Part 32 (1/2)
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.