Edith Wharton - Novella 01 (6 page)

 
          
“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.

 
          
  

 
          
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.