Part 35 (1/2)

It was he who made her converse. He led her on by asking her questions and being greatly interested in every response she made. In fact, though he was quite unaware of the situation, she was creating for him such an atmosphere as he might have found in a book, if he had had the habit of books. Everything she told him was new and quaint and very often rather touching. She related anecdotes about herself and her poor little past without knowing she was doing it. Before they had talked an hour he had an astonis.h.i.+ng clear idea of ”poor dear papa”

and ”dearest Emily” and ”poor darling mama” and existence at Rowcroft Vicarage. He ”caught on to” the fact that though she was very much given to the word ”dear,”--people were ”dear,” and so were things and places,--she never even by chance slipped into saying ”dear Rowcroft,”

which she would certainly have done if she had ever spent a happy moment in it.

As she talked to him he realized that her simple accustomedness to English village life and all its accompaniments of county surroundings would teach him anything and everything he might want to know. Her obscurity had been surrounded by stately magnificence, with which she had become familiar without touching the merest outskirts of its privileges. She knew names and customs and families and things to be cultivated or avoided, and though she would be a little startled and much mystified by his total ignorance of all she had breathed in since her birth, he felt sure that she would not regard him either with private contempt or with a lessened liking because he was a vandal pure and simple.

And she had such a nice, little, old polite way of saying things.

When, in pa.s.sing a group of children, he failed to understand that their hasty bobbing up and down meant that they were doing obeisance to him as lord of the manor, she spoke with the prettiest apologetic courtesy.

”I'm sure you won't mind touching your hat when they make their little curtsies, or when a villager touches his forehead,” she said.

”Good Lord! no,” he said, starting. ”Ought I? I didn't know they were doing it at me.” And he turned round and made a handsome bow and grinned almost affectionately at the small, amazed party, first puzzling, and then delighting, them, because he looked so extraordinarily friendly. A gentleman who laughed at you like that ought to be equal to a miscellaneous distribution of pennies in the future, if not on the spot. They themselves grinned and chuckled and nudged one another, with stares and giggles.

”I am sorry to say that in a great many places the villagers are not nearly so respectful as they used to be,” Miss Alicia explained. ”In Rowcroft the children were very remiss about curtseying. It's quite sad. But Mr. Temple Barholm was very strict indeed in the matter of demanding proper respectfulness. He has turned men off their farms for incivility. The villagers of Temple Barholm have much better manners than some even a few miles away.”

”Must I tip my hat to all of them?” he asked.

”If you please. It really seems kinder. You--you needn't quite lift it, as you did to the children just now. If you just touch the brim lightly with your hand in a sort of military salute--that is what they are accustomed to.”

After they had pa.s.sed through the village street she paused at the end of a short lane and looked up at him doubtfully.

”Would you--I wonder if you would like to go into a cottage,” she said.

”Go into a cottage?” he asked. ”What cottage? What for?”

He had not the remotest idea of any reason why he should go into a cottage inhabited by people who were entire strangers to him, and Miss Alicia felt a trifle awkward at having to explain anything so wholly natural.

”You see, they are your cottages, and the people are your tenants, and--”

”But perhaps they mightn't like it. It might make 'em mad,” he argued.

”If their water-pipes had busted, and they'd asked me to come and look at them or anything; but they don't know me yet. They might think I was Mr. b.u.t.tinski.”

”I don't quite--” she began. ”b.u.t.tinski is a foreign name; it sounds Russian or Polish. I'm afraid I don't quite understand why they should mistake you for him.”

Then he laughed--a boyish shout of laughter which brought a cottager to the nearest window to peep over the pots of fuchsias and geraniums blooming profusely against the diamond panes.

”Say,” he apologized, ”don't be mad because I laughed. I'm laughing at myself as much as at anything. It's a way of saying that they might think I was 'b.u.t.ting in' too much-- pus.h.i.+ng in where I wasn't asked.

See? I said they might think I was Mr. b.u.t.t-in-ski! It's just a bit of fool slang. You're not mad, are you?”

”Oh, no!” she said. ”Dear me! no. It is very funny, of course. I'm afraid I'm extremely ignorant about--about foreign humor” It seemed more delicate to say ”foreign” than merely ”American.” But her gentle little countenance for a few seconds wore a baffled expression, and she said softly to herself, ”Mr. b.u.t.tinski, b.u.t.t-in--to intrude. It sounds quite Polish; I think even more Polish than Russian.”

He was afraid he would yell with glee, but he did not. Herculean effort enabled him to restrain his feelings, and present to her only an ordinary-sized smile.

”I shouldn't know one from the other,” he said; ”but if you say it sounds more Polish, I bet it does.”

”Would you like to go into a cottage?” she inquired. ”I think it might be as well. They will like the attention.”

”Will they? Of course I'll go if you think that. What shall I say?” he asked somewhat anxiously.

”If you think the cottage looks clean, you might tell them so, and ask a few questions about things. And you must be sure to inquire about Susan Hibblethwaite's legs.”