Part 3 (1/2)

”That's very good of you.”

”Rather not. It _was_ my job, you know.”

He was backing through the gate, saluting as he went. And now he had turned and was running with raking, athletic paces up the gra.s.s border of the park.

III

1

”Tea is in the library, miss.”

This announcement, together with Partridge's extraordinary increase of importance, would have told her that the master had returned, even if she had not seen, through the half-open door of the cloak-room, Mr.

Waddington's overcoat hanging by its shoulders and surmounted by his grey slouch hat.

With a rapid, furtive movement the butler closed the door on these sanct.i.ties; and she noted the subdued quiet of his footsteps as he led the way down the dark oak-panelled corridor, through the smoke-room, and into the library beyond. She also caught a surprising sight of her own face in the gla.s.s over the smoke-room chimneypiece, her dark eyes s.h.i.+ning, the cool, wind-beaten flush on her young cheeks, the curled mouth flowering, geranium red on rose white.

This Barbara of the looking-gla.s.s smiled at her in pa.s.sing with such gay, irresponsible amus.e.m.e.nt that it fairly took her breath away. Its origin became clear to her as Ralph Bevan's words shot into her mind: ”I don't want to spoil him for you.” She foresaw a possible intimacy in which Horatio Bysshe Waddington would become the unique though unofficial tie between them. She was aware that it pleased her to share a secret jest with Ralph Bevan.

She found f.a.n.n.y established behind her tea-table in the low room, dim with its oak panelling above the long lines of the bookcases, where f.a.n.n.y's fluttering smile made movement and a sort of light.

Her husband sat facing her in his brown leather chair and in the pose, the wonderful pose of his portrait; only the sobriety of his navy-blue serge had fined it down, giving him a fact.i.tious slenderness. He hadn't seen her come in. He sat there in innocence and unawareness; and afterwards it gave her a little pang of remorse remembering how innocent he had then seemed to her and unaware.

”This is my husband, Barbara. Horatio, you haven't met Miss Madden.”

His eyes bulged with the startled innocence of a creature taken unaware.

He had just lifted his face, with its dripping moustache, from his teacup, and though he carried off this awkwardness with an unabashed sweep of his pocket-handkerchief, you could see that he was sensitive; he hated you to catch him in any gesture that was less than n.o.ble. All his gestures were n.o.ble and his att.i.tudes. He was n.o.ble as he got up, slowly, unfolding his great height, tightening by a movement of his shoulders his great breadth. He looked down at her superbly and held out his hand; it closed on hers in a large genial clasp.

”So this is my secretary, is it?”

”Yes. And don't forget she's my companion as well as your secretary.”

”I never forget anything that you wish me to remember.” (Only he said ”nevah” and ”remembah”; he bowed as he said it in a very courtly way.)

Barbara noticed that his black hair and moustache were lightly grizzled, there was loose flesh about his eyelids, his chin had doubled, and his cheeks were sagging from the bone, otherwise he was exactly like his portrait; these changes made him look, if anything, more incorruptibly dignified and more solemn. He had remained on his feet (for his breeding was perfect), moving between the tea-table and Barbara, bringing her tea, milk and sugar, and things to eat. Altogether he was so simple, so genial and unmysterious that Barbara could only suppose that Ralph had been making fun of her, of her wonder, her curiosity.

”My dear, what a colour you've got!”

f.a.n.n.y put up her hands to her own cheeks to draw attention to Barbara's.

”You _are_ growing a country girl, aren't you? You should have seen her white face when she came, Horatio.”

”What has she been doing to herself?” He had settled again into his chair and his att.i.tude.

”She's been out walking with Ralph.”

”With Ralph? Is _he_ here still?”