Graham's feelings at this moment would be impossible to describe. Afterwards—many months afterwards—she herself gave some idea of them when she declared to the cook that she thought she should have "swooned right off."
"Oh, madam! tell you what?" she says, now, in a terrified tone, shrinking away from her mistress, and turning deadly pale.
"You know what you were speaking about just now when I came up."
"It was nothing, madam, I assure you, only idle gossip, not worth——"
"Do not equivocate to me. You were speaking of Mr. Branscombe. Repeat your 'idle gossip.' I will have it word for word. Do you hear?" She beats her foot with quick impatience against the ground.
"Do not compel me to repeat so vile a lie," entreats Graham, earnestly. "It is altogether false. Indeed, madam,"—confusedly,—"I cannot remember what it was we were saying when you came up to us so unexpectedly."
"Then I shall refresh your memory. You were talking of your master and—and of that girl in the village who——" The words almost suffocate her; involuntarily she raises her hand to her throat. "Go on," she says, in a low, dangerous tone.
Graham bursts into tears.
"It was the gardener at Hythe—old Andrews—who told it to our man here," she sobs, painfully. "You know he is his father, and he said he had seen the master in the copsewood the evening—Ruth Annersley ran away."
"He was in London that evening."