And now there came a wondrous week of perfect weather. All the lovely
Somersetshire coast lay under the warmth and brilliance of a dazzling
sun,--the sea was smooth,--and small sailing skiffs danced merrily up
and down from Minehead to Weircombe and back again with the ease and
security of seabirds, whose happiest resting-place is on the waves. A
lovely calm environed the little village,--it was not a haunt of cheap
"trippers,"--and summer-time was not only a working-time, but a playing
time too with all the inhabitants, both young and old. The shore, with
its fine golden sand, warm with the warmth of the cloudless sky, was a
popular resort, and Helmsley, though his physical weakness perceptibly
increased, was often able to go down there, assisted by Mary and Angus,
one on each side supporting him and guarding his movements. It pleased
him to sit under the shelter of the rocks and watch the long shining
ripples of ocean roll forwards and backwards on the shore in silvery
lines, edged with delicate, lace-like fringes of foam,--and the slow,
monotonous murmur of the gathering and dispersing water soothed his
nerves and hushed a certain inward fretfulness of spirit which teased
him now and then, but to which he bravely strove not to give way.
Sometimes--but only sometimes--he felt that it was hard to die. Hard to
be old just as he was beginning to learn how to live,--hard to pass out
of the beauty and wonder of this present life with all its best joys
scarcely experienced, and exchange the consciousness of what little he
knew for something concerning which no one could honestly give him any
authentic information.
"Yet I might have said the same, had I been conscious, before I was
born!" he thought. "In a former state of existence I might have said,
'Why send me from this that I know and enjoy, to something which I have
not seen and therefore cannot believe in?' Perhaps, for all I can tell,
I did say it. And yet God had His way with me and placed me here--for
what? Only to learn a lesson! That is truly all I have done. For the
making of money is as nothing in the sight of Eternal Law,--it is
merely man's accumulation of perishable matter, which, like all
perishable things, is swept away in due course, while he who accumulated
it is of no more account as a mere corpse than his poverty-stricken
brother. What a foolish striving it all is! What envyings, spites,
meannesses and miserable pettinesses arise from this greed of money!
Yes, I have learned my lesson! I wonder whether I shall now be permitted
to pass into a higher standard, and begin again!"
These inner musings sometimes comforted and sometimes perplexed him, and
often he was made suddenly aware of a strange and exhilarating
impression of returning youthfulness--a buoyancy of feeling and a
delightful ease, such as a man in full vigour experiences when, after
ascending some glorious mountain summit, he sees the panorama of a world
below him. His brain was very clear and active--and whenever he chose to
talk, there were plenty of his humble friends ready to listen. One day
the morning papers were full of great headlines announcing the
assassination of one of the world's throned rulers, and the Weircombe
fishermen, discussing the news, sought the opinion of "old David"
concerning the matter. "Old David" was, however, somewhat slow to be
drawn on so questionable a subject, but Angus Reay was not so reticent.
"Why should kings spend money recklessly on their often filthy vices and
pleasures," he demanded, "while thousands, ay, millions of their
subjects starve? As long as such a wretched state of things exists, so
long will there be Anarchy. But I know the head and front of the
offending! I know the Chief of all the Anarchists!"
"Lord bless us!" exclaimed Mrs. Twitt, who happened to be standing by.
"Ye don't say so! Wot's' 'ee like?"
"He's all shapes and sizes--all colours too!" laughed Angus. "He's
simply the Irresponsible Journalist!"
"As you were once!" suggested Helmsley, with a smile.
"No, I was never 'irresponsible,'" declared Reay, emphatically. "I may
have been faulty in the following of my profession, but I never wrote a
line that I thought might cause uneasiness in the minds of the million.
What I mean is, that the Irresponsible Journalist who gives more
prominence to the doings of kings and queens and stupid 'society' folk,
than to the actual work, thought, and progress of the nation at large,
is making a forcing-bed for the growth of Anarchy. Consider the
feelings of a starving man who reads in a newspaper that certain people
in London give dinners to their friends at a cost of Two Guineas a head!
Consider the frenzied passion of a father who sees his children dying of
want, when he reads that the mistress of a king wears diamonds worth
forty thousand pounds round her throat! If the balance of material
things is for the present thus set awry, and such vile and criminal
anachronisms exist, the proprietors of newspapers should have better
sense than to flaunt them before the public eye as though they deserved
admiration. The Anarchist at any rate has an ideal. It may be a mistaken
ideal, but whatever it is, it is a desperate effort to break down a
system which anarchists imagine is at the root of all the bribery,
corruption, flunkeyism and money-grubbing of the world. Moreover, the
Anarchist carries his own life in his hand, and the risk he runs can
scarcely be for his pleasure. Yet he braves everything for the 'ideal,'
which he fancies, if realised, will release others from the yoke of
injustice and tyranny. Few people have any 'ideals' at all
nowadays;--what they want to do is to spend as much as they like, and
eat as much as they can. And the newspapers that persist in chronicling
the amount of their expenditure and the extent of their appetites, are
the real breeders and encouragers of every form of anarchy under the
sun!"
"You may be right," said Helmsley, slowly. "Indeed I fear you are! If
one is to judge by old-time records, it was a kinder, simpler world when
there was no daily press."
"Man is an imitative animal," continued Reay. "The deeds he hears of,
whether good or bad, he seeks to emulate. In bygone ages crime existed,
of course, but it was not blazoned in headlines to the public. Good and
brave deeds were praised and recorded, and as a consequence--perhaps as
a result of imitation--there were many heroes. In our times a good or
brave deed is squeezed into an obscure paragraph,--while intellect and
brilliant talent receive scarcely any acknowledgment--the silly doings
of 'society' and the Court are the chief matter,--hence, possibly, the
preponderance of dunces and flunkeys, again produced by sheer
'imitativeness.' Is it pleasant for a man with starvation at his door,
to read that a king pays two thousand a year to his cook? That same two
thousand comes out of the pockets of the nation--and the starving man
thinks some of it ought to fall in _his_ way instead of providing for a
cooker of royal victuals! There is no end to the mischief generated by
the publication of such snobbish statements, whether true or false. This
was the kind of irresponsible talk that set Jean-Jacques Rousseau
thinking and writing, and kindling the first spark of the fire of the
French Revolution. 'Royal-Flunkey' methods of journalism provoke deep
resentment in the public mind,--for a king after all is only the paid
servant of the people--he is not an idol or a deity to which an
independent nation should for ever crook the knee. And from the
smouldering anger of the million at what they conceive to be injustice
and hypocrisy, springs Anarchy."
"All very well said,--but now suppose you were a wealthy man, what would
you do with your money?" asked Helmsley.
Angus smiled.
"I don't know, David!--I've never realised the position yet. But I
should try to serve others more than to serve myself."
The conversation ceased then, for Helmsley looked pale and exhausted. He
had been on the seashore for the greater part of the afternoon, and it
was now sunset. Yet he was very unwilling to return home, and it was
only by gentle and oft-repeated persuasion that he at last agreed to
leave his well-loved haunt, leaning as usual on Mary's arm, with Angus
walking on the other side. Once or twice as he slowly ascended the
village street he paused, and looked back at the tranquil loveliness of
ocean, glimmering as with millions of rubies in the red glow of the
sinking sun.
"'And there shall be no more sea!'" he quoted, dreamily--"I should be
sorry if that were true! One would miss the beautiful sea!--even in
heaven!"
He walked very feebly, and Mary exchanged one or two anxious glances
with Angus. But on reaching the cottage again, his spirits revived.
Seated in his accustomed chair, he smiled as the little dog, Charlie,
jumped on his knee, and peered with a comically affectionate gravity
into his face.
"Asking me how I am, aren't you, Charlie!" he said, cheerfully--"I'm all
right, wee man!--all right!"
Apparently Charlie was not quite sure about it, for he declined to be
removed from the position he had chosen, and snuggling close down on
his master's lap, curled himself up in a silky ball and went to sleep,
now and then opening a soft dark eye to show that his slumbers were not
so profound as they seemed.
That evening when Angus had gone, after saying a prolonged good-night to
Mary in the little scented garden under the lovely radiance of an almost
full moon, Helmsley called her to his side.
"Mary!"
She came at once, and put her arm around him. He looked up at her,
smiling.
"You think I'm very tired, I know," he said--"But I'm not. I--I want to
say a word to you."
Still keeping her arm round him, she patted his shoulder gently.
"Yes, David! What is it?"
"It is just this. You know I told you I had some papers that I valued,
locked away in the little cupboard in my room?"
"Yes. I know."
"Well now,--when--when I die--will you promise me to take these papers
yourself to the address that is written on them? That's all I ask of
you! Will you?"
"Of course I will!" she said, readily--"You know you've kept the key
yourself since you got well from your bad fever last year----"
"There is the key," he said, drawing it from his pocket, and holding it
up to her--"Take it now!"
"But why now----?" she began.
"Because I wish it!" he answered, with a slight touch of
obstinacy--then, smiling rather wistfully, he added, "It will comfort me
to know you have it in your own possession. And Mary--promise me that
you will let no one--not even Angus--see or touch these papers!--that
you will take the parcel just as you find it, straight to the person to
whom it is addressed, and deliver it yourself to him! I don't want you
to _swear_, but I want you to put your dear kind hand in mine, and say
'On my word of honour I will not open the packet old David has entrusted
to me. When he dies I will take it my own self to the person to whom it
is addressed, and wait till I am told that everything in it has been
received and understood.' Will you, for my comfort, say these words
after me, Mary?"
"Of course I will!"
And placing her hand in his, she repeated it slowly word for word. He
watched her closely as she spoke, her eyes gazing candidly into his own.
Then he heaved a deep sigh.
"Thank you, my dear! That will do. God bless you! And now to bed!"
He rose somewhat unsteadily, and she saw he was very weak.
"Don't you feel so well, David?" she asked, anxiously. "Would you like
me to sit up with you?"
"No, no, my dear, no! All I want is a good sleep--a good long sleep. I'm
only tired."
She saw him into his room, and, according to her usual custom, put a
handbell on the small table which was at the side of his bed. Charlie,
trotting at her heels, suddenly began to whimper. She stooped and picked
the little creature up in her arms.
"Mind you ring if you want me," she said to Helmsley then,--"I'm just
above you, and I can hear the least sound."
He looked at her earnestly. His eyes were almost young in their
brightness.
"God bless you, Mary!" he said--"You've been a good angel to me! I never
quite believed in Heaven, but looking at you I know there is such a
place--the place where you were born!"
She smiled--but her eyes were soft with unshed tears.
"You think too well of me, David," she said. "I'm not an angel--I wish I
were! I'm only a very poor, ordinary sort of woman."
"Are you?" he said, and smiled--"Well, think so, if it pleases you.
Good-night--and again God bless you!"
He patted the tiny head of the small Charlie, whom she held nestling
against her breast.
"Good-night, Charlie!"
The little dog licked his hand and looked at him wistfully.
"Don't part with him, Mary!" he said, suddenly--"Let him always have a
home with you!"
"Now, David! You really are tired out and over-melancholy! As if I
should ever part with him!" And she kissed Charlie's silky head--"We'll
all keep together! Good-night, David!"
"Good-night!" he answered. He watched her as she went through the
doorway, holding the dog in her arms and turning back to smile at him
over her shoulder--anon he listened to her footfall ascending the
stairway to her own room--then, to her gentle movements to and fro above
his bed--till presently all was silent. Silence--except for the measured
plash of the sea, which he heard distinctly echoing up through the
coombe from the shore. A great loneliness environed him--touched by a
great awe. He felt himself to be a solitary soul in the midst of some
vast desert, yet not without the consciousness that a mystic joy, an
undreamed-of glory, was drawing near that should make that desert
"blossom like the rose." He moved slowly and feebly to the
window--against one-half of the latticed pane leaned a bunch of white
roses, shining with a soft pearl hue in the light of a lovely moon.
"It is a beautiful world!" he said, half aloud--"No one in his right
mind could leave it without some regret!"
Then an inward voice seemed to whisper to him--
"You knew nothing of this world you call so beautiful before you entered
it; may there not be another world still more beautiful of which you
equally know nothing, but of which you are about to make an experience,
all life being a process of continuous higher progress?"
And this idea now not only seemed to him possible but almost a
certainty. For as our last Laureate expresses it:--
"Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
No life that breathes with human breath
Has ever truly longed for death.
'Tis life whereof our nerves are scant,
Oh life, not death, for which we pant--
More life, and fuller, that I want!"
His brain was so active and his memory so clear that he was somewhat
surprised to feel his body so feeble and aching, when at last he
undressed, and lay down to sleep. He thought of many things--of his
boyhood's home out in Virginia--of the stress and excitement of his
business career--of his extraordinary successes, piled one on the top of
the other--and then of the emptiness of it all!
"I should have been happier and wiser," he said, "if I had lived the
life of a student in some quiet home among the hills--where I should
have seen less of men and learned more of God. But it is too late
now--too late!"
And a curious sorrow and pity moved him for certain men he knew who were
eating up the best time of their lives in a mad struggle for money,
losing everything of real value in their scramble for what was, after
all, so valueless,--sacrificing peace, honour, love, and a quiet mind,
for what in the eternal countings is of no more consideration than the
dust of the highroad. Not what a man _has_, but what he _is_,--this is
the sole concern of Divine Equity. Earthly ideas of justice are in
direct opposition to this law, but the finite can never overbalance the
infinite. We may, if we so please, honour a king as king,--but with God
there are no kings. There are only Souls, "made in His image." And
whosoever defaces that Divine Image, whether he be base-born churl or
crowned potentate, must answer for the wicked deed. How many of us view
our social acquaintances from any higher standard than the extent of
their cash accounts, or the "usefulness" of their influence? Yet the
inexorable Law works silently on,--and day after day, century after
century, shows us the vanity of riches, the fall of pride and power, the
triumph of genius, the immutability of love! And we are still turning
over the well-worn pages of the same old school-book which was set
before Tyre and Sidon, Carthage and Babylon--the same, the very same,
with one saving exception--that a Divine Teacher came to show us how to
spell it and read it aright--and He was crucified! Doubtless were He to
come again and once more try to help us, we should re-enact that
old-time Jewish murder!
Lying quietly in his bed, Helmsley conversed with his inner self, as it
were, reasoning with his own human perplexities and gradually
unravelling them. After all, if his life had been, as he considered,
only a lesson, was it not good for him that he had learned that lesson?
A passing memory of Lucy Sorrel flitted across his brain--and he thought
how singular it was that chance should have brought him into touch with
the very man who would have given her that "rose of love" he desired she
should wear, had she realised the value and beauty of that immortal
flower. He, David Helmsley, had been apparently led by devious ways, not
only to find an unselfish love for himself, but also to be the
instrument of atoning to Angus Reay for his first love-disappointment,
and uniting him to a woman whose exquisitely tender and faithful nature
was bound to make the joy and sanctity of his life. In this, had not
all things been ordered well? Did it not seem that, notwithstanding his,
Helmsley's, self-admitted worthlessness, the Divine Power had used him
for the happiness of others, to serve as a link of love between two
deserving souls? He began to think that it was not by chance that he had
been led to wander away from the centre of his business interests, and
lose himself on the hills above Weircombe. Not accident, but a high
design had been hidden in this incident--a design in which Self had been
transformed to Selflessness, and loneliness to love. "I should like to
believe in God--if I could!" This he had said to his friend Vesey, on
the last night he had seen him. And now--did he believe? Yes!--for he
had benefited by his first experience of what a truly God-like love may
be--the love of a perfectly unselfish, tender, devout woman who, for no
motive at all, but simply out of pure goodness and compassion for sorrow
and suffering, had rescued one whom she judged to be in need of help. If
therefore God could make one poor woman so divinely forbearing and
gentle, it was certain that He, from whom all Love must emanate, was yet
more merciful than the most merciful woman, as well as stronger than the
strongest man. And he believed--believed implicitly;--lifted to the
height of a perfect faith by the help of a perfect love. In the mirror
of one sweet and simple human character he had seen the face of God--and
he was of the same mind as the mighty musician who, when he was dying,
cried out in rapture--"I believe I am only at the Beginning!"[2] He was
conscious of a strange dual personality,--some spirit within him
urgently expressed itself as being young, clamorous, inquisitive, eager,
and impatient of restraint, while his natural bodily self was so weary
and feeble that he felt as if he could scarcely move a hand. He listened
for a little while to the ticking of the clock in the kitchen which was
next to his room,--and by and by, being thoroughly drowsy, he sank into
a heavy slumber. He did not know that Mary, anxious about him, had not
gone to bed at all, but had resolved to sit up all night in case he
should call her or want for anything. But the hours wore on peacefully
for him till the moon began her downward course towards the west, and
the tide having rolled in to its highest mark, began to ebb and flow out
again. Then--all at once--he awoke--smitten by
a shock of pain that seemed to crash through his heart and send his
brain swirling into a blind chaos. Struggling for breath, he sprang up
in his bed, and instinctively snatched the handbell at his side. He was
hardly aware of ringing it, so great was his agony--but presently,
regaining a glimmering sense of consciousness, he found Mary's arms
round him, and saw Mary's eyes looking tenderly into his own.
"David, dear David!" And the sweet voice was shaken by tears.
"David!--Oh, my poor dear, don't you know me?"
Know her? In the Valley of the Shadow what other Angel could there be so
faithful or so tender! He sighed, leaning heavily against her bosom.
"Yes, dear--I know you!" he gasped, faintly. "But--I am very ill--dying,
I think! Open the window--give me air!"
She laid his head gently back on the pillow, and ran quickly to throw
open the lattice. In that same moment, the dog Charlie, who had followed
her downstairs from her room, jumped on the bed, and finding his
master's hand lying limp and pallid outside the coverlet, fawned upon it
with a plaintive cry. The cool sea-air rushed in, and Helmsley's sinking
strength revived. He turned his eyes gratefully towards the stream of
silvery moonlight that poured through the open casement.
"'Angels ever bright and fair!'" he murmured--then as Mary came back to
his side, he smiled vaguely; "I thought I heard my little sister
singing!"
Slipping her arm again under his head, she carefully administered a dose
of the cordial which had been made up for him as a calmative against his
sudden heart attacks.
He swallowed it slowly and with difficulty.
"I'm--I'm all right," he said, feebly. "The pain has gone. I'm sorry to
have wakened you up, Mary!--but you're always kind and patient----"
His voice broke--and a grey pallor began to steal almost imperceptibly
upwards over his wasted features. She watched him, her heart beating
fast with grief and terror,--the tears rushing to her eyes in spite of
her efforts to restrain them. For she saw that he was dying. The
solemnly musical plash of the sea sounded rhythmically upon the quiet
air like the soothing murmur of a loving mother's lullaby, and the
radiance of the moonlight flooded the little room with mystical glory.
In her womanly tenderness she drew him more protectingly into the
embrace of her kind arm, as though seeking to hold him back from the
abyss of the Unknown, and held his head close against her breast. He
opened his eyes and saw her thus bending over him. A smile brightened
his face--a smile of youth, and hope, and confidence.
"The end is near, Mary!" he said in a clear, calm voice; "but--it's not
difficult! There is no pain. And you are with me. That is enough!--that
is more than I ever hoped for!--more than I deserve! God bless you
always!"
He shut his eyes again--but opened them quickly in a sudden struggle for
breath.
"The papers!" he gasped. "Mary--Mary--you won't forget--your promise!"
"No, David!--dear David!" she sobbed. "I won't forget!"
The paroxysm passed, and his hand wandered over the coverlet, where it
encountered the soft, crouching head of the little dog who was lying
close to him, shivering in every limb.
"Why, here's Charlie!" he whispered, weakly. "Poor wee Charlie! 'Take
care of me' is written on his collar. Mary will take care of you,
Charlie!--good-bye, little man!"
He lay quiet then, but his eyes were wide open, gazing not upward, but
straight ahead, as though they saw some wondrous vision in the little
room.
"Strange!--strange that I did not know all this before!" he
murmured--and then was silent, still gazing straight before him. All at
once a great shudder shook his body--and his thin features grew suddenly
pinched and wan.
"It is almost morning!" he said, and his voice was like an echo of
itself from very far away. "The sun will rise--but I shall not be here
to see the sun or you, Mary!" and rallying his fast ebbing strength he
turned towards her. "Keep your arms about me!--pray for me!--God will
hear you--God must hear His own! Don't cry, dear! Kiss me!"
She kissed him, clasping his poor frail form to her heart as though he
were a child, and tenderly smoothing back his venerable snow-white
hair. A slumbrous look of perfect peace softened the piteousness of his
dying eyes.
"The only treasure!" he murmured, faintly. "The treasure of
Heaven--Love! God bless you for giving it to me, Mary!--good-bye, my
dear!"
"Not good-bye, David!" she cried. "No--not good-bye!"
"Yes--good-bye!" he said,--and then, as another strong shudder convulsed
him, he made a last feeble effort to lay his head against her bosom.
"Don't let me go, Mary! Hold me!--closer!--closer! Your heart is warm,
ah, so warm, Mary!--and death is cold--cold----!"
Another moment--and the moonlight, streaming through the open window,
fell on the quiet face of a dead man. Then came silence--broken only by
the gentle murmur of the sea, and the sound of a woman's weeping.
[Footnote 2: Beethoven.]