Edith Wharton

Summer Edith Wharton

The hours of the Hatchard Memorial librarian were from three to five; and Charity Royall's senseof duty usually kept her at her desk until nearly half-past four. But she had never perceived that any practical advantage thereby accrued either to North Dormeror to herself; and she had no scruple in decreeing, when it suited her, that the library should close anhour earlier. A few minutes after Mr. Harney's departure she formed this decision, put away her lace, fastened the shutters, and turned the key in the door of the temple of knowledge. The street upon which she emerged was still empty: and after glancing up and down it she beganto walk toward her house. But instead of entering she passed on, turned into a field-path andmounted to a pasture on the hillside. She let down the bars of the gate, followed a trail along thecrumbling wall of the pasture, and walked on till she reached a knoll where a clump of larches shookout their fresh tassels to the wind. There she lay down on the slope, tossed off her hat and hid herface in the grass. She was blind and insensible to many things, and dimly knew it; but to all that was light and air, perfume and colour, every drop of blood in her responded. She loved the roughness of the drymountain grass under her palms, the smell of the thyme into which she crushed her face, thefingering of the wind in her hair and through her cotton blouse, and the creak of the larches as theyswayed to it. She often climbed up the hill and lay there alone for the mere pleasure of feeling the wind and ofrubbing her cheeks in the grass. Generally at such times she did not think of anything, but layimmersed in an inarticulate well-being. Today the sense of well-being was intensified by her joy atescaping from the library. She liked well enough to have a friend drop in and talk to her when shewas on duty, but she hated to be bothered about books. How could she remember where they were, when they were so seldom asked for? Orma Fry occasionally took out a novel, and her brother Benwas fond of what he called "jography," and of books relating to trade and bookkeeping; but no oneelse asked for anything except, at intervals, "Uncle Tom's Cabin," or "Opening of a Chestnut Burr,"or Longfellow. She had these under her hand, and could have found them in the dark; butunexpected demands came so rarely that they exasperated her like an injustice.