CHAPTER II
Alexander quietly opened the bedroom door and tiptoed to the bedside.
"I'm awake," said Edward Webb, blinking rapidly.
"I thought you never would be. It's four o'clock."
"Four o'clock!"
"Ay. And I didn't want you to wake up yet a bit." He spoke quickly. "I think I'd better tell you. I've been reading those books of yours. They fell out of your pockets, and I simply couldn't help it, but I've had to do it in the barn for fear my father should see. I'm taking care of them. Will you let me keep them till I've read a bit more? Just an hour or two? Well, I'll let you have the Milton back—I've had him at school—if I can have the Keats. I'll have finished by the time you've had your tea."
Here was someone who knew what he wanted! "If you will give me my clothes I will certainly lend you Keats."
"I'm much obliged to you. And would you mind not mentioning it to my father?" He went to the door. "I'll tell my mother you're awake, and I should think she'll let you have your clothes. They've been dry this long while. Did you lose your hat?"
"Isn't it there?"
"No, there's everything but that."
"Dear me! Well, I'm fortunate to have lost nothing else."
Alexander drew nearer. "You said you saw figures in the mist up yonder. What like were they?"
"Did I say that? I was very nervous, very much dazed; you mustn't believe all I said. What else did I say?"
"You wanted milk, that's all. Oh, and you seemed to like the smell of bacon."
"Ah, I remember—yes, it was a pleasant, homely smell. And I am very grateful to you all. Will you kindly give my thanks to your parents, and ask if I may be allowed to have my clothes, and thank them myself? I was a stranger, and ye took me in."
"Mother wouldn't turn away a dog," said Alexander simply.
Clara Rutherford, entering the room with her swift, firm step, felt her visitor's pulse, laid her hand on his forehead, looked searchingly into his eyes, and said he might get up.
"The stairs are just in front of you," she told him, "and the kitchen's at their foot. You'll find us there when you're ready."
When he went downstairs, he saw that rain was slanting across the open doorway leading to the yard, where it fell with a splatter on the paving-stones. He caught a glimpse of a copse of larch-trees on the hillside and heard the crying of their blown branches. Against the door-post, with a cold pipe in his mouth, Rutherford was lounging, and his wife sat on the fender with the light of the fire brightening her hair. Edward Webb stood for an instant before they saw him, and made him welcome.
"Why, the stairs didn't creak!" said Clara. "That was what I was listening for. You can never miss that board when you want to. When I go late to bed and creep upstairs I always tread on it, and then I hear Alexander turning in his bed. He wakes if a mouse cheeps. Tea's ready."
She went to the door and whistled, and presently Alexander came through the rain.
"Where've you been?" his father demanded.
"In the barn." He looked at Edward Webb, who ate his bread-and-butter without so much as an upward glance.
"I can't think what you want to go there for, when we've chairs to sit on."
"Janet gave me a truss of hay, and it's softer than a bed."
"Janet would do better to keep her hay. She'll be short of fodder before the winter's out."
"That's what I told her."
"These eggs are excellent," said Edward Webb.
"You shall have a duck's egg for breakfast. My ducks——"
"But I must be getting back to-night."
"Indeed you mustn't. It's ten miles to the station, and it's raining, and you're not fit. We haven't a trap, either, but we could borrow a cart for you to-morrow."
"You're very kind, but—but I feel I ought to go. Imposing on you like this!"
"Not at all. We're glad to have you," said Rutherford. "And you can't get away if my wife means you to stop."
"I was beginning to suspect that," said Webb, with a half-rueful lift of the brows.
"And I do mean you to stop, so that's settled. Pass your father's cup, Alexander."
The rain came down faster and stronger, invading the kitchen, and the mists, as they swept past the window, hid the larch-trees, but still through the noise of the falling water their louder murmuring was heard. The dog came in, shook himself and, whining, lay down near the door. The room was darkened, but the fire glowed the more brightly, and Clara put candles on the table.
"Are you warm enough?" she asked of Edward. "Jim can't sit in a room with the door shut, but we can close the window."
"No, no, please don't. We mustn't shut out these sounds."
Across the candlelight Alexander sharply eyed the man who uttered his own thoughts. Books of poetry and a love of the wind—these were good things to have, but love of the wind was best, and a greater bond than a whole library. He liked this man, he decided, and he would be sorry when he went away.
When the meal was over, and Edward Webb was sitting again in the red-cushioned chair, while Clara washed the tea-things and her husband fetched more coal for the fire, Alexander approached, and gave him a furtive touch on the shoulder.
"Here's the book," he said, "and thank you."
"You've read it all?"
"Twice."
"What's your other name?"
"Rutherford, we're called."
Edward Webb took a pen from his waistcoat pocket and opened the book. "It is yours if you will have it," he said, and wrote the boy's name above his own. "I should like you to have it." He was deprecatingly courteous. "You have been very good to me, and I hope the book will be as good a friend to you."
"I cannot thank you," said Alexander hesitatingly, twisting the book. He was blushing deeply and biting his lips, but the rush of his next words would not be stayed. "But I'll never forget you," he cried. "A thing like this hasn't happened to me before," and with that he sank to the fender and sat there, keeping his watchful dark gaze on Edward Webb's face.
They fell into conversation after a time.
"Do you go to school?"
"Yes; over the hills to Browick. It's a good step. The Grammar School. There's nothing here but the Church School. I went there till I could walk to Browick, and glad I was to go."
"Oh? What was the matter?"
"Why," he cried, "he roared at us! He was that kind of man. He's there yet, but he's getting old."
"Perhaps he doesn't roar so loudly now."
"Oh yes, he does. I've heard him at it; but they tell me he's not quite so handy with the stick. It wasn't the stick I minded, though he had a strong arm. I'll tell you how it was. When he shouted at us, 'William the Conqueror, 1066,' or 'An island is a piece of land'—you know, anything—I felt it wasn't true, else why did he expect to be contradicted? It was a long time before I would believe my dates, but the island was simpler—I'd seen them."
"You had no confidence in him, in fact."
"That was it."
"Things are different now, I suppose. But it's a rough walk in winter-time, isn't it?"
"Yes."