Незнакомка из Уайлдфелл-Холла. Уровень 2 / The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

”

“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 - Marmion – «Мармион», роман в стихах Вальтера Скотта.

].” 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.