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Updated: May 1, 2025
The action struck her as an unwarranted criticism on her care of the books, and she said irritably: "It's not my fault if they're dirty." He turned around and looked at her with reviving interest. "Ah then you're not the librarian?" "Of course I am; but I can't dust all these books. Besides, nobody ever looks at them, now Miss Hatchard's too lame to come round." "No, I suppose not."
A week passed, and the additional expense caused by getting most of his meals out began to affect Mr. Hatchard's health. His wife, on the contrary, was in excellent spirits, and, coming in one day, explained the absence of the easy-chair by stating that it was wanted for a new lodger.
She had not been displeased, at first, to have it known to North Dormer and the neighborhood that she was driving Miss Hatchard's cousin about the country in the buggy he had hired of lawyer Royall.
Mr. Hatchard's conversation for nearly a week had been confined to fault- finding and grunts, a system of treatment designed to wean Mrs. Hatchard from her besetting sin of extravagance. On other occasions the treatment had, for short periods, proved successful, but it was quite evident that his wife's constitution was becoming inured to this physic and required a change of treatment.
The boys stared horror-stricken at each other, but there was no movement to be heard in the house. Recovering courage they quickly picked up their tools, and were soon fairly started on their way. This led for a short distance along the high-road until, crossing a stile, they came to broad meadows, where Farmer Hatchard's cows were munching peacefully away at the short dewy grass.
Hatchard's enforced absence at business, and a small bamboo table, weak in the joints, did duty in its stead. The new lodger, a man of middle age with a ready tongue, was a success from the first, and it was only too evident that Mrs. Hatchard was trying her best to please him. Mr.
And then her mind travelled to Miss Hatchard's house, where all was freshness, purity and fragrance, and compared to which the red house had always seemed so poor and plain. "This is where I belong this is where I belong," she kept repeating to herself; but the words had no meaning for her. Every instinct and habit made her a stranger among these poor swamp-people living like vermin in their lair.
The darkness drew her, and she thought of climbing the hill and plunging into the depths of the larch-wood above the pasture. Then she glanced irresolutely along the street, and as she did so a gleam appeared through the spruces at Miss Hatchard's gate. Lucius Harney was there, then he had not gone down to Hepburn with Mr. Miles, as she had at first imagined.
She opened the drawer, dragged out the register, and turned toward the door. As she did so it opened, and the young man from Miss Hatchard's came in whistling. He stopped and lifted his hat with a shy smile. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I thought there was no one here." Charity stood before him, barring his way. "You can't come in. The library ain't open to the public Wednesdays."
Miss Hatchard's puzzled wrinkles deepened, and there was a distressful pause. "You want to leave Mr. Royall?" "Yes: or I want another woman in the house with me," said Charity resolutely. Miss Hatchard clasped her nervous hands about the arms of her chair.
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