Mr. Waddington of Wyck | Page 5

said. "Mrs. Waddington expects you for
tea."
"No," he said, "she doesn't. She knows I can't come if he's there."
He paused. "By the way, that book of his, it's in an appalling muddle. I
hadn't time to do much to it before I left. If you can't get it straight you
must come to me and I'll help you."
"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 grass 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
sanctities; 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 glass over the smoke-room chimneypiece, her dark
eyes shining, the cool, wind-beaten flush on her young cheeks, the
curled mouth flowering, geranium red on rose white.
This Barbara of the looking-glass smiled at her in passing with such
gay, irresponsible amusement 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 Fanny established behind her tea-table in the low room, dim
with its oak panelling above the long lines of the bookcases, where
Fanny'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 factitious 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 noble. All his
gestures were noble and his attitudes. He was noble 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!"
Fanny 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 attitude.
"She's been out walking with Ralph."
"With Ralph? Is he here still?"
"Why shouldn't he be?"
Mr. Waddington shrugged his immense shoulders. "It's a question of
taste. If he likes to hang about the place after his behaviour--"
"Poor boy! whatever has he done? 'Behaviour' makes it sound as if it
had been something awful."

"We needn't go into