“Martha, show the lady this way,” called out Mrs. Graham, who was listening. “Ah, Mrs. Livingstone, is it you. I’m glad to see you,” said she, half rising and shading her swollen eyes with her hand, as if the least effort were painful. “You must excuse my dishabille, for I am suffering from a bad headache, and when Martha said some one had come, I thought at first I could not see them, but you are always welcome. How have you been this long time, and why have you neglected me so, when you know how I must feel the change from Louisville, where I was constantly in society, to this dreary neighborhood?” and the lady lay back upon the sofa, exhausted with and astonished at her own eloquence.
Mrs. Livingstone was quite delighted with her friend’s unusual cordiality, and seating herself in the large easy-chair, began to make herself very agreeable, offering to bathe Mrs. Graham’s aching head, which kind offer the lady declined, bethinking herself of sundry gray hairs, which a close inspection would single out from among her flaxen tresses.
“Are your family all well?” she asked; to which Mrs. Livingstone replied that they were, at the same time speaking of her extreme loneliness since Mabel left them.
“Ah, you mean the little dark-eyed brunette, whom I saw with you at my party. She was a nice-looking girl—showed that she came of a good family. I think everything of that. I believe I’d rather Durward would marry a poor aristocrat, than a wealthy plebeian—one whose family were low and obscure.”
Mrs. Livingstone wondered what she thought of her family, the Livingstones. The Richards’ blood she knew was good, but the Nichols’ was rather doubtful. Still, she would for once make the best of it, so she hastened to say that few American ladies were so fortunate as Mrs. Graham had been in marrying a noble man. “In this country we have no nobility, you know,” said she, “and any one who gets rich and into good society, is classed with the first.”
“Yes, I know,” returned Mrs. Graham, “but in my mind there’s a great difference. Now, Mr. Graham’s ancestors boast of the best blood of South Carolina, while my family, everybody knows, was one of the first in Virginia, so if Durward had been Mr. Graham’s son instead of Sir Arthur’s, I should be just as proud of him, just as particular whom he married.”
“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Livingstone, a little piqued, for there was something in Mrs. Graham’s manner which annoyed her—“certainly—I understand you. I neither married a nobleman, nor one of the best bloods of South Carolina, and still I should not be willing for my son to marry—let me see—well, say ’Lena Rivers.”
“’Lena Rivers !” repeated Mrs. Graham—“why, I would not suffer Durward to look at her, if I could help it. She’s of a horridly low family on both sides, as I am told.”
This was a home thrust which Mrs. Livingstone could not endure quietly, and as she had no wish to defend the royalty of a family which she herself despised, she determined to avenge the insult by making her companion as uncomfortable as possible. So she said, “Perhaps you are not aware that your son’s attentions to this same ’Lena Rivers, are becoming somewhat marked.”
“No, I was not aware of it,” and the greenish-gray eyes fastened inquiringly upon Mrs. Livingstone, who continued: “It is nevertheless true, and as I can appreciate your feelings, I thought it might not be out of place for me to warn you.”