CHAPTER VII. LUNCHEON, or rather children's dinner, was over at Grainthorpe, Aunt Jane was out, and Georgy sat working in the drawing-room, while Poppy, the youngest of the three children, was playing with her doll, sometimes diversifying her game by rubbing her rosy cheeks against the window. "There's a gentleman and a pretty horse coming up the drive, but Poppy likes the horse best." "It is Mr. Ledward, I suppose-he will give Poppy a ride on his horse, if she says 'How d'ye-do,' and asks him nicely." It was not Mr. Ledward's step-it reminded Georgy of some one else: this, though, was only fancy, because she was just then thinking of that person. She interrupted neither work nor thoughts till she heard Bessy's voice. "Neither the mistress nor the master is in, sir." She had let him into the house before she announced this, and she had no idea that Miss Georgy's society was desirable to the visitor. “All the ladies out? Miss Sandon too?" “She'll be in, sir," Bessy answered, politely. Georgy got up quickly, and came forward from the work-table in the window to meet Mr. Erskine, still holding in one hand the brown Holland cover which she was making. She was quite confused: the idea of his calling at such an out-of-the-way place as Grainthorpe had never occurred to her, and she wished everything were not so ugly. She pushed some of the brown Holland under her chair, but still held one cushion-cover in her hand; and he began to pull about a piece of stuff not yet begun upon. "Mr. Sandon asked me here once, but I have never even had the pleasure of calling to acknowledge his kindness. I am down here so seldom, and now Mr. Sandon is unfortunately not at home." "I hope that he may be back presently." "And what do you do?" "Nothing or make brown Holland covers, as you see." Georgy did not know how uncomfortably the place struck him as he glanced round the room. Bessy had been washing the cold dingy-looking oil-cloth, which covered the floor in the doorway; there was no fire in the empty grate, a needless omission where coals are so cheap. The room was a parlour rather than a drawing-room: a huge straight-backed sofa, two solid arm-chairs, almost immovable, the others very high and uncomfortable, a pianoforte, a table or two, and a little bookcase, constituted the furniture. On the centre table, and right in the middle of it, was a large smart inkstand, but no blotting-book-nothing to indicate that it was meant for use; an old Book of Beauty, an almanac, and a weekly newspaper, made up the literature. There was neither picture nor print on the walls; over the high old-fashioned chimney-piece, decorated with long wreaths of flowers carved in wood, was a narrow looking-glass; on the mantel-shelf a little clock was flanked by two gaudy china vases, and a pair of decidedly ugly candlesticks with crystal drops. Mr. Erskine looked at these dreary decorations, which resembled those of an unfrequented inn, but made no remark. It was cold; and so was Georgy's hand, which he had taken on entering. All the flowers were gone now, except some China roses, which Georgy had been putting into a vase with some "immortelles ;" but they would not intermix properly, and the arrangement was a failure. "You have still a few roses left, I see." "Yes; but nothing else-the 'immortelles' are not pretty flowers, in spite of the name." "No, but I have a sort of veneration for them; one sees them in churchyards abroad, in little convent-chapels, and they appear as often in French novels as poplar trees." "French stories! I like them. I had a French governess when I was a child; she was very kind to me, and I have loved all French things since then." "You are so old now, it must be long since you were a child, my dear Miss Sandon; but again— what do you do here?" "You can see," laughing; "here is the drawingroom, there the garden. Sometimes I go to Eastham; and once a-year to a ball; and sometimes I go out to tea, and I have even dined out." He fixed his eyes curiously on the little book-shelf, containing a great part of the family library. A whole row of French fairy tales, and all Voltaire's works, in little brown old-fashioned volumes, stood side by side with the British Essayists, and the British Theatre; a stage edition of the Stranger, the Fatal Marriage, and other tragic horrors, were close to Blair's Sermons and Mrs. Trimmer's History of the Bible, Hume's History of England, and the Percy Anecdotes. "Are you looking at the books?" "Yes; but you get others sometimes, surely?" "Sometimes, but not very often." "Do you read all the French books?" "Yes, my aunt learnt a great part of La Henriade by heart when she was at school, and has derived from that a deep conviction of the instructive but dry nature of Voltaire's works. And then I read the fairy tales, and tell them to Poppy, who is not a French scholar yet." "And besides that?" "Besides that I have read Hume" (with an air of dignity), "and when I was little, knew those plays very well: they lived with me at grandmamma's, and when poor grandmamma died, they were sent here with me. Some other children and I had serious thoughts of representing The Stranger once. Since that I have rather forgotten my dramatic lore." "Now, really, this is a pretty account to give of your readings, Miss Sandon!" He could not help being interested in the mention of grandmamma and the old books. She spoke of them sadly, though she did not mean to do so. The little girl's life was not a pleasant one, and he was sorry for her. He was right: though the discomfort of the house had struck him even unreasonably. People who have lived in luxurious rooms all their lives, sometimes feel an undue sensation of pity for those whom they find in the little sitting-room of a humble house. If they were there themselves for a few days they would forget the change and be equally |