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  CHAPTER VI. ON THE WAY TO THE VILLAGE.

  Alban Morris--discovered by Emily in concealment among the trees--wasnot content with retiring to another part of the grounds. He pursuedhis retreat, careless in what direction it might take him, to a footpathacross the fields, which led to the highroad and the railway station.

  Miss Ladd's drawing-master was in that state of nervous irritabilitywhich seeks relief in rapidity of motion. Public opinion in theneighborhood (especially public opinion among the women) had long sincedecided that his manners were offensive, and his temper incurably bad.The men who happened to pass him on the footpath said "Good-morning"grudgingly. The women took no notice of him--with one exception. She wasyoung and saucy, and seeing him walking at the top of his speed on theway to the railway station, she called after him, "Don't be in a hurry,sir! You're in plenty of time for the London train."

  To her astonishment he suddenly stopped. His reputation for rudeness wasso well established that she moved away to a safe distance, before sheventured to look at him again. He took no notice of her--he seemed tobe considering with himself. The frolicsome young woman had done him aservice: she had suggested an idea.

  "Suppose I go to London?" he thought. "Why not?--the school is breakingup for the holidays--and _she_ is going away like the rest of them." Helooked round in the direction of the schoolhouse. "If I go back to wishher good-by, she will keep out of my way, and part with me at the lastmoment like a stranger. After my experience of women, to be in loveagain--in love with a girl who is young enough to be my daughter--what afool, what a driveling, degraded fool I must be!"

  Hot tears rose in his eyes. He dashed them away savagely, and went onagain faster than ever--resolved to pack up at once at his lodgings inthe village, and to take his departure by the next train.

  At the point where the footpath led into the road, he came to astandstill for the second time.

  The cause was once more a person of the sex associated in his mindwith a bitter sense of injury. On this occasion the person was only amiserable little child, crying over the fragments of a broken jug.

  Alban Morris looked at her with his grimly humorous smile. "So you'vebroken a jug?" he remarked.

  "And spilt father's beer," the child answered. Her frail little bodyshook with terror. "Mother'll beat me when I go home," she said.

  "What does mother do when you bring the jug back safe and sound?" Albanasked.

  "Gives me bren-butter."

  "Very well. Now listen to me. Mother shall give you bread and butteragain this time."

  The child stared at him with the tears suspended in her eyes. He went ontalking to her as seriously as ever.

  "You understand what I have just said to you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Have you got a pocket-handkerchief?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then dry your eyes with mine."

  He tossed his handkerchief to her with one hand, and picked up afragment of the broken jug with the other. "This will do for a pattern,"he said to himself. The child stared at the handkerchief--stared atAlban--took courage--and rubbed vigorously at her eyes. The instinct,which is worth all the reason that ever pretended to enlightenmankind--the instinct that never deceives--told this little ignorantcreature that she had found a friend. She returned the handkerchief ingrave silence. Alban took her up in his arms.

  "Your eyes are dry, and your face is fit to be seen," he said. "Will yougive me a kiss?" The child gave him a resolute kiss, with a smack init. "Now come and get another jug," he said, as he put her down. Her redround eyes opened wide in alarm. "Have you got money enough?" she asked.Alban slapped his pocket. "Yes, I have," he answered. "That's a goodthing," said the child; "come along."

  They went together hand in hand to the village, and bought the new jug,and had it filled at the beer-shop. The thirsty father was at the upperend of the fields, where they were making a drain. Alban carried the juguntil they were within sight of the laborer. "You haven't far to go," hesaid. "Mind you don't drop it again--What's the matter now?"

  "I'm frightened."

  "Why?"

  "Oh, give me the jug."

  She almost snatched it out of his hand. If she let the precious minutesslip away, there might be another beating in store for her at the drain:her father was not of an indulgent disposition when his children werelate in bringing his beer. On the point of hurrying away, without aword of farewell, she remembered the laws of politeness as taught atthe infant school--and dropped her little curtsey--and said, "Thank you,sir." That bitter sense of injury was still in Alban's mind as he lookedafter her. "What a pity she should grow up to be a woman!" he said tohimself.

  The adventure of the broken jug had delayed his return to his lodgingsby more than half an hour. When he reached the road once more, the cheapup-train from the North had stopped at the station. He heard the ringingof the bell as it resumed the journey to London.

  One of the passengers (judging by the handbag that she carried) had notstopped at the village.

  As she advanced toward him along the road, he remarked that she wasa small wiry active woman--dressed in bright colors, combined witha deplorable want of taste. Her aquiline nose seemed to be hermost striking feature as she came nearer. It might have been fairlyproportioned to the rest of her face, in her younger days, before hercheeks had lost flesh and roundness. Being probably near-sighted, shekept her eyes half-closed; there were cunning little wrinkles at thecorners of them. In spite of appearances, she was unwilling to presentany outward acknowledgment of the march of time. Her hair was palpablydyed--her hat was jauntily set on her head, and ornamented with a gayfeather. She walked with a light tripping step, swinging her bag, andholding her head up smartly. Her manner, like her dress, said as plainlyas words could speak, "No matter how long I may have lived, I mean tobe young and charming to the end of my days." To Alban's surprise shestopped and addressed him.

  "Oh, I beg your pardon. Could you tell me if I am in the right road toMiss Ladd's school?"

  She spoke with nervous rapidity of articulation, and with a singularlyunpleasant smile. It parted her thin lips just widely enough to show hersuspiciously beautiful teeth; and it opened her keen gray eyes in thestrangest manner. The higher lid rose so as to disclose, for a moment,the upper part of the eyeball, and to give her the appearance--not ofa woman bent on making herself agreeable, but of a woman staring in apanic of terror. Careless to conceal the unfavorable impression that shehad produced on him, Alban answered roughly, "Straight on," and tried topass her.

  She stopped him with a peremptory gesture. "I have treated youpolitely," she said, "and how do you treat me in return? Well! I am notsurprised. Men are all brutes by nature--and you are a man. 'Straighton'?" she repeated contemptuously; "I should like to know how far thathelps a person in a strange place. Perhaps you know no more where MissLadd's school is than I do? or, perhaps, you don't care to take thetrouble of addressing me? Just what I should have expected from a personof your sex! Good-morning."

  Alban felt the reproof; she had appealed to his most readily-impressiblesense--his sense of humor. He rather enjoyed seeing his own prejudiceagainst women grotesquely reflected in this flighty stranger's prejudiceagainst men. As the best excuse for himself that he could make, he gaveher all the information that she could possibly want--then triedagain to pass on--and again in vain. He had recovered his place in herestimation: she had not done with him yet.

  "You know all about the way there," she said "I wonder whether you knowanything about the school?"

  No change in her voice, no change in her manner, betrayed any specialmotive for putting this question. Alban was on the point of suggestingthat she should go on to the school, and make her inquiries there--whenhe happened to notice her eyes. She had hitherto looked him straight inthe face. She now looked down on the road. It was a trifling change;in all probability it meant nothing--and yet, merely because it was achange, it roused his curiosity. "I ought to know something about theschool," he answered. "I am
one of the masters."

  "Then you're just the man I want. May I ask your name?"

  "Alban Morris."

  "Thank you. I am Mrs. Rook. I presume you have heard of Sir JervisRedwood?"

  "No."

  "Bless my soul! You are a scholar, of course--and you have never heardof one of your own trade. Very extraordinary. You see, I am Sir Jervis'shousekeeper; and I am sent here to take one of your young ladies backwith me to our place. Don't interrupt me! Don't be a brute again! SirJervis is not of a communicative disposition. At least, not to me. Aman--that explains it--a man! He is always poring over his books andwritings; and Miss Redwood, at her great age, is in bed half the day.Not a thing do I know about this new inmate of ours, except that I amto take her back with me. You would feel some curiosity yourself in myplace, wouldn't you? Now do tell me. What sort of girl is Miss EmilyBrown?"

  The name that he was perpetually thinking of--on this woman's lips!Alban looked at her.

  "Well," said Mrs. Rook, "am I to have no answer? Ah, you want leading.So like a man again! Is she pretty?"

  Still examining the housekeeper with mingled feelings of interest anddistrust, Alban answered ungraciously:

  "Yes."

  "Good-tempered?"

  Alban again said "Yes."

  "So much about herself," Mrs. Rook remarked. "About her family now?" Sheshifted her bag restlessly from one hand to another. "Perhaps you cantell me if Miss Emily's father--" she suddenly corrected herself--"ifMiss Emily's parents are living?"

  "I don't know."

  "You mean you won't tell me."

  "I mean exactly what I have said."

  "Oh, it doesn't matter," Mrs. Rook rejoined; "I shall find out at theschool. The first turning to the left, I think you said--across thefields?"

  He was too deeply interested in Emily to let the housekeeper go withoutputting a question on his side:

  "Is Sir Jervis Redwood one of Miss Emily's old friends?" he asked.

  "He? What put that into your head? He has never even seen Miss Emily.She's going to our house--ah, the women are getting the upper hand now,and serve the men right, I say!--she's going to our house to be SirJervis's secretary. You would like to have the place yourself, wouldn'tyou? You would like to keep a poor girl from getting her own living?Oh, you may look as fierce as you please--the time's gone by when a mancould frighten _me_. I like her Christian name. I call Emily a nice nameenough. But 'Brown'! Good-morning, Mr. Morris; you and I are not cursedwith such a contemptibly common name as that! 'Brown'? Oh, Lord!"

  She tossed her head scornfully, and walked away, humming a tune.

  Alban stood rooted to the spot. The effort of his later life had been toconceal the hopeless passion which had mastered him in spite of himself.Knowing nothing from Emily--who at once pitied and avoided him--of herfamily circumstances or of her future plans, he had shrunk from makinginquiries of others, in the fear that they, too, might find out hissecret, and that their contempt might be added to the contempt which hefelt for himself. In this position, and with these obstacles in hisway, the announcement of Emily's proposed journey--under the care ofa stranger, to fill an employment in the house of a stranger--notonly took him by surprise, but inspired him with a strong feeling ofdistrust. He looked after Sir Jervis Redwood's flighty housekeeper,completely forgetting the purpose which had brought him thus far on theway to his lodgings. Before Mrs. Rook was out of sight, Alban Morris wasfollowing her back to the school.