The Treasure of Heaven Part 35

"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 was.h.i.+n' 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 sh.o.r.ewards 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 cowc.u.mber. 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 compa.s.sionate 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 a.s.sisted 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 nouris.h.i.+ng 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 wors.h.i.+pped 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 ident.i.ty 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.