Ambrotox and Limping Dick Part 19

His own stomach, in spite of his few mouthfuls at "The Coach and Horses," reminded him that Amaryllis had not eaten during the last thirteen, or fourteen hours.

A little breeze had arisen, blowing from the south-east, and brought with it to his nostrils the smell of wood-smoke. He looked at the pile of cut wood.

"I ought to have known," he thought; and stooping, raised the girl, still unconscious, tied the jacket by the arms round her neck, and lifting her so that her waist was against his shoulder, set out to windward, following the wheel-tracks.

Ten minutes' steady walking brought him to a bend in the path which showed him the smoke he had been smelling, rising from the brick chimney of a squat stone cottage which, rather than to nestle among the woods, as well-behaved cottages should, seemed to shrink from the ragged timber which surrounded it.

Beside the door, on a battered kitchen chair, sat a woman, reading what d.i.c.k took for a newspaper. As he drew nearer she rose, and picked up a tin wash-basin full of corn; and to the "Coop, coop, coop," of her melancholy voice came clucking and scrambling chickens and hens in grand flutter of greed.

Her eyes were on them as she scattered the grain, and d.i.c.k could see her clearly enough to wish he had a man to deal with, before the sound of his steps rose above the clamour of the poultry, and the woman looked up.

If he had taken, at that moment, any interest in his own appearance, he would have expected her to scream; for the chicken-feeder raised her eyes to see, limping towards her, clad in muddy boots, torn grey trousers and blue cotton s.h.i.+rt with streaks of drying blood down the left breast, a tall, dark-haired man, carrying a woman hanging across his shoulder.

And on the man's left cheek was a bruised cut, swelled, and clotted over with dried blood, which had run down in a stream, flowing over the jaw and ending at the collar; and all the way the drying rivulet had clung to the dark stubble of a twenty-four hours' beard.

For the rest, sweat, dust, fasting and sleeplessness had made of this a face whose horror was but increased by the alertness of the eyes, which shone with so shocking a blueness that the woman, finding them unlike any eyes which she had seen before, called them to herself, "evil eyes--the eyes of a desperate man."

Being a person of some courage, she managed with an effort to keep her hold of the basin and to scatter the remaining grains among the fowls before addressing her terrific visitor.

"You're trespa.s.sin'," she said, with harsh self-possession. And from the gra.s.s she picked up her cheap magazine and dropped it into the basin which she had just slapped down on the bench by the door.

On the thin paper cover d.i.c.k read _The Penny Pansy_.

"It is not trespa.s.sing, madam," he replied in a voice whose ingratiating quality was devoid of affectation, "--it can't be trespa.s.sing for a man in great need to come for help to the nearest house."

"I'm too poor to help the poorest," objected the woman, "and I don't like your luggage, sir." And she wondered why she had _sirred_ a cut-throat looking ruffian such as this.

d.i.c.k Bellamy wondered why the woman, in this lonely place, spoke so differently from the landlord of "The Coach and Horses." But he remembered _The Penny Pansy_, and felt for an opening.

Her gaze reminded him of his blood.

"It is not, madam," he said impressively, "a corpse that I carry; though how long the lady will survive, unless you can furnish us with nourishment and shelter, I dare not conjecture. This blood which you see is my own, spent in her defence."

He sat down on a chopping-block not far from the door, sliding Amaryllis to his knees, and resting her head against his shoulder.

"You can't sit there all day nursing a great, grown girl, like she was a child," said the woman.

"That is indeed true," he replied. "And therefore I beg you to let us rest in your house until the young lady is fit to travel."

"It's easy to talk of travelling," she objected with sour insolence.

"But 'tis my belief that, once let the hussy in, I'll never be rid of her."

"My desire to be gone," replied d.i.c.k, "by far outweighs any anxiety of yours, my good woman."

"Are you her husband?" asked the woman, impressed, but trying to keep the severity from fading out of her face.

"Not yet," replied d.i.c.k, a.s.suming an expression of extreme solemnity.

"About us two, madam, hangs a web of mystery. It is a story I should like to confide in you, for there is something in your face which reminds me of my old mother," and he brought a note of pathos into his voice, straight from the pages of "East Lynne," words and tone coming with an ease which surprised him.

"There's naught preventing," said the woman, expectantly.

"Except that the lady needs rest, I want a wash, and we both want food,"

said d.i.c.k. "You just be as kind as you look, and I'll give you a pound for every half-hour we spend in your house, and, if there's time, a romance into the bargain. You know what's stranger than fiction, don't you, mother?"

"The truth, they do say. But I dunno," she answered, doubtfully.

"What has happened to me in the last twenty-four hours," said d.i.c.k, "would shame the most exciting serial in the _Millsborough Herald_."

"'Tis the _Courier_ has the best," interrupted the woman eagerly.

"Mine will knock spots off the _Courier_--if we have time for it," said d.i.c.k, in the tone of dark suggestion.

"Bring her in," said the woman, curiosity prevailing. "I'll do my best for you both;" and d.i.c.k, rising with care not to disturb his now sleeping burden, carried it into the cottage.

The little house consisted of a large kitchen and two bedrooms opening from it. The woman, now almost hospitable, opened one of the inner doors.

"My son Tom's room," she said, with some pride. "He's away to Millsborough. Better put the lady in here. 'Tis a better bed than mine, and all clean and tidy for him against he comes on Monday."

She sighed heavily over some thought of her son, and watched her strange guest lay his strange load on the bed.

The idea that under this ill-fitting, already draggled skirt, and loose, ridiculous man's jacket were concealed the fine skin and well-tended person of a lady, filled her with expectation of romance. If the _Millsborough Herald_ had taught her to despise the "low moral tone" of those who ride in carriages and know not hards.h.i.+p, the _Penny Pansy_, in its own inimitable manner, had compelled her to believe that they possessed a distinction which she could not define.

They were "dainty" in appearance, "delicate" in thought, and "very pale"

in love or tragic circ.u.mstances.

But this one--if lady indeed she were--was pale with exhaustion, perhaps hunger, as any woman might be; and yet through it all there shone dimly something which reminded her of the romance she had drunk from the shallow and sluggish channel of machine-made fiction.

If this were a heroine, then the queer, persuasive man, b.l.o.o.d.y and blue-eyed, was the hero--and his kind she knew neither in _Penny Pansy's_ country nor her own.

"Half a dozen eggs, please, laid to-day. I give half a crown apiece for eggs, if I like 'em," said d.i.c.k. "Got any brandy, whisky, or gin? And what's your name?"

"Brundage, sir."

"And the name of this place?"

"Monkswood Cottage, near Margetstowe."

"Well, then, Mrs. Brundage--about that brandy?"

"There _is_ a drop of rum--for medicine, so to say," admitted Mrs.

Brundage, with a cold simper.

"Good medicine too," he said. "Lady Adelina will take some in the eggs I'm going to beat up for her. For me, get bacon and eggs, tea, and bags of bread and b.u.t.ter. See, she's opening her eyes. I'll leave you to look after her."

Outside the cottage door, he examined the revolver Amaryllis had given him. Of its six cartridges, four had been discharged. But two might make all the difference; and, after all, he had only to get Amaryllis to the car, or the car to Amaryllis.

And as he walked round the cottage, watching the woods, reflection led him more and more to believe that he had shaken himself free of his enemies. All but the Woman and the Dago were more or less damaged; none, it was probable, knew in what direction Ockley had disappeared; fear of the evidence he held against them might now prompt them rather to flight than pursuit; and what, he asked himself, could that yellow-haired she-devil, even if the little Dago that had bolted were faithful to his fellows, do against him now?

Amaryllis should have her rest.