“Oh‑h—”
He was beautiful inside. He did beautiful things. She was charmed, suddenly, by his inner, his immaterial beauty. She thought: “He must be ever so old.”
“But it’s made them love you awfully, hasn’t it?” she said.
His shoulders and eyebrows lifted; he made a queer movement with his hands, palms outwards. He stood still in the path, turned to her, straight and tall. He looked down at her; his lips jerked; the hard, sharp smile bared narrow teeth.
“The more you do for people the less they love you,” he said.
“Your people must be very funny.”
“No. No. They’re simply pious, orthodox Christians, and I don’t believe in Christianity. I’m an atheist. I don’t believe their God exists. I hope he doesn’t. They wouldn’t mind so much if I were a villain, too, but it’s awkward for them when they find an infidel practising any of the Christian virtues. My eldest sister, Ruth, would tell you that I am a villain.”
“She doesn’t really think it.”
“Doesn’t she! My dear child, she’s got to think it, or give up her belief.”
She could see the gable end of Five Elms now. It would soon be over. When they got to the garden gate.
It was over.
“I suppose,” he said, “I must shut the prison door.”
They looked at each other through the bars and laughed.
“When shall I see you again?” he said.
II
She had seen him again. She could count the times on the fingers of one hand. Once, when he came to dinner with Dr. and Mrs. Draper; once at Sunday supper with the Drapers after Church; once on a Saturday when Mrs. Draper asked her to tea again; and once when he called to take her for a walk in the fields.
Mamma had lifted her eyebrows and Mrs. Draper said, “Nonsense. He’s old enough to be her father.”
The green corn stood above her ankles then. This was the fifth time. The corn rose to her waist. The ears were whitening.
“You’re the only person besides Mark who listens. There was Jimmy. But that was different. He didn’t know things. He’s a darling, but he doesn’t know things.”
“Who is Jimmy?”
“Mark’s friend and mine.”
“Where is he?”
“In Australia. He can’t ever come back, so I shall never see him again.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
A sudden, dreadful doubt. She turned to him in the narrow path.
“You aren’t laughing at me, are you? You don’t think I’m shamming and showing off?”
“I? I? Laughing at you? My poor child—No—”
“They don’t understand that you can really love words—beautiful sounds. And thoughts. Love them awfully, as if they were alive. As if they were people.”
“They are alive. They’re better than people. You know the best of your Shelley and Plato and Spinoza. Instead of the worst.”
“I should have liked to have known them, too. Sometimes I pretend that I do know them. That they’re alive. That they’re here. Saying things and listening. They’re kind. They never misunderstand. They never lose their tempers.”
“You mustn’t do that,” he said sharply.
“Why not?”
“It isn’t good for you. Talk to me. I’m alive. I’m here, I’ll listen. I’ll never misunderstand. I’ll never lose my temper.”
“You aren’t always here.”
He smiled, secretly, with straight lips, under the funny, frizzy, French moustache. And when he spoke again he looked old and wise, like an uncle.
“Wait,” he said. “Wait a bit. Wait three years.”
“Three years?” she said. “Three years before we can go for another walk?”
He shouted laughter and drew it back with a groan.
She couldn’t tell him that she pretended he was there when he was not there; that she created situations.
He was ill, and she nursed him. She could feel the weight of his head against her arm, and his forehead—hot—hot under her hand. She had felt her hands to see whether they would be nice enough to put on Mr. Jourdain’s forehead. They were rather nice; cool and smooth; the palms brushed together with a soft, swishing sound like fine silk.
He was poor and she worked for him.
He was in danger and she saved him. From a runaway horse; from a furious dog; from a burning house; from a lunatic with a revolver.
It made her sad to think how unlikely it was that any of these things would ever happen.
III
“Mr. Jourdain, I am going to school.”
The corn was reaped and carried. The five elms stood high above the shallow stubble.
“My poor Mary, is it possible?”
“Yes. Mamma says she’s been thinking of it for a long time.”
“Don’t be too hard on your mother till you’re quite sure it wasn’t my aunt.”
“It may have been both of them. Anyhow, it’s awful. Just—just when I was so happy.”
“Just when I was so happy,” he said. “But that’s the sort of thing they do.”
“I knew you’d be sorry for me.”
Chapter XVIII
I
She was shut up with Papa, tight, in the narrow cab that smelt of the mews. Papa, sitting slantways, nearly filled the cab. He was quiet and sad, almost as if he were sorry she was going.
His sadness and quietness fascinated her. He had a mysterious, wonderful, secret life going on in him. Funny you should think of it for the first time in the cab. Supposing you stroked his hand. Better not. He mightn’t like it.
Not forty minutes from Liverpool Street to Victoria. If only cabs didn’t smell so.
II
The small, ugly houses streamed past, backs turned to the train, stuck together, rushing, rushing in from the country.
Grey streets, trying to cut across the stream, getting nowhere, carried past sideways on.
Don’t look at the houses. Shut your eyes and remember.
Her father’s hand on her shoulder. His face, at the carriage window, looking for her. A girl moving back, pushing her to it. “Papa!”
Why hadn’t she loved him all the time? Why hadn’t she liked his beard? His nice, brown, silky beard. His poor beard.
Mamma’s face, in the hall, breaking up suddenly. Her
