Now, the trees were 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. 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. Then she thought of the day her father had brought her the news of his second marriage. 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 house-maids had opened the shutters and windows of the generally unused library. The middle window was also a door; the white-painted wood went half-way 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?”
“Oh, no. It is so fresh and pleasant.”
She began to read again, sitting on the lowest step of the ladder; he to write at the large old-fashioned writing-table close to the window. There was a minute or two of profound silence, in which the rapid scratching of Osborne’s pen upon the paper was the only sound. Then came a click of the gate, and Roger stood at the open door. His face was towards Osborne, sitting in the light; his back to Molly, crouched up in her corner. He held out a letter, and said in hoarse breathlessness—
“Here’s a letter from your wife, Osborne. I went past the post-office and thought”——
Osborne stood up, angry dismay upon his face—
“Roger! what have you done? Don’t you see her?”
Roger looked round, and Molly stood up in her corner, red, trembling, miserable, as though she were a guilty person. Roger entered the room. All three seemed to be equally dismayed. Molly was the first to speak; she came forward and said—
“I am so sorry! I didn’t wish to hear it, but I couldn’t help it. You will trust me, won’t you?” and, turning to Roger, she said to him, with tears in her eyes—“Please say you know I shall not tell.”
“We can’t help it,” said Osborne gloomily. “Only, Roger, who knew of what importance it was, ought to have looked round him before speaking.”
“So I should,” said Roger. “I’m more vexed with myself than you can conceive. Not but what I’m as sure of you as of myself,” continued he, turning to Molly.
“Yes; but,” said Osborne, “you see how many chances there are that even the best meaning persons may let out what it is of such consequence to me to keep secret.”