It was pleasant walking across the moor. The July sun was powerful, but
to ageing men the warmth and vital influences of the orb of day are
welcome, precious, and salutary. An English summer is seldom or never
too warm for those who are conscious that but few such summers are left
to them, and David Helmsley was moved by a devout sense of gratitude
that on this fair and tranquil morning he was yet able to enjoy the
lovely and loving beneficence of all beautiful and natural things. The
scent of the wild thyme growing in prolific patches at his feet,--the
more pungent odour of the tall daisies which were of a hardy,
free-flowering kind,--the "strong sea-daisies that feast on the
sun,"--and the indescribable salty perfume that swept upwards on the
faint wind from the unseen ocean, just now hidden by projecting shelves
of broken ground fringed with trees,--all combined together to refresh
the air and to make the mere act of breathing a delight. After about
twenty minutes' walking Helmsley's step grew easier and more
springy,--almost he felt young,--almost he pictured himself living for
another ten years in health and active mental power. The lassitude and
_ennui_ inseparable from a life spent for the most part in the business
centres of London, had rolled away like a noxious mist from his mind,
and he was well-nigh ready to "begin life again," as he told himself,
with a smile at his own folly.
"No wonder that the old-world philosophers and scientists sought for the
_elixir vitæ_!" he thought. "No wonder they felt that the usual tenure
is too short for all that a man might accomplish, did he live well and
wisely enough to do justice to all the powers with which nature has
endowed him. I am myself inclined to think that the 'Tree of Life'
exists,--perhaps its leaves are the 'leaves of the Daura,' for which
that excellent fellow Matt Peke is looking. Or it may be the 'Secta
Croa'!"
He smiled,--and having arrived at the end of the path which he had
followed from the door of the "Trusty Man," he saw before him a
descending bank, which sloped into the highroad, a wide track white
with thick dust stretching straight away for about a mile and then
dipping round a broad curve of land, overarched with trees. He sat down
for a few minutes on the warm grass, giving himself up to the idle
pleasure of watching the birds skimming through the clear blue sky,--the
bees bouncing in and out of the buttercups,--the varicoloured
butterflies floating like blown flower-petals on the breeze,--and he
heard a distant bell striking the half-hour after eleven. He had noted
the time when leaving the "Trusty Man," otherwise he would not have
known it so exactly, having left his watch locked up at home in his
private desk with other personal trinkets which would have been
superfluous and troublesome to him on his self-imposed journey. When the
echo of the bell's one stroke had died away it left a great stillness in
the air. The heat was increasing as the day veered towards noon, and he
decided that it would be as well to get on further down the road and
under the shadow of the trees, which were not so very far off, and which
looked invitingly cool in their spreading dark soft greenness. So,
rising from his brief rest, he started again "on the tramp," and soon
felt the full glare of the sun, and the hot sensation of the dust about
his feet; but he went on steadily, determining to make light of all the
inconveniences and difficulties, to which he was entirely unaccustomed,
but to which he had voluntarily exposed himself. For a considerable time
he met no living creature; the highroad seemed to be as much his own as
though it were part of a private park or landed estate belonging to him
only; and it was not till he had nearly accomplished the distance which
lay between him and the shelter of the trees, that he met a horse and
cart slowly jogging along towards the direction from whence he had come.
The man who drove the vehicle was half-asleep, stupefied, no doubt, by
the effect of the hot sun following on a possible "glass" at a
public-house, but Helmsley called to him just for company's sake.
"Hi! Am I going right for Watchett?"
The man opened his drowsing eyes and yawned expansively.
"Watchett? Ay! Williton comes fust."
"Is it far?"
"Nowt's far to your kind!" said the man, flicking his whip. "An' ye'll
meet a bobby or so on the road!"
On he went, and Helmsley without further parley resumed his tramp.
Presently, reaching the clump of trees he had seen in the distance, he
moved into their refreshing shade. They were broad-branched elms,
luxuriantly full of foliage, and the avenue they formed extended for
about a quarter of a mile. Cool dells and dingles of mossy green sloped
down on one side of the road, breaking into what are sometimes called
"coombs" running precipitously towards the sea-coast, and slackening his
pace a little he paused, looking through a tangle of shrubs and bracken
at the pale suggestion of a glimmer of blue which he realised was the
shining of the sunlit ocean. While he thus stood, he fancied he heard a
little plaintive whine as of an animal in pain. He listened attentively.
The sound was repeated, and, descending the shelving bank a few steps he
sought to discover the whereabouts of this piteous cry for help. All at
once he spied two bright sparkling eyes and a small silvery grey head
perking up at him through the leaves,--the head of a tiny Yorkshire
"toy" terrier. It looked at him with eloquent anxiety, and as he
approached it, it made an effort to move, but fell back again with a
faint moan. Gently he picked it up,--it was a rare and beautiful little
creature, but one of its silky forepaws had evidently been caught in
some trap, for it was badly mangled and bleeding. Round its neck was a
small golden collar, something like a lady's bracelet, bearing the
inscription: "I am Charlie. Take care of me!" There was no owner's name
or address, and the entreaty "Take care of me!" had certainly not been
complied with, or so valuable a pet would not have been left wounded on
the highroad. While Helmsley was examining it, it ceased whining, and
gently licked his hand. Seeing a trickling stream of water making its
way through the moss and ferns close by, he bathed the little dog's
wounded paw carefully and tied it up with a strip of material torn from
his own coat sleeve.
"So you want to be taken care of, do you, Charlie!" he said, patting the
tiny head. "That's what a good many of us want, when we feel hurt and
broken by the hard ways of the world!" Charlie blinked a dark eye,
cocked a small soft ear, and ventured on another caress of the kind
human hand with his warm little tongue. "Well, I won't leave you to
starve in the woods, or trust you to the tender mercies of the
police,--you shall come along with me! And if I see any advertisement
of your loss I'll perhaps take you back to your owner. But in the
meantime we'll stay together."
Charlie evidently agreed to this proposition, for when Helmsley tucked
him cosily under his arm, he settled down comfortably as though well
accustomed to the position. He was certainly nothing of a weight to
carry, and his new owner was conscious of a certain pleasure in feeling
the warm, silky little body nestling against his breast. He was not
quite alone any more,--this little creature was a companion,--a
something to talk to, to caress and to protect. He ascended the bank,
and regaining the highroad resumed his vagrant way. Noon was now at the
full, and the sun's heat seemed to create a silence that was both
oppressive and stifling. He walked slowly, and began to feel that
perhaps after all he had miscalculated his staying powers, and that the
burden of old age would, in the end, take vengeance upon him for running
risks of fatigue and exhaustion which, in his case, were wholly
unnecessary.
"Yet if I were really poor," he argued with himself, "if I were in very
truth a tramp, I should have to do exactly what I am doing now. If one
man can stand 'life on the road,' so can another."
And he would not allow his mind to dwell on the fact that a temperament
which has become accustomed to every kind of comfort and luxury is
seldom fitted to endure privation. On he jogged steadily, and by and by
began to be entertained by his own thoughts as pleasantly as a poet or
romancist is entertained by the fancies which come and go in the brain
with all the vividness of dramatic reality. Yet always he found himself
harking back to what he sometimes called the "incurability" of life.
Over and over again he asked himself the old eternal question: Why so
much Product to end in Waste? Why are thousands of millions of worlds,
swarming with life-organisms, created to revolve in space, if there is
no other fate for them but final destruction?
"There _must_ be an Afterwards!" he said. "Otherwise Creation would not
only be a senseless joke, but a wicked one! Nay, it would almost be a
crime. To cause creatures to be born into existence without their own
consent, merely to destroy them utterly in a few years and make the fact
of their having lived purposeless, would be worse than the dreams of
madmen. For what is the use of bringing human creatures into the world
to suffer pain, sickness, and sorrow, if mere life-torture is all we can
give them, and death is the only end?"
Here his meditations were broken in upon by the sound of a horse's hoofs
trotting briskly behind him, and pausing, he saw a neat little cart and
pony coming along, driven by a buxom-looking woman with a brown sun-hat
tied on in the old-fashioned manner under her chin.
"Would ye like a lift?" she asked. "It's mighty warm walkin'."
Helmsley raised his eyes to the sun-bonnet, and smiled at the cheerful
freckled face beneath its brim.
"You're very kind----" he began.
"Jump in!" said the woman. "I'm taking cream and cheeses into Watchett,
but it's a light load, an' Jim an' me can do with ye that far. This is
Jim."
She flicked the pony's ears with her whip by way of introducing the
animal, and Helmsley clambered up into the cart beside her.
"That's a nice little dog you've got," she remarked, as Charlie perked
his small black nose out from under his protector's arm to sniff the
subtle atmosphere of what was going to happen next. "He's a real
beauty!"
"Yes," replied Helmsley, without volunteering any information as to how
he had found the tiny creature, whom he now had no inclination to part
with. "He got his paw caught in a trap, so I'm obliged to carry him."
"Poor little soul! There's a-many traps all about 'ere, lots o' the land
bein' private property. Go on, Jim!" And she shook the reins on her
pony's neck, thereby causing that intelligent animal to start off at a
pleasantly regular pace. "I allus sez that if the rich ladies and
gentlemen as eats up every bit o' land in Great Britain could put traps
in the air to catch the noses of everything but themselves as dares to
breathe it, they'd do it, singin' glory all the time. For they goes to
church reg'lar."
"Ah, it's a wise thing to be seen _looking_ good in public!" said
Helmsley.
The woman laughed.
"That's right! You can do a lot o' humbuggin' if you're friends with the
parson, what more often than not humbugs everybody hisself. I'm no
church-goer, but I turn out the best cheese an' butter in these parts,
an' I never tells no lies nor cheats any one of a penny, so I aint
worryin' about my soul, seein' it's straight with my neighbours."
"Are there many rich people living about here?" inquired Helmsley.
"Not enough to do the place real good. The owners of the big houses are
here to-day and gone to-morrow, and they don't trouble much over their
tenantry. Still we rub on fairly well. None of us can ever put by for a
rainy day,--and some folk as is as hard-working as ever they can be, are
bound to come on the parish when they can't work no more--no doubt o'
that. You're a stranger to these parts?"
"Yes, I've tramped from Bristol."
The woman opened her eyes widely.
"That's a long way! You must be fairly strong for your age. Where are ye
wantin' to get to?"
"Cornwall."
"My word! You've got a goodish bit to go. All Devon lies before you."
"I know that. But I shall rest here and there, and perhaps get a lift or
two if I meet any more such kind-hearted folk as yourself."
She looked at him sharply.
"That's what we may call a bit o' soft soap," she said, "and I'd advise
ye to keep that kind o' thing to yourself, old man! It don't go down
with Meg Ross, I can tell ye!"
"Are you Meg Ross?" he asked, amused at her manner.
"That's me! I'm known all over the countryside for the sharpest tongue
as ever wagged in a woman's head. So you'd better look out!"
"I'm not afraid of you!" he said smiling.
"Well, you might be if you knew me!" and she whipped up her pony
smartly. "Howsomever, you're old enough to be past hurtin' or bein'
hurt."
"That's true!" he responded gently.
She was silent after this, and not till Watchett was reached did she
again begin conversation. Rattling quickly through the little
watering-place, which at this hour seemed altogether deserted or asleep,
she pulled up at an inn in the middle of the principal street.
"I've got an order to deliver here," she said. "What are _you_ going to
do with yourself?"
"Nothing in particular," he answered, with a smile. "I shall just take
my little dog to a chemist's and get its paw dressed, and then I shall
walk on."
"Don't you want any dinner?"
"Not yet. I had a good breakfast, I daresay I'll have a glass of milk
presently."
"Well, if you come back here in half an hour I can drive you on a little
further. How would you like that?"
"Very much! But I'm afraid of troubling you----"
"Oh, you won't do that!" said Meg with a defiant air. "No man, young or
old, has ever troubled _me_! I'm not married, thank the Lord!"
And jumping from the cart, she began to pull out sundry cans, jars, and
boxes, while Helmsley standing by with the small Charlie under his arm,
wished he could help her, but felt sure she would resent assistance even
if he offered it. Glancing at him, she gave him a kindly nod.
"Off you go with your little dog! You'll find me ready here in half an
hour."
With that she turned from him into the open doorway of the inn, and
Helmsley made his way slowly along the silent, sun-baked little street
till he found a small chemist's shop, where he took his lately found
canine companion to have its wounded paw examined and attended to. No
bones were broken, and the chemist, a lean, pale, kindly man, assured
him that in a few days the little animal would be quite well.
"It's a pretty creature," he said. "And valuable too."
"Yes. I found it on the highroad," said Helmsley; "and of course if I
see any advertisement out for it, I'll return it to its owner. But if no
one claims it I'll keep it."
"Perhaps it fell out of a motor-car," said the chemist. "It looks as if
it might have belonged to some fine lady who was too wrapped up in
herself to take proper care of it. There are many of that kind who come
this way touring through Somerset and Devon."
"I daresay you're right," and Helmsley gently stroked the tiny dog's
soft silky coat. "Rich women will pay any amount of money for such toy
creatures out of mere caprice, and will then lose them out of sheer
laziness, forgetting that they are living beings, with feelings and
sentiments of trust and affection greater sometimes than our own.
However, this little chap will be safe with me till he is rightfully
claimed, if ever that happens. I don't want to steal him; I only want to
take care of him."
"I should never part with him if I were you," said the chemist. "Those
who were careless enough to lose him deserve their loss."
Helmsley agreed, and left the shop. Finding a confectioner's near by, he
bought a few biscuits for his new pet, an attention which that small
animal highly appreciated. "Charlie" was hungry, and cracked and munched
the biscuits with exceeding relish, his absurd little nose becoming
quite moist with excitement and appetite. Returning presently to the inn
where he had left Meg Ross, Helmsley found that lady quite ready to
start.
"Oh, here you are, are you?" she said, smiling pleasantly, "Well, I'm
just on the move. Jump in!"
Helmsley hesitated a moment, standing beside the pony-cart.
"May I pay for my ride?" he said.
"Pay?" Meg stuck her stout arms akimbo, and glanced him all over. "Well,
I never! How much 'ave ye got?"
"Two or three shillings," he answered.
Meg laughed, showing a very sound row of even white teeth.
"All right! You can keep 'em!" she said. "Mebbe you want 'em. _I_ don't!
Now don't stand haverin' there,--get in the cart quick, or Jim'll be
runnin' away."
Jim showed no sign of this desperate intention, but, on the contrary,
stood very patiently waiting till his passengers were safely seated,
when he trotted off at a great pace, with such a clatter of hoofs and
rattle of wheels as rendered conversation impossible. But Helmsley was
very content to sit in silence, holding the little dog "Charlie" warmly
against his breast, and watching the beauties of the scenery expand
before him like a fairy panorama, ever broadening into fresh glimpses of
loveliness. It was a very quiet coastline which the windings of the road
now followed,--a fair and placid sea shining at wide intervals between a
lavish flow of equally fair and placid fields. The drive seemed all too
short, when at the corner of a lane embowered in trees, Meg Ross pulled
up short.
"The best of friends must part!" she said. "I'm right sorry I can't take
ye any further. But down 'ere's a farm where I put up for the afternoon
an' 'elps 'em through with their butter-makin', for there's a lot o'
skeery gals in the fam'ly as thinks more o' doin' their 'air than
churnin', an' doin' the 'air don't bring no money in, though mebbe it
might catch a 'usband as wasn't worth 'avin'. An' Jim gets his food 'ere
too. Howsomever, I'm real put about that I can't drive ye a bit towards
Cleeve Abbey, for that's rare an' fine at this time o' year,--but mebbe
ye're wantin' to push on quickly?"
"Yes, I must push on," rejoined Helmsley, as he got out of the cart;
then, standing in the road, he raised his cap to her. "And I'm very
grateful to you for helping me along so far, at the hottest time of the
day too. It's most kind of you!"
"Oh, I don't want any thanks!" said Meg, smiling. "I'm rather sweet on
old men, seein' old age aint their fault even if trampin' the road is.
You'd best keep on the straight line now, till you come to Blue Anchor.
That's a nice little village, and you'll find an inn there where you can
get a night's lodging cheap. I wouldn't advise you to stay much round
Cleeve after sundown, for there's a big camp of gypsies about there, an'
they're a rough lot, pertikly a man they calls Tom o' the Gleam."
Helmsley smiled.
"I know Tom o' the Gleam," he said. "He's a friend of mine."
Meg Ross opened her round, bright brown eyes.
"Is he? Dear life, if I'd known that, I mightn't 'ave been so ready to
give you a ride with me!" she said, and laughed. "Not that I'm afraid of
Tom, though he's a queer customer. I've given a good many glasses of new
milk to his 'kiddie,' as he calls that little lad of his, so I expect
I'm fairly in his favour."
"I've never seen his 'kiddie,'" said Helmsley. "What is the boy like?"
"A real fine little chap!" said Meg, with heartiness and feeling. "I'm
not a crank on children, seein' most o' them's muckers an' trouble from
mornin' to night, but if it 'ad pleased the Lord as I should wed, I
shouldn't 'a wished for a better specimen of a babe than Tom's kiddie.
Pity the mother died!"
"When the child was born?" queried Helmsley gently.
"No--oh no!"--and Meg's eyes grew thoughtful. "She got through her
trouble all right, but 'twas about a year or eighteen months arterwards
that she took to pinin' like, an' droopin' down just like the poppies
droops in the corn when the sun's too fierce upon 'em. She used to sit
by the roadside o' Sundays, with a little red handkerchief tied across
her shoulders, and all her dark 'air tumblin' about 'er face, an' she
used to look up with her great big black eyes an' smile at the finicky
fine church misses as come mincin' an' smirkin' along, an' say: 'Tell
your fortune, lady?' She was the prettiest creature I ever saw--not a
good lass--no!--nobody could say she was a good lass, for she went to
Tom without church or priest, but she loved him an' was faithful. An'
she just worshipped her baby." Here Meg paused a moment. "Tom was a real
danger to the country when she died," she presently went on. "He used to
run about the woods like a madman, calling her to come back to 'im, an'
threatenin' to murder any one who came nigh 'im;--then, by and by, he
took to the kiddie, an' he's steadier now."
There was something in the narration of this little history that touched
Helmsley too deeply for comment, and he was silent.
"Well!"--and Meg gave her pony's reins a shake--"I must be off! Sorry to
leave ye standin' in the middle o' the road like, but it can't be
helped. Mind you keep the little dog safe!--and take a woman's
advice--don't walk too far or too fast in one day. Good luck t' ye!"
Another shake of the reins, and "Jim" turned briskly down the lane. Once
Meg looked back and waved her hand,--then the green trees closed in upon
her disappearing vehicle, and Helmsley was again alone, save for
"Charlie," who, instinctively aware that some friend had left them,
licked his master's hand confidentially, as much as to say "I am still
with you." The air was cooler now, and Helmsley walked on with
comparative ease and pleasure. His thoughts were very busy. He was
drawing comparisons between the conduct of the poor and the rich to one
another, greatly to the disadvantage of the latter class.
"If a wealthy man has a carriage," he soliloquised, "how seldom will he
offer it or think of offering its use to any one of his acquaintances
who may be less fortunate! How rarely will he even say a kind word to
any man who is 'down'! Do I not know this myself! I remember well on one
occasion when I wished to send my carriage for the use of a poor fellow
who had once been employed in my office, but who had been compelled to
give up work, owing to illness, my secretary advised me not to show him
this mark of sympathy and attention. 'He will only take it as his
right,' I was assured,--'these sort of men are always ungrateful.' And I
listened to my secretary's advice--more fool I! For it should have been
nothing to me whether the man was ungrateful or not; the thing was to do
the good, and let the result be what it might. Now this poor Meg Ross
has no carriage, but such vehicle as she possesses she shares with one
whom she imagines to be in need. No other motive has moved her save
womanly pity for lonely age and infirmity. She has taught me a lesson by
simply offering a kindness without caring how it might be received or
rewarded. Is not that a lovely trait in human nature?--one which I have
never as yet discovered in what is called 'swagger society'! When I was
in the hey-dey of my career, and money was pouring in from all my
business 'deals' like water from a never-ending main, I had a young
Scotsman for a secretary, as close-fisted a fellow as ever was, who
managed to lose me the chance of doing a great many kind actions. More
than that, whenever I was likely to have any real friends whom I could
confidently trust, and who wanted nothing from me but affection and
sincerity, he succeeded in shaking off the hold they had upon me. Of
course I know now why he did this,--it was in order that he himself
might have his grip of me more securely, but at that time I was
unsuspicious, and believed the best of every one. Yes! I honestly
thought people were honest,--I trusted their good faith, with the result
that I found out the utter falsity of their pretensions. And here I
am,--old and nearing the end of my tether--more friendless than when I
first began to make my fortune, with the certain knowledge that not a
soul has ever cared or cares for me except for what can be got out of me
in the way of hard cash! I have met with more real kindness from the
rough fellows at the 'Trusty Man,' and from the 'Trusty Man's' hostess,
Miss Tranter, and now from this good woman Meg Ross, than has ever been
offered to me by those who know I am rich, and who have 'used' me
accordingly."
Here, coming to a place where two cross-roads met, he paused, looking
about him. The afternoon was declining, and the loveliness of the
landscape was intensified by a mellow softness in the sunshine, which
deepened the rich green of the trees and wakened an opaline iridescence
in the sea. A sign-post on one hand bore the direction "To Cleeve
Abbey," and the road thus indicated wound upward somewhat steeply,
disappearing amid luxuriant verdure which everywhere crowned the higher
summits of the hills. While he yet stood, looking at the exquisitely
shaded masses of foliage which, like festal garlands, adorned and
over-hung this ascent, the discordant "hoot" of a motor-horn sounded on
the stillness, and sheer down the winding way came at a tearing pace the
motor vehicle itself. It was a large, luxurious car, and pounded along
with tremendous speed, swerving at the bottom of the declivity with so
sharp a curve as to threaten an instant overturn, but, escaping this
imminent peril by almost a hairsbreadth, it dashed onward straight ahead
in a cloud of dust that for two or three minutes entirely blurred and
darkened the air. Half-blinded and choked by the rush of its furious
passage past him, Helmsley could only just barely discern that the car
was occupied by two men, the one driving, the other sitting beside the
driver,--and shading his eyes from the sun, he strove to track its way
as it flew down the road, but in less than a minute it was out of sight.
"There's not much 'speed limit' in that concern!" he said, half-aloud,
still gazing after it. "I call such driving recklessly wicked! If I
could have seen the number of that car, I'd have given information to
the police. But numbers on motors are no use when such a pace is kept
up, and the thick dust of a dry summer is whirled up by the wheels. It's
fortunate the road is clear. Yes, Charlie!"--this, as he saw his canine
foundling's head perk out from under his arm, with a little black nose
all a-quiver with anxiety,--"it's just as well for you that you've got a
wounded paw and can't run too far for the present! If you had been in
the way of that car just now, your little life would have been ended!"
Charlie pricked his pretty ears, and listened, or appeared to listen,
but had evidently no forebodings about himself or his future. He was
quite at home, and, after the fashion of dogs, who are often so much
wiser than men, argued that being safe and comfortable now, there was no
reason why he should not be safe and comfortable always. And Helmsley
presently bent himself to steady walking, and got on well, only pausing
to get some tea and bread and butter at a cottage by the roadside, where
a placard on the gate intimated that such refreshments were to be had
within. Nevertheless, he was a slow pedestrian, and what with lingering
here and there for brief rests by the way, the sun had sunk fully an
hour before he managed to reach Blue Anchor, the village of which Meg
Ross had told him. It was a pretty, peaceful place, set among wide
stretches of beach, extending for miles along the margin of the waters,
and the mellow summer twilight showed little white wreaths of foam
crawling lazily up on the sand in glittering curves that gleamed like
snow for a moment and then melted softly away into the deepening
darkness. He stopped at the first ale-house, a low-roofed, cottage-like
structure embowered in clambering flowers. It had a side entrance which
led into a big, rambling stableyard, and happening to glance that way he
perceived a vehicle standing there, which he at once recognised as the
large luxurious motor-car that had dashed past him at such a tearing
pace near Cleeve. The inn door was open, and the bar faced the road,
exhibiting a brave show of glittering brass taps, pewter tankards,
polished glasses and many-coloured bottles, all these things being
presided over by a buxom matron, who was not only an agreeable person to
look at in herself, but who was assisted by two pretty daughters. These
young women, wearing spotless white cuffs and aprons, dispensed the beer
to the customers, now and then relieving the monotony of this occupation
by carrying trays of bread and cheese and meat sandwiches round the wide
room of which the bar was a part, evidently bent on making the general
company stay as long as possible, if fascinating manners and smiling
eyes could work any detaining influence. Helmsley asked for a glass of
ale and a plate of bread and cheese, and on being supplied with these
refreshments, sat down at a small table in a corner well removed from
the light, where he could see without being seen. He did not intend to
inquire for a night's lodging yet. He wished first to ascertain for
himself the kind of people who frequented the place. The fear of
discovery always haunted him, and the sight of that costly motor-car
standing in the stableyard had caused him to feel a certain misgiving
lest any one of marked wealth or position should turn out to be its
owner. In such a case, the world being proverbially small, and rich men
being in the minority, it was just possible that he, David Helmsley,
even clad as he was in workman's clothes and partially disguised in
features by the growth of a beard, might be recognised. With this idea,
he kept himself well back in the shadow, listening attentively to the
scraps of desultory talk among the dozen or so of men in the room, while
carefully maintaining an air of such utter fatigue as to appear
indifferent to all that passed around him. Nobody noticed him, for which
he was thankful. And presently, when he became accustomed to the various
contending voices, which in their changing tones of gruff or gentle,
quick or slow, made a confused din upon his ears, he found out that the
general conversation was chiefly centred on one subject, that of the
very motor-car whose occupants he desired to shun.
"Serve 'em right!" growled one man. "Serve 'em right to 'ave broke down!
'Ope the darned thing's broke altogether!"
"You shouldn't say that,--'taint Christian," expostulated his neighbour
at the same table. "Them cars cost a heap o' money, from eight 'undred
to two thousand pounds, I've 'eerd tell."
"Who cares!" retorted the other. "Them as can pay a fortin on a car to
swish 'emselves about in, should be made to keep on payin' till they're
cleaned out o' money for good an' all. The road's a reg'lar hell since
them engines started along cuttin' everything to pieces. There aint a
man, woman, nor child what's safe from the moneyed murderers."
"Oh come, I say!" ejaculated a big, burly young fellow in corduroys.
"Moneyed murderers is going a bit too strong!"
"No 'taint!" said the first man who had spoken. "That's what the
motor-car folks are--no more nor less. Only t' other day in Taunton, a
woman as was the life an' soul of 'er 'usband an' childern, was knocked
down by a car as big as a railway truck. It just swept 'er off the curb
like a bundle o' rags. She picked 'erself up again an' walked 'ome,
tremblin' a little, an' not knowin' rightly what 'ad chanced to 'er, an'
in less than an hour she was dead. An' what did they say at the inquest?
Just 'death from shock'--an' no more. For them as owned the murderin'
car was proprietors o' a big brewery, and the coroner hisself 'ad shares
in it. That's 'ow justice is done nowadays!"
"Yes, we's an obligin' lot, we poor folks," observed a little man in the
rough garb of a cattle-driver, drawing his pipe from his mouth as he
spoke. "We lets the rich ride over us on rubber tyres an' never sez a
word on our own parts, but trusts to the law for doin' the same to a
millionaire as 'twould to a beggar,--but, Lord!--don't we see every day
as 'ow the millionaire gets off easy while the beggar goes to prison?
There used to be justice in old England, but the time for that's gone
past."
"There's as much justice in England as you'll ever get anywheres else!"
interrupted the hostess at the bar, nodding cheerfully at the men, and
smiling,--"And as for the motor-cars, they bring custom to my house, and
I don't grumble at anything which does me and mine a good turn. If it
hadn't been for a break-down in that big motor standing outside in the
stableyard, I shouldn't have had two gentlemen staying in my best rooms
to-night. I never find fault with money!"
She laughed and nodded again in the pleasantest manner. A slow smile
went round among the men,--it was impossible not to smile in response to
the gay good-humour expressed on such a beaming countenance.
"One of them's a lord, too," she added. "Quite a young fellow, just come
into his title, I suppose." And referring to her day-book, she ran her
plump finger down the various entries. "I've got his name
here--Wrotham,--Lord Reginald Wrotham."
"Wrotham? That aint a name known in these parts," said the man in
corduroys. "Wheer does 'e come from?"
"I don't know," she replied. "And I don't very much care. It's enough
for me that he's here and spending money!"
"Where's his chauffy?" inquired a lad, lounging near the bar.
"He hasn't got one. He drives his car himself. He's got a friend with
him--a Mr. James Brookfield."
There was a moment's silence. Helmsley drew further back into the corner
where he sat, and restrained the little dog Charlie from perking its
inquisitive head out too far, lest its beauty should attract
undesirable attention. His nervous misgivings concerning the owner of
the motor-car had not been entirely without foundation, for both
Reginald Wrotham and James Brookfield were well known to him. Wrotham's
career had been a sufficiently disgraceful one ever since he had entered
his teens,--he was a modern degenerate of the worst type, and though his
coming-of-age and the assumption of his family title had caused certain
time-servers to enrol themselves among his flatterers and friends, there
were very few decent houses where so soiled a member of the aristocracy
as he was could find even a semblance of toleration. James Brookfield
was a proprietor of newspapers as well as a "something in the City," and
if Helmsley had been asked to qualify that "something" by a name, he
would have found a term by no means complimentary to the individual in
question. Wrotham and Brookfield were always seen together,--they were
brothers in every sort of social iniquity and licentiousness, and an
attempt on Brookfield's part to borrow some thousands of pounds for his
"lordly" patron from Helmsley, had resulted in the latter giving the
would-be borrower's go-between such a strong piece of his mind as he was
not likely to forget. And now Helmsley was naturally annoyed to find
that these two abandoned rascals were staying at the very inn where he,
in his character of a penniless wayfarer, had hoped to pass a peaceful
night; however, he resolved to avoid all danger and embarrassment by
leaving the place directly he had finished his supper, and going in
search of some more suitable lodgment. Meanwhile, the hum of
conversation grew louder around him, and opinion ran high on the subject
of "the right of the road."
"The roads are made for the people, sure-_ly_!" said one of a group of
men standing near the largest table in the room--"And the people 'as the
right to 'xpect safety to life an' limb when they uses 'em."
"Well, the motors can put forward the same claim," retorted another.
"Motor folks are people too, an' they can say, if they likes, that if
roads is made for people, they're made for _them_ as well as t' others,
and they expects to be safe on 'em with their motors at whatever pace
they travels."
"Go 'long!" exclaimed the cattle-driver, who had before taken part in
the discussion--"Aint we got to take cows an' sheep an' 'osses by the
road? An' if a car comes along at the rate o' forty or fifty miles an
hour, what's to be done wi' the animals? An' if they're not to be on the
road, which way is they to be took?"
"Them motors ought to have roads o' their own like the railways," said a
quiet-looking grey-haired man, who was the carrier of the district.
"When the steam-engine was invented it wasn't allowed to go tearin'
along the public highway. They 'ad to make roads for it, an' lay tracks,
and they should do the same for motors which is gettin' just as fast an'
as dangerous as steam-engines."
"Yes, an' with makin' new roads an' layin' tracks, spoil the country for
good an' all!" said the man in corduroys--"An' alter it so that there
aint a bit o' peace or comfort left in the land! Level the hills an' cut
down the trees--pull up the hedges an' scare away all the singin' birds,
till the hull place looks like a football field!--all to please a few
selfish rich men who'd be better dead than livin'! A fine thing for
England that would be!"
At that moment, there was the noise of an opening door, and the hostess,
with an expressive glance at her customers, held up her finger
warningly.
"Hush, please!" she said. "The gentlemen are coming out."
A sudden pause ensued. The men looked round upon one another, half
sheepishly, half sullenly, and their growling voices subsided into a
murmur. The hostess settled the bow at her collar more becomingly, and
her two pretty daughters feigned to be deeply occupied with some drawn
thread work. David Helmsley, noting everything that was going on from
his coign of vantage, recognised at once the dissipated,
effeminate-looking young man, who, stepping out of a private room which
opened on a corridor apparently leading to the inner part of the house,
sauntered lazily up to the bar and, resting his arm upon its oaken
counter, smiled condescendingly, not to say insolently, upon the women
who stood behind it. There was no mistaking him,--it was the same
Reginald Wrotham whose scandals in society had broken his worthy
father's heart, and who now, succeeding to a hitherto unblemished title,
was doing his best to load it with dishonour. He was followed by his
friend Brookfield,--a heavily-built, lurching sort of man, with a nose
reddened by strong drink, and small lascivious eyes which glittered
dully in his head like the eyes of poisonous tropical beetle. The hush
among the "lower" class of company at the inn deepened into the usual
stupid awe which at times so curiously affects untutored rustics who are
made conscious of the presence of a "lord." Said a friend of the present
writer's to a waiter in a country hotel where one of these "lords" was
staying for a few days: "I want a letter to catch to-night's post, but
I'm afraid the mail has gone from the hotel. Could you send some one to
the post-office with it?" "Oh yes, sir!" replied the waiter
grandiloquently. "The servant of the Lord will take it!" Pitiful beyond
most piteous things is the grovelling tendency of that section of human
nature which has not yet been educated sufficiently to lift itself up
above temporary trappings and ornaments; pitiful it is to see men,
gifted in intellect, or distinguished for bravery, flinch and cringe
before one of their own flesh and blood, who, having neither cleverness
nor courage, but only a Title, presumes upon that foolish appendage so
far as to consider himself superior to both valour and ability. As well
might a stuffed boar's head assume a superiority to other comestibles
because decorated by the cook with a paper frill and bow of ribbon! The
atmosphere which Lord Reginald Wrotham brought with him into the
common-room of the bar was redolent of tobacco-smoke and whisky, yet,
judging from the various propitiatory, timid, anxious, or servile looks
cast upon him by all and sundry, it might have been fragrant and sacred
incense wafted from the altars of the goddess Fortune to her waiting
votaries. Helmsley's spirit rose up in contempt against the effete dandy
as he watched him leaning carelessly against the counter, twirling his
thin sandy moustache, and talking to his hostess merely for the sake of
offensively ogling her two daughters.
"Charming old place you have here!--charming!" drawled his lordship.
"Perfect dream! Love to pass all my days in such a delightful spot! 'Pon
my life! Awful luck for us, the motor breaking down, or we never should
have stopped at such a jolly place, don't-cher-know. Should we,
Brookfield?"
Brookfield, gently scratching a pimple on his fat, clean-shaven face,
smiled knowingly.
"_Couldn't_ have stopped!" he declared. "We were doing a record run. But
we should have missed a great deal,--a great deal!" And he emitted a
soft chuckle. "Not only the place,--but----!"
He waved his hand explanatorily, with a slight bow, which implied an
unspoken compliment to the looks of the mistress of the inn and her
family. One of the young women blushed and peeped slyly up at him. He
returned the glance with interest.
"May I ask," pursued Lord Wrotham, with an amicable leer, "the names of
your two daughters, Madam? They've been awfully kind to us
broken-down-travellers--should just like to know the difference between
them. Like two roses on one stalk, don't-cher-know! Can't tell which is
which!"
The mother of the girls hesitated a moment. She was not quite sure that
she liked the "tone" of his lordship's speech. Finally she replied
somewhat stiffly:--
"My eldest daughter is named Elizabeth, my lord, and her sister is
Grace."
"Elizabeth and Grace! Charming!" murmured Wrotham, leaning a little more
confidentially over the counter--"Now which--which is Grace?"
At that moment a tall, shadowy form darkened the open doorway of the
inn, and a man entered, carrying in his arms a small oblong bundle
covered with a piece of rough horse-cloth. Placing his burden down on a
vacant bench, he pushed his cap from his brows and stared wildly about
him. Every one looked at him,--some with recognition, others in
alarm,--and Helmsley, compelled as he was to keep himself out of the
general notice in his corner, almost started to his feet with an
involuntary cry of amazement. For it was Tom o' the Gleam.