"It is MOST kind of you," she said with grateful emphasis, "but Imustn't sit down and detain you.I can explain in a few words--if Imay."
He positively still held her hand in the oddest, natural, boyish way, and before she knew what she was doing he had made her take the chair--quite MADE her.
"Well, just sit down and explain," he said."I wish to thunder you would detain me.Take all the time you like.I want to hear all about it--honest Injun."There was a cushion in the chair, and as he talked, he pulled it out and began to arrange it behind her, still in the most natural and matter-of-fact way--so natural and matter-of-fact, indeed, that its very natural matter-of-factedness took her breath away.
"Is that fixed all right?" he asked.
Being a little lady, she could only accept his extraordinary friendliness with grateful appreciation, though she could not help fluttering a little in her bewilderment.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr.Temple Barholm," she said.
He sat down on the square ottoman facing her, and leaned forward with an air of making a frank confession.
"Guess what I was thinking to myself two minutes before you came in? Iwas thinking, `Lord, I'm lonesome--just sick lonesome!' And then Iopened my eyes and looked-- and there was a relation! Hully gee! Icall that luck!"
"Dear me!" she said, shyly delighted."DO you, Mr.Temple Barholm--REALLY?"
Her formal little way of saying his name was like Ann's.
"Do I? I'm tickled to death.My mother died when I was ten, and I've never had any women kin-folks.""Poor bo--" She had nearly said "Poor boy!" and only checked the familiarity just in time--" Poor Mr.Temple Barholm!""Say, what are we two to each other, anyhow?" He put it to her with great interest.
"It is a very distant relationship, if it is one at all," she answered."You see, I was only a second cousin to the late Mr.Temple Barholm, and I had not really the SLIGHTEST claim upon him." She placed pathetic emphasis on the fact."It was most generous of him to be so kind to me.When my poor father died and I was left quite penniless, he gave me a--a sort of home here.""A sort of home?" Tembarom repeated.
"My father was a clergyman in VERY straitened circumstances.We had barely enough to live upon--barely.He could leave me nothing.It actually seemed as if I should have to starve --it did, indeed." There was a delicate quiver in her voice."And though the late Mr.Temple Barholm had a great antipathy to ladies, he was so--so noble as to send word to me that there were a hundred and fifty rooms in his house, and that if I would keep out of his way I might live in one of them.""That was noble," commented her distant relative.
"Oh, yes, indeed, especially when one considers how he disliked the opposite sex and what a recluse he was.He could not endure ladies.Iscarcely ever saw him.My room was in quite a remote wing of the house, and I never went out if I knew he was in the park.I was most careful.And when he died of course I knew I must go away."Tembarom was watching her almost tenderly.
"Where did you go?"
"To a kind clergyman in Shropshire who thought he might help me.""How was he going to do it?"
She answered with an effort to steady a somewhat lowered and hesitating voice.
"There was near his parish a very nice--charity,"--her breath caught itself pathetically,--"some most comfortable almshouses for decayed gentlewomen.He thought he might be able to use his influence to get me into one." She paused and smiled, but her small, wrinkled hands held each other closely.
Tembarom looked away.He spoke as though to himself, and without knowing that he was thinking aloud.
"Almshouses!" he said."Wouldn't that jolt you!" He turned on her again with a change to cheerful concern."Say, that cushion of yours ain't comfortable.I 'm going to get you another one." He jumped up and, taking one from a sofa, began to arrange it behind her dexterously.
"But I mustn't trouble you any longer.I must go, really," she said, half rising nervously.He put a hand on her shoulder and made her sit again.
"Go where?" he said."Just lean back on that cushion, Miss Alicia.For the next few minutes this is going to be MY funeral."She was at once startled and uncomprehending.What an extraordinary expression! What COULD it mean?
"F--funeral?" she stammered.
Suddenly he seemed somehow to have changed.He looked as serious as though he was beginning to think out something all at once.What was he going to say?
"That's New York slang," he answered."It means that I want to explain myself to you and ask a few questions.""Certainly, certainly, Mr.Temple Barholm."
He leaned his back against the mantel, and went into the matter practically.
"First off, haven't you ANY folks?" Then, answering her puzzled look, added, "I mean relations."Miss Alicia gently shook her head.
"No sisters or brothers or uncles or aunts or cousins?"She shook her head again.
He hesitated a moment, putting his hands in his pockets and taking them out again awkwardly as he looked down at her.
"Now here's where I'm up against it," he went on."I don't want to be too fresh or to butt in, but--didn't old Temple Barholm leave you ANYmoney?"
"Oh, no!" she exclaimed."Dear me! no! I couldn't possibly EXPECT such a thing."He gazed at her as though considering the situation."Couldn't you?"he said.
There was an odd reflection in his eyes, and he seemed to consider her and the situation again.
"Well," he began after his pause, "what I want to know is what you expect ME to do."There was no unkindness in his manner, in fact, quite the contrary, even when he uttered what seemed to Miss Alicia these awful, unwarranted words.As though she had forced herself into his presence to make demands upon his charity! They made her tremble and turn pale as she got up quickly, shocked and alarmed.