Three days later, when the dawn was scarcely declared and the earliest
notes of the waking birds trembled on the soft air with the faint
sweetness of a far-off fluty piping, the door of Mary Deane's cottage
opened stealthily, and David Helmsley, dressed ready for a journey,
stepped noiselessly out into the little garden. He wore the same
ordinary workman's outfit in which he had originally started on his
intended " tramp," including the vest which he had lined with banknotes,
and which he had not used once since his stay with Mary Deane. For she
had insisted on his wearing the warmer and softer garments which had
once belonged to her own father,--and all these he had now taken off and
left behind him, carefully folded up on the bed in his room. He had
examined his money and had found it just as he had placed it,--even the
little "surprise packet" which poor Tom o' the Gleam had collected for
his benefit in the "Trusty Man's" common room, was still in the
side-pocket where he had himself put it. Unripping a corner of the vest
lining, he took out two five-pound notes, and with these in a rough
leather purse for immediate use, and his stout ash stick grasped firmly
in his hand, he started out to walk to the top of the coombe where he
knew the path brought him to the verge of the highroad leading to
Minehead. As he moved almost on tip-toe through Mary's garden, now all
fragrant with golden wall-flowers, lilac, and mayblossom, he paused a
moment,--looking up at the picturesque gabled eaves and latticed
windows. A sudden sense of loneliness affected him almost to tears. For
now he had not even the little dog Charlie with him to console him--that
canine friend slept in a cushioned basket in Mary's room, and was
therefore all unaware that his master was leaving him.
"But, please God, I shall come back in a day or two!" he murmured. "
Please God, I shall see this dear shrine of peace and love again before
I die! Meanwhile--good-bye, Mary! Good-bye, dearest and kindest of
women! God bless you!"
He turned away with an effort--and, lifting the latch of the garden
gate, opened it and closed it softly behind him. Then he began the
ascent of the coombe. Not a soul was in sight,--the actual day had not
yet begun. The hill torrent flowed along with a subdued purling sound
over the rough stones and pebbles,--there had been little rain of late
and the water was shallow, though clear and bright enough to gleam like
a wavering silver ribbon in the dimness of the early morning,--and as he
followed it upward and finally reached a point from whence the open sea
was visible he rested a moment, leaning on his stick and looking
backward on the way he had come. Strangely beautiful and mystical was
the scene his eyes dwelt upon,--or rather perhaps it should be said that
he saw it in a somewhat strange and mystical fashion of his own. There,
out beyond the furthest edge of land, lay the ocean, shadowed just now
by a delicate dark grey mist, which, like a veil, covered its placid
bosom,--a mist which presently the rising sun would scatter with its
glorious rays of gold;--here at his feet nestled Weircombe,--a cluster
of simple cottages, sweetly adorned by nature with her fairest
garlanding of springtime flowers,--and behind him, just across a length
of barren moor, was the common highroad leading to the wider, busier
towns. And he thought as he stood alone,--a frail and solitary figure,
gazing dreamily out of himself, as it were, to things altogether beyond
himself,--that the dim and shadowy ocean was like the vast Unknown which
we call Death,--which we look upon tremblingly,--afraid of its darkness,
and unable to realise that the sun of Life will ever rise again to
pierce its gloom with glory. And the little world--the only world that
can be called a world,--namely, that special corner of the planet which
holds the hearts that love us--a world which for him, the
multi-millionaire, was just a tiny village with one sweet woman living
in it--resembled a garland of flowers flung down from the rocks as
though to soften their ruggedness,--a garland broken asunder at the
shoreline, even as all earthly garlands must break and fade at the touch
of the first cold wave of the Infinite. As for the further road in which
he was about to turn and go, that, to his fancy, was a nearer similitude
of an approach to hell than any scene ever portrayed in Dante's _Divine
Comedy_. For it led to the crowded haunts of men--the hives of greedy
business,--the smoky, suffocating centres where each human unit seeks
to over-reach and outrival the other--where there is no time to be
kind--no room to be courteous; where the passion for gain and the
worship of self are so furious and inexhaustible, that all the old fair
virtues which make nations great and lasting, are trampled down in the
dust, and jeered at as things contemptible and of no value,--where, if a
man is honourable, he is asked "What do you get by it?"--and where, if a
woman would remain simple and chaste, she is told she is giving herself
"no chance." In this whirl of avarice, egotism, and pushfulness,
Helmsley had lived nearly all his life, always conscious of, and longing
for, something better--something truer and more productive of peace and
lasting good. Almost everything he had touched had turned to
money,--while nothing he had ever gained had turned to love. Except
now--now when the end was drawing nigh--when he must soon say farewell
to the little earth, so replete with natural beauty--farewell to the
lovely sky, which whether in storm or calm, ever shows itself as a
visible reflex of divine majesty and power--farewell to the sweet birds,
which for no thanks at all, charm the ear by their tender songs and
graceful wingëd ways--farewell to the flowers, which, flourishing in the
woods and fields without care, lift their cups to the sun, and fill the
air with fragrance,--and above all, farewell to the affection which he
had found so late!--to the heart whose truth he had tested--to the woman
for whose sake, could he in some way have compassed her surer and
greater happiness, he would gladly have lived half his life over again,
working with every moment of it to add to her joy. But an instinctive
premonition warned him that the sands in Time's hour-glass were for him
running to an end,--there was no leisure left to him now for any new
scheme or plan by which he could improve or strengthen that which he had
already accomplished. He realised this fully, with a passing pang of
regret which soon tempered itself into patient resignation,--and as the
first arrowy beam of the rising sun shot upwards from the east, he
slowly turned his back on the quiet hamlet where in a few months he had
found what he had vainly sought for in many long and weary years, and
plodded steadily across the moor to the highroad. Here he sat down on
the bank to wait till some conveyance going to Minehead should pass
by--for he knew he had not sufficient strength to walk far. "Tramping
it" now was for him impossible,--moreover, his former thirst for
adventure was satisfied; he had succeeded in his search for "a friend"
without going so far as Cornwall. There was no longer any cause for him
to endure unnecessary fatigue--so he waited patiently, listening to the
first wild morning carol of a skylark, which, bounding up from its nest
hard by, darted into the air with quivering wings beating against the
dispersing vapours of the dawn, and sang aloud in the full rapture of a
joy made perfect by innocence. And he thought of the lovely lines of
George Herbert:--
"How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are Thy returns! Ev'n as the flowers in Spring,
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring;
Grief melts away
Like snow in May,
As if there were no such cold thing.
"Who would have thought my shrivell'd heart
Could have recover'd greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground; as flowers depart
To see their mother-root, when they have blown,
Where they together
All the hard weather,
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
"These are Thy wonders, Lord of power,
Killing and quick'ning, bringing down to Hell
And up to Heaven in an hour;
Making a chiming of a passing bell.
We say amiss
This or that is;
Thy Word is all, if we could spell!"
"If we could spell!" he murmured, half aloud. "Ay, if we could learn
even a quarter of the alphabet which would help us to understand the
meaning of that 'Word!'--the Word which 'was in the beginning, and the
word was with God, and the word _was_ God!' Then we should be wise
indeed with a wisdom that would profit us,--we should have no fears and
no forebodings,--we should know that all is, all _must_ be for the
best!" And he raised his eyes to the slowly brightening sky. "Yet, after
all, the attitude of simple faith is the right one for us, if we would
call ourselves children of God--the faith which affirms--'Though He
slay me, yet will I trust in Him!'"
As he thus mused, a golden light began to spread around him,--the sun
had risen above the horizon, and its cheerful radiance sparkled on every
leaf and every blade of grass that bore a drop of dew. The morning mists
rose hoveringly, paused awhile, and then lightly rolled away, disclosing
one picture after another of exquisite sylvan beauty,--every living
thing took up anew its burden of work and pleasure for the day, and
"Now" was again declared the acceptable time. To enjoy the moment, and
to make much of the moment while it lasts, is the very keynote of
Nature's happiness, and David Helmsley found himself on this particular
morning more or less in tune with the general sentiment. Certain sad
thoughts oppressed him from time to time, but they were tempered and
well-nigh overcome by the secret pleasure he felt within himself at
having been given the means wherewith to ensure happiness for those whom
he considered were more deserving of it than himself. And he sat
patiently watching the landscape grow in glory as the sun rose higher
and higher, till presently, struck by a sudden fear lest Mary Deane
should get up earlier than usual, and missing him, should come out to
seek for him, he left the bank by the roadside, and began to trudge
slowly along in the direction of Minehead. He had not walked for a much
longer time than about ten minutes, when he heard the crunching sound of
heavy wheels behind him, and, looking back, saw a large mill waggon
piled with sacks of flour and drawn by two sturdy horses, coming
leisurely along. He waited till it drew near, and then called to the
waggoner--
"Will you give me a lift to Minehead for half a crown?"
The waggoner, stout, red-faced, and jolly-looking, nodded an emphatic
assent.
"I'd do it for 'arf the money!" he said. "Gi' us yer 'and, old gaffer!"
The "old gaffer" obeyed, and was soon comfortably seated between the
projecting corners of two flour sacks, which in their way were as
comfortable as cushions.
"'Old on there," said the waggoner, "an' ye'll be as safe as though ye
was in Abram's bosom. Not that I knows much about Abram anyway. Wheer
abouts d'ye want in Minehead?"
"The railway station."
"Right y' are! That's my ticket too. Tired o' trampin' it, I s'pose,
aint ye?"
"A bit tired--yes. I've walked since daybreak."
The waggoner cracked his whip, and the horses plodded on. Their heavy
hoofs on the dusty road, and the noise made by the grind of the cart
wheels, checked any attempt at prolonged conversation, for which
Helmsley was thankful. He considered himself lucky in having met with a
total stranger, for the name of the owner of the waggon, which was duly
displayed both on the vehicle itself and the sacks of flour it
contained, was unknown to him, and the place from which it had come was
an inland village several miles away from Weircombe. He was therefore
safe--so far--from any chance of recognition. To be driven along in a
heavy mill cart was a rumblesome, drowsy way of travelling, but it was
restful, and when Minehead was at last reached, he did not feel himself
at all tired. The waggoner had to get his cargo of flour off by rail, so
there was no lingering in the town itself, which was as yet scarcely
astir. They were in time for the first train going to Exeter, and
Helmsley, changing one of his five-pound notes at the railway station,
took a third-class ticket to that place. Then he paid the promised
half-crown to his friendly driver, with an extra threepence for a
morning "dram," whereat the waggoner chuckled.
"Thankee! I zee ye be no temp'rance man!"
Helmsley smiled.
"No. I'm a sober man, not a temperance man!"
"Ay! We'd a parzon in these 'ere parts as was temp'rance, but 'e took
'is zpirits different like! 'E zkorned 'is glass, but 'e loved 'is gel!
Har--ar--ar! Ivir 'eerd o' Parzon Arbroath as woz put out o' the Church
for 'avin' a fav'rite?"
"I saw something about it in the papers," said Helmsley.
"Ay, 'twoz in the papers. Har--ar--ar! 'E woz a temp'rance man. But wot
I sez is, we'se all a bit o' devil in us, an' we can't be temp'rance
ivry which way. An' zo, if not the glass, then the gel! Har--ar--ar!
Good-day t' ye, an' thank ye kindly!"
He went off then, and a few minutes later the train came gliding in. The
whirr and noise of the panting engine confused Helmsley's ears and dazed
his brain, after his months of seclusion in such a quiet little spot as
Weircombe,--and he was seized with quite a nervous terror and doubt as
to whether he would be able, after all, to undertake the journey he had
decided upon, alone. But an energetic porter put an end to his
indecision by opening all the doors of the various compartments in the
train and banging them to again, whereupon he made up his mind quickly,
and managed, with some little difficulty, to clamber up the high step of
a third-class carriage and get in before the aforesaid porter had the
chance to push him in head foremost. In another few minutes the engine
whistle set up a deafening scream, and the train ran swiftly out of the
station. He was off;--the hills, the sea, were left behind--and
Weircombe--restful, simple little Weircombe, seemed not only miles of
distance, but ages of time away! Had he ever lived there, he hazily
wondered? Would he ever go back? Was he "old David the basket-maker," or
David Helmsley the millionaire? He hardly knew. It did not seem worth
while to consider the problem of his own identity. One figure alone was
real,--one face alone smiled out of the cloudy vista of thoughts and
memories, with the true glory of an ineffable tenderness--the sweet,
pure face of Mary, with her clear and candid eyes lighting every
expression to new loveliness. On Angus Reay his mind did not dwell so
much--Angus was a man--and as a man he regarded him with warm liking and
sympathy--but it was as the future husband and protector of Mary that he
thought of him most--as the one out of all the world who would care for
her, when he, David Helmsley, was no more. Mary was the centre of his
dreams--the pivot round which all his last ambitions in this world were
gathered together in one focus,--without her there was, there could be
nothing for him--nothing to give peace or comfort to his last
days--nothing to satisfy him as to the future of all that his life had
been spent to gain.
Meantime,--while the train bearing him to Exeter was rushing along
through wide and ever-varying stretches of fair landscape,--there was
amazement and consternation in the little cottage he had left behind
him. Mary, rising from a sound night's sleep, and coming down to the
kitchen as usual to light the fire and prepare breakfast, saw a letter
on the table addressed to her, and opening, it read as follows:--
"MY DEAR MARY,--Do not be anxious this morning when you find that
I am gone. I shall not be long away. I have an idea of getting some
work to do, which may be more useful to you and Angus than my poor
attempts at basket-making. At any rate I feel it would be wrong if I
did not try to obtain some better paying employment, of a kind which
I can do at home, so that I may be of greater assistance to you both
when you marry and begin your double housekeeping. Old though I am
and ailing, I want to feel less of a burden and more of a help. You
will not think any the worse of me for wishing this. You have been
so good and charitable to me in my need, that I should not die happy
if I, in my turn, did not make an effort to give you some
substantial proof of gratitude. This is Tuesday morning, and I shall
hope to be home again with you before Sunday. In the meanwhile, do
not worry at all about me, for I feel quite strong enough to do what
I have in my mind. I leave Charlie with you. He is safest and
happiest in your care. Good-bye for a little while, dear, kind
friend, and God bless you!
DAVID."
She read this with amazement and distress, the tears welling up in her
eyes.
"Oh, David!" she exclaimed. "Poor, poor old man! What will he do all by
himself, wandering about the country with no money! It's dreadful! How
could he think of such a thing! He is so weak, too!--he can't possibly
get very far!"
Here a sudden thought struck her, and picking up Charlie, who had
followed her downstairs from her bedroom and was now trotting to and
fro, sniffing the air in a somewhat disconsolate and dubious manner, she
ran out of the house bareheaded, and hurried up to the top of the
"coombe." There she paused, shading her eyes from the sun and looking
all about her. It was a lovely morning, and the sea, calm and sparkling
with sunbeams, shone like a blue glass flecked with gold. The sky was
clear, and the landscape fresh and radiant with the tender green of the
springtime verdure. But everything was quite solitary. Vainly her glance
swept from left to right and from right to left again,--there was no
figure in sight such as the one she sought and half-expected to
discover. Putting Charlie down to follow at her heels, she walked
quickly across the intervening breadth of moor to the highroad, and
there paused, looking up and down its dusty length, hoping against hope
that she might see David somewhere trudging slowly along on his lonely
way, but there was not a human creature visible. Charlie, assuming a
highly vigilant attitude, cocked his tiny ears and sniffed the air
suspiciously, as though he scented the trail of his lost master, but no
clue presented itself as likely to serve the purpose of tracking the way
in which he had gone. Moved by a sudden loneliness and despondency, Mary
slowly returned to the cottage, carrying the little dog in her arms, and
was affected to tears again when she entered the kitchen, because it
looked so empty. The bent figure, the patient aged face, on which for
her there was ever a smile of grateful tenderness--these had composed a
picture by her fireside to which she had grown affectionately
accustomed,--and to see it no longer there made her feel almost
desolate. She lit the fire listlessly and prepared her own breakfast
without interest--it was a solitary meal and lacked flavour. She was
glad when, after breakfast, Angus Reay came in, as was now his custom,
to say good-morning, and to "gain inspiration,"--so he told her,--for
his day's work. He was no less astonished than herself at David's sudden
departure.
"Poor old chap! I believe he thinks he is in our way, Mary!" he said, as
he read the letter of explanation which their missing friend had left
behind him. "And yet he says quite plainly here that he will be back
before Sunday. Perhaps he will. But where can he have gone to?"
"Not far, surely!" and Mary looked, as she felt, perplexed. "He has no
money!"
"Not a penny?"
"Not a penny! He makes me take everything he earns to help pay for his
keep and as something towards the cost of his illness last year. I don't
want it--but it pleases him that I should have it----"
"Of course--I understand that,"--and Angus slipped an arm round her
waist, while he read the letter through again. "But if he hasn't a
penny, how can he get along?"
"He must be on the tramp again," said Mary. "But he isn't strong enough
to tramp. I went up the coombe this morning and right out to the
highroad, for I thought I might see him and catch up with him--because I
know it would take him ever so long to walk a mile. But he had gone
altogether."
Reay stood thinking.
"I tell you what, Mary," he said at last, "I'll take a brisk walk down
the road towards Minehead. I should think that's the only place where
he'd try for work. I daresay I shall overtake him."
Her eyes brightened.
"Yes, that's quite possible,"--and she was evidently pleased at the
suggestion. "He's so old and feeble, and you're so strong and quick on
your feet----"
"Quick with my lips, too," said Angus, promptly kissing her. "But I
shall have to be on my best behaviour now you're all alone in the
cottage, Mary! David has left you defenceless!"
He laughed, but as she raised her eyes questioningly to his face, grew
serious.
"Yes, my Mary! You'll have to stay by your own sweet lonesome! Otherwise
all the dear, kind, meddlesome old women in the village will talk! Mrs.
Twitt will lead the chorus, with the best intentions, unless--and this
is a dreadful alternative!--you can persuade her to come up and play
propriety!"
The puzzled look left her face, and she smiled though a wave of colour
flushed her cheeks.
"Oh! I see what you mean, Angus! But I'm too old to want looking
after--I can look after myself."
"Can you?" And he took her into his arms and held her fast. "And how
will you do it?"
She was silent a moment, looking into his eyes with a grave and musing
tenderness. Then she said quietly--
"By trusting you, my love, now and always!"
Very gently he released her from his embrace--very reverently he kissed
her.
"And you shall never regret your trust, you dear, sweet angel of a
woman! Be sure of that! Now I'm off to look for David--I'll try and
bring him back with me. By the way, Mary, I've told Mr. and Mrs. Twitt
and good old Bunce that we are engaged--so the news is now the public
property of the whole village. In fact, we might just as well have put
up the banns and secured the parson!"
He laughed his bright, jovial laugh, and throwing on his cap went out,
striding up the coombe with swift, easy steps, whistling joyously "My
Nannie O" as he made the ascent. Twice he turned to wave his hand to
Mary who stood watching him from her garden gate, and then he
disappeared. She waited a moment among all the sweetly perfumed flowers
in her little garden, looking at the bright glitter of the hill stream
as it flowed equably by.
"How wonderful it is," she thought, "that God should have been so good
to me! I have done nothing to deserve any love at all, and yet Angus
loves me! It seems too beautiful to be real! I am not worthy of such
happiness! Sometimes I dare not think too much of it lest it should all
prove to be only a dream! For surely no one in the world could wish for
a better life than we shall live--Angus and I--in this dear little
cottage together,--he with his writing, which I know will some day move
the world,--and I with my usual work, helping as much as I can to make
his life sweet to him. For we have the great secret of all joy--we love
each other!"
With her eyes full of the dreamy light of inward heart's content, she
turned and went into the house. The sight of David's empty chair by the
fire troubled her,--but she tried to believe that Angus would succeed in
finding him on the highroad, and in persuading him to return at once.
Towards noon Mrs. Twitt came in, somewhat out of breath, on account of
having climbed the village street more rapidly than was her custom on
such a warm day as it had turned out to be, and straightway began
conversation.
"Wonders 'ull never cease, Mis' Deane, an' that's a fact!" she said,
wiping her hot face with the corner of her apron--"An' while there's
life there's 'ope! I'd as soon 'a thought o' Weircombe Church walkin'
down to the shore an' turnin' itself into a fishin' smack, as that you'd
a' got engaged to be married! I would, an' that's a Gospel truth! Ye
seemed so steady like an' settled--lor' a mussy me!" And here, despite
her effort to look serious, a broad smile got the better of her. "An' a
fine man too you've got,--none o' your scallywag weaklings as one sees
too much of nowadays, but a real upright sort o' chap wi' no nonsense
about 'im. An' I wishes ye well, Mary, my dear,"--and the worthy soul
took Mary's hand in hers and gave her a hearty kiss. "For it's never too
late to mend, as the Scripter tells us, an' forbye ye're not in yer
green gooseberry days there's those as thinks ripe fruit better than
sour-growin' young codlings. An' ye may take 'art o' grace for one
thing--them as marries young settles quickly old--an' to look at the
skin an' the 'air an' the eyes of ye, you beat ivery gel I've ivir seen
in the twenties, so there's good preservin' stuff in ye wot'll last. An'
I bet you're more fond o' the man ye've got late than if ye'd caught 'im
early!"
Mary laughed, but her eyes were full of wistful tenderness.
"I love him very dearly," she said simply--"And I know he's a great deal
too good for me."
Mrs. Twitt sniffed meaningly.
"Well, I'm not in any way sure o' that," she observed. "When a man's too
good for a woman it's what we may call a Testymen' miracle. For the
worst wife as ivir lived is never so bad as a bad 'usband. There's a
suthin' in a man wot's real devil-like when it gits the uppermost of
'im--an' 'e's that crafty born that I've known 'im to be singin' hymns
one hour an' drinkin' 'isself silly the next. 'Owsomever, Mister Reay
seems a decent chap, forbye 'e do give 'is time to writin' which don't
appear to make 'is pot boil----"
"Ah, but he will be famous!" interrupted Mary exultantly. "I know he
will!"
"An' what's the good o' that?" enquired Mrs. Twitt. "If bein' famous is
bein' printed about in the noospapers, I'd rather do without it if I wos
'im. Parzon Arbroath got famous that way!" And she chuckled. "But the
great pint is that you an' 'e is a-goin' to be man an' wife, an' I'm
right glad to 'ear it, for it's a lonely life ye've been leadin' since
yer father's death, forbye ye've got a bit o' company in old David. An'
wot'll ye do with David when you're married?"
"He'll stay on with us, I hope," said Mary. "But this morning he has
gone away--and we don't know where he can have gone to."
Mrs. Twitt raised her eyes and hands in astonishment.
"Gone away?"
"Yes." And Mary showed her the letter Helmsley had written, and
explained how Angus Reay had started off to walk towards Minehead, in
the hope of overtaking the wanderer.
"Well, I never!" And Mrs. Twitt gave a short gasp of wonder. "Wants to
find employment, do 'e? The poor old innercent! Why, Twitt would 'a
given 'im a job in the stoneyard if 'e'd 'a known. He'll never find a
thing to do anywheres on the road at 'is age!"
And the news of David's sudden and lonely departure affected her more
powerfully than the prospect of Mary's marriage, which had, in the first
place, occupied all her mental faculties.
"An' that reminds me," she went on, "of 'ow the warnin' came to me
yesterday when I was a-goin' out to my wash-tub an' I slipt on a bit o'
potato peelin'. That's allus a sign of a partin' 'twixt friends. Put
that together with the lump o' clinkers as flew out o' the fire last
week and split in two in the middle of the kitchen, an' there ye 'ave it
all writ plain. I sez to Twitt--'Suthin's goin' to 'appen'--an' 'e sez
in 'is fool way--'G'arn, old woman, suthin's allus a-'appenin'
somewheres'--then when Mister Reay looked in all smiles an' sez
'Good-mornin', Twitt! I'm goin' to marry Miss Mary Deane! Wish us joy!'
Twitt, 'e up an' sez, 'There's your suthin', old gel! A marriage!' an' I
sez, 'Not at all, Twitt--not at all, Mister Reay, if I may make so bold,
but slippin' on peel don't mean marriage, nor yet clinkers, though two
spoons in a saucer does convey 'ints o' the same, an' two spoons was in
Twitt's saucer only this very mornin'. Which I wishes both man an' woman
as runs the risk everlastin' joy!' An' Twitt, as is allus puttin' in 'is
word where 'taint wanted, sez, 'Don't talk about everlastin' joy,
mother, 'tis like a hepitaph'--which I answers quick an' sez, 'Your mind
may run on hepitaphs, Twitt, seein' 'tis your livin', but mine don't do
no such thing, an' when I sez everlastin' joy for man an' wife, I means
it.' An' then Mister Reay comes an' pats me on the shoulder cosy like
an' sez, 'Right you are, Mrs. Twitt!' an' 'e walks off laughin', an'
Twitt 'e laughs too an' sez, 'Good luck to the bridegroom an' the
bride,' which I aint denyin', but there was still the thought o' the
potato peel an' the clinker, an' it's come clear to-day now I've 'eerd
as 'ow poor old David's gone!" She paused to take breath, and shook her
head solemnly. "It's my opinion 'e'll never come back no more!"
"Oh, don't say that!" exclaimed Mary, distressed. "Don't even think it!"
But Mrs. Twitt was not to be shaken in her pronouncement.
"'E'll never come back no more!" she said. "An' the children on the
shore 'ull miss 'im badly, for 'e was a reg'lar Father Christmas to
'em, not givin' presents by any manner o' means, 'avin' none to give,
but tellin' 'em stories as kep' 'em quiet an' out of 'arms way for
'ours,--an' mendin' their toys an' throwin' their balls an' spinnin'
their tops like the 'armless old soul 'e was! I'm right sorry 'e's gone!
Weircombe 'll miss 'im for sartin sure!"
And this was the general feeling of the whole village when the
unexpected departure of "old David" became known. Angus Reay, returning
in the afternoon, reported that he had walked half the way, and had
driven the other half with a man who had given him a lift in his trap,
right into Minehead, but had seen and heard nothing of the missing waif
and stray. Coming back to Weircombe with the carrier's cart, he had
questioned the carrier as to whether he had seen the old man anywhere
along the road, but this inquiry likewise met with failure.
"So the only thing to do, Mary," said Angus, finally, "is to believe his
own written word,--that he will be back with us before Sunday. I don't
think he means to leave you altogether in such an abrupt way,--that
would be churlish and ungrateful--and I'm sure he is neither."
"Oh, he's anything but churlish!" she answered quickly. "He has always
been most thoughtful and kind to me; and as for gratitude!--why, the
poor old dear makes too much of it altogether--one would think I had
given him a fortune instead of just taking common human care of him. I
expect he must have worked in some very superior house of business, for
though he's so poor, he has all the ways of a gentleman."
"What are the ways of a gentleman, my Mary?" demanded Angus, gaily. "Do
you know? I mean, do you know what they are nowadays? To stick a cigar
in one's mouth and smoke it all the time a woman is present--to keep
one's hat on before her, and to talk to her in such a loose, free and
easy fashion as might bring one's grandmother out of her grave and make
her venerable hair curl! Those are the 'ways' of certain present-time
'gentlemen' who keep all the restaurants and music-halls of London
going--and I don't rank good old David with these. I know what _you_
mean--you mean that he has all the fine feeling, delicacy and courtesy
of a gentleman, as 'gentlemen' used to be before our press was degraded
to its present level by certain clowns and jesters who make it their
business to jeer at every "gentlemanly" feeling that ever inspired
humanity--yes, I understand! He is a gentleman of the old
school,--well,--I think he is--and I think he would always be that, if
he tramped the road till he died. He must have seen better days."
"Oh yes, I'm sure of that!" said Mary. "So many really capable men get
turned out of work because they are old----"
"Well, there's one advantage about my profession," interrupted Angus.
"No one can turn _me_ out of literature either for young or old age, if
I choose to make a name in it! Think of that, my Mary! The glorious
independence of it! An author is a law unto himself, and if he succeeds,
he is the master of his own fate. Publishers are his humble
servants--waiting eagerly to snatch up his work that they may get all
they can for themselves out of it,--and the public--the great public
which, apart from all 'interested' critical bias, delivers its own
verdict, is always ready to hearken and to applaud the writer of its
choice. There is no more splendid and enviable life!--if I could only
make a hundred pounds a year by it, I would rather be an author than a
king! For if one has something in one's soul to say--something that is
vital, true, and human as well as divine, the whole world will pause to
listen. Yes, Mary! In all its toil and stress, its scheming for
self-advantage, its political changes, its little temporary passing
shows of empires and monarchies, the world will stop to hear what the
Thinker and the Writer tells it! The words of old Socrates still ring
down the ages--the thoughts of Shakespeare are still the basis of
English literature!--what a grand life it is to be among the least of
one of the writing band! I tell you, Mary, that even if I fail, I shall
be proud to have at any rate _tried_ to succeed!"
"You will not fail!" she said, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm. "I
shall see you win your triumph!"
"Well, if I cannot conquer everything with you by my side, I shall be
but a poor and worthless devil!" he answered. "And now I must be off and
endeavour to make up for my lost time this morning, running after David!
Poor old chap! Don't worry about him, Mary. I think you may take his
word for it that he means to be back before Sunday."
He left her then, and all the day and all the evening too she spent the
time alone. It would have been impossible to her to express in words
how greatly she missed the companionship of the gentle old man who had
so long been the object of her care. There was a sense of desolate
emptiness in the little cottage such as had not so deeply affected her
for years--not indeed since the first months following immediately on
her own father's death. That Angus Reay kept away was, she knew, care
for her on his part. Solitary woman as she was, the villagers, like all
people who live in very small, mentally restricted country places, would
have idly gossiped away her reputation had she received her lover into
her house alone. So she passed a very dismal time all by herself; and
closing up the house early, took little Charlie in her arms and went to
bed, where, much to her own abashment, she cried herself to sleep.
Meanwhile, David himself, for whom she fretted, had arrived in Exeter.
The journey had fatigued him considerably, though he had been able to
get fairly good food and a glass of wine at one of the junctions where
he had changed _en route_. On leaving the Exeter railway station, he
made his way towards the Cathedral, and happening to chance on a very
small and unpretending "Temperance Hotel" in a side street, where a
placard intimating that "Good Accommodation for Travellers" might be had
within, he entered and asked for a bedroom. He obtained it at once, for
his appearance was by no means against him, being that of a respectable
old working man who was prepared to pay his way in a humble, but
perfectly honest fashion. As soon as he had secured his room, which was
a curious little three-cornered apartment, partially obscured by the
shadows of the many buttresses of the Cathedral, his next care was to go
out into the High Street and provide himself with a good stock of
writing materials. These obtained, he returned to his temporary lodging,
where, after supper, he went to bed early in order to rise early. With
the morning light he was up and dressed, eager to be at work,--an inrush
of his old business energy came back on him,--his brain was clear, his
mental force keen and active. There happened to be an old-fashioned oak
table in his room, and drawing this to the window, he sat down to write
the document which his solicitor and friend, Sir Francis Vesey, had so
often urged him to prepare--his Will. He knew what a number of legal
technicalities might, or could be involved in this business, and was
therefore careful to make it as short, clear, and concise as possible,
leaving no chance anywhere open of doubt or discussion. And with a firm,
unwavering pen, in his own particularly distinct and characteristic
caligraphy, he disposed of everything of which he died possessed
"absolutely and without any conditions whatsoever" to Mary Deane,
spinster, at present residing in Weircombe, Somerset, adding the hope
that she would, if she saw fit to do so, carry out certain requests of
his, the testator's, as conveyed privately to her in a letter
accompanying the Will. All the morning long he sat thoughtfully
considering and weighing each word he used--till at last, when the
document was finished to his satisfaction, he folded it up, and putting
it in his pocket, started out to get his midday meal and find a lawyer's
office. He was somewhat surprised at his own alertness and vigour as he
walked through the streets of Exeter on this quest;--excitement buoyed
him up to such a degree that be was not conscious of the slightest
fatigue or lassitude--he felt almost young. He took his lunch at a small
restaurant where he saw city clerks and others of that type going in,
and afterwards, strolling up a dull little street which ended in a _cul
de sac_, he spied a dingy archway, offering itself as an approach to a
flight of equally dingy stairs. Here a brass plate, winking at the
passer-by, stated that "Rowden and Owlett, Solicitors," would be found
on the first floor. Helmsley paused, considering a moment--then, making
up his mind that "Rowden and Owlett" would suit his purpose as well as
any other equally unknown firm, he slowly climbed the steep and unwashed
stair. Opening the first door at the top of the flight, he saw a small
boy leaning both arms across a large desk, and watching the gyrations of
two white mice in a revolving cage.
"Hullo!" said the boy sharply, "what d' ye want?"
"I want to see Mr. Rowden or Mr. Owlett," he replied.
"Right y' are!" and the boy promptly seized the cage containing the
white mice and hid it in a cupboard. "You're our first caller to-day.
Mr. Rowden's gone to Dawlish,--but Mr. Owlett's in. Wait a minute."
Helmsley obeyed, sitting down in a chair near the door, and smiling to
himself at the evidences of slack business which the offices of Messrs.
Rowden and Owlett presented. In about five minutes the boy returned, and
gave him a confidential nod.
"You can go in now," he said; "Mr. Owlett was taking his after-dinner
snooze, but he's jumped up at once, and he's washed his hands and face,
so he's quite ready for business. This way, please!"
He beckoned with a rather dirty finger, and Helmsley followed him into a
small apartment where Mr. Owlett, a comfortably stout, middle-aged
gentleman, sat at a large bureau covered with papers, pretending to
read. He looked up as his hoped-for client entered, and flushed redly in
the face with suppressed vexation as he saw that it was only a working
man after all--"Some fellow wanting a debt collected," he decided,
pushing away his papers with a rather irritated movement. However, in
times when legal work was so scarce, it did not serve any good purpose
to show anger, so, smoothing his ruffled brow, he forced a reluctantly
condescending smile, as his office-boy, having ushered in the visitor,
left the room.
"Good afternoon, my man!" he said, with a patronising air. "What can I
do for you?"
"Well, not so very much, sir," and Helmsley took off his hat
deferentially, standing in an attitude of humility. "It's only a matter
of making my Will,--I've written it out myself, and if you would be so
good as to see whether it is all in order, I'm prepared to pay you for
your trouble."
"Oh, certainly, certainly!" Here Mr. Owlett took off his spectacles and
polished them. "I suppose you know it's not always a wise thing to draw
up your own Will yourself? You should always let a lawyer draw it up for
you."
"Yes, sir, I've heard that," answered Helmsley, with an air of
respectful attention--"And that's why I've brought the paper to you, for
if there's anything wrong with it, you can put it right, or draw it up
again if you think proper. Only I'd rather not be put to more expense
than I can help."
"Just so!" And the worthy solicitor sighed, as he realised that there
were no "pickings" to be made out of his present visitor--"Have you
brought the document with you?"
"Yes, sir!" Helmsley fumbled in his pocket, and drew out the paper with
a well-assumed air of hesitation; "I'm leaving everything I've got to a
woman who has been like a daughter to me in my old age--my wife and
children are dead--and I've no one that has any blood claim on me--so I
think the best thing I can do is to give everything I've got to the one
that's been kind to me in my need."
"Very right--very proper!" murmured Mr. Owlett, as he took the offered
document from Helmsley's hand and opened it--"Um--um!--let me see!----"
Here he read aloud--"I, David
Helmsley,--um--um!--Helmsley--Helmsley!--that's a name that I seem to
have heard somewhere!--David Helmsley!--yes!--why that's the name of a
multi-millionaire!--ha-ha-ha! A multi-millionaire! That's curious! Do
you know, my man, that your name is the same as that of one of the
richest men in the world?"
Helmsley permitted himself to smile.
"Really, sir? You don't say so!"
"Yes, yes!" And Mr. Owlett fixed his spectacles on his nose and beamed
at his humble client through them condescendingly--"One of the richest
men in the world!" And he smacked his lips as though he had just
swallowed a savoury morsel--"Amazing! Now if you were he, your Will
would be a world's affair--a positively world's affair!"
"Would it indeed?" And again Helmsley smiled.
"Everybody would talk of it," proceeded Owlett, lost in rapturous
musing--"The disposal of a rich man's millions is always a most
interesting subject of conversation! And you actually didn't know you
had such a rich namesake?"
"No, sir, I did not."
"Ah well! I suppose you live in the country, and people in the country
seldom hear of the names that are famous in towns. Now let me consider
this Will again--'I, David Helmsley, being in sound health of mind and
body, thanks be to God, do make this to be my Last Will and Testament,
revoking all former Wills, Codicils and Testamentary Dispositions. First
I commend my soul into the hands of God my Creator, hoping and
believing, through the merits of Jesus Christ my Saviour, to be made
partaker of life everlasting'--Dear me, dear me!" and Mr. Owlett took
off his spectacles. "You must be a very old-fashioned man! This sort of
thing is not at all necessary nowadays!"
"Not necessary, perhaps," said Helmsley gently--"But there is no harm in
putting it in, sir, I hope?"
"Oh, there's no harm! It doesn't affect the Will itself, of
course,--but--but--it's odd--it's unusual! You see nobody minds what
becomes of your Soul, or your Body either--the only question of
importance to any one is what is to be done with your Money!"
"I see!" And Helmsley nodded his head and spoke with perfect
mildness--"But I'm an old man, and I've lived long enough to be fonder
of old-fashioned ways than new, and I should like, if you please, to let
it be known that I died a Christian, which is, to me, not a member of
any particular church or chapel, but just a Christian--a man who
faithfully believes in the teaching of our Lord Jesus Christ."
The attorney stared at him astonished, and moved by a curious sense of
shame. There was something both pathetic and dignified in the aspect of
this frail old "working man," who stood before him so respectfully with
his venerable white hair uncovered, and his eyes full of an earnest
resolution which was not to be gainsaid. Coughing a cough of nervous
embarrassment, he again glanced at the document before him.
"Of course," he said--"if you wish it, there is not the slightest
objection to your making this--this public statement as to your
religious convictions. It does not affect the disposal of your worldly
goods in any way. It used--yes, it used to be quite the ordinary way of
beginning a Last Will and Testament--but we have got beyond any special
commendation of our souls to God, you know----"
"Oh yes, I quite understand that," rejoined Helmsley. "Present-day
people like to think that God takes no interest whatever in His own
creation. It's a more comfortable doctrine to believe that He is
indifferent rather than observant. But, so far as I'm concerned, I don't
go with the time."
"No, I see you don't," and Mr. Owlett bent his attention anew on the
Will--"And the religious preliminary being quite unimportant, you shall
have it your own way. Apart from that, you've drawn it up quite
correctly, and in very good form. I suppose you understand that you have
in this Will left 'everything' to the named legatee, Mary Deane,
spinster, that is to say, excluding no item whatsoever? That she becomes
the possessor, in fact, of your whole estate?"
Helmsley bent his head in assent.
"That is what I wish, sir, and I hope I have made it clear."
"Yes, you have made it quite clear. There is no room for discussion on
any point. You wish us to witness your signature?"
"If you please, sir."
And he advanced to the bureau ready to sign. Mr. Owlett rang a bell
sharply twice. An angular man with a youngish face and a very elderly
manner answered the summons.
"My confidential clerk," said Owlett, briefly introducing him. "Here,
Prindle! I want you to be witness with me to this gentleman's Will."
Prindle bowed, and passed his hand across his mouth to hide a smile.
Prindle was secretly amused to think that a working man had anything to
leave worth the trouble of making a Will at all. Mr. Owlett dipped a pen
in ink, and handed it to his client. Whereat, Helmsley wrote his
signature in a clear, bold, unfaltering hand. Mr. Owlett appended his
own name, and then Prindle stepped up to sign. As he saw the signature
"David Helmsley," he paused and seemed astonished. Mr. Owlett gave a
short laugh.
"We know that name, don't we, Prindle?"
"Well, sir, I should say all the world knew it!" replied Prindle.
"All the world--yes!--all except our friend here," said Owlett, nodding
towards Helmsley. "You didn't know, my man, did you, that there was a
multi-millionaire existing of the same name as yourself?"
"No, sir, I did not!" answered Helmsley. "I hope he's made his Will!"
"I hope he has!" laughed the attorney. "There'll be a big haul for the
Crown if he hasn't!"
Prindle, meanwhile, was slowly writing "James George Prindle, Clerk to
the aforesaid Robert Owlett" underneath his legal employer's signature.
"I should suggest," said Mr. Owlett, addressing David, jocosely, "that
you go and make yourself known to the rich Mr. Helmsley as a namesake of
his!"
"Would you, sir? And why?"
"Well, he might be interested. Men as rich as he is always want a new
'sensation' to amuse them. And he might, for all you know, make you a
handsome present, or leave you a little legacy!"
Helmsley smiled--he very nearly laughed. But he carefully guarded his
equanimity.
"Thank you for the hint, sir! I'll try and see him some day!"
"I hear he's dead," said Prindle, finishing the signing of his name and
laying down his pen. "It was in the papers some time back."
"But it was contradicted," said Owlett quickly.
"Ah, but I think it was true all the same," and Prindle shook his head
obstinately. "The papers ought to know."
"Oh yes, they ought to know, but in nine cases out of ten they _don't_
know," declared Owlett. "And if you contradict their lies, they're so
savage at being put in the wrong that they'll blazon the lies all the
more rather than confess them. That will do, Prindle! You can go."
Prindle, aware that his employer was not a man to be argued with, at
once retired, and Owlett, folding up the Will, handed it to Helmsley.
"That's all right," he said, "I suppose you want to take it with you?
You can leave it with us if you like."
"Thank you, but I'd rather have it about me," Helmsley answered. "You
see I'm old and not very strong, and I might die at any time. I'd like
to keep my Will on my own person."
"Well, take care of it, that's all," said the solicitor, smiling at what
he thought his client's rustic _naïveté_. "No matter how little you've
got to leave, it's just as well it should go where you want it to go
without trouble or difficulty. And there's generally a quarrel over
every Will."
"I hope there's no chance of any quarrel over mine," said Helmsley, with
a touch of anxiety.
"Oh no! Not the least in the world! Even if you were as great a
millionaire as the man who happens to bear the same name as yourself,
the Will would hold good."
"Thank you!" And Helmsley placed on the lawyer's desk more than his
rightful fee, which that respectable personage accepted without any
hesitation. "I'm very much obliged to you. Good afternoon!"
"Good afternoon!" And Mr. Owlett leaned back in his chair, blandly
surveying his visitor. "I suppose you quite understand that, having made
your legatee, Mary Deane, your sole executrix likewise, you give her
absolute control?"
"Oh yes, I quite understand that!" answered Helmsley. "That is what I
wish her to have--the free and absolute control of all I die possessed
of."
"Then you may be quite easy in your mind," said the lawyer. "You have
made that perfectly clear."
Whereat Helmsley again said "Good afternoon," and again Mr. Owlett
briefly responded, sweeping the money his client had paid him off his
desk, and pocketing the same with that resigned air of injured virtue
which was his natural expression whenever he thought of how little good
hard cash a country solicitor could make in the space of twenty-four
hours. Helmsley, on leaving the office, returned at once to his lodging
under the shadow of the Cathedral and resumed his own work, which was
that of writing several letters to various persons connected with his
financial affairs, showing to each and all what a grip he held, even in
absence, on the various turns of the wheel of fortune, and dating all
his communications from Exeter, "at which interesting old town I am
making a brief stay," he wrote, for the satisfaction of such curiosity
as his correspondents might evince, as well as for the silencing of all
rumours respecting his supposed death. Last of all he wrote to Sir
Francis Vesey, as follows:--
"MY DEAR VESEY,--On this day, in the good old city of Exeter, I have
done what you so often have asked me to do. I have made my Will. It
is drawn up entirely in my own handwriting, and has been duly
declared correct and valid by a legal firm here, Messrs. Rowden and
Owlett. Mr. Owlett and Mr. Owlett's clerk were good enough to
witness my signature. I wish you to consider this communication made
to you in the most absolute confidence, and as I carry the said
document, namely my 'Last Will and Testament,' upon my person, it
will not reach your hands till I am no more. Then I trust you will
see the business through without unnecessary trouble or worry to the
person who, by my desire, will inherit all I have to leave.
"I have spent nearly a year of almost perfect happiness away from
London and all the haunts of London men, and I have found what I
sought, but what you probably doubted I could ever find--Love! The
treasures of earth I possess and have seldom enjoyed--but the
treasure of Heaven,--that pure, disinterested, tender affection,
which bears the stress of poverty, sickness, and all other kindred
ills,--I never had till now. And now the restless craving of my soul
is pacified. I am happy,--moreover, I am perfectly at ease as
regards the disposal of my wealth when I am gone. I know you will be
glad to hear this, and that you will see that my last wishes and
instructions are faithfully carried out in every respect--that is,
if I should die before I see you again, which I hope may not be the
case.
"It is my present intention to return to London shortly, and tell
you personally the story of such adventures as have chanced to me
since I left Carlton House Terrace last July, but 'man proposes, and
God disposes,' and one can be certain of nothing. I need not ask you
to keep all my affairs going as if I myself were on the scene of
action, and also to inform the servants of my household to prepare
for my return, as I may be back in town any day. I must thank you
for your prompt and businesslike denial of the report of my death,
which I understand has been circulated by the press. I am well--as
well as a man of my age can expect to be, save for a troublesome
heart-weakness, which threatens a brief and easy ending to my
career. But for this, I should esteem myself stronger than some men
who are still young. And one of the strongest feelings in me at the
present moment (apart altogether from the deep affection and devout
gratitude I have towards the one who under my Will is to inherit all
I have spent my life to gain) is my friendship for you, my dear
Vesey,--a friendship cemented by the experience of years, and which
I trust may always be unbroken, even remaining in your mind as an
unspoilt memory after I am gone where all who are weary, long, yet
fear to go! Nevertheless, my faith is firm that the seeming darkness
of death will prove but the veil which hides the light of a more
perfect life, and I have learned, through the purity of a great and
unselfish human love, to believe in the truth of the Love
Divine.--Your friend always,
DAVID HELMSLEY."
This letter finished, he went out and posted it with all the others he
had written, and then passed the evening in listening to the organist
practising grave anthems and voluntaries in the Cathedral. Every little
item he could think of in his business affairs was carefully gone over
during the three days he spent in Exeter,--nothing was left undone that
could be so arranged as to leave his worldly concerns in perfect and
unquestionable order--and when, as "Mr. David," he paid his last daily
score at the little Temperance hotel where he had stayed since the
Tuesday night, and started by the early train of Saturday morning on his
return to Minehead, he was at peace with himself and all men. True it
was that the making of his will had brought home to him the fact that it
was not the same thing as when, being in the prime of life, he had made
it in favour of his two sons, who were now dead,--it was really and
truly a final winding-up of his temporal interests, and an admitted
approach to the verge of the Eternal,--but he was not depressed by this
consciousness. On the contrary, a happy sense of perfect calm pervaded
his whole being, and as the train bore him swiftly through the quiet,
lovely land back to Minehead, that sea-washed portal to the little
village paradise which held the good angel of his life, he silently
thanked God that he had done the work which he had started out to do,
and that he had been spared to return and look again into the beloved
face of the one woman in all the world who had given him a true
affection without any "motive," or hope of reward. And he murmured again
his favourite lines:--
"Let the sweet heavens endure,
Not close nor darken above me,
Before I am quite, quite sure
That there is one to love me!
Then let come what come may,
To a life that has been so sad,
I shall have had my day!"
"That is true!" he said--"And being 'quite, quite sure' beyond all
doubt, that I have found 'one to love me' whose love is of the truest,
holiest and purest, what more can I ask of Divine goodness!"
And his face was full of the light of a heart's content and peace, as
the dimpled hill coast of Somerset came into view, and the warm spring
sunshine danced upon the sea.