Part 14 (2/2)

She might have ”kept company” with the milkman, with the policeman, with one of the porters at the station: for these, one and all, laid their hearts and fortunes at her feet; but Milly rejected their overtures with scorn. Her own prettiness of form and feature had been more than ever impressed upon her by the offers which she refused; and she was determined, as she phrased it, ”not to throw herself away.”

Her fancy that ”Mr. Sydney” admired her had not been a mistaken one.

Sydney had always been susceptible to the charms of a pretty face; and Nature had preordained a certain measure of excuse for any man who felt impelled to look twice at Milly, or even to speak to her on a flimsy pretext. And Milly was on Nature's side, for she did not resent being looked at or spoken to, although there was more innocence and ignorance of evil on her side than men were likely to give her credit for.

Therefore Sydney had for some time been on speaking terms with her, over and above what might have been natural in an occasional visitor to the Rectory and Maple Cottage. He saw and meant no harm to her in his admiration, and had no idea at present that his occasional smile or idle jesting compliment made the girl's cheeks burn, her heart beat fast, made her nights restless and her days long. He took it for granted that gratified vanity alone made her receive his attentions with pleasure.

His gifts--for he could be lavish when he liked--were all, he thought, that attracted her. She was a woman, and could, no doubt, play her own game and take care of herself. She had her weapons, as other women had.

Sydney's opinion of women was, on the whole, a low one; and he had a supreme contempt for all women of the lower cla.s.s--a contempt which causes a man to look on them only as toys--instruments for his pleasure--to be used and cast aside. He believed that they systematically preyed on men, and made profit out of their weakness.

That Milly was at a disadvantage with him, because she was weak and young and unprotected, scarcely entered his head. He would have said that she had the best of it. She was pretty and young, and could make him pay for it if he did her any harm. She was one of a cla.s.s--a cla.s.s of harpies, in his opinion--and he did not attribute any particular individuality to her at all.

But Milly was a very real and individual woman, with a nature in which the wild spark of pa.s.sion might some day be roused with disastrous results. It is unsafe to play with the emotions of a person who is simply labelled, often mistakenly and insufficiently, in your mind as belonging to a cla.s.s, and possessing the characteristics of that cla.s.s.

There is always the chance that some old strain of tendency, some freak of heredity, may develop in the way which is most of all dangerous to you and to your career. For you cannot play with a woman's physical nature without touching, how remotely soever, her spiritual const.i.tution as well; and, as Browning a.s.sures us, it is indeed ”an awkward thing to play with souls, and matter enough to save one's own.”

Sydney Campion, however, concerned himself very little with his own soul, or the soul of anybody else. He went up to Milly and greeted her with a smile that brought the color to her face.

”Well, Milly,” he said, ”are you taking your walks abroad to-night? Is your mistress pretty well? I was just going to Maple Cottage.”

”Yes, sir, mistress is pretty well; but I don't think Miss Lettice is,”

said Milly, falling back into her old way of speaking of the rector's daughter. ”She mentioned that she was going to bed early. You had better let me go back first and open the door for you.”

”Perhaps it would be best. Not well, eh? What is the matter?”

”I don't know, but I think Miss Campion has a bad headache. I am sure she has been crying a great deal.” Milly said this with some hesitation.

”I am sorry to hear that.”

”I am afraid Mr. Walcott brought her bad news in the morning, for she has not been herself at all since he left.”

”Do you say that Mr. Walcott was there this morning?”

Sydney spoke in a low tone, but with considerable eagerness, so that the girl knew she had not thrown her shaft in vain.

”Milly, this concerns me very much. I must have a little talk with you, but we cannot well manage it here. See! there is no one in the waiting-room; will you kindly come with me for a minute or two? It is for your mistress' good that I should know all about this. Come!”

So they went into the dreary room together, and they sat down in a corner behind the door, which by this time was almost dark. There Sydney questioned her about Alan Walcott, with a view to learning all that she might happen to know about him. Milly required little prompting, for she was quite ready to do all that he bade her, and she told him at least one piece of news which he was not prepared to hear.

Five minutes would have sufficed for all that Milly had to say; but the same story may be very long or very short according to the circ.u.mstances in which it is told. Half-an-hour was not sufficient to-night: at any rate, it took these two more than half-an-hour to finish what they had to say. And even then it was found that further elucidations would be necessary in the future, and an appointment was made for another meeting. But the talk had turned on Milly herself, and Milly's hopes and prospects, before that short half-hour had sped.

”Good-night, Milly,” said Sydney, as they left the station. ”You are a dear little girl to tell me so much. Perhaps you had better not say to your mistress that you saw me to-night. I shall call to-morrow afternoon. Good-night, dear.”

He kissed her lightly, in a shadowy corner of the platform, before he turned away; and thought rather admiringly for a minute or two of the half-frightened, half-adoring eyes that were riveted upon his face.

”Poor little fool!” he said to himself, as he signalled a cab. For even in that one short interview he had mastered the fact that Milly was rather fool than knave.

The girl went home with a light heart, believing that she had done a service to the mistress whom she really loved, and shyly, timorously joyous at the thought that she had met at last with an admirer--a lover, perhaps!--such as her heart desired. Of course, Miss Lettice would be angry if she knew; but there was nothing wrong in Mr. Sydney's admiration, said Milly, lifting high her little round white chin; and if he told her to keep silence she was bound to hold her tongue.

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