I stood in the silent, empty parlour, and looked on
the familiar things with a sense of desolation, of something lost
and gone, which I could not understand. The morning was grey and
cloudy, the air sharp, a shower was falling. The rose-bushes
outside swayed in the wind, and inside, where I could remember
the hot sunshine lying on floor and table, the rain beat in and
stained the boards. The inner door flapped and creaked on its
hinges. I thought of other days and of meals I had taken there,
and of the scent of flowers; and I fled to the hall in despair.
But here, too, were no signs of life or company, no comfort, no
attendance. The ashes of the logs, by whose blaze Mademoiselle
had told me the secret, lay on the hearth white and cold fit
emblem of the change that had taken place; and now and then a
drop of moisture, sliding down the great chimney, pattered among
them. The main door stood open, as if the house had no longer
anything to guard. The only living thing to be seen was a hound
which roamed about restlessly, now gazing at the empty hearth now
lying down with pricked cars and watchful eyes.
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