“If you really think I can be of use I will stay,” she said. “I’m not going to speak of gratitude—I tried to say all that long ago. But indeed I will do what I can.”
“That’s all right: I’m very glad,” said David Linton.
“And if you really want her taught more,” Mrs. Hunt said—“well, I was a governess with fairly high certificates before I was married. She could come to me for literature and French; I was brought up in Paris. Her music, too: she really should practise, with her talent.”
“I’d like it above all things,” exclaimed Mr. Linton. “Norah’s neglected education has been worrying me badly.”
“We’ll plan it out,” Mrs. Hunt said. “Now I feel much happier.”
Norah did not need much persuasion; after the first moment of dismay at the idea of renewed lessons she saw the advantages of the plan—helped by the fact that she was always a little afraid of failing to come up to Jim’s standard. A fear which would considerably have amazed Jim, had he but guessed it! It was easy enough to fit hours of study into her day. She rose early to practise, before the Tired People were awake; and most mornings saw her reading with Mrs. Hunt or chattering French, while Eva sang shrilly in the kitchen, and the babies slept in their white bunks; and Geoffrey followed Mr. Linton’s heels, either on Brecon or afoot. The big Australian squatter and the little English boy had become great friends: there was something in the tiny lad that recalled the Jim of long ago, with his well-knit figure and steady eyes.
One man alone, out of all Tired People, had never left Homewood.
For a time after his arrival Philip Hardress had gained steadily in strength and energy; then a chill had thrown him back, and for months he sagged downwards; never very ill, but always losing vitality. The old depression seemed to come back to him tenfold. He could see nothing good in life: a cripple, a useless cripple. His parents were dead; save for a brother in Salonica, he was alone in the world. He was always courteous, always gentle; but a wall of misery seemed to cut him off from the household.
Then the magnificent physique of the boy asserted itself, and gradually he grew stronger, and the hacking cough left him. Again it became possible to tempt him to try to ride. He spent hours in the keen wintry air, jogging round the fields and lanes with Mr. Linton and Geoffrey, returning with something of the light in his eyes that had encouraged Norah in his first morning, long ago.
“I believe all he wants is to get interested in something,” Norah said, watching him, one day, as he sat on the stone wall of the terrace, looking across the park. “He was at Oxford before he joined the Army, wasn’t he, Dad?”