It wasn’t really his money that she wanted. It would be worth while doing it for nothing, for the sake of knowing him. She had read his Euripides.
She wondered: Supposing he kept her, how long would it last? He was in the middle of his First Series of Studies in Greek Literature; and there would be two, or even three if he went on.
He had taken Greffington Hall for four months. When he went back to London he would have to have somebody else.
Perhaps he would tell her that, after thinking it over, he had found he didn’t want her. Then today would be the end of it.
If she looked up she would see him.
She knew what she would see: the fine, cross upper lip lifted backwards by the moustache, the small grizzled brown moustache, turned up, that made it look crosser. The narrow, pensive lower lip, thrust out by its light jaw. His nose—quite a young nose—that wouldn’t be Roman, wouldn’t be Sutcliffe; it looked out over your head, tilted itself up to sniff the world, obstinate, alert. His eyes, young too, bright and dark, sheltered, safe from age under the low straight eyebrows. They would never have shabby, wrinkled sagging lids. Dark brown hair, grey above his ears, clipped close to stop its curling like his uncle’s. He liked to go clipped and clean. You felt that he liked his own tall, straight slenderness.
The big library rustled with the quick, irritable sound of his writing.
It stopped. He had finished. He looked at the clock. She heard a small, commiserating sound.
“Forgive me. I really thought it would only take five minutes. How on earth do you manage to keep so quiet? I should have known if a mouse had moved.”
He turned towards her. He leaned back in his chair. “You don’t mind my smoking?”
He was settling himself. Now she would know.
“Well,” he said, “if I did keep you waiting forty minutes, it was a good test, wasn’t it?”
He meditated.
“I’m always changing my secretaries because of something. The last one was admirable, but I couldn’t have stood her in the room when I was writing. … Besides, you work better.”
“Can you tell? In a week?”
“Yes. I can tell. … Are you sure you can spare me four months?”
“Easily.”
“Five? Six?”
“If you were still here.”
“I shan’t be. I shall be in London. … Couldn’t you come up?”
“I couldn’t, possibly.”
His cross mouth and brilliant, irritated eyes questioned her.
“I couldn’t leave my mother.”
II
Five weeks of the four months gone. And tomorrow he was going up to London.
Only till Friday. Only for five days. She kept on telling herself he would stay longer. Once he was there you couldn’t tell how many days he might stay. But say he didn’t come back till the middle of July, still there would be the rest of July and all August and September.
Today he was walking home with her, carrying the books. She liked walking with him, she liked to be seen walking with him, as she used to like being seen walking with Roddy and Mark, because she was proud of them, proud of belonging to them. She was proud of Richard Nicholson because of what he had done.
The Morfe people didn’t know anything about what he had done; but they knew he was something wonderful and important; they knew it was wonderful and important that you should be his secretary. They were proud of you, glad that they had provided him with you, proud that he should have found what he was looking for in Morfe.
Mr. Belk, for instance, coming along the road. He used to pass you with a jaunty, gallant, curious look as if you were seventeen and he were saying, “There’s a girl who ought to be married. Why isn’t she?” He had just sidled past them, abashed and obsequious, a little afraid of the big man. Even Mrs. Belk was obsequious.
And Mr. Spencer Rollitt. He was proud because Richard Nicholson had asked him about a secretary and he had recommended you. Funny that people could go on disapproving of you for twenty years, and then suddenly approve because of Richard Nicholson.
And Mamma. Mamma thought you wonderful and important, too.
Mamma liked Mr. Nicholson. Ever since that Sunday when he had called and brought the roses and stayed to tea. She had gone out of the room and left them abruptly because she was afraid of his “cleverness,” afraid that he would begin to talk about something that she didn’t understand.
And he had said, “How beautiful she is—”
After he had gone she had told Mamma that Richard Nicholson had said she was beautiful; and Mamma had pretended that it didn’t matter what he said; but she had smiled all the same.
He carried himself like Mr. Sutcliffe when he walked, straight and tall in his clean cut grey suit. Only he was lighter and leaner. His eyes looked gentle and peaceable now under the shadow of the Panama hat.
The front door stood open. She asked him to come in for tea.
“May I? … What are you doing afterwards?”
“Going for a walk somewhere.”
“Will you let me come too? …”
He was standing by the window looking at the garden. She saw him smile when he heard Catty say that Mamma had gone over to Mrs. Waugh’s and wouldn’t be back for tea. He smiled to himself, a secret, happy smile, looking out into the garden. … She took him out through the orchard. He went stooping under the low apple boughs and laughing. Down the Back Lane and through the gap in the lower fields, along the flagged path to the Bottom Lane and through the Rathdale fields to the river. Over the stepping stones.
She took the stones at a striding run. He followed, running and laughing.
Up the Rathdale fields to Renton Moor. Not up the schoolhouse lane, or on the Garthdale Road, or along the fields by the beck. Not up Greffington Edge or Karva. Because
