Swithin hung a thick cloth over the window, in addition to the curtains, and sat
down to his papers. On the ceiling was a black stain of smoke, and under
this he placed his lamp, evidencing that the midnight oil was consumed on
that precise spot very often.
Meanwhile there had entered to the room below a personage who, to judge
from her voice and the quick pit-pat of her feet, was a maiden young and
blithe. Mrs. Martin welcomed her by the title of Miss Tabitha Lark, and
inquired what wind had brought her that way; to which the visitor replied
that she had come for the singing.
'Sit ye down, then,' said granny. 'And do you still go to the House to
read to my lady?' 'Yes, I go and read, Mrs. Martin; but as to getting my lady to hearken,
that's more than a team of six horses could force her to do.' The girl had a remarkably smart and fluent utterance, which was probably a cause, or a consequence, of her vocation.
''Tis the same story, then?' said grandmother Martin.
'Yes. Eaten out with listlessness. She's neither sick nor sorry, but
how dull and dreary she is, only herself can tell. When I get there in
the morning, there she is sitting up in bed, for my lady don't care to
get up; and then she makes me bring this book and that book, till the bed
is heaped up with immense volumes that half bury her, making her look, as
she leans upon her elbow, like the stoning of Stephen. She yawns; then
she looks towards the tall glass; then she looks out at the weather,
mooning her great black eyes, and fixing them on the sky as if they stuck
there, while my tongue goes flick-flack along, a hundred and fifty words
a minute; then she looks at the clock; then she asks me what I've been
reading.' 'Ah, poor soul!' said granny. 'No doubt she says in the morning, "Would
God it were evening," and in the evening, "Would God it were morning,"
like the disobedient woman in Deuteronomy.' Swithin, in the room overhead, had suspended his calculations, for the duologue interested him. There now crunched heavier steps outside the
door, and his grandmother could be heard greeting sundry local
representatives of the bass and tenor voice, who lent a cheerful and well-
known personality to the names Sammy Blore, Nat Chapman, Hezekiah Biles,
and Haymoss Fry (the latter being one with whom the reader has already a
distant acquaintance); besides these came small producers of treble, who
had not yet developed into such distinctive units of society as to
require particularizing.