Mrs. Spash received all this with that unstirred composure which indicates non-comprehension of the main issue.
“Of course I’m interested on my own account too,” Lindsay went on. “She’s such a wonderful creature, so charming and so beautiful, so sweet, so unbearably poignant and sad. I can’t understand,” he concluded absently, “why she is so sad.”
Mrs. Spash seemed to comprehend instantly. “It’s the way she died,” she explained vaguely, “and how everything was left!” She walked in little swift pattering steps, and with the accustomed air of one who knows her way, through the side door into the addition. “This was Miss Murray’s own living-room,” she told Lindsay. “She had that little bit of a stairway made, she said, so’s too many folks couldn’t come up to her room at once. Not that that made any difference. Wherever she was, the whole household went.”
With little nipping steps Mrs. Spash ascended the stairway. Lindsay followed.
“Did Miss Murray die in her room?” Lindsay asked.
“How did you know this was her room?” Mrs. Spash demanded.
“I don’t know exactly. I just guessed it,” Lindsay answered. “I sleep here myself,” he hurriedly threw off.
“Yes. She died here. She was all alone when she died. You see—" Mrs. Spash sat down on the one chair and, instantly sensing her mood, Lindsay sat down on the bed.
“You see, things hadn’t gone very well for Miss Murray the last years of her life. Her books didn’t sell— And she spent money like water. She was allus the most open-hearted, open-handed creature you can imagine. She allus had the house full of company! And then there was the little girl—Cherry—who lived with her. At the end, things were bad. No money coming in. And Miss Murray sick all the time.”
“You say she was alone when she died,” Lindsay gently brought her back to the track.