“Now, Rose, I’ll tell you a piece of news—I hope you have not heard it before: for good, bad, or indifferent, one always likes to be the first to tell. It’s about that sad Mrs. Graham—”
“Hush-sh-sh!” whispered Fergus, in a tone of solemn import. “‘We never mention her; her name is never heard.’” And glancing up, I caught him with his eye askance on me, and his finger pointed to his forehead; then, winking at the young lady with a doleful shake of the head, he whispered—“A monomania—but don’t mention it—all right but that.”
“I should be sorry to injure any one’s feelings,” returned she, speaking below her breath. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Speak out, Miss Eliza!” said I, not deigning to notice the other’s buffooneries: “you needn’t fear to say anything in my presence.”
“Well,” answered she, “perhaps you know already that Mrs. Graham’s husband is not really dead, and that she had run away from him?” I started, and felt my face glow; but I bent it over my letter, and went on folding it up as she proceeded. “But perhaps you did not know that she is now gone back to him again, and that a perfect reconciliation has taken place between them? Only think,” she continued, turning to the confounded Rose, “what a fool the man must be!”
“And who gave you this piece of intelligence, Miss Eliza?” said I, interrupting my sister’s exclamations.
“I had it from a very authentic source.”
“From whom, may I ask?”
“From one of the servants at Woodford.”
“Oh! I was not aware that you were on such intimate terms with Mr. Lawrence’s household.”