Free Edith Wharton - Novella 01 by Fast (and) Loose (v2.1) Page A

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