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No station in the world was more primevally still than Grantley Thorpe, after the down three-thirty express the train that crossed the three-fifteen that carried Gwen to London had stopped, that the word of Bradshaw should be fulfilled; had deposited the smallest conceivable number of passengers, and wondered, perhaps, why remaindermen in the carriages always put their heads out to ask what station this was.
It was then that we read in turns from some of the best books of fiction; for Miss Grantley said, "Girls are sure to read novels, and the imagination needs to be cultivated as well as the intellect and the memory." So we read stories, and sometimes poems by Tennyson and Browning and other modern writers, as well as Shakspeare, Dante, Schiller, and Goëthe.
Her prerogatives, indeed." As for Grantley Mellen, this untoward intrusion had broken up the happy moment which might have given him an insight into all that his wife felt and suffered. The interview which had promised such gentle confidence only ended in mutual irritation.
Our governess would explain the passages to us, and we used to talk about them afterwards; but very often the conversation took a good deal more time than the reading, for it was then we found out that Miss Grantley had travelled in Germany, France, and Italy, and that she had been a student not only of subjects that she might have to teach, but of people and their ways.
So she was; and Ham and Miranda left Grantley next morning, after a very early breakfast; and, when the regular boarders came to theirs, they might have guessed at once that the "transient guests" had gone. They even guessed it out loud at dinner and at supper. Mrs.
An' as for me, I'm done with you, so there!" The woman looked after her as she bounced to the door, hiccoughing, holding the now empty glass in her shaking hand. Her brows were knit; she seemed in her muddled brain to be considering something. "The girl Grantley promised she'd come to-day," she said. "She promised she'd bring me something." "And did so, right enough.
This bit of goodness may bring ruin upon me, but I cannot leave the country forever, and know that she is being ground to dust under your heel; while that other flimsy coward crowds her from hearth and home. For once, Grantley Mellen, you shall be forced to hear the truth and believe it."
Hugh Grantley, the new Presbyterian minister, opened the vestry door. Close beside the Watson estate with its strangely shaped dwelling stood another small house, which was the earthly abode of one Mrs. McGuire, also of Irish extraction, who had been a widow for forty years. Mrs. McGuire was a tall, raw-boned, angular woman with piercing black eyes, and a firm forbidding jaw. One look at Mrs.
Grantley felt that the ice of the past was freezing between them once more, and the idea caused him acute pain.
I advise and earnestly recommend you to read Grantley Manor. It does not, Mr. Butler, end ill, and from beginning to end it is good, and not stupidly good. It is not controversial either in dialogue or story, and in word and deed it does justice to both Churches, in the distribution of the qualities of the dramatis personae and the action of the story.
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