Part 14 (2/2)
He took but little notice of her words. He knew that she was overwrought and broken-hearted, and that it was no time now to press his claim.
The twins began to rouse, and sat up, two rosy-cheeked youngsters with eyes still drowsy with sleep, but which opened widely enough at sight of the stranger.
”Is it teatime?” was their first demand, regardless of the fact that they had had their tea hours ago, and Forrester answered that supper was ready downstairs. Would they like to be carried?
They made a wild rush at him immediately, but Faith was too quick for him. She put her arms round both the children, and looked at him across their tousled heads with defensive eyes.
”They're all I've got in the world,” she said hoa.r.s.ely. ”You can't have them, too.”
The Beggar Man did not answer. He followed them down the stairs to the sitting-room, where the kindly neighbour had made more tea, more for something to do than for any other reason, but the twins consumed slice after slice of bread and jam uncomplainingly, and regarded the Beggar Man with eyes of smiling interest.
”Do you like chocolates?” he inquired when the meal was ended. ”Well, run along to a shop and buy some.” He gave them half a crown, and bundled them out of the room amid shrieks of delight, then he shut the door and went back to where Faith sat by the window, her listless eyes on the sunbaked street.
He stood beside her silently for a moment. Then he asked gently:
”How soon can you be ready to leave this house--to-morrow?”
She looked up.
”I don't know what you mean. I am never going to leave it. I shall stay here and work for the twins, as mother did.”
Her voice faltered a little as she spoke that beloved name, but no tears came, and Forrester said patiently:
”You cannot stay here. It's impossible. You must let me see to things for you. I promise you that everything shall be done exactly as you wish.” He waited, but she did not speak, and he said again with a touch of impatience in his voice:
”Faith, you are angry with me. What have I done?”
She temporized, with the feeling that as yet she could not bring herself to say all that she knew she meant to say sooner or later.
”You never wrote to me.” The words were apathetic. She had not cared whether he wrote to her or not.
He shrugged his shoulders.
”I had no chance, and what sense was there in writing? I have got here almost as soon as a letter would have done.” He walked a pace from her and came back. ”I'm a bad hand at writing, anyway,” he said, sombrely.
She was looking again into the street, and the weary outline of her face touched his heart.
”I thought of you all the time,” he said, impulsively. ”I cursed every minute that we were delayed.”
She asked another question.
”Have you been to your flat?”
”I came straight here, of course. I was anxious about you. I thought you might be wondering what had become of me.”
She drew a long sigh.
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