I did go on the morrow; but not till towards evening, after the business of the day was concluded, that is between six and seven; and the westering sun was gleaming redly on the old hall, and flaming in the latticed windows, as I reached it, imparting to the place a chess not its own. I need not dilate upon the feelings with which I approached the shrine of my former divinity--that spot teeming with a thousand delightful recollections and glorious dreams--all darkened now, by one disastrous truth.
Rachel admitted me into the parlour, and went to call her mistress, for she was not there; but there was her desk left open on the little round table beside the high-backed chair, with a book laid upon it. Her limited but choice collection of books was almost as familiar to me as my own; but this volume I had not seen before. I took it up. It was Sir Humphrey Davy's `Last days of a Philosopher,' and on the first leaf was written,--`Frederick Lawrence.' I closed the book, but kept it in my hand, and stood facing the door, with my back to the fireplace, calmly waiting her arrival; for I did not doubt she would come. And soon I heard her step in the hall.
My heart was berg to throb, but I checked it with an internal rebuke, and maintained my composure--outwardly, at least, She entered, calm, pale, collected.
`To what am I indebted for this favour, Mr Markham?' said she, with such severe but quiet dignity as almost disconcerted me; but I answered with a smile, and impudently enough:--`Well, I am come to hear your explanation.'
`I told you I would not give it,' said she. `I said you were unworthy of my confidence.'
`Oh, very well,' replied I, moving to the door.
`Stay a moment,' said she. `This is the last time I shall see you: don't go just yet.'
I remained, awaiting her further commands.
Tell me,' resumed she, `on what grounds you believe these things against me; who told you? and what did they say?'
I paused a moment. She met my eye as unflinchingly as if her bosom had been steeled with conscious innocence. She was resolved to know the worst, and determined to dare it too. `I can crush that bold spirit,' thought I. But while I secretly exulted in my power, I felt disposed to dally with my victim like a cat. Showing her the book that I still held in my hand, and pointing to the name on the flyleaf, but fixing my eye upon her face, I asked,--`Do you know that gentleman?'
`Of course I do,' replied she; and a sudden flush suffused her features--whether of shame or anger I could not tell: it rather resembled the latter. `What next, sir?'
`How long is it since you saw him?'
`Who gave you the right to catechise me, on this or any other subject?'
`Oh, no one!--it's quite at your option whether to answer or not.--And now, let me ask--have you heard what has lately befallen this friend of yours?--because, if you have not--'
`I will not be insulted, Mr Markham!' cried she, almost infuriated at my manner--`So you had better leave the house at once, if you came only for that.'
`I did not come to insult you: I came to hear your explanation.'
`And I tell you I won't give it!' retorted she, pacing the room in a state of strong excitement, with her hands clasped tightly together, breathing short, and flashing fires of indignation from her eyes. `I will not condescend to explain myself to one that can make a jest of such horrible suspicions, and be so easily led to entertain them.'
`I do not make a jest of them, Mrs Graham,' returned I, dropping at once my tone of taunting sarca**.' I heartily wish I could find them a jesting matter! And as to being easily led to suspect, God only knows what a blind, incredulous fool I have hitherto been, perseveringly shutting my eyes and stopping my ears against everything that threatened to shake my confidence in you, till proof itself confounded my infatuation!'
`What proof, sir?'
`Well, I'll tell you. You remember that evening when I was here last?'
`I do.'
`Even then, you dropped some hints that might have opened the eyes of a wiser man; but they had no such effect upon me: I went on trusting and believing, hoping against hope, and adoring where I could not comprehend--It so happened, however, that after I had left you, I turned back--drawn by pure depth of sympathy, and ardour of affection--not daring to intrude my presence openly upon you, but unable to resist the temptation of catching one glimpse through the window, just to see how you were; for I had left you apparently in great affliction, and I partly blamed my own want of forbearance and discretion as the cause of it. If I did wrong, love alone was my incentive, and the punishment was severe enough; for it was just as I had reached that tree, that you came out into the garden with your friend. Not choosing to show myself, under the circumstances, I stood still, in the shadow, till you had both passed by.'
`And how much of our conversation did you hear?'
