In the first place, there was the wardrobe.What COULD he do? How could he approach the subject with sufficient delicacy? Mr.Temple Barholm had brought with him only a steamer trunk and a Gladstone bag, the latter evidently bought in London, to be stuffed with hastily purchased handkerchiefs and shirts, worn as they came out of the shop, and as evidently bought without the slightest idea of the kind of linen a gentleman should own.What most terrified Pearson, who was of a timid and most delicate-minded nature, was that having the workhouse and the boot-blacking as a background, the new Mr.Temple Barholm COULDN'T know, as all this had come upon him so suddenly.And was it to be Pearson's calamitous duty to explain to him that he had NOTHING, that he apparently KNEW nothing, and that as he had no friends who knew, a mere common servant must educate him, if he did not wish to see him derided and looked down upon and actually "cut" by gentlemen that WERE gentlemen? All this to say nothing of Pearson's own well-earned reputation for knowledge of custom, intelligence, and deftness in turning out the objects of his care in such form as to be a reference in themselves when a new place was wanted.Of course sometimes there were even real gentlemen who were most careless and indifferent to appearance, and who, if left to themselves, would buy garments which made the blood run cold when one realized that his own character and hopes for the future often depended upon his latest employer's outward aspect.But the ulster in which Mr.Temple Barholm had presented himself was of a cut and material such as Pearson's most discouraged moments had never forced him to contemplate.The limited wardrobe in the steamer trunk was all new and all equally bad.There was no evening dress, no proper linen,--not what Pearson called "proper,"-- no proper toilet appurtenances.What was Pearson called upon by duty to do? If he had only had the initiative to anticipate this, he might have asked permission to consult in darkest secrecy with Mr.Palford.But he had never dreamed of such a situation, and apparently he would be obliged to send his new charge down to his first dinner in the majestically decorous dining-room, "before all the servants," in a sort of speckled tweed cutaway, with a brown necktie.
Tembarom, realizing without delay that Pearson did not expect to be talked to and being cheered by the sight of the fire, sat down before it in an easy-chair the like of which for luxurious comfort he had never known.He was, in fact, waiting for developments.Pearson would say or do something shortly which would give him a chance to "catch on," or perhaps he'd go out of the room and leave him to himself, which would be a thing to thank God for.Then he could wash his face and hands, brush his hair, and wait till the dinner-bell rang.They'd be likely to have one.They'd have to in a place like this.
But Pearson did not go out of the room.He moved about behind him for a short time with footfall so almost entirely soundless that Tembarom became aware that, if it went on long, he should be nervous; in fact, he was nervous already.He wanted to know what he was doing.He could scarcely resist the temptation to turn his head and look; but he did not want to give himself away more entirely than was unavoidable, and, besides, instinct told him that he might frighten Pearson, who looked frightened enough, in a neat and well-mannered way, already.Hully gee! how he wished he would go out of the room!
But he did not.There were gently gliding footsteps of Pearson behind him, quiet movements which would have seemed stealthy if they had been a burglar's, soft removals of articles from one part of the room to another, delicate brushings, and almost noiseless foldings.Now Pearson was near the bed, now he had opened a wardrobe, now he was looking into the steamer trunk, now he had stopped somewhere behind him, within a few yards of his chair.Why had he ceased moving? What was he looking at? What kept him quiet?
Tembarom expected him to begin stirring mysteriously again; but he did not.Why did he not? There reigned in the room entire silence; no soft footfalls, no brushing, no folding.Was he doing nothing? Had he got hold of something which had given him a fit? There had been no sound of a fall; but perhaps even if an English valet had a fit, he'd have it so quietly and respectfully that one wouldn't hear it.Tembarom felt that he must be looking at the back of his head, and he wondered what was the matter with it.Was his hair cut in a way so un-English that it had paralyzed him? The back of his head began to creep under an investigation so prolonged.No sound at all, no movement.Tembarom stealthily took out his watch--good old Waterbury he wasn't going to part with --and began to watch the minute-hand.If nothing happened in three minutes he was going to turn round.One--two-- three--and the silence made it seem fifteen.He returned his Waterbury to his pocket and turned round.
Pearson was not dead.He was standing quite still and resigned, waiting.It was his business to wait, not to intrude or disturb, and having put everything in order and done all he could do, he was waiting for further commands--in some suspense, it must be admitted.
"Hello!" exclaimed Tembarom, involuntarily.
