“Oh, would that I was! Would that I was!”
That ended the conversation at the moment, for Greville rose immediately, and with a light remark began studying the pictures on the wall, walking slowly round the room, his arms behind him, until he joined the card players again, and complimented Sir Harry on his possessions, when the game ended. He did not, however, allude to the most surprising of them and was guarded afterwards in his approaches to it. Yet the conversation was renewed from time to time and always on the same lines, her possibilities, faults, conduct, and the hope which might tinge the future should she deserve better.
There was a sheltered spot in an angle of the house where she sat when the sun shone, and here he would surprise her sometimes with her book—trying to master what the author would be at. Once, with writing materials, improving her writing. It was touching and the eyes looking up beneath her gipsy hat, soft in its shadow, were more touching still.
“I do my best, Mr. Greville—a poor best!” said she, raising the ill-formed characters to his notice. “Ah, if I’d but been educated, what a girl I might have been! There’s no chance without it.”
She was as pat as his echo. That was her way, though he did not understand it. She took her colour chameleon fashion from the leaf that sheltered her, and was boisterous and hoyden with Sir Harry, quiet and engaging with him, and had a hundred other qualities behind ready to match those she came across. Was there any real fixed personality under it all? God knows! Her moods were as volatile as they were passionate at the moment.
Now and always, she was the pupil to Greville’s condescension. It served her as usefully as it did him later. They fitted like a mosaic.
He looked down at the straggling letters, the blot at the top, the spelling.
“Indeed you advance, Emily, and when I leave I have no objection if you write me your news once or twice. ’Tis possible I may be here in February and renew the acquaintance.”
“Acquaintance!” she cried with warmth. “No—I don’t understand that word, Mr. Greville. You’ve given me the wish to improve, and I count you for a friend indeed. I’ll study two hours each day faithfully until I have the happiness to see you once more.”
She meant it probably at the moment, yet most certainly would not fulfil the promise with the master’s eye removed to London, but this did not occur to Greville’s estimate of his influence.