Edith Wharton: Complete Works. Edith Wharton

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.

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XII.

      Poor Teresina.

      “When pain & anguish wring the brow, a ministering Angel thou!”

      Scott: “Marmion.”

      The returning Winter found Guy Hastings again at Rome, in the old studio which he & Egerton had shared the year before; but Jack was still in England, though he wrote in the expectancy of joining his Telemachus in the early Spring. Meanwhile Guy, on settling down in his Winter quarters, began to apply himself with real assiduity to his art. He painted a successful picture which was bought by an Italian connoisseur; & inspirited by this piece of good fortune, grew more & more attached to the great work he had heretofore treated as play. He had lost his utter recklessness in this deepening interest, & a new & softening influence seemed to have entered into his imbittered life since the happy weeks at Interlaken. This influence was not the less tender or pleasant that it was somehow connected with a pair [of] sweet, childlike blue eyes & a low voice full of shy music. Little did Madeline, cherishing the secret of her first love in silence, guess the innocent change she had worked in her hero; & perhaps Guy himself scarcely realized her quiet power. When the Grahams came back to Rome however, the intercourse which had charmed the Interlaken days, was renewed; Guy was always welcomed in their apartment, & many a little breakfast or supper was given in their honour in his sunny studio. Mr. Graham, too, discovered that Madeline’s portrait must be painted; & twice a week she & her mother would knock at Guy’s door, until, when the last coat of varnish was dry & the picture sent home, he grew to miss the timid rap & the pleasant hour that ensued & to discover that it had been, unconsciously, the brightest part of his day. Madeline’s frail health grew stronger, & her shy laugh gayer; & though one parent was far from satisfied with the cause, both could not but rejoice over the effect of this change. Altogether, the Winter was a happy, if a quiet one to the few with whom our story is most concerned; & as the days slipped by, they forged the imperceptible links of interest & sympathy which were drawing Guy nearer to Madeline. One of these links was brought about by a little personage who by this time had nearly dropped out of Guy’s remembrance, although her face was reflected on more than one canvas hung upon his studio wall. He was hurrying homeward near dusk on a soft day toward the end of January, & taking a short cut to the Piazza ___, struck a little, out of the way street, apparently quite deserted in the waning light. The houses were old & ruinous, & if Guy had found time to pause, their tumbling picturesqueness would have delighted his artist-eye; but as it was, he was in too great haste to notice anything, until at a turn in the street he nearly stumbled across a little drooping figure huddled against a broken flight of steps. Bending down in astonishment, he asked in Italian what was the matter. There was no answer, or movement, & he repeated his question more anxiously. Just then a coarse-faced woman came swinging down the street bare-headed, & paused in astonishment to see the handsome Signore Inglese bending over a little, cowering contadina with her face hidden. “Eh, she won’t move, Signore,” said the woman, grinning. “She’s been there these three hours.” “Is she dead?” asked Guy, pityingly. “Dead? Santa Maria! No, not she. Maybe she is crazy.” “You cannot leave her here,” said Guy; “if she is alive she should be taken in somewhere.” The woman shrugged her shoulders. “I tell you, she won’t move. I don’t know who she is.” “Poverina!” said Guy, very low; but he had scarcely spoken when a tremor shot through the crouching form at his feet, & a faint little cry reached him. “Signore—it is Teresina!” “Teresina,” repeated Guy in amazement. “Are you ill? What is the matter?” “Eh,” said the woman, staring, “The Signore knows her, then?” “What has happened?” Guy continued, as a burst of sobs answered his questions. “Will you get up, Teresina, & let me carry you into some house?” But she did not lift her hidden face, nor move from her cowering attitude. Guy was in sore perplexity. He could not leave her, not knowing whether she was ill or frightened in some way; & the woman who had been watching him with an expression of sleepy surprise on her heavy face ran off here in pursuit of a brown-legged little boy who was scampering toward the Piazza. Just then, as Guy was gazing doubtfully down the crooked street, two people appeared moving quickly against the dark sunset glow; one a short, plain-faced little woman, with the indefinable air of an English servant—the other tall, & blonde, with soft blue eyes & her hands full of flowers. “Miss Graham!” exclaimed Guy, as she recognized him with a start & a deepening blush. “What is the matter?” said Madeline, glancing with surprise towards Teresina while Priggett, the maid, hung back with a disapproving stare. “Who is that poor creature, Mr. Hastings? Why,” she continued suddenly, “it must be your little peasant—Teresina!” “So it is,” said Guy, “& I cannot find whether she is ill or only unhappy. She will not move, & I cannot get her to answer my questions.” “Poor thing!” and Madeline, regardless of the dirty cobble-stones & her own soft, pretty dress, knelt down beside Teresina; & began to speak in her sweet, shy Italian. “Will you not tell us if you are suffering?” she said; “we are so sorry for you & we cannot leave you here.”