Part 38 (1/2)
This offended the old lady.
”You're never going to give the dog that good milk!” she cried.
”A little of it, please, ma'am!”
”--And feed him out of the tumbler too?”
”He's had nothing to-day, ma'am, and we're comrades!”
”But it's not clean of you!”
”Ah, you don't know dogs, ma'am! His tongue is clean as clean as anybody's.”
Abdiel took three or four little laps of the milk, drew away, and looked up at his master--as much as to say, ”You, now!”
”Besides,” Clare went on, ”he couldn't get at it so well in the bottom of the tumbler.”
With that he raised it to his own lips, drank eagerly, and set it on the road half empty, looking his thanks to the giver with a smile she thought heavenly. Then he broke the bread, and giving the dog nearly the half of it, began to eat the rest himself. The old lady stood looking on in silence, pondering what she was to do with the celestial beggar.
”Would you mind sleeping in the greenhouse, if I had a bed put up for you?” she said at length, in tone apologetic.
”This is a better place--though I wish it was warmer!” said Clare, with another smile as he looked up at the sky, in which a few stars were beginning to twinkle, and thought of the gardeners he had met. ”--Don't you think it better, ma'am?”
”No, indeed, I don't!” she answered crossly; for to her the open air at night seemed wrong, disreputable. There was something unholy in it!
”I would rather stay here,” said Clare.
”Why?”
”Because you don't quite believe me, ma'am. You can't; and you can't help it. You wouldn't be able to sleep for thinking that a boy just out of prison was lying in the greenhouse. There would be no saying what he might not do! I once read in a newspaper how an old lady took a lad into her house for a servant, and he murdered her!--No, ma'am, thank you! After such a supper we shall sleep beautifully!--Sha'n't we, Abby? And then, perhaps, you could give me a job in the garden to-morrow! I daresay the gardener wants a little help sometimes! But if he knew me to have slept in the greenhouse, he would hate me.”
The old lady said nothing, for, like most old ladies, she feared her gardener. She took the tumbler from the boy's hand, and went into the house. But in two minutes she came again, with another great piece of bread for Clare, and a bone with something on it which she threw to Abdiel. The dog's ears started up, erect and alive, like individual creatures, and his eyes gleamed; but he looked at his master, and would not touch the bone without his leave--which given, he fell upon it, and worried it as if it had been a rat.
Clare was now himself again, and when the old lady left them for the third time, he walked with her across the way, bread in hand, to open the gate for her. When she was inside, he took off his cap, and bade her good-night with a grace that won all that was left to be won of her heart.
Before she had taken three steps from the gate, the old lady turned.
”Boy!” she called; and Clare, who was making for his couch under the stars, hastened back at the sound of her voice.
”I shall not be able to sleep,” she said, ”for thinking of you out there in the bleak night!”
”I am used to it, ma'am!”
”Oh, I daresay! but you see I'm not! and I don't like the thought of it! You may like h.o.a.rfrost-sheets, for what I know, but I don't! You may like the stars for a tester--because you want to die and go to them, I suppose!--but I have no fancy for the stars! You are a foolish fellow, and I am out of temper with you. You don't give a thought to me--or to my feelings if you should die! I should never go to bed again with a good conscience!--Besides, I should have to nurse you!”
The last member of her expostulation was hardly in logical sequence, but it had not the less influence on Clare for that.
”I will do whatever you please, ma'am,” he answered humbly. ”--Come, Abdiel!”