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“Just a nice walk for the gentlemen,” continued Rose; “but the ladies will have their pony-carriage, which will be large enough to contain little Arthur and three ladies, together with your sketching apparatus, and our provisions.”
We rose, and took our leave.
But this was only March: a cold, wet April, and two weeks of May passed over before we ventured forth on our expedition. The company consisted of Mrs. and Master Graham, Mary and Eliza Millward, Jane and Richard Wilson, and Rose, Fergus, and Gilbert Markham.
Mr. Lawrence was invited to join us, but, for some reason he refused to give us his company.. The decision was not displeasing to me.
It was about midday when we reached the place of our destination. Mrs. Graham walked all the way to the cliffs. I have a very pleasant recollection of that walk, along the hard, white, sunny road. Eliza was not beside me; but she was with her friends in the pony-carriage. I was too happy in the company of Mrs. Graham to regret the absence of Eliza Millward.
At length our walk was ended. I looked at my companion to see what she thought of the glorious scene. She said nothing: but she stood still. She had very fine eyes – not brown, but very dark grey. A cool breeze blew from the sea – soft, pure, salubrious. She looked very lovely; my heart warmly cleaved to her.
Mrs. Graham seated herself at a distance from me. Eliza was my nearest neighbour. Soon my heart began to warm towards her once again; and we were all very merry and happy together.
Then Mrs. Graham took her camp-stool and drawing materials. She begged Miss Millward to take charge of her precious son, left us and proceeded along the steep, stony hill.
I rose and cannily slipped away. A few rapid strides soon brought me to her – a narrow ledge of rock at the verge of the cliff. She did not hear me. My shadow across her paper alarmed her. She looked hastily round.
“Oh! I didn't know it was you. Why did you startle me so?” said she testily. “Well, what did you come for? Are they all coming?”
“No; this little ledge can scarcely contain them all.”
“I'm glad, for I'm tired.”
“Well, then, I won't talk. I'll only sit and watch your drawing.”
“Oh, but you know I don't like that.”
“Then I'll admire this magnificent prospect.”
She made no objection to this. I sat beside her there, and said nothing.
“Are you there still, Mr. Markham?” said she at length. “Why don't you go and amuse yourself with your friends?”
“Because I am tired of them, like you.”
“What was Arthur doing when you came away?”
“He was with Miss Millward, where you left him.”
Soon declared her sketch completed, and closed the book. We returned.
The journey homeward was not so agreeable to me as the former part of the day. Now Mrs. Graham was in the carriage, and Eliza Millward was the companion of my walk.
Chapter VIII
It was a splendid morning of June. Most of the hay was cut. My brother ran up to me and put into my hand a small parcel, just arrived from London. I tore off the cover, and disclosed an elegant and portable edition of “Marmion[11].” I hastened away to Wildfell Hall, with the book in my pocket; for it was destined for the shelves of Mrs. Graham.
We met several times, and I found she was not averse to my company.
“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,
Marmion – «Мармион», роман в стихах Вальтера Скотта.