Part 31 (2/2)
”Now, now! You mustn't hurt me!” she said, with a touch of reproach in her soft tones--”I don't want to be repaid in any way. You know WHO it was that said 'I was a stranger and ye took me in'? Well, He would wish me to take care of you.”
She spoke quite simply, without any affectation of religious sentiment.
Helmsley looked at her steadily.
”Is that why you shelter me?”
She smiled very sweetly, and he saw that her eyes were beautiful.
”That is one reason, certainly!”--she answered; ”But there is another,--quite a selfish one! I loved my father, and when he died, I lost everything I cared for in the world. You remind me of him--just a little. Now will you do as I ask you, and take off your wet things?”
He let go her hand gently.
”I will,”--he said, unsteadily--for there were tears in his eyes--”I will do anything you wish. Only tell me your name!”
”My name? My name is Mary,--Mary Deane.”
”Mary Deane!” he repeated softly--and yet again--”Mary Deane! A pretty name! Shall I tell you mine!”
”Not unless you like,”--she replied, quickly--”It doesn't matter!”
”Oh, you'd better know it!” he said--”I'm only old David--a man 'on the road' tramping it to Cornwall.”
”That's a long way!” she murmured compa.s.sionately, as she took his weather-beaten hat and shook the wet from it--”And why do you want to tramp so far, you poor old David?”
”I'm looking for a friend,”--he answered--”And maybe it's no use trying,--but I should like to find that friend before I die.”
”And so you will, I'm sure!” she declared, smiling at him, but with something of an anxious expression in her eyes, for Helmsley's face was very pinched and pallid, and every now and then he s.h.i.+vered violently as with an ague fit--”But you must pick up your strength first. Then you'll get on better and quicker. Now I'm going to leave you while you change. You'll find plenty of warm things with the dressing gown.”
She went out as before into the next room, and Helmsley managed, though with considerable difficulty, to divest himself of his drenched clothes and get on the comfortable woollen garments she had put ready for him.
When he took off his coat and vest, he spread them in front of the fire to dry instead of the dressing-gown which he now wore, and as soon as she returned he specially pointed out the vest to her.
”I should like you to put that away somewhere in your own safe keeping,”--he said. ”It has a few letters and--and papers in it which I value,--and I don't want any stranger to see them. Will you take care of it for me?”
”Of course I will! n.o.body shall touch it, be sure! Not a soul ever comes nigh me unless I ask for company!--so you can be quite easy in your mind. Now I'm going to give you a cup of hot soup, and then you'll go to bed, won't you?--and, please G.o.d, you'll be better in the morning!”
He nodded feebly, and forced a smile. He had sunk back in the armchair and his eyes were fixed on the warm-hearth, where the tiny dog, Charlie, whom he had rescued, and who in turn had rescued him, was curled up and snoozing peacefully. Now that the long physical and nervous strain of his journey and of his ghastly experience at Blue Anchor was past, he felt almost too weak to lift a hand, and the sudden change from the fierce buffetings of the storm to the homely tranquillity of this little cottage into which he had been welcomed just as though he had every right to be there, affected him with a strange sensation which he could not a.n.a.lyse. And once he murmured half unconsciously:
”Mary! Mary Deane!”
”Yes,--that's me!” she responded cheerfully, coming to his side at once--”I'm here!”
He lifted his head and looked at her.
”Yes, I know you are here,--Mary!” he said, his voice trembling a little as he uttered her name--”And I thank G.o.d for sending you to me in time!
But how--how was it that you found me?”
”I was watching the storm,”--she replied--”I love wild weather!--I love to hear the wind among the trees and the pouring of the rain! I was standing at my door listening to the waves thudding into the hollow of the coombe, and all at once I heard the sharp barking of a dog on the hill just above here--and sometimes the bark changed to a pitiful little howl, as if the animal were in pain. So I put on my cloak and crossed the coombe up the bank--it's only a few minutes' scramble, though to you it seemed ever such a long way to-night,--and there I saw you lying on the gra.s.s with the little doggie running round and round you, and making all the noise he could to bring help. Wise little beastie!” And she stooped to pat the tiny object of her praise, who sighed comfortably and stretched his dainty paws out a little more luxuriously--”If it hadn't been for him you might have died!”
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