about Teresina & raised the poor little drooping head tenderly. “I do not think she is in pain—speak to her, Mr. Hastings.” Guy bent over her & said a few soothing words; & Madeline, still kneeling by her side, asked again very gently: “What is it, Teresina?” “Tell the Signora,” urged Guy. “She is very kind & wants to help you.” Teresina was still sobbing, but less violently & now she made no attempt to hide her face; & in a few moments they caught a little, trembling answer. “I am hungry.” “Poor thing—poor thing—” said Madeline, through her tears. “Have you no home?” She gave a little shriek & tried to hide her face, repeating passionately “No, no, no!” “She is not fit to answer any questions,” said Madeline. “Mr. Hastings, she must be carried into some house at once & taken care of.” The woman who had stared at Guy came back just then from her chase to the piazza; & calling her, they persuaded her to let Teresina be taken into her house close by. Guy lifted the poor, fainting creature in his arms & Madeline followed, for once regardless of Priggett’s indignant glances, while the woman led the way up some tumbling steps into a wretched little room. The night had fallen when, having left some money & sundry directions, they turned once more into the lonely street, Madeline shyly accepting Guy’s escort home. “I will go & see the poor thing tomorrow,” she said, her sweet voice full of pity. “I think she has had a great blow. She does not seem really ill—only exhausted.” “She could not be under kinder care—poor child!” said Guy, thoughtfully. “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.
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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. Great sorrows cast long shadows; & in reality the gloom of his disappointed love still hung darkly over Hastings’ life; but it was a softened gloom when he was at Madeline’s side, losing his heart-loneliness in her sunny companionship. When a man marries without falling in love he always has at hand an elaborate course of reasoning to prove beyond all doubt the advisableness of the step he takes; & some such process was occupying Guy’s thoughts as he trotted along on his chesnut, Rienzi, beside the Grahams’ carriage. Since his engagement had been broken he had, as we have said, felt all hope & interest in life slipping away from his empty grasp; & now that he had met & known Madeline it struck him with what renewed dreariness he would return to his old, reckless ways when their paths divided. More than once he had dreamed of his motley studio with a fair figure moving continually about it, or a soft, flushed face bending over him as he worked; & had wondered if life would not get a new zest with someone beside him to be cherished & worked for until death. Madeline’s peculiar innocence & shy simplicity had soothed him in contrast to the gay, wilful charms with which his most cruel recollections were united; he thought that here was a shrinking, clinging creature who would need his tender protection & look up to him always for the help & love that another had despised. In short, on that sweet Spring afternoon, the impressions & reflections of the whole Winter had nearly resolved themselves into a determination to ask Madeline for his wife, when the whole party reached the gates of the Villa Doria. Giving Rienzi over to his groom, Guy stood by the carriage to help Madeline & her mother out; & then they all strolled along through the beautiful princely grounds. Madeline’s passion for flowers was very pretty that day; prettier than ever it seemed to Hastings, as she bent down to fill her hands with violets, or ran on in search of a new blossom under the greening boughs. Oh, the sunshiny peacefulness of that long Spring afternoon, under the soft Italian sky, with the wood-flowers underfoot & the tree-branches closing above, bubbling over with the earliest bird-music of the new-drest year! They wandered on in the delicious Spring-time idleness that had fallen upon them all; now & then resting on a bench in some quiet alley or soft, violet-sown slope, or pausing to admire a beautiful view—all forgetting that even in the Villa Doria-Pamfili, on a Heavenly day of Spring, the hours will fly & the sun stoop to the west. Strolling along by Madeline’s side, carrying her sunshade & her cloak, Guy
