“I beg your pardon, sir,” stammered she;—suddenly calming down,—the light of reason seeming to break upon her beclouded spirit, and a faint blush mantling on her cheek—“I did not know you;—and I thought—”
She stooped to kiss the child, and fondly clasped her arm round his neck.
“You thought I was going to kidnap your son, I suppose?”
She stroked his head with a half-embarrassed laugh, and replied,—“I did not know he had attempted to climb the wall.—I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Markham, I believe?” she added, somewhat abruptly.
I bowed, but ventured to ask how she knew me.
“Your sister called here, a few days ago, with Mrs. Markham.”
“Is the resemblance so strong then?” I asked, in some surprise, and not so greatly flattered at the idea as I ought to have been.
“There is a likeness about the eyes and complexion I think,” replied she, somewhat dubiously surveying my face;—“and I think I saw you at church on Sunday.”
I smiled.—There was something either in that smile or the recollections it awakened that was particularly displeasing to her, for she suddenly assumed again that proud, chilly look that had so unspeakably roused my aversion at church—a look of repellent scorn, so easily assumed, and so entirely without the least distortion of a single feature, that, while there, it seemed like the natural expression of the face, and was the more provoking to me, because I could not think it affected.
“Good-morning, Mr. Markham,” said she; and without another word or glance, she withdrew, with her child, into the garden; and I returned home, angry and dissatisfied—I could scarcely tell you why, and therefore will not attempt it.