The dark oak room was getting a little dim; I had not been able to get off in the morning, it was afternoon—late afternoon, because Harrod had detained me. A shadow over the sky without made very dark corners in the old wainscoting, that the heavy tapestry curtains made darker still. Everything was dark and old-fashioned, with a solid serviceable goodness, in the squire's house. There were bits of delicate satinwood furniture, as I knew, in the citron-colored drawing-room with its canary hangings, but here, in the room where the squire sat, everything was for use.
I took it all in at a glance; the shelves that lined the walls—books and books and books for him who declared he did not read—the carved settee by the hearth, the old leather arm-chair whence he must just have risen, the large table strewn with newspapers and pamphlets, driving-gloves, hunting-crops, dog-collars, and all kinds of strange implements that country gentlemen seem to require. An old Turkey carpet covered the floor, and a heavy curtain kept the draught from the door; it was a comfortable winter room, dim and hot on this warm September evening.
As I looked I remembered another room that I had been in alone not a long while since—a different room, looked at with different feelings. I shivered as I thought of it, just as I had shivered a moment since in the hot air without.
The squire came in. He looked as though he had been ailing, but he did not look ill, and his smile was sunshine in its welcoming.
"Why, Miss Margaret, this is an honor for an old bachelor," said he. "It's worth while being ill for—or saying one has been ill, for there has been precious little the matter with me. I should have been out long ago if it hadn't been for that tiresome doctor that Mrs. Dalton insisted on calling in."
I smiled. I did not know what to say—how to begin.
"Mother sent you this jelly," I said, hurrying to get over the avowed object of my visit. "It's some we make at home, and she thinks it'll cure anything." I held out the basket, and then placed it on the big table behind me. "And father wants to know if you would like him to come to-night and have a chat," I went on, hurriedly, before he had time to answer.
"Oh, I couldn't let him do that," said the squire. "I heard he wasn't so well again the other day. I'm quite recovered now. I'll come down to the Grange. I should like to have a chat with him about the election. I hope your father isn't disappointed?"
"Oh dear, no; father doesn't mind a bit," said I, impatiently. "But do come. I'm sure mother'll be downright glad to see you at the Grange again. She says you never come near us nowadays."