UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES SCALATiDo GATE ROBERTSBRIDGE HAWKHURST MY LITTLE LADY. VOL. I. J * MY LITTLE LADY. Thy sinless progress, through a world By sorrow darken'd and by care disturb'd, Apt likeness bears to hers through gather'd clouds Moving nntouch'd in silver purity. WORDSWOKTH. : IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1871. The right of Translation is reserved. • •••••:••• • ••.'•.••.;• • i • •• •• ■••• t • i • • • . • - ■ • • •••.»;•• • • i # •• •• •*••• • S'di in it bONDOK . ii;imih lit macih)nai.i> AMD TDOWBLL, iii.imimm iihim. iii.kniikim kiukkt. OXFORD BTRKK1 T v/. ( ro J. C. I. V «\ MY LITTLE LADY. PART T VOL. I. B 157056 CHAPTER I. IN THE GARDEN. THERE are certain days in the lives of each one of us, which come in their due course without special warning, to which we look forward with no anticipations of peculiar joy or sorrow, from which before- hand we neither demand nor expect more than the ordinary portion of good and evil, and which yet through some occurrence — unconsidered perhaps at the moment, but gaining in significance with years and con- necting events — are destined to live apart in our memories to the end of our existence. Such a day in Horace Graham's life was a b 2 4 MY LITTLE LADY. certain hot Sunday in August, that he spent at the big hotel at Chaudfontaine. Every traveller along the great high road leading from Brussels to Cologne knows Chaudfontaine, the little village distant about six miles from Liege, with its church, its big hotel, and its scattered cottages, partly forges, partly restaurants, which shine white against a dark green background of wooded hills, and gleam reflected in the clear tranquil stream by which they stand. On every side the hills seem to fold over and enclose the quiet green valley ; the stream winds and turns, the long poplar-bordered road fol- lows its course ; amongst the hills are more valleys, more streams, woods, forests, shel- tered nooks, tall grey limestone rocks, spaces i )f cornfields, and bright meadows. Every- one admires the charming scenery as the train speeds across it, through one tunnel after another ; but there are few amongst our IN THE GARDEN. countrymen who care to give it more than a passing glance of admiration, or to tarry in the quiet little village even for an hour, in their great annual rush to Spa, or the Rhine, or Switzerland. As a rule one seldom meets Englishmen at Chaudfontaine, and it was quite by chance that Horace Graham found himself there. An accident to a goods train had caused a detention of several hours all along the line, as he was travelling to Brus- sels, and it was by the advice of a Belgian fellow-passenger that he had stopped at Chaudfontaine, instead of going on to Liege, as he had at first proposed doing, on hearing from the guard that it was the furthest point that could be reached that night. Behind the hotel lies a sunshiny shady garden, with benches and tables set under the trees near the house, and beyond, an un- kempt lawn, a sort of wilderness of grass and shrubs and trees, with clumps of dark 6 MY LITTLE LADY. and light foliage against the more uniform green of the surrounding hills, and it was still cool and pleasant when Graham wandered into it after breakfast on that Sunday morn- ing, whilst all in front of the hotel was already basking in the hot sunshine. He had gone to G G bed the night before with the fixed intention of leaving by the earliest morning train, for his first impressions of Chaudfontaine had not been cheerful ones. It was nearly midnight when, with his companions, he had crossed the bridge that connects the railway station with the hotel on the opposite side of the stream, and scarcely a light was shining from the windows of the dim white building be- fore him ; he was very tired, rather cross, and disposed to grumble at the delay in his journey; and the general aspect of things — the bad supper, the sleepy waiter carrying a candle up flights of broad shallow wooden IN THE GARDEN. stairs, and down a long passage to a remote room barely furnished, the uncertain view of a foreground of rustling poplars, and close behind them a black silent mass of hill — all these had not tended to encourage him. But a man must be very cynical, or very blase, or wholly possessed by some other uncomfortable quality, who does not feel much cheered and invigorated by morning sunbeams pouring into a strange bed-room, and awakening him to new scenes and unexperienced sensations. Horace Graham was neither cynical nor blase ; on the contrary, he was a pleasant- tempered, fresh-hearted lad of twenty or thereabouts, who only three weeks before had made his first acquaintance with French gendarmes, and for the first time had heard children shouting to each other in a foreign tongue along white-walled, sunshiny, foreign 8 MY LITTLE LADY. streets. Three weeks touring in Germany had only served to arouse in him a passion for travelling and seeing, for new places and peoples and scenes, that in all his life, per- haps, would not be satiated ; everything was new to him, everything amused him ; and so it happened that, while he was dressing and studying from his window the view that had been only obscurely hinted at in the darkness of the night before, a sudden desire came over him to remain where he was for that day, climb the hills that rose before him, and see what manner of country lay beyond. It was still early when, after breakfasting by himself in the salle-a-rnanger, he found his way into the garden ; no one was stirring, it seemed deserted ; he wandered along the gravel paths, trod down the tall grass as he crossed the lawn, and arrived at the confines of the little domain. On two IN THE GARDEN. 9 sides it was bounded by a narrow stream, separating it from the road beyond ; at the angle of the garden the shallow, trickling water widened into a little fall crossed by a few planks ; there were trees and bushes on each side, and the grassy garden batik sloped down to the stream. It was very green, and peaceful and dewy. Horace stood still for a minute looking at the nickering lights and shadows, and watching the dash and current of the water. " Ft done, Mademoiselle, tu nes pas rai- sonnable" cries a sweet shrill little voice close to him, " tu es vraiment insupportable aujourdhui." He turned round and saw a child between five and six years old, dressed in a shabby little merino frock and white pinafore, stand- ing with her back towards him, and holding out a doll at arm's length, its turned-out pink leather toes just touching the ground. 10 MY LITTLE LADY. " Veux-tu bien etre sage f" continues the small monitress with much severity, " encore une fois, un, deux, trois ! " and she made a little dancing-step backwards ; then with an air of encouragement, " Allons, mon amie, du courage! "We must be perfect in our steps for this evening, for you know, Sophie, if you refuse to dance, M. le Prince will be in despair, and M. le Baron will put his hand on his heart and cry, ' Alas, mademoiselle, you have no pity, and my heart is deso- lated !"' " Madelon!" cries a voice through the trees in the distance. "Me void, papa F'she answered, stopping the dancing-lesson and looking round. As she did so she caught sight of Horace, and gazed up in his nice with a child's deliberate stare. She had great brown eyes, a little round fair face, and light hair curling all over her head. She looked up at him quite IN THE GARDEN. 11 fearlessly for a moment, and then darted away, dashing against somebody who was coming along the path, and disappeared. " Take care, ma petite ; you nearly knocked me down !" cried a good-humoured voice, belonging to a large gentleman with a ruddy face, and black hair and beard. "Ah ! good morning, Monsieur," he continued as he ap- proached Horace ; " I rejoice to see that you have not yet quitted Chaudfontaine, as you spoke of doing last night." " I have changed my mind," said Horace, smiling as he recognized his fellow-traveller of the night before. " I think of staying here to-day, and not leaving for Brussels till to-morrow morning." " You will not regret it," said his com- panion, as they turned back towards the hotel, and walked on slowly together ; "it is true there is not much here to tempt you during the day ; but numbers will arrive 12 MY LITTLE LADY. for the four o'clock table-dliote. In the evening there will be quite a little society, and we shall dance. I assure you, mon- sieur, that we also know how to be gay at Chaudfontaine." " I don't doubt it," answered Graham ; "and though I don't care much about dancing " " You don't care about dancing ?" inter- rupted the Belgian with astonishment ; "but that is of your nation, Monsieur. You are truly an extraordinary people, you English ; you travel, you climb, you ride, you walk, and you do not dance !" " I think we dance too, sometimes," said the young Englishman, laughing ; " but I own that it is walking I care for most just now — the country about here seems to be wonderfully pretty." " In fact it is not bad," said the Belgian, with the air of paying it a compliment; IN THE GARDEN. 13 " and if ) r ou take care to return in time for the four o'clock table-cThute, you cannot do better than make a little promenade to gain an appetite for dinner. I can promise you an excellent one — they keep an admirable cook. I entreat of you not to think of leaving for Brussels ; and precisely you can- not go," he added, drawing out his watch, "for it is just the hour that the train leaves, and I hear the whistle at this moment." And, in fact, though they could not see the train from where they stood, they heard its shrill whistle as it rushed into the station on the other side of the river. " So it is decided," said Graham, " and I remain." " And you do wisely, Monsieur," cried his companion ; " believe me, you will not regret passing a day in this charming little spot. Do they speak much in England of Chaudfontaine, monsieur ?" 14 MY LITTLE LADY. " Well, no," Horace was obliged to ac- knowledge, " they do not." " Ah ! " said the Belgian, a little disap- pointed ; " but they speak of Brussels, per- haps ?" " Oh ! yes, every one knows Brussels," answered Graham. "It is a beautiful city," remarked his companion, " and has a brilliant society ; but for my part, I own that at this season of the year I prefer the retirement, the tranquillity of Chaudfontaine, where also one amuses oneself perfectly well. I always spend two or three months here — in fact, have been here for six weeks already this summer. Affairs called me to Aix-la-Chapelle last week for a few days, and that was how I had the good fortune to meet Monsieur last nioht." " It was very lucky for me," said Horace. " I am delimited to be here. The hotel o IN THE GARDEN. 15 seems to be very empty," he added. " I have seen nobody this morning except one little girl." "But no, the hotel is almost full — people are gone to mass, perhaps, or are in bed, or are breakfasting. It is still early." " That little girl," said Horace — " does she belong to the house ?' r " You mean the little girl who ran against me as I came up to you 'just now? No, the projmetaire of the hotel has but one daughter, Mademoiselle Cecile, a most amiable person. But I know that child — her father is one of the habitues of the hotel. She is much to be pitied, poor little one !" " Why ?" asked Graham. " Because her father — ah ! bon jour, Ma- dame — excuse me, Monsieur, but I go to pay my respects to Madame la Comtesse !" cried the Belgian, as an elderly red-faced 16 MY LITTLE LADY. lady, with fuzzy sandy hair, wearing a dingy, many-flounced lilac barege gown, came towards them along the gravel path. " At last we see you back, my dear Mon- sieur !" she cried — " ah ! how many regrets your absence has caused ! — of what an in- supportable ennui have we not been the victims ! But you are looking better than when you left us ; your journey has done you good ; it is plain that you have not suf- fered from absence." " Alas ! Madame," cries the other, " you little know ! And how, for my part, can I venture to believe in regrets that have left no traces ? Madame is looking more charm- ing, more blooming " Horace waited to hear no more ; he left the pair standing and complimenting each other on the sunny pathway, and wandered away under the shade of the big trees, crossed the little stream and the white IN THE GARDEN. 17 dusty road beyond, and began to ascend the hills. "What an ugly old woman !" thought the lad. " She and my friend seem to be great allies ; she must be at least ten years older than he is, and he talks to her as if she were a pretty girl ; but she is a Countess apparently, and I suppose that counts for something. Oh ! what a jolly country !" He strode along whistling, with his hands in his pockets, feeling as if he had the world before him to explore, and in the happiest of moods. Such a mood was not rare with Horace Graham in these youthful days, when, by force of good health and good spirits, and a large capacity for fresh genuine enjoyment, he was apt to find life pleasant enough on the whole, though for him it lacked several of the things that go to make up the ordinary ideal of human happiness. He was not rich ; he had no vol. i. c 18 MY LITTLE LADY. particular expectations, and but few family ties, for his parents had both died when he was very young, and except an aunt who had brought him up, and a married sister several years older than himself, he had no near relations in the world. He was simply a medical student, with nothing to look for- ward to but pushing his own way, and mak- ing his own path in life as best he could. But he had plenty of talent, and worked hard at his profession, to which he was de- voted for reasons quite unconnected with any considerations of possible profit and loss. Indeed, having just enough money of his own to make him tolerably inde- pendent, he was wont to ignore all such considerations in his grand youthful way, and to look upon his profession from a purely abstract scientific point of view. And yet he was not without large hopes, grand vague ambitions concerning his future IN THE GARDEN. 10 career ; for he was at an age when it seems so much easier to become one of the few- enumerated great ones of the world than to remain amongst the nameless forgotten mul- titudes; and life lay before him rather as something definite, which he could take up and fashion to his own pleasure, than as a succession of days and years which would inevitably mould and influence him in their course. It is not wholly conceit, perhaps, which so assures these clever lads of the vastness of their untried capabilities, that there are moments when they feel as if they could grasp heaven and earth in their wide consciousness ; it is rather a want of experi- ence and clearness of perception. Horace Graham was not particularly conceited, and yet, in common with many other men of his age, he had a conviction that, in some way or other, life had great exceptional prizes in store for him ; and indeed he was c2 20 MY LITTLE LADY. so strong, and young, and honest-hearted, that he had been successful enough hitherto within his narrow limits. He had pleasant manners, too, and a pleasant face, which gained him as many friends as he ever cared to have; for he had a queer, reserved, unsociable twist in his character, which kept him aloof from much company, and rather spoilt his reputation for geniality and hearti- ness. He hated the hard work he had to go through in society ; so at least he was wont to grumble, and then would add, laughing, " I daresay I am a conceited puppy to say so ; but the fact is, there are not six people in the world whose company I would prefer to my own for a whole day." He found his own company quite suffi- cient during all his wanderings through that long summer's day in the lovely coun- try round Chaudfontaine, a country neither grand nor wild, hardly romantic, but with IN THE GARDEN. 21 a charm of its own that enticed Graham onwards in spite of the hot August sun. It was so green, so peaceful, so out of the world; the little valleys were wrapped so closely amongst the hills, the streams came gushing out of the limestone rocks, dry water courses led him higher and higher up amongst the silent woods, which stretched away for miles on either hand. Sometimes he would come upon an open space, whence he could look down upon the broader valley beneath, with its quiet river flowing through the midst, re- flecting white villages, forges, long rows of poplars, an occasional bridge, and here and there a long low island ; or descending, he would find himself in some narrow ravine, cleft between grey rocky heights overgrown with brushwood and trailing plants, the road lead- ing beside a marshy brook, full of rushes and forget-me-nots, and disappearing amongst the forest trees. All day long Graham wander- 22 MY LITTLE LADY. ed about that pleasant land, and it was long past the four o'clock dinner hour when he stood on the top of the hill he had seen that morning from his window, and looked across the wide view of woods and cornfields to where a distant cloud of smoke marked the city of Liege. Thence descending by a steep zig-zag path, with a bench at every angle, he crossed the road and the little rivulet, and found himself once more in the garden at the back of the hotel. 23 CHAPTER II. IN THE SALON. HE bad left it in the morning dewy, silent, almost deserted ; he found it full of gaiety and life and movement, talking, laugh- ing, and smoking going on, pretty bright dresses glancing amongst the trees, children swinging under the great branches, the flickering lights and shadows dancing on their white frocks and curly heads, white- capped bonnes dangling their bebe's, papas drinking coffee and liqueurs at the little tables, mammas talking the latest Liege scandal, and discussing the newest Parisian 24 MY LITTLE LADY. fashions. The table-d'hote dinner was just over, and everybody had come out to enjoy the air, till it was time for the dancing to begin. The glass door leading into the passage that ran through the house stood wide open ; so did the great hall door at the other end ; and Graham could see the courtyard full of sunshine, the iron railing separating it from the road, the river gleaming, the bridge and railway station beyond, and then again the background of hills. He passed through the house, and went out into the courtyard. Here were more people, more gay dresses, gossip, cigars, and coffee ; more benches and tables set in the scanty shade of the formal round-topped trees that stood in square green boxes round the paved quadrangle. Outside in the road, a boy with a monkey stood grinding a melancholy organ ; the sun seemed setting to the pretty pathetic tune, IN THE SALON. 25 which mingled not inharmoniously with the hum of voices and sudden bursts of lauahter : the children were jumping and dancing to their lengthening shadows, but with a mea- sured glee, so as not to disturb too seriously the elaborate combination of starch and rib- bon and shining plaits which composed their fete day toilettes. A small tottering thing of two years old, emulating its companions of larger growth, toppled over and fell lamenting at Graham's feet as he came out. He picked it up, and set it straight again, and then, to console it, found a sou, and showed it how to put it into the monkey's brown skinny hand, till the child screamed with de- light instead of woe. The lad had a kind, loving heart, and was tender to all helpless appealing things, and more especially to lit- tle children. He stood watching the pretty glowing scene for a few minutes, and then went in 26 MY LITTLE LADY. to his solitary rechauffe dinner. Coming out again half an hour or so later, he found everything changed. The monkey boy and his organ were gone, the sun had set, twi- light and mists were gathering in the valley, and the courtyard was deserted ; but across the grey dusk, light was streaming through the muslin window curtains of the salon, the noise of laughter, and voices, and music came from within now, breaking the even- ing stillness; for everyone had gone indoors to the salon, where the gas was lighted, chairs and tables pushed out of the way, and Mademoiselle Cecile, the fat good- natured daughter of the proprietaire, already seated at the piano. The hall outside fills witli grinning waiters and maids, who have their share of the fun as they look in through the open door. Round go the dancers, slid- ing and twirling on the smooth polished IN THE SALON. 27 floor, and Mademoiselle Cecile's fingers fly indefatigably over the keys, as she sits nod- diner her head to the music, and smilinsr as each familiar face glides past her. Horace, who, after lingering awhile in the courtyard, had come indoors like the rest of the world, stood apart at the further end of the room, sufficiently entertained with look- ing on at the scene, which had the charm of novelty to his English eyes, and comment- ing to himself on the appearance of the dancers. " But you do wrong not to dance, dear Monsieur, I assure you," said his Belgian friend, coming up to him at the end of a polka, with the elderly Countess, who with her dingy lilac barege gown exchanged for a dingier lilac silk, and her sandy hair fuzzier than ever, had been dancing vigorously. " Mademoiselle Cecile's music is delicious," 28 MY LITTLE LADY. lie continued, "it positively inspires one; let me persuade you to attempt just one little dance." "Indeed, I would rather look on," said Horace; "I can listen to Mademoiselle Cecile's music all the same, and I do not care much for dancing, as I told you ; be- sides, I don't know anyone here." " If that be all," cried the other eagerly, " I can introduce you to half a dozen part- ners in a moment; that lady that I' have just been dancing with, for instance, will be charmed " " Stop, I entreat of you," said the young Englishman, in alarm, as his friend was about to rush off; "I cannot indeed — I as- sure you I am a very bad dancer; I am tired with my long walk too." "Ah, that walk," said the Belgian, " I did wrong in advising you to take it ; you pro- longed it till you missed the table dilute din- IN THE SALON. 29 ner, and now you are too much fatigued to dance." " But I am very much amused as it is, I assure you," insisted Graham. " Do tell me something about all these people. Are they all stopping at the hotel ?" His companion was delighted to give any information in his power. No, not a third of the people were stopping at the hotel, the greater part had come over from Liege, and would go back there by the ten o'clock train. " Then you do not know many of them?" Graham said. "No," the Belgian admitted, "he did not know many of them ; only those who were staying at Chaudfontaine. That lady he had just been dancing with, Monsieur had seen in the morning, he believed ; she was the Countess G , a most distinguished person, with blood-royal in her veins, and came 30 MY LITTLE LADY. from Brussels. That pretty girl in blue was Mademoiselle Sophie L , who was go- ing to be married next month to one of the largest proprietors in the neighbourhood, the young man standing by her, who was paying her so much attention. The odd- looking man in shoes and buckles was a rising genius, or thought himself so, a vio- linist, who came over occasionally from Liege, and hoped to make his fortune some day in London or Paris ; and perhaps he will do so," says the Belgian, " for he has talent. That little dirty-looking young man with a hooked nose, and the red Turkish slippers, is a Spaniard going through a course of studies at Liege ; he is staying in the hotel, and so are the fat old gentleman and lady seated on the sofa ; they are Brazilians, and he has been sent over by his Government to purchase arms, I believe. Those three young ladies in white are sisters, and are come IN THE SAL0X. 31 here from Antwerp for the summer ; that is their mother talking to Mademoiselle Ce- cile. I see no one else at this moment," he added, looking slowly round the room at the groups of dancers who stood chattering and fanning themselves in the interval between the dances. " Who is that ?" asked Graham, directing his attention to a gentleman who had just appeared, and was standing, leaning in the doorway opposite. He was a tall handsome man, with light hair, and a long fair moustache and beard, perfectly well dressed, and with an air suf- ficiently distinguished to make him at once conspicuous amongst the Liege clerks and shopkeepers, of whom a large part of the company consisted. " Ah ! precisely, Monsieur, you have fixed upon the most remarkable personage here," cried his companion, with some excite- 32 MY LITTLE LADY. ment ; " but is it possible you do not know him ?" " I never saw him before," answered Graham. " Is he a celebrity ? A prince, or an ambassador, or anything of that kind ?" " No, nothing of that kind," said the other laughing, "but a celebrity nevertheless in his way. That is M. Landers, the great gambler." " I never even heard of him," said the young Englishman ; " but then I don't know much about such people." " It is true, I had forgotten that Monsieur is not of this country ; but you would hear enough about him were you to stay any time at Wiesbaden, or Homburg, or Spa, or any of those places. He twice broke the bank at Homburg last year, won two hundred thou- sand francs at Spa this summer, and lost them again the next week. He is a most danger- IN THE SALOX. 33 cms fellow, and positively dreaded by the proprietors of the tables." " What ! when he loses two hundred thousand francs ? " " Ah ! that is a thing that rarely hap- pens ; as a rule he is perfectly cool, which is the principal thing at these tables, plays when the run is in his favour, and stops when it is against him ; but occasionally he gets excited, and then of course the chances are that he loses everything like another." " What can he be doim* here ?" said Graham. " Who knows? Stopping a night or two on his way to Paris, or Brussels, perhaps, on the chance of finding some one here rich enough and imprudent enough to make it worth his while. You do not play, Monsieur ?" 11 Never in that way," answered the lad, VOL. I. D 34 MY LITTLE LADY. laughing; ' ; I can get through a game of whist decently enough, but I rarely touch cards at all." " Ah, then you are safe : otherwise I would have said, avoid M. Linders ; he has not the best reputation in the world, and he has a brother-in-law who generally travels with him, and is even a greater rogue than himself, but not so lucky — so they say at least." " Do you know him, this famous gambler? He does not look much like one," said Graham. " That is true ; but he is a man of good birth and education, I believe, though he has turned out such a mauvais sujet, and it is part of his metier to get himself up in that style. Yes, I know him a little, from meeting him here and elsewhere ; he is al- ways going about, sometimes en prince, sometimes in a more humble way — but ex- IN THE SALON. 35 cuse me, dear Monsieur, Mademoiselle Cecile has begun to play, and I am engaged to Mademoiselle Sophie for this dance ; she will never forgive me if I make her wait." The dancers whirled on ; the room grew hotter and hotter. M. Linders had disap- peared, and Graham began to think that he too had had almost enough of it all, and that it would be pleasant to seek peace and coolness in the deserted moonlit courtyard. He was watching for a pause in the waltz, that would admit of his crossing the room, when his attention was attracted by the same little girl he had seen that morning in the garden. She was still dressed in the shabby old frock and pinafore, and as she came creeping in, threading her way deftly amongst the young ladies in starched mus- lins and gay ribbons who were fluttering about, she made the effect of a little brown d 2 36 MY LITTLE LADY. moth who had strayed into the midst of a swarm of brilliant butterflies. No one took any notice of her, and she made her way up to the large round table which had been pushed into the far corner of the room, and near which Graham was standing. " Do you want anything ?" he asked, as he saw her raise herself on tiptoe, and stretch forward over the table. " I want that" she said, pointing to a miniature roulette board, which stood in the middle, beyond the reach of her small arm. He gave it to her, and then stood watch- ing to see what she would do with it. She set to work with great deliberation ; first pulling a handful of sugar-plums out of her pocket, and arranging them in a little heap at her side on the table, and then proceed- ing with much gravity to stake them on the numbers. She would put down a IX THE SALON. 37 bonbon and give the board a twirl ; "vingt- cinq" she would say ; the ball flew round and fell into a number ; it might be ten, or twenty, or twenty-five, it did not much matter ; she looked to see what it was, but right or wrong, never failed to eat the bon- bon — an illogical result, which contrasted quaintly with the intense seriousness with which she made her stakes. Sometimes she would place two or three sugar-plums on one number, always naming it aloud — ' : trente-et-im" " douze-premier" " douze- apres." It was the oddest game for a small thing not six years old ; and there was some- thing odd, too, in her matter-of-fact, busi- ness-like air, which amused Graham. He had seen gambling-tables during his three weeks' visit to Germany, and he felt sure that this child must have seen them too. " Eh, what an insupportable heat !" cried a harsh high-pitched voice behind them. 157056 38 MY LITTLE LADY. " Monsieur Jules, I will repose myself for a few minutes, if you will have the goodness to fetch me a glass of eau sucree. Je rien peux plus !" Graham, recognizing the voice, turned round, and saw the Countess G leaning on the arm of a young man with whom she had been dancing. " But it is really stifling !" she exclaimed, dropping into an arm-chair by the table as her partner retired. "Monsieur does not dance, apparently," she continued, address- ing Horace. u Well, you are perhaps right ; it is a delightful amusement, but on a night like this Ah ! here is little Madelon. I have not seen you before to-day. How is it you are not dancing ?" " I don't want to," answered the child, giving the roulette-board a twirl. " But that is not at all a pretty game that you have there," said the Countess, shaking IN THE SALON. 39 her head ; " it was not for little girls that Mademoiselle Cecile placed the roulette- board there. Where is your doll ? why are you not playing with her ?" " My doll is in bed ; and I like this best," answered the child indifferently. " Encore ce malheureux trente-six ! Jeriaipasde chance ce soir ! " " But little girls should not like what is naughty ; and I think it would be much bet- ter if you were in bed too. Come, give me that ugly toy ; there is Monsieur quite shocked to see you playing with it." Madelon looked up intc Horace's face with her wide-open gaze, as if to verify this wonderful assertion ; and apparently satisfied that it had been made for the sake of effect, continued her game without making any reply. " Oh, then, I really must take it away," said the Countess ; " allons, be reasonable, 40 MY LITTLE LADY. ma petite ; let me have that, and go and dance with the other little boys and girls." " But I don't want to dance, and I like to play at this," cries Madelon with her shrill little voice, clutching the board with both her small hands, as the Countess tried to get possession of it ; " you have no right to take it away. Papa lets me play with it ; and I don't care for you ! Give it me back again, I say ; je le veiix, je le veux !" " No, no," answered the Countess, push- ing it beyond Madelon's reach to the other side of the table. " I daresay you have seen your papa play at that game ; but children must not always do the same as their papas. Now, be good, and eat your bonbons like a sensible child." " I will not eat them if I may not play for them !" cried the child ; and with one sweep of her hand she sent them all off the table on to the floor, and stamped on them IN THE SALON. 41 again and again with her tiny foot. " You have no right to speak to me so !" she went on energetically; "no one but my papa speaks to me ; and I don't know you, and I don't like you, and you are very ugly!" and then she turned her back on the Count- ess and stood in dignified silence. " Mais cest un petit diable ! " cried the as- tonished lady, fanning herself vigorously with her pocket-handkerchief. She was dis- comfited though she had won the victory, and hailed the return of her partner with the eau sucree as a relief. " A thousand thanks, M. Jules ! What if we take another turn, though this room reallv is of an insuf- ferable heat." Madelon was left confronting Horace, a most ill-used little girl, not crying, but with flushed cheeks and pouting lips — a little girl who had lost her game and her bonbons, and felt at war with all the world in conse- 42 MY LITTLE LADY. quence. Horace was sorry for her ; he, too, thought she had been ill-used, and no sooner was the Countess fairly off than he said, very immorally, no doubt, " Would you like to have your game back again r " No," said Madelon, in whom this speech roused a fresh sense of injury ; " I have no more bonbons." Graham had none to offer her, and a silence ensued, during which she stood lean- ing against the table, slowly scraping one foot backwards and forwards over the re- mains of the scattered bonbons. At last he bethought him of a small bunch of charms that he had got somewhere, and hung to his watch-chain, and with which he had often enticed and won the hearts of children. " Would you like to come and look at these ?" he said, holding them up. IN THE SALON. 43 " No," she replied, ungraciously, and re- treating a step backwards. " Not at this ?" he said. " Here is a little steam engine that runs on wheels ; and, see, here is a fan that will open and shut." " No," she said again, with a determined little shake of her head, and still retreating. " But only look at this," he said, select- ing a little flexible enamel fish, and trying to lure back this small wild bird. "See this little gold and green fish, it moves its head and tail." "No," she said once more, but the fish was evidently a temptation, and she paused irresolute for a moment ; but Graham made a step forward, and this decided her. " I don't care for breloques" she said, with disdain, " and I don't want to see them, I tell you." And then, turning round, she marched straight out of the room. 44 MY LITTLE LADY. At that moment the music stopped, the waltzing ceased, and a line of retreat was left open for Graham. He saw the Countess once more approaching, and availed himself of it ; out of the noise and heat and crowd he fled, into the fresh open air of the quiet courtyard. 45 CHAPTER III. IN THE COURTYARD. PT1HREE gentlemen with cigars, sitting on ■ the bench under the salon windows, two more pacing up and down in the moon- light before the hall-door, and a sixth ap- parently asleep in a shadowy corner, were the only occupants of the courtyard. Gra- ham passed them by, and sought solitude at the lower end, where he found a seat on the stone coping of the iron railing. The peace and coolness and silence were re- freshing, after the heat and clamour of the salon; the broad harvest-moon had risen 46 MY LITTLE LADY. above the opposite ridge of hills, and flooded everything with clear light, the river gleam- ed and sparkled, the poplars threw long still shadows across the white road ; now and then the leaves rustled faintly, some far- off voice echoed back from the hills, and presently from the hotel the sound of the music, and the measured beat of feet, came softened to the ear, mingled with the low rush of the stream, and the ceaseless ringing of the hammers in the village forges. Horace had not sat there above ten min- utes, and was debating whether — his Belgian friend notwithstanding — a stroll along the river-bank would not be a pleasanter termi- nation to his evening than a return to the dancing, when he saw a small figure appear in the hall doorway, stand a moment as if irresolute, and then come slowly across the courtyard towards him. As she came near he recognized little Madelon. She paused IX THE COURTYARD. 47 when she was within a yard or two of him, and stood contemplating him with her hands clasped behind her back. " So you have come out too," he said. " Mais oui — lout ce tapage magace les nerfs" answered the child, pushing her hair off her forehead with one of her old-fashioned little gestures, and then standing motionless as before, her hands behind her, and her eyes fixed on Graham. Somehow he felt strangely attracted by this odd little child, with her quaint vehement ways and speeches, who stood gazing at him with a look half farouche, half confiding, in her great brown eyes. " Monsieur," she began, at last. " Well," said Graham. " Monsieur, I icould like to see the little green fish. May I look at it ?" "To be sure," he answered. "Come here, and I will show it to you." 48 MY LITTLE LADY. " And, Monsieur, I do like breloques very much," continues Madelon, feeling that this is a moment for confession. " Very well, then, you can look at all these. See, here is the little fish to begin with." " And may I have it in my own hand to look at ?" she asked, willing to come to some terms before capitulating. " Yes, you shall have it to hold in your own hand, if you will come here." She came close to him then, unclasping her hands, and holding out a tiny palm to receive the little trinket. Horace was engaged in unfastening it from the rest of the bunch, and whilst doing so he said, " Will you not tell me your name ? Ma- delon, is it not ?" " My name is Madeleine, but papa and every one call me Madelon." IN THE COURTYARD. 49 " Madeleine what ?" " Madeleine Linders." " Linders !" cried Horace, suddenly en- lightened ; " what, is M. Linders — " the fam- ous gambler he had nearly said, but checked himself—" is that tall gentleman with a beard, whom I saw in the salon just now, your papa ? " " Yes, that is my papa. Please may I have that now ?" He put the little flexible toy into her hand, and she stood gazing at it for a mo- ment, almost afraid to touch it, and then pushing it gently backwards and forwards with one finger. " It does move !" she cried delighted. " I never saw one like it before." " Would you like to keep it ?" asked Graham. "Always, do you mean? — for my very own ? " VOL. I. E 50 MY LITTLE LADY. " Yes, always." " Ah, yes !" she cried, " I should like it very much. I will wear it round my neck with a string, and love it so much, — better than Sophie." She looked at it with great admiration as it glittered in the moonlight ; but her next question fairly took Horace aback. " Is it worth a great deal of money, Mon- sieur?" she inquired. "Why, no, not a great deal — very little, in fact," he replied. " Ah ! then, I will beg papa to let me keep it always, always, and not to take it away." " I daresay he will let you keep it, if you tell him you like it," said Graham, not clearly understanding her meaning. " Oh ! yes, but then he often gives me pretty things, and then sometimes he says he must take them away again, because IN THE COURTYARD. 51 they are worth so much money. I don't mind, you know, if he wants them ; but I will ask him to let me keep this." " And what becomes of all your pretty things ?" " I don't know ; I have none now," she answered, " we left them behind at Spa. Do you know one reason why I would not dance to-nisrht ?" she added, lowering her voice confidentially. "No ; what was it?" " Because I had not my blue silk frock with lace, that I wear at the balls at Wies- baden and Spa. I can dance, you know, papa taught me; but not in this old frock, and I left my other at Spa." "And what were your other reasons?' asked Graham, wondering more and more at the small specimen of humanity before him. e 2 52 MY LITTLE LADY. " Oh ! because the room here is so small and crowded. At Wiesbaden there are rooms large — so large — quite like this courtyard," extending her small arms by way of giving expression to her vague sense of grandeur ; " and looking-glasses all round, and crimson sofas, and gold chandeliers, and ladies in such beautiful dresses, and officers who danced with me. I don't know any one here." " And who were the Count and the Prince you were talking about to Mademoiselle Sophie in the garden this morning ?" Madelon looked disconcerted. "I shan't tell you," she said, hanging down her head. " Will you not ? Not if I want to know very much ?" She hesitated a moment, and then burst forth — " Well, then, they were just nobody at IN THE COURTYARD. 53 all. I was only talking make-believe to Sophie, that she might do the steps pro- perly." " Oh ! then, you did not expect to see them here this evening?" "Here!" cries Madelon, with much con- tempt ; " why, no. One meets nothing but bourgeois here." Graham was infinitely amused. " Am I bourgeois V he said, laughing. " 1 don't know," she replied, looking at him; "but you are not a milord, I know, for I heard papa asking Mademoiselle Cecile about you, and she said you were not a milord at all." " So you care for nothing but Counts and Princes?" " I don't know," she said again. Then with an evident sense that such abstract propositions would involve her beyond her 54 MY LITTLE LADY. depth, she added, " Have you any other pretty things to show me ? I should like to see what else you have on your chain/' In five minutes more they were fast friends, and Madelon, seated on Graham's knee, was chattering away, and recounting to him all the history of her short life. He was not long in perceiving that her father was the beginning and end of all her ideas — her one standard of perfection, the one medium through which, small as she was, she was learning to look out on and esti- mate the world, and receiving her first im- pressions of life. She had no mother, she said, in answer to Graham's inquiries. Ma- man had died when she was quite a little baby ; and though she seemed to have some dim faint recollection of having once lived in a cottage in the country, with a woman IN THE COURTYARD. 55 to take care of her, everything else re- ferred to her father, from her first, vasme floating memories to the time when she could date them as distinct and well-defined facts. She had once had a nurse, she said — a long time ago that was, when she was little — but papa did not like her, and so she went away ; and now she was too big for one. Papa did everything for her, it appeared, from putting her to sleep at night, when Mademoiselle was disposed to be wakeful, to nursing her when she was ill, taking her to fetes on grand holidays, buying her pretty things, walking with her, teaching her dancing, and singing, and reading; and she loved him so much — ah! so much ! Indeed, in all the world, the child had but one object for a child's bound- less powers of trust and love and veneration, and that one was her father. 56 MY LITTLE LADY. " And where do you generally live now?" asked Graham. " Why, nowhere in particular," Madelon answered. " Of course not — they were always travelling about. Papa had to go to a great many places. They had come last from Spa, and before that they had been at Wiesbaden and Homburg, and last winter they had spent at Nice ; and now they were on their way to Paris." " And do you and your papa always live alone ? Have you not an uncle ?" enquired Graham, remembering the Belgian's speech about the brother-in-law. " Oh ! yes, there is Uncle Charles — he conies with us generally ; but sometimes he goes away, and then I am so glad." " How is that? are you not fond of him?" "No," said Madelon, " I don't like him at all ; he is very disagreeable, and teases me. And he is always wanting me to go IN THE COURTYARD. 57 away; he says, 'Adolphe' — that is papa, you know — 'when is that child going to school?' But papa pays no attention to him, for he is never going to send me away; he told me so, and he says he could not get on without me at all." Graham no longer wondered at Madelon's choice of a game, for it appeared she was in the habit of accompanying her father every evening to the gambling tables, when they were at any of the watering-places he fre- quented. " Sometimes we go away into the ball- room and dance," she said, " that is when papa is losing ; he says, ' Madelon, moil enfant, I see we shall do nothing here to- night, let us go and dance.' But sometimes he does nothing but win, and then we stop till the table closes, and he makes a great deal of money. Do you ever make money in that way, Monsieur?" she added na'ively. 58 MY LITTLE LADY. " Indeed I do not," replied Graham. "It is true that everyone has not the same way," said the child, with an air of being well informed, and evidently regarding her father's way as a profession like another, only superior to most. " What do you do, Monsieur ?" " I am going to be a doctor, Maclelon." " A doctor," she said reflecting ; " I do not think that can be a good way. I only know one doctor, who cured me when I was ill last winter; but I know a great many gentlemen who make money like papa. Can you make a fortune with ten francs, Monsieur ?" " I don't think I ever tried," answered Horace. " Ah well, papa can ; I have often heard him say, ' Give me only ten francs, et je feraifortuneV" There was something at once so droll IN THE COURTYARD. 59 and so sad about this child, with her pre- cocious knowledge and ignorant simplicity, that the lad's honest tender heart was touched with a sudden pity as he listened to her artless chatter. He was almost glad when her confidences drifted away to more childlike subjects of interest, and she told him about her toys, and books, and pictures, and songs ; she could sing a great many songs, she said, but Horace could not per- suade her to let him hear one. "Why do you talk French?" she said presently ; " you speak it so funnily. I can talk English." "Can you?" said Horace laughing, for indeed he spoke French with a fine Eng- lish accent and idiom. " Let me hear you. Where did you learn it?" "Uncle Charles taught me; he is Eng- lish," she answered, speaking correctly enough, with a pretty little accent. GO MY LITTLE LADY. " Indeed!" cried Graham. "Your mother was English, then ?" " Yes. Mamma came from England, papa says, and Uncle Charles almost always talks English to me. I would not let him do it, only papa wished me to learn." " And have you any other relations in England ?" " I don't know," she answered. " We have never been in England, and papa says he will never go, for he detests the English; but I only know Uncle Charles and you, and I like you." "What is your Uncle Charles' other name? Can yon tell me ?" "Leroy," she answered promptly. " But that is not an English name," said Graham. This was a little beyond Madelon, but after some consideration, she said with much simplicity, IN THE COURTYARD. 61 " I don't know whether it is not English. But it is only lately his name has been Leroy, since he came back from a journey he made ; before that it was something else, I forget what, but I heard him tell papa he would like to be called Leroy, as it was a common name; and papa told me, in case anyone asked me." " I understand," said Graham ; and indeed he did understand, and felt a growing com- passion for the poor little girl, whose only companions and protectors were a gambler and a sharper. They were still talking, when the silence of the courtyard was broken by a sudden confusion and bustle. The sound of the music and dancing had already ceased ; and now a medley of voices, a shrill clamour of talking and calling, made themselves heard through the open hall door. 62 MY LITTLE LADY. " Henri ! Henri ! ou est-il done, ce petit drole?" " Allons, Pauline, depeche toi, inon enfant, ton pere nous attends !" " Ciel! j'ai perdu mon fichu et mesgants." "Enfin." " The people are going away," says Madelon ; and, in fact, in another minute the whole party, talking, laughing, hurry- ing, came streaming out by twos and threes into the moonlight, and, crossing; the C 7 7 q road and bridge, disappeared one by one in the station beyond, the sound of their voices still echoing back through the quiet night. The last had hardly vanished when a tall solitary figure appeared in the courtyard, and advanced, looking round as if searching for some one. "Madelon!" cried the same voice that Graham had heard that morning in the garden. IN THE COURTYARD. 63 "There is papa looking for me; I must go,"exclaimed thechild at the same moment ; and before Graham had time to speak, she had slipped off his knee and darted up to her father ; then taking his hand, the two went off together, the small figure jumping and dancing by the side of the tall man as they disappeared within the doorway of the hotel. A few minutes more, and then a sound as of distant thunder told that the train was approaching through the tunnel. Graham watched it emerge, traverse the clear moon- lit valley with slackening speed, and pause at the station for its freight of passengers. There was a vague sound of confusion as the people took their places, and then with a parting shriek it set off again ; and as the sound died away in the distance, a great stillness succeeded the noise and bustle of a few moments before. 64 MY LITTLE LADY. Horace Was afraid he had seen the last of Madelon, for returning to the hotel he found no one in the salon, with the excep- tion of Mademoiselle Cecile, who was already putting out the lights. The hall, too, was de- serted ; the servants had vanished, and the habitues of the hotel had apparently gone to bed, for he met no one as he passed along, and turned down the passage leading to the salle-a-manger. This was a large long room, occupying the whole ground floor of one wing of the hotel, with windows look- ing out on one side into the courtyard, on the other into the garden, two long tables, smaller ones in the space between, and above them a row of chandeliers smothered in pink and yellow paper roses. The room looked bare and deserted enough now ; a sleepy waiter lounged at the further end, the trees in the garden rustled and waved to and fro in the rising night breeze, the moonlight IN TIIE COURTYARD. i\~> streamed through the uncurtained windows on to the boarded floor and white table-cloths, chasing the darkness into remote corners, and contending with the licjlit of the single CD