Edith Wharton - Novella 01 (7 page)

 
          
  

 
          
At
Interlaken
.

 
          
“Through those days Youth, love &
hope walked smiling hand in hand.”
 
Old Play.

 
          
It
is certain that in this world the smallest wires work the largest machinery in
a wonderful way. The twist that Mrs. Graham’s foot took on the Hotel staircase,
led gradually up a ladder of greater events to a most unexpected climax, &
influenced her daughter’s life as the most carefully laid plans could perhaps
not have done. Strangely & wonderfully, “Dieu dispose.” The Grahams had not
intended to remain over a week at
Interlaken
, & had all their
Summer
plans arranged after the approved tourist fashion. These plans Mrs. Graham’s
sprained ankle of course overset. Slight at the accident was, it tied her to
her couch for five weeks at the least; & all that could be done was to
accept the circumstances & engage the best rooms which the Hotel Belvidere
could offer, for that length of time. Mr. Graham was thoroughly disgusted. “To
be mewed up in this hole,” he complained to
Hastings
, “with nothing to do but look at the
mountains out of one’s bedroom windows. In fact, though the continent is very
pleasant for a change & very nice to travel in,
England
’s the place to be quiet in!” “Yes, I agree
with you,” said Guy; “but I hope this unfortunate accident won’t frighten you
off to
England
?”
Mr.

 
          
Graham
shook his head despondently! “I wish it could, my dear
Hastings
, I wish it could. But, you see, our
Madeline is too delicate for the rough English weather, & as we’ve got to
choose between Nice & Rome of course we’ll go to
Rome
again.” As for Madeline, she accepted the
change with youthful adaptability, invented fancy-work for her mother,
collected flowers, played on the rattling Hotel piano which had been moved into
her sitting-room, & took long walks with her father & Mr. Hastings.
These walks, indeed, were the pleasantest part of her quiet, contented days;
Mr. Hastings talked so well & got her such pretty wild-flowers, she said
simply to her mother. And Mrs. Graham sighed. Madeline was a good, dutiful
girl,
& full of worship for her father; but perhaps she
was not sorry when, on the morning which had been chosen for a long pilgrimage,
Mr. Graham got some business letters which required immediate answers, &
announced at the breakfast table that he could not go. “Oh, what a pity, John,”
said Mrs. Graham, from the sofa. “It is such a beautiful day, & Maddy has
been counting on this walk.” Madeline looked studiously at her plate, but the
pink was beginning to flutter up into her cheek. “Nonsense!” said Mr. Graham. “Madeline
shall go, of course. What do you suppose
Hastings
wants with an old fellow like me, eh? No,
no, Mother; Madeline shall go & they will be only too glad to be rid of me.”
“Oh, Papa!” murmured Madeline. But when Guy Hastings appeared an hour later,
she was ready in her gray walking dress, with a quantity of light blue veil
floating about her leghorn hat & looped around her throat. There was a
slight flush on her face, & she had never looked
more
lovely
. “This morning was made for a walk,” said Guy, as he stood by
Mrs. Graham’s couch. “But the one we have planned is long. I hope we shall not
tire Miss Graham.” “Oh, no,” said Madeline, coming up, “but—Papa can’t come
this morning.” “Mr. Graham has some business letters to attend to,” explained
Mrs. Graham. Guy glanced at Madeline; “You are dressed,” he said: “won’t you
trust to my guidance?” Madeline stood still, blushing; but just then Mr. Graham
came in, & overhearing Guy’s words, said warmly: “Yes, indeed she will!
Take good care of her,
Hastings
. I say, she will be glad to have her old father out of the way.” “Oh,
Papa,” said Madeline again.
So the two started out, Guy
carrying her flower-basket & shawl, through the sunny morning weather.
A handsome couple they made; & as they walked through the Hotel garden
together, a Russian princess, who was taking an early airing, observed to her
little French secretary: “that those English were
fiancées
; she could see it.” As they reached the gate, a little
child who was racing after a hoop, stumbled & fell crying across their
path; & Madeline stooped down & picked him up very tenderly. “Are you
hurt?” “Not very much, Madame,” said the child; & Madeline felt the blood
flying into her face, & wondered whether Guy were very much vexed at having
her mistaken for his wife. On through the sunny morning weather: who can tell
of that walk, with all its pretty little incidents, & surprises &
adventures? It was such a pastoral as drops now & then between the
tragedies & farces of life. Madeline was perfectly happy; & if Guy was
not as happy as she, he was in a better mood than he had been for many a day,
& the bright morning air, the beautiful scenery, the sweet English face at
his side, warmed him more & more into hearty enjoyment. As they walked, the
flower-basket was filled with new trophies; & when they reached their
destination, Guy spread Madeline’s shawl under a nut-tree, & sat down by
her side to sketch. “Why not take a drawing lesson today?” he said, as she
watched him pointing his pencils & making his slight preparations. “I think
one could learn anything in such beautiful weather.” “I had rather watch you,”
said Madeline, “& you know I have to arrange my flowers too.
Oh, what a beautiful day!”
“Perfect. I didn’t know what an
attractive little nook
Interlaken
is before.” “And you are going tomorrow?” asked Madeline, dropping her
lashes. “I think so. Every artist is at heart a wanderer—begging Pope’s pardon
for taking such a liberty with his line. There, Miss Graham, what do you think
of those outlines?” “How quick you are! Oh, how cleverly you have done it.” Guy
laughed. “Such injudicious praise as yours would soon spoil me,” he said. “I
suppose so,” Madeline returned naively. “You know I am so ignorant.” Guy went
on with his sketch; he revelled in the deep, luxurious Summer silence, the
whisper of the leaves above his head, the easy consciousness that if he did
lift his eyes from his work they would meet nothing less in harmony with the
radiant day than Madeline Graham’s fair, sweet face bent above her flowers. Now
& then, as the sketch grew beneath his quick pencil, she offered her shy
criticism or her shyer praise; but for the most part they were silent, as
though afraid by word or movement to break the spell of peacefulness that had
fallen upon them. It was not until they had again reached the gate of the Hotel
garden, that either reverted to Guy’s coming departure. “I am glad that our
last walk has been so pleasant,” he said. “I wonder how many more walks you
will take after I am gone.” “You are really going?” He saw the colour creep
upwards, & the long lashes tremble. “I had intended to go,” he answered,
leaning against the gate. “I suppose—I suppose it has grown dull,” murmured
Madeline. “It has grown so pleasant that I wish I had not reached my limit,”
said Guy. “When a man proposes to spend two days at a place, & lengthens
his visit to nearly two weeks, as I have done, he must begin to consider how
much time he has left for the rest of his tour.” “We shall miss you,” ventured
Madeline, overwhelmed with blushes. “Papa, I mean, will…” “Won’t you miss me?”
said Guy, very low. Madeline’s half-averted cheek turned a deeper crimson; her
heart was beating stormily, & everything seemed to swim before her. “I don’t
know,” she whispered, tremblingly. In any other person, at any other time, such
an answer would have been bete; in Madeline Graham, with the sunset light
striking her pale golden braids, & the church-bells coming softly through
the sweet evening air, as they stood by the gate, it seemed to Guy Hastings
very sweet & musical. “If I thought you would miss me I should be almost
glad to go,” he said, quietly. “And yet, I do not know why I go. It is so
peaceful here, that I feel as if life were worth a little—if I go, I shall
probably do my best to tumble down a ravine.” Madeline lifted her blue eyes in
wonderment; she had never heard him speak so before. “Yes,” he went on, “You do
not know what it is to feel that everything is worthless & heartless, as I
have done. I envy you. I almost wish that I were going to stay here.” He
paused; &, moved by the weary sadness which his voice & words had for
the first time betrayed, Madeline gathered heart to say, holding out her hand: “I
don’t understand, but I am very sorry for you. You must have had a
disappointment. Stay here.” And Guy stayed; why not? As he had said, life
seemed worth a little in this friendly atmosphere of peace, & in Madeline’s
society. An inexpressible charm, which he scarcely acknowledged to himself,
made her society pleasant; the quiet, Arcadian days were an utter contrast to
the dash & hurry of his unsatisfied life; he had found a palmtree in the
desert-sand & he sat down to rest. As for Madeline, on the day when she met
Guy in the covered bridge, that mysterious thing called “love at first sight”
had entered in & taken possession of her heart. His manner had, indeed, a
great fascination for all; & he was unusually gentle & serious with
Madeline; then he was handsome, & Madeline, though she was not, like her
Papa, a judge of art, had the good taste common to most girls, to admire a
handsome face. As for those words of his by the gate, to say that she was a
woman is to say that they aroused her sympathy & admiration as nothing else
could have done, & raised Guy into a suffering hero. Nothing could be purer
& more childlike than Madeline’s passion; it blent with her life like a
strain of sweet music, in which as yet there were no jarring chords; there was
nothing noisy or turbulent about it. So the
Summer
stole on through balmy days & short, warm nights; Guy lingered at
Interlaken
, & Madeline saw him daily. He certainly
treated her with marked
admiration,
& both Mr.
& Mrs. Graham were not slow to draw their conclusions therefrom; but he
spoke no word of love, &, as the happy days passed, seemed inclined to
remain “half her lover, all her friend.” Nor did Madeline feel the want of a
closer appeal to her heart. The present was all-sufficient. Why should this
pastoral ever end, or if it was to end, why should she not enjoy it the more
fully now? Her love for Guy was as yet almost too idealized & abstract to
demand
a reciprocation
. Enough that he was by her
side, & that he was glad to be there. Mr. Graham, too, was quite easy on
the subject. Madeline was a pretty girl, &
Hastings
was evidently very much gone on her; he was
of good family & she had money enough for both; no match could be more
desirable, & none seemed more likely to prosper. It was natural that they
should like to spin out their courtship-days; young people have the whole world
before them, & are never in a hurry. But Mrs. Graham was not so
well-pleased with the turn affairs had taken. “Don’t be so confident, John,”
she said, anxiously. “I had rather trust Maddy with a good, honest business man
than one of these fine, fast young fellows. Very likely he is only amusing
himself; what does he want with a merchant’s daughter? No, no; it will come to
nothing & if it goes on much longer the child’s heart will be broken. I
have heard stories enough about Mr. Hastings & his set, & I don’t
believe in one of them!” “Nonsense!” said Mr. Graham, angrily. He had set his
heart on the match & these warnings of his wife’s, which he could not in
his heart despise, made him uneasy.

 
          
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The End of the
Season.

 
          
“Adieu, bal, plaisir, amour! On
disait: Pauvre Constance!
 
Et
on dansait
jusqu’au Jour chez l’ambassadeur de France.”
 
Delavigne.

 
          
On
a certain evening near the close of those busy, rushing summer months which
Londoners call “the season,” Lady Breton was sitting alone in the long,
luxurious dressing-room which opened off her satin-hung boudoir. She wore one
of those mysterious combinations of lace & ribands & soft folds called
a wrapper, & as she leaned back rather wearily in her deep-arm-chair, her
slippered feet were stretched out to meet the glow of the small wood-fire
crackling on the hearth. There was no other light in the room, but the
fire-flash, unless a certain dull twilight gleam through the dark folds of the
curtains, deserves such a name; for my lady had given orders not to be
disturbed, adding that she would ring for the lamps. But in the soft,
flickering of the flames, that rose & fell fitfully, it was a very white
& mournful face that sank back in the shadow of the crimson cushion; a face
in which there was no discernible trace of the rosy, audacious Georgie Rivers
whom we used to know. Nor was it the splendid, resistless Lady Breton who had
taken
London
by storm that
Summer
;
but only a very miserable little personage, occasionally breaking the twilight
hush of the warm room with a heavy, aching cough, that made her lean shivering
nearer the pleasant blaze. In fact, Georgie had at last broken down, in body
& mind, under the weight of her bitter mistake; which all her triumphs
& her petty glories seemed only to make bitterer, with a sense of something
empty & unsatisfied, lower than the surface-gayety of the ball-room. The
pang had deepened & deepened, driving her farther into the ceaseless rush
of society with the vain hope of losing her individual sorrow there; no one was
gayer than Lady Breton. But at home, in the grand house, with its grave
servants & its pictures & treasures, that was no more hope of
forgetting than abroad. Any sympathy that might eventually have grown up
between the old lord & his young wife, had been frozen by Georgie’s
persistent indifference to him; & whatever love his worn-out old heart had
at first lavished on her, was lost in the nearer interests of a good dinner or
an amusing play. Lord Breton, in short, relapsed entirely into his
bachelor-habits, & was only with his
wife,
or
conscious of her existence when she presided at his table, or entered a
ball-room at his side. He was not ungenerous; he allowed her plenty of liberty
& still had a comfortable pleasure in feeling that he was the possessor of
the most charming woman in London—but day by day, she became less a part of his
life. And still at her heart clung the love that she had despised of old, &
whose unconquerable reality she was learning now—too late. Jack Egerton’s
reproaches seemed to have been the last drop in her cup of shame &
bitterness—again & again came the wretched, haunting thought that she had
lost Guy’s esteem forever, & nothing could win back the place in his heart
that she had sold so cheap. So she mused on in the closing darkness, over the
firelight, & it was
8 o’clock
when she rang for her maid, who came in
with the lamps & a bottle of cough-syrup for my lady. Georgie rose wearily
from her seat, drawing a soft shawl close about her shoulders; &, as the
maid stood waiting for orders, said between her painful coughing: “I shall
dress for the ball now, Sidenham.” “But, my lady,” the woman answered, “you
have had no dinner.” “No, I did not want any, thanks. It is time to dress.” “But—my
lady,” persisted the maid, “your cough is so bad… indeed, my lady…” Georgie
interrupted her with an impatient movement.
“My white dress,
Sidenham.
Have the flowers come home?” “Yes, my lady.” And the process
of the toilette began. Sidenham had a real attachment for her mistress, but she
knew that my lady could brook no questioning of her will, & being a good
servant, went about her duty obediently. Lord Breton had dined out that
evening, but at about 9.30, as Sidenham was putting the last touches to Georgie’s
hair, he knocked unexpectedly at the dressing-room door, & then came in, in
his evening dress. “I hoped you were in bed by—good Heavens!” he exclaimed, as
Georgie rose in her glistening satin. “You don’t mean to say that you are going
out tonight?” Sidenham, shaking out my lady’s train, looked volumes of sympathy
at my lord. “Oh, certainly,” returned Georgie, unconcernedly. “It is the
Duchess of Westmoreland’s ball tonight, you know.” “But this is madness—madness.
Your cough was much worse today—such exposure at night would be extremely
dangerous.” Georgie was clasping her diamonds, with her back turned towards
him, & merely shrugged her white shoulders slightly. “Let me dissuade you,”
Lord Breton continued, with real anxiety. “Surely it is little to forfeit one
ball—the last of the season—for one’s health’s sake. Your physician would
certainly not advise such imprudence, such absolute risk.” “Very likely,” said
Georgie, nonchalantly, “but—’when the cat’s away the mice will play,’ you know.”
“I know that going out tonight would be folly on your part; let me beg you to
desist from it.”
“My white fan, Sidenham.
I presume,”
said Georgie, turning to face her husband as she spoke, “that I shall have your
escort?” “I am going to the ball.” “And yet” she continued lightly, “you wish
to exile me from it? I should die of ennui in half an hour alone here!” “Then—then,
may I offer you my company?” he said, eagerly, taking the cloak from Sidenham’s
hands. “Let us give up the ball,
Georgina
.”
Georgie was really moved; such a demonstration was so unusual on Lord Breton’s
part, that
it could not fail to touch her. But it was not
her role to shew this. “No indeed!” she replied, clasping her bracelet, &
coming closer to him. “Why should either of us be sacrificed? Instead of
suicide for one, it would be—murder for both! Please put my cloak on.” “You go
then?” said Lord Breton, coldly, with a gathering frown. “Oh, yes. As you say,
it is the last ball of the season. Tomorrow I shall do penance.” And drawing her
cloak close, with a suppressed cough, she swept out of the room. The Duchess of
Westmoreland’s ball, at Lochiel House, was a very grand & a very brilliant
affair, & a very fitting finale to one of the gayest seasons that people
could recall. Everybody (that is, as her Grace expressively said, “everybody
that is anybody
” )
was there; & the darling of the
night was, as usual, the fascinating Lady Breton. White as her white dress,
unrelieved by a shade of colour, she came in on her husband’s arm; people remembered
afterwards, how strangely, deadly pale she was. But she danced continually,
talked & laughed with everyone more graciously than ever, & raised the
hearts of I don’t know how many desponding lovers by her charming gayety &
goodnature. She was resting after the last quadrille, when the Duke of
Westmoreland himself, came up to her, with the inexpressibly relieved air of a
model host who, having done his duty by all the ugly dowagers in the room,
finds himself at liberty to follow his own taste for a few moments. “I don’t
think” he said, answering Georgie’s greeting “that you have seen the Duchess’s
new conservatories. Will you let me be your cicerone?” “How did you guess,
Duke,” she returned, gaily “that I was longing to escape from the heat &
light? Do take me, if I am not carrying you off from any more—agreeable—duty!” “My
duty is over,” said the Duke, smiling. “But you are coughing tonight, Lady
Breton, & I cannot allow you to go into the cooler air without a wrap.”
Signing to a servant, he sent for a soft fur mantle, & having folded it
carefully about Georgie’s shoulders, led her on his arm through the long &
brilliant suites. Followed by many an envious & many an admiring eye, she
walked on with her proud step, talking lightly & winningly to her noble
escort, until they reached the folding doors of the great conservatories. The
Duke led her in, & they paused on the threshold looking down the green
vista of gorgeous tropical plants. The gay dance-music came like a soft echo
from the distant ball-room, mingling with the clear tinkle of fountains that
tossed their spray amid the branching ferns &
palm-trees
on which the Chinese lanterns swung from the ceiling, shed an unreal, silvery
glow. For a moment neither spoke; then Georgie looked up at her host with a
bright smile. “Fairyland!” she exclaimed. “No one shall persuade me that this
is the work of anyone less ethereal than Queen Mab herself! Is it real? Will it
last?” “I hope so,” his Grace answered, laughing; “it would be a pity that her
Elfin Majesty’s work should vanish in a single night.” “Only, as children say, ‘it
is too good to be true,’” said Georgie, merrily. “At least, to us lesser
mortals, who are not accustomed to all the marvels of Lochiel
House.
” “Will you come on a little further?” said the Duke,
well-pleased. “I want to shew you some rare ferns. Here they are.” And so they
passed along the aisle of mingled green, in the soft moonlike radiance; pausing
here & there to admire or discuss the Duke’s favourite specimens. At the
end of the long, cool bower a broad ottoman stood in a recess filled with
ferns; & Georgie asked to sit down before entering the next conservatory. “You
are tiring yourself, Lady Breton?” asked the Duke, anxiously, sitting down
beside her, & drawing the mantle, which had slipped down, over her
shoulder. “No, not tired, indeed,” she answered, “but half dizzy with so much
beauty. I must sit still to be able to enjoy it perfectly—sit still, &
drink it in.” “It is a relief after the crowded rooms,” assented his Grace. “I
was longing to be here all the evening.” “I cannot wonder. Do you know, Duke,”
said Georgie, laughing, “if I were disposed to be sentimental I should say that
I envied the gardener who has these conservatories in charge more than anyone
in Lochiel House!” The Duke echoed her laugh. “If it suits you to be
sentimental just now, Lady Breton, the gardener—an old
protégé
of mine—is a very fit subject. He has a romance attached to
him.” “Better & better!” cried Georgie. “He can come in here & dream of
it!” “I daresay though—poor fellow!—he would rather forget it,” said the Duke.
Georgie started slightly, & a strange look came into her eyes. “Oh, if we
could but forget,” she half-whispered; then, in a different tone: “but what of
the gardener? I will not let you off with that story; you must play Princess
Scheherazade, Duke!” “Most obediently, though poor Watson probably never
intended his poor little love-affair to serve such a grand purpose. Well—’anything,
but to the purpose’ is my motto, Lady Breton, so here is the whole romance.
Watson came into my father’s service as a lad & rose to be one of the
undergardeners down at
Morley
Towers
. There he wooed my mother’s maid, a pretty
young woman, who in the end spoiled two lives by her ambition.—Are you ill,
Lady Breton?” “No, no,” said Georgie, hastily, playing nervously with her
bouquet, “please go on. I am quite impatient.” “Watson,” continued the Duke, “was
successful in his suit, & the wedding was arranged, much to the poor fellow’s
happiness—for he was as genuinely in love, Lady Breton,” said the Duke, with
slight sarcasm, “as any gentleman would have been—the wedding, I say, was
arranged, when my father brought home a fine French valet, who got a larger
salary, & had altogether a higher seat in the synagogue, than Watson. The
bride, whose head was turned by the attentions of this more fascinating rival,
gave Watson the slip—jilted him, and—great Heavens! You are faint, Lady Breton—what
is it?” The bouquet had slipped from Georgie’s powerless hands, & she could
scarcely answer, as the Duke bent over her, “it will be over—in a moment—” “Let
me call someone,” said his Grace, anxiously; but she shook her head, &
whispered faintly, “No, no… Do not call… it will be over…” “I will get you some
wine. Can you wait here alone?” She gave a little, frightened cry & caught
his hand wildly. “Don’t leave me! I… I… am better… now. I don’t want anything…
Take me away, Duke!” Sorely perplexed, he helped her to rise, & giving her
his arm, led her very slowly back through the conservatory. She had evidently
rallied her strength for the effort, for though she did not trust herself to
speak, her step was almost steady; & at last, to the Duke’s intense relief,
they reached the doors. The room on which the conservatory opened was hung with
pictures & during the earlier part of the evening had been deserted for the
other end of the suite; but the crowd had taken a new turn now & people
were thronging in, to fill the interval before supper. Once or twice in his
anxious progress through the crush the Duke was arrested, & not a few
astonished glances met Lady Breton’s white, suffering face; but they had nearly
gained a door leading by a back way to the cloak-room, when his Grace felt the
cold hand slip from his arm, & Georgie fell backward fainting. In an
instant they were ringed in by a startled, eager crowd; but the Duke, lifting
the slight, unconscious form in his arms, refused peremptorily all offers for
assistance, & despatching a messenger for Lord Breton, himself carried
Georgie into a dressing-room, out of reach of the bustle & curiosity of his
officious guests.