“I cannot understand what has happened. She was happily married to her lover last year—as you know.” “He may have died. How lonely she seemed! O poor, poor thing—it makes me feel almost guilty to think how loved & happy I am while others…” Madeline brushed away her tears hastily, & for a few moments neither spoke. The next morning found Priggett & her young mistress hurrying down the same obscure street, laden with baskets & shawls, towards the house into which Teresina had been carried. She was still lying on the low bed where they had left her the night before, her great eyes wide with grief, her childish face haggard with lines of suffering. “She won’t eat much, Signora,” said Giovita, the woman of the house, as Madeline bent anxiously over the bed, “but I think she’ll be better soon, poor fanciulla!” Teresina turned her eyes to the fair, pitying face that stooped above her. “You are the beautiful Signora,” she whispered, “that came to me last night. The Signore Inglese said you would be kind.” Madeline’s colour brightened softly; he called her kind! “I want to be your friend, Teresina,” she answered; “for he has told me a great deal about you, & we are both so sorry for you!” Teresina sighed. A new contentment was entering into her eyes as they met those other eyes, pure & tender as a guardian Angel’s. “You look like one of the Saints in the great pictures,” she murmured dreamily. “It was at Easter—I saw it—the saint with the white face like yours.” “Never mind that, Teresina,” Madeline said gently. “I want you to tell me why you were so hungry & unhappy & all alone in the street last night. Do not be afraid to tell me. If you have no friends, I want to help you & take care of you.” “I have no friends,” Teresina whispered, still gazing up at Madeline. “Oh, I am so unhappy, Signora…I ran away to starve all alone…I could not kill myself…” she shuddered & hid her face with a burst of sobs. At first Madeline could win no more from her, but gradually, as she sat by the wretched bedside, she learned the story of Teresina’s sorrow. She had been married—poor child!—to her sweetheart, Matteo, & they had been so happy, until Matteo could get no work, & grew harsh & reckless. Teresina was unhappy, & cried because he did not love her any more—& the bambino died of the fever, & Matteo got worse & worse. Still there was no work, & Teresina was ill at home—Matteo said he could not feed her. He used to go out all day, & one day he did not come back—she never saw him again, & she knew that he had deserted her. “Oh, it was so lonely without the bambino,” ended the poor little wife, through her tears. “I could not bear to go home, for the Madre is dead & the Padre was so angry when I married Matteo—& I did not want anything but to run away & hide myself—& die.” But she did not die; Madeline felt a new interest in her after this & watched & comforted her tenderly; & in a few days she was strong enough to be moved from the wretched house to the Graham’s apartment. They sent for her father, a rough old peasant who would have nothing to do with her, & cursed her for marrying against his will. Teresina begged with passionate tears not to go back to him; & Madeline had grown so attached to her that she easily prevailed on her father to keep the poor child at least for the present. On Teresina’s part there had sprung up a blind adoration of the beautiful Signorina who was the Signore Inglese’s friend; she asked nothing but to stay with her always & serve her & follow her like a dog. Guy was not a little interested in the fate of his poor little model; & Madeline’s kindness to her won him more & more. Few girls, he thought, would have behaved as nobly, as impulsively & as tenderly as Madeline had done. And so it was that Teresina’s misfortune revealed to him the earnest, quiet beauty of this shy English girl’s character, & made him think more & more seriously every day that in this world of sin & folly & darkness there are after all some pure spirits moving, like sun-gleams in a darkened chamber.

Chapter XIII

Villa Doria-Pamfili

“If thou canst reason, sure thou dost not love.” Old Play.

On one of those delicious languid days of Spring that follow in the footsteps of the short Roman Winter, the Grahams drove out to spend a long afternoon at the Villa Doria-Pamfili, where the violets & anemones were awake in every hollow, & the trees putting on their tenderest silver-green. Guy rode by the side of the carriage, having breakfasted that morning with its occupants & engaged to join them again in the afternoon. Day by day Madeline’s society had grown sweeter & more needful to him, her soft presence effacing as nothing else could the bitter past.