as he took it; & then he was gone, at a quick pace. Half an hour later, the famous London physician was in Mrs. Graham’s room at the Hotel Belvidere. “A very slight sprain, I assure you,” he said, as Madeline followed him anxiously into the sitting-room. “Don’t disturb yourself. Only have this sent for at once.” He put a prescription in her hand, & as he left the room Guy came in again. “I am so much relieved,” said Madeline, “& I don’t know how to thank you.” “What does Sir Ashley say?” “It is very slight, not at all dangerous. I am so thankful! But this prescription… I suppose one of the servants…” “Let me take it,” said Guy. Then, glancing at his watch; “Mr. Graham ought to be here shortly, but you will send for me in case of need, Miss Graham? Are you sure that I can do nothing else?” “You have done so much,” Madeline answered, with a smile. “No, I think everything is arranged, & as you say Papa will be here soon.” “I will not delay the prescription, then. Goodbye, Miss Graham!” “Goodbye.” She held out her hand again, as to a friend, & again he took it & pressed it for an instant. As he walked homeward in the soft Summer dusk, he had the pleasant feeling of a man who knows that he has gained the admiration & gratitude of a pretty, interesting girl by an easy service just at the right time. No man wins his way so easily as he who has the good luck to prove himself “a friend in need”; & Guy felt that in one day he had come nearer to Madeline Graham than months of casual acquaintance could have brought him.
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