She smiled faintly at him as he stood beside her. He felt himself rebuked—abashed—as though he had been in some sort an intruder on her spiritual freedom; had tried to purchase her dependence by a kindness she did not want. That was not in her mind, he knew. But it was in Hester's. And there was not wanting a certain guilty consciousness in his own.
But he threw it off. Absurdity! She did need his friendship; and he had done what he had done without the shadow of a corrupt motive—en tout bien, tout honneur.
It was intolerable to him to think of her as poor and resourceless—left to that disagreeable sister and her own melancholy thoughts. Still the first need of all was that she should trust him—as a good friend, who had slipped by force of circumstances into a kind of guardian's position. Accordingly he applied himself to the kind of persuasion that befits seniority and experience. She had asked to be treated as a normal person. He proved to her, gently laughing at her, that the claim was preposterous. Ask her doctor!—ask Hester! As for teaching, time enough to talk about that when she had a little flesh on her bones, a little strength in her limbs. She might read, of course; that was what the couch was for. Lying there by the window she might become as learned as she liked, and get strong at the same time. He would keep her stocked with books. The library at Carton was going mouldy for lack of use. And as for her drawing, he had hoped—perhaps—she might some time take a lesson—
Then he saw a little shiver run through her.
'Could I?' she said in a low voice, turning her face away. And he perceived that the bare idea of resuming old pleasures—the pleasures of her happy, her unwidowed time—was still a shock to her.
'I'm sure it would help'—he said, persevering. 'You have a real turn for water-colour. You should cultivate it—you should really. In my belief you might do a great deal better with it than with teaching.'
That roused her. She sat up, her eyes brightening.
'If I worked—you really think? And then,' her voice dropped—'if
George came back—'
'Exactly,' he said gravely—'it might be of great use. Didn't you wish for something normal to do? Well, here's the chance. I can supply you with endless subjects to copy. There are more in the cottage than you would get through in six months. And I could send you over portfolios of my own studies and académies, done at Paris, and in the Slade, which would help you—and sometimes we could take some work out of doors.'
She said nothing, but her sad puzzled eyes, as they wandered over the garden and the lake, shewed that she was considering it.