Part 35 (2/2)
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.
<script>