Part 18

“Mought be ter the britches, but not ter the health,” Editha rejoined. Then she burst out laughing at her jest, and it brought to her mind a new phase of her triumphs. “’Roy Tresmon’ he said I war the wittiest lady he ever seen. He meant plumb jokified,” she explained tolerantly. “An’ sure’ I did keep him on the grin. He ’lowed it war wuth twice the price of his entertainment ter escort me ter the pictur’-show an’ theater-supper arterward; fer when the show war over, me an’ him an’ Sophy an’ Jarney went ter an eatin’-store, whar they hed a whole passel o’ leetle tables set out in the floor an’ the biggest lookin’-glass I ever see on the wall. But, lawsy! Benjie, be ye a-goin’ ter let that old mare stand slobberin’ in the river plumb till sunset? Git up, Whitey!”

As the wagon went jolting up the steep bank, Editha resumed:

“But I tell ye now, Benjie, ’Roy Tresmon’ didn’t do all the fine dressin’. I cut a dash myself. Sophy begged me ter wear a dress of hern ter the pictur’-show an’ the theater-supper, ez they called it, arterward, which I war crazy ter do all the time, though I kep’ on sayin’ ter her, ‘What differ do it make what a’ old mounting woman wears?’ But I let myself be persuaded into a white muslin frock with black spots, an’, Benjie, with the lace cape an’ the jet necklace, an’ the fancy jet comb in my hair, I made that man’s eyes shine ekal ter them gold buttons in his shirt-front. Lem me show ye how Sophy did up my hair. I scarcely dared turn my head on the pillow las’ night fer fear of gittin’ it outen fix, an’ I never teched comb nor bresh ter it this mornin’ so ez ye mought hev some idee how it looked.”

With the word she removed her sunbonnet with gingerly care and sat smiling at him, expectant of plaudits. In fact, the snow-white redundancy of her locks, piled into crafty puffs and coiled in heavy curls by the designing and ambitious Sophy, a close student of the fashion items as revealed in the patent inside of the county paper, achieved a coiffure that might have won even discriminating encomiums. But Benjie looked at her dully and drearily as she sat, all rejuvenated by the artifices of the mode, roseate and bland and suavely smiling. A sudden shadow crossed her face.

“Why, Benjie,” she cried anxiously, “what kin ail you-’uns? Ye look plumb desolated.”

“Oh, you g’ long, g’ long!” cried the goaded Benjie. Luckily she imagined the adjuration addressed to the old mare, now beginning the long, steep ascent of the mountain to their home on the bluff, and thus took no exceptions to the discourtesy.

“I’ll be bound ye eat su’thin’ ez disagreed with you in the town-folk’s victuals. I expec’ I’ll hev ter give ye some yarb tea afore ye feel right peart ag’in. Ye would hev a right to the indigestion ef ye hed been feedin’ like me nigh on ter midnight. I be goin’ ter tell ye about the pictur’-show arter I finish about ’Roy Tresmon’ an’ me. That supper--waal, sir, he invited Sophy an’ Ned Jarney, too, an’ paid fer us all, though some o’ them knickknacks war likely ter hev been paid fer with thar lives. Toadstools did them misguided sinners eat with thar chicken, an’ I expected them presently ter be laid out stiff in death. _I_ never teched the rank p’ison, nor the wine nuther. I say ter ’Roy ez I never could abide traffickin’ with corn-juice. An’ he grinned an’ say, ‘This is grape-juice, Editha.’ But ye mought know it warn’t no common grape-juice. The waiter kep’ a folded napkin round the bottle ez it poured, an’ the sniff of that liquor war tremenjious fine. It war like a whole flower-gyardin full of perfume. Them two men, ’Roy an’ Jarney, war breakin’ the dry-town law, I believe. They kep’ lookin’ at each other an’ laffin’, an’ axin’ which brand of soft drinks war the mos’ satisfyin’. An’ the man what kep’ the eatin’-store looked p’intedly skeered as he said ter the waiter, ‘Ye needn’t put _that_ bottle on the table.’ An’ they got gay fer true; my best cherry-bounce couldn’t hev made ’Roy mo’ glib than he war. An’ ’Roy hed no sense lef’ nuther. Sophy she say she seen the bill the waiter laid by his plate,-ye know how keen them leetle, squinched-up eyes of hern be,--an’ she say it war over ten dollars. Lawsy!--lawsy! what a thing it is ter be rich! ’Roy Tresmon’ jes stepped up ter the counter an’ paid it ’thout battin’ an eye.”

The old couple had left the wagon now, and were walking up a

## particularly steep and stony stretch of the road to lighten the load

on old Whitey, dutifully pulling the rattling, rickety vehicle along with scant guidance. Editha kept in advance, swinging her sunbonnet by the string, her elaborately coiffed head still on display. Now and then as she recalled an item of interest to detail, she paused and stepped backward after a nonchalant girlish fashion, while Benjie, old and battered and broken, found it an arduous task to plod along with laggard, dislocated, and irregular gait at the tail-board of the wagon. They were in the midst of the sunset now. It lay in a broad, dusky-red splendor over all the far, green valleys, and the mountains had garbed themselves in richest purple. Sweets were in the air, seeming more than fragrance; the inhalation was like the quaffing of some delicious elixir, filling the veins with a sort of ethereal ecstasy. The balsam firs imbued the atmosphere with subtle strength, and the lungs expanded to garner it. Flowers under foot, the fresh tinkle of a crystal rill, the cry of a belated bird, all the bliss of home-coming in his thrilling note as he winged his way over the crest--these were the incidents of the climb.

“I tell ye, Benjie,”--Editha once more turned to walk slowly backward, swinging her bonnet by the string,--“it’s a big thing ter be rich.”

“Oh,” suddenly cried the anguished Benjie, with a poignant wail, his fortitude collapsing at last, “I wish you war rich! That be what ye keer fer; I know it now. I wish ye could hev hed riches--yer heart’s desire! I wish I hed never seen you-’uns, an’ ye hed never seen me!”

Editha stood stock-still in the road as though petrified. Old Whitey, her progress barred, paused not unwillingly, and the rattle of the wagon ceased for the nonce. Benjie, doubly disconsolate in the consciousness of his self-betrayal, leaned heavily against the motionless wheel and gazed shrinkingly at the visible wrath gathering in his helpmate’s eyes.

“Man,” she cried, and Benjie felt as though the mountain had fallen on him, “hev ye plumb turned fool? Now,” she went on with a stern intonation, “ye tell me what ye mean by that sayin’, else I’ll fling ye over the bluff or die tryin’.”

“Oh, nuthin’, nuthin’, ’Ditha,” said the miserable Benjie, all the cherished values of his life falling about him in undiscriminated wreck.

“Then I’ll make my own understandin’ outen yer words, an’ I’ll hold the gredge ag’in’ ye ez long ez I live,” she protested.

“Waal, then,” snarled Benjie, “ye take heed ye make the words jes like I said ’em. I’ll stand ter ’em. _I_ never f’und out how ter tell lies in Shaftesvul. I’ll stand ter my words.”

“Ye wished I could hev hed riches,” Editha ponderingly recapitulated his phrases. Then she looked up, her blue eyes severe and her flushed face set. “An’ will ye tell me what’s the reason I couldn’t hev hed riches--old Tom fool!”

Thus the lovers!

“You-’uns, ’Ditha?” Benjie faltered, bewildered by the incongruity of the idea. “You, _riches_?”

“I could hev hed long ago sech riches ez ’Roy Tresmon’ hev got, sartain sure,” she declared. “An’ considerin’ ye hev kem in yer old age ter wish ye hed never seen me, ’pears like it mought hev been better ef I hed thought twice afore I turned him off forty-six year’ ago.”

“Turned off ’Roy Tresmon’! Forty-six year’ ago! What did ye do that fer, ’Ditha?” Benjie bungled, aghast. He had a confused, flustered sentiment of rebuke: what had possessed Editha in her youth to have discarded this brilliant opportunity!

“To marry you-’uns, of course,” retorted Editha, amazed in her turn.

“An’ now, oh, ’Ditha, that we hev kem so nigh the eend of life’s journey ye air sorry fer it,” wailed Benjie. “But I never knowed ez ye hed the chance.”

Editha tossed her head. “The chance! I hed the chance three times whenst he war young an’ personable an’ mighty nigh ez rich ez he be now.” She began to check off the occasions on her fingers. “Fust, at the big barn dance, when the Dimmycrats hed a speakin’ an’ a percession. Then one night whenst we-’uns war kemin’ home together from prayer-meetin’ he tol’ ag’in ‘his tale of love,’ ez he called it,” she burst forth in a shrill cackle of derision. “Then that Christmus I spent in Shaftesvul the year I stayed with Aunt Dor’thy he begged me ter kem out ter the gate jes at sun-up ter receive my present, which war his heart; an’ I tol’ him ez I war much obleeged, but I wouldn’t deprive him of it. Ha! ha! ha! Lawsy! we-’uns war talkin’ ’bout them old times all ’twixt the plays at the pictur’-show, an’ he declared he hed stayed a bachelor all these years fer my sake. I tol’ him that ef I war forty-five years younger I’d hev more manners than ter listen ter sech talk ez that, ha! ha! ha! ’T war all mighty funny an’ gamesome, an’ I laffed an’ laffed.”

“’Ditha,” said the contrite Benjie, taking heart of grace from her relaxing seriousness, “I love ye so well that it hurts me to think I cut ye out of any good thing.”

“Waal, ye done it, sure,” said the uncompromising Editha. “But fer you-’uns I would hev married that man and owned all he hev got from his ‘palace’ ter his store teeth.”

“Did--did you-’uns say his teeth war jes store teeth?” demanded Benjie, excitedly.

“Did you-’uns expec’ the critter ter cut a new set of teeth at his time of life?” laughed Editha.

“O ’Ditha, I felt so cheap whenst ye tol’ ’bout his fine clothes,” Benjie began.

“He used ter wear jes ez fine clothes forty-five years ago,” interrupted Editha, “an’ he war then ez supple a jumping-jack ez ever ye see, not a hirpling old codger; but, lawsy! I oughtn’t ter laff at his rheumatics, remembering all them beads on that cape.”

As they climbed into the wagon, the ascent being completed, and resumed their homeward way, Benjie was moved to seek to impress his own merits. “I hed considerable attention paid ter my words whenst settin’ on the jury, ’Ditha. They all kem round ter my way of thinkin’ whenst they heard me talk.”

“Waal, I don’t follow thar example,” Editha retorted. “The more I hear ye talk, the bigger fool ye seem ter be. Hyar ye air now thinkin’ it will make me set more store by ye ter know that eleven slack-twisted town-men hearkened ter yer speech. Ye suits me, an’ always did. I’d think of ye jes the same if every juryman hed turned ag’in’ ye, stiddier seein’ the wisdom of yer words.”

A genial glow sprang up in Benjie’s heart, responsive to the brusk sincerities of this fling, and when the house was reached, and the flames again flared, red and yellow from the hickory logs in the deep chimney-place, the strings of scarlet peppers swinging from the ceiling, the gaily flowered curtains fluttering at the windows, the dogs fawning about their feet on the hearthstone, Editha’s exclamation seemed the natural sequence of their arrival.

“Home fer sure!” she cried with a joyous nesting instinct, and reckless of inconsistency. “An’, lawsy! don’t it look good an’ sensible! ’Pears like Shaftesvul is away, away off yander in a dream, an’ ’Roy Tresmon’, with his big white teeth an’ fine clothes an’ rheumatic teeter, is some similar ter a nightmare, though I _oughter_ hev manners enough ter remember them beads on that cape, an’ speak accordin’. I be done with travelin’, Benjie, an’ nex’ time ye set on a jury ye’ll hev ter do it by yer lone.”

The firelight showed the cheery radiance of the smile with which the old “moth-eaten lovyers” gazed at each other, and the quizzical expression of the little Cupid delineated on the mantelpiece, peering out at them from beneath the bandage of his eyes, his useless wings spread above the hearth he hallowed.

[Illustration]

T. TEMBAROM

BY FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT

Author of “That Lass o’ Lowrie’s,” “The Shuttle,” etc.

WITH DECORATIVE PICTURES BY CHARLES S. CHAPMAN

## CHAPTER XV

To employ the figure of Burrill, Tembarom was indeed “as pleased as Punch.” He was one of the large number of men who, apart from all sentimental relations, are made particularly happy by the kindly society of women; who expand with quite unconscious rejoicing when a women begins to take care of them in one way or another. The unconsciousness is a touching part of the condition. The feminine nearness supplies a primeval human need. The most complete of men, as well as the weaklings, feel it. It is a survival of days when warm arms held and protected, warm hands served, and affectionate voices soothed. An accomplished male servant may perform every domestic service perfectly, but the fact that he cannot be a women leaves a sense of lack. An accustomed feminine warmth in the surrounding daily atmosphere has caused many a man to marry his housekeeper or even his cook, as circumstances prompted.

Tembarom had known no woman well until he had met Little Ann. His feeling for Mrs. Bowse herself had verged on affection, because he would have been fond of any woman of decent temper and kindliness, especially if she gave him opportunities to do friendly service. Little Ann had seemed the apotheosis of the feminine, the warmly helpful, the subtly supporting, the kind. She had been to him an amazement and a revelation. She had continually surprised him by revealing new characteristics which seemed to him nicer things than he had ever known before, but which, if he had been aware of it, were not really surprising at all. They were only the characteristics of a very nice young feminine creature.

The presence of Miss Alicia, with the long-belated fashion of her ringlets and her little cap, was delightful to him. He felt as though he would like to take her in his arms and hug her. He thought perhaps it was partly because she was a little like Ann, and kept repeating his name in Ann’s formal little way. Her delicate terror of presuming or intruding he felt in its every shade. Mentally she touched him enormously. He wanted to make her feel that she need not be afraid of him in the least, that he liked her, that in his opinion she had more right in the house than he had. He was a little frightened lest through ignorance he should say things the wrong way, as he had said that thing about wanting to know what she expected him to do. What he ought to have said was, “You’re not expecting me to let that sort of thing go on.” It had made him sick when he saw what a break he’d made and that she thought he was sort of insulting her. The room seemed all right now that she was in it. Small and unassuming as she was, she seemed to make it less over-sized. He didn’t so much mind the loftiness of the ceiling, the depth and size of the windows, and the walls covered with thousands of books he knew nothing whatever about. The innumerable books had been an oppressing feature. If he had been one of those “college guys” who never could get enough of books, what a “cinch” the place would have been for him--good as the Astor Library! He hadn’t a word to say against books,--good Lord! no,--but even if he’d had the education and the time to read, he didn’t believe he was naturally that kind, anyhow. You had to be “that kind” to know about books. He didn’t suppose she--meaning Miss Alicia--was learned enough to make you throw a fit. She didn’t look that way, and he was mighty glad of it, because perhaps she wouldn’t like him much if she was. It would worry her when she tried to talk to him and found out he didn’t know a darned thing he ought to.

They’d get on together easier if they could just chin about common sort of every-day things. But though she didn’t look like the Vassar sort, he guessed that she was not like himself: she had lived in libraries before, and books didn’t frighten her. She’d been born among people who read lots of them and maybe could talk about them. That was why she somehow seemed to fit into the room. He was aware that, timid as she was and shabby as her neat dress looked, she fitted into the whole place, as he did not. She’d been a poor relative and had been afraid to death of old Temple Barholm, but she’d not been afraid of him because she wasn’t his sort. She was a lady; that was what was the matter with her. It was what made thing harder for her, too. It was what made her voice tremble when she’d tried to seem so contented and polite when she’d talked about going into one of those “decayed almshouses.” As if the old ladies were vegetables that had gone wrong, by gee! he thought.

He liked her little, modest, delicate old face and her curls and her little cap with the ribbons so much that he smiled with a twinkling eye every time he looked at her. He wanted to suggest something he thought would be mighty comfortable, but he was half afraid he might be asking her to do something which wasn’t “her job,” and it might hurt her feelings. But he ventured to hint at it.

“Has Burrill got to come back and pour that out?” he asked, with an awkward gesture toward the tea-tray.

“Oh, no, unless you wish it,” she answered. “Shall--may I give it to you?”

“Will you?” he exclaimed delightedly. “That would be fine. I shall feel like a regular Clarence.”

She was going to sit at the table in a straight-backed chair, but he sprang at her.

“This big one is more comfortable,” he said, and he dragged it forward and made her sit in it. “You ought to have a footstool,” he added, and he got one and put it under her feet. “There, that’s all right.”

A footstool, as though she were a royal personage and he were a gentleman in waiting, only probably gentlemen in waiting did not jump about and look so pleased. The cheerful content of his boyish face when he himself sat down near the table was delightful.

“Now,” he said, “we can ring up for the first act.”

She filled the tea-pot and held it for a moment, and then set it down as though her feelings were too much for her.

“I feel as if I were in a dream,” she quavered happily. “I do indeed.”

“But it’s a nice one, ain’t it?” he answered. “I feel as if I was in two. Sitting here in this big room with all these fine things about me, and having afternoon tea with a relation! It just about suits me. It didn’t feel like this yesterday, you bet your life!”

“Does it seem--nicer than yesterday?” she ventured. “Really, Mr. Temple Barholm?”

“Nicer!” he ejaculated. “It’s got yesterday beaten to a frazzle.”

It was beyond all belief. He was speaking as though the advantage, the relief, the happiness, were all on his side. She longed to enlighten him.

“But you can’t realize what it is to me,” she said gratefully, “to sit here, not terrified and homeless and--a beggar any more, with your kind face before me. Do forgive me for saying it. You have such a kind young face, Mr. Temple Barholm. And to have an easy-chair and cushions, and actually a buffet brought for your feet!” She suddenly recollected herself. “Oh, I mustn’t let your tea get cold,” she added, taking up the tea-pot apologetically. “Do you take cream and sugar, and is it to be one lump or two?”

“I take everything in sight,” he replied joyously, “and two lumps, please.”

She prepared the cup of tea with as delicate a care as though it had been a sacramental chalice, and when she handed it to him she smiled wistfully.

“No one but you ever thought of such a thing as bringing a buffet for my feet--no one except poor little Jem,” she said, and her voice was wistful as well as her smile.

She was obviously unaware that she was introducing an entirely new acquaintance to him. Poor little Jem was supposed to be some one whose whole history he knew.

“Jem?” he repeated, carefully transferring a piece of hot buttered crumpet to his plate.

“Jem Temple Barholm,” she answered. “I say little Jem because I remember him only as a child. I never saw him after he was eleven years old.”

“Who was he?” he asked. The tone of her voice and her manner of speaking made him feel that he wanted to hear something more.

She looked rather startled by his ignorance. “Have you--have you never heard of him?” she inquired.

“No. Is he another distant relation?”

Her hesitation caused him to neglect his crumpet, to look up at her. He saw at once that she wore the air of a sensitive and beautifully mannered elderly lady who was afraid she had made a mistake and said something awkward.

“I am so sorry,” she apologized. “Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned him.”

“Why shouldn’t he be mentioned?”

She was embarrassed. She evidently wished she had not spoken, but breeding demanded that she should ignore the awkwardness of the situation, if awkwardness existed.

“Of course--I hope your tea is quite as you like it--of course there is no real reason. But--shall I give you some more cream? No? You see, if he hadn’t died, he--he would have inherited Temple Barholm.”

Now he was interested. This was the other chap.

“Instead of me?” he asked, to make sure. She endeavored not to show embarrassment and told herself it didn’t really matter--to a thoroughly nice person. But--

“He was the next of kin--before you. I’m so sorry I didn’t know you hadn’t heard of him. It seemed natural that Mr. Palford should have mentioned him.”

“He did say that there was a young fellow who had died, but he didn’t tell me about him. I guess I didn’t ask. There were such a lot of other things. I’d like to hear about him. You say you knew him?”

“Only when he was a little fellow. Never after he grew up. Something happened which displeased my father. I’m afraid papa was very easily displeased. Mr. Temple Barholm disliked him, too. He would not have him at Temple Barholm.”

“He hadn’t much luck with his folks, had he?” remarked Tembarom.

“He had no luck with any one. I seemed to be the only person who was fond of him, and of course I didn’t count.”

“I bet you counted with him,” said Tembarom.