Part 35 (1/2)
”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?”