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 Hôtel 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 bête; 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.
—————
XI.
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
