There was a moment's silence, broken only by the roar and din of the
London city traffic outside, which sounded like the thunder of mighty
wheels--the wheels of a rolling world. And then Sir Francis, gently
taking Mary's hand in his own, raised her from the ground.
"My dear,"--he said, huskily--"You must not--you really must not give
way! See,"--and he took up a sealed letter from among the documents on
the desk, addressed "To Mary"--and handed it to her--"my late friend
asks me in the last written words I have from him to give this to you. I
will leave you alone to read it. You will be quite private in this
room--and no one will enter till you ring. Here is the bell,"--and he
indicated it--"I think--indeed I am sure, when you understand
everything, you will accept the great responsibility which will now
devolve upon you, in as noble a spirit as that in which you accepted the
care of David Helmsley himself when you thought him no more than what in
very truth he was--a lonely-hearted old man, searching for what few of
us ever find--an unselfish love!"
He left her then--and like one in a dream, she opened and read the
letter he had given her--a letter as beautiful and wise and tender as
ever the fondest father could have written to the dearest of daughters.
Everything was explained in it--everything made clear; and gradually she
realised the natural, strong and pardonable craving of the rich, unloved
man, to seek out for himself some means whereby he might leave all his
world's gainings to one whose kindness to him had not been measured by
any knowledge of his wealth, but which had been bestowed upon him solely
for simple love's sake. Every line Helmsley had written to her in this
last appeal to her tenderness, came from his very heart, and went to her
own heart again, moving her to the utmost reverence, pity and affection.
In his letter he enclosed a paper with a list of bequests which he left
to her charge.
"I could not name them in my Will,"--he wrote--"as this would have
disclosed my identity--but you, my dear, will be more exact than the law
in the payment of what I have here set down as just. And, therefore, to
you I leave this duty."
First among these legacies came one of Ten Thousand Pounds to "my old
friend Sir Francis Vesey,"--and then followed a long list of legacies to
servants, secretaries, and workpeople generally. The sum of Five Hundred
Pounds was to be paid to Miss Tranter, hostess of "The Trusty
Man,"--"for her kindness to me on the one night I passed under her
hospitable roof,"--and sums of Two Hundred Pounds each were left to
"Matthew Peke, Herb Gatherer," and Farmer Joltram, both these personages
to be found through the aforesaid Miss Tranter. Likewise a sum of Two
Hundred Pounds was to be paid to one "Meg Ross--believed to hold a farm
near Watchett in Somerset." No one that had served the poor "tramp" was
forgotten by the great millionaire;--a sum of Five Hundred Pounds was
left to John Bunce, "with grateful and affectionate thanks for his
constant care"--and a final charge to Mary was the placing of Fifty
Thousand Pounds in trust for the benefit of Weircombe, its Church, and
its aged poor. The money in bank notes, enclosed with the testator's
last Will and Testament, was to be given to Mary for her own immediate
use,--and then came the following earnest request;--"I desire that the
sum of Half-a-crown, made up of coppers and one sixpence, which will be
found with these effects, shall be enclosed in a casket of gold and
inscribed with the words 'The "surprise gift" collected by "Tom o' the
Gleam" for David Helmsley, when as a tramp on the road he seemed to be
in need of the charity and sympathy of his fellow men and which to him
was
MORE PRECIOUS THAN MANY MILLIONS.
And I request that the said casket containing these coins may be
retained by Mary Deane as a valued possession in her family, to be
handed down as a talisman and cornerstone of fortune for herself and her
heirs in perpetuity."
Finally the list of bequests ended with one sufficiently unusual to be
called eccentric. It ran thus:--"To Angus Reay I leave Mary Deane--and
with Her, all that I value, and more than I have ever possessed!"
Gradually, very gradually, Mary, sitting alone in Sir Francis Vesey's
office, realised the whole position,--gradually the trouble and
excitation of her mind calmed down, and her naturally even temperament
reasserted itself. She was rich,--but though she tried to realise the
fact, she could not do so, till at last the thought of Angus and how she
might be able now to help him on with his career, roused a sudden rush
of energy within her--which, however, was not by any means actual
happiness. A great weight seemed to have fallen on her life--and she was
bowed down by its heaviness. Kissing David Helmsley's letter, she put it
in her bosom,--he had asked that its contents might be held sacred, and
that no eyes but her own should scan his last words, and to her that
request of a dead man was more than the command of a living King. The
list of bequests she held in her hand ready to show Sir Francis Vesey
when he entered, which he did as soon as she touched the bell. He saw
that, though very pale, she was now comparatively calm and collected,
and as she raised her eyes and tried to smile at him, he realised what a
beautiful woman she was.
"Please forgive me for troubling you so much,"--she said, gently--"I am
very sorry! I understand it all now,--I have read David's letter,--I
shall always call him David, I think!--and I quite see how it all
happened. I can't help being sorry--very sorry, that he has left his
money to me--because it will be so difficult to know how to dispose of
it for the best. But surely a great deal of it will go in these
legacies,"--and she handed him the paper she held--"You see he names you
first."
Sir Francis stared at the document, fairly startled and overcome by his
late friend's generosity, as well as by Mary's naïve candour.
"My dear Miss Deane,"--he began, with deep embarrassment.
"You will tell me how to do everything, will you not?" she interrupted
him, with an air of pathetic entreaty--"I want to carry out all his
wishes exactly as if he were beside me, watching me--I think--" and her
voice sank a little--"he may be here--with us--even now!" She paused a
moment. "And if he is, he knows that I do not want money for myself at
all--but that if I can do good with it, for his sake and memory, I will.
Is it a very great deal?"
"Is it a great deal of money, you mean?" he queried.
She nodded.
"I should say that at the very least my late friend's personal estate
must be between six and seven millions of pounds sterling."
She clasped her hands in dismay.
"Oh! It is terrible!" she said, in a low strained voice--"Surely God
never meant one man to have so much money!"
"It was fairly earned,"--said Sir Francis, quietly--"David Helmsley, to
my own knowledge, never wronged or oppressed a single human being on his
way to his own success. His money is clean! There's no brother's blood
on the gold--and no 'sweated' labour at the back of it. That I can vouch
for--that I can swear! No curse will rest on the fortune you inherit,
Miss Deane--for it was made honestly!"
Tears stood in her eyes, and she wiped them away furtively.
"Poor David!" she murmured--"Poor lonely old man! With all that wealth
and no one to care for him! Oh yes, the more I think of it the more I
understand it! But now there is only one thing for me to do--I must get
home as quickly as possible and tell Angus"--here she pointed to the
last paragraph in Helmsley's list of bequests--"You see,"--she went
on--"he leaves Mary Deane--that's me--to Angus Reay, 'and with Her all
that I value.' I am engaged to be married to Mr. Reay--David wished very
much to live till our wedding-day--"
She broke off, passing her hand across her brow and looking puzzled.
"Mr. Reay is very much to be congratulated!"--said Sir Francis, gently.
She smiled rather sadly.
"Oh, I'm not sure of that," she said--"He is a very clever man--he
writes books, and he will be famous very soon--while I--" She paused
again, then went on, looking very earnestly at Sir Francis--"May
I--would you--write out something for me that I might sign before I go
away to-day, to make it sure that if I die, all that I have--including
this terrible, terrible fortune--shall come to Angus Reay? You see
anything might happen to me--quite suddenly,--the very train I am going
back in to-night might meet with some accident, and I might be
killed--and then poor David's money would be lost, and his legacies
never paid. Don't you see that?"
Sir Francis certainly saw it, but was not disposed to admit its
possibility.
"There is really no necessity to anticipate evil," he began.
"There is perhaps no necessity--but I should like to be sure, quite
sure, that in case of such evil all was right,"--she said, with great
feeling--"And I know you could do it for me----"
"Why, of course, if you insist upon it, I can draw you up a form of Will
in ten minutes,"--he said, smiling benevolently--"Would that satisfy
you? You have only to sign it, and the thing is done."
It was wonderful to see how she rejoiced at this proposition,--the eager
delight with which she contemplated the immediate disposal of the wealth
she had not as yet touched, to the man she loved best in the world--and
the swift change in her manner from depression to joy, when Sir Francis,
just to put her mind at ease, drafted a concise form of Will for her in
his own handwriting, in which form she, with the same precision as that
of David Helmsley, left "everything of which she died possessed,
absolutely and unconditionally," to her promised husband. With a smile
on her face and sparkling eyes, she signed this document in the presence
of two witnesses, clerks of the office called up for the purpose, who,
if it had been their business to express astonishment, would undoubtedly
have expressed it then.
"You will keep it here for me, won't you?" she said, when the clerks had
retired and the business was concluded--"And I shall feel so much more
at rest now! For when I have talked it over with Angus I shall realise
everything more clearly--he will advise me what to do--he is so much
wiser than I am! And you will write to me and tell me all that is
needful for me to know--shall I leave this paper?"--and she held up the
document in which the list of Helmsley's various legacies was
written--"Surely you ought to keep it?"
Sir Francis smiled gravely.
"I think not!" he said--"I think I must urge you to retain that paper on
which my name is so generously remembered, in your own possession, Miss
Deane. You understand, I suppose, that you are not _by the law_
compelled to pay any of these legacies. They are left entirely to your
own discretion. They merely represent the last purely personal wishes of
my late friend, David Helmsley, and you must yourself decide whether
you consider it practical to carry them out."
She looked surprised.
"But the personal wishes of the dead are more than any law" she
exclaimed--"They are sacred. How could I"--and moved by a sudden impulse
she laid her hand appealingly on his arm--"How could I neglect or fail
to fulfil any one of them? It would be impossible!
Responding to her earnest look and womanly gentleness, Sir Francis who
had not forgotten the old courtesies once practised by gentlemen to
women whom they honoured, raised the hand that rested so lightly on his
arm, and kissed it.
"I know" he said--"that it would be impossible for you to do what is not
right and true and just! And you will need no advice from me save such
as is purely legal and technical. Let me be your friend in these
matters----"
"And in others too,"--said Mary, sweetly--"I do hope you will not
dislike me!"
Dislike her? Well, well! If any mortal man, old or young, could
"dislike" a woman with a face like hers and eyes so tender, such an one
would have to be a criminal or a madman! In a little while they fell
into conversation as naturally as if they had known each other for
years: Sir Francis listening with profound interest to the story of his
old friend's last days. And presently, despatching a telegram to his
wife to say that he was detained in the city by pressing business, he
took Mary out with him to a quiet little restaurant where he dined with
her, and finally saw her off from Paddington station by the midnight
train for Minehead. Nothing would induce her to stay in London,--her one
aim and object in life now was to return to Weircombe and explain
everything to Angus as quickly as possible. And when the train had gone,
Sir Francis left the platform in a state of profound abstraction, and
was driven home in his brougham feeling more like a sentimentalist than
a lawyer.
"Extraordinary!" he ejaculated--"The most extraordinary thing I ever
heard of in my life? But I knew--I felt that Helmsley would dispose of
his wealth in quite an unexpected way! Now I wonder how the man--Mary
Deane's lover--will take it? I wonder! But what a woman she is!--how
beautiful!--how simple and honest--above all how purely womanly!--with
all the sweet grace and gentleness which alone commands, and ever will
command man's adoration! Helmsley must have been very much at peace and
happy in his last days! Yes!--the sorrowful 'king' of many millions must
have at last found the treasure he sought and which he considered more
precious than all his money! For Solomon was right: 'If a man would give
all the substance of his house for love, it would be utterly
contemned!'"
* * * * *
At Weircombe next day there was a stiff gale of wind blowing inland, and
the village, with its garlands and pyramids of summer blossom, was swept
from end to end by warm, swift, salty gusts, that bent the trees and
shook the flowers in half savage, half tender sportiveness, while the
sea, shaping itself by degrees into "wild horses" of blue water bridled
with foam, raced into the shore with ever-increasing hurry and fury. But
notwithstanding the strong wind, there was a bright sun, and a dazzling
blue sky, scattered over with flying masses of cloud, like flocks of
white birds soaring swiftly to some far-off region of rest. Everything
in nature looked radiant and beautiful,--health and joy were exhaled
from every breath of air--and yet in one place--one pretty
rose-embowered cottage, where, until now, the spirit of content had held
its happy habitation, a sudden gloom had fallen, and a dark cloud had
blotted out all the sunshine. Mary's little "home sweet home" had been
all at once deprived of sweetness,--and she sat within it like a
mournful castaway, clinging to the wreck of that which had so long been
her peace and safety. Tired out by her long night journey and lack of
sleep, she looked very white and weary and ill--and Angus Reay, sitting
opposite to her, looked scarcely less worn and weary than herself. He
had met her on her return from London at the Minehead station, with all
the ardour and eagerness of a lover and a boy,--and he had at once seen
in her face that something unexpected had happened,--something that had
deeply affected her--though she had told him nothing, till on their
arrival home at the cottage, she was able to be quite alone with him.
Then he learned all. Then he knew that "old David" had been no other
than David Helmsley the millionaire,--the very man whom his first love,
Lucy Sorrel, had schemed and hoped to marry. And he realised--and God
alone knew with what a passion of despair he realised it!--that
Mary--his bonnie Mary--his betrothed wife--had been chosen to inherit
those very millions which had formerly stood between him and what he had
then imagined to be his happiness. And listening to the strange story,
he had sunk deeper and deeper into the Slough of Despond, and now sat
rigidly silent, with all the light gone out of his features, and all the
ardour quenched in his eyes. Mary looking at him, and reading every
expression in that dark beloved face, felt the tears rising thickly in
her throat, but bravely suppressed them, and tried to smile.
"I knew you would be sorry when you heard all about it, Angus,"--she
said--"I felt sure you would! I wish it had happened differently--" Here
she stopped, and taking up the little dog Charlie, settled him on her
knee. He was whimpering to be caressed, and she bent over his small
silky head to hide the burning drops that fell from her eyes despite
herself. "If it could only be altered!--but it can't--and the only thing
to do is to give the money away to those who need it as quickly as
possible----"
"Give it away!" answered Angus, bitterly--"Good God! Why, to give away
seven or eight millions of money in the right quarters would occupy one
man's lifetime!"
His voice was harsh, and his hand clenched itself involuntarily as he
spoke. She looked at him in a vague fear.
"No, Mary,"--he said--"You can't give it away--not as you imagine.
Besides,--there is more than money--there is the millionaire's
house--his priceless pictures, his books--his yacht--a thousand and one
other things that he possessed, and which now belong to you. Oh Mary! I
wish to God I had never seen him!"
She trembled.
"Then perhaps--you and I would never have met," she murmured.
"Better so!" and rising, he paced restlessly up and down the little
kitchen--"Better that I should never have loved you, Mary, than be so
parted from you! By money, too! The last thing that should ever have
come between us! Money! Curse it! It has ruined my life!"
She lifted her tear-wet eyes to his.
"What do you mean, Angus?" she asked, gently--"Why do you talk of
parting? The money makes no difference to our love!"
"No difference? No difference? Oh Mary, don't you see!" and he turned
upon her a face white and drawn with his inward anguish--"Do you
think--can you imagine that I would marry a woman with millions of
money--I--a poor devil, with nothing in the world to call my own, and no
means of livelihood save in my brain, which, after all, may turn out to
be quite of a worthless quality! Do you think I would live on your
bounty? Do you think I would accept money from you? Surely you know me
better! Mary, I love you! I love you with my whole heart and soul!--but
I love you as the poor working woman whose work I hoped to make easier,
whose life it was my soul's purpose to make happy--but,--you have
everything you want in the world now!--and I--I am no use to you! I can
do nothing for you--nothing!--you are David Helmsley's heiress, and with
such wealth as he has left you, you might marry a prince of the royal
blood if you cared--for princes are to be bought,--like anything else in
the world's market! But you are not of the world--you never were--and
now--now--the world will take you! The world leaves nothing alone that
has any gold upon it!"
She listened quietly to his passionate outburst. She was deadly pale,
and she pressed Charlie close against her bosom,--the little dog, she
thought half vaguely, would love her just as well whether she was rich
or poor.
"How can the world take me, Angus?" she said--"Am I not yours?--all
yours!--and what has the world to do with me? Do not speak in such a
strange way--you hurt me----"
"I know I hurt you!" he said, stopping in his restless walk and facing
her--"And I know I should always hurt you--now! If David Helmsley had
never crossed our path, how happy we might have been----"
She raised her hand reproachfully.
"Do not blame the poor old man, even in a thought, Angus!" she
said--"His dream--his last hope was that we two might be happy! He
brought us together,--and I am sure, quite sure, that he hoped we would
do good in the world with the money he has left us----"
"Us!" interrupted Angus, meaningly.
"Yes,--surely us! For am I not to be one with you? Oh Angus, be patient,
be gentle! Think kindly of him who meant so much kindness to those whom
he loved in his last days!" She smothered a rising sob, and went on
entreatingly--"He has forgotten no one who was friendly to
him--and--and--Angus--remember!--remember in that paper I have shown to
you--that list of bequests, which he has entrusted me to pay, he has
left me to you, Angus!--me--with all I possess----"
She broke off, startled by the sorrow in his eyes.
"It is a legacy I cannot accept!" he said, hoarsely, his voice trembling
with suppressed emotion--"I cannot take it--even though you, the most
precious part of it, are the dearest thing to me in the world! I cannot!
This horrible money has parted us, Mary! More than that, it has robbed
me of my energy for work--I cannot work without you--and I must give you
up! Even if I could curb my pride and sink my independence, and take
money which I have not earned, I should never be great as a
writer--never be famous. For the need of patience and grit would be
gone--I should have nothing to work for--no object in view--no goal to
attain. Don't you see how it is with me? And so--as things have turned
out--I must leave Weircombe at once--I must fight this business through
by myself----"
"Angus!" and putting Charlie gently down, she rose from her chair and
came towards him, trembling--"Do you mean--do you really mean that all
is over between us?--that you will not marry me?"
He looked at her straightly.
"I cannot!" he said--"Not if I am true to myself as a man!"
"You cannot be true to _me_, as a woman?"
He caught her in his arms and held her there.
"Yes--I can be so true to you, Mary, that as long as I live I shall love
you! No other woman shall ever rest on my heart--here--thus--as you are
resting now! I will never kiss another woman's lips as I kiss yours
now!" And he kissed her again and again--"But, at the same time, I will
never live upon your wealth like a beggar on the bounty of a queen! I
will never accept a penny at your hands! I will go away and work--and
if possible, will make the fame I have dreamed of--but I will never
marry you, Mary--never! That can never be!" He clasped her more closely
and tenderly in his arms--"Don't--don't cry, dear! You are tired with
your long journey--and--and--with all the excitement and trouble. Lie
down and rest awhile--and--don't--don't worry about me! You deserve your
fortune--you will be happy with it by and by, when you find out how much
it can do for you, and what pleasures you can have with it--and life
will be very bright for you--I'm sure it will! Mary--don't cling to me,
darling!--it--it unmans me!--and I must be strong--strong for your sake
and my own"--here he gently detached her arms from about his
neck--"Good-bye, dear!--you must--you must let me go!--God bless you!"
As in a dream she felt him put her away from his embrace--the cottage
door opened and closed--he was gone.
Vaguely she looked about her. There was a great sickness at her
heart--her eyes ached, and her brain was giddy. She was tired,--very
tired--and hardly knowing what she did, she crept like a beaten and
wounded animal into the room which had formerly been her own, but which
she had so long cheerfully resigned for Helmsley's occupation and better
comfort,--and there she threw herself upon the bed where he had died,
and lay for a long time in a kind of waking stupor.
"Oh, dear God, help me!" she prayed--"Help me to bear it! It is so
hard--so hard!--to have won the greatest joy that life can give--and
then--to lose it all!"
She closed her eyes,--they were hot and burning, and now no tears
relieved the pressure on her brain. By and by she fell into a heavy
slumber. As the afternoon wore slowly away, Mrs. Twitt, on neighbourly
thoughts intent, came up to the cottage, eager to hear all the news
concerning "old David"--but she found the kitchen deserted; and peeping
into the bedroom adjoining, saw Mary lying there fast asleep, with
Charlie curled up beside her.
"She's just dead beat and tired out for sure!" and Mrs. Twitt stole
softly away again on tip-toe. "'Twould be real cruel to wake her. I'll
put a bit on the kitchen fire to keep it going, and take myself off.
There's plenty of time to hear all the news to-morrow."
So, being left undisturbed, Mary slept on and on--and when she at last
awoke it was quite dark. Dark save for the glimmer of the moon which
shone with a white vividness through the lattice window--shedding on the
room something of the same ghostly light as on the night when Helmsley
died. She sat up, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples,--for a
moment she hardly knew where she was. Then, with a sudden rush of
recollection, she realised her surroundings--and smiled. She was one of
the richest women in the world!--and--without Angus--one of the poorest!
"But he does not need me so much as I need him!" she said aloud--"A man
has so many thing to live for; but a woman has only one--love!"
She rose from the bed, trembling a little. She thought she saw "old
David" standing near the door,--how pale and cold he seemed!--what a
sorrow there was in his eyes! She stretched out her arms to the fancied
phantom.
"Don't,--don't be unhappy, David dear!" she said--"You meant all for the
best--I know--I know! But even you, old as you were, tried to find some
one to care for you--and you see--surely in Heaven you see how hard it
is for me to have found that some one, and then to lose him! But you
must not grieve!--it will be all right!"
Mechanically she smoothed her tumbled hair--and taking up Charlie from
the bed where he was anxiously watching her, she went into the kitchen.
A small fire was burning low--and she lit the lamp and set it on the
table. A gust of wind rushed round the house, shaking the door and the
window, then swept away again with a plaintive cry,--and pausing to
listen, she heard the low, thunderous boom of the sea. Moving about
almost automatically, she prepared Charlie's supper and gave it to him,
and slipping a length of ribbon through his collar, tied him securely to
a chair. The little animal was intelligent enough to consider this an
unusual proceeding on her part--and as a consequence of the impression
it made upon his canine mind, refused to take his food. She saw
this--but made no attempt to coax or persuade him. Opening a drawer in
her oaken press, she took out pen, ink, and paper, and sitting down at
the table wrote a letter. It was not a long letter--for it was finished,
put in an envelope and sealed in less than ten minutes. Addressing it
"To Angus"--she left it close under the lamp where the light might fall
upon it. Then she looked around her. Everything was very quiet. Charlie
alone was restless--and sat on his tiny haunches, trembling nervously,
refusing to eat, and watching her every movement. She stooped suddenly
and kissed him--then without hat or cloak, went out, closing the cottage
door behind her.
What a night it was! What a scene of wild sky splendour! Overhead the
moon, now at the full, raced through clouds of pearl-grey, lightening to
milky whiteness, and the wind played among the trees as though with
giant hands, bending them to and fro like reeds, and rustling through
the foliage with a swishing sound like that of falling water. The ripple
of the hill-torrent was almost inaudible, overwhelmed as it was by the
roar of the gale and the low thunder of the sea--and Mary, going swiftly
up the "coombe" to the churchyard, was caught by the blast like a leaf,
and blown to and fro, till all her hair came tumbling about her face and
almost blinded her eyes. But she scarcely heeded this. She was not
conscious of the weather--she knew nothing of the hour. She saw the
moon--the white, cold moon, staring at her now and then between
pinnacles of cloud--and whenever it gleamed whitely upon her path, she
thought of David Helmsley's dead face--its still smile--its peacefully
closed eyelids. And with that face ever before her, she went to his
grave. A humble grave--with the clods of earth still fresh and brown
upon it--the chosen grave of "one of the richest men in the world!" She
repeated this phrase over and over again to herself, not knowing why she
did so. Then she knelt down and tried to pray, but could find no
words--save "O God, bless my dear love, and make him happy!" It was
foolish to say this so often,--God would be tired of it, she thought
dreamily--but--after all--there was nothing else to pray for! She rose,
and stood a moment--thinking--then she said aloud--"Good-night, David!
Dear old David, you meant to make me so happy! Good-night! Sleep well!"
Something frightened her at this moment,--a sound--or a shadow on the
grass--and she uttered a cry of terror. Then, turning, she rushed out of
the churchyard, and away--away up the hills, towards the rocks that
over-hung the sea.
Meanwhile, Angus Reay, feverish and miserable, had been shut up in his
one humble little room for hours, wrestling with himself and trying to
work out the way in which he could best master and overcome what he
chose to consider the complete wreck of his life at what had promised
to be its highest point of happiness. He could not shake himself free of
the clinging touch of Mary's arms--her lovely, haunting blue eyes looked
at him piteously out of the very air. Never had she been to him so
dear--so unutterably beloved!--never had she seemed so beautiful as now
when he felt that he must resign all claims of love upon her.
"For she will be sought after by many a better man than myself,"--he
said--"Even rich men, who do not need her millions, are likely to admire
her--and why should I stand in her way?--I, who haven't a penny to call
my own! I should be a coward if I kept her to her promise. For she does
not know yet--she does not see what the possession of Helmsley's
millions will mean to her. And by and bye when she does know she will
change--she will be grateful to me for setting her free----"
He paused, and the hot tears sprang to his eyes--"No--I am wrong!
Nothing will change Mary! She will always be her sweet self--pure and
faithful!--and she will do all the good with Helmsley's money that he
believed and hoped she would. But I--I must leave her to it!"
Then the thought came to him that he had perhaps been rough in speech to
her that day--abrupt in parting from her--even unkind in overwhelming
her with the force of his abnegation, when she was so tired with her
journey--so worn out--so weary looking. Acting on a sudden impulse, he
threw on his cap.
"I will go and say good-night to her,"--he said--"For the last time!"
He strode swiftly up the village street and saw through the cottage
window that the lamp was lighted on the table. He knocked at the door,
but there was no answer save a tiny querulous bark from Charlie. He
tried the latch; it was unfastened, and he entered. The first object he
saw was Charlie, tied to a chair, with a small saucer of untasted food
beside him. The little dog capered to the length of his ribbon, and
mutely expressed the absence of his kind mistress, while Angus,
bewildered, looked round the deserted dwelling in amazement. All at once
his eyes caught sight of the letter addressed to him, and he tore it
open. It was very brief, and ran thus--
"My Dearest,
"When you read this, I shall be gone from you. I am sorry, oh, so
sorry, about the money--but it is not my fault that I did not know
who old David was. I hope now that everything will be right, when I
am out of the way. I did not tell you--but before I left London I
asked the kind gentleman, Sir Francis Vesey, to let me make a will
in case any accident happened to me on my way home. He arranged it
all for me very quickly--so that everything I possess, including all
the dreadful fortune that has parted you from me,--now belongs to
you. And you will be a great and famous man; and I am sure you will
get on much better without me than with me--for I am not clever, and
I should not understand how to live in the world as the world likes
to live. God bless you, darling! Thank you for loving me, who am so
unworthy of your love! Be happy! David and I will perhaps be able to
watch you from 'the other side,' and we shall be proud of all you
do. For you will spend those terrible millions in good deeds that
must benefit all the world, I am sure. That is what I hoped we might
perhaps have done together--but I see quite plainly now that it is
best you should be without me. My love, whom I love so much more
than I have ever dared to, say!--Good-bye!
MARY."
With a cry like that of a man in physical torture or despair, Angus
rushed out of the house.
"Mary! Mary!" he cried to the tumbling stream and the moonlit sky.
"Mary!"
He paused. Just then the clock in the little church tower struck ten.
The village was asleep--and there was no sound of human life anywhere.
The faint, subtle scent of sweetbriar stole on the air as he stood in a
trance of desperate uncertainty--and as the delicate odour floated by, a
rush of tears came to his eyes.
"Mary!" he called again--"Mary!"
Then all at once a fearful idea entered his brain that filled him as it
were with a mad panic. Rushing up the coombe, he sprang across the
torrent, and raced over the adjoining hill, as though racing for life.
Soon in front of him towered the "Giant's Castle" Rock, and he ran up
its steep ascent with an almost crazy speed. At the summit he halted
abruptly, looking keenly from side to side. Was there any one there?
No. There seemed to be no one. Chilled with a nameless horror, he stood
watching--watching and listening to the crashing noise of the great
billows as they broke against the rocks below. He raised his eyes to the
heavens, and saw--almost unseeingly--a white cloud break asunder and
show a dark blue space between,--just an azure setting for one brilliant
star that shone out with a sudden flash like a signal. And then--then he
caught sight of a dark crouching figure in the corner of the rocky
platform over-hanging the sea,--a dear, familiar figure that even while
he looked, rose up and advanced to the extreme edge with outstretched
arms,--its lovely hair loosely flowing and flecked with glints of gold
by the light of the moon. Nearer, nearer to the very edge of the dizzy
height it moved--and Angus, breathless with terror, and fearing to utter
a sound lest out of sudden alarm it should leap from its footing and be
lost for ever, crept closer and ever closer. Closer still,--and he heard
Mary's sweet voice murmuring plaintively--
"I wish I did not love him so dearly! I wish the world were not so
beautiful! I wish I could stay--but I must go--I must go!--"Here there
was a little sobbing cry--"You are so deep and cruel, you sea!--you have
drowned so many brave men! You will not be long in drowning poor me,
will you?--I don't want to struggle with you! Cover me up quickly--and
let me forget--oh, no, no! Dear God, don't let me forget Angus!--I want
to remember him always--always!"
She swayed towards the brink--one second more--and then, with a swift
strong clasp and passionate cry Angus had caught her in her arms.
"Mary! Mary, my love! My wife! Anything but that, Mary! Anything but
that!"
Heart to heart they stood, their arms entwined, clasping each other in a
wild passion of tenderness,--Angus trembling in all his strong frame
with the excitement and horror of the past moment, and Mary sobbing out
all her weakness, weariness and gladness on his breast. Above their
heads the bright star shone, pendant between the snowy wings of the
dividing cloud, and the sound of the sea was as a sacred psalm of
jubilation in their ears.
"Thank God I came in time! Thank God I have you safe!" and Angus drew
her closer and yet closer into his fervent embrace--"Oh Mary, my
darling!--sweetest of women! How could you think of leaving me? What
should I have done without you! Poverty or riches--either or neither--I
care not which! But I cannot lose _you_, Mary! I cannot let my heavenly
treasure go! Nothing else matters in all the world--I only want
love--and you!"
THE END
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| |
| Transcriber's Notes |
| |
| 1. Punctuation normalized to contemporary standards. |
| |
| 2. "Sorrel" was originally misspelled "Sorrell" on these pages: |
| p. 15: "Mrs. Sorrel would be sorry" |
| p. 15: "Matt Sorrel never did anything" |
| p. 18: "Sorrel, I assure you!" |
| p. 18: "Mrs. Sorrel peered at him" |
| p. 19: "Mrs. Sorrel did not attempt" |
| p. 20: "Mrs. Sorrel visibly swelled" |
| |
| 3. Individual spelling corrections and context: |
| p. 30 pressent -> present ("always been present") |
| p. 34 thresold -> threshold ("standing shyly on the thresold") |
| p. 44 repudiatel -> repudiated ("firmly repudiated") |
| p. 77 temprary -> temporary ("such temporary pleasures") |
| p. 82 kitting -> knitting ("went on kitting rapidly") |
| p. 85 Brush -> Bush ("and Bill Bush") |
| p. 99 her -> he ("And he drew out") |
| p. 92 undisguisel -> undisguised ("undisguised admiration") |
| p. 116 a -> I ("if I can") |
| p. 147 Wothram -> Wrotham ("answered Lord Wrotram") |
| p. 157 scared -> scared ("scarred his vision") |
| p. 184 sungly -> snugly ("was snugly ensconced") |
| p. 190 mintes -> minutes ("A few minutes scramble") |
| p. 255 must -> much ("dare not talk much") |
| p. 270 acomplished -> accomplished ("fairly accomplished") |
| p. 276 gentlemen -> gentleman ("rank of a gentleman") |
| p. 335 me -> be ("There must be") |
| p. 359 severel -> several ("writing several letters") |
| p. 372 childred -> children ("sees his children") |
| p. 396 troubed -> troubled ("quite confused and troubled") |
| p. 399 addessed -> addressed ("to whom it was addressed") |
| |
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