The Feast of Bacchus by Ernest G. Henham & John Trevena

Author:Ernest G. Henham & John Trevena [Henham, Ernest G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Valancourt Books
Published: 2014-05-04T22:00:00+00:00

Finally she wandered into the study, a room forbidden to her sex, therefore the more attractive, and stood aghast at its untidiness. Mr. Price was the most unmethodical man incarnate. Upon his writing-desk were farming-reports, parish-magazines, bundles of twine, sermons, cigarettes, horse-shoes, theological works, and samples of wool. More books were piled upon a central table, novels, bibles, philosophical works, and agricultural digests, thrown together with bags of grain, much of which was scattered over the carpet, and eggs dated in blue pencil. The fireplace was filled with rubbish, an old saddle, and a broken reaping-hook. The single armchair was piled with horse-cloths. The pictures on the walls, chiefly framed photographs of horses and landscapes, were hanging awry and begrimed with dust. An open work of Josephus was covered with cartridges, and a brace of pigeons, shot in the early morning, were staining the right reverend bishop’s latest charge. The remaining chairs were occupied with a jumble of tools, coats, and hats. Boots and guns were lying about the carpet. A bust of Shakspere supported a leather shooting-cap; and a little oak desk of ecclesiastical design held a couple of soiled collars, an incomplete copy of a book of common prayer tied together with string, a flask half filled with sherry, some candle-ends, and a half-dozen unanswered letters.

“No one would imagine uncle was well off,” Flora murmured, moving through the confusion, with her skirts gathered round her. “I wonder how much he loses every year on this stupid farm. It would be much more sensible if he put by the money for me to spend later on.”

She approached the window and pushed it open; but while shaking some rain-drops off the back of her hand footsteps became audible upon the wet gravel. She knew it was not her uncle’s tread, and looking out saw Conway, his garments splashed with chalky mud, and his face flushed by the wind.

She was at the door before he could ring. He came up, and said quickly, but solemnly, as though it were a matter of the last importance, seizing her hand and looking into her eyes, “There is a change to-day.”

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