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257
Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
52
When
he
and
I
went
in,
we
found
that
dinner
was
nearly
ready
in
the
kitchen—
for
so
I
suppose
the
room
ought
to
be
called,
as
there
were
oak
dressers
and
cupboards
all
round,
all
over
by
the
side
of
the
fireplace,
and
only
a
small
Turkey
carpet
in
the
middle
of
the
flag-floor.
The
room
might
have
been
easily
made
into
a
handsome
dark
oak
dining-parlour
by
removing
the
oven
and
a
few
other
appurtenances
of
a
kitchen,
which
were
evidently
never
used,
the
real
cooking-place
being
at
some
distance.
The
room
in
which
we
were
expected
to
sit
was
a
stiffly-furnished,
ugly
apartment;
but
that
in
which
we
did
sit
was
what
Mr
Holbrook
called
the
counting-house,
where
he
paid
his
labourers
their
weekly
wages
at
a
great
desk
near
the
door.
The
rest
of
the
pretty
sitting-room—
looking
into
the
orchard,
and
all
covered
over
with
dancing
tree-shadows—
was
filled
with
books.
They
lay
on
the
ground,
they
covered
the
walls,
they
strewed
the
table.
He
was
evidently
half
ashamed
and
half
proud
of
his
extravagance
in
this
respect.
They
were
of
all
kinds—
poetry
and
wild
weird
tales
prevailing.
He
evidently
chose
his
books
in
accordance
with
his
own
tastes,
not
because
such
and
such
were
classical
or
established
favourites.
“Ah!”
he
said,
“we
farmers
ought
not
to
have
much
time
for
reading;
yet
somehow
one
can’t
help
it.”
“What
a
pretty
room!”
said
Miss
Matty,
sotto
voce.
“What
a
pleasant
place!”
said
I,
aloud,
almost
simultaneously.
“Nay!
if
you
like
it,”
replied
he;
“but
can
you
sit
on
these
great,
black
leather,
three-cornered
chairs?
I
like
it
better
than
the
best
parlour;
but
I
thought
ladies
would
take
that
for
the
smarter
place.”
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