can’t wade through all this.”
Nevertheless he had already opened three or four letters and cast his eye over them rapidly, noting that his prime requirement had been very perfectly grasped: the writers all professed their firmness, and left no doubt that they were in fact domestic flagellants possessing a high degree of skill and experience. The very existence of such women was something which the worthy man had never suspected.
“How curious,” he was thinking, when his valet Thomas entered with the announcement that a woman wished to see him.
“A woman? Here?” said Mr. Lovel, taken aback and immediately suspicious. “What sort of a woman?”
“A young sort of woman, sir. What you’d call a young woman, I suppose, sir – only, she’s so – so ...” Thomas seemed at a total loss for words.
Mr. Lovel, who had long known that Thomas’ descriptions partook of a supreme fogginess, reproached himself inwardly for having asked the question, and ordered the lady shown in.
She entered immediately.
Mr. Lovel saw before him a tall young woman in her middle twenties, dressed with quiet elegance. A brunette with a very white skin, she wore her dark, almost black hair in a plain style under her small bonnet, parted from forehead to crown and drawn smoothly back to a heavy chignon at the nape of her strong, graceful neck. Her brow was well-shaped and intellectual, the nose was straight, short and full of energy, the mouth rather wide, with a full underlie, the chin quite prominent. Everything in her face and pose denoted decision and force; but her glance, reserved, serious, even academic, could not conceal the warm brilliance of her violet-grey eyes. She wore a tight-bodiced gown of plain black silk with a full skirt falling from a bustle and coiling around her feet – a costume that revealed a superb bust, a slender waist and wide, well-muscled hips. Mr. Lovel’s practised gaze, fixed for an instant on the latter, pierced the full drapery with ease, appraising the contours beneath it as clearly as if she had been standing nude before him, even to envisioning that centre wherein his own desires for woman were concentrated, the hidden bistre rosebud which he knew must be pouting between those magnificent buttocks. But nothing of this showed in his manner: he had risen and was bowing, waiting for her to introduce herself.
Her voice was low, well-pitched, very even. “Mr. Lovel?”
“Yes.”
“I am Harriet Marwood, sir.”
Mr. Lovel bowed and resumed his interrogatory air.
“I saw your advertisement in The Morning Post, and I have come to see you personally.”
“Ah!” said the man of business, relaxing and expelling his breath. “Ah, excellent! You are the teacher then: the – the governess.”
Miss Marwood bowed.
Mr. Lovel pointed to the desk piled high with letters. “And there, ma’am, are the letters of your competitors. – But in point of fact, it was an excellent idea of yours to come in person, instead of writing. A capital idea! And – mmmm – let me see: you have – you have your certificates, ma’am?”
“I have, sir,” said the young woman, suppressing a faint smile; she opened her reticule and drew out a sheaf of parchments on which Mr. Lovel cast a cursory glance before returning them to her.
“Splendid,” he muttered. “Absolutely splendid. Ummm.” He tugged at his moustache. “And now – as to this matter of – of firmness. You understand what’s needed, of course?”
Miss Marwood’s eyes flickered slightly, and she compressed her lips for an instant before replying. “Certainly.” She paused again. “But I should like to know, sir, the particular reason for a regime of correction. Is it idleness, want of application, a habit of some kind?” Her fine eyes were fixed inquiringly on his.
Mr. Lovel pursed his lips. “It is – well, it’s rather a delicate matter, Miss Marwood,” he said. “But of course you will have to know.” In a brief and constrained manner, and with the use of some circumlocution and euphemism, he informed her of his son’s proclivities and of his expulsion from school.
Miss Marwood nodded calmly. “The habit cannot yet be inveterate,” she said, “seeing he is only fourteen. But it may take some time to break him of it.”
Mr. Lovel looked at her shrewdly; his embarrassment over the subject was already quite dispelled by her businesslike attitude and air of quiet competence. Suddenly his mind was made up. “Then,” he said, “you are prepared to undertake the cure of the boy, as well as his education? You have had experience in these cases?”
“A great deal of experience, Mr. Lovel.”
He released his breath. “Well then, it’s all settled. Would you like to see him?”
Miss Marwood bowed.
She followed him as he hurried along several gloomy passages and down two flights of stairs, until they reached the large dark library on the ground floor.
“Richard! Ricky!” called Mr. Lovel. “Where are you, my boy? Deuce take this darkness! Ah, there he is. Come here, Richard, and meet your governess.”
Richard, who had been lost in a vaguely sensual dream in a dark corner of the great room, rose and came forward uncertainly.
Miss Marwood placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him gently towards the single great leaded window through which the weak winter daylight filtered. For a few long moments she gazed deeply into his face.
She had at once noted his beauty and grace; and she had also marked the downcast gaze, the air of lassitude and the clear ethereal pallor which denoted only too clearly the slave of constant self-abuse. Now, however, she seemed to be sounding the depths of his character itself, to be discovering the springs of his impulse, to be reading his very soul. The boy’s great blue eyes, as if he were hypnotised, could not withdraw from her penetrating gaze; and Mr. Lovel himself watched the examination with a feeling of fascination. –Ah, what would either have thought had they known what was going on behind the white forehead of the young governess? Something like a smile merely curved her full lips for an instant, but did not develop further.
“I am delighted to meet you, Richard,” she said. Then, turning to Mr. Lovel, “It will be difficult, sir, but you need have no doubt of my eventual success. When would you wish me to come?”
“Why, as soon as possible, Miss Marwood. The poor boy is bored to death. He does nothing all day long either, and that’s bad for him too. He’s not naughty otherwise – a little lazy perhaps – idle, independent, you know. But all in all, a good boy.” He smiled. “All he needs is firm handling.”
Miss Marwood bowed.
“Yes, yes. A firm hand, that’s all. And where are you stopping at present, ma’am?”
“I am at an hotel, sir, in Fitzroy Square. I have been there for almost a week, since I came up from Hampshire.”
“Quite, quite. Then, if you will, go and fetch your boxes and things as soon as you can. Ah, so you’re from Hampshire, are you? Very interesting. My people come from there too. I’ve still a small property down there, in fact. Now you must excuse me, I am already due at the office. Au revoir, Miss Marwood, I hope to see you here this evening.” He held out his hand.
“I
