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.

Chapter 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.