The next morning Helmsley was too ill to move from his bed, or to be
conscious of his surroundings. And there followed a long period which to
him was well-nigh a blank. For weeks he lay helpless in the grasp of a
fever which over and over again threatened to cut the last frail thread
of his life asunder. Pain tortured every nerve and sinew in his body,
and there were times of terrible collapse,--when he was conscious of
nothing save an intense longing to sink into the grave and have done
with all the sharp and cruel torment which kept him on the rack of
existence. In a semi-delirious condition he tossed and moaned the hours
away, hardly aware of his own identity. In certain brief pauses of the
nights and days, when pain was momentarily dulled by stupor, he saw, or
fancied he saw a woman always near him, with anxiety in her eyes and
words of soothing consolation on her lips;--and then he found himself
muttering, "Mary! Mary! God bless you!" over and over again. Once or
twice he dimly realised that a small dark man came to his bedside and
felt his pulse and looked at him very doubtfully, and that she, Mary,
called this personage "doctor," and asked him questions in a whisper.
But all within his own being was pain and bewilderment,--sometimes he
felt as though he were one drop in a burning whirlpool of madness--and
sometimes he seemed to himself to be spinning round and round in a haze
of blinding rain, of which the drops were scalding hot, and heavy as
lead,--and occasionally he found that he was trying to get out of bed,
uttering cries of inexplicable anguish, while at such moments, something
cool was placed on his forehead, and a gentle arm was passed round him
till the paroxysm abated, and he fell down again among his pillows
exhausted. Slowly, and as it were grudgingly, after many days, the
crisis of the illness passed and ebbed away in dull throbs of
agony,--and he sank into a weak lethargy that was almost like the
comatose condition preceding death. He lay staring at the ceiling for
hours, heedless as to whether he ever moved or spoke again. Some-one
came and put spoonfuls of liquid nourishment between his lips, and he
swallowed it mechanically without any sign of conscious appreciation.
White as white marble, and aged by many years, he remained stretched in
his rigid corpse-like attitude, his eyes always fixedly upturned, till
one day he was roused from his deepening torpor by the sound of sobbing.
With a violent effort he brought his gaze down from the ceiling, and saw
a figure kneeling by his bed, and a mass of bronze brown hair falling
over a face concealed by two shapely white hands through which the tears
were falling. Feebly astonished, he stretched out his thin, trembling
fingers to touch that wonderful bright mesh of waving tresses, and
asked--
"What is this? Who--who is crying?"
The hidden face was uplifted, and two soft eyes, wet with weeping,
looked up hopefully.
"It's Mary!" said a trembling voice--"You know me, don't you? Oh,
dearie, if you would but try to rouse yourself, you'd get well even
now!"
He gazed at her in a kind of childish admiration.
"It's Mary!" he echoed, faintly--"And who is Mary?"
"Don't you remember?" And rising from her knees, she dashed away her
tears and smiled at him--"Or is it too hard for you to think at all
about it just now? Didn't I find you out on the hills in the storm, and
bring you home here?--and didn't I tell you that my name was Mary?"
He kept his eyes upon her wistful face,--and presently a wan smile
crossed his lips.
"Yes!--so you did!" he answered--"I know you now, Mary! I've been ill,
haven't I?"
She nodded at him--the tears were still wet on her lashes.
"Very ill!"
"Ill all night, I suppose?"
She nodded again.
"It's morning now?"
"Yes, it's morning!"
"I shall get up presently,"--he said, in his old gentle courteous
way--"I am sorry to have given you so much trouble! I must not burden
your hospitality--your kindness----"
His voice trailed away into silence,--his eyelids drooped--and fell into
a sound slumber,--the first refreshing sleep he had enjoyed for many
weary nights and days.
Mary Deane stood looking at him thoughtfully. The turn had come for the
better, and she silently thanked God. Night after night, day after day,
she had nursed him with unwearying patience and devotion, having no
other help or guidance save her own womanly instinct, and the occasional
advice of the village doctor, who, however, was not a qualified medical
man, but merely a herbalist who prepared his own simples. This humble
Gamaliel diagnosed Helmsley's case as one of rheumatic fever,
complicated by heart trouble, as well as by the natural weakness of
decaying vitality. Mary had explained to him Helmsley's presence in her
cottage by a pious falsehood, which Heaven surely forgave her as soon as
it was uttered. She had said that he was a friend of her late father's,
who had sought her out in the hope that she might help him to find some
light employment in his old age, and that not knowing the country at
all, he had lost his way across the hills during the blinding fury of
the storm. This story quickly ran through the little village, of which
Mary's house was the last, at the summit of the "coombe," and many of
its inhabitants came to inquire after "Mr. David," while he lay tossing
and moaning between life and death, most of them seriously commiserating
Mary herself for the "sight o' trouble" she had been put to,--"all for a
trampin' stranger like!"
"Though,"--observed one rustic sage--"Bein' a lone woman as y' are, Mis'
Deane, m'appen if he knew yer father 'twould be pleasant to talk to him
when 'is 'ed comes clear, if clear it iver do come. For when we've put
our owd folk under the daisies, it do cheer the 'art a bit to talk of
'em to those as knew 'em when they was a standin' upright, bold an'
strong, for all they lays so low till last trumpet."
Mary smiled a grave assent, and with wise tact and careful forethought
for the comfort and well-being of her unknown guest, quietly accepted
the position she had brought upon herself as having given shelter and
lodging to her "father's friend," thus smoothing all difficulties away
for him, whether he recovered from his illness or not. Had he died, she
would have borne the expenses of his burial without a word of other
explanation than that which she had offered by way of appeasing the
always greedy curiosity of any community of human beings who are
gathered in one small town or village,--and if he recovered, she was
prepared to treat him in very truth as her "father's friend."
"For,"--she argued with herself, quite simply--"I am sure father would
have been kind to him, and when once _he_ was kind, it was impossible
not to be his friend."
And, little by little, Helmsley struggled back to life,--life that was
very weak and frail indeed, but still, life that contained the whole
essence and elixir of being,--a new and growing interest. Little by
little his brain cleared and recovered its poise,--once more he found
himself thinking of things that had been done, and of things that were
yet worth doing. Watching Mary Deane as she went softly to and fro in
constant attendance on his needs, he was divided in his mind between
admiration, gratitude, and--a lurking suspicion, of which he was
ashamed. As a business man, he had been taught to look for interested
motives lying at the back of every action, bad or good,--and as his
health improved, and calm reason again asserted its sway, he found it
difficult and well-nigh impossible to realise or to believe that this
woman, to whom he was a perfect stranger, no more than a vagrant on the
road, could have given him so much of her time, attention, and care,
unless she had dimly supposed him to be something other than he had
represented himself. Unable yet to leave his bed, he lay, to all
appearances, quietly contented, acknowledging her gentle ministrations
with equally gentle words of thanks, while all the time he was mentally
tormenting himself with doubts and fears. He knew that during his
illness he had been delirious,--surely in that delirium he might have
raved and talked of many things that would have yielded the entire
secret of his identity. This thought made him restless,--and one
afternoon when Mary came in with the deliciously prepared cup of tea
which she always gave him about four o'clock, he turned his eyes upon
her with a sudden keen look which rather startled her by its piercing
brightness suggesting, as it did, some return of fever.
"Tell me,"--he said--"Have I been ill long? More than a week?"
She smiled.
"A little more than a week,"--she answered, gently--"Don't worry!"
"I'm not worrying. Please tell me what day it is!"
"What day it is? Well, to-day is Sunday."
"Sunday! Yes--but what is the date of the month?"
She laughed softly, patting his hand.
"Oh, never mind! What does it matter?"
"It does matter,"--he protested, with a touch of petulance--"I know it
is July, but what time of July?"
She laughed again.
"It's not July," she said.
"Not July!"
"No. Nor August!"
He raised himself on his pillow and stared at her in questioning
amazement.
"Not July? Not August? Then----?"
She took his hand between her own kind warm palms, stroking it
soothingly up and down.
"It's not July, and it's not August!" she repeated, nodding at him as
though he were a worried and fractious child--"It's the second week in
September. There!"
His eyes turned from right to left in utter bewilderment. "But how----"
he murmured----
Then he suddenly caught her hands in the one she was holding.
"You mean to say that I have been ill all those weeks--a burden upon
you?"
"You've been ill all those weeks--yes!" she answered "But you haven't
been a burden. Don't you think it! You've--you've been a pleasure!" And
her blue eyes filled with soft tears, which she quickly mastered and
sent back to the tender source from which they sprang; "You have,
really!"
He let go her hand and sank back on his pillows with a smothered groan.
"A pleasure!" he muttered--"I!" And his fuzzy eyebrows met in almost a
frown as he again looked at her with one of the keen glances which those
who knew him in business had learned to dread. "Mary Deane, do not tell
me what is not and what cannot be true! A sick man--an old man--can be
no 'pleasure' to anyone;--he is nothing but a bore and a trouble, and
the sooner he dies the better!"
The smiling softness still lingered in her eyes.
"Ah well!"--she said--"You talk like that because you're not strong yet,
and you just feel a bit cross and worried! You'll be better in another
few days----"
"Another few days!" he interrupted her--"No--no--that cannot be--I must
be up and tramping it again--I must not stay on here--I have already
stayed too long."
A slight shadow crossed her face, but she was silent. He watched her
narrowly.
"I've been off my head, haven't I?" he queried, affecting a certain
brusqueness in his tone--"Talking a lot of nonsense, I suppose?"
"Yes--sometimes,"--she replied--"But only when you were _very_ bad."
"And what did I say?"
She hesitated a moment, and he grew impatient.
"Come, come!" he demanded, irritably--"What did I say?"
She looked at him candidly.
"You talked mostly about 'Tom o' the Gleam,'"--she answered--"That was a
poor gypsy well known in these parts. He had just one little child left
to him in the world--its mother was dead. Some rich lord driving a motor
car down by Cleeve ran over the poor baby and killed it--and Tom----"
"Tom tracked the car to Blue Anchor, where he found the man who had run
over his child and killed _him_!" said Helmsley, with grim
satisfaction--"I saw it done!"
Mary shuddered.
"I saw it done!" repeated Helmsley--"And I think it was rightly done!
But--I saw Tom himself die of grief and madness--with his dead child in
his arms--and _that!_--that broke something in my heart and brain and
made me think God was cruel!"
She bent over him, and arranged his pillows more comfortably.
"I knew Tom,"--she said, presently, in a soft voice--"He was a wild
creature, but very kind and good for all that. Some folks said he had
been born a gentleman, and that a quarrel with his family had made him
take to the gypsy life--but that's only a story. Anyway his little
child--'kiddie'--as it used to be called, was the dearest little fellow
in the world--so playful and affectionate!--I don't wonder Tom went mad
when his one joy was killed! And you saw it all, you say?"
"Yes, I saw it all!" And Helmsley, with a faint sigh half closed his
eyes as he spoke--"I was tramping from Watchett,--and the motor passed
me on my way, but I did not see the child run over. I meant to get a
lodging at Blue Anchor--and while I was having my supper at the public
house Tom came in,--and--and it was all over in less than fifteen
minutes! A horrible sight--a horrible, horrible sight! I see it now!--I
shall never forget it!"
"Enough to make you ill, poor dear!" said Mary, gently--"Don't think of
it now! Try and sleep a little. You mustn't talk too much. Poor Tom is
dead and buried now, and his little child with him--God rest them both!
It's better he should have died than lived without anyone to love him in
the world."
"That's true!" And opening his eyes widely again, he gazed full at
her--"That's the worst fate of all--to live in the world without anyone
to love you! Tell me--when I was delirious did I only talk of Tom o' the
Gleam?"
"That's the only person whose name you seemed to have on your
mind,"--she answered, smiling a little--"But you _did_ make a great
noise about money!"
"Money?" he echoed--"I--I made a noise about money?"
"Yes!" And her smile deepened--"Often at night you quite startled me by
shouting 'Money! Money!' I'm sure you've wanted it very badly!"
He moved restlessly and avoided her gaze. Presently he asked
querulously:
"Where is my old vest with all my papers?"
"It's just where I put it the night you came,"--she answered--"I haven't
touched it. Don't you remember you told me to keep the key of the
cupboard which is right here close to your bed? I've got it quite safe."
He turned his head round on the pillow and looked at her with a sudden
smile.
"Thank you! You are very kind to me, Mary! But you must let me work off
all I owe you as soon as I'm well."
She put one finger meditatively on her lips and surveyed him with a
whimsically indulgent air.
"Let you work it off? Well, I don't mind that at all! But a minute ago
you were saying you must get up and go on the tramp again. Now, if you
want to work for me, you must stay----"
"I will stay till I have paid you my debt somehow!" he said--"I'm
old--but I can do a few useful things yet."
"I'm sure you can!" And she nodded cheerfully--"And you shall! Now rest
a while, and don't fret!"
She went away from him then to fetch the little dog, Charlie, who, now
that his master was on the fair road to complete recovery, was always
brought in to amuse him after tea. Charlie was full of exuberant life,
and his gambols over the bed where Helmsley lay, his comic interest in
the feathery end of his own tail, and his general intense delight in the
fact of his own existence, made him a merry and affectionate little
playmate. He had taken immensely to his new home, and had attached
himself to Mary Deane with singular devotion, trotting after her
everywhere as close to her heels as possible. The fame of his beauty had
gone through the village, and many a small boy and girl came timidly to
the cottage door to try and "have a peep" at the smallest dog ever seen
in the neighbourhood, and certainly the prettiest.
"That little dawg be wurth twenty pun!"--said one of the rustics to
Mary, on one occasion when she was sitting in her little garden,
carefully brushing and combing the silky coat of the little
"toy"--"Th'owd man thee's been a' nussin' ought to give 'im to thee as a
thank-offerin'."
"I wouldn't take him,"--Mary answered--"He's perhaps the only friend the
poor old fellow has got in the world. It would be just selfish of me to
want him."
And so the time went on till it was past mid-September, and there came a
day, mild, warm, and full of the soft subdued light of deepening autumn,
when Mary told her patient that he might get up, and sit in an armchair
for a few hours in the kitchen. She gave him this news when she brought
him his breakfast, and added--
"I'll wrap you up in father's dressing gown, and you'll be quite cosy
and safe from chill. And after another week you'll be so strong that
you'll be able to dress yourself and do without me altogether!"
This phrase struck curiously on his ears. "Do without her altogether!"
That would be strange indeed--almost impossible! It was quite early in
the morning when she thus spoke--about seven o'clock,--and he was not to
get up till noon, "when the air was at its warmest," said Mary--so he
lay very quietly, thinking over every detail of the position in which he
found himself. He was now perfectly aware that it was a position which
opened up great possibilities. His dream,--the vague indefinable
longing which possessed him for love--pure, disinterested, unselfish
love,--seemed on the verge of coming true. Yet he would not allow
himself to hope too much,--he preferred to look on the darker side of
probable disillusion. Meanwhile, he was conscious of a sweetness and
comfort in his life such as he had never yet experienced. His thoughts
dwelt with secret pleasure on the open frankness and calm beauty of the
face that had bent over him with the watchfulness of a guardian angel
through so many days and nights of pain, delirium, and dread of
death,--and he noted with critically observant eyes the noiseless
graceful movement of this humbly-born woman, whose instincts were so
delicate and tender, whose voice was so gentle, and whose whole bearing
expressed such unaffected dignity and purity of mind. On this particular
morning she was busy ironing;--and she had left the door open between
his bedroom and the kitchen, so that he might benefit by the inflow of
fresh air from the garden, the cottage door itself being likewise thrown
back to allow a full entrance of the invigorating influences of the
light breeze from the sea and the odours of the flowers. From his bed he
could see her slim back bent over the fine muslin frills she was
pressing out with such patient precision, and he caught the glint of the
sun on the rich twist of her bronze brown hair. Presently he heard some
one talking to her,--a woman evidently, whose voice was pitched in a
plaintive and almost querulous key.
"Well, Mis' Deane, say 'ow ye will an' what ye will,--there's a spider
this very blessed instant a' crawlin' on the bottom of the ironin'
blanket, which is a sure sign as 'ow yer washin' won't come to no good
try iver so 'ard, for as we all knows--'See a spider at morn, An' ye'll
wish ye wornt born: See a spider at night, An' yer wrongs'll come
right!'"
Mary laughed; and Helmsley listened with a smile on his own lips. She
had such a pretty laugh,--so low and soft and musical.
"Oh, never mind the poor spider, Mrs. Twitt!"--she said--"Let it climb
up the ironing blanket if it likes! I see dozens of spiders 'at morn,'
and I've never in my life wished I wasn't born! Why, if you go out in
the garden early, you're bound to see spiders!"
"That's true--that's Testymen true!" And the individual addressed as
Mrs. Twitt, heaved a profound sigh which was loud enough to flutter
through the open door to Helmsley's ears--"Which, as I sez to Twitt
often, shows as 'ow we shouldn't iver tempt Providence. Spiders there
is, an' spiders there will be 'angin' on boughs an' 'edges, frequent too
in September, but we aint called upon to look at 'em, only when the
devil puts 'em out speshul to catch the hi, an' then they means
mischief. An' that' just what 'as 'appened this present minit, Mis'
Deane,--that spider on yer ironin' blanket 'as caught my hi."
"I'm so sorry!" said Mary, sweetly--"But as long as the spider doesn't
bring _you_ any ill-luck, Mrs. Twitt, I don't mind for myself--I don't,
really!"
Mrs. Twitt emitted an odd sound, much like the grunt of a small and
discontented pig.
"It's a reckless foot as don't mind precipeges,"--she remarked,
solemnly--"'Owsomever, I've given ye fair warnin'. An' 'ow's yer
father's friend?"
"He's much better,--quite out of danger now,"--replied Mary--"He's going
to get up to-day."
"David's 'is name, so I 'ears,"--continued Mrs. Twitt; "I've never
myself knowed anyone called David, but it's a common name in some parts,
speshul in Scripter. Is 'e older than yer father would 'a bin if so be
the Lord 'ad carried 'im upright to this present?"
"He seems a little older than father was when he died,"--answered Mary,
in slow, thoughtful accents--"But perhaps it is only trouble and illness
that makes him look so. He's very gentle and kind. Indeed,"--here she
paused for a second--then went on--"I don't know whether it's because
I've been nursing him so long and have got accustomed to watch him and
take care of him--but I've really grown quite fond of him!"
Mrs. Twitt gave a short laugh.
"That's nat'ral, seein' as ye're lone in life without 'usband or
childer,"--she said--"There's a many wimmin as 'ud grow fond of an Aunt
Sally on a pea-stick if they'd nothin' else to set their 'arts on. An'
as the old chap was yer father's friend, there's bin a bit o' feelin'
like in lookin' arter 'im. But I wouldn't take 'im on my back as a
burgin, Mis' Deane, if I were you. Ye're far better off by yerself with
the washin' an' lace-mendin' business."
Mary was silent.
"It's all very well,"--proceeded Mrs. Twitt--"for 'im to say 'e knew yer
father, but arter all _that_ mayn't be true. The Lord knows whether 'e
aint a 'scaped convick, or a man as is grown 'oary-'edded with 'is own
wickedness. An' though 'e's feeble now an' wants all ye can give 'im,
the day may come when, bein' strong again, 'e'll take a knife an' slit
yer throat. Bein' a tramp like, it 'ud come easy to 'im an' not to be
blamed, if we may go by what they sez in the 'a'penny noospapers. I mind
me well on the night o' the storm, the very night ye went out on the
'ills an' found 'im, I was settin' at my door down shorewards watchin'
the waves an' hearin' the wind cryin' like a babe for its mother, an' if
ye'll believe me, there was a sea-gull as came and flopped down on a
stone just in front o' me!--a thing no sea-gull ever did to me all the
time I've lived 'ere, which is thirty years since I married Twitt. There
it sat, drenched wi' the rain, an' Twitt came out in that slow, silly
way 'e 'as, an' 'e sez--'Poor bird! 'Ungry, are ye? an' throws it a
reg'lar full meal, which, if you believe me, it ate all up as cool as a
cowcumber. An' then----"
"And then?" queried Mary, with a mirthful quiver in her voice.
"Then,--oh, well, then it flew away,"--and Mrs. Twitt seemed rather
sorry for this commonplace end to what she imagined was a thrilling
incident--"But the way that bird looked at me was somethin' awful! An'
when I 'eerd as 'ow you'd found a friend o' yer father's a' trampin' an'
wanderin' an' 'ad took 'im in to board an' lodge on trust, I sez to
Twitt--'There you've got the meanin' o' that sea-gull! A stranger in the
village bringin' no good to the 'and as feeds'im!'"
Mary's laughter rang out now like a little peal of bells.
"Dear Mrs. Twitt!" she said--"I know how good and kind you are--but you
mustn't have any of your presentiments about me! I'm sure the poor
sea-gull meant no harm! And I'm sure that poor old David won't ever hurt
me----" Here she suddenly gave an exclamation--"Why, I forgot! The door
of his room has been open all this time! He must have heard us talking!"
She made a hurried movement, and Helmsley diplomatically closed his
eyes. She entered, and came softly up to his bedside, and he felt that
she stood there looking at him intently. He could hardly forbear a
smile;--but he managed to keep up a very creditable appearance of being
fast asleep, and she stole away again, drawing the door to behind her.
Thus, for the time being, he heard no more,--but he had gathered quite
enough to know exactly how matters stood with regard to his presence in
her little home.
"She has given out that I am an old friend of her father's!" he
mused--"And she has done that in order to silence both inquiry and
advice as to the propriety of her having taken me under her shelter and
protection. Kind heart! Gentle soul! And--what else did she say? That
she had 'really grown quite fond' of me! Can I--dare I--believe that?
No!--it is a mere feminine phrase--spoken out of compassionate impulse.
Fond of me! In my apparent condition of utter poverty,--old, ill and
useless, who could or would be 'fond' of me!"
Yet he dwelt on the words with a kind of hope that nerved and
invigorated him, and when at noon Mary came and assisted him to get up
out of bed, he showed greater evidence of strength than she had imagined
would be possible. True, his limbs ached sorely, and he was very feeble,
for even with the aid of a stick and the careful support of her strong
arm, his movements were tottering and uncertain, and the few steps
between his bedroom and the kitchen seemed nearly a mile of exhausting
distance. But the effort to walk did him good, and when he sank into the
armchair which had been placed ready for him near the fire, he looked up
with a smile and patted the gentle hand that had guided him along so
surely and firmly.
"I'm an old bag of bones!" he said--"Not much good to myself or to any
one else! You'd better bundle me out on the doorstep!"
For an answer she brought him a little cup of nourishing broth tastily
prepared and bade him drink it--"every drop, mind!"--she told him with a
little commanding nod. He obeyed her,--and when he gave her back the cup
empty he said, with a keen glance:
"So I am your father's friend, am I, Mary?"
The blood rushed to her cheeks in a crimson tide,--she looked at him
appealingly, and her lips trembled a little.
"You were so very ill!" she murmured--"I was afraid you might die,--and
I had to send for the only doctor we have in the village--Mr.
Bunce,--the boys call him Mr. Dunce, but that's their mischief, for
he's really quite clever,--and I was bound to tell him something by way
of introducing you and making him take care of you--even--even if what I
said wasn't quite true! And--and--I made it out to myself this way--that
if father had lived he would have done just all he could for you, and
then you _would_ have been his friend--you couldn't have helped
yourself!"
He kept his eyes upon her as she spoke. He liked to see the soft
flitting of the colour to-and-fro in her face,--- her skin was so clear
and transparent,--a physical reflection, he thought, of the clear
transparency of her mind.
"And who was your father, Mary?" he asked, gently.
"He was a gardener and florist,"--she answered, and taking from the
mantelshelf the photograph of the old man smiling serenely amid a
collection of dwarf and standard roses, she showed it to him--"Here he
is, just as he was taken after an exhibition where he won a prize. He
was so proud when he heard that the first prize for a dwarf red rose had
been awarded to James Deane of Barnstaple. My dear old dad! He was a
good, good man--he was indeed! He loved the flowers--he used to say that
they thought and dreamed and hoped, just as we do--and that they had
their wishes and loves and ambitions just as we have. He had a very good
business once in Barnstaple, and every one respected him, but somehow he
could not keep up with the demands for new things--'social sensations in
the way of flowers,' he used to call them, and he failed at last,
through no fault of his own. We sold all we had to pay the creditors,
and then we came away from Barnstaple into Somerset, and took this
cottage. Father did a little business in the village, and for some of
the big houses round about,--not much, of course--but I was always handy
with my needle, and by degrees I got a number of customers for
lace-mending and getting up ladies' fine lawn and muslin gowns. So
between us we made quite enough to live on--till he died." Her voice
sank--and she paused--then she added--"I've lived alone here ever
since."
He listened attentively.
"And that is all your history, Mary? What of your mother?" he asked.
Mary's eyes softened and grew wistful.
"Mother died when I was ten,"--she said--"But though I was so little, I
remember her well. She was pretty--oh, so very pretty! Her hair was
quite gold like the sun,--and her eyes were blue--like the sea. Dad
worshipped her, and he never would say that she was dead. He liked to
think that she was always with him,--and I daresay she was. Indeed, I am
sure she was, if true love can keep souls together."
He was silent.
"Are you tired, David?" she asked, with sudden anxiety,--"I'm afraid I'm
talking too much!"
He raised a hand in protest.
"No--no! I--I love to hear you talk, Mary! You have been so good to
me--so more than kind--that I'd like to know all about you. But I've no
right to ask you any questions--you see I'm only an old, poor man, and
I'm afraid I shall never be able to do much in the way of paying you
back for all you've done for me. I used to be clever at office
work--reading and writing and casting up accounts, but my sight is
failing and my hands tremble,--so I'm no good in that line. But whatever
I _can_ do for you, as soon as I'm able, I will!--you may depend upon
that!"
She leaned towards him, smiling.
"I'll teach you basket-making,"--she said--"Shall I?"
His eyes lit up with a humorous sparkle.
"If I could learn it, should I be useful to you?" he asked.
"Why, of course you would! Ever so useful! Useful to me and useful to
yourself at the same time!" And she clapped her hands with pleasure at
having thought of something easy upon which he could try his energies;
"Basket-making pays well here,--the farmers want baskets for their
fruit, and the fishermen want baskets for their fish,--and its really
quite easy work. As soon as you're a bit stronger, you shall begin--and
you'll be able to earn quite a nice little penny!"
He looked stedfastly into her radiant face.
"I'd like to earn enough to pay you back all the expense you've been put
to with me,"--he said, and his voice trembled--"But your patience and
goodness--that--I can never hope to pay for--that's heavenly!--that's
beyond all money's worth----"
He broke off and put his hand over his eyes. Mary feigned not to notice
his profound emotion, and, taking up a paper parcel on the table, opened
it, and unrolled a long piece of wonderful old lace, yellow with age,
and fine as a cobweb.
"Do you mind my going on with my work?" she asked, cheerily--"I'm
mending this for a Queen!" And as he took away his hand from his eyes,
which were suspiciously moist, and looked at her wonderingly, she nodded
at him in the most emphatic way. "Yes, truly, David!--for a Queen! Oh,
it's not a Queen who is my direct employer--no Queen ever knows anything
about me! It's a great firm in London that sends this to me to mend for
a Queen--they trust me with it, because they know me. I've had lace
worth thousands of pounds in my hands,--this piece is valued at eight
hundred, apart from its history--it belonged to Marie Louise, second
wife of Napoleon the First. It's a lovely bit!--but there are some cruel
holes in it. Ah, dear me!" And, sitting down near the door, she bent her
head closely over the costly fabric--"Queens don't think of the eyes
that have gone out in blindness doing this beautiful work!--or the hands
that have tired and the hearts that have broken over it! They would
never run pins into it if they did!"
He watched her sitting as she now was in the sunlight that flooded the
doorway, and tried to overcome the emotional weakness that moved him to
stretch out his arms to her as though she were his daughter, to call her
to his side, and lay his hands on her head in blessing, and to beg her
to let him stay with her now and always until the end of his days,--an
end which he instinctively felt could not be very long in coming. But he
realised enough of her character to know that were he to give himself
away, and declare his real identity and position in the world of men,
she would probably not allow him to remain in her cottage for another
twenty-four hours. She would look at him with her candid eyes, and
express her honest regret that he had deceived her, but he was certain
that she would not accept a penny of payment at his hands for anything
she had done for him,--her simple familiar manner and way of speech
would change--and he should lose her--lose her altogether. And he was
nervously afraid just now to think of what her loss might mean to him.
He mastered his thoughts by an effort, and presently, forcing a smile,
said:
"You were ironing lace this morning, instead of mending it, weren't you,
Mary?"
She looked up quickly.
"No, I wasn't ironing lace--lace must never be ironed, David! It must
all be pulled out carefully with the fingers, and the pattern must be
pricked out on a frame or a cushion, with fine steel pins, just as if it
were in the making. I was ironing a beautiful muslin gown for a lady who
buys all her washing dresses in Paris. She couldn't get any one in
England to wash them properly till she found me. She used to send them
all away to a woman in Brittany before. The French are wonderful
washers,--we're not a patch on them over here. So you saw me ironing?"
"I could just catch a glimpse of you at work through the door," he
answered--"and I heard you talking as well----"
"To Mrs. Twitt? Ah, I thought you did!" And she laughed. "Well, I wish
you could have seen her, as well as heard her! She is the quaintest old
soul! She's the wife of a stonemason who lives at the bottom of the
village, near the shore. Almost everything that happens in the day or
the night is a sign of good or bad luck with her. I expect it's because
her husband makes so many tombstones that she gets morbid,--but, oh
dear!--if God managed the world according to Mrs. Twitt's notions, what
a funny world it would be!"
She laughed again,--then shook her finger archly at him.
"You _pretended_ to be asleep, then, when I came in to see if you heard
us talking?"
He nodded a smiling assent.
"That was very wrong of you! You should never pretend to be what you are
not!" He started nervously at this, and to cover his confusion called to
the little dog, Charlie, who at once jumped up on his knees;--"You
shouldn't, really! Should he, Charlie?" Charlie sat upright, and lolled
a small red tongue out between two rows of tiny white teeth, by way of a
laugh at the suggestion--"People--even dogs--are always found out when
they do that!"
"What are those bright flowers out in your garden just beyond the door
where you are sitting?" Helmsley asked, to change the conversation.
"Phloxes,"--she answered--"I've got all kinds and colours--crimson,
white, mauve, pink, and magenta. Those which you can see from where you
sit are the crimson ones--father's favourites. I wish you could get out
and look at the Virginian creeper--it's lovely just now--quite a blaze
of scarlet all over the cottage. And the Michaelmas daisies are coming
on finely."
"Michaelmas!" he echoed--"How late in the year it is growing!"
"Ay, that's true!" she replied--"Michaelmas means that summer's past."
"And it was full summer when I started on my tramp to Cornwall!" he
murmured.
"Never mind thinking about that just now," she said quickly--"You
mustn't worry your head. Mr. Bunce says you mustn't on any account worry
your head."
"Mr. Bunce!" he repeated wearily--"What does Mr. Bunce care?"
"Mr. Bunce _does_ care," averred Mary, warmly--"Mr. Bunce is a very good
little man, and he says you are a very gentle patient to deal with. He's
done all he possibly could for you, and he knows you've got no money to
pay him, and that I'm a poor woman, too--but he's been in to see you
nearly every day--so you must really think well of Mr. Bunce."
"I do think well of him--I am most grateful to him," said David
humbly--"But all the same it's _you_, Mary! You even got me the
attention of Mr. Bunce!"
She smiled happily.
"You're feeling better, David!" she declared--"There's a nice bright
sparkle in your eyes! I should think you were quite a cheerful old boy
when you're well!"
This suggestion amused him, and he laughed.
"I have tried to be cheerful in my time,"--he said--"though I've not had
much to be cheerful about."
"Oh, that doesn't matter!" she replied!--"Dad used to say that whatever
little we had to be thankful for, we ought to make the most of it. It's
easy to be glad when everything is gladness,--but when you've only got
just a tiny bit of joy in a whole wilderness of trouble, then we can't
be too grateful for that tiny bit of joy. At least, so I take it."
"Where did you learn your philosophy, Mary?" he asked, half
whimsically--"I mean, who taught you to think?"
She paused in her lace-mending, needle in hand.
"Who taught me to think! Well, I don't know!--it come natural to me.
But I'm not what is called 'educated' at all."
"Are you not?"
"No. I never learnt very much at school. I got the lessons into my head
as long as I had to patter them off by heart like a parrot,--but the
teachers were all so dull and prosy, and never took any real pains to
explain things to me,--indeed, now when I come to think of it, I don't
believe they _could_ explain!--they needed teaching themselves. Anyhow,
as soon as I came away I forgot everything but reading and writing and
sums--and began to learn all over again with Dad. Dad made me read to
him every night--all sorts of books."
"Had you a Free Library at Barnstaple?"
"I don't know--I never asked,"--she said--"Father hated 'lent' books. He
had a savings-box--he used to call it his 'book-box'--and he would
always drop in every spare penny he had for books till he'd got a few
shillings, and then he would buy what he called 'classics.' They're all
so cheap, you see. And by degrees we got Shakespeare and Carlyle, and
Emerson and Scott and Dickens, and nearly all the poets; when you go
into the parlour you'll see quite a nice bookcase there, full of books.
It's much better to have them like that for one's own, than wait turns
at a Free Library. I've read all Shakespeare at least twenty times
over." The garden-gate suddenly clicked open and she turned her head.
"Here's Mr. Bunce come to see you."
Helmsley drew himself up a little in his chair as the village doctor
entered, and after exchanging a brief "Good-morning!" with Mary,
approached him. The situation was curious;--here was he,--a
multi-millionaire, who could have paid the greatest specialists in the
world for their medical skill and attendance,--under the supervision and
scrutiny of this simple herbalist, who, standing opposite to him, bent a
pair of kindly brown eyes enquiringly upon his face.
"Up to-day, are we?" said Mr. Bunce--"That is well; that's very well!
Better in ourselves, too, are we? Better in ourselves?"
"I am much better,"--replied Helmsley--"Very much better!--thanks to you
and Miss Deane. You--you have both been very good to me."
"That's well--that's very well!" And Mr. Bunce appeared to ruminate,
while Helmsley studied his face and figure with greater appreciation
than he had yet been able to do. He had often seen this small dark man
in the pauses of his feverish delirium,--often he had tried to answer
his gentle questions,--often in the dim light of early morning or late
evening he had sought to discern his features, and yet could make
nothing clear as to their actual form, save that their expression was
kind. Now, as it seemed for the first time, he saw Mr. Bunce as he
was,--small and wiry, with a thin, clean-shaven face, deeply furrowed,
broad brows, and a pleasant look,--the eyes especially, deep sunk in the
head though they were, had a steady tenderness in them such as one sees
in the eyes of a brave St. Bernard dog who has saved many lives.
"We must,"--said Mr. Bunce, after a long pause--"be careful. We have got
out of bed, but we must not walk much. The heart is weak--we must avoid
any strain upon it. We must sit quiet."
Mary was listening attentively, and nodded her agreement to this
pronouncement.
"We must,"--proceeded Mr. Bunce, laboriously--"sit quiet. We may get up
every day now,--a little earlier each time, remaining up a little later
each time,--but we must sit quiet."
Again Mary nodded gravely. Helmsley looked quickly from one to the
other. A close observer might have seen the glimmer of a smile through
his fuzzy grey-white beard,--for his thoughts were very busy. He saw in
Bunce another subject whose disinterested honesty might be worth
dissecting.
"But, doctor----" he began.
Mr. Bunce raised a hand.
"I'm not 'doctor,' my man!" he said--"have no degree--no
qualification--no diploma--no anything whatever but just a little, a
very little common sense,--yes! And I am simply Bunce,"--and here a
smile spread out all the furrows in his face and lit up his eyes; "Or,
as the small boys call me, Dunce!"
"That's all very well, but you're a doctor to me," said Helmsley--"And
you've been as much as any other doctor could possibly be, I'm sure. But
you tell me I must sit quiet--I don't see how I can do that. I was on
the tramp till I broke down,--and I must go on the tramp again,--I
can't be a burden on--on----"
He broke off, unable to find words to express himself. But his inward
eagerness to test the character and attributes of the two human beings
who had for the present constituted themselves as his guardians, made
him tremble violently. And Mr. Bunce looked at him with the scrutinising
air of a connoisseur in the ailments of all and sundry.
"We are nervous,"--he pronounced--"We are highly nervous. And we are
therefore not sure of ourselves. We must be entirely sure of ourselves,
unless we again wish to lose ourselves. Now we presume that when 'on the
tramp' as we put it, we were looking for a friend. Is that not so?"
Helmsley nodded.
"We were trying to find the house of the late Mr. James Deane?"
Mary uttered a little sound that was half a sob and half a sigh.
Helmsley glanced at her with a reassuring smile, and then replied
steadily,--
"That was so!"
"Our friend, Mr. Deane, unfortunately died some five years
since,"--proceeded Mr. Bunce,--"And we found his daughter, or rather,
his daughter found us, instead. This we may put down to an act of
Providence. Now the only thing we can do under the present circumstances
is to remain with our late old friend's daughter, till we get well."
"But, doctor,"--exclaimed Helmsley, determined, if possible, to shake
something selfish, commercial and commonplace out of this odd little man
with the faithful canine eyes--"I can't be a burden on her! I've got no
money--I can't pay you for all your care! What you do for me, you do for
absolutely nothing--nothing--nothing! Don't you understand?"
His voice rang out with an almost rasping harshness, and Mr. Bunce
tapped his own forehead gently, but significantly.
"We worry ourselves,"--he observed, placidly--"We imagine what does not
exist. We think that Bunce is sending in his bill. We should wait till
the bill comes, should we not, Miss Deane?" He smiled, and Mary gave a
soft laugh of agreement--"And while we wait for Bunce's bill, we will
also wait for Miss Deane's. And, in the meantime, we must sit quiet."
There was a moment's silence. Helmsley felt a smarting moisture at the
back of his eyes. He longed to pour out all his history to these two
simple unworldly souls,--to tell them that he was rich,--rich beyond the
furthest dreams of their imagining,--rich enough to weigh down the
light-hearted contentment of their lives with a burden of gold,--and
yet--yet he knew that if he spoke thus and confessed himself, all the
sweetness of the friendship which was now so disinterested would be
embittered and lost. He thought, with a latent self-contempt and
remorse, of certain moods in which he had sometimes indulged,--moods in
which he had cynically presumed that he could buy everything in the
world for money. Kings, thrones, governments, might be had for money, he
knew, for he had often purchased their good-will--but Love was a jewel
he had never found in any market--unpurchasable as God! And while he yet
inwardly mused on his position, Bunce bent over him, and taking his thin
wrinkled hand, patted it gently.
"Good-bye for the present, David!" he said, kindly--"We are on the
mend--we are certainly on the mend! We hope the ways of nature will be
remedial--and that we shall pick up our strength before the winter
fairly sets in--yes, we hope--we certainly may hope for that----"
"Mr. Bunce," said Helmsley, with sudden energy--"God bless you!"