Alban Morris--discovered by Emily in concealment among thetrees--was not content with retiring to another part of thegrounds. He pursued his retreat, careless in what direction itmight take him, to a footpath across the fields, which led to thehighroad and the railway station.

Miss Ladd's drawing-master was in that state of nervousirritability which seeks relief in rapidity of motion. Publicopinion in the neighborhood (especially public opinion among thewomen) had long since decided that his manners were offensive,and his temper incurably bad. The men who happened to pass him onthe footpath said "Good-morning" grudgingly. The women took nonotice of him--with one exception. She was young and saucy, andseeing him walking at the top of his speed on the way to therailway 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 forrudeness was so well established that she moved away to a safedistance, before she ventured to look at him again. He took nonotice of her--he seemed to be considering with himself. Thefrolicsome young woman had done him a service: she had suggestedan idea.

"Suppose I go to London?" he thought. "Why not?--the school isbreaking up for the holidays--and _she_ is going away like therest of them." He looked round in the direction of theschoolhouse. "If I go back to wish her good-by, she will keep outof my way, and part with me at the last moment like a stranger.After my experience of women, to be in love again--in love with agirl who is young enough to be my daughter--what a fool, what adriveling, degraded fool I must be!"

Hot tears rose in his eyes. He dashed them away savagely, andwent on again faster than ever--resolved to pack up at once athis lodgings in the village, and to take his departure by thenext 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 hismind with a bitter sense of injury. On this occasion the personwas only a miserable little child, crying over the fragments of abroken jug.

Alban Morris looked at her with his grimly humorous smile. "Soyou've broken a jug?" he remarked.

"And spilt father's beer," the child answered. Her frail littlebody shook with terror. "Mother'll beat me when I go home," shesaid.

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

"Gives me bren-butter."

"Very well. Now listen to me. Mother shall give you bread andbutter again this time."

The child stared at him with the tears suspended in her eyes. Hewent on talking 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 apattern," he said to himself. The child stared at thehandkerchief--stared at Alban--took courage--and rubbedvigorously at her eyes. The instinct, which is worth all thereason that ever pretended to enlighten mankind--the instinctthat never deceives--told this little ignorant creature that shehad found a friend. She returned the handkerchief in gravesilence. Alban took her up in his arms.

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

They went together hand in hand to the village, and bought thenew jug, and had it filled at the beer-shop. The thirsty fatherwas at the upper end of the fields, where they were making adrain. Alban carried the jug until they were within sight of thelaborer. "You haven't far to go," he said. "Mind you don't dropit 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 preciousminutes slip away, there might be another beating in store forher at the drain: her father was not of an indulgent dispositionwhen his children were late in bringing his beer. On the point ofhurrying away, without a word of farewell, she remembered thelaws of politeness as taught at the infant school--and droppedher little curtsey--and said, "Thank you, sir." That bitter senseof injury was still in Alban's mind as he looked after her. "Whata pity she should grow up to be a woman!" he said to himself.

The adventure of the broken jug had delayed his return to hislodgings by more than half an hour. When he reached the road oncemore, the cheap up-train from the North had stopped at thestation. He heard the ringing of the bell as it resumed thejourney to London.

One of the passengers (judging by the handbag that she carried)had not stopped at the village.

As she advanced toward him along the road, he remarked that shewas a small wiry active woman--dressed in bright colors, combinedwith a deplorable want of taste. Her aquiline nose seemed to beher most striking feature as she came nearer. It might have beenfairly proportioned to the rest of her face, in her younger days,before her cheeks had lost flesh and roundness. Being probablynear-sighted, she kept her eyes half-closed; there were cunninglittle wrinkles at the corners of them. In spite of appearances,she was unwilling to present any outward acknowledgment of themarch of time. Her hair was palpably dyed--her hat was jauntilyset on her head, and ornamented with a gay feather. She walkedwith a light tripping step, swinging her bag, and holding herhead up smartly. Her manner, like her dress, said as plainly aswords could speak, "No matter how long I may have lived, I meanto be young and charming to the end of my days." To Alban'ssurprise she stopped and addressed him.

"Oh, I beg your pardon. Could you tell me if I am in the rightroad to Miss Ladd's school?"

She spoke with nervous rapidity of articulation, and with asingularly unpleasant smile. It parted her thin lips just widelyenough to show her suspiciously beautiful teeth; and it openedher keen gray eyes in the strangest manner. The higher lid roseso as to disclose, for a moment, the upper part of the eyeball,and to give her the appearance--not of a woman bent on makingherself agreeable, but of a woman staring in a panic of terror.Careless to conceal the unfavorable impression that she hadproduced on him, Alban answered roughly, "Straight on," and triedto pass her.

She stopped him with a peremptory gesture. "I have treated youpolitely," she said, "and how do you treat me in return? Well! Iam not surprised. Men are all brutes by nature--and you are aman.'Straight on'?" she repeated contemptuously; "I should like toknow how far that helps a person in a strange place. Perhaps youknow no more where Miss Ladd's school is than I do? or, perhaps,you don't care to take the trouble of addressing me? Just what Ishould have expected from a person of your sex! Good-morning."

Alban felt the reproof; she had appealed to his mostreadily-impressible sense--his sense of humor. He rather enjoyedseeing his own prejudice against women grotesquely reflected inthis flighty stranger's prejudice against men. As the best excusefor himself that he could make, he gave her all the informationthat she could possibly want--then tried again to pass on--andagain in vain. He had recovered his place in her estimation: shehad not done with him yet.

"You know all about the way there," she said "I wonder whetheryou know anything about the school?"

No change in her voice, no change in her manner, betrayed anyspecial motive for putting this question. Alban was on the pointof suggesting that she should go on to the school, and make herinquiries there--when he happened to notice her eyes. She hadhitherto looked him straight in the face. She now looked down onthe road. It was a trifling change; in all probability it meantnothing--and yet, merely because it was a change, it roused hiscuriosity. "I ought to know something about the school," heanswered. "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 SirJervis Redwood?"

"No."

"Bless my soul! You are a scholar, of course--and you have neverheard of one of your own trade. Very extraordinary. You see, I amSir Jervis's housekeeper; and I am sent here to take one of youryoung ladies back with me to our place. Don't interrupt me! Don'tbe a brute again! Sir Jervis is not of a communicativedisposition. At least, not to me. A man--that explains it--a man!He is always poring over his books and writings; and MissRedwood, at her great age, is in bed half the day. Not a thing doI know about this new inmate of ours, except that I am to takeher back with me. You would feel some curiosity yourself in myplace, wouldn't you? Now do tell me. What sort of girl is MissEmily Brown?"

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

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

Still examining the housekeeper with mingled feelings of interestand distrust, Alban answered ungraciously:

"Yes."

"Good-tempered?"

Alban again said "Yes."

"So much about herself," Mrs. Rook remarked. "About her familynow?" She shifted her bag restlessly from one hand to another."Perhaps you can tell me if Miss Emily's father--" she suddenlycorrected herself--"if Miss 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 atthe school. The first turning to the left, I think yousaid--across the fields?"

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

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

"He? What put that into your head? He has never even seen MissEmily. She's going to our house--ah, the women are getting theupper hand now, and serve the men right, I say!--she's going toour house to be Sir Jervis's secretary. You would like to havethe place yourself, wouldn't you? You would like to keep a poorgirl from getting her own living? Oh, you may look as fierce asyou please--the time's gone by when a man could frighten _me_. Ilike her Christian name. I call Emily a nice name enough. But'Brown'! Good-morning, Mr. Morris; you and I are not cursed withsuch 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 hadbeen to conceal the hopeless passion which had mastered him inspite of himself. Knowing nothing from Emily--who at once pitiedand avoided him--of her family circumstances or of her futureplans, he had shrunk from making inquiries of others, in the fearthat they, too, might find out his secret, and that theircontempt might be added to the contempt which he felt forhimself. In this position, and with these obstacles in his way,the announcement of Emily's proposed journey--under the care of astranger, to fill an employment in the house of a stranger--notonly took him by surprise, but inspired him with a strong feelingof distrust. He looked after Sir Jervis Redwood's flightyhousekeeper, completely forgetting the purpose which had broughthim thus far on the way to his lodgings. Before Mrs. Rook was outof sight, Alban Morris was following her back to the school.