“Say,” said Tembarom, “shut up!”
“I am going,” said Lady Joan, and, seizing her cloak, turned to open the door.
The rain was descending in torrents, but she passed swiftly out into its deluge, walking as rapidly as she could. She thought she cared nothing about the rain, but it dashed in her face and eyes, taking her breath away, and she had need of breath when her heart was beating with such fierceness.
Even chance could not let her alone at one of her worst moments. She walked faster and faster because she was afraid Tembarom would follow her, and in a few minutes she heard him splashing behind her, and then he was at her side, holding the umbrella over her head.
“You’re a good walker,” he said, “but I’m a sprinter. I trained running after street-cars and catching the ‘L’ in New York.”
She had so restrained her miserable hysterical impulse to break down and utterly humiliate herself under the unexpected blow of the episode in the cottage that she had had no breath to spare when she left the room, and her hurried effort to escape had left her so much less that she did not speak.
“I’ll tell you something,” he went on. “He’s a little freak, but you can’t blame him much. Don’t be mad at him. He’s never moved from that corner since he was born, I guess, and he’s got nothing to do or to think of but just hearing what’s happening outside. He’s sort of crazy curious, and when he gets hold of a thing that suits him, he just holds on to it till the last bell rings.”
She said nothing whatever, and he paused a moment because he wanted to think over the best way to say the next thing.
“Mr. James Temple Barholm”—he ventured it with more delicacy of desire not to seem to “take liberties” than she would have credited him with—“saw his mother sitting with him in her arms at the cottage door a week or so after he was born. He stopped at the gate and talked to her about him, and he left him a sovereign. He’s got it now. It seems a fortune to him. He’s made a sort of idol of him. That’s why he talks like he does. I wouldn’t let it make me mad if I were you.”
He did not know that she could not have answered him if she would, that she felt that if he did not stop she might fling herself down upon the wet heather and wail aloud.