The last afternoon of her stay at the Hall came. Roger had gone out
on the Squire's business. Molly went into the garden, thinking over
the last summer, when Mrs. Hamley's sofa used to be placed under
the old cedar-tree on the lawn, and when the warm air seemed to be
scented with roses and sweetbriar. Now, the trees leafless, there was
no sweet odour in the keen frosty air; and looking up at the house,
there were the white sheets of blinds, shutting out the pale winter
sky from the invalid's room. Then she thought of the day her father
had brought her the news of his second marriage: the thicket was
tangled with dead weeds and rime and hoar-frost; and the beautiful
fine articulations of branches and boughs and delicate twigs were
all intertwined in leafless distinctness against the sky. Could she
ever be so passionately unhappy again? Was it goodness, or was it
numbness, that made her feel as though life was too short to be
troubled much about anything? Death seemed the only reality. She had
neither energy nor heart to walk far or briskly; and turned back
towards the house. The afternoon sun was shining brightly on the
windows; and, stirred up to unusual activity by some unknown cause,
the housemaids had opened the shutters and windows of the generally
unused library. The middle window was also a door; the white-painted
wood went halfway up. Molly turned along the little flag-paved path
that led past the library windows to the gate in the white railings
at the front of the house, and went in at the opened door. She had
had leave given to choose out any books she wished to read, and to
take them home with her; and it was just the sort of half-dawdling
employment suited to her taste this afternoon. She mounted on the
ladder to get to a particular shelf high up in a dark corner of the
room; and finding there some volume that looked interesting, she sat
down on the step to read part of it. There she sat, in her bonnet and
cloak, when Osborne suddenly came in. He did not see her at first;
indeed, he seemed in such a hurry that he probably might not have
noticed her at all, if she had not spoken.
"Am I in your way? I only came here for a minute to look for some
books." She came down the steps as she spoke, still holding the book
in her hand.
"Not at all. It is I who am disturbing you. I must just write a
letter for the post, and then I shall be gone. Is not this open door
too cold for you?"