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 shall be back inside the hour, sir,” she said, clasping his fingers firmly. Then she passed her hand, plump and feminine for all its strength, over Richard’s cheek, making him tremble and blush to the whites of his eyes.
Mr. Lovel and the governess went out, leaving Richard alone once more in the great dim room. He lit the lamp, chose a book of historical tales, and sat down to read until it was time for dinner. But the words danced before his eyes: his head was so full of Miss Marwood that there was room for nothing else.
He hardly knew whether it had been joy or fear he had felt when her hands were weighing on his shoulders, her fingers caressing his cheek. Ah, that glance that had seemed to pierce to the very depths of his being! For those moments when she had looked into his eyes, he had thought his heart was about to stop beating.
What had she meant to say to him, with that gesture and that smile? He asked himself. A kind of promise, he decided; but whether of good or evil he could not tell. The gaze of those violet-grey eyes had gone through him like a flame, that was all he knew. And now this woman would be living with him, he thought: living with him.
His hand had already strayed downwards and begun to caress the finger of flesh swelling beneath the tight white cloth of his trousers. His eyes closed ...
And suddenly it seemed that instead of welcoming this change in his life, he found it a matter of vexation. All his ways and habits would be upset: no longer would he be able to read, to dream and play when and how he wished. She would be there, giving him orders, interfering with him, interrupting his solitary pleasures ... But perhaps she would be easy – and nice, he thought, very nice: then, if he was good, might she not kiss him? This thought affected him with a sudden weakness, and his penis swelled still further. He had read stories where beautiful women clasped children in their arms and kissed them: this had seemed to him a thing of such unspeakable sweetness that his head had swum at the mere idea. Ah, he thought now, his breath quickening, to be held and kissed like that! Already he had opened his trousers and begun stroking his member. As it slowly erected he took up his favourite pose, his parted legs twined around the legs of the chair, his feet braced on the rungs, his gaze fixed on his penis itself in a kind of dreamy and almost fatuous admiration.
This admiration, we must say, was not without a genuine foundation. His