"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 passed 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 Iwas Mr.Buttinski."
"I don't quite--" she began."Buttinski 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 'butting in' too much-- pushing in where I wasn't asked.
See? I said they might think I was Mr.Butt-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.Buttinski, Butt-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.""What?" ejaculated Tembarom.
"Susan Hibblethwaite's legs," she replied in mild explanation."Susan is Mr.Hibblethwaite's unmarried sister, and she has very bad legs.It is a thing one notices continually among village people, more especially the women, that they complain of what they call `bad legs.'
I never quite know what they mean, whether it is rheumatism or something different, but the trouble is always spoken of as `bad legs'
And they like you to inquire about them, so that they can tell you their symptoms.""Why don't they get them cured?"
"I don't know, I'm sure.They take a good deal of medicine when they can afford it.I think they like to take it.They're very pleased when the doctor gives them `a bottle o' summat,' as they call it.Oh, Imustn't forget to tell you that most of them speak rather broad Lancashire.""Shall I understand them?" Tembarom asked, anxious again."Is it a sort of Dago talk?""It is the English the working-classes speak in Lancashire.'Summat'
means 'something.' 'Whoam' means 'home.' But I should think you would be very clever at understanding things.""I'm scared stiff," said Tembarom, not in the least uncourageously;"but I want to go into a cottage and hear some of it.Which one shall we go into?"There were several whitewashed cottages in the lane, each in its own bit of garden and behind its own hawthorn hedge, now bare and wholly unsuggestive of white blossoms and almond scent to the uninitiated.
Miss Alicia hesitated a moment.
"We will go into this one, where the Hibblethwaites live," she decided."They are quite clean, civil people.They have a naughty, queer, little crippled boy, but I suppose they can't keep him in order because he is an invalid.He's rather rude, I'm sorry to say, but he's rather sharp and clever, too.He seems to lie on his sofa and collect all the gossip of the village."They went together up the bricked path, and Miss Alicia knocked at the low door with her knuckles.A stout, apple-faced woman opened it, looking a shade nervous.
