The Treasure of Heaven Part 32

He said nothing, but watched her in a kind of morbid fascination as she went to the fire and removed a saucepan which she had set there some minutes previously. Taking a large old-fas.h.i.+oned Delft bowl from a cupboard at one side of the fire-place, she filled it with steaming soup which smelt deliciously savoury and appetising, and brought it to him with some daintily cut morsels of bread. He was too ill to feel much hunger, but to please her, he managed to sip it by slow degrees, talking to her between-whiles.

"You say you live alone here,"--he murmured--"But are you always alone?"

"Always,--ever since father died."

"How long is that ago?"

"Five years."

"You are not--you have not been--married?"

She laughed.

"No indeed! I'm an old maid!"

"Old?" And he raised his eyes to her face. "You are not old!"

"Well, I'm not young, as young people go,"--she declared--"I'm thirty-four. I was never married for myself in my youth,--and I shall certainly never be married for my money in my age!" Again her pretty laugh rang softly on the silence. "But I'm quite happy, all the same!"

He still looked at her intently,--and all suddenly it dawned upon him that she was a beautiful woman. He saw, as for the first time, the clear transparency of her skin, the soft brilliancy of her eyes, and the wonderful ma.s.ses of her warm bronze brown hair. He noted the perfect poise of her figure, clad as it was in a cheap print gown,--the slimness of her waist, the fulness of her bosom, the white roundness of her throat. Then he smiled.

"So you are an old maid!" he said--"That's very strange!"

"Oh, I don't think so!" and she shook her head deprecatingly--"Many women are old maids by choice as well as by necessity. Marriage isn't always bliss, you know! And unless a woman loves a man very very much--so much that she can't possibly live her life without him, she'd better keep single. At least that's _my_ opinion. Now Mr. David, you must go to bed!"

He rose obediently--but trembled as he rose, and could scarcely stand from sheer weakness. Mary Deane put her arm through his to support him.

"I'm afraid,"--he faltered--"I'm afraid I shall be a burden to you! I don't think I shall be well enough to start again on my way to-morrow."

"You won't be allowed to do any such foolish thing!" she answered, with quick decision--"So you can just make up your mind on _that_ score! You must stay here as my guest."

"Not a paying one, I fear!" he said, with a pained smile, and a quick glance at her.

She gave a slight gesture of gentle reproach.

"I wouldn't have you on paying terms,"--she answered; "I don't take in lodgers."

"But--but--how do you live?"

He put the question hesitatingly, yet with keen curiosity.

"How do I live? You mean how do I work for a living? I am a lace mender, and a bit of a laundress too. I wash fine muslin gowns, and mend and clean valuable old lace. It's pretty work and pleasant enough in its way."

"Does it pay you well?"

"Oh, quite sufficiently for all my needs. I don't cost much to keep!"

And she laughed--"I'm all by myself, and I was never money-hungry! Now come!--you mustn't talk any more. You know who I am and what I am,--and we'll have a good long chat to-morrow. It's bed-time!"

She led him, as though he were a child, into a little room,--one of the quaintest and prettiest he had ever seen,--with a sloping raftered ceiling, and one rather wide latticed window set in a deep embrasure and curtained with spotless white dimity. Here there was a plain old-fas.h.i.+oned oak bedstead, trimmed with the same white hangings, the bed itself being covered with a neat quilt of diamond-patterned silk patchwork. Everything was delicately clean, and fragrant with the odour of dried rose-leaves and lavender,--and it was with all the zealous care of an anxious housewife that Mary Deane a.s.sured her "guest" that the sheets were well-aired, and that there was not "a speck of damp"

anywhere. A kind of instinct told him that this dainty little sleeping chamber, so fresh and pure, with not even a picture on its white-washed walls, and only a plain wooden cross hung up just opposite to the bed, must be Mary's own room, and he looked at her questioningly.

"Where do you sleep yourself?" he asked.

"Upstairs,"--she answered, at once--"Just above you. This is a two-storied cottage--quite large really! I have a parlour besides the kitchen,--oh, the parlour's very sweet!--it has a big window which my father built himself, and it looks out on a lovely view of the orchard and the stream,--then I have three more rooms, and a wash-house and cellar. It's almost too big a cottage for me, but father loved it, and he died here,--that's why I keep all his things about me and stay on in it. He planted all the roses in the orchard,--and I couldn't leave them!"

Helmsley said nothing in answer to this. She put an armchair for him near the bed.

"Now as soon as you're in bed, just call to me and I'll put out the light in the kitchen and go to bed myself,"--she said--"And I'll take the little doggie with me, and make him comfortable for the night. I'm leaving you a candle and matches, and if you feel badly at all, there's a handbell close by,--mind you ring it, and I'll come to you at once and do all I can for you."

He bent his eyes searchingly upon her in his old suspicious "business"

way, his fuzzy grey eyebrows almost meeting in the intensity of his gaze.

"Tell me--why are you so good to me?" he asked.

She smiled.

"Don't ask nonsense questions, please, Mr. David! Haven't I told you already?--not why I am 'good,' because that's rubbish--but why I am trying to take care of you?"

"Yes--because I am old!" he said, with a sudden pang of self-contempt--"and--useless!"

"Good-night!" she answered, cheerfully--"Call to me when you are ready!"

She was gone before he could speak another word and he heard her talking to Charlie in petting playful terms of endearment. Judging from the sounds in the kitchen, he concluded, and rightly, that she was getting her own supper and that of the dog at the same time. For two or three minutes he sat inert, considering his strange and unique position. What would this present adventure lead to? Unless his new friend, Mary Deane, examined the vest he had asked her to take care of for him, she would not discover who he was or from whence he came. Would she examine it?--would she unrip the lining, just out of feminine curiosity, and sew it up again, pretending that she had not touched it, after the "usual way of women"? No! He was sure,--absolutely sure--of her integrity.

What? In less than an hour's acquaintance with her, would he swear to her honesty? Yes, he would! Never could such eyes as hers, so softly, darkly blue and steadfast, mirror a falsehood, or deflect the fragment of a broken promise! And so, for the time being, in utter fatigue of both body and mind, he put away all thought, all care for the future, and resigned himself to the circ.u.mstances by which he was now surrounded. Undressing as quickly as he could in his weak and trembling condition, he got into the bed so comfortably prepared for him, and lay down in utter la.s.situde, thankful for rest. After he had lain so for a few minutes he called:

"Mary Deane!"

She came at once, and looked in, smiling.

"All cosy and comfortable?" she queried--"That's right!" Then entering the room, she showed him the very vest, the possible fate of which he had been considering.

"This is quite dry now,"--she said--"I've been thinking that perhaps as there are letters and papers inside, you'd like to have it near you,--so I'm just going to put it in here--see?" And she opened a small cupboard in the wall close to the bed--"There! Now I'll lock it up"--and she suited the action to the word--"Where shall I put the key?"

"Please keep it for me yourself!" he answered, earnestly,--"It will be safest with you!"

"Well, perhaps it will,"--she agreed. "Anyhow no one can get at your letters without _my_ consent! Now, are you quite easy?"

And, as she spoke, she came and smoothed the bedclothes over him, and patted one of his thin, worn hands which lay, almost unconsciously to himself, outside the quilt.

"Quite!" he said, faintly, "G.o.d bless you!"

"And you too!" she responded--"Good-night--David!"

"Good-night--Mary!"

She went away with a light step, softly closing the door behind her.

Returning to the kitchen she took up the little dog Charlie in her arms, and nestled him against her bosom, where he was very well content to be, and stood for a moment looking meditatively into the fire.