She loved her work, and she had missed it. It was lucky Mr. Tyrrell was out of town or he might have called, as he had called once or twice lately, with a book or some other pretext for coming, and had hindered her. The rest had done her good. It was so good to be getting back to work, to be so keen.
Her pulses beat in her ears as she hurried on her way. She arrived at her destination. As she passed through the hall, she had an absurd feeling that Archie Tyrrell—she knew his name was Archie by this time—might meet her and turn her back. He had taken a masterful way with her lately. If by any unforeseen chance he should have come back!
She glanced fearfully at the swing-door of the general reading-room. Then she remembered. He was not on duty in the evenings, even if he had been in town. Few readers came in the evenings. It was a concession to poor students engaged in the daytime that kept the library and reading-room open at night till nine o’clock. She hurried along the corridor, joy in her blood and giving wings to her feet. Through the half-glass door she saw that the room was dim beyond. There was only firelight in it. She was glad. That meant she should find only Miss Brooke. The last day she had been there a couple of girls had come in: had asked for Swinburne’s poems and Rossetti’s, and had hovered over them like butterflies, dipping into a page here, a page there, till they remembered an appointment and went away. She had felt a sense of resentment against them as intruders into a place which had become so strangely dear to her.
Miss Brooke was not there, though her chair stood in front of the fire as usual. She must only just have left it, for the leather back was warm. Oddly enough, now that she was come, Esther had no inclination to work. She sat down in Miss Brooke’s chair. She leant back, looking up at the portrait. It seemed to lean towards her, smiling at her. It was as though the sun had come out.
Had she fallen asleep? She awoke with the strange sense of its being night and every one in the world asleep. The fire had gone low, was almost out. There was a little glimmer in the darkness, which she knew somehow came from the street-lamps beyond the courtyard. Somewhere there was a faint murmuring as of voices at a distance—in the rooms, not out-of-doors.
She was suddenly frightened—of the old house and all its ghosts. She remembered the Beloved. With him no woman need be afraid.
She turned to where the portrait hung for comfort; but she could see nothing. She stood up, groping in the darkness.
Somewhere a clock struck two great strokes in the silence of the sleeping town.
Where was Miss Brooke? She felt her way towards the wall of books, still but half awake. They still burnt oil-lamps in the library: electric light was not yet come into general use. She had no matches to strike a light. The darkness was very baffling. The furniture seemed to get in her way as though it were something animate that would keep her back.
At last she found the book-shelves. She groped along them for the door. It was slightly ajar. There were the whispering voices not far away.