style="font-size:15px;"> “Let me first establish my position as a friend,” thought I, “the patron and playfellow of her son, the sober, solid friend of herself, and then we'll see.”
We talked about painting, poetry, and music, theology, geology, and philosophy. Once or twice I lent her a book, and once she lent me one in return. I gave a little dog to her son. I met her in her walks often; I came to her house as often as I dared. One day she expressed a wish to read “Marmion”.
I ventured to ask Mrs. Graham for one more look at the picture she was painting.
“Oh, yes! Come in,” said she (I met her in the garden). “It is finished, all ready; but give me your last opinion.”
The picture was beautiful. But, while I gazed, I thought upon the book, and wondered how to present it. I looked out of the window, and then pulled out the book, turned round, and put it into her hand, with this short explanation:
“You wished to see “Marmion,” Mrs. Graham; and here it is. Please take it.”
A momentary blush suffused her face. She gravely examined the volume; then silently turned over the leaves, in serious cogitation. Then she closed the book, and quietly asked the price of it.
“I'm sorry to offend you, Mr. Markham,” said she, “but unless I pay for the book, I cannot take it.” And she laid it on the table.
“Why cannot you?”
“Because,” she paused, and looked at the carpet.
“Why cannot you?” I repeated.
“Because I don't like to put myself under obligations that I can never repay.”
“Nonsense!” ejaculated I.
She turned her eyes on me again, with a look of quiet, grave surprise.
“Then you won't take the book?” I asked.
“I will gladly take it. How much is it?”
I told her the exact price. She produced her purse, and coolly counted out the money, but hesitated to put it into my hand.
“You think yourself insulted, Mr Markham but I- ”
“I understand you,” I said. “But believe me, I shall build no hopes upon it, and consider this no precedent for future favours.”
“Well, then,” she answered, with a smile. Then she returned the odious money to her purse, “but remember!”
“I will remember. But do not withdraw your friendship from me,” said I.
Chapter IX
Though my affections were fairly weaned from Eliza Millward, I did not yet entirely relinquish my visits to the vicarage. One day I resolved to make my visit a short one, and to talk to Eliza. It was never my custom to talk about Mrs. Graham either to her or anyone else; but Eliza said,
“Oh, Mr. Markham! What do you think of these shocking reports about Mrs. Graham? Can you believe them?”
“What reports?”
“Ah! You know!” she smiled and shook her head.
“I know nothing about them. What do you mean, Eliza?”
“Oh, don't ask me! I can't explain it.”
“What is it, Miss Millward? What does she mean?” I asked her sister.
“I don't know,” replied she. “Some idle slander, I suppose. I never heard it till Eliza told me the other day. I don't believe a word of it – I know Mrs. Graham too well!”
“Quite right, Miss Millward.”
Eliza raised her face, and gave me a look of sorrowful tenderness.
A few days after this we met again. Mrs. Graham arrived also. Mr. Lawrence came too. He seated himself quite aloof from the young widow, between my mother and Rose.
“Did you ever see such art?” whispered Eliza, who was my nearest neighbour.
“What do you mean?”
“Why, you can't pretend to be ignorant!”
“Ignorant of what?” demanded I sharply.
She started and replied, -
“Oh, hush! Don't speak so loud.”
“Well, tell me then,” I answered, “what is it you mean? I hate enigmas.”
She went to the window, where she stood for some time. I was astounded, provoked, ashamed. Shortly after we came to the tea-table.
“May I sit by you?” said a soft voice at my elbow.
“If you like,” was the reply; and Eliza slipped into the vacant chair.
“You're so stern, Gilbert. What have I done to offend you?”
“Take your tea, Eliza, and don't be foolish,” responded I.
Just then Miss Wilson wanted to negotiate an exchange of seats with Rose.
“Will you be so good as to exchange places with me, Miss Markham?” said she; “for I don't like to sit by Mrs. Graham. Your mamma invites such persons to her house!..”
“Will you be so good as to tell me what you mean, Miss Wilson?” said I.
The question startled her a little, but not much.
“Why, Mr. Markham,” replied she, coolly, “it surprises me rather that Mrs. Markham invites such a person as Mrs. Graham to her house. But, perhaps, she is not aware that the lady's character is not respectable.”
“Will you explain me…”
“This is scarcely the time or the place for such explanations. I think you can hardly be so ignorant as you pretend – you must know her as well as I do.”
“I think I do, perhaps a little better; so what?”
“Can you tell me, then, who was her husband, or if she ever had any? ”
Indignation kept me silent.
“Have you never observed,” said Eliza, “what a strange likeness there is between that child of hers and – ”
“And whom?” demanded Miss Wilson.
Eliza was startled.
“Oh, I beg your pardon!” pleaded she; “I may be mistaken – perhaps I was mistaken.”
I stared at Arthur Graham, who sat beside his mother on the opposite side of the table. Then I stared at Mr. Lawrence. There was some likeness, indeed!
Both, it is true, had more delicate features and smaller bones than commonly fall to the lot of individuals of rougher sex.
But did I not know Mrs. Graham? Was I not certain that she was
