She blushed in the friendly obscurity. “He’s come to see me home.”
“He mustn’t come in!”
“I’ll tell him.”
She set down the basket and went out into the blue night. It was no longer terrifying. Will with his ash stick seemed a match for all the powers of darkness. But she drew back from his kiss. Death was too near. In whispers she explained the situation, forgetting even to mention the gold. “I oughtn’t to leave him—he oughtn’t to die alone.”
“Nonsense, sweetheart. You can’t stay all night with a dirty old lunatic!”
“Don’t talk so unchristianly, Will. You don’t deserve——!” But she shut her lips. She could not go now into the happiness the “dirty old lunatic” was bringing them.
“Make him up a good fire and say you’ll be back first thing in the morning. I’ll come and take you. There!”
“Couldn’t—couldn’t you stay with him, Will?”
“Me? You said he wouldn’t have me! And I haven’t got enough baccy on me.”
She went back tentatively. She found Uncle Lilliwhyte lying on his back on his sacks with closed eyes, and there was blood on the bolster. The earth had been shovelled in again and the soil flattened tidily with the back of the spade. The superfluous precaution—automatic effect of lifelong habit—had evidently cost him dear.