Eleanor Frances Poynter - My Little Lady

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Eleanor Frances Poynter is the author of My little lady (1871
novel), Ersilia (1876 novel), Among the hills (1881 novel),
Madame de Presnel (1885 novel), The wooing of Catherine and
other tales (1886), The failure of Elisabeth (1890 novel), An
exquisite fool (1892 novel), Michael Ferrier (1902 novel); and
translator of Wilhelmine von Hillern's The vulture maiden (Die
Geier-Wally) (1876) and Agnes Mary Duclaux (later Mrs James
Darmesteter)'s Froissart (1895).

Two of her novels were translated in French: My little lady
as Madeleine Linders (1873); and Among the hills as Hetty
(1883).

_The Saturday Review_ vol. XXX p. 794 comments _My little lady_ as
follows: "There are certain female characters in novels which
remind one of nothing so much as of a head of Greuze,--fresh,
simple, yet of the cunningly simple type, 'innocent--arch,' and
intensely natural.... 'My Little Lady' is a character of this
Greuze-like kind.... The whole book is charming; quietly told,
quietly thought, without glare or flutter, and interesting in
both character and story,... and, if slight of kind, thoroughly
good of its kind."

COLLECTION

OF

BRITISH AUTHORS

TAUCHNITZ EDITION.

VOL. 1148.

MY LITTLE LADY.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

Thy sinless progress, through a world
By sorrow darken'd and by care disturbed,
Apt likeness bears to hers through gather'd clouds
Moving untouch'd in silver purity.

WORDSWORTH.

MY LITTLE LADY.

_COPYRIGHT EDITION_.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1871.

_The Right of Translation is reserved_.

To

J.C.I.

PART I.

MY LITTLE LADY.

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 beforehand 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 connecting 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 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 follows its course;
amongst the hills are more valleys, more streams, woods,
forests, sheltered nooks, tall grey limestone rocks, spaces of
cornfields, and bright meadows. Everyone admires the charming
scenery as the train speeds across it, through one tunnel
after another; but there are few amongst our 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 Brussels,
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
unkempt lawn, a sort of wilderness of grass and shrubs and
trees, with clumps of dark 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 morning, whilst all in front of the hotel was
already basking in the hot sunshine. He had gone to 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 before 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 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 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,
perhaps, 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 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-manger, 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 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 bank sloped down to the stream. It was very green, and
peaceful and dewy. Horace stood still for a minute looking at
the flickering lights and shadows, and watching the dash and
current of the water.

"_Fi donc, Mademoiselle, tu n'es pas raisonnable_," cries a
sweet shrill little voice close to him, "_tu es vraiment
insupportable aujourd'hui_."

He turned round and saw a child between five and six years
old, dressed in a shabby little merino frock and white
pinafore, standing with her back towards him, and holding out
a doll at arm's length, its turned-out pink leather toes just
touching the ground.

"_Veux-tu bien etre sage?_" 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 desolated!' "

"Madelon!" cries a voice through the trees in the distance.

"_Me voici, papa!_" she answered, stopping the dancing-lesson
and looking round. As she did so she caught sight of Horace,
and gazed up in his face 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
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 approached 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
recognised 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 companion, 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 for the four o'clock _table-d'hote_. In the
evening there will be quite a little society, and we shall
dance. I assure you, monsieur, 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?" interrupted 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; "and if you take care to return in
time for the four o'clock _table-d'hote_, 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 you not to think of leaving for Brussels; and
precisely you cannot 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?"

"Well, no," Horace was obliged to acknowledge, "they do not."

"Ah!" said the Belgian, a little disappointed; "but they speak
of Brussels, perhaps?"

"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 night."

"It was very lucky for me," said Horace. "I am delighted to be
here. The hotel 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?"

"You mean the little girl who ran against me as I came up to
you just now? No, the _proprietaire_ 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, Madame_--excuse me, Monsieur,
but I go to pay my respects to Madame la Comtesse!" cried the
Belgian, as an elderly red-faced 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 Monsieur!" she cried--"ah!
how many regrets your absence has caused!--of what an
insupportable _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 suffered 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 charming, 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 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 a 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 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 forward to but pushing his own way, and
making 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 devoted for reasons quite unconnected with any
considerations of possible profit and loss. Indeed, having
just enough money of his own to make him tolerably
independent, 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 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
multitudes; 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 experience
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 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 heartiness. 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 sufficient during all his
wanderings through that long summer's day in the lovely
country round Chaudfontaine, a country neither grand nor wild,
hardly romantic, but with 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,
reflecting 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 leading beside a marshy brook, full
of rushes and forget-me-nots, and disappearing amongst the
forest trees. All day long Graham wandered 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.

CHAPTER II.

In the Salon.

He had left it in the morning dewy, silent, almost deserted;
he found it full of gaiety and life and movement, talking,
laughing, 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
_bebes_, papas drinking coffee and liqueurs at the little
tables, mammas talking the latest Liege scandal, and
discussing the newest Parisian 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, which
mingled not inharmoniously with the hum of voices and sudden
bursts of laughter; the children were jumping and dancing to
their lengthening shadows, but with a measured glee, so as not
to disturb too seriously the elaborate combination of starch
and ribbon 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 delight instead of
woe. The lad had a kind, loving heart, and was tender to all
helpless appealing things, and more especially to little
children.

He stood watching the pretty glowing scene for a few minutes,
and then went in 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,
twilight 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 evening 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 with grinning waiters and maids,
who have their share of the fun as they look in through the
open door. Round go the dancers, sliding and twirling on the
smooth polished floor, and Mademoiselle Cecile's fingers fly
indefatigably over the keys, as she sits nodding her head to
the music, and smiling 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 looking on at
the scene, which had the charm of novelty to his English eyes,
and commenting 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," he 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; besides, I don't know anyone
here."

"If that be all," cried the other eagerly, "I can introduce
you to half a dozen partners in a moment; that lady that I
have just been dancing with, for instance, will be charmed----"

"Stop, I entreat you," said the young Englishman, in alarm, as
his friend was about to rush off; "I cannot indeed--I assure
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 prolonged it till you missed the _table-
d'hote_ dinner, 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 from Brussels.
That pretty girl in blue was Mademoiselle Sophie L----, who was
going 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 violinist, 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 here from Antwerp for the summer;
that is their mother talking to Mademoiselle Cecile. 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 air, and a long fair
moustache and beard, perfectly well dressed, and with an air
sufficiently 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
excitement; "but is it possible you do not know him?"

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