T. Tembarom. Frances Hodgson Burnett

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СКАЧАТЬ seemed to take him in, with a benign appreciativeness, in his entirety.

      “Well, you haven't,” she admitted, though quite without disparagement, merely with slight reservation. “But you've got one like your own. And it's a good head—when you try to think steady. Yours is a man's head, and mine's only a woman's.”

      “It's Little Ann Hutchinson's, by gee!” said Tembarom, with feeling.

      “Listen here, Mr. Tem—Temple Barholm,” she went on, as nearly disturbed as he had ever seen her outwardly. “It's a wonderful thing that's happened to you. It's like a novel. That splendid place, that splendid name! It seems so queer to think I should ever have talked to a Mr. Temple Barholm as I've talked to you.”

      He leaned forward a little as though something drew him.

      “But”—there was unsteady appeal in his voice—“you have liked me, haven't you, Little Ann?”

      Her own voice seemed to drop into an extra quietness that made it remote. She looked down at her hands on her lap.

      “Yes, I have liked you. I have told Father I liked you,” she answered.

      He got up, and made an impetuous rush at his goal.

      “Then—say, I'm going in there to wake up Mr. Hutchinson and ask him not to sail to-morrow morning.”

      “You'd better not wake him up,” she answered, smiling; but he saw that her face changed and flushed. “It's not a good time to ask Father anything when he's just been waked up. And we HAVE to go. The express is coming at eight.”

      “Send it away again; tell 'em you're not going. Tell 'em any old thing. Little Ann, what's the matter with you? Something's the matter. Have I made a break?”

      He had felt the remoteness in her even before he had heard it in her dropped voice. It had been vaguely there even when he sat down on the trunk. Actually there was a touch of reserve about her, as though she was keeping her little place with the self-respecting propriety of a girl speaking to a man not of her own world.

      “I dare say I've done some fool thing without knowing it. I don't know where I'm at, anyhow,” he said woefully.

      “Don't look at me like that, Mr. Temple Barholm,” she said—“as if I was unkind. I—I'm NOT.”

      “But you're different,” he implored. “I saw it the minute I came up. I ran up-stairs just crazy to talk to you—yes, crazy to talk to you—and you—well, you were different. Why are you, if you're not mad?”

      Then she rose and stood holding one of her neatly rolled packages in her hand. Her eyes were soft and clear, and appealed maternally to his reason.

      “Because everything's different. You just think a bit,” she answered.

      He stared at her a few seconds, and then understanding of her dawned upon him. He made a human young dash at her, and caught her arm.

      “What!” he cried out. “You mean this Temple Barholm song and dance makes things different? Not on your life! You're not the girl to work that on me, as if it was my fault. You've got to hear me speak my piece. Ann—you've just got to!”

      He had begun to tremble a little, and she herself was not steady; but she put a hand on his arm.

      “Don't say anything you've not had time to think about,” she said.

      “I've been thinking of pretty near nothing else ever since I came here. Just as soon as I looked at you across the table that first day I saw my finish, and every day made me surer. I'd never had any comfort or taking care of—I didn't know the first thing about it—and it seemed as if all there was of it in the world was just in YOU.”

      “Did you think that?” she asked falteringly.

      “Did I? That's how you looked to me, and it's how you look now. The way you go about taking care of everybody and just handing out solid little chunks of good sense to every darned fool that needs them, why—” There was a break in his voice—“why, it just knocked me out the first round.” He held her a little away from him, so that he could yearn over her, though he did not know he was yearning. “See, I'd sworn I'd never ask a girl to marry me until I could keep her. Well, you know how it was, Ann. I couldn't have kept a goat, and I wasn't such a fool that I didn't know it. I've been pretty sick when I thought how it was; but I never worried you, did I?”

      “No, you didn't.”

      “I just got busy. I worked like—well, I got busier than I ever was in my life. When I got the page SURE, I let myself go a bit, sort of hoping. And then this Temple Barholm thing hits me.”

      “That's the thing you've got to think of now,” said Little Ann. “I'm going to talk sensible to you.”

      “Don't, Ann! Good Lord! DON'T!”

      “I MUST.” She put her last tight roll into the trunk and tried to shut the lid. “Please lock this for me.”

      He locked it, and then she seated herself on the top of it, though it was rather high for her, and her small feet dangled. Her eyes looked large and moist like a baby's, and she took out a handkerchief and lightly touched them.

      “You've made me want to cry a bit,” she said, “but I'm not going to.”

      “Are you going to tell me you don't want me?” he asked, with anxious eyes.

      “No, I'm not.”

      “God bless you!” He was going to make a dash at her again, but pulled himself up because he must. “No, by jings!” he said. “I'm not going to till you let me.”

      “You see, it's true your head's not like mine,” she said reasonably. “Men's heads are mostly not like women's. They're men, of course, and they're superior to women, but they're what I'd call more fluttery-like. Women must remind them of things.”

      “What—what kind of things?”

      “This kind. You see, Grandmother lives near Temple Barholm, and I know what it's like, and you don't. And I've seen what seventy thousand pounds a year means, and you haven't. And you've got to go and find out for yourself.”

      “What's the matter with you coming along to help me?”

      “I shouldn't help you; that's it. I should hold you back. I'm nothing but Ann Hutchinson, and I talk Manchester—and I drop my h's.”

      “I love to hear you drop your little h's all over the place,” he burst forth impetuously. “I love it.”

      She shook her head.

      “The girls that go to garden-parties at Temple Barholm look like those in the `Ladies' Pictorial', and they've got names and titles same as those in novels.”

      He answered her in genuine anguish. He had never made any mistake about her character, and she was beginning to make him feel afraid of her in the midst of his adoration.

      “What do I want with a girl out of a magazine?” СКАЧАТЬ