A fugitive fine day which had strayed into the month from the approaching spring appeared the next morning, and Miss Alicia was uplifted by the enrapturing suggestion that she should join her new relative in taking a walk, in fact that it should be she who took him to walk and showed him some of his possessions.This, it had revealed itself to him, she could do in a special way of her own, because during her life at Temple Barholm she had felt it her duty to "try to do a little good" among the villagers.She and her long-dead mother and sister had of course been working adjuncts of the vicarage, and had numerous somewhat trying tasks to perform in the way of improving upon "dear papa's" harrying them into attending church, chivying the mothers into sending their children to Sunday-school, and being unsparing in severity of any conduct which might be construed into implying lack of appreciation of the vicar or respect for his eloquence.
It had been necessary for them as members of the vicar's family--always, of course, without adding a sixpence to the household bills--to supply bowls of nourishing broth and arrowroot to invalids and to bestow the aid and encouragement which result in a man of God's being regarded with affection and gratitude by his parishioners.Many a man's career in the church, "dear papa" had frequently observed, had been ruined by lack of intelligence and effort on the part of the female members of his family.
"No man could achieve proper results," he had said, "if he was hampered by the selfish influence and foolishness of his womenkind.
Success in the church depends in one sense very much upon the conduct of a man's female relatives."After the deaths of her mother and sister, Miss Alicia had toiled on patiently, fading day by day from a slim, plain, sweet-faced girl to a slim, even plainer and sweeter-faced middle-aged and at last elderly woman.She had by that time read aloud by bedsides a great many chapters in the Bible, had given a good many tracts, and bestowed as much arrowroot, barley-water, and beef-tea as she could possibly encompass without domestic disaster.She had given a large amount of conscientious, if not too intelligent, advice, and had never failed to preside over her Sunday-school class or at mothers' meetings.But her timid unimpressiveness had not aroused enthusiasm or awakened comprehension."Miss Alicia," the cottage women said, "she's well meanin', but she's not one with a head." "She reminds me," one of them had summed her up, "of a hen that lays a' egg every day, but it's too small for a meal, and 'u'd never hatch into anythin'."During her stay at Temple Barholm she had tentatively tried to do a little "parish work," but she had had nothing to give, and she was always afraid that if Mr.Temple Barholm found her out, he would be angry, because he would think she was presuming.She was aware that the villagers knew that she was an object of charity herself, and a person who was "a lady" and yet an object of charity was, so to speak, poaching upon their own legitimate preserves.The rector and his wife were rather grand people, and condescended to her greatly on the few occasions of their accidental meetings.She was neither smart nor influential enough to be considered as an asset.
It was she who "conversed" during their walk, and while she trotted by Tembarom's side looking more early-Victorian than ever in a neat, fringed mantle and a small black bonnet of a fashion long decently interred by a changing world, Tembarom had never seen anything resembling it in New York; but he liked it and her increasingly at every moment.
It was he who made her converse.He led her on by asking her questions and being greatly interested in every response she made.In fact, though he was quite unaware of the situation, she was creating for him such an atmosphere as he might have found in a book, if he had had the habit of books.Everything she told him was new and quaint and very often rather touching.She related anecdotes about herself and her poor little past without knowing she was doing it.Before they had talked an hour he had an astonishing clear idea of "poor dear papa"and "dearest Emily" and "poor darling mama" and existence at Rowcroft Vicarage.He "caught on to" the fact that though she was very much given to the word "dear,"--people were "dear," and so were things and places,--she never even by chance slipped into saying "dear Rowcroft,"which she would certainly have done if she had ever spent a happy moment in it.
As she talked to him he realized that her ****** accustomedness to English village life and all its accompaniments of county surroundings would teach him anything and everything he might want to know.Her obscurity had been surrounded by stately magnificence, with which she had become familiar without touching the merest outskirts of its privileges.She knew names and customs and families and things to be cultivated or avoided, and though she would be a little startled and much mystified by his total ignorance of all she had breathed in since her birth, he felt sure that she would not regard him either with private contempt or with a lessened liking because he was a vandal pure and ******.
And she had such a nice, little, old polite way of saying things.
When, in passing a group of children, he failed to understand that their hasty bobbing up and down meant that they were doing obeisance to him as lord of the manor, she spoke with the prettiest apologetic courtesy.
"I'm sure you won't mind touching your hat when they make their little curtsies, or when a villager touches his forehead," she said.
