“Oh indeed, I must go myself,” she said at last. “It is unconventional, but there is no other way.” And she bent over and touched the pony again and turned the corner without any further delay.
She drove her three miles at a pretty steady trot, and at the end of the third,—at the very gates of the Haviland Park, in fact,—fortune came to her rescue. A good-humored middle-aged gentleman on a brown horse came cantering down the avenue and, passing through the gates, approached her. Seeing her, he raised his hat courteously; seeing him, she stopped her pony, for she recognized Mr. Haviland.
She bent forward a little eagerly, feeling the color rise to her face.
It was somewhat trying to find herself obliged by conscience to stop a gentleman on the highway and ask a favor of him.
“Mr. Haviland,” she said. “If you have a moment to spare——”
He drew rein by her phaeton, removing his hat again. He had heard a great deal of Miss Barholm from his acquaintance among the county families. He had heard her spoken of as a rather singular young lady who had the appearance of a child, and the views of a feminine reconstructor of society. He had heard of her little phaeton too, and her gray pony, and so, though he had never seen her before, he recognized her at once.
“Miss Barholm?” he said with deference.
“Yes,” answered Anice. “And indeed I am glad to have been fortunate enough to meet you here. Papa is away from home, and I could not wait for his return, because I was afraid I should be too late. I wanted to speak to you about the lodge-keeper's place, Mr. Haviland.”
He had been rather of the opinion that Miss Barholm must be a terrible young woman, with a tendency to model cottages and night schools.
Young ladies who go out of the ordinary groove are not apt to be attractive to the average English mind. There are conventional charities in which they may indulge,—there are Sunday-schools, and rheumatic old women, and flannel night-caps, and Dorcas societies, and such things to which people are used and which are likely to alarm nobody. Among a class of discreet persons these are held to afford sufficient charitable exercise for any well regulated young woman; and girls whose plans branch out in other directions are looked upon with some coldness. So the country gentry, hearing of Miss Barholm and her novel fancies,—her teaching in a night school with a young curate, her friendship for the daughter of a dissipated collier, her intimate acquaintance with ragged boys and fighting terriers, her interest in the unhappy mothers of nameless babies,—hearing of these things, I say, the excellent nonenthusiasts shook their heads as the very mildest possible expression of dissent. They suspected strong-mindedness and “reform”—perhaps even politics and a tendency to advance irregular notions concerning the ballot. “At any rate,” said they, “it does not look well, and it is very much better for young persons to leave these matters alone and do as others do who are guided wholly by their elders.”