"Fine young woman," he muttered to himself. "She'd make a capital milkmaid; education thrown away on her; women's brains are smaller than men's. Providence doesn't mean them to meddle in things too deep for them. I don't do it for her sake, not a bit of it; it's the lad, fine lad; life before him, life half over with me; old dog gives way to young dog; way of the world—way of the world."
"I wish you'd take a chair, Mr. Danvers," said poor Cecil, who thought that the little man with his red hair sticking up over his head, and his shining blue eyes, and his dogged mouth and jaw, must have taken leave of his senses.
"Not worth while, madam. I've come to say that, if you wish it, I'll house those boys, give them house-room, beds to sleep in, plenty to eat and drink. I'll take 'em for what you can afford; they'll be safe enough with me. I'm a dragon on boys, Miss Ross, a very dragon on boys. You'll be quit of 'em, I came to say it. You can fix up things with your brother Maurice; and they can come to-morrow if they like. Communicate with me through Maurice; he's a fine lad. Good-day to you, Miss Ross!"
Before Cecil had time to say a word, Danvers strode out of the room. He ran downstairs so quickly that someone might almost have propelled him from behind, and rushed out of the house as if he were shot.
"I have done it," he said, as soon as he had got into the street. He gasped as he spoke. "Good gracious!" he said; "what an awful thing it is to come face to face with a woman, and a young one, too! She's a fine girl, I don't deny it; good eyes, firm, nice mouth. She looked at me, all the same, as if she meant to eat me. Good Heavens! what a heat I'm in; this sort of thing will kill me if I have much more of it."
Danvers walked down the street; he held his head in the air, and his soft hat was well slouched back. Several people who knew him well met him, but he noticed no one. His bright, kindly blue eyes were fixed upon the kindly sky. In spite of himself, against his will, there was a glow of pure happiness at his heart. He would not acknowledge the happiness. He kept on muttering:
"John Danvers, you dog, you've let yourself in for a pretty mess! Fancy four boys, four devouring young monsters, careering over your house, rushing into your private den, shouting into your ear, dancing the devil's tattoo over your very bedroom. It's too awful to contemplate. I'll not think of it. I vow and declare I'll turn my thoughts to something else. What about that passage in Cæsar I construed last night? It's a fine thought and a comforting one. After all, there's nothing like going back to the fountain head of knowledge, and taking your ideas straight from the original well. Yes, Cæsar is good meat, nothing namby-pamby there. I mean to go on with my translation during the coming winter. What am I saying? What am I saying? What chance have I to translate anything? Bedlam without and Bedlam within will be my portion from this day forward. How blue the sky is, though! it's a fine evening. The breeze is pleasant, quite spring-like. Good Heavens! I did have a job when I stood face to face with that girl; but Maurice is a fine lad, and he's young, and he has his life before him. Shouldn't be surprised if he made a good Latin scholar yet. By the bye, didn't I see a Greek lexicon on that girl's table? Outrageous, monstrous, indecorous! A woman has no right to look into these mysteries. She's made for bread and butter and cheese and household drudgery. Some men may go to the length of considering her ornamental, but, thank Heaven! I have never so completely lost my senses. Well, I've done it, but not for the sake of a woman—no, Heaven forbid! Now, then, to complete the sacrifice."
Danvers suddenly hastened his steps; he turned abruptly into a little side street, and, stopping at the door of a second-hand warehouse, he entered in a hesitating manner. Apart from his books and boys, Danvers always exhibited nervous hesitation. The man in the shop, a person of the name of Franks, came up to greet him.
"Can I do anything for you, Mr. Danvers?" he asked.
Danvers frowned when his name was mentioned. He had not the faintest idea of the name of the owner of the shop, and nothing annoyed him more than the fact that every soul in Hazlewick seemed to know him perfectly well.