Illustration: Copyright 1906 By Marie CorelliSignature: Marie CorelliFROM A PHOTOGRAPH TAKEN THIS YEAR BY GABELL, LONDON

The Treasure Of Heaven

A Romance Of RichesByMarie Corelli

AUTHOR OF"GOD'S GOOD MAN, " "THELMA, " "THE SORROWS OF SATAN, " "ARDATH, ""THE STORY OF A DEAD SELF, " "FREE OPINIONS, " "TEMPORAL POWER, " ETC. 

NEW YORKDODD, MEAD & COMPANY1906

Copyright, 1906, by DODD, MEAD & COMPANYPublished, August, 1906

To Bertha'A faithful friend is better than gold. '

Author's Note

By the special request of the Publishers, a portrait of myself, taken inthe spring of this year, 1906, forms the Frontispiece to the presentvolume. I am somewhat reluctant to see it so placed, because it hasnothing whatever to do with the story which is told in the followingpages, beyond being a faithful likeness of the author who is responsiblefor this, and many other previous books which have had the good fortuneto meet with a friendly reception from the reading public. Moreover, Iam not quite able to convince myself that my pictured personality canhave any interest for my readers, as it has always seemed to me that anauthor's real being is more disclosed in his or her work than in anyportrayed presentment of mere physiognomy. 

But--owing to the fact that various gross, and I think I may saylibellous and fictitious misrepresentations of me have been freely andunwarrantably circulated throughout Great Britain, the Colonies, andAmerica, by certain "lower" sections of the pictorial press, which, witha zeal worthy of a better and kinder cause, have striven by this meansto alienate my readers from me, --it appears to my Publishers advisablethat an authentic likeness of myself, as I truly am to-day, should nowbe issued in order to prevent any further misleading of the public byfraudulent inventions. The original photograph from which Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co. Have reproduced the present photogravure, was taken by Mr. G. Gabell of Eccleston Street, London, who, at the time of my submittingmyself to his camera, was not aware of my identity. I used, for thenonce, the name of a lady friend, who arranged that the proofs of theportrait should be sent to her at various different addresses, --and itwas not till this "Romance of Riches" was on the verge of publicationthat I disclosed the real position to the courteous artist himself. ThatI thus elected to be photographed as an unknown rather than a knownperson was in order that no extra pains should be taken on my behalf, but that I should be treated just as an ordinary stranger would betreated, with no less, but at the same time certainly no more, care. 

I may add, in conclusion, for the benefit of those few who may feel anyfurther curiosity on the subject, that no portraits resembling me in anyway are published anywhere, and that invented sketches purporting topass as true likenesses of me, are merely attempts to obtain money fromthe public on false pretences. One picture of me, taken in my own houseby a friend who is an amateur photographer, was reproduced some time agoin the _Strand Magazine_, _The Boudoir_, _Cassell's Magazine_, and _TheRapid Review_; but beyond that, and the present one in this volume, nophotographs of me are on sale in any country, either in shops or onpostcards. My objection to this sort of "picture popularity" has alreadybeen publicly stated, and I here repeat and emphasise it. And I ventureto ask my readers who have so generously encouraged me by their warm andconstant appreciation of my literary efforts, to try and understand thespirit in which the objection is made. It is simply that to myself thepersonal "Self" of me is nothing, and should be, rightly speaking, nothing to any one outside the circle of my home and my intimatefriends; while my work and the keen desire to improve in that work, sothat by my work alone I may become united in sympathy and love to myreaders, whoever and wherever they may be, constitutes for me theEverything of life. 

 MARIE CORELLIStratford-on-AvonJuly, 1906

THE TREASURE OF HEAVEN

CHAPTER I

London, --and a night in June. London, swart and grim, semi-shrouded in awarm close mist of mingled human breath and acrid vapour steaming upfrom the clammy crowded streets, --London, with a million twinklinglights gleaming sharp upon its native blackness, and looking, to adreamer's eye, like some gigantic Fortress, built line upon line andtower upon tower, --with huge ramparts raised about it frowningly asthough in self-defence against Heaven. Around and above it the deep skyswept in a ring of sable blue, wherein thousands of stars were visible, encamped after the fashion of a mighty army, with sentinel planetstaking their turns of duty in the watching of a rebellious world. Asulphureous wave of heat half asphyxiated the swarms of people who werehurrying to and fro in that restless undetermined way which is such apredominating feature of what is called a London "season, " and thegeneral impression of the weather was, to one and all, conveyed in asense of discomfort and oppression, with a vague struggling expectancyof approaching thunder. Few raised their eyes beyond the thick warm hazewhich hung low on the sooty chimney-pots, and trailed sleepily along inthe arid, dusty parks. Those who by chance looked higher, saw that theskies above the city were divinely calm and clear, and that not a cloudbetokened so much as the shadow of a storm. 

The deep bell of Westminster chimed midnight, that hour of picturesqueghostly tradition, when simple village maids shudder at the thought oftraversing a dark lane or passing a churchyard, and when country folksof old-fashioned habits and principles are respectably in bed and forthe most part sleeping. But so far as the fashionable "West End" wasconcerned, it might have been midday. Everybody assuming to be Anybody, was in town. The rumble of carriages passing to and fro wasincessant, --the swift whirr and warning hoot of coming and going motorvehicles, the hoarse cries of the newsboys, and the general insect-likedrone and murmur of feverish human activity were as loud as at any busytime of the morning or the afternoon. There had been a Court atBuckingham Palace, --and a "special" performance at the Opera, --and onaccount of these two functions, entertainments were going on at almostevery fashionable house in every fashionable quarter. The publicrestaurants were crammed with luxury-loving men and women, --men andwomen to whom the mere suggestion of a quiet dinner in their own homeswould have acted as a menace of infinite boredom, --and these gilded andrefined eating-houses were now beginning to shoot forth their bundles ofwell-dressed, well-fed folk into the many and various conveyanceswaiting to receive them. There was a good deal of needless shouting, andmuch banter between drivers and policemen. Now and again the melancholywhine of a beggar's plea struck a discordant note through thesmooth-toned compliments and farewells of hosts and their departingguests. No hint of pause or repose was offered in the ever-changingscene of uneasy and impetuous excitation of movement, save where, far upin the clear depths of space, the glittering star-battalions of awronged and forgotten God held their steadfast watch and kept theirhourly chronicle. London with its brilliant "season" seemed the onlyliving fact worth recognising; London, with its flaring noisy streets, and its hot summer haze interposed like a grey veil between itself andthe higher vision. Enough for most people it was to see theveil, --beyond it the view is always too vast and illimitable for thelittle vanities of ordinary mortal minds. 

Amid all the din and turmoil of fashion and folly seeking its own in thegreat English capital at the midnight hour, a certain corner of anexclusively fashionable quarter seemed strangely quiet and sequestered, and this was the back of one of the row of palace-like dwellings knownas Carlton House Terrace. Occasionally a silent-wheeled hansom, brougham, or flashing motor-car sped swiftly along the Mall, towardswhich the wide stone balcony of the house projected, --or the heavyfootsteps of a policeman walking on his beat crunched the gravel of thepath beneath, but the general atmosphere of the place was expressive ofsolitude and even of gloom. The imposing evidences of great wealth, written in bold headlines on the massive square architecture of thewhole block of huge mansions, only intensified the austere sombreness oftheir appearance, and the fringe of sad-looking trees edging the roadbelow sent a faint waving shadow in the lamplight against the coldwalls, as though some shuddering consciousness of happier woodlandscenes had suddenly moved them to a vain regret. The haze of heat layvery thickly here, creeping along with slow stealth like a sluggishstream, and a suffocating odour suggestive of some subtle anæstheticweighed the air with a sense of nausea and depression. It was difficultto realise that this condition of climate was actually summer in itsprime--summer with all its glowing abundance of flower and foliage asseen in fresh green lanes and country dells, --rather did it seem a dullnightmare of what summer might be in a prison among criminals undergoingpunishment. The house with the wide stone balcony looked particularlyprison-like, even more so than some of its neighbours, perhaps becausethe greater number of its many windows were shuttered close, and showedno sign of life behind their impenetrable blackness. The only stronggleam of light radiating from the inner darkness to the outer, streamedacross the balcony itself, which by means of two glass doors openeddirectly from the room behind it. Here two men sat, or rather halfreclined in easy-cushioned lounge chairs, their faces turned towards theMall, so that the illumination from the apartment in the backgroundcreated a Rembrandt-like effect in partially concealing the expressionof the one from the other's observation. Outwardly, and at a firstcausal glance, there was nothing very remarkable about either of them. One was old; the other more than middle-aged. Both were inevening-dress, --both smoked idly, and apparently not so much for thepleasure of smoking as for lack of something better to do, and bothseemed self-centred and absorbed in thought. They had been conversingfor some time, but now silence had fallen between them, and neitherseemed disposed to break the heavy spell. The distant roar of constanttraffic in the busy thoroughfares of the metropolis sounded in theirears like muffled thunder, while every now and again the soft suddenecho of dance music, played by a string band in evident attendance atsome festive function in a house not far away, shivered delicatelythrough the mist like a sigh of pleasure. The melancholy tree-topstrembled, --a single star struggled above the sultry vapours and shoneout large and bright as though it were a great signal lamp suddenly litin heaven. The elder of the two men seated on the balcony raised hiseyes and saw it shining. He moved uneasily, --then lifting himself alittle in his chair, he spoke as though taking up a dropped thread ofconversation, with the intention of deliberately continuing it to theend. His voice was gentle and mellow, with a touch of that singularpathos in its tone which is customary to the Celtic rather than to theSaxon vocal cords. 

"I have given you my full confidence, " he said, "and I have put beforeyou the exact sum total of the matter as I see it. You think meirrational, --absurd. Good. Then I am content to be irrational andabsurd. In any case you can scarcely deny that what I have stated is asimple fact, --a truth which cannot be denied?"

"It is a truth, certainly, " replied his companion, pulling himselfupright in his chair with a certain vexed vehemence of action andflinging away his half-smoked cigar, "but it is one of those unpleasanttruths which need not be looked at too closely or too often remembered. We must all get old--unfortunately, --and we must all die, which in myopinion is more unfortunate still. But we need not anticipate such adisagreeable business before its time. "

"Yet you are always drawing up Last Wills and Testaments, " observed theother, with a touch of humour in his tone. 

"Oh well! That, of course, has to be done. The youngest persons shouldmake their wills if they have anything to leave, or else run the risk ofhaving all their household goods and other belongings fought for withtooth and claw by their 'dearest' relations. Dearest relations are, according to my experience, very much like wild cats: give them thefaintest hope of a legacy, and they scratch and squawl as though it wereraw meat for which they have been starving. In all my long career as asolicitor I never knew one 'dearest relation' who honestly regretted thedead. "

"There you meet me on the very ground of our previous discussions, " saidthe elder man. "It is not the consciousness of old age that troubles me, or the inevitable approach of that end which is common to all, --it ismerely the outlook into the void, --the teasing wonder as to who may stepinto my place when I am gone, and what will be done with the results ofmy life's labour. "

He rose as he spoke, and moved towards the balcony's edge, resting onehand upon its smooth stone. The change of attitude allowed the lightfrom the interior room to play more fully on his features, and showedhim to be well advanced in age, with a worn, yet strong face anddeep-set eyes, over which the shelving brows stooped benevolently asthough to guard the sinking vital fire in the wells of vision below. Themouth was concealed by an ashen-grey moustache, while on the foreheadand at the sides of the temples the hair was perfectly white, thoughstill abundant. A certain military precision of manner was attached tothe whole bearing of the man, --his thin figure was well-built andupright, showing no tendency to feebleness, --his shoulders were setsquare, and his head was poised in a manner that might have been calleduncompromising, if not obstinate. Even the hand that rested on thebalcony, attenuated and deeply wrinkled as it was, suggested strength inits shape and character, and a passing thought of this flitted acrossthe mind of his companion who, after a pause, said slowly:--

"I really see no reason why you should brood on such things. What's theuse? Your health is excellent for your time of life. Your end is notimminent. You are voluntarily undergoing a system of self-torture whichis quite unnecessary. We've known each other for years, yet I hardlyrecognise you in your present humour. I thought you were perfectlyhappy. Surely you ought to be, --you, David Helmsley, --'King' David, asyou are sometimes called--one of the richest men in the world!"

Helmsley smiled, but with a suspicion of sadness. 

"Neither kings nor rich men hold special grants of happiness, " heanswered, quietly: "Your own experience of humanity must have taught youthat. Personally speaking, I have never been happy since my boyhood. This surprises you? I daresay it does. But, my dear Vesey, old friend asyou are, it sometimes happens that our closest intimates know us least!And even the famous firm of Vesey and Symonds, or Symonds andVesey, --for your partner is one with you and you are one with yourpartner, --may, in spite of all their legal wisdom, fail to pierce thethick disguises worn by the souls of their clients. The Man in the IronMask is a familiar figure in the office of his confidential solicitor. Irepeat, I have never been happy since my boyhood----"

"Your happiness then was a mere matter of youth and animal spirits, "interposed Vesey. 

"I thought you would say that!"--and again a faint smile illuminedHelmsley's features. "It is just what every one would say. Yet the youngare often much more miserable than the old; and while I grant that youthmay have had something to do with my past joy in life, it was not all. No, it certainly was not all. It was simply that I had then what I havenever had since. "

He broke off abruptly. Then stepping back to his chair he resumed hisformer reclining position, leaning his head against the cushions andfixing his eyes on the solitary bright star that shone above the mistand the trembling trees. 

"May I talk out to you?" he inquired suddenly, with a touch ofwhimsicality. "Or are you resolved to preach copybook moralities at me, such as 'Be good and you will be happy?'"

Vesey, more ceremoniously known as Sir Francis Vesey, one of the mostrenowned of London's great leading solicitors, looked at him andlaughed. 

"Talk out, my dear fellow, by all means!" he replied. "Especially if itwill do you any good. But don't ask me to sympathise very deeply withthe imaginary sorrows of so enormously wealthy a man as you are!"

"I don't expect any sympathy, " said Helmsley. "Sympathy is the one thingI have never sought, because I know it is not to be obtained, even fromone's nearest and dearest. Sympathy! Why, no man in the world everreally gets it, even from his wife. And no man possessing a spark ofmanliness ever wants it, except--sometimes----"

He hesitated, looking steadily at the star above him, --then went on. 

"Except sometimes, --when the power of resistance is weakened--when theconsciousness is strongly borne in upon us of the unanswerable wisdom ofSolomon, who wrote--'I hated all my labour which I had taken under thesun, because I should leave it to the man that should be after me. Andwho knows whether he shall be a wise man or a fool?'"

Sir Francis Vesey, dimly regretting the half-smoked cigar he had thrownaway in a moment of impatience, took out a fresh one from hispocket-case and lit it. 

"Solomon has expressed every disagreeable situation in life withremarkable accuracy, " he murmured placidly, as he began to puff rings ofpale smoke into the surrounding yellow haze, "but he was a bit of amisanthrope. "

"When I was a boy, " pursued Helmsley, not heeding his legal friend'scomment, "I was happy chiefly because I believed. I never doubted anystated truth that seemed beautiful enough to be true. I had perfectconfidence in the goodness of God and the ultimate happiness designed byHim for every living creature. Away out in Virginia where I was born, before the Southern States were subjected to Yankeedom, it was aglorious thing merely to be alive. The clear, pure air, fresh with thestrong odour of pine and cedar, --the big plantations of cotton andcorn, --the colours of the autumn woods when the maple trees turnedscarlet, and the tall sumachs blazed like great fires on the sides ofthe mountains, --the exhilarating climate--the sweetness of thesouth-west wind, --all these influences of nature appealed to my soul andkindled a strange restlessness in it which has never been appeased. Never!--though I have lived my life almost to its end, and have done allthose things which most men do who seek to get the utmost satisfactionthey can out of existence. But I am not satisfied; I have never beensatisfied. "

"And you never will be, " declared Sir Francis firmly. "There are somepeople to whom Heaven itself would prove disappointing. "

"Well, if Heaven is the kind of place depicted by the clergy, thepoorest beggar might resent its offered attractions, " said Helmsley, with a slight, contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. "After a life ofcontinuous pain and struggle, the pleasures of singing for ever and everto one's own harp accompaniment are scarcely sufficient compensation. "

Vesey laughed cheerfully. 

"It's all symbolical, " he murmured, puffing away at his cigar, "andreally very well meant! Positively now, the clergy are capital fellows!They do their best, --they keep it up. Give them credit for that atleast, Helmsley, --they do keep it up!"

Helmsley was silent for a minute or two. 

"We are rather wandering from the point, " he said at last. "What I knowof the clergy generally has not taught me to rely upon them for anyadvice in a difficulty, or any help out of trouble. Once--in a moment ofweakness and irresolution--I asked a celebrated preacher what suggestionhe could make to a rich man, who, having no heirs, sought a means ofdisposing of his wealth to the best advantage for others after hisdeath. His reply----"

"Was the usual thing, of course, " interposed Sir Francis blandly. "Hesaid, 'Let the rich man leave it all to me, and God will bless himabundantly!'"

"Well, yes, it came to that, "--and Helmsley gave a short impatient sigh. "He evidently guessed that the rich man implied was myself, for eversince I asked him the question, he has kept me regularly supplied withbooks and pamphlets relating to his Church and various missions. Idaresay he's a very good fellow. But I've no fancy to assist him. Heworks on sectarian lines, and I am of no sect. Though I confess I shouldlike to believe in God--- if I could. "

Sir Francis, fanning a tiny wreath of cigar smoke away with one hand, looked at him curiously, but offered no remark. 

"You said I might talk out to you, " continued Helmsley--"and it isperhaps necessary that I should do so, since you have lately sopersistently urged upon me the importance of making my will. You areperfectly right, of course, and I alone am to blame for the apparentlystupid hesitation I show in following your advice. But, as I havealready told you, I have no one in the world who has the least claimupon me, --no one to whom I can bequeath, to my own satisfaction, thewealth I have earned. I married, --as you know, --and my marriage wasunhappy. It ended, --and you are aware of all the facts--in the provedinfidelity of my wife, followed by our separation (effected quietly, thanks to you, without the vulgar publicity of the divorce court), andthen--in her premature death. Notwithstanding all this, I did my bestfor my two sons, --you are a witness to this truth, --and you rememberthat during their lifetime I did make my will, --in their favour. Theyturned out badly; each one ran his own career of folly, vice, andriotous dissipation, and both are dead. Thus it happens that here Iam, --alone at the age of seventy, without any soul to care for me, orany creature to whom I can trust my business, or leave my fortune. Itis not my fault that it is so; it is sheer destiny. How, I ask you, canI make any 'Last Will and Testament' under such conditions?"

"If you make no will at all, your property goes to the Crown, " saidVesey bluntly. 

"Naturally. I know that. But one might have a worse heir than the Crown!The Crown may be trusted to take proper care of money, and this is morethan can often be said of one's sons and daughters. I tell you it is allas Solomon said--'vanity and vexation of spirit. ' The amassing of greatwealth is not worth the time and trouble involved in the task. One coulddo so much better----"

Here he paused. 

"How?" asked Vesey, with a half-smile. "What else is there to be done inthis world except to get rich in order to live comfortably?"

"I know people who are not rich at all, and who never will be rich, yetwho live more comfortably than I have ever done, " repliedHelmsley--"that is, if to 'live comfortably' implies to live peacefully, happily, and contentedly, taking each day as it comes with gladness as areal 'living' time. And by this, I mean 'living, ' not with the rush andscramble, fret and jar inseparable from money-making, but living justfor the joy of life. Especially when it is possible to believe that aGod exists, who designed life, and even death, for the ultimate good ofevery creature. This is what I believed--once--'out in ole Virginny, along time ago!'"

He hummed the last words softly under his breath, --then swept one handacross his eyes with a movement of impatience. 

"Old men's brains grow addled, " he continued. "They become clouded witha fog through which only the memories of the past and the days of theiryouth shine clear. Sometimes I talk of Virginia as if I were home-sickand wanted to go back to it, --yet I never do. I wouldn't go back to itfor the world, --not now. I'm not an American, so I can say, without anyloss of the patriotic sense, that I loathe America. It is a country tobe used for the making of wealth, but it is not a country to be loved. It might have been the most lovable Father-and-Mother-Land on the globeif nobler men had lived long enough in it to rescue its people from thedegrading Dollar-craze. But now, well!--those who make fortunes thereleave it as soon as they can, shaking its dust off their feet andstriving to forget that they ever experienced its incalculable greed, vice, cunning, and general rascality. There are plenty of decent folk inAmerica, of course, just as there are decent folk everywhere, but theyare in the minority. Even in the Southern States the 'old stock' of menis decaying and dying-out, and the taint of commercial vulgarity iscreeping over the former simplicity of the Virginian homestead. No, --Iwould not go back to the scene of my boyhood, for though I had somethingthere once which I have since lost, I am not such a fool as to think Ishould ever find it again. "

Here he looked round at his listener with a smile so sudden and sweet asto render his sunken features almost youthful. 

"I believe I am boring you, Vesey!" he said. 

"Not the least in the world, --you never bore me, " replied Sir Francis, with alacrity. "You are always interesting, even in your most illogicalhumour. "

"You consider me illogical?"

"In a way, yes. For instance, you abuse America. Why? Your misguidedwife was American, certainly, but setting that unfortunate fact aside, you made your money in the States. Commercial vulgarity helped youalong. Therefore be just to commercial vulgarity. "

"I hope I am just to it, --I think I am, " answered Helmsley slowly; "butI never was one with it. I never expected to wring a dollar out of tencents, and never tried. I can at least say that I have made my moneyhonestly, and have trampled no man down on the road to fortune. Butthen--I am not a citizen of the 'Great Republic. '"

"You were born in America, " said Vesey. 

"By accident, " replied Helmsley, with a laugh, "and kindly fate favouredme by allowing me to see my first daylight in the South rather than inthe North. But I was never naturalised as an American. My father andmother were both English, --they both came from the same little sea-coastvillage in Cornwall. They married very young, --theirs was a romanticlove-match, and they left England in the hope of bettering theirfortunes. They settled in Virginia and grew to love it. My father becameaccountant to a large business firm out there, and did fairly well, though he never was a rich man in the present-day meaning of the term. He had only two children, --myself and my sister, who died at sixteen. Iwas barely twenty when I lost both father and mother and started aloneto face the world. "

"You have faced it very successfully, " said Vesey; "and if you wouldonly look at things in the right and reasonable way, you have reallyvery little to complain of. Your marriage was certainly an unluckyone----"

"Do not speak of it!" interrupted Helmsley, hastily. "It is past anddone with. Wife and children are swept out of my life as though they hadnever been! It is a curious thing, perhaps, but with me a betrayedaffection does not remain in my memory as affection at all, but only asa spurious image of the real virtue, not worth considering orregretting. Standing as I do now, on the threshold of the grave, I lookback, --and in looking back I see none of those who wronged and deceivedme, --they have disappeared altogether, and their very faces and formsare blotted out of my remembrance. So much so, indeed, that I could, ifI had the chance, begin a new life again and never give a thought to theold!"

His eyes flashed a sudden fire under their shelving brows, and his righthand clenched itself involuntarily. 

"I suppose, " he continued, "that a kind of harking back to the memoriesof one's youth is common to all aged persons. With me it has becomealmost morbid, for daily and hourly I see myself as a boy, dreaming awaythe time in the wild garden of our home in Virginia, --watching thefireflies light up the darkness of the summer evenings, and listening tomy sister singing in her soft little voice her favourite melody--'Angelsever bright and fair. ' As I said to you when we began this talk, I hadsomething then which I have never had since. Do you know what it was?"

Sir Francis, here finishing his cigar, threw away its glowing end, andshook his head in the negative. 

"You will think me as sentimental as I am garrulous, " went on Helmsley, "when I tell you that it was merely--love!"

Vesey raised himself in his chair and sat upright, opening his eyes inastonishment. 

"Love!" he echoed. "God bless my soul! I should have thought that you, of all men in the world, could have won that easily!"

Helmsley turned towards him with a questioning look. 

"Why should I 'of all men in the world' have won it?" he asked. "Because I am rich? Rich men are seldom, if ever, loved forthemselves--only for what they can give to their professing lovers. "

His ordinarily soft tone had an accent of bitterness in it, and SirFrancis Vesey was silent. 

"Had I remained poor, --poor as I was when I first started to make myfortune, " he went on, "I might possibly have been loved by some woman, or some friend, for myself alone. For as a young fellow I was notbad-looking, nor had I, so I flatter myself, an unlikable disposition. But luck always turned the wheel in my favour, and at thirty-five I wasa millionaire. Then I 'fell' in love, --and married on the faith of thatemotion, which is always a mistake. 'Falling in love' is not loving. Iwas in the full flush of my strength and manhood, and was sufficientlyproud of myself to believe that my wife really cared for me. There I wasdeceived. She cared for my millions. So it chances that the only reallove I have ever known was the unselfish 'home' affection, --the love ofmy mother and father and sister 'out in ole Virginny, ' 'a love so sweetit could not last, ' as Shelley sings. Though I believe it can and doeslast, --for my soul (or whatever that strange part of me may be whichthinks beyond the body) is always running back to that love with a fullsense of certainty that it is still existent. "

His voice sank and seemed to fail him for a moment. He looked up at thelarge, bright star shining steadily above him. 

"You are silent, Vesey, " he said, after a pause, speaking with an effortat lightness; "and wisely too, for I know you have nothing to say--thatis, nothing that could affect the position. And you may well ask, if youchoose, to what does all this reminiscent old man's prattle tend? Simplyto this--that you have been urging me for the last six months to make mywill in order to replace the one which was previously made in favour ofmy sons, and which is now destroyed, owing to their deaths before myown, --and I tell you plainly and frankly that I don't know how to makeit, as there is no one in the world whom I care to name as my heir. "

Sir Francis sat gravely ruminating for a moment;--then he said:--

"Why not do as I suggested to you once before--adopt a child? Find somepromising boy, born of decent, healthy, self-respectingparents, --educate him according to your own ideas, and bring him up tounderstand his future responsibilities. How would that suit you?"

"Not at all, " replied Helmsley drily. "I _have_ heard of parents willingto sell their children, but I should scarcely call them decent orself-respecting. I know of one case where a couple of peasants soldtheir son for five pounds in order to get rid of the trouble of rearinghim. He turned out a famous man, --but though he was, in due course, toldhis history, he never acknowledged the unnatural vendors of his fleshand blood as his parents, and quite right too. No, --I have had too muchexperience of life to try such a doubtful business as that of adopting achild. The very fact of adoption by so miserably rich a man as myselfwould buy a child's duty and obedience rather than win it. I will haveno heir at all, unless I can discover one whose love for me is sincerelyunselfish and far above all considerations of wealth or worldlyadvantage. "

"It is rather late in the day, perhaps, " said Vesey after a pause, speaking hesitatingly, "but--but--you might marry?"

Helmsley laughed loudly and harshly. 

"Marry! I! At seventy! My dear Vesey, you are a very old friend, andprivileged to say what others dare not, or you would offend me. If I hadever thought of marrying again I should have done so two or three yearsafter my wife's death, when I was in the fifties, and not waited tillnow, when my end, if not actually near, is certainly well in sight. Though I daresay there are plenty of women who would marry me--evenme--at my age, --knowing the extent of my income. But do you think Iwould take one of them, knowing in my heart that it would be a merequestion of sale and barter? Not I!--I could never consent to sink solow in my own estimation of myself. I can honestly say I have neverwronged any woman. I shall not begin now. "

"I don't see why you should take that view of it, " murmured Sir Francisplacidly. "Life is not lived nowadays as it was when you first enteredupon your career. For one thing, men last longer and don't give up sosoon. Few consider themselves old at seventy. Why should they? There's alearned professor at the Pasteur Institute who declares we ought all tolive to a hundred and forty. If he's right, you are still quite a youngman. "

Helmsley rose from his chair with a slightly impatient gesture. 

"We won't discuss any so-called 'new theories, '" he said. "They are onlyechoes of old fallacies. The professor's statement is merely a modernrepetition of the ancient belief in the elixir of life. Shall we go in?"

Vesey got up from his lounging position more slowly and stiffly thanHelmsley had done. Some ten years younger as he was, he was evidentlyless active. 

"Well, " he said, as he squared his shoulders and drew himself erect, "weare no nearer a settlement of what I consider a most urgent andimportant affair than when we began our conversation. "

Helmsley shrugged his shoulders. 

"When I come back to town, we will go into the question again, " he said. 

"You are off at the end of the week?"

"Yes. "

"Going abroad?"

"I--I think so. "

The answer was given with a slight touch of hesitation. 

"Your last 'function' of the season is the dance you are givingto-morrow night, I suppose, " continued Sir Francis, studying with avague curiosity the spare, slight figure of his companion, who hadturned from him and, with one foot on the sill of the open Frenchwindow, was just about to enter the room beyond. 

"Yes. It is Lucy's birthday. "

"Ah! Miss Lucy Sorrel! How old is she?"

"Just twenty-one. "

And, as he spoke, Helmsley stepped into the apartment from which thewindow opened out upon the balcony, and waited a moment for Vesey tofollow. 

"She has always been a great favourite of yours, " said Vesey, as heentered. "Now, why----"

"Why don't I leave her my fortune, you would ask?" interrupted Helmsley, with a touch of sarcasm. "Well, first, because she is a woman, and shemight possibly marry a fool or a wastrel. Secondly, because though Ihave known her ever since she was a child of ten, I have no liking forher parents or for any of her family connections. When I first took afancy to her she was playing about on the shore at a little seasideplace on the Sussex coast, --I thought her a pretty little creature, andhave made rather a pet of her ever since. But beyond giving her trinketsand bon-bons, and offering her such gaieties and amusements as aresuitable to her age and sex, I have no other intentions concerning her. "

Sir Francis took a comprehensive glance round the magnificentdrawing-room in which he now stood, --a drawing-room more like a royalreception-room of the First Empire than a modern apartment in the modernhouse of a merely modern millionaire. Then he chuckled softly tohimself, and a broad smile spread itself among the furrows of hissomewhat severely featured countenance. 

"Mrs. Sorrel would be sorry if she knew that, " he said. "I think--Ireally think, Helmsley, that Mrs. Sorrel believes you are still in thematrimonial market!"

Helmsley's deeply sunken eyes flashed out a sudden searchlight of keenand quick inquiry, then his brows grew dark with a shadow of scorn. 

"Poor Lucy!" he murmured. "She is very unfortunate in her mother, andequally so in her father. Matt Sorrel never did anything in his life butbet on the Turf and gamble at Monte Carlo, and it's too late for him totry his hand at any other sort of business. His daughter is a nice girland a pretty one, --but now that she has grown from a child into a womanI shall not be able to do much more for her. She will have to dosomething for herself in finding a good husband. "

Sir Francis listened with his head very much on one side. An owl-likeinscrutability of legal wisdom seemed to have suddenly enveloped him ina cloud. Pulling himself out of this misty reverie he said abruptly:--

"Well--good-night! or rather good-morning! It's past one o'clock. ShallI see you again before you leave town?"

"Probably. If not, you will hear from me. "

"You won't reconsider the advisability of----"

"No, I won't!" And Helmsley smiled. "I'm quite obstinate on that point. If I die suddenly, my property goes to the Crown, --if not, why then youwill in due course receive your instructions. "

Vesey studied him with thoughtful attention. 

"You're a queer fellow, David!" he said, at last. "But I can't helpliking you. I only wish you were not quite so--so romantic!"

"Romantic!" Helmsley looked amused. "Romance and I said good-bye to eachother years ago. I admit that I used to be romantic--but I'm not now. "

"You are!" And Sir Francis frowned a legal frown which soon brightenedinto a smile. "A man of your age doesn't want to be loved for himselfalone unless he's very romantic indeed! And that's what you dowant!--and that's what I'm afraid you won't get, in your position--notas this world goes! Good-night!"

"Good-night!"

They walked out of the drawing-room to the head of the grand staircase, and there shook hands and parted, a manservant being in waiting to showSir Francis to the door. But late as the hour was, Helmsley did notimmediately retire to rest. Long after all his household were in bed andsleeping, he sat in the hushed solitude of his library, writing manyletters. The library was on a line with the drawing-room, and its onewindow, facing the Mall, was thrown open to admit such air as could oozethrough the stifling heat of the sultry night. Pausing once in the busywork of his hand and pen, Helmsley looked up and saw the bright star hehad watched from the upper balcony, peering in upon him steadily like aneye. A weary smile, sadder than scorn, wavered across his features. 

"That's Venus, " he murmured half aloud. "The Eden star of all very youngpeople, --the star of Love!"

CHAPTER II

On the following evening the cold and frowning aspect of the mansion inCarlton House Terrace underwent a sudden transformation. Lights gleamedfrom every window; the strip of garden which extended from the rear ofthe building to the Mall, was covered in by red and white awning, andthe balcony where the millionaire master of the dwelling had, some fewhours previously, sat talking with his distinguished legal friend, SirFrancis Vesey, was turned into a kind of lady's bower, softly carpeted, adorned with palms and hothouse roses, and supplied with cushionedchairs for the voluptuous ease of such persons of opposite sexes asmight find their way to this suggestive "flirtation" corner. The musicof a renowned orchestra of Hungarian performers flowed out of the opendoors of the sumptuous ballroom which was one of the many attractions ofthe house, and ran in rhythmic vibrations up the stairs, echoing throughall the corridors like the sweet calling voices of fabled nymphs andsirens, till, floating still higher, it breathed itself out to thenight, --a night curiously heavy and sombre, with a blackness of sky toodense for any glimmer of stars to shine through. The hum of talk, theconstant ripple of laughter, the rustle of women's silken garments, theclatter of plates and glasses in the dining-room, where a costlyball-supper awaited its devouring destiny, --the silvery tripping andslipping of light dancing feet on a polished floor--all these sounds, intermingling with the gliding seductive measure of the various waltzesplayed in quick succession by the band, created a vague impression ofconfusion and restlessness in the brain, and David Helmsley himself, thehost and entertainer of the assembled guests, watched the brilliantscene from the ballroom door with a weary sense of melancholy which heknew was unfounded and absurd, yet which he could not resist, --a touchof intense and utter loneliness, as though he were a stranger in his ownhome. 

"I feel, " he mused, "like some very poor old fellow asked in by chancefor a few minutes, just to see the fun!"

He smiled, --yet was unable to banish his depression. The bare fact ofthe worthlessness of wealth was all at once borne in upon him withoverpowering weight. This magnificent house which his hard earnings hadpurchased, --this ballroom with its painted panels and sculpturedfriezes, crowded just now with kaleidoscope pictures of men and womenwhirling round and round in a maze of music and movement, --the thousandprecious and costly things he had gathered about him in his journeythrough life, --must all pass out of his possession in a few brief years, and there was not a soul who loved him or whom he loved, to inherit themor value them for his sake. A few brief years! And then--darkness. Thelights gone out, --the music silenced--the dancing done! And the lovethat he had dreamed of when he was a boy--love, strong and great anddivine enough to outlive death--where was it? A sudden sigh escapedhim----

"_Dear_ Mr. Helmsley, you look so _very_ tired!" said a woman's purringvoice at his ear. "_Do_ go and rest in your own room for a few minutesbefore supper! You have been so kind!--Lucy is quite touched andoverwhelmed by _all_ your goodness to her, --no _lover_ could do more fora girl, I'm _sure_! But really you _must_ spare yourself! What _should_we do without you!"

"What indeed!" he replied, somewhat drily, as he looked down at thespeaker, a cumbrous matron attired in an over-frilled and over-flouncedcostume of pale grey, which delicate Quakerish colour rather painfullyintensified the mottled purplish-red of her face. "But I am not at alltired, Mrs. Sorrel, I assure you! Don't trouble yourself about me--I'mvery well. "

"_Are_ you?" And Mrs. Sorrel looked volumes of tenderest insincerity. "Ah! But you know we _old_ people _must_ be careful! Young folks can doanything and everything--but _we_, at _our_ age, need to be_over_-particular!"

"_You_ shouldn't call yourself old, Mrs. Sorrel, " said Helmsley, seeingthat she expected this from him, "you're quite a young woman. "

Mrs. Sorrel gave a little deprecatory laugh. 

"Oh dear no!" she said, in a tone which meant "Oh dear yes!" "I wasn'tmarried at sixteen, you know!"

"No? You surprise me!"

Mrs. Sorrel peered at him from under her fat eyelids with a slightlydubious air. She was never quite sure in her own mind as to the way inwhich "old Gold-Dust, " as she privately called him, regarded her. Anaged man, burdened with an excess of wealth, was privileged to have whatare called "humours, " and certainly he sometimes had them. It wasnecessary--or so Mrs. Sorrel thought--to deal with him delicately andcautiously--neither with too much levity, nor with an overweightedseriousness. One's plan of conduct with a multi-millionaire required tobe thought out with sedulous care, and entered upon with circumspection. And Mrs Sorrel did not attempt even as much as a youthful giggle atHelmsley's half-sarcastically implied compliment with its sarcasticimplication as to the ease with which she supported her years andsuperabundance of flesh tissue. She merely heaved a short sigh. 

"I was just one year younger than Lucy is to-day, " she said, "and Ireally thought myself quite an _old_ bride! I was a mother attwenty-one. "

Helmsley found nothing to say in response to this interesting statement, particularly as he had often heard it before. 

"Who is Lucy dancing with?" he asked irrelevantly, by way of diversion. 

"Oh, my _dear_ Mr. Helmsley, who is she _not_ dancing with!" and Mrs. Sorrel visibly swelled with maternal pride. "Every young man in the roomhas rushed at her--positively rushed!--and her programme was full fiveminutes after she arrived! Isn't she looking lovely to-night?--a perfectsylph! _Do_ tell me you think she is a sylph!"

David's old eyes twinkled. 

"I have never seen a sylph, Mrs. Sorrel, so I cannot make thecomparison, " he said; "but Lucy is a very beautiful girl, and I thinkshe is looking her best this evening. Her dress becomes her. She oughtto find a good husband easily. "

"She ought, --indeed she ought! But it is very difficult--very, verydifficult! All the men marry for money nowadays, not for love--ah!--howdifferent it was when you and I were young, Mr. Helmsley! Love waseverything then, --and there was so much romance and poetical sentiment!"

"Romance is a snare, and poetical sentiment a delusion, " said Helmsley, with sudden harshness. "I proved that in my marriage. I should think youhad equally proved it in yours!"

Mrs. Sorrel recoiled a little timorously. "Old Gold-Dust" often saidunpleasant things--truthful, but eminently tactless, --and she felt thathe was likely to say some of those unpleasant things now. Therefore shegave a fluttering gesture of relief and satisfaction as the waltz-musicjust then ceased, and her daughter's figure, tall, slight, andmarvellously graceful, detached itself from the swaying crowd in theballroom and came towards her. 

"Dearest child!" she exclaimed effusively, "are you not _quite_ tiredout?"

The "dearest child" shrugged her white shoulders and laughed. 

"Nothing tires me, mother--you know that!" she answered--then with asudden change from her air of careless indifference to one of coaxingsoftness, she turned to Helmsley. 

"_You_ must be tired!" she said. "Why have you been standing so long atthe ballroom door?"

"I have been watching you, Lucy, " he replied gently. "It has been apleasure for me to see you dance. I am too old to dance with you myself, otherwise I should grudge all the young men the privilege. "

"I will dance with you, if you like, " she said, smiling. "There is onemore set of Lancers before supper. Will you be my partner?"

He shook his head. 

"Not even to please you, my child!" and taking her hand he patted itkindly. "There is no fool like an old, fool, I know, but I am not quiteso foolish as that. "

"I see nothing at all foolish in it, " pouted Lucy. "You are my host, andit's my coming-of-age party. "

Helmsley laughed. 

"So it is! And the festival must not be spoilt by any incongruities. Itwill be quite sufficient honour for me to take you in to supper. "

She looked down at the flowers she wore in her bodice, and played withtheir perfumed petals. 

"I like you better than any man here, " she said suddenly. 

A swift shadow crossed his face. Glancing over his shoulder he saw thatMrs. Sorrel had moved away. Then the cloud passed from his brow, and thethought that for a moment had darkened his mind, yielded to a kinderimpulse. 

"You flatter me, my dear, " he said quietly. "But I am such an old friendof yours that I can take your compliment in the right spirit withouthaving my head turned by it. Indeed, I can hardly believe that it iseleven years ago since I saw you playing about on the seashore as achild. You seem to have grown up like a magic rose, all at once from atiny bud into a full blossom. Do you remember how I first made youracquaintance?"

"As if I should ever forget!" and she raised her lovely, large dark eyesto his. "I had been paddling about in the sea, and I had lost my shoesand stockings. You found them for me, and you put them on!"

"True!" and he smiled. "You had very wet little feet, all rosy with thesalt of the sea--and your long hair was blown about in thick curls roundthe brightest, sweetest little face in the world. I thought you were theprettiest little girl I had ever seen in my life, and I think just thesame of you now. "

A pale blush flitted over her cheeks, and she dropped him a demurecurtsy. 

"Thank you!" she said. "And if you won't dance the Lancers, which arejust beginning, will you sit them out with me?"

"Gladly!" and he offered her his arm. "Shall we go up to thedrawing-room? It is cooler there than here. "

She assented, and they slowly mounted the staircase together. Some ofthe evening's guests lounging about in the hall and loitering near theballroom door, watched them go, and exchanged significant glances. Onetall woman with black eyes and a viperish mouth, who commanded a certainexclusive "set" by virtue of being the wife of a dissolute Earl whosehouse was used as a common gambling resort, found out Mrs. Sorrelsitting among a group of female gossips in a corner, and laid apatronising hand upon her shoulder. 

"_Do_ tell me!" she softly breathed. "_Is_ it a case?"

Mrs. Sorrel began to flutter immediately. 

"_Dearest_ Lady Larford! What _do_ you mean!"

"Surely you know!" And the wide mouth of her ladyship grew still wider, and the black eyes more steely. "Will Lucy get him, do you think?"

Mrs. Sorrel fidgeted uneasily in her chair. Other people werelistening. 

"Really, " she mumbled nervously--"really, _dear_ Lady Larford!--you putthings so _very_ plainly!--I--I cannot say!--you see--he is more likeher father----"

Lady Larford showed all her white teeth in an expansive grin. 

"Oh, that's very safe!" she said. "The 'father' business works very wellwhen sufficient cash is put in with it. I know several examples ofperfect matrimonial bliss between old men and young girls--absolutely_perfect_! One is bound to be happy with heaps of money!"

And keeping her teeth still well exposed, Lady Larford glided away, herskirts exhaling an odour of civet-cat as she moved. Mrs. Sorrel gazedafter her helplessly, in a state of worry and confusion, for sheinstinctively felt that her ladyship's pleasure would now be to telleverybody whom she knew, that Lucy Sorrel, "the new girl who waspresented at Court last night, " was having a "try" for the Helmsleymillions; and that if the "try" was not successful, no one living wouldlaunch more merciless and bitter jests at the failure and defeat of theSorrels than this same titled "leader" of a section of the aristocraticgambling set. For there has never been anything born under the suncrueller than a twentieth-century woman of fashion to her ownsex--except perhaps a starving hyæna tearing asunder its living prey. 

Meanwhile, David Helmsley and his young companion had reached thedrawing-room, which they found quite unoccupied. The window-balcony, festooned with rose-silk draperies and flowers, and sparkling with tinyelectric lamps, offered itself as an inviting retreat for a quiet chat, and within it they seated themselves, Helmsley rather wearily, and LucySorrel with the queenly air and dainty rustle of soft garments habitualto the movements of a well-dressed woman. 

"I have not thanked you half enough, " she began, "for all the delightfulthings you have done for my birthday----"

"Pray spare me!" he interrupted, with a deprecatory gesture--"I wouldrather you said nothing. "

"Oh, but I must say something!" she went on. "You are so generous andgood in yourself that of course you cannot bear to be thanked--I knowthat--but if you will persist in giving so much pleasure to a girl who, but for you, would have no pleasure at all in her life, you must expectthat girl to express her feelings somehow. Now, mustn't you?"

She leaned forward, smiling at him with an arch expression of sweetnessand confidence. He looked at her attentively, but said nothing. 

"When I got your lovely present the first thing this morning, " shecontinued, "I could hardly believe my eyes. Such an exquisitenecklace!--such perfect pearls! Dear Mr. Helmsley, you quite spoil me!I'm not worth all the kind thought and trouble you take on my behalf. "

Tears started to her eyes, and her lips quivered. Helmsley saw heremotion with only a very slight touch of concern. Her tears were merelysensitive, he thought, welling up from a young and grateful heart, andas the prime cause of that young heart's gratitude he delicately forboreto notice them. This chivalrous consideration on his part caused somelittle disappointment to the shedder of the tears, but he could not beexpected to know that. 

"I'm glad you are pleased with my little gift, " he said simply, "thoughI'm afraid it is quite a conventional and ordinary one. Pearls and girlsalways go together, in fact as in rhyme. After all, they are the mostsuitable jewels for the young--for they are emblems of everything thatyouth should be--white and pure and innocent. "

Her breath came and went quickly. 

"Do you think youth is always like that?" she asked. 

"Not always, --but surely most often, " he answered. "At any rate, I wishto believe in the simplicity and goodness of all young things. "

She was silent. Helmsley studied her thoughtfully, --even critically. Andpresently he came to the conclusion that as a child she had been muchprettier than she now was as a woman. Yet her present phase ofloveliness was of the loveliest type. No fault could be found with theperfect oval of her face, her delicate white-rose skin, her smallseductive mouth, curved in the approved line of the "Cupid's bow, " herdeep, soft, bright eyes, fringed with long-lashes a shade darker thanthe curling waves of her abundant brown hair. But her features inchildhood had expressed something more than the beauty which haddeveloped with the passing of years. A sweet affection, a tenderearnestness, and an almost heavenly candour had made the attractivenessof her earlier age quite irresistible, but now--or so Helmsleyfancied--that fine and subtle charm had gone. He was half ashamed ofhimself for allowing this thought to enter his mind, and quicklydismissing it, he said--

"How did your presentation go off last night? Was it a full Court?"

"I believe so, " she replied listlessly, unfurling a painted fan andwaving it idly to and fro--"I cannot say that I found it veryinteresting. The whole thing bored me dreadfully. "

He smiled. 

"Bored you! Is it possible to be bored at twenty-one?"

"I think every one, young or old, is bored more or less nowadays, " shesaid. "Boredom is a kind of microbe in the air. Most society functionsare deadly dull. And where's the fun of being presented at Court? If awoman wears a pretty gown, all the other women try to tread on it andtear it off her back if they can. And the Royal people only speak totheir own special 'set, ' and not always the best-looking orbest-mannered set either. "

Helmsley looked amused. 

"Well, it's what is called an _entrée_ into the world, "--he replied. "For my own part, I have never been 'presented, ' and never intend to be. I see too much of Royalty privately, in the dens of finance. "

"Yes--all the kings and princes wanting to borrow money, " she saidquickly and flippantly. "And you must despise the lot. _You_ are a real'King, ' bigger than any crowned head, because you can do just as youlike, and you are not the servant of Governments or peoples. I am sureyou must be the happiest man in the world!"

She plucked off a rose from a flowering rose-tree near her, and began towrench out its petals with a quick, nervous movement. Helmsley watchedher with a vague sense of annoyance. 

"I am no more happy, " he said suddenly, "than that rose you are pickingto pieces, though it has never done you any harm. "

She started, and flushed, --then laughed. 

"Oh, the poor little rose!" she exclaimed--"I'm sorry! I've had so manyroses to-day, that I don't think about them. I suppose it's wrong. "

"It's not wrong, " he answered quietly; "it's merely the fault of thosewho give you more roses than you know how to appreciate. "

She looked at him inquiringly, but could not fathom his expression. 

"Still, " he went on, "I would not have your life deprived of so much asone rose. And there is a very special rose that does not grow in earthlygardens, which I should like you to find and wear on your heart, Lucy, --I hope I shall see you in the happy possession of it before Idie, --I mean the rose of love. "

She lifted her head, and her eyes shone coldly. 

"Dear Mr. Helmsley, " she said, "I don't believe in love!"

A flash of amazement, almost of anger, illumined his worn features. 

"You don't believe in love!" he echoed. "O child, what _do_ you believein, then?"

The passion of his tone moved her to a surprised smile. 

"Well, I believe in being happy while you can, " she replied tranquilly. "And love isn't happiness. All my girl and men friends who are what theycall 'in love' seem to be thoroughly miserable. Many of them getperfectly ill with jealousy, and they never seem to know whether whatthey call their 'love' will last from one day to another. I shouldn'tcare to live at such a high tension of nerves. My own mother and fathermarried 'for love, ' so I am always told, --and I'm sure a morequarrelsome couple never existed. I believe in friendship more thanlove. "

As she spoke, Helmsley looked at her steadily, his face darkening with ashadow of weary scorn. 

"I see!" he murmured coldly. "You do not care to over-fatigue theheart's action by unnecessary emotion. Quite right! If we were all aswise as you are at your age, we might live much longer than we do. Youare very sensible, Lucy!--more sensible than I should have thoughtpossible for so young a woman. "

She gave him a swift, uneasy glance. She was not quite sure of his mood. 

"Friendship, " he continued, speaking in a slow, meditative tone, "is agood thing, --it may be, as you suggest, safer and sweeter than love. Buteven friendship, to be worthy of its name, must be quite unselfish, --andunselfishness, in both love and friendship, is rare. "

"Very, very rare!" she sighed. 

"You will be thinking of marriage _some_ day, if you are not thinking ofit now, " he went on. "Would a husband's friendship--friendship and nomore--satisfy you?"

She gazed at him candidly. 

"I am sure it would!" she said; "I'm not the least bit sentimental. "

He regarded her with a grave and musing steadfastness. A very closeobserver might have seen a line of grim satire near the corners of hismouth, and a gleam of irritable impatience in his sunken eyes; but thesesigns of inward feeling were not apparent to the girl, who, more thanusually satisfied with herself and over-conscious of her own beauty, considered that she was saying just the very thing that he would expectand like her to say. 

"You do not crave for love, then?" he queried. "You do not wish to knowanything of the 'divine rapture falling out of heaven, '--the rapturethat has inspired all the artists and poets in the world, and that hasprobably had the largest share in making the world's history?"

She gave a little shrug of amused disdain. 

"Raptures never last!" and she laughed. "And artists and poets aredreadful people! I've seen a few of them, and don't want to see them anymore. They are always very untidy, and they have the most absurd ideasof their own abilities. You can't have them in society, you know!--yousimply can't! If I had a house of my own I would never have a poetinside it. "

The grim lines round Helmsley's mouth hardened, and made him look almostcruelly saturnine. Yet he murmured under his breath:--

 "'All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame; Are but the ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame!'"

"What's that?" she asked quickly. 

"Poetry!" he answered, "by a man named Coleridge. He is dead now. Heused to take opium, and he did not understand business matters. He wasnever rich in anything but thoughts. "

She smiled brilliantly. 

"How silly!" she said. 

"Yes, he was very silly, " agreed Helmsley, watching her narrowly fromunder his half-closed eyelids. "But most thinkers are silly, even whenthey don't take opium. They believe in Love. "

She coloured. She caught the sarcastic inflection in his tone. But shewas silent. 

"Most men who have lived and worked and suffered, " he went on, "come toknow before they die that without a great and true love in their lives, their work is wasted, and their sufferings are in vain. But there areexceptions, of course. Some get on very well without love at all, andperhaps these are the most fortunate. "

"I am sure they are!" she said decisively. 

He picked up two or three of the rose-petals her restless fingers hadscattered, and laying them in his palm looked at the curved, pink, shell-like shapes abstractedly. 

"Well, they are saved a good deal of trouble, " he answered quietly. "They spare themselves many a healing heart-ache and many purifyingtears. But when they grow old, and when they find that, after all, thehappiest folks in the world are still those who love, or who have lovedand have been loved, even though the loved ones are perhaps no longerhere, they may--I do not say they will--possibly regret that they neverexperienced that marvellous sense of absorption into another's life ofwhich Mrs. Browning writes in her letters to her husband. Do you knowwhat she says?"

"I'm afraid I don't!" and she smothered a slight yawn as she spoke. Hefixed his eyes intently upon her. 

"She tells her lover her feeling in these words: '_There is nothing inyou that does not draw all out of me. _' That is the true emotion oflove, --the one soul must draw all out of the other, and the best of allin each. "

"But the Brownings were a very funny couple, " and the fair Lucy archedher graceful throat and settled more becomingly in its place a strayingcurl of her glossy brown hair. "I know an old gentleman who used to seethem together when they lived in Florence, and _he_ says they were soqueer-looking that people used to laugh at them. It's all very well tolove and to be in love, but if you look odd and people laugh at you, what's the good of it?"

Helmsley rose from his seat abruptly. 

"True!" he exclaimed. "You're right, Lucy! Little girl, you're quiteright! What's the good of it! Upon my word, you're a most practicalwoman!--you'll make a capital wife for a business man!" Then as the gaymusic of the band below-stairs suddenly ceased, to give place to thenoise of chattering voices and murmurs of laughter, he glanced at hiswatch. 

"Supper-time!" he said. "Let me take you down. And after supper, willyou give me ten minutes' chat with you alone in the library!"

She looked up eagerly, with a flush of pink in her cheeks. 

"Of course I will! With pleasure!"

"Thank you!" And he drew her white-gloved hand through his arm. "I amleaving town next week, and I have something important to say to youbefore I go. You will allow me to say it privately?"

She smiled assent, and leaned on his arm with a light, confidingpressure, to which he no more responded than if his muscles had beenrigid iron. Her heart beat quickly with a sense of gratified vanity andexultant expectancy, --but his throbbed slowly and heavily, chilled bythe double frost of age and solitude. 

CHAPTER III

To see people eating is understood to be a very interesting and"brilliant" spectacle, and however insignificant you may be in thesocial world, you get a reflex of its "brilliancy" when you allow peoplein their turn to see you eating likewise. A well-cooked, well-servedsupper is a "function, " in which every man and woman who can move a jawtakes part, and though in plain parlance there is nothing uglier thanthe act of putting food into one's mouth, we have persuaded ourselvesthat it is a pretty and pleasant performance enough for us to ask ourfriends to see us do it. Byron's idea that human beings should eatprivately and apart, was not altogether without æsthetic justification, though according to medical authority such a procedure would be veryinjurious to health. The slow mastication of a meal in the presence ofcheerful company is said to promote healthy digestion--moreover, customand habit make even the most incongruous things acceptable, thereforethe display of tables, crowded with food-stuffs and surrounded byeating, drinking, chattering and perspiring men and women, does notaffect us to any sense of the ridiculous or the unseemly. On thecontrary, when some of us see such tables, we exclaim "How lovely!" or"How delightful!" according to our own pet vocabulary, or to ourknowledge of the humour of our host or hostess, --or perhaps, if we areyoung cynics, tired of life before we have confronted one of itsproblems, we murmur, "Not so bad!" or "Fairly decent!" when we areintroduced to the costly and appetising delicacies heaped up roundmasses of flowers and silver for our consideration and entertainment. Atthe supper given by David Helmsley for Lucy Sorrel's twenty-firstbirthday, there was, however, no note of dissatisfaction--the _blasé_breath of the callow critic emitted no withering blight, and evenlatter-day satirists in their teens, frosted like tender pease-blossombefore their prime, condescended to approve the lavish generosity, combined with the perfect taste, which made the festive scene a glowingpicture of luxury and elegance. But Helmsley himself, as he led hisbeautiful partner, "the" guest of the evening, to the head of theprincipal table, and took his place beside her, was conscious of nopersonal pleasure, but only of a dreary feeling which seemed lonelierthan loneliness and more sorrowful than sorrow. The wearied scorn thathe had lately begun to entertain for himself, his wealth, his business, his influence, and all his surroundings, was embittered by adisappointment none the less keen because he had dimly foreseen it. Thechild he had petted, the girl he had indulged after the fashion of afather who seeks to make the world pleasant to a young life justentering it, she, even she, was, or seemed to be, practically as selfishas any experienced member of the particular set of schemers andintriguers who compose what is sometimes called "society" in the presentday. He had no wish to judge her harshly, but he was too old and knewtoo much of life to be easily deceived in his estimation of character. Avery slight hint was sufficient for him. He had seen a great deal ofLucy Sorrel as a child--she had always been known as his "littlefavourite"--but since she had attended a fashionable school at Brighton, his visits to her home had been less frequent, and he had had very fewopportunities of becoming acquainted with the gradual development of hermental and moral self. During her holidays he had given her as manylittle social pleasures and gaieties as he had considered might beacceptable to her taste and age, but on these occasions other personshad always been present, and Lucy herself had worn what are called"company" manners, which in her case were singularly charming andattractive, so much so, indeed, that it would have seemed like heresy toquestion their sincerity. But now--whether it was the slight hintdropped by Sir Francis Vesey on the previous night as to Mrs. Sorrel'smatch-making proclivities, or whether it was a scarcely perceptiblesuggestion of something more flippant and assertive than usual in theair and bearing of Lucy herself that had awakened his suspicions, --hewas certainly disposed to doubt, for the first time in all his knowledgeof her, the candid nature of the girl for whom he had hithertoentertained, half-unconsciously, an almost parental affection. He sat byher side at supper, seldom speaking, but always closely observant. Hesaw everything; he watched the bright, exulting flash of her eyes as sheglanced at her various friends, both near her and at a distance, and hefancied he detected in their responsive looks a subtle inquiry andmeaning which he would not allow himself to investigate. And while thebubbling talk and laughter eddied round him, he made up his mind tocombat the lurking distrust that teased his brain, and either todisperse it altogether or else confirm it beyond all mere shadowymisgiving. Some such thought as this had occurred to him, albeitvaguely, when he had, on a sudden unpremeditated impulse, asked Lucy togive him a few minutes' private conversation with her after supper, butnow, what had previously been a mere idea formulated itself into a fixedresolve. 

"For what, after all, does it matter to me?" he mused. "Why should Ihesitate to destroy a dream? Why should I care if another rainbow bubbleof life breaks and disappears? I am too old to have ideals--so mostpeople would tell me. And yet--with the grave open and ready to receiveme, --I still believe that love and truth and purity surely exist inwomen's hearts--if one could only know just where to find the women!"

"Dear King David!" murmured a cooing voice at his ear. "Won't you drinkmy health?"

He started as from a reverie. Lucy Sorrel was bending towards him, herface glowing with gratified vanity and self-elation. 

"Of course!" he answered, and rising to his feet, he lifted his glassfull of as yet untasted champagne, at which action on his part themurmur of voices suddenly ceased sand all eyes were turned upon him. "Ladies and gentlemen, " he said, in his soft, tired voice, --"I beg topropose the health of Miss Lucy Sorrel! She has lived twenty-one yearson this interesting old planet of ours, and has found it, so far, notaltogether without charm. I have had seventy years of it, and strange asit may seem to you all, I am able to keep a few of the illusions anddelusions I had when I was even younger than our charming guest of theevening. I still believe in good women! I think I have one sitting at myright hand to-night. I take for granted that her nature is as fair asher face; and I hope that every recurring anniversary of this day maybring her just as much happiness as she deserves. I ask you to drink toher health, wealth, and prosperity; and--may she soon find a goodhusband!"

Applause and laughter followed this conventional little speech, and thetoast was honoured in the usual way, Lucy bowing and smiling her thanksto all present. And then there ensued one of those strangeimpressions--one might almost call them telepathic instead ofatmospheric effects--which, subtly penetrating the air, exerted aninexplicable influence on the mind;--the expectancy of some word neverto be uttered, --the waiting for some incident never to take place. People murmured and smiled, and looked and laughed, but there was anevident embarrassment among them, --an under-sense of something likedisappointment. The fortunately commonplace and methodical habits ofwaiters, whose one idea is to keep their patrons busy eating anddrinking, gradually overcame this insidious restraint, and the supperwent on gaily till at one o'clock the Hungarian band again began toplay, and all the young people, eager for their "extras" in the way ofdances, quickly rose from the various tables and began to crowd outtowards the ballroom. In the general dispersal, Lucy having left him fora partner to whom she had promised the first "extra, " Helmsley stoppedto speak to one or two men well known to him in the business world. Hewas still conversing with these when Mrs. Sorrel, not perceiving him inthe corner where he stood apart with his friend, trotted past him withan agitated step and flushed countenance, and catching her daughter bythe skirt of her dress as that young lady moved on with the pushingthrong in front of her, held her back for a second. 

"What have you done?" she demanded querulously, in not too soft a tone. "Were you careful? Did you manage him properly? What did he say to you?"

Lucy's beautiful face hardened, and her lips met in a thin, decidedlybad-tempered line. 

"He said nothing to the purpose, " she replied coldly. "There was notime. But"--and she lowered her voice--"he wants to speak to me alonepresently. I'm going to him in the library after this dance. "

She passed on, and Mrs. Sorrel, heaving a deep sigh, drew out a blackpocket-fan and fanned herself vigorously. Wreathing her face with socialsmiles, she made her way slowly out of the supper-room, happily unawarethat Helmsley had been near enough to hear every word that had passed. And hearing, he had understood; but he went on talking to his friendsin the quiet, rather slow way which was habitual to him, and when heleft them there was nothing about him to indicate that he was in asuppressed state of nervous excitement which made him for the momentquite forget that he was an old man. Impetuous youth itself never felt akeener blaze of vitality in the veins than he did at that moment, but itwas the withering heat of indignation that warmed him--not the tenderglow of love. The clarion sweetness of the dance-music, now pealingloudly on the air, irritated his nerves, --the lights, the flowers, thebrilliancy of the whole scene jarred upon his soul, --what was it all butsham, he thought!--a show in the mere name of friendship!--an ephemeralrose of pleasure with a worm at its core! Impatiently he shook himselffree of those who sought to detain him and went at once to hislibrary, --a sombre, darkly-furnished apartment, large enough to seemgloomy by contrast with the gaiety and cheerfulness which were dominantthroughout the rest of the house that evening. Only two or three shadedlamps were lit, and these cast a ghostly flicker on the row of booksthat lined the walls. A few names in raised letters of gold relief uponthe backs of some of the volumes, asserted themselves, or so he fancied, with unaccustomed prominence. "Montaigne, " "Seneca, " "Rochefoucauld, ""Goethe, " "Byron, " and "The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, " stood forthfrom the surrounding darkness as though demanding special notice. 

"Voices of the dead!" he murmured half aloud. "I should have learnedwisdom from you all long ago! What have the great geniuses of the worldlived for? For what purpose did they use their brains and pens? Simplyto teach mankind the folly of too much faith! Yet we continue to deludeourselves--and the worst of it is that we do it wilfully and knowingly. We are perfectly aware that when we trust, we shall be deceived--yet wetrust on! Even I--old and frail and about to die--cannot rid myself of abelief in God, and in the ultimate happiness of each man's destiny. Andyet, so far as my own experience serves me, I have nothing to goupon--absolutely nothing!"

He gave an unconscious gesture--half of scorn, half of despair--andpaced the room slowly up and down. A life of toil--a life rounding intoworldly success, but blank of all love and heart's comfort--was this tobe the only conclusion to his career? Of what use, then, was it to havelived at all?

"People talk foolishly of a 'declining birth-rate, '" he went on; "yetif, according to the modern scientist, all civilisations are only somuch output of wasted human energy, doomed to pass into utter oblivion, and human beings only live but to die and there an end, of what avail isit to be born at all? Surely it is but wanton cruelty to take uponourselves the responsibility of continuing a race whose onlyconsummation is rottenness in unremembered graves!"

At that moment the door opened and Lucy Sorrel entered softly, with apretty air of hesitating timidity which became her style of beautyexcellently well. As he looked up and saw her standing half shyly on thethreshold, a white, light, radiant figure expressing exquisitely freshyouth, grace and--innocence?--yes! surely that wondrous charm which hungabout her like a delicate atmosphere redolent with the perfume ofspring, could only be the mystic exhalation of a pure mind addingspiritual lustre to the material attraction of a perfect body, --hisheart misgave him. Already he was full of remorse lest so much as apassing thought in his brain might have done her unmerited wrong. Headvanced to meet her, and his voice was full of kindness as he said:--

"Is your dance quite over, Lucy? Are you sure I am not selfishlydepriving you of pleasure by asking you to come away from all your youngfriends just to talk to me for a few minutes in this dull room?"

She raised her beautiful eyes confidingly. 

"Dear Mr. Helmsley, there can be no greater pleasure for me than to talkto you!" she answered sweetly. 

His expression changed and hardened. "That's not true, " he thought; "and_she_ knows it, and _I_ know it. " Aloud he said: "Very prettily spoken, Lucy! But I am aware of my own tediousness and I won't detain you long. Will you sit down?" and he offered her an easy-chair, into which shesank with the soft slow grace of a nestling bird. "I only want to sayjust a few words, --such as your father might say to you if he were soinclined--about your future. "

She gave him a swift glance of keen inquiry. 

"My future?" she echoed. 

"Yes. Have you thought of it at all yourself?"

She heaved a little sigh, smiled, and shook her head in the negative. 

"I'm afraid I'm very silly, " she confessed plaintively. "I never think!"

He drew up another armchair and sat down opposite to her. 

"Well, try to do so now for five minutes at least, " he said, gently. "Iam going away to-morrow or next day for a considerable time----"

A quick flush flew over her face. 

"Going away!" she exclaimed. "But--not far?"

"That depends on my own whim, " he replied, watching her attentively. "Ishall certainly be absent from England for a year, perhaps longer. But, Lucy, --you were such a little pet of mine in your childhood that Icannot help taking an interest in you now you are grown up. That is, Ithink, quite natural. And I should like to feel that you have some goodand safe idea of your own happiness in life before I leave you. "

She stared, --her face fell. 

"I have no ideas at all, " she answered after a pause, the corners of herred mouth drooping in petulant, spoilt-child fashion, "and if you goaway I shall have no pleasures either!"

He smiled. 

"I'm sorry you take it that way, " he said. "But I'm nearing the end ofmy tether, Lucy, and increasing age makes me restless. I want change ofscene--and change of surroundings. I am thoroughly tired of my presentcondition. "

"Tired?" and her eyes expressed whole volumes of amazement. "Not really?_You_--tired of your present condition? With all your money?"

"With all my money!" he answered drily, "Money is not the elixir ofhappiness, Lucy, though many people seem to think it is. But I prefernot to talk about myself. Let me speak of you. What do you propose to dowith your life? You will marry, of course?"

"I--I suppose so, " she faltered. 

"Is there any one you specially favour?--any young fellow who loves you, or whom you are inclined to love--and who wants a start in the world? Ifthere is, send him to me, and, if he has anything in him, I'll makemyself answerable for his prosperity. "

She looked up with a cold, bright steadfastness. 

"There is no one, " she said. "Dear Mr. Helmsley, you are very good, butI assure you I have never fallen in love in my life. As I told youbefore supper, I don't believe in that kind of nonsense. And I--I wantnothing. Of course I know my father and mother are poor, and that theyhave kept up a sort of position which ranks them among the 'shabbygenteel, '--and I suppose if I don't marry quickly I shall have to dosomething for a living----"

She broke off, embarrassed by the keenness of the gaze he fixed uponher. 

"Many good, many beautiful, many delicate women 'do something, ' as youput it, for a living, " he said slowly. "But the fight is always fierce, and the end is sometimes bitter. It is better for a woman that sheshould be safeguarded by a husband's care and tenderness than that sheshould attempt to face the world alone. "

A flashing smile dimpled the corners of her mouth. 

"Why, yes, I quite agree with you, " she retorted playfully. "But if nohusband come forward, then it cannot be helped!"

He rose, and, pushing away his chair, walked up and down in silence. 

She watched him with a sense of growing irritability, and her heart beatwith uncomfortable quickness. Why did he seem to hesitate so long?Presently he stopped in his slow movement to and fro, and stood lookingdown upon her with a fixed intensity which vaguely troubled her. 

"It is difficult to advise, " he said, "and it is still more difficult tocontrol. In your case I have no right to do either. I am an old man, andyou are a very young woman. You are beginning your life, --I am endingmine. Yet, young as you are, you say with apparent sincerity that you donot believe in love. Now I, though I have loved and lost, though I haveloved and have been cruelly deceived in love, still believe that if thetrue, heavenly passion be fully and faithfully experienced, it mustprove the chief joy, if not the only one, of life. You think otherwise, and perhaps you correctly express the opinion of the younger generationof men and women. These appear to crowd more emotion and excitement intotheir lives than ever was attained or attainable in the lives of theirforefathers, but they do not, or so it seems to me, secure forthemselves as much peace of mind and satisfaction of soul as were theinheritance of bygone folk whom we now call 'old-fashioned. ' Still, youmay be right in depreciating the power of love--from your point of view. All the same, I should be sorry to see you entering into a lovelessmarriage. "

For a moment she was silent, then she suddenly plunged into speech. 

"Dear Mr. Helmsley, do you really think all the silly sentiment talkedand written about love is any good in marriage? We know so muchnowadays, --and the disillusion of matrimony is so _very_ complete! Onehas only to read the divorce cases in the newspapers to see whatmistakes people make----"

He winced as though he had been stung. 

"Do you read the divorce cases, Lucy?" he asked. "You--a mere girl likeyou?"

She looked surprised at the regret and pain in his tone. 

"Why, of course! One _must_ read the papers to keep up with all thethings that are going on. And the divorce cases have always suchstartling headings, --in such big print!--one is obliged to readthem--positively obliged!"

She laughed carelessly, and settled herself more cosily in her chair. 

"You nearly always find that it is the people who were desperately inlove with each other before marriage who behave disgracefully and areperfectly sick of each other afterwards, " she went on. "They wantedperpetual poetry and moonlight, and of course they find they can't haveit. Now, I don't want poetry or moonlight, --I hate both! Poetry makes mesleepy, and moonlight gives me neuralgia. I should like a husband whowould be a _friend_ to me--a real kind friend!--some one who would beable to take care of me, and be nice to me always--some one much olderthan myself, who was wise and strong and clever----"

"And rich, " said Helmsley quietly. "Don't forget that! Very rich!"

She glanced at him furtively, conscious of a slight nervous qualm. Then, rapidly reviewing the situation in her shallow brain, she accepted hisremark smilingly. 

"Oh, well, of course!" she said. "It's not pleasant to live withoutplenty of money. "

He turned from her abruptly, and resumed his leisurely walk to and fro, much to her inward vexation. He was becoming fidgety, she decided, --oldpeople were really very trying! Suddenly, with the air of a man arrivingat an important decision, he sat down again in the armchair opposite herown, and leaning indolently back against the cushion, surveyed her witha calm, critical, entirely businesslike manner, much as he would havelooked at a Jew company-promoter, who sought his aid to float a "bogus"scheme. 

"It's not pleasant to live without plenty of money, you think, " he said, repeating her last words slowly. "Well! The pleasantest time of my lifewas when I did not own a penny in the bank, and when I had to be verysharp in order to earn enough for my day's dinner. There was a zest, adelight, a fine glory in the mere effort to live that brought out thestrength of every quality I possessed. I learned to know myself, whichis a farther reaching wisdom than is found in knowing others. I hadideals then, --and--old as I am, I have them still. "

He paused. She was silent. Her eyes were lowered, and she played idlywith her painted fan. 

"I wonder if it would surprise you, " he went on, "to know that I havemade an ideal of _you_?"

She looked up with a smile. 

"Really? Have you? I'm afraid I shall prove a disappointment!"

He did not answer by the obvious compliment which she felt she had aright to expect. He kept his gaze fixed steadily on her face, and hisshaggy eyebrows almost met in the deep hollow which painful thought hadploughed along his forehead. 

"I have made, " he said, "an ideal in my mind of the little child who saton my knee, played with my watch-chain and laughed at me when I calledher my little sweetheart. She was perfectly candid in her laughter, --sheknew it was absurd for an old man to have a child as his sweetheart. Iloved to hear her laugh so, --because she was true to herself, and to herright and natural instincts. She was the prettiest and sweetest child Iever saw, --full of innocent dreams and harmless gaiety. She began togrow up, and I saw less and less of her, till gradually I lost the childand found the woman. But I believe in the child's heart still--I thinkthat the truth and simplicity of the child's soul are still in thewomanly nature, --and in that way, Lucy, I yet hold you as an ideal. "

Her breath quickened a little. 

"You think too kindly of me, " she murmured, furling and unfurling herfan slowly; "I'm not at all clever. "

He gave a slight deprecatory gesture. 

"Cleverness is not what I expect or have ever expected of you, " he said. "You have not as yet had to endure the misrepresentation and wrong whichfrequently make women clever, --the life of solitude and despised dreamswhich moves a woman to put on man's armour and sally forth to fight theworld and conquer it, or else die in the attempt. How few conquer, andhow many die, are matters of history. Be glad you are not a cleverwoman, Lucy!--for genius in a woman is the mystic laurel of Apollospringing from the soft breast of Daphne. It hurts in the growing, andsometimes breaks the heart from which it grows. "

She answered nothing. He was talking in a way she did notunderstand, --his allusion to Apollo and Daphne was completely beyondher. She smothered a tiny yawn and wondered why he was so tedious. Moreover, she was conscious of some slight chagrin, for though she said, out of mere social hypocrisy, that she was not clever, she thoughtherself exceptionally so. Why could he not admit her abilities asreadily as she herself admitted them?

"No, you are not clever, " he resumed quietly. "And I am glad you arenot. You are good and pure and true, --these graces outweigh allcleverness. "

Her cheeks flushed prettily, --she thought of a girl who had been herschoolmate at Brighton, one of the boldest little hussies that everflashed eyes to the light of day, yet who could assume the daintysimpering air of maiden--modest perfection at the moment's notice. Shewished she could do the same, but she had not studied the trickcarefully enough, and she was afraid to try more of it than just alittle tremulous smile and a quick downward glance at her fan. Helmsleywatched her attentively--almost craftily. It did not strain his sense ofperspicuity over much to see exactly what was going on in her mind. Hesettled himself a little more comfortably in his chair, and pressing thetips of his fingers together, looked at her over this pointed rampartof polished nails as though she were something altogether curious andremarkable. 

"The virtues of a woman are her wealth and worth, " he saidsententiously, as though he were quoting a maxim out of a child'scopybook. "A jewel's price is not so much for its size and weight as forits particular lustre. But common commercial people--like myself--evenif they have the good fortune to find a diamond likely to surpass allothers in the market, are never content till they have tested it. EveryJew bites his coin. And I am something of a Jew. I like to know theexact value of what I esteem as precious. And so I test it. "

"Yes?" She threw in this interjected query simply because she did notknow what to say. She thought he was talking very oddly, and wonderedwhether he was quite sane. 

"Yes, " he echoed; "I test it. And, Lucy, I think so highly of you, andesteem you as so very fair a pearl of womanhood, that I am inclined totest you just as I would a priceless gem. Do you object?"

She glanced up at him flutteringly, vaguely surprised. The corners ofhis mouth relaxed into the shadow of a smile, and she was reassured. 

"Object? Of course not! As if I should object to anything you wish!" shesaid amiably. "But--I don't quite understand----"

"No, possibly not, " he interrupted; "I know I have not the art of makingmyself very clear in matters which deeply and personally affect myself. I have nerves still, and some remnant of a heart, --these occasionallytrouble me----"

She leaned forward and put her delicately gloved hand on his. 

"Dear King David!" she murmured. "You are always so good!"

He took the little fingers in his own clasp and held them gently. 

"I want to ask you a question, Lucy, " he said; "and it is a verydifficult question, because I feel that your answer to it may mean agreat sorrow for me, --a great disappointment. The question is the 'test'I speak of. Shall I put it to you?"

"Please do!" she answered, her heart beginning to beat violently. Hewas coming to the point at last, she thought, and a few words more wouldsurely make her the future mistress of the Helmsley millions! "If I cananswer it I will!"

"Shall I ask you my question, or shall I not?" he went on, gripping herhand hard, and half raising himself in his chair as he looked intentlyat her telltale face. "For it means more than you can realise. It is anaudacious, impudent question, Lucy, --one that no man of my age ought toask any woman, --one that is likely to offend you very much!"

She withdrew her hand from his. 

"Offend me?" and her eyes widened with a blank wonder. "What can it be?"

"Ah! What can it be! Think of all the most audacious and impudent thingsa man--an old man--could say to a young woman! Suppose, --it is onlysupposition, remember, --suppose, for instance, I were to ask you tomarry me?"

A smile, brilliant and exultant, flashed over her features, --she almostlaughed out her inward joy. 

"I should accept you at once!" she said. 

With sudden impetuosity he rose, and pushing away his chair, drewhimself up to his full height, looking down upon her. 

"You would!" and his voice was low and tense. "_You!_--you wouldactually marry me?"

She, rising likewise, confronted him in all her fresh and youthfulbeauty, fair and smiling, her bosom heaving and her eyes dilating witheagerness. 

"I would, --indeed I would!" she averred delightedly. "I would rathermarry you than any man in the world!"

There was a moment's silence. Then--

"Why?" he asked. 

The simple monosyllabic query completely confused her. It wasunexpected, and she was at her wit's end how to reply to it. Moreover, he kept his eyes so pertinaciously fixed upon her that she felt herblood rising to her cheeks and brow in a hot flush of--shame? Ohno!--not shame, but merely petulant vexation. The proper way for him tobehave at this juncture, so she reflected, would be that he should takeher tenderly in his arms and murmur, after the penny-dreadful style ofelderly hero, "My darling, my darling! Can you, so young and beautiful, really care for an old fogey like me?'" to which she would, of course, have replied in the same fashion, and with the most charminginsincerity--"Dearest! Do not talk of age! You will never be old to myfond heart!" But to stand, as he was standing, like a rigid figure ofbronze, with a hard pale face in which only the eyes seemed living, andto merely ask "Why" she would rather marry him than any other man in theworld, was absurd, to say the least of it, and indeed quite lacking inall delicacy of sentiment. She sought about in her mind for some way outof the difficulty and could find none. She grew more and more painfullycrimson, and wished she could cry. A well worked-up passion of tearswould have come in very usefully just then, but somehow she could notturn the passion on. And a horrid sense of incompetency and failurebegan to steal over her--an awful foreboding of defeat. What could shedo to seize the slippery opportunity and grasp the doubtful prize? Howcould she land the big golden fish which she foolishly fancied she hadat the end of her line? Never had she felt so helpless or so angry. 

"Why?" he repeated--"Why would you marry me? Not for love certainly. Even if you believed in love--which you say you do not, --you could notat your age love a man at mine. That would be impossible and unnatural. I am old enough to be your grandfather. Think again, Lucy! Perhaps youspoke hastily--- out of girlish thoughtlessness--or out of kindness anda wish to please me, --but do not, in so serious a matter, consider me atall. Consider yourself. Consider your own nature and temperament--yourown life--your own future--your own happiness. Would you, young as youare, with all the world before you--would you, if I asked you, deliberately and of your own free will, marry me?"

She drew a sharp breath, and hurriedly wondered what was best to do. Hespoke so strangely!--he looked so oddly! But that might be because hewas in love with her! Her lips parted, --she faced him straightly, lifting her head with a little air of something like defiance. 

"I would!--of course I would!" she replied. "Nothing could make mehappier!"

He gave a kind of gesture with his hands as though he threw aside somecherished object. 

"So vanishes my last illusion!" he said. "Well! Let it go!"

She gazed at him stupidly. What did he mean? Why did he not now emulatethe penny-dreadful heroes and say "My darling!" Nothing seemed furtherfrom his thoughts. His eyes rested upon her with a coldness such as shehad never seen in them before, and his features hardened. 

"I should have known the modern world and modern education better, " hewent on, speaking more to himself than to her. "I have had experienceenough. I should never have allowed myself to keep even the shred of abelief in woman's honesty!"

She started, and flamed into a heat of protest. 

"Mr. Helmsley!"

He raised a deprecatory hand. 

"Pardon me!" he said wearily--"I am an old man, accustomed to expressmyself bluntly. Even if I vex you, I fear I shall not know how toapologise. I had thought----"

He broke off, then with an effort resumed--

"I had thought, Lucy, that you were above all bribery and corruption. "

"Bribery?--Corruption?" she stammered, and in a tremor of excitement andperturbation her fan dropped from her hands to the floor. He stooped forit with the ease and grace of a far younger man, and returned it to her. 

"Yes, bribery and corruption, " he continued quietly. "The bribery ofwealth--the corruption of position. These are the sole objects for which(if I asked you, which I have not done) you would marry me. For there isnothing else I have to offer you. I could not give you the sentiment orpassion of a husband (if husbands ever have sentiment or passionnowadays), because all such feeling is dead in me. I could not be your'friend' in marriage--because I should always remember that ourmatrimonial 'friendship' was merely one of cash supply and demand. Yousee I speak very plainly. I am not a polite person--not even aConventional one. I am too old to tell lies. Lying is never a profitablebusiness in youth--but in age it is pure waste of time and energy. Withone foot in the grave it is as well to keep the other from slipping. "

He paused. She tried to say something, but could find no suitable wordswith which to answer him. He looked at her steadily, half expecting herto speak, and there was both pain and sorrow in the depths of his tiredeyes. 

"I need not prolong this conversation, " he said, after a minute'ssilence. "For it must be as embarrassing to you as it is to me. It isquite my own fault that I built too many hopes upon you, Lucy! I set youup on a pedestal and you have yourself stepped down from it--I have putyou to the test, and you have failed. I daresay the failure is as muchthe concern of your parents and the way in which they have brought youup, as it is of any latent weakness in your own mind and character. But, --if, when I suggested such an absurd and unnatural proposition asmarriage between myself arid you, you had at once, like a true woman, gently and firmly repudiated the idea, then----"

"Then--what?" she faltered. 

"Why, then I should have made you my sole heiress, " he said quietly. 

Her eyes opened in blank wonderment and despair. Was it possible! Hadshe been so near her golden El Dorado only to see the shining shoresreceding, and the glittering harbour closed! Oh, it was cruel! Horrible!There was a convulsive catch in her throat which she managed to turninto the laugh hysterical. 

"Really!" she ejaculated, with a poor attempt at flippancy; and, in herturn, she asked the question, "Why?"

"Because I should have known you were honest, " answered Helmsley, withemphasis. "Honest to your womanly instincts, and to the simplest andpurest part of your nature. I should have proved for myself the factthat you refused to sell your beautiful person for gold--that you wereno slave in the world's auction-mart, but a free, proud, noble-heartedEnglish girl who meant to be faithful to all that was highest and bestin her soul. Ah, Lucy! You are not this little dream-girl of mine! Youare a very realistic modern woman with whom a man's 'ideal' has nothingin common!"

She was silent, half-stifled with rage. He stepped up to her and tookher hand. 

"Good-night, Lucy! Good-bye!"

She wrenched her fingers from his clasp, and a sudden, uncontrollablefury possessed her. 

"I hate you!" she said between her set teeth. "You are mean! Mean! Ihate you!"

He stood quite still, gravely irresponsive. 

"You have deceived me--cheated me!" she went on, angrily and recklessly. "You made me think you wanted to marry me. "

The corners of his mouth went up under his ashen-grey moustache in achill smile. 

"Pardon me!" he interrupted. "But did I make you think? or did you thinkit of your own accord?"

She plucked at her fan nervously. 

"Any girl--I don't care who she is--would accept you if you asked her tomarry you!" she said hotly. "It would be perfectly idiotic to refusesuch a rich man, even if he were Methusaleh himself. There's nothingwrong or dishonest in taking the chance of having plenty of money, if itis offered. "

He looked at her, vaguely compassionating her loss of self-control. 

"No, there is nothing wrong or dishonest in taking the chance of havingplenty of money, if such a chance can be had without shame anddishonour, " he said. "But I, personally, should consider a womanhopelessly lost to every sense of self-respect, if at the age oftwenty-one she consented to marry a man of seventy for the sake of hiswealth. And I should equally consider the man of seventy a disgrace tothe name of manhood if he condoned the voluntary sale of such a woman bybecoming her purchaser. "

She lifted her head with a haughty air. 

"Then, if you thought these things, you had no right to propose to me!"she said passionately. 

He was faintly amused. 

"I did not propose to you, Lucy, " he answered, "and I never intended todo so! I merely asked what your answer would be if I did. "

"It comes to the same thing!" she muttered. 

"Pardon me, not quite! I told you I was putting you to a test. That youfailed to stand my test is the conclusion of the whole affair. We reallyneed say no more about it. The matter is finished. "

She bit her lips vexedly, then forced a hard smile. 

"It's about time it was finished, I'm sure!" she said carelessly. "I'mperfectly tired out!"

"No doubt you are--you must be--I was forgetting how late it is, " andwith ceremonious politeness he opened the door for her to pass. "Youhave had an exhausting evening! Forgive me for any pain orvexation--or--or anger I may have caused you--and, good-night, Lucy! Godbless you!"

He held out his hand. He looked worn and wan, and his face showedpitiful marks of fatigue, loneliness, and sorrow, but the girl was toomuch incensed by her own disappointment to forgive him for theunexpected trial to which he had submitted her disposition andcharacter. 

"Good-night!" she said curtly, avoiding his glance. "I supposeeverybody's gone by this time; mother will be waiting for me. "

"Won't you shake hands?" he pleaded gently. "I'm sorry that I expectedmore of you than you could give, Lucy! but I want you to be happy, and Ithink and hope you will be, if you let the best part of you have itsway. Still, it may happen that I shall never see you again--so let uspart friends!"

She raised her eyes, hardened now in their expression by intensemalignity and spite, and fixed them fully upon him. 

"I don't want to be friends with you any more!" she said. "You are crueland selfish, and you have treated me abominably! I am sure you will diemiserably, without a soul to care for you! And I hope--yes, I hope Ishall never hear of you, never see you any more as long as you live! Youcould never have really had the least bit of affection for me when I wasa child. "

He interrupted her by a quick, stern gesture. 

"That child is dead! Do not speak of her!"

Something in his aspect awed her--something of the mute despair andsolitude of a man who has lost his last hope on earth, shadowed hispallid features as with a forecast of approaching dissolution. Involuntarily she trembled, and felt cold; her head drooped;--for amoment her conscience pricked her, reminding her how she had schemed andplotted and planned to become the wife of this sad, frail old man eversince she had reached the mature age of sixteen, --for a moment she wasimpelled to make a clean confession of her own egotism, and to ask hispardon for having, under the tuition of her mother, made him theunconscious pivot of all her worldly ambitions, --then, with a suddenimpetuous movement, she swept past him without a word, and randownstairs. 

There she found half the evening's guests gone, and the other half wellon the move. Some of these glanced at her inquiringly, with "nods andbecks and wreathed smiles, " but she paid no heed to any of them. Hermother came eagerly up to her, anxiety purpling every vein of hermottled countenance, but no word did she utter, till, having put ontheir cloaks, the two waited together on the steps of the mansion, withflunkeys on either side, for the hired brougham to bowl up in as_un_-hired a style as was possible at the price of one guinea for thenight's outing. 

"Where is Mr. Helmsley?" then asked Mrs. Sorrel. 

"In his own room, I believe, " replied Lucy, frigidly. 

"Isn't he coming to see you into the carriage and say good-night?"

"Why should he?" demanded the girl, peremptorily. 

Mrs. Sorrel became visibly agitated. She glanced at the impassiveflunkeys nervously. 

"O my dear!" she whimpered softly, "what's the matter? Has anythinghappened?"

At that moment the expected vehicle lumbered up with a very creditableclatter of well-assumed importance. The flunkeys relaxed their formalattitudes and hastened to assist both mother and daughter into itssomewhat stuffy recess. Another moment and they were driven off, Lucylooking out of the window at the numerous lights which twinkled fromevery story of the stately building they had just left, till the lastbright point of luminance had vanished. Then the strain on her mind gaveway--and to Mrs. Sorrel's alarm and amazement, she suddenly burst into astormy passion of tears. 

"It's all over!" she sobbed angrily, "all over! I've lost him! I've losteverything!"

Mrs. Sorrel gave a kind of weasel cry and clasped her fat handsconvulsively. 

"Oh, you little fool!" she burst out, "what have you done?"

Thus violently adjured, Lucy, with angry gasps of spite anddisappointment, related in full the maddening, the eccentric, thealtogether incomprehensible and inexcusable conduct of the famousmillionaire, "old Gold-dust, " towards her beautiful, outraged, andinjured self. Her mother sat listening in a kind of frozen horror whichmight possibly have become rigid, had it not been for the occasionalbumping of the hired brougham over ruts and loose stones, which bumpingshook her superfluous flesh into agitated bosom-waves. 

"I ought to have guessed it! I ought to have followed my own instinct!"she said, in sepulchral tones. "It came to me like a flash, when I wastalking to him this evening! I said to myself, 'he is in a moral mood. 'And he was. Nothing is so hopeless, so dreadful! If I had only thoughthe would carry on that mood with you, I would have warned you! You couldhave held off a little--it would perhaps have been the wiser course. "

"I should think it would indeed!" cried Lucy, dabbing her eyes with herscented handkerchief; "He would have left me every penny he has in theworld if I had refused him! He told me so as coolly as possible!"

Mrs. Sorrel sank back with a groan. 

"Oh dear, oh dear!" she wailed feebly. "Can nothing be done?"

"Nothing!" And Lucy, now worked up to hysterical pitch, felt as if shecould break the windows, beat her mother, or do anything else equallyreckless and irresponsible. "I shall be left to myself now, --he willnever ask me to his house again, never give me any parties or drives oropera-boxes or jewels, --he will never come to see me, and I shall haveno pleasure at all! I shall sink into a dowdy, frowsy, shabby-genteelold maid for the rest of my life! It is _detestable_!" and she uttered asuppressed small shriek on the word, "It has been a hateful, abominablebirthday! Everybody will be laughing at me up their sleeves! Think ofLady Larford!"

This suggestion was too dreadful for comment, and Mrs. Sorrel closed hereyes, visibly shuddering. 

"Who would have thought it possible!" she moaned drearily, "amillionaire, with such mad ideas! I _had_ thought him always such asensible man! And he seemed to admire you so much! What will he do withall his money?"

The fair Lucy sighed, sobbed, and swallowed her tears into silence. Andagain, like the doubtful refrain of a song in a bad dream, her mothermoaned and murmured--

"What will he do with all his money!"

CHAPTER IV

Two or three days later, Sir Francis Vesey was sitting in his privateoffice, a musty den encased within the heart of the city, listening, ortrying to listen, to the dull clerical monotone of a clerk's dry voicedetailing the wearisome items of certain legal formulæ preliminary to animpending case. Sir Francis had yawned capaciously once or twice, andhad played absently with a large ink-stained paperknife, --signs that hismind was wandering somewhat from the point at issue. He was aconscientious man, but he was getting old, and the disputations ofobstinate or foolish clients were becoming troublesome to him. Moreover, the case concerning which his clerk was prosing along in the style of achapel demagogue engaged in extemporary prayer, was an extremelyuninteresting one, and he thought hazily of his lunch. The hour for thatmeal was approaching, --a fact for which he was devoutly thankful. Forafter lunch, he gave himself his own release from work for the rest ofthe day. He left it all to his subordinates, and to his partner Symonds, who was some eight or ten years his junior. He glanced at the clock, andbeat a tattoo with his foot on the floor, conscious of his inwardimpatience with the reiterated "Whereas the said" and "Witnesseth theso-and-so, " which echoed dully on the otherwise unbroken silence. It wasa warm, sunshiny morning, but the brightness of the outer air was poorlyreflected in the stuffy room, which though comfortably and evenluxuriously furnished, conveyed the usual sense of dismal depressioncommon to London precincts of the law. Two or three flies buzzedirritably now and then against the smoke-begrimed windowpanes, and theclerk's dreary preamble went on and on till Sir Francis closed his eyesand wondered whether a small "catnap" would be possible between thesections of the seeming interminable document. Suddenly, to his relief, there came a sharp tap at the door, and an office boy looked in. 

"Mr. Helmsley's man, sir, " he announced. "Wants to see you personally. "

Sir Francis got up from his chair with alacrity. 

"All right! Show him in. "

The boy retired, and presently reappearing, ushered in a staid-lookingpersonage in black who, saluting Sir Francis respectfully, handed him aletter marked "Confidential. "

"Nice day, Benson, " remarked the lawyer cheerfully, as he took themissive. "Is your master quite well?"

"Perfectly well, Sir Francis, thank you, " replied Benson. "Leastways hewas when I saw him off just now. "

"Oh! He's gone then?"

"Yes, Sir Francis. He's gone. "

Sir Francis broke the seal of the letter, --then bethinking himself of"Whereas the said" and "Witnesseth the so-and-so, " turned to his wornand jaded clerk. 

"That will do for the present, " he said. "You can go. "

With pleasing haste the clerk put together the voluminous folios of bluepaper from which he had been reading, and quickly made his exit, whileSir Francis, still standing, put on his glasses and unfolded the onesheet of note-paper on which Helmsley's communication was written. Glancing it up and down, he turned it over and over--then addressedhimself to the attentively waiting Benson. 

"So Mr. Helmsley has started on his trip alone?"

"Yes, Sir Francis. Quite alone. "

"Did he say where he was going?"

"He booked for Southhampton, sir. "

"Oh!"

"And, " proceeded Benson, "he only took one portmanteau. "

"Oh!" again ejaculated the lawyer. And, stroking his bearded chin, hethought awhile. 

"Are you going to stay at Carlton House Terrace till he comes back?"

"I have a month's holiday, sir. Then I return to my place. The sameorder applies to all the servants, sir. "

"I see! Well!"

And then there came a pause. 

"I suppose, " said Sir Francis, after some minutes' reflection, "Isuppose you know that during Mr. Helmsley's absence you are to apply tome for wages and household expenses--that, in fact, your master hasplaced me in charge of all his affairs?"

"So I have understood, sir, " replied Benson, deferentially. "Mr. Helmsley called us all into his room last night and told us so. "

"Oh, he did, did he? But, of course, as a man of business, he wouldleave nothing incomplete. Now, supposing Mr. Helmsley is away more thana month, I will call or send to the house at stated intervals to see howthings are getting on, and arrange any matters that may needarranging"--here he glanced at the letter in his hand--"as your masterrequests. And--if you want anything--or wish to know any news, --you canalways call here and inquire. "

"Thank you, Sir Francis. "

"I'm sorry, "--and the lawyer's shrewd yet kindly eyes looked somewhattroubled--"I'm very sorry that my old friend hasn't taken you with him, Benson. "

Benson caught the ring of sympathetic interest in his voice and at onceresponded to it. 

"Well, sir, so am I!" he said heartily. "For Mr. Helmsley's overseventy, and he isn't as strong as he thinks himself to be by a longway. He ought to have some one with him. But he wouldn't hear of mygoing. He can be right down obstinate if he likes, you know, sir, thoughhe is one of the best gentlemen to work for that ever lived. But he willhave his own way, and, bad or good, he takes it. "

"Quite true!" murmured Sir Francis meditatively. "Very true!"

A silence fell between them. 

"You say he isn't as strong as he thinks himself to be, " began Veseyagain, presently. "Surely he's wonderfully alert and active for his timeof life?"

"Why, yes, sir, he's active enough, but it's all effort and nerve withhim now. He makes up his mind like, and determines to be strong, inspite of being weak. Only six months ago the doctor told him to becareful, as his heart wasn't quite up to the mark. "

"Ah!" ejaculated Sir Francis ruefully. "And did the doctor recommend anyspecial treatment?"

"Yes, sir. Change of air and complete rest. "

The lawyer's countenance cleared. 

"Then you may depend upon it that's why he has gone away by himself, Benson, " he said. "He wants change of air, rest, and differentsurroundings. And as he won't have letters forwarded, and doesn't giveany future address, I shouldn't wonder if he starts off yachtingsomewhere----"

"Oh, no, sir, I don't think so, " interposed Benson, "The yacht's in thedry dock, and I know he hasn't given any orders to have her got ready. "

"Well, well, if he wants change and rest, he's wise to put a distancebetween himself and his business affairs"--and Sir Francis here lookedround for his hat and walking-stick. "Take me, for example! Why, I'm adifferent man when I leave this office and go home to lunch! I'm goingnow. I don't think--I really don't think there is any cause foruneasiness, Benson. Your master will let us know if there's anythingwrong with him. "

"Oh, yes, sir, he'll be sure to do that. He said he would telegraph forme if he wanted me. "

"Good! Now, if you get any news of him before I do, or if you areanxious that I should attend to any special matter, you'll always findme here till one o'clock. You know my private address?"

"Yes, sir. "

"That's all right. And when I go down to my country place for thesummer, you can come there whenever your business is urgent. I'll settleall expenses with you. "

"Thank you, Sir Francis. Good-day!"

"Good-day! A pleasant holiday to you!"

Benson bowed his respectful thanks again, and retired. 

Sir Francis Vesey, left alone, took his hat and gazed abstractedly intoits silk-lined crown before putting it on his head. Then setting itaside, he drew Helmsley's letter from his pocket and read it throughagain. It ran as follows:--

 "MY DEAR VESEY, --I had some rather bad news on the night of Miss Lucy Sorrel's birthday party. A certain speculation in which I had an interest has failed, and I have lost on the whole 'gamble. ' The matter will not, however, affect my financial position. You have all your instructions in order as given to you when we last met, so I shall leave town with an easy mind. I am likely to be away for some time, and am not yet certain of my destination. Consider me, therefore, for the present as lost. Should I die suddenly, or at sickly leisure, I carry a letter on my person which will be conveyed to you, making you acquainted with the sad (?) event as soon as it occurs. And for all your kindly services in the way of both business and friendship, I owe you a vast debt of thanks, which debt shall be fully and gratefully acknowledged, --_when I make my Will_. I may possibly employ another lawyer than yourself for this purpose. But, for the immediate time, all my affairs are in your hands, as they have been for these twenty years or more. My business goes on as usual, of course; it is a wheel so well accustomed to regular motion that it can very well grind for a while without my personal supervision. And so far as my individual self is concerned, I feel the imperative necessity of rest and freedom. I go to find these, even if I lose myself in the endeavour. So farewell! And as old-fashioned folks used to say--'God be with you!' If there be any meaning in the phrase, it is conveyed to you in all sincerity by your old friend, "DAVID HELMSLEY. "

"Cryptic, positively cryptic!" murmured Sir Francis, as he folded up theletter and put it by. "There's no clue to anything anywhere. What doeshe mean by a bad speculation?--a loss 'on the whole gamble'? I know--orat least I thought I knew--every number on which he had put his money. It won't affect his financial position, he says. I should think not! Itwould take a bigger Colossus than that of Rhodes to overshadow Helmsleyin the market! But he's got some queer notion in his mind, --some schemefor finding an heir to his millions, --I'm sure he has! A fit of romancehas seized him late in life, --he wants to be loved for himselfalone, --which, of course, at his age, is absurd! No one loves oldpeople, except, perhaps (in very rare cases), their children, --if thechildren are not hopelessly given over to self and the hour, which theygenerally are. " He sighed, and his brows contracted. He had aspendthrift son and a "rapid" daughter, and he knew well enough howlittle he could depend upon them for either affection or respect. 

"Old age is regarded as a sort of crime nowadays, " he continued, apostrophising the dingy walls of his office, as he took hiswalking-stick and prepared to leave the premises--"thanks to thedonkey-journalism of the period which brays down everything that is notlike itself--mere froth and scum. And unlike our great classic teacherswho held that old age was honourable and deserved the highest place inthe senate, the present generation affects to consider a man well on theway to dotage after forty. God bless me!--what fools there are in thistwentieth century!--what blatant idiots! Imagine national affairscarried on in the country by its young men! The Empire would soon becamea mere football for general kicking! However, there's one thing in thisHelmsley business that I'm glad of"--and his eyes twinkled--"I believethe Sorrels have lost their game! Positively, I think Miss Lucy hasbroken her line, and that the fish has gone _without_ her hook in itsmouth! Old as he is, David is not too old to outwit a woman! I gave hima hint, just the slightest hint in the world, --and I think he's takenit. Anyhow, he's gone, --booked for Southampton. And from Southampton aman can 'ship himself all aboard of a ship, ' like Lord Bateman in theballad, and go anywhere. Anywhere, yes!--but in this case I wonder wherehe will go? Possibly to America--yet no!--I think not!" And Sir Francis, descending his office stairs, went out into the broad sunshine whichflooded the city streets, continuing his inward reverie as hewalked, --"I think not. From what he said the other night, I fancy noteven the haunting memory of 'ole Virginny' will draw him back _there_. 'Consider me as lost, ' he says. An odd notion! David Helmsley, one ofthe richest men in the whole of two continents, wishes to lose himself!Impossible! He's a marked multi-millionaire, --branded with the goldensign of unlimited wealth, and as well known as a London terminus! If hewere 'lost' to-day, he'd be found to-morrow. As matters stand I daresayhe'll turn up all fight in a month's time and I need not worry my headany more about him!"

With this determination Sir Francis went home to luncheon, and afterluncheon duly appeared driving in the Park with Lady Vesey, like theattentive and obliging husband he ever was, despite the boredom whichthe "Row" and the "Ladies' Mile" invariably inflicted upon him, --yetevery now and then before him there rose a mental image of his oldfriend "King David, "--grey, sad-eyed, and lonely--flitting past likesome phantom in a dream, and wandering far away from the crowded vortexof London life, where his name was as honey to a swarm of bees, intosome dim unreachable region of shadow and silence, with the brieffarewell:

 "Consider me as lost!"

CHAPTER V

Among the many wild and lovely tangles of foliage and flower whichNature and her subject man succeed in working out together afterconsiderable conflict and argument, one of the most beautiful andluxuriant is a Somersetshire lane. Narrow and tortuous, fortified oneither side with high banks of rough turf, topped by garlands ofclimbing wild-rose, bunches of corn-cockles and tufts of meadow-sweet, such a lane in midsummer is one of beauty's ways through the world, --apath, which if it lead to no more important goal than a tiny village orsolitary farm, is, to the dreamer and poet, sufficiently entrancing initself to seem a fairy road to fairyland. Here and there some grand elmor beech tree, whose roots have hugged the soil for more than a century, spreads out broad protecting branches all a-shimmer with greenleaves, --between the uneven tufts of grass, the dainty "ragged robin"sprays its rose-pink blossoms contrastingly against masses of snowystar-wort and wild strawberry, --the hedges lean close together, asthough accustomed to conceal the shy confidences of young lovers, --andfrom the fields beyond, the glad singing of countless skylarks, soaringone after the other into the clear pure air, strikes a wave of repeatedmelody from point to point of the visible sky. All among the delicate ordeep indentures of the coast, where the ocean creeps softly inland witha caressing murmur, or scoops out caverns for itself among the rockswith perpetual roar and dash of foam, the glamour of the greenextends, --the "lane runs down to meet the sea, carrying with it itsgarlands of blossoms, its branches of verdure, and all the odour andfreshness of the woodlands and meadows, and when at last it drops to aconclusion in some little sandy bay or sparkling weir, it leaves animpression of melody on the soul like the echo of a sweet song justsweetly sung. High up the lanes run;--low down on the shoreline theycome to an end, --and the wayfarer, pacing along at the summit of theirdevious windings, can hear the plash of the sea below him as hewalks, --the little tender laughing plash if the winds are calm and theday is fair, --the angry thud and boom of the billows if a storm isrising. These bye-roads, of which there are so many along theSomersetshire coast, are often very lonely, --they are dangerous totraffic, as no two ordinary sized vehicles can pass each otherconveniently within so narrow a compass, --and in summer especially theyare haunted by gypsies, "pea-pickers, " and ill-favoured men and women ofthe "tramp" species, slouching along across country from Bristol toMinehead, and so over Countisbury Hill into Devon. One suchquestionable-looking individual there was, who, --in a golden afternoonof July, when the sun was beginning to decline towards the west, --pausedin his slow march through the dust, which even in the greenest of hilland woodland ways is bound to accumulate thickly after a fortnight'slack of rain, --and with a sigh of fatigue, sat down at the foot of atree to rest. He was an old man, with a thin weary face which wasrendered more gaunt and haggard-looking by a ragged grey moustache andugly stubble beard of some ten days' growth, and his attire suggestedthat he might possibly be a labourer dismissed from farm work for theheinous crime of old age, and therefore "on the tramp" looking out for ajob. He wore a soft slouched felt hat, very much out of shape andweather-stained, --and when he had been seated for a few minutes in akind of apathy of lassitude, he lifted the hat off, passing his handthrough his abundant rough white hair in a slow tired way, as though bythis movement he sought to soothe some teasing pain. 

"I think, " he murmured, addressing himself to a tiny brown bird whichhad alighted on a branch of briar-rose hard by, and was looking at himwith bold and lively inquisitiveness, --"I think I have managed the wholething very well! I have left no clue anywhere. My portmanteau will tellno tales, locked up in the cloak-room at Bristol. If it is ever soldwith its contents 'to defray expenses, ' nothing will be found in it butsome unmarked clothes. And so far as all those who know me areconcerned, every trace of me ends at Southampton. Beyond Southamptonthere is a blank, into which David Helmsley, the millionaire, hasvanished. And David Helmsley, the tramp, sits here in his place!"

The little brown bird preened its wing, and glanced at him sidewaysintelligently, as much as to say: "I quite understand! You have becomeone of us, --a wanderer, taking no thought for the morrow, but lettingto-morrow take thought for the things of itself. There is a bond ofsympathy between me, the bird, and you, the man--we are brothers!"

A sudden smile illumined his face. The situation was novel, and to himenjoyable. He was greatly fatigued, --he had over-exerted himself duringthe past three or four days, walking much further than he had ever beenaccustomed to, and his limbs ached sorely--nevertheless, with the senseof rest and relief from strain, came a certain exhilaration of spirit, like the vivacious delight of a boy who has run away from school, and isdefiantly ready to take all the consequences of his disobedience to therules of discipline and order. For years he had wanted a "new"experience of life. No one would give him what he sought. To him the"social" round was ever the same dreary, heartless and witless thing, asempty under the sway of one king or queen as another, and as utterlyprofitless to peace or happiness as it has always been. The world offinance was equally uninteresting so far as he was concerned; he hadexhausted it, and found it no more than a monotonous grind of gain whichended in a loathing of the thing gained. Others might and would consumethemselves in fevers of avarice, and surfeits of luxury, --but for himsuch temporary pleasures were past. He desired a complete change, --achange of surroundings, a change of associations--and for this, whatcould be more excellent or more wholesome than a taste of poverty? Inhis time he had met men who, worn out with the constant fight of thebody's materialism against the soul's idealism, had turned their backsfor ever on the world and its glittering shows, and had shut themselvesup as monks of "enclosed" or "silent" orders, --others he had known, who, rushing away from what we call civilisation, had encamped in thebackwoods of America, or high up among the Rocky Mountains, and hadlived the lives of primeval savages in their strong craving to assert agreater manliness than the streets of cities would allow them toenjoy, --and all were moved by the same mainspring of action, --theoverpowering spiritual demand within themselves which urged them tobreak loose from cowardly conventions and escape from Sham. He could notcompete with younger men in taking up wild sport and "big game" huntingin far lands, in order to give free play to the natural savagetemperament which lies untamed at the root of every man's individualbeing, --and he had no liking for "monastic" immurements. But he longedfor liberty, --liberty to go where he liked without his movements beingwatched and commented upon by a degraded "personal" press, --liberty tospeak as he felt and do as he wished, without being compelled to weighhis words, or to consider his actions. Hence--he had decided on hispresent course, though how that course was likely to shape itself in itsprogress he had no very distinct idea. His actual plan was to walk toCornwall, and there find out the native home of his parents, not so muchfor sentiment's sake as for the necessity of having a definite object orgoal in view. And the reason of his determination to go "on the road, "as it were, was simply that he wished to test for himself the actualhappiness or misery experienced by the very poor as contrasted with thesupposed joys of the very wealthy. This scheme had been working in hisbrain for the past year or more, --all his business arrangements had beenmade in such a way as to enable him to carry it out satisfactorily tohimself without taking any one else into his confidence. The only thingthat might possibly have deterred him from his quixotic undertakingwould have been the moral triumph of Lucy Sorrel over the temptation hehad held out to her. Had she been honest to her better womanhood, --hadshe still possessed the "child's heart, " with which his remembrance andimagination had endowed her, he would have resigned every other thoughtsave that of so smoothing the path of life for her that she might treadit easily to the end. But now that she had disappointed him, he had, sohe told himself, done with fine illusions and fair beliefs for ever. Andhe had started on a lonely quest, --a search for something vague andintangible, the very nature of which he himself could not tell. Someglimmering ghost of a notion lurked in his mind that perhaps, during hisself-imposed solitary ramblings, he might find some new and unexploredchannel wherein his vast wealth might flow to good purpose after hisdeath, without the trammels of Committee-ism and Red-Tape-ism. But heexpected and formulated nothing, --he was more or less in a state ofquiescence, awaiting adventures without either hope or fear. In themeantime, here he sat in the shady Somersetshire lane, resting, --themulti-millionaire whose very name shook the money-markets of the world, but who to all present appearances seemed no more than a tramp, footingit wearily along one of the many winding "short cuts" through thecountry between Somerset and Devon, and as unlike the actual self of himas known to Lombard Street and the Stock Exchange as a beggar is unlikea king. 

"After all, it's quite as interesting as 'big game' shooting!" he said, the smile still lingering in his eyes. "I am after 'sport, '--in a novelfashion! I am on the lookout for new specimens of men and women, --realhonest ones! I may find them, --I may not, --but the search will surelyprove at least as instructive and profitable as if one went out to theArctic regions for the purpose of killing innocent polar bears! Changeand excitement are what every one craves for nowadays--I'm getting asmuch as I want--in my own way!"

He thought over the whole situation, and reviewed with a certain senseof interest and amusement his method of action since he left London. Benson, his valet, had packed his portmanteau, according to orders, witheverything that was necessary for a short sea trip, and then had seenhim off at the station for Southampton, --and to Southampton he had gone. Arrived there, he had proceeded to a hotel, where, under an assumedname, he had stayed the night. The next day he had left Southampton forSalisbury by train, and there staying another night, had left again forBath and Bristol. On the latter journey he had "tipped" the guardheavily to keep his first-class compartment reserved to himself. Thishad been done; and the train being an express, stopping at very fewstations, he had found leisure and opportunity to unpack his portmanteauand cut away every mark on his linen and other garments which could givethe slightest clue to their possessor. When he had removed all possibletrace of his identity on or in this one piece of luggage, he packed itup again, and on reaching Bristol, took it to the station's cloak-room, and there deposited it with the stated intention of calling back for itat the hour of the next train to London. This done, he stepped forthuntrammelled, a free man. He had with him five hundred pounds inbanknotes, and for a day or so was content to remain in Bristol at oneof the best hotels, under an assumed name as before, while privatelymaking such other preparations for his intended long "tramp" as hethought necessary. In one of the poorest quarters of the town hepurchased a few second-hand garments such as might be worn by anordinary day-labourer, saying to the dealer that he wanted to "rig out"a man who had just left hospital and who was going in for "field" work. The dealer saw nothing either remarkable or suspicious in this seeminglybenevolent act of a kindly-looking well-dressed old gentleman, and senthim the articles he had purchased done up in a neat package andaddressed to him at his hotel, by the name he had for the time assumed. When he left the hotel for good, he did so with nothing more than thisneat package, which he carried easily in one hand by a loop of string. And so he began his journey, walking steadily for two or threehours, --then pausing to rest awhile, --and after rest, going on again. Once out of Bristol he was glad, and at certain lonely places, when theshadows of night fell, he changed all his garments one by one till hestood transformed as now he was. The clothes he was compelled to discardhe got rid of by leaving them in unlikely holes and corners on theroad, --as for example, at one place he filled the pockets of his goodbroadcloth coat with stones and dropped it into the bottom of an olddisused well. The curious sense of guilt he felt when he performed thisinnocent act surprised as well as amused him. 

"It is exactly as if I had murdered somebody and had sunk a body intothe well instead of a coat!" he said--"and--perhaps I have! Perhaps I amkilling my Self, --getting rid of my Self, --which would be a good thing, if I could only find Some one or Some thing better than my Self in mySelf's place!"

When he had finally disposed of every article that could suggest anypossibility of his ever having been clothed as a gentleman, he unrippedthe lining of his rough "workman's" vest, and made a layer of thebanknotes he had with him between it and the cloth, stitching itsecurely over and over with coarse needle and thread, being satisfied bythis arrangement to carry all his immediate cash hidden upon his person, while for the daily needs of hunger and thirst he had a few looseshillings and coppers in his pocket. He had made up his mind not totouch a single one of the banknotes, unless suddenly overtaken byaccident or illness. When his bit of silver and copper came to an end, he meant to beg alms along the road and prove for himself how far itwas true that human beings were in the main kind and compassionate, andready to assist one another in the battle of life. With these ideas andmany others in his mind, he started on his "tramp"--and during the firsttwo or three days of it suffered acutely. Many years had passed since hehad been accustomed to long sustained bodily exercise, and he wastherefore easily fatigued. But by the time he reached the open countrybetween the Quantocks and the Brendon Hills, he had got somewhat intotraining, and had begun to feel a greater lightness and ease as well aspleasure in walking. He had found it quite easy to live on very simplefood, --in fact one of the principal charms of the strange "holiday" hehad planned for his own entertainment was to prove for himself beyondall dispute that no very large amount of money is required to sustain aman's life and health. New milk and brown bread had kept him goingbravely every day, --fruit was cheap and so was cheese, and all thesearticles of diet are highly nourishing, so that he had wanted fornothing. At night, the weather keeping steadily fine and warm, he hadslept in the open, choosing some quiet nook in the woodland under atree, or else near a haystack in the fields, and he had benefitedgreatly by thus breathing the pure air during slumber, and getting fornothing the "cure" prescribed by certain Artful Dodgers of the medicalprofession who take handfuls of guineas from credulous patients for whatMother Nature willingly gives gratis. And he was beginning to understandthe joys of "loafing, "--so much so indeed that he felt a certainsympathy with the lazy varlet who prefers to stroll aimlessly about thecountry begging his bread rather than do a stroke of honest work. Thefreedom of such a life is self-evident, --and freedom is the broadest andbest way of breathing on earth. To "tramp the road" seems to thewell-dressed, conventional human being a sorry life; but it may bequestioned whether, after all, he with his social trammels and householdcares, is not leading a sorrier one. Never in all his brilliant, successful career till now had David Helmsley, that king of modernfinance, realised so intensely the beauty and peace of being alone withNature, --the joy of feeling the steady pulse of the Spirit of theUniverse throbbing through one's own veins and arteries, --the quiet yetexultant sense of knowing instinctively beyond all formulated theory ordogma, that one is a vital part of the immortal Entity, asindestructible as Itself. And a great calm was gradually takingpossession of his soul, --a smoothing of all the waves of his emotionaland nervous temperament. Under this mystic touch of unseen anduncomprehended heavenly tenderness, all sorrows, all disappointments, all disillusions sank out of sight as though they had never been. Itseemed to him that he had put away his former life for ever, and thatanother life had just begun, --and his brain was ready and eager to riditself of old impressions in order to prepare for new. Nothing of muchmoment had occurred to him as yet. A few persons had said "good-day " or"good-night" to him in passing, --a farmer had asked him to hold hishorse for a quarter of an hour, which he had done, and had therebyearned threepence, --but he had met with no interesting or excitingincidents which could come under the head of "adventures. " Neverthelesshe was gathering fresh experiences, --experiences which all tended toshow him how the best and brightest part of life is foolishly wasted andsquandered by the modern world in a mad rush for gain. 

"So very little money really suffices for health, contentment, andharmless pleasure!" he thought. "The secret of our growing socialmischief does not lie with the natural order of created things, butsolely with ourselves. We will not set any reasonable limit to ourdesires. If we would, we might live longer and be far happier!"

He stretched out his limbs easefully, and dropped into a recliningposture. The tree he had chosen to rest under was a mighty elm, whosebroad branches, thick with leaves, formed a deep green canopy throughwhich the sunbeams filtered in flecks and darts of gold. A constanttwittering of birds resounded within this dome of foliage, and a thrushwhistled melodious phrases from one of the highest boughs. At his feetwas spread a carpet of long soft moss, interspersed with wild thyme andgroups of delicate harebells, and the rippling of a tiny stream into ahollow cavity of stones made pleasant and soothing music. Charmed withthe tranquillity and loveliness of his surroundings, he determined tostay here for a couple of hours, reading, and perhaps sleeping, beforeresuming his journey. He had in his pocket a shilling edition of Keats'spoems which he had bought in Bristol by way of a silent companion to histhoughts, and he took it out and opened it now, reading and re-readingsome of the lines most dear and familiar to him, when, as a boy, he hadelected this poet, so wickedly done to death ere his prime bycommonplace critics, as one of his chief favourites among the highestSingers. And his lips, half-murmuring, followed the verse which tells ofthat

 "untrodden region of the mind, Where branchëd thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain, Instead of pines, shall murmur in the wind; Far, far around shall these dark clustered trees, Fledge the wild ridgëd mountains steep by steep, And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds and bees, The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep; And in the midst of this wide quietness, A rosy sanctuary will I dress With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, With buds and bells and stars without a name, With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, Who, breeding flowers, will never breed the same; And there shall be for thee all soft delight, That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!"

A slight sigh escaped him. 

"How perfect is that stanza!" he said. "How I used to believe in all itsuggested! And how, when I was a young man, my heart was like that'casement ope at night, to let the warm Love in!' But Love nevercame, --only a spurious will-o'-the-wisp imitation of Love. I wonder ifmany people in this world are not equally deceived with myself in theirconceptions of this divine passion? All the poets and romancists may bewrong, --and Lucy Sorrel, with her hard materialism encasing her youthlike a suit of steel armour, may be right. Boys and girls 'love, ' sothey say, --men and women 'love' and marry--and with marriage, thewondrous light that led them on and dazzled them, seems, in nine casesout of ten, to suddenly expire! Taking myself as an example, I cannotsay that actual marriage made me happy. It was a great disillusion; akeen disappointment. The birth of my sons certainly gave me somepleasure as well as latent hope, for as little children they werelovable and lovely; but as boys--as men--what bitterness they broughtme! Were they the heirs of Love? Nay!--surely Love never generated suchcallous hearts! They were the double reflex of their mother's nature, grasping all and giving nothing. Is there no such virtue on earth aspure unselfish Love?--love that gives itself freely, unasked, withouthope of advantage or reward--and without any personal motive lurkingbehind its offered tenderness?"

He turned over the pages of the book he held, with a vague idea thatsome consoling answer to his thoughts would flash out in a stray line orstanza, like a beacon lighting up the darkness of a troubled sea. But nosuch cheering word met his eyes. Keats is essentially the poet of theyoung, and for the old he has no comfort. Sensuous, passionate, andalmost cloying in the excessive sweetness of his amorous muse, he offersno support to the wearied spirit, --no sense of strength or renewal tothe fagged brain. He does not grapple with the hard problems of life;and his mellifluous murmurings of delicious fantasies have no place inthe poignant griefs and keen regrets of those who have passed themeridian of earthly hopes, and who see the shadows of the long nightclosing in. And David Helmsley realised this all suddenly, withsomething of a pang. 

"I am too old for Keats, " he said in a half-whisper to the leafybranches that bowed their weight of soft green shelteringly over him. "Too old! Too old for a poet in whose imaginative work I vised to takesuch deep delight. There is something strange in this, for I cherished abelief that fine poetry would fit every time and every age, and that nomatter how heavy the burden of years might be, I should always be ableto forget myself and my sorrows in a poet's immortal creations. But Ihave left Keats behind me. He was with me in the sunshine, --he does notfollow me into the shade. "

A cloud of melancholy darkened his worn features, and he slowly closedthe book. He felt that it was from henceforth a sealed letter. For himthe half-sad, half-scornful musings of Omar Khayyám were more fitting, such as the lines that run thus:--

 "Fair wheel of heaven, silvered with many a star, Whose sickly arrows strike us from afar, Never a purpose to my soul was dear, But heaven crashed down my little dream to mar. 

 Never a bird within my sad heart sings But heaven a flaming stone of thunder flings; O valiant wheel! O most courageous heaven, To leave me lonely with the broken wings!"

tinging pain, as of tears that rose but would not fall, troubled hiseyes. He passed his hand across them, and leaned back against the sturdytrunk of the elm which served him for the moment as a protecting havenof rest. The gentle murmur of the bees among the clover, the softsubdued twittering of the birds, and the laughing ripple of the littlestream hard by, all combined to make one sweet monotone of sound whichlulled his senses to a drowsiness that gradually deepened into slumber. He made a pathetic figure enough, lying fast asleep there among thewilderness of green, --a frail and apparently very poor old man, adriftand homeless, without a friend in the world. The sun sank, and a crimsonafter-glow spread across the horizon from west to east, the rich coloursflung up from the centre of the golden orb merging by slow degrees intothat pure pearl-grey which marks the long and lovely summer twilight ofEnglish skies. The air was very still, not so much as the rumble of adistant cart wheel disturbing the silence. Presently, however, the slowshuffle of hesitating footsteps sounded through the muffling thicknessof the dust, and a man made his appearance on the top of the littlerising where the lane climbed up into a curve of wild-rose hedge andhoneysuckle which almost hid the actual road from view. He was not aprepossessing object in the landscape; short and squat, unkempt anddirty, and clad in rough garments which were almost past hangingtogether, he looked about as uncouth and ugly a customer as one mightexpect to meet anywhere on a lonely road at nightfall. He carried alarge basket on his back, seemingly full of weeds, --the rope whichsupported it was tied across his chest, and he clasped this rope withboth hands crossed in the middle, after the fashion of a praying monk. Smoking a short black pipe, he trudged along, keeping his eyes fixed onthe ground with steady and almost surly persistence, till arriving atthe tree where Helmsley lay, he paused, and lifting his head stared longand curiously at the sleeping man. Then, unclasping his hands, helowered his basket to the ground and set it down. Stealthily creepingclose up to Helmsley's side, he examined the prone figure from head tofoot with quick and eager scrutiny. Spying the little volume of Keats onthe grass where it had dropped from the slumberer's relaxed hand, hetook it up gingerly, turning over its pages with grimy thumb andfinger. 

"Portry!" he ejaculated. "Glory be good to me! 'E's a reg'ler noddynone-such! An' measly old enuff to know better!"

He threw the book on the grass again with a sniff of contempt. At thatmoment Helmsley stirred, and opening his eyes fixed them full andinquiringly on the lowering face above him. 

"'Ullo, gaffer! Woke up, 'ave yer?" said the man gruffly. "Off yer lay?"

Helmsley raised himself on one elbow, looking a trifle dazed. 

"Off my what?" he murmured. "I didn't quite hear you----?"

"Oh come, stow that!" said the man. "You dunno what I'm talkin' about;that's plain as a pike. _You_ aint used to the road! Where d'ye comefrom?"

"I've walked from Bristol, " he answered--"And you're quite right, --I'mnot used to the road. "

The man looked at him and his hard face softened. Pushing back histattered cap from his brows he showed his features more openly, and asmile, half shrewd, half kindly, made them suddenly pleasant. 

"Av coorse you're not!" he declared. "Glory be good to me! I've trampedthis bit o' road for years, an' never come across such a poor oldchuckle-headed gammer as you sleepin' under a tree afore! Readin' portryan' droppin' to by-by over it! The larst man as iver I saw a' readin'portry was what they called a 'Serious Sunday' man, an' 'e's doin' timenow in Portland. "

Helmsley smiled. He was amused;--his "adventures, " he thought, werebeginning. To be called "a poor old chuckle-headed gammer" was a new andalmost delightful experience. 

"Portland's an oncommon friendly place, " went on his uninvitedcompanion. "Once they gits ye, they likes ye to stop. 'Taint like thefash'nable quality what says to their friends: 'Do-ee come an' stay wi'me, loveys!' wishin' all the while as they wouldn't. Portland takes yewillin', whether ye likes it or not, an' keeps ye so fond that ye can'tgit away nohow. Oncommon 'ospitable Portland be!"

And he broke into a harsh laugh. Then he glanced at Helmsley again witha more confiding and favourable eye. 

"Ye seems a 'spectable sort, " he said. "What's wrong wi' ye? Out o'work?"

Helmsley nodded. 

"Turned off, eh? Too old?"

"That's about it!" he answered. 

"Well, ye do look a bit of a shivery-shake, --a kind o'not-long-for-this-world, " said the man. "Howsomiver, we'se be all'elpless an' 'omeless soon, for the Lord hisself don't stop a mangrowin' old, an' under the new ways o' the world, it's a reg'lar crimeto run past forty. I'm sixty, an' I gits my livin' my own way, axin'nobody for the kind permission. _That's_ my fortin!"

And he pointed to the basket of weedy stuff which he had just set down. Helmsley looked at it with some curiosity. 

"What's in it?" he asked. 

"What's in it? What's _not_ in it!" And the man gave a gesture ofmingled pride and defiance. "There's all what the doctors makes theirguineas out of with their purr-escriptions, for they can't purr-escribeno more than is in that there basket without they goes to minerals. An'minerals is rank poison to ivery 'uman body. But so far as 'erbs an'seeds, an' precious stalks an' flowers is savin' grace for man an'beast, Matthew Peke's got 'em all in there. An' Matthew Peke wouldn't bethe man he is, if he didn't know where to find 'em better'n any livin'soul iver born! Ah!--an' there aint a toad in a hole hoppin' out betweenQuantocks an' Cornwall as hasn't seen Matthew Peke gatherin' theblessin' an' health o' the fields at rise o' sun an' set o' moon, spring, summer, autumn, ay, an' even winter, all the year through!"

Helmsley became interested. 

"And you are the man!" he said questioningly--"You are Matthew Peke?"

"I am! An' proud so ter be! An' you--'ave yer got a name for thearskin'?"

"Why, certainly!" And Helmsley's pale face flushed. "My name is David. "

"Chrisen name? Surname?"

"Both. "

Matthew Peke shook his head. 

"'Twon't fadge!" he declared. "It don't sound right. It's like th' owldBible an' the Book o' Kings where there's nowt but Jews; an' Jews isthe devil to pay wheriver you finds 'em!"

"I'm not a Jew, " said Helmsley, smiling. 

"Mebbe not--mebbe not--but yer name's awsome like it. An' if ye put itshort, like D. David, that's just Damn David an' nothin' plainer. Aintit?"

Helmsley laughed. 

"Exactly!" he said--"You're right! Damn David suits me down to theground!"

Peke looked at him dubiously, as one who is not quite sure of his man. 

"You're a rum old sort!" he said; "an' I tell ye what it is--you're astired as a dog limpin' on three legs as has nipped his fourth in aweasel-trap. Wheer are ye goin' on to?"

"I don't know, " answered Helmsley--"I'm a stranger to this part of thecountry. But I mean to tramp it to the nearest village. I slept out inthe open yesterday, --I think I'd like a shelter over me to-night. "

"Got any o' the King's pictures about ye?" asked Peke. 

Helmsley looked, as he felt, bewildered. 

"The King's pictures?" he echoed--"You mean----?"

"This!" and Peke drew out of his tattered trouser pocket a dim andblackened sixpence--"'Ere 'e is, as large as life, a bit bald about thetop o' 'is blessed old 'ead, Glory be good to 'im, but as useful as ifall 'is 'air was still a blowin' an' a growin'! Aint that the King'spicture, D. David? Don't it say 'Edwardus VII. D. G. Britt. , ' whichmeans Edward the Seventh, thanks be to God Britain? Don't it?"

"It _do_!" replied Helmsley emphatically, taking a fantastic pleasure inthe bad grammar of his reply. "I've got a few more pictures of the samekind, " and he took out two or three loose shillings and pennies--"Can weget a night's lodging about here for that?"

"Av coorse we can! I'll take ye to a place where ye'll be as welcome asthe flowers in May with Matt Peke interroducin' of ye. Two o' themthank-God Britts in silver will set ye up wi' a plate o' wholesome foodan' a clean bed at the 'Trusty Man. ' It's a pub, but Miss Tranter whatkeeps it is an old maid, an' she's that proud o' the only 'Trusty Man'she ever 'ad that she calls it an '_O_tel!"

He grinned good-humouredly at what he considered his own witticismconcerning the little weakness of Miss Tranter, and proceeded toshoulder his basket. 

"_You_ aint proud, are ye?" he said, as he turned his ferret-brown eyeson Helmsley inquisitively. 

Helmsley, who had, quite unconsciously to himself, drawn up his sparefigure in his old habitual way of standing very erect, with thatcomposed air of dignity and resolution which those who knew himpersonally in business were well accustomed to, started at the question. 

"Proud!" he exclaimed--"I? What have I to be proud of? I'm the mostmiserable old fellow in the world, my friend! You may take my word forthat! There's not a soul that cares a button whether I live or die! I'mseventy years of age--out of work, and utterly wretched and friendless!Why the devil should _I_ be proud?"

"Well, if ye never was proud in yer life, ye can be now, " said Pekecondescendingly, "for I tell ye plain an' true that if Matt Peke walkswith a tramp on this road, every one round the Quantocks knows as howthat tramp aint altogether a raskill! I've took ye up on trust as'twere, likin' yer face for all that it's thin an' mopish, --an' steppin'in wi' me to the 'Trusty Man' will mebbe give ye a character. Anyways, I'll do my best for ye!"

"Thank you, " said Helmsley simply. 

Again Peke looked at him, and again seemed troubled. Then, stuffing hispipe full of tobacco, he lit it and stuck it sideways between his teeth. 

"Now come along!" he said. "You're main old, but ye must put yer bestfoot foremost all the same. We've more'n an hour's trampin' up hill an'down dale, an' the dew's beginnin' to fall. Keep goin' slow an'steady--I'll give ye a hand. "

For a moment Helmsley hesitated. This shaggy, rough, uncouthherb-gatherer evidently regarded him as very feeble and helpless, and, out of a latent kindliness of nature, wished to protect him and see himto some safe shelter for the night. Nevertheless, he hated the position. Old as he knew himself to be, he resented being pitied for his age, while his mind was yet so vigorous and his heart felt still so warm andyoung. Yet the commonplace fact remained that he was very tired, --veryworn out, and conscious that only a good rest would enable him tocontinue his journey with comfort. Moreover, his experiences at the"Trusty Man" might prove interesting. It was best to take what came inhis way, even though some episodes should possibly turn out lesspleasing than instructive. So putting aside all scruples, he started towalk beside his ragged comrade of the road, finding, with some secretsatisfaction, that after a few paces his own step was light and easycompared to the heavy shuffling movement with which Peke steadilytrudged along. Sweet and pungent odours of the field and woodlandfloated from the basket of herbs as it swung slightly to and fro on itsbearer's shoulders, and amid the slowly darkening shadows of evening, astar of sudden silver brilliance sparkled out in the sky. 

"Yon's the first twinkler, " said Peke, seeing it at once, though hisgaze was apparently fixed on the ground. "The love-star's allus up earlyo' nights to give the men an' maids a chance!"

"Yes, --Venus is the evening star just now, " rejoined Helmsley, half-absently. 

"Stow Venus! That's a reg'lar fool's name, " said Peke surlily. "Wheredid ye git it from? That aint no Venus, --that's just the love-star, an'it'll be nowt else in these parts till the world-without-end-amen!"

Helmsley made no answer. He walked on patiently, his limbs trembling alittle with fatigue and nervous exhaustion. But Peke's words had startedthe old dream of his life again into being, --the latent hope within him, which though often half-killed, was not yet dead, flamed up like newlykindled vital fire in his mind, --and he moved as in a dream, his eyesfixed on the darkening heavens and the brightening star. 

CHAPTER VI

They plodded on together side by side for some time in unbroken silence. At last, after a short but stiff climb up a rough piece of road whichterminated in an eminence commanding a wide and uninterrupted view ofthe surrounding country, they paused. The sea lay far below them, dimlycovered by the gathering darkness, and the long swish and roll of thetide could be heard sweeping to and from the shore like the grave andgraduated rhythm of organ music. 

"We'd best 'ave a bit of a jabber to keep us goin', " said Peke, then--"Jabberin' do pass time, as the wimin can prove t' ye; an' artersuch a jumblegut lane as this, it'll seem less lonesome. We're off themain road to towns an' sich like--this is a bye, an' 'ere it stops. We'll 'ave to git over yon stile an' cross the fields--'taint an easynor clean way, but it's the best goin'. We'll see the lights o' the'Trusty Man' just over the brow o' the next hill. "

Helmsley drew a long breath, and sat down on a stone by the roadside. Peke surveyed him critically. 

"Poor old gaffer! Knocked all to pieces, aint ye! Not used to the road?Glory be good to me! I should think ye wornt! Short in yer wind an' weakon yer pins! I'd as soon see my old grandad trampin' it as you. Look'ere! Will ye take a dram out o' this 'ere bottle?"

He held up the bottle he spoke of, --it was black, and untemptinglydirty. Yet there was such a good-natured expression in the man's eyes, and so much honest solicitude written on his rough bearded face, thatHelmsley felt it would be almost like insulting him to refuse hisinvitation. 

"Tell me what's in it first!" he said, smiling. 

"'Taint whisky, " said Peke. "And 'taint brandy neither. _Nor_ rum. _Nor_gin. Nor none o' them vile stuffs which brewers makes as arterwards goesto Parl'ment on the profits of 'avin' poisoned their consti_too_ants. 'Tis nowt but just yerb wine. "

"Yerb wine? Wine made of herbs?"

"That's it! 'Erbs or yerbs--I aint pertikler which--I sez both. This, "--and he shook the bottle he held vigorously--"is genuine yerbwine--an' made as I makes it, what do the Wise One say of it? 'Esez:--'It doth strengthen the heart of a man mightily, and refresheththe brain; drunk fasting, it braceth up the sinews and maketh the oldfeel young; it is of rare virtue to expel all evil humours, and ifprinces should drink of it oft it would be but an ill service to theworld, as they might never die!'"

Peke recited these words slowly and laboriously; it was evident that hehad learned them by heart, and that the effort of remembering themcorrectly was more or less painful to him. 

Helmsley laughed, and stretched out his hand. 

"Give it over here!" he said. "It's evidently just the stuff for me. Howmuch shall I take at one go?"

Peke uncorked the precious fluid with care, smelt it, and noddedappreciatively. 

"Swill it all if ye like, " he remarked graciously. "'Twont hurt ye, an'there's more where that came from. It's cheap enuff, too--nature don'tkeep it back from no man. On'y there aint a many got sense enuff tothank the Lord when it's offered. "

As he thus talked, Helmsley took the bottle from him and tasted itscontents. The "yerb wine" was delicious. More grateful to his palatethan Chambertin or Clos Vougeot, it warmed and invigorated him, and hetook a long draught, Matthew Peke watching him drink it with greatsatisfaction. 

"Let the yerbs run through yer veins for two or three minits, an' ye'llstep across yon fields as light as a bird 'oppin' to its nest, " hedeclared. "Talk o' tonics, --there's more tonic in a handful o' greenstuff growin' as the Lord makes it to grow, than all thepurr-escriptions what's sent out o' them big 'ouses in 'Arley Street, London, where the doctors sits from ten to two like spiders waitin' forflies, an' gatherin' in the guineas for lookin' at fools' tongues. Glorybe good to me! If all the world were as sick as it's silly, there'd benowt wantin' to 't but a grave an' a shovel!"

Helmsley smiled, and taking another pull at the black bottle, declaredhimself much better and ready to go on. He was certainly refreshed, andthe weary aching of his limbs which had made every step of the roadpainful and difficult to him, was gradually passing off. 

"You are very good to me, " he said, as he returned the remainder of the"yerb wine" to its owner. "I wonder why?"

Peke took a draught of his mixture before replying. Then corking thebottle, he thrust it in his pocket. 

"Ye wonders why?" And he uttered a sound between a grunt and achuckle--"Ye may do that! I wonders myself!"

And, giving his basket a hitch, he resumed his slow trudging movementonward. 

"You see, " pursued Helmsley, keeping up the pace beside him, andbeginning to take pleasure in the conversation--"I may be anything oranybody----"

"Ye may that, " agreed Peke, his eyes fixed as usual on the ground. "Yemay be a jail-bird or a missioner, --they'se much of a muchity, an' goeson the road lookin' quite simple like, an' the simpler they seems thedeeper they is. White 'airs an' feeble legs 'elps 'em alongconsiderable, --nowt's better stock-in-trade than tremblin' shins. Or yemight be a War-office neglect, --ye looks a bit set that way. "

"What's a War-office neglect?" asked Helmsley, laughing. 

"One o' them totterin' old chaps as was in the Light Brigade, " answeredPeke. "There's no end to 'em. They'se all over every road in thecountry. All of 'em fought wi' Lord Cardigan, an' all o' 'em's driven tostarve by an ungrateful Gov'ment. They won't be all dead an' gone till ahundred years 'as rolled away, an' even then I shouldn't wonder if oneor two was still left on the tramp a-pipin' his little 'arf-a-leagueonard tale o' woe to the first softy as forgits the date o' the battle. "Here he gave an inquisitive side-glance at his companion. "But you aintquite o' the Balaclava make an' colour. Yer shoulders is millingterry, but yer 'ead is business. Ye might be a gentleman if 'twornt for yerclothes. "

Helmsley heard this definition of himself without flinching. 

"I might be a thief, " he said--"or an escaped convict. You've been kindto me without knowing whether I am one or the other, or both. And I wantto know why?"

Peke stopped in his walk. They had come to the stile over which the waylay across the fields, and he rested himself and his basket for a momentagainst it. 

"Why?" he repeated, --then suddenly raising one hand, he whispered, "Listen! Listen to the sea!"

The evening had now almost closed in, and all around them the countrylay dark and solitary, broken here and there by tall groups of treeswhich at night looked like sable plumes, standing stiff and motionlessin the stirless summer air. Thousands of stars flashed out across thisblackness, throbbing in their orbits with a quick pulsation as of uneasyhearts beating with nameless and ungratified longing. And through thetense silence came floating a long, sweet, passionate cry, --a shiveringmoan of pain that touched the edge of joy, --a song without words, ofpleading and of prayer, as of a lover, who, debarred from the possessionof the beloved, murmurs his mingled despair and hope to theunsubstantial dream of his own tortured soul. The sea was calling to theearth, --calling to her in phrases of eloquent and urgentmusic, --caressing her pebbly shores with winding arms of foam, andshowering kisses of wild spray against her rocky bosom. "If I could cometo thee! If thou couldst come to me!" was the burden of the waves, --theceaseless craving of the finite for the infinite, which is, and evershall be, the great chorale of life. The shuddering sorrow of that lowrhythmic boom of the waters rising and falling fathoms deep under cliffswhich the darkness veiled from view, awoke echoes from the higher hillsaround, and David Helmsley, lifting his eyes to the countlessplanet-worlds sprinkled thick as flowers in the patch of sky immediatelyabove him, suddenly realised with a pang how near he was to death, --howvery near to that final drop into the unknown where the soul of man isdestined to find All or Nothing! He trembled, --not with fear, --but witha kind of anger at himself for having wasted so much of his life. Whathad he done, with all his toil and pains? He had gathered a multitude ofriches. Well, and then? Then, --why then, and now, he had found richesbut vain getting. Life and Death were still, as they have always been, the two supreme Facts of the universe. Life, as ever, asserted itselfwith an insistence demanding something far more enduring than the merepossession of gold, and the power which gold brings. And Death presentedits unwelcome aspect in the same perpetual way as the Last Recorder who, at the end of the day, closes up accounts with a sum-total paid exactlyin proportion to the work done. No more, and no less. And with Helmsleythese accounts were reaching a figure against which his whole naturefiercely rebelled, --the figure of Nought, showing no value in his life'sefforts or its results. And the sound of the sea to-night in his earswas more full of reproach than peace. 

"When the water moans like that, " said Peke softly, under his breath, "it seems to me as if all the tongues of drowned sailors 'ad got into itan' was beggin' of us not to forget 'em lyin' cold among the shells an'weed. An' not only the tongues o' them seems a-speakin' an' a-cryin', but all the stray bones o' them seems to rattle in the rattle o' thefoam. It goes through ye sharp, like a knife cuttin' a sour apple; an'it's made me wonder many a time why we was all put 'ere to git drownedor smashed or choked off or beat down somehows just when we don't expectit. Howsomiver, the Wise One sez it's all right!"

"And who is the Wise One?" asked Helmsley, trying to rouse himself fromthe heavy thoughts engendered in his mind by the wail of the sea. 

"The Wise One was a man what wrote a book a 'underd years ago about'erbs, " said Peke. "'_The Way o' Long Life_, ' it's called, an' my fatheran' grandfather and great-grandfather afore 'em 'ad the book, an' I'vegot it still, though I shows it to nobody, for nobody but me wouldn'tunnerstand it. My father taught me my letters from it, an' I could spellit out when I was a kid--I've growed up on it, an' it's all I everreads. It's 'ere"--and he touched his ragged vest. "I trusts it to keepme goin' 'ale an' 'arty till I'm ninety, --an' that's drawin' it mild, for my father lived till a 'underd, an' then on'y went through slippin'on a wet stone an' breakin' a bone in 'is back; an' my grandfather saw'is larst Christmas at a 'underd an' ten, an' was up to kissin' a wenchunder the mistletoe, 'e was sich a chirpin' old gamecock. 'E didn't lookno older'n you do now, an' you're a chicken compared to 'im. You've worebadly like, not knowin' the use o' yerbs. "

"That's it!" said Helmsley, now following his companion over the stileand into the dark dewy fields beyond--"I need the advice of the WiseOne! Has he any remedy for old age, I wonder?"

"Ay, now there ye treads on my fav'rite corn!" and Peke shook his headwith a curious air of petulance. "That's what I'm a-lookin' for day an'night, for the Wise One 'as got a bit in 'is book which 'e's croppedout o' another Wise One's savin's, --a chap called Para-Cel-Sus"--andPeke pronounced this name in three distinct and well-divided syllables. "An this is what it is: 'Take the leaves of the Daura, which preventthose who use it from dying for a hundred and twenty years. In the sameway the flower of the _secta croa_ brings a hundred years to those whouse it, whether they be of lesser or of longer age. ' I've been on the'unt for the 'Daura' iver since I was twenty, an' I've arskt ivery'yerber I've ivir met for the 'Secta Croa, ' an' all I've 'ad sed to meis 'Go 'long wi' ye for a loony jackass! There aint no sich thing. ' Butjackass or no, I'm of a mind to think there _is_ such things as both the'Daura' an' the 'Secta Croa, ' if I on'y knew the English of 'em. An's'posin' I ivir found 'em----"

"You would become that most envied creature of the present age, --amillionaire, " said Helmsley; "you could command your own terms for thewonderful leaves, --you would cease to tramp the road or to gather herbs, and you would live in luxury like a king!"

"Not I!"--and Peke gave a grunt of contempt. "Kings aint my notion of'appiness nor 'onesty neither. They does things often for which some o'the poor 'ud be put in quod, an' no mercy showed 'em, an' yet 'costhey're kings they gits off. An' I aint great on millionaires neither. They'se mis'able ricketty coves, all gone to pot in their in'ardsthrough grubbin' money an' eatin' of it like, till ivery other kind o'food chokes 'em. There's a chymist in London what pays me five shillingsan ounce for a little green yerb I knows on, cos' it's the on'y med'cineas keeps a millionaire customer of 'is a-goin'. I finds the yerb, an'the chymist gits the credit. I gits five shillin', an' the chymist gitsa guinea. _That's_ all right! _I_ don't mind! I on'y gathers, --thechymist, 'e's got to infuse the yerb, distil an' bottle it. I'm paid myprice, an 'e's paid 'is. All's fair in love an' war!"

He trudged on, his footsteps now rendered almost noiseless by the thickgrass on which he trod. The heavy dew sparkled on every blade, and hereand there the pale green twinkle of a glow-worm shone like a jeweldropped from a lady's gown. Helmsley walked beside his companion at aneven pace, --the "yerb wine" had undoubtedly put strength in him and hewas almost unconscious of his former excessive fatigue. He wasinterested in Peke's "jabber, " and wondered, somewhat enviously, whysuch a man as this, rough, ragged, and uneducated, should seem topossess a contentment such as he had never known. 

"Millionaires is gin'rally fools, " continued Peke; "they buys all theywants, an' then they aint got nothin' more to live for. They gits intomotor-cars an' scours the country, but they never sees it. They never'ears the birds singin', an' they misses all the flowers. They neversmells the vi'lets nor the mayblossom--they on'y gits their own petrolstench wi' the flavour o' the dust mixed in. Larst May I was a-walkin'in the lanes o' Devon, an' down the 'ill comes a motor-car tearin' an'scorchin' for all it was worth, an' bang went somethin' at the bottom o'the thing, an' it stops suddint. Out jumps a French chauffy, parlyvooin'to hisself, an' out jumps the man what owns it an' takes off hisgoggles. 'This is Devonshire, my man?' sez 'e to me. 'It is, ' I sez to'im. An' then the cuckoo started callin' away over the trees. 'What'sthat?' sez 'e lookin' startled like. 'That's the cuckoo, ' sez I. An' hetakes off 'is 'at an' rubs 'is 'ead, which was a' fast goin' bald. 'Dear, dear me!' sez 'e--'I 'aven't 'eard the cuckoo since I was a boy!'An' he rubs 'is 'ead again, an' laughs to hisself--'Not since I was aboy!' 'e sez. 'An' that's the cuckoo, is it? Dear, dear me!' 'You'aven't bin much in the country p'r'aps?' sez I. 'I'm always in thecountry, ' 'e sez--'I motor everywhere, but I've missed the cuckoosomehow!' An' then the chauffy puts the machine right, an' he jumps inan' gives me a shillin'. 'Thank-ye, my man!' sez 'e--'I'm glad you toldme 'twas a _real_ cuckoo!' Hor--er--hor--er--hor--er!" And Peke gavevent to a laugh peculiarly his own. "Mebbe 'e thought I'd got a Swissclock with a sham cuckoo workin' it in my basket! 'I'm glad, ' sez 'e, 'you told me 'twas a _real_ cuckoo!' Hor--er--hor--er--hor--er!"

The odd chuckling sounds of merriment which were slowly jerked forth asit were from Peke's husky windpipe, were droll enough in themselves tobe somewhat infectious, and Helmsley laughed as he had not done for manydays. 

"Ay, there's a mighty sight of tringum-trangums an' nonsense i' theworld, " went on Peke, still occasionally giving vent to a suppressed"Hor--er--hor"--"an' any amount o' Tom Conys what don't know a realcuckoo from a sham un'. Glory be good to me! Think o' the numskulls asgoes in for pendlecitis! There's a fine name for ye! Pendlecitis!Hor--er--hor! All the fash'nables 'as got it, an' all the doctors 'astheir knives sharpened an' ready to cut off the remains o' the tail we'ad when we was all 'appy apes together! Hor--er--hor! An' the bit o'tail 's curled up in our in'ards now where it ain't got no business tobe. Which shows as 'ow Natur' don't know 'ow to do it, seein' as if we'adn't wanted a tail, she'd a' took it sheer off an' not left anybehind. But the doctors thinks they knows a darn sight better'n Natur', an' they'll soon be givin' lessons in the makin' o' man to the LordA'mighty hisself! Hor--er--hor! Pendlecitis! That's a precious monkey'stail, that there! In my grandfather's day we didn't 'ear 'bout nomonkey's tails, --'twas just a chill an' inflammation o' the in'ards, an'a few yerbs made into a tea an' drunk 'ot fastin', cured it intwenty-four hours. But they've so many new-fangled notions nowadays, they've forgot all the old 'uns. There's the cancer illness, --peoplegoes off all over the country now from cancer as never used to in myfather's day, an' why? 'Cos they'se gittin' too wise for Nature's owncure. Nobody thinks o' tryin' agrimony, --water agrimony--some calls itwater hemp an' bastard agrimony--'tis a thing that flowers in this monthan' the next, --a brown-yellow blossom on a purple stalk, an' ye find itin cold places, in ponds an' ditches an' by runnin' waters. Make a drinkof it, an' it'll mend any cancer, if 'taint too far gone. An' a cancerthat's outside an' not in, 'ull clean away beautiful wi' the 'elp o' redclover. Even the juice o' nettles, which is common enough, drunk threetimes a day will kill any germ o' cancer, while it'll set up the bloodas fresh an' bright as iver. But who's a-goin' to try common stuff likenettles an' clover an' water hemp, when there's doctors sittin' waitin'wi' knives an' wantin' money for cuttin' up their patients an' 'urryin''em into kingdom-come afore their time! Glory be good to me! What wi'doctors an' 'omes an' nusses, an' all the fuss as a sick man makes abouthisself in these days, I'd rather be as I am, Matt Peke, a-wanderin' byhill an' dale, an' lyin' down peaceful to die under a tree when my timescomes, than take any part wi' the pulin' cowards as is afraid o' coldan' fever an' wet feet an' the like, just as if they was poor littleshiverin' mice instead o' men. Take 'em all round, the wimin's thebravest at bearin' pain, --they'll smile while they'se burnin' so as itsha'n't ill-convenience anybody. Wonderful sufferers, is wimin!"

"Yet they are selfish enough sometimes, " said Helmsley, quickly. 

"Selfish? Wheer was ye born, D. David?" queried Peke--"An' what wimin'ave ye know'd? Town or country?"

Helmsley was silent. 

"Arsk no questions an' ye'll be told no lies!" commented Peke, with achuckle. "I sees! Ye've bin a gay old chunk in yer time, mebbe! An' it'sthe wimin as goes in for gay old chunks as ye've made all yer larnin of. But they ain't wimin--not as the country knows 'em. Country wimin worksall day an' as often as not dandles a babby all night, --they've not gota minnit but what they aint a-troublin' an' a-worryin' 'bout 'usband orchilder, an' their faces is all writ over wi' the curse o' the garden ofEden. Selfish? They aint got the time! Up at cock-crow, scrubbin' thefloors, washin' the babies, feedin' the fowls or the pigs, peelin' thetaters, makin' the pot boil, an' tryin' to make out 'ow twelve shillin'san' sixpence a week can be made to buy a pound's worth o' food, trapsin'to market, an' wonderin' whether the larst born in the cradle aintsomehow got into the fire while mother's away, --'opin' an' prayin' forthe Lord's sake as 'usband don't come 'ome blind drunk, --where's theroom for any selfishness in sich a life as that?--the life lived by'undreds o' wimin all over this 'ere blessed free country? Get 'long wi'ye, D. David! Old as y' are, ye 'ad a mother in yer time, --an' I'll takemy Gospel oath there was a bit o' good in 'er!"

Helmsley stopped abruptly in his walk. 

"You are right, man!" he said, "And I am wrong! You know women betterthan I do, and--you give me a lesson! One is never too old tolearn, "--and he smiled a rather pained smile. "But--I have had a badexperience!"

"Well, if y'ave 'ad it ivir so bad, yer 'xperience aint every one's, "retorted Peke. "If one fly gits into the soup, that don't argify thatthe hull pot 's full of 'em. An' there's more good wimin thanbad--takin' 'em all round an' includin' 'op pickers, gypsies an' thelike. Even Miss Tranter aint wantin' in feelin', though she's a bit sourlike, owin' to 'avin missed a 'usband an' all the savin' worritywear-an-tear a 'usband brings, but she aint arf bad. Yon's the lamp of'er 'Trusty Man' now. "

A gleam of light, not much larger than the glitter of one of theglow-worms in the grass, was just then visible at the end of the longfield they were traversing. 

"That's an old cart-road down there wheer it stands, " continued Peke. "As bad a road as ivir was made, but it runs straight into Devonshire, an' it's a good place for a pub. For many a year 'twornt used, bein' sorough an' ready, but now there's such a crowd o' motors tearin, overCountisbury 'Ill, the carts takes it, keepin' more to theirselves like, an' savin' smashin'. Miss Tranter she knew what she was a-doin' of whenshe got a licence an' opened 'er bizniss. 'Twas a ramshackle oldfarm-'ouse, goin' all to pieces when she bought it an' put up 'er signo' the 'Trusty Man, ' an' silly wenches round 'ere do say as 'ow it's'aunted, owin' to the man as 'ad it afore Miss Tranter, bein' found deadin 'is bed with 'is 'ands a-clutchin' a pack o' cards. An' the ace o'spades--that's death--was turned uppermost. So they goes chatterin' an'chitterin' as 'ow the old chap 'ad been playin' cards wi' the devil, an'got a bad end. But Miss Tranter, she don't listen to maids'gabble, --she's doin' well, devil or no devil--an' if any one was to talkto 'er 'bout ghosteses an' sich-like, she'd wallop 'em out of 'er barwith a broom! Ay, that she would! She's a powerful strong woman MissTranter, an' many's the larker what's felt 'er 'and on 'is collara-chuckin' 'im out o' the 'Trusty Man' neck an' crop for sayin'somethin' what aint ezackly agreeable to 'er feelin's. She don't standno nonsense, an' though she's lib'ral with 'er pennorths an' pints shedon't wait till a man's full boozed 'fore lockin' up the tap-room. 'Gitto bed, yer hulkin' fools!' sez she, 'or ye may change my '_O_tel forthe Sheriff's. ' An' they all knuckles down afore 'er as if they waschilder gettin' spanked by their mother. Ah, she'd 'a made a grand wifefor a man! 'E wouldn't 'ave 'ad no chance to make a pig of hisself ifshe'd been anywheres round!"

"Perhaps she won't take me in!" suggested Helmsley. 

"She will, an' that sartinly!" said Peke. "She'll not refuse bed an'board to any friend o' mine. "

"Friend!" Helmsley echoed the word wonderingly. 

"Ay, friend! Any one's a friend what trusts to ye on the road, aint 'e?Leastways that's 'ow I take it. "

"As I said before, you are very kind to me, " murmured Helmsley; "and Ihave already asked you--Why?"

"There aint no rhyme nor reason in it, " answered Peke. "You 'elps a manalong if ye sees 'e wants 'elpin', sure-_ly_, --that's nat'ral. 'Tis on'ythem as is born bad as don't 'elp nothin' nor nobody. Ye're old an'fagged out, an' yer face speaks a bit o' trouble--that's enuff for me. Hi' y' are!--hi' y' are, old 'Trusty Man!'"

And striding across a dry ditch which formed a kind of entrenchmentbetween the field and the road, Peke guided his companion round a darkcorner and brought him in front of a long low building, heavilytimbered, with queer little lop-sided gable windows set in the slanting, red-tiled roof. A sign-board swung over the door and a small lamp fixedbeneath it showed that it bore the crudely painted portrait of agentleman in an apron, spreading out both hands palms upwards as one whohas nothing to conceal, --the ideal likeness of the "Trusty Man" himself. The door itself stood open, and the sound of male voices evinced thepresence of customers within. Peke entered without ceremony, beckoningHelmsley to follow him, and made straight for the bar, where a tallwoman with remarkably square shoulders stood severely upright, knitting. 

"'Evenin', Miss Tranter!" said Peke, pulling off his tattered cap. "Anyroom for poor lodgers?"

Miss Tranter glanced at him, and then at his companion. 

"That depends on the lodgers, " she answered curtly. 

"That's right! That's quite right, Miss!" said Peke with propitiatorydeference. "You 'se allus right whatsoever ye does an' sez! But yerknows _me_, --yer knows Matt Peke, don't yer?"

Miss Tranter smiled sourly, and her knitting needles glittered likecrossed knives as she finished a particular row of stitches on which shewas engaged before condescending to reply. Then she said:--

"Yes, I know _you_ right enough, but I don't know your company. I'm nottaking up strangers. "

"Lord love ye! This aint a stranger!" exclaimed Peke. "This 'ere's oldDavid, a friend o' mine as is out o' work through gittin' more years on'is back than the British Gov'ment allows, an' 'e's trampin' it to see'is relations afore 'e gits put to bed wi' a shovel. 'E's as 'armless asthey makes 'em, an' I've told 'im as 'ow ye' don't take in nowt but'spectable folk. Doant 'ee turn out an old gaffer like 'e be, fagged an'footsore, to sleep in open--doant 'ee now, there's a good soul!"

Miss Tranter went on knitting rapidly. Presently she turned her piercinggimlet grey eyes on Helmsley. 

"Where do you come from, man?" she demanded. 

Helmsley lifted his hat with the gentle courtesy habitual to him. 

"From Bristol, ma'am. "

"Tramping it?"

"Yes. "

"Where are you going?"

"To Cornwall. "

"That's a long way and a hard road, " commented Miss Tranter; "You'llnever get there!"

Helmsley gave a slight deprecatory gesture, but said nothing. 

Miss Tranter eyed him more keenly. 

"Are you hungry?"

He smiled. 

"Not very!"

"That means you're half-starved without knowing it, " she saiddecisively. "Go in yonder, " and she pointed with one of her knittingneedles to the room beyond the bar whence the hum of male voicesproceeded. "I'll send you some hot soup with plenty of stewed meat andbread in it. An old man like you wants more than the road food. Take himin, Peke!"

"Didn't I tell ye!" ejaculated Peke, triumphantly looking round atHelmsley. "She's one that's got 'er 'art in the right place! I say, MissTranter, beggin' yer parding, my friend aint a sponger, ye know! 'E canpay ye a shillin' or two for yer trouble!"

Miss Tranter nodded her head carelessly. 

"The food's threepence and the bed fourpence, " she said. "Breakfast inthe morning, threepence, --and twopence for the washing towel. That makesa shilling all told. Ale and liquors extra. "

With that she turned her back on them, and Peke, pulling Helmsley by thearm, took him into the common room of the inn, where there were severalmen seated round a long oak table with "gate-legs" which must have beenturned by the handicraftsmen of the time of Henry the Seventh. HerePeke set down his basket of herbs in a corner, and addressed the companygenerally. 

"'Evenin', mates! All well an' 'arty?"

Three or four of the party gave gruff response. The others sat smokingsilently. One end of the table was unoccupied, and to this Peke drew acouple of rush-bottomed chairs with sturdy oak backs, and bade Helmsleysit down beside him. 

"It be powerful warm to-night!" he said, taking off his cap, and showinga disordered head of rough dark hair, sprinkled with grey. "Powerfulwarm it be trampin' the road, from sunrise to sunset, when the dust liesthick and 'eavy, an' all the country's dry for a drop o' rain. "

"Wal, _you_ aint got no cause to grumble at it, " said a fat-faced man invery dirty corduroys. "It's _your_ chice, an' _your_ livin'! _You_ likesthe road, an' _you_ makes your grub on it! 'Taint no use _you_ findin'fault with the gettin' o' _your_ victuals!"

"Who's findin' fault, Mister Dubble?" asked Peke soothingly. "I on'ysaid 'twas powerful warm. "

"An' no one but a sawny 'xpects it to be powerful cold in July, " growledDubble--"though some there is an' some there be what cries fur snow inAugust, but I aint one on 'em. "

"No, 'e aint one on 'em, " commented a burly farmer, blowing away thefoam from the brim of a tankard of ale which was set on the table infront of him. "'E alluz takes just what cooms along easy loike, doMizter Dubble!"

There followed a silence. It was instinctively felt that the discussionwas hardly important enough to be continued. Moreover, every man in theroom was conscious of a stranger's presence, and each one cast a furtiveglance at Helmsley, who, imitating Peke's example, had taken off hishat, and now sat quietly under the flickering light of the oil lampwhich was suspended from the middle of the ceiling. He himself wasintensely interested in the turn his wanderings had taken. There was acertain excitement in his present position, --he was experiencing the"new sensation" he had longed for, --and he realised it with the fullestsense of enjoyment. To be one of the richest men in the world, and yetto seem so miserably poor and helpless as to be regarded with suspicionby such a class of fellows as those among whom he was now seated, wasdecidedly a novel way of acquiring an additional relish for the varyingchances and changes of life. 

"Brought yer father along wi' ye, Matt?" suddenly asked a wizened littleman of about sixty, with a questioning grin on his hard weather-beatenfeatures. 

"I aint up to 'awkin' dead bodies out o' their graves yet, Bill Bush, "answered Peke. "Unless my old dad's corpsy's turned to yerbs, which ismore'n likely, I aint got 'im. This 'ere's a friend o' mine, --MisterDavid--e's out o' work through the Lord's speshul dispensation an' ruleo' natur--gettin' old!"

A laugh went round, but a more favourable impression towards Peke'scompanion was at once created by this introduction. 

"Sorry for ye!" said the individual called Bill Bush, noddingencouragingly to Helmsley. "I'm a bit that way myself. "

He winked, and again the company laughed. Bill was known as one of themost daring and desperate poachers in all the countryside, but as yet hehad never been caught in the act, and he was one of Miss Tranter's"respectable" customers. But, truth to tell, Miss Tranter had some veryodd ideas of her own. One was that rabbits were vermin, and that it wasof no consequence how or by whom they were killed. Another was that"wild game" belonged to everybody, poor and rich. Vainly was itexplained to her that rich landowners spent no end of money on breedingand preserving pheasants, grouse, and the like, --she would hear none ofit. 

"Stuff and nonsense, " she said sharply. "The birds breed by themselvesquite fast enough if let alone, --and the Lord intended them so to do forevery one's use and eating, not for a few mean and selfish money-grubswho'd shoot and sell their own babies if they could get game prices forthem!"

And she had a certain sympathy with Bill Bush and his nefariousproceedings. As long as he succeeded in evading the police, so longwould he be welcome at the "Trusty Man, " but if once he were to beclapped into jail the door of his favourite "public" would be closed tohim. Not that Miss Tranter was a woman who "went back, " as the sayingis, on her friends, but she had to think of her licence, and could notafford to run counter to those authorities who had the power to take itaway from her. 

"I'm a-shrivellin' away for want o' suthin' to do, " proceeded Bill. "Mylegs aint no show at all to what they once was. "

And he looked down at those members complacently. They were encased inbrown velveteens much the worse for wear, and in shape resembled acouple of sticks with a crook at the knees. 

"I lost my sitiwation as gamekeeper to 'is Royal 'Ighness the Dook o'Duncy through bein' too 'onest, " he went on with another wink. "'Orfulpertikler, the Dook was, --nobuddy was 'llowed to be 'onest wheer '_e_was but 'imself! Lord love ye! It don't do to be straight an' square inthis world!"

Helmsley listened to this bantering talk, saying nothing. He was pale, and sat very still, thus giving the impression of being too tired tonotice what was going on around him. Peke took up the conversation. 

"Stow yer gab, Bill!" he said. "When _you_ gits straight an' square, it'll be a round 'ole ye'll 'ave to drop into, mark my wurrd! An' noDook o' Duncy 'ull pull ye out! This 'ere old friend o' mine don'tunnerstand ye wi' yer fustian an' yer galligaskins. 'E's kindereddicated--got a bit o' larnin' as I 'aves myself. "

"Eddicated!" echoed Bill. "Eddication's a fine thing, aint it, if itbrings an old gaffer like 'im to trampin' the road! Seems to me the morepeople's eddicated the less they's able to make a livin'. "

"That's true! that's _dorned_ true!" said the man named Dubble, bringinghis great fist down on the table with a force that made the tankardsjump. "My darter, she's larned to play the pianner, an' I'm _dorned_ ifshe kin do anythin' else! Just a gillflurt she is, an' as sassy as amagpie. That's what eddication 'as made of 'er an' be _dorned_ to 't!"

"'Scuse me, " and Bill Bush now addressed himself immediately toHelmsley, "_ef_ I may be so bold as to arsk you wheer ye comes from, meanin' no 'arm, an' what's yer purfession?"

Helmsley looked up with a friendly smile. 

"I've no profession now, " he answered at once. "But in my time--before Igot too old--I did a good deal of office work. "

"Office work! In a 'ouse of business, ye means? Readin', 'ritin', 'rithmetic, an' mebbe sweepin' the floor at odd times an' runnin'errands?"

"That's it!" answered Helmsley, still smiling. 

"An' they won't 'ave ye no more?"

"I am too old, " he answered quietly. 

Here Dubble turned slowly round and surveyed him. 

"How old be ye?"

"Seventy. "

Silence ensued. The men glanced at one another. It was plain that the"one touch of nature which makes the whole world kin" was moving themall to kindly and compassionate feeling for the age and frail appearanceof their new companion. What are called "rough" and "coarse" types ofhumanity are seldom without a sense of reverence and even affection forold persons. It is only among ultra-selfish and callous communitieswhere over-luxurious living has blunted all the finer emotions, that ageis considered a crime, or what by some individuals is declared worsethan a crime, a "bore. "

At that moment a short girl, with a very red face and round beady eyes, came into the room carrying on a tray two quaint old pewter tureens fullof steaming soup, which emitted very savoury and appetising odours. Setting these down before Matt Peke and Helmsley, with two goodly slicesof bread beside them, she held out her podgy hand. 

"Threepence each, please!"

They paid her, Peke adding a halfpenny to his threepence for the girlherself, and Helmsley, who judged it safest to imitate Peke's behaviour, doing the same. She giggled. 

"'Ope you aint deprivin' yourselves!" she said pertly. 

"No, my dear, we aint!" retorted Peke. "We can afford to treat ye likethe gentlemen doos! Buy yerself a ribbin to tie up yer bonnie brown'air!"

She giggled again, and waited to see them begin their meal, then, with acomprehensive roll of her round eyes upon all the company assembled, sheretired. The soup she had brought was certainly excellent, --strong, invigorating, and tasty enough to have done credit to a rich man'stable, and Peke nodded over it with mingled surprise and appreciation. 

"Miss Tranter knows what's good, she do!" he remarked to Helmsley in alow tone. "She's cooked this up speshul! This 'ere broth aint flavouredfor _me_, --it's for _you_! Glory be good to me if she aint taken a fancyter yer!--shouldn't wonder if ye 'ad the best in the 'ouse!"

Helmsley shook his head demurringly, but said nothing. He knew that inthe particular position in which he had placed himself, silence wassafer than speech. 

Meanwhile, the short beady-eyed handmaiden returned to her mistress inthe kitchen, and found that lady gazing abstractedly into the fire. 

"They've got their soup, " she announced, "an' they're eatin' of it up!"

"Is the old man taking it?" asked Miss Tranter. 

"Yes'm. An' 'e seems to want it 'orful bad, 'orful bad 'e do, on'y 'eswallers it slower an' more soft like than Matt Peke swallers. "

Miss Tranter ceased to stare at the fire, and stared at her domesticinstead. 

"Prue, " she said solemnly, "that old man is a gentleman!"

Prue's round eyes opened a little more roundly. 

"Lor', Mis' Tranter!"

"He's a gentleman, " repeated the hostess of the "Trusty Man" withemphasis and decision; "and he's fallen on bad times. He may have to beghis bread along the road or earn a shilling here and there as best hecan, but nothing"--and here Miss Tranter shook her forefinger defiantlyin the air--"nothing will alter the fact that he's a gentleman!"

Prue squeezed her fat red hands together, breathed hard, and not knowingexactly what else to do, grinned. Her mistress looked at her severely. 

"You grin like a Cheshire cat, " she remarked. "I wish you wouldn't. "

Prue at once pursed in her wide mouth to a more serious double line. 

"How much did they give you?" pursued Miss Tranter. 

"'Apenny each, " answered Prue. 

"How much have you made for yourself to-day all round!"

"Sevenpence three fardin's, " confessed Prue, with an appealing look. 

"You know I don't allow you to take tips from my customers, " went onMiss Tranter. "You must put those three farthings in my poor-box. "

"Yes'm!" sighed Prue meekly. 

"And then you may keep the sevenpence. "

"Oh thank y' 'm! Thank y', Mis' Tranter!" And Prue hugged herselfecstatically. "You'se 'orful good to me, you is, Mis' Tranter!"

Miss Tranter stood a moment, an upright inflexible figure, surveyingher. 

"Do you say your prayers every night and morning as I told you to do?"

Prue became abnormally solemn. 

"Yes, I allus do, Mis' Tranter, wish I may die right 'ere if I don't!"

"What did I teach you to say to God for the poor travellers who stop atthe 'Trusty Man'?"

"'That it may please Thee to succour, help and comfort all that are indanger, necessity and tribulation, we beseech Thee to hear us GoodLord!'" gabbled Prue, shutting her eyes and opening them again withgreat rapidity. 

"That's right!" And Miss Tranter bent her head graciously. "I'm glad youremember it so well! Be sure you say it to-night. And now you may go, Prue. "

Prue went accordingly, and Miss Tranter, resuming her knitting, returnedto the bar, and took up her watchful position opposite the clock, thereto remain patiently till closing time. 

CHAPTER VII

The minutes wore on, and though some of the company at the "Trusty Man"went away in due course, others came in to replace them, so that evenwhen it was nearing ten o'clock the common room was still fairly full. Matt Peke was evidently hail-fellow-well-met with many of the loafers ofthe district, and his desultory talk, with its quaint leaning towards akind of rustic philosophy intermingled with an assumption of profoundscientific wisdom, appeared to exercise considerable fascination overthose who had the patience and inclination to listen to it. Helmsleyaccepted a pipe of tobacco offered to him by the surly-looking Dubbleand smoked peacefully, leaning back in his chair and half closing hiseyes with a drowsy air, though in truth his senses had never been morealert, or his interest more keenly awakened. He gathered from thegeneral conversation that Bill Bush was an accustomed night lodger atthe "Trusty Man, " that Dubble had a cottage not far distant, with ascolding wife and an uppish daughter, and that it was because she knewof his home discomforts that Miss Tranter allowed him to pass many ofhis evenings at her inn, smoking and sipping a mild ale, which withoutfuddling his brains, assisted him in part to forget for a time hisdomestic worries. And he also found out that the sturdy farmer sedatelysucking his pipe in a corner, and now and then throwing in an unexpectedand random comment on whatever happened to be the topic of conversation, was known as "Feathery" Joltram, though why "Feathery" did not seem veryclear, unless the term was, as it appeared to be, an adaptation of"father" or "feyther" Joltram. Matt Peke explained that old "Feathery"was a highly respected character in the "Quantocks, " and not only renteda large farm, but thoroughly understood the farming business. Moreover, that he had succeeded in making himself somewhat of a terror to certaintimorous time-servers, on account of his heterodox and obstinateprinciples. For example, he had sent his children to school becauseGovernment compelled him to do so, but when their schooldays were over, he had informed them that the sooner they forgot all they had everlearned during that period and took to "clean an' 'olesome livin', " thebetter he should be pleased. 

"For it's all rort an' rubbish, " he declared, in his broad, softdialect. "I dozn't keer a tinker's baad 'apenny whether tha knaw 'ow to'rite tha mizchief or to read it, or whether king o' England is eatin''umble pie to the U-nited States top man, or noa, --I keerz nawt abootit, noben way or t'other. My boys 'as got to laarn draawin' crops out o'fields, --an' my gels must put 'and to milkin' and skimmin' cream an'makin' foinest butter as iver went to market. An' time comin' to wed, the boys 'ull take strong dairy wives, an' the gels 'ull pick men as canthraw through men's wurrk, or they'ze nay gels nor boys o' mine. Tarlko' Great Britain! Heart alive! Wheer would th' owd country be if 'twereleft to pulin' booky clerks what thinks they're gemmen, an' what wedsniminy-piminy shop gels, an' breeds nowt but ricketty babes fit forworkus' burial! Noa, by the Lord! No school larnin' for me nor mine, thank-ee! Why, the marster of the Board School 'ere doant know morepractical business o' life than a suckin' calf! With a bit o' gardenground to 'is cot, e' doant reckon 'ow io till it, an' that's therakelness o' book larnin'. Noa, noa! Th' owd way o' wurrk's the bestway, --brain, 'ands, feet an' good ztrong body all zet on't, an' nomeanderin' aff it! Take my wurrd the Lord A'mighty doant 'elp corn togrow if there's a whinin' zany ahint the plough!"

With these distinctly "out-of-date" notions, "Feathery" Joltram had alsoset himself doggedly against church-going and church people generally. Few dared mention a clergyman in his presence, for his open andsuccessful warfare with the minister of his own parish had been going onfor years and had become well-nigh traditional. Looking at him, however, as he sat in his favourite corner of the "Trusty Man's" common room, noone would have given him credit for any particular individuality. Hisround red face expressed nothing, --his dull fish-like eyes betrayed nointelligence, --he appeared to be nothing more than a particularly large, heavy man, wedged in his chair rather than seated in it, and absorbed insmoking a long pipe after the fashion of an infant sucking afeeding-bottle, with infinite relish that almost suggested gluttony. 

The hum of voices grew louder as the hour grew later, and one or tworather noisy disputations brought Miss Tranter to the door. A look ofhers was sufficient to silence all contention, and having bent thewarning flash of her eyes impressively upon her customers, she retiredas promptly and silently as she had appeared. Helmsley was just thinkingthat he would slip away and get to bed, when, a firm tread sounded inthe outer passage, and a tall man, black-haired, black-eyed, and ofherculean build, suddenly looked in upon the tavern company with afamiliar nod and smile. 

"Hullo, my hearties!" he exclaimed. "Is all tankards drained, or is adrop to spare?"

A shout of welcome greeted him:--"Tom!" "Tom o' the Gleam!" "Come in, Tom!" "Drinks all round!"--and there followed a general hustle andscraping of chairs on the floor, --every one seemed eager to make roomfor the newcomer. Helmsley, startled in a manner by his appearance, looked at him with involuntary and undisguised admiration. Such apicturesque figure of a man he had seldom or never seen, yet the fellowwas clad in the roughest, raggedest homespun, the only striking andcurious note of colour about him being a knitted crimson waistcoat, which instead of being buttoned was tied together with two or three tagsof green ribbon. He stood for a moment watching the men pushing upagainst one another in order to give him a seat at the table, and asmile, half-amused, half-ironical, lighted up his sun-browned, handsomeface. 

"Don't put yourselves out, mates!" he said carelessly. "Mind Feathery'stoes!--if you tread on his corns there'll be the devil to pay! Hullo, Matt Peke! How are you?"

Matt rose and shook hands. 

"All the better for seein' ye again, Tom, " he answered, "Wheer d'ye hailfrom this very present minit?"

"From the caves of Cornwall!" laughed the man. "From picking up drift onthe shore and tracking seals to their lair in the hollows of the rocks!"He laughed again, and his great eyes flashed wildly. "All sport, Matt! Ilive like a gentleman born, keeping or killing at my pleasure!"

Here "Feathery" Joltram looked up and dumbly pointed with the stem ofhis pipe to a chair left vacant near the middle of the table. Tom o' theGleam, by which name he seemed to be known to every one present, satdown, and in response to the calls of the company, a wiry pot-boy inshirt-sleeves made his appearance with several fresh tankards of ale, itnow being past the hour for the attendance of that coy handmaiden of the"Trusty Man, " Miss Prue. 

"Any fresh tales to tell, Tom?" inquired Matt Peke then--"Any moreharum-scarum pranks o' yours on the road?"

Tom drank off a mug of ale before replying, and took a comprehensiveglance around the room. 

"You have a stranger here, " he said suddenly, in his deep, thrillingvoice, "One who is not of our breed, --one who is unfamiliar with ourways. Friend or foe?"

"Friend!" declared Peke emphatically, while Bill Bush and one or two ofthe men exchanged significant looks and nudged each other. "Now, Tom, none of yer gypsy tantrums! I knows all yer Romany gibberish, an' Iain't takin' any. Ye've got a good 'art enough, so don't work yer danderup with this 'ere old chap what's a-trampin' it to try and find out allthat's left o's fam'ly an' friends 'fore turnin' up 'is toes to thedaisies. 'Is name is David, an' 'e's been kickt out o' office workthrough bein' too old. That's _'is_ ticket!"

Tom o' the Gleam listened to this explanation in silence, playingabsently with the green tags of ribbon at his waistcoat. Then slowlylifting his eyes he fixed them full on Helmsley, who, despite himself, felt an instant's confusion at the searching intensity of the man's boldbright gaze. 

"Old and poor!" he ejaculated. "That's a bad lookout in this world!Aren't you tired of living!"

"Nearly, " answered Helmsley quietly--"but not quite. "

Their looks met, and Tom's dark features relaxed into a smile. 

"You're fairly patient!" he said, "for it's hard enough to be poor, butit's harder still to be old. If I thought I should live to be as old asyou are, I'd drown myself in the sea! There's no use in life withoutbody's strength and heart's love. "

"Ah, tha be graat on the love business, Tom!" chuckled "Feathery"Joltram, lifting his massive body with a shake out of the depths of hiscomfortable chair. "Zeems to me tha's zummat like the burd what cozies anew mate ivery zummer!"

Tom o' the Gleam laughed, his strong even white teeth shining like arow of pearls between his black moustaches and short-cropped beard. 

"You're a steady-going man, Feathery, " he said, "and I'm a wastrel. ButI'm ne'er as fickle as you think. I've but one love in the world that'sleft me--my kiddie. "

"Ay, an' 'ow's the kiddie?" asked Matt Peke--"Thrivin' as iver?"

"Fine! As strong a little chap as you'll see between Quantocks andLand's End. He'll be four come Martinmas. "

"Zo agein' quick as that!" commented Joltram with a broad grin. "Forzure 'e be a man grow'd! Tha'll be puttin' the breechez on 'im an'zendin' 'im to the school----"

"Never!" interrupted Tom defiantly. "They'll never catch my kiddie if Iknow it! I want him for myself, --others shall have no part in him. Heshall grow up wild like a flower of the fields--wild as his motherwas--wild as the wild roses growing over her grave----"

He broke off suddenly with an impatient gesture. 

"Psha! Why do you drag me over the old rough ground talking of Kiddie!"he exclaimed, almost angrily. "The child's all right. He's safe in campwith the women. "

"Anywheres nigh?" asked Bill Bush. 

Tom o' the Gleam made no answer, but the fierce look in his eyes showedthat he was not disposed to be communicative on this point. Just thenthe sound of voices raised in some dispute on the threshold of the"Trusty Man, " caused all the customers in the common room to pause intheir talking and drinking, and to glance expressively at one another. Miss Tranter's emphatic accents rang out sharply on the silence. 

"It wants ten minutes to ten, and I never close till half-past ten, " shesaid decisively. "The law does not compel me to do so till eleven, and Iresent private interference. "

"I am aware that you resent any advice offered for your good, " was thereply, delivered in harsh masculine tones. "You are a singularlyobstinate woman. But I have my duty to perform, and as minister of thisparish I shall perform it. "

"Mind your own business first!" said Miss Tranter, with evidentvehemence. 

"My business is my duty, and my duty is my business, "--and here the malevoice grew more rasping and raucous. "I have as much right to use thistavern as any one of the misled men who spend their hard earnings hereand neglect their homes and families for the sake of drink. And as youdo not close till half-past ten, it is not too late for me to enter. "

During this little altercation, the party round the table in the commonroom sat listening intently. Then Dubble, rousing himself from apleasant ale-warm lethargy, broke the spell. 

"Dorned if it aint old Arbroath!" he said. 

"Ay, ay, 'tis old Arbroath zartin zure!" responded "Feathery" Joltramplacidly. "Let 'un coom in! Let 'un coom in!"

Tom o' the Gleam gave vent to a loud laugh, and throwing himself back inhis chair, crossed his long legs and administered a ferocious twirl tohis moustache, humming carelessly under his breath:--

 "'And they called the parson to marry them, But devil a bit would he-- For they were but a pair of dandy prats As couldn't pay devil's fee!'"

Helmsley's curiosity was excited. There was a marked stir of expectationamong the guests of the "Trusty Man"; they all appeared to be waitingfor something about to happen of exceptional interest. He glancedinquiringly at Peke, who returned the glance by one of warning. 

"Best sit quiet a while longer, " he said. "They won't break up tillclosin' hour, an' m'appen there'll be a bit o' fun. "

"Ay, sit quiet!" said Tom o' the Gleam, catching these words, andturning towards Helmsley with a smile--"There's more than enough timefor tramping. Come! Show me if you can smoke _that_!" "That" was achoice Havana cigar which he took out of the pocket of his crimson woolwaistcoat. "You've smoked one before now, I'll warrant!"

Helmsley met his flashing eyes without wavering. 

"I will not say I have not, " he answered quietly, accepting and lightingthe fragrant weed, "but it was long ago!"

"Ay, away in the Long, long ago!" said Tom, still regarding him fixedly, but kindly--"where we have all buried such a number of beautifulthings, --loves and hopes and beliefs, and dreams and fortunes!--all, alltucked away under the graveyard grass of the Long Ago!"

Here Miss Tranter's voice was heard again outside, saying acidly:--

"It's clear out and lock up at half-past ten, business or no business, duty or no duty. Please remember that!"

"'Ware, mates!" exclaimed Tom, --"Here comes our reverend!"

The door was pushed open as he spoke, and a short, dark man in clericalcostume walked in with a would-be imposing air of dignity. 

"Good-evening, my friends!" he said, without lifting his hat. 

There was no response. 

He smiled sourly, and surveyed the assembled company with a curious airof mingled authority and contempt. He looked more like a petty officerof dragoons than a minister of the Christian religion, --one of thoseexacting small military martinets accustomed to brow-beating andbullying every subordinate without reason or justice. 

"So you're there, are you, Bush!" he continued, with a frowning glancelevied in the direction of the always suspected but never provedpoacher, --"I wonder you're not in jail by this time!"

Bill Bush took up his pewter tankard, and affected to drain it to thelast dregs, but made no reply. 

"Is that Mr. Dubble!" pursued the clergyman, shading his eyes with onehand from the flickering light of the lamp, and feigning to be doubtfulof the actual personality of the individual he questioned. "Surely not!I should be very much surprised and very sorry to see Mr. Dubble here atsuch a late hour!"

"Would ye now!" said Dubble. "Wal, I'm allus glad to give ye both asorrer an' a surprise together, Mr. Arbroath--darned if I aint!"

"You must be keeping your good wife and daughter up waiting for you, "proceeded Arbroath, his iron-grey eyebrows drawing together in an uglyline over the bridge of his nose. "Late hours are a mistake, Dubble!"

"So they be, so they be, Mr. Arbroath!" agreed Dubble. "Ef I was ooptill midnight naggin' away at my good wife an' darter as they nags awayat me, I'd say my keepin' o' late 'ours was a dorned whoppin' mistakean' no doubt o't. But seein' as 'taint arf-past ten yet, an' I aintnaggin' nobody nor interferin' with my neighbours nohow, I reckon I'm onthe right side o' the night so fur. "

A murmur of approving laughter from all the men about him ratified thisspeech. The Reverend Mr. Arbroath gave a gesture of disdain, and benthis lowering looks on Tom o' the Gleam. 

"Aren't you wanted by the police?" he suggested sarcastically. 

The handsome gypsy glanced him over indifferently. 

"I shouldn't wonder!" he retorted. "Perhaps the police want me as muchas the devil wants _you_!"

Arbroath flushed a dark red, and his lips tightened over his teethvindictively. 

"There's a zummat for tha thinkin' on, Pazon Arbroath!" said "Feathery"Joltram, suddenly rising from his chair and showing himself in all hisgreat height and burly build. "Zummat for a zermon on owd Nick, whentha're wantin' to scare the zhoolboys o' Zundays!"

Mr. Arbroath's countenance changed from red to pale. 

"I was not aware of your presence, Mr. Joltram, " he said stiffly. 

"Noa, noa, Pazon, m'appen not, but tha's aweer on it now. Nowt o' me'szo zmall as can thraw to heaven through tha straight and narrer way. I'd'ave to squeeze for 't!"

He laughed, --a big, slow laugh, husky with good living and good humour. Arbroath shrugged his shoulders. 

"I prefer not to speak to you at all, Mr. Joltram, " he said. "Whenpeople are bound to disagree, as we have disagreed for years, it is bestto avoid conversation. "

"Zed like the Church all over, Pazon!" chuckled the imperturbableJoltram. "Zeems as if I 'erd the 'Glory be'! But if tha don't want anytalk, why does tha coom in 'ere wheer we'se all a-drinkin' steady andtalkin' 'arty, an' no quarrellin' nor backbitin' of our neighbours? Thawants us to go 'ome, --why doezn't tha go 'ome thysen? Tha's a wife azettin' oop there, an' m'appen she's waitin' with as fine a zermon asiver was preached from a temperance cart in a wasterne field!"

He laughed again; Arbroath turned his back upon him in disgust, andstrode up to the shadowed corner where Helmsley sat watching the littlescene. 

"Now, my man, who are _you_?" demanded the clergyman imperiously. "Wheredo you come from?"

Matt Peke would have spoken, but Helmsley silenced him by a look androse to his feet, standing humbly with bent head before his arrogantinterlocutor. There were the elements of comedy in the situation, and hewas inclined to play his part thoroughly. 

"From Bristol, " he replied. 

"What are you doing here?"

"Getting rest, food, and a night's lodging. "

"Why do you leave out drink in the list?" sneered Arbroath. "For, ofcourse, it's your special craving! Where are you going?"

"To Cornwall. "

"Tramping it?"

"Yes. "

"Begging, I suppose?"

"Sometimes. "

"Disgraceful!" And the reverend gentleman snorted offence like a walrusrising from deep waters. "Why don't you work?"

"I'm too old. "

"Too old! Too lazy you mean! How old are you?"

"Seventy. "

Mr. Arbroath paused, slightly disconcerted. He had entered the "TrustyMan" in the hope of discovering some or even all of its customers in astate of drunkenness. To his disappointment he had found them perfectlysober. He had pounced on the stray man whom he saw was a stranger, inthe expectation of proving him, at least, to be intoxicated. Here againhe was mistaken. Helmsley's simple straight answers left him no openingfor attack. 

"You'd better make for the nearest workhouse, " he said, at last. "Trampsare not encouraged on these roads. "

"Evidently not!" And Helmsley raised his calm eyes and fixed them on theclergyman's lowering countenance with a faintly satiric smile. 

"You're not too old to be impudent, I see!" retorted Arbroath, with anunpleasant contortion of his features. "I warn you not to come cadgingabout anywhere in this neighbourhood, for if you do I shall give you incharge. I have four parishes under my control, and I make it a rule tohand all beggars over to the police. "

"That's not very good Christianity, is it?" asked Helmsley quietly. 

Matt Peke chuckled. The Reverend Mr. Arbroath started indignantly, andstared so hard that his rat-brown eyes visibly projected from his head. 

"Not very good Christianity!" he echoed. "What--what do you mean? Howdare you speak to me about Christianity!"

"Ay, 'tis a bit aff!" drawled "Feathery" Joltram, thrusting his greathands deep into his capacious trouser-pockets. "'Tis a bit aff to taalkto Christian parzon 'bout Christianity, zeein' 'tis the one thing i'this warld 'e knaws nawt on!"

Arbroath grew livid, but his inward rage held him speechless. 

"That's true!" cried Tom o' the Gleam excitedly--"That's as true asthere's a God in heaven! I've read all about the Man that was born acarpenter in Galilee, and so far as I can understand it, He never had arough word for the worst creatures that crawled, and the worse theywere, and the more despised and down-trodden, the gentler He was withthem. That's not the way of the men that call themselves His ministers!"

"I 'eerd once, " said Mr. Dubble, rising slowly and laying down his pipe, "of a little chap what was makin' a posy for 'is mother's birthday, an'passin' the garden o' the rector o' the parish, 'e spied a bunch o' pinkchestnut bloom 'angin' careless over the 'edge, ready to blow to bitswi' the next puff o' wind. The little raskill pulled it down an' put itwi' the rest o' the flowers 'e'd got for 'is mother, but the good an'lovin' rector seed 'im at it, an' 'ad 'im nabbed as a common thief an'sent to prison. 'E wornt but a ten-year-old lad, an' that prison spoilt'im for life. 'E wor a fust-class Lord's man as did that for a babbyboy, an' the hull neighbourhood's powerful obleeged to 'im. So don'tye, "--and here he turned his stolid gaze on Helmsley, --"don't ye, forall that ye're old, an' poor, an' 'elpless, go cadgin' round this 'erereverend gemmen's property, cos 'e's got a real pityin' Christian 'arto's own, an' ye'd be sent to bed wi' the turnkey. " Here he paused with acomprehensive smile round at the company, --then taking up his hat, heput it on. "There's one too many 'ere for pleasantness, an' I'm goin'. Good-den, Tom! Good-den, all!"

And out he strode, whistling as he went. With his departure every onebegan to move, --the more quickly as the clock in the bar had struck tena minute or two since. The Reverend Mr. Arbroath stood irresolute for amoment, wishing his chief enemy, "Feathery" Joltram, would go. ButJoltram remained where he was, standing erect, and surveying the scenelike a heavily caparisoned charger scenting battle. 

"Tha's heerd Mizter Dubble's tale afore now, Pazon, hazn't tha?" heinquired. "M'appen tha knaw'd the little chap as Christ's man zent toprizon thysen?"

Arbroath lifted his head haughtily. 

"A theft is a theft, " he said, "whether it is committed by a youngperson or an old one, and whether it is for a penny or a hundred poundsmakes no difference. Thieves of all classes and all ages should bepunished as such. Those are my opinions. "

"They were nowt o' the Lord's opinions, " said Joltram, "for He told thethief as 'ung beside Him, 'This day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise, 'but He didn't say nowt o' the man as got the thief punished!"

"You twist the Bible to suit your own ends, Mr. Joltram, " retortedArbroath contemptuously. "It is the common habit of atheists andblasphemers generally. "

"Then, by the Lord!" exclaimed the irrepressible "Feathery, " "All th'atheists an' blasphemers must be a-gathered in the fold o' the Church, for if the pazons doan't twist the Bible to suit their own ends, I'mblest if I knaw whaat else they does for a decent livin'!"

Just then a puff of fine odour from the Havana cigar which Helmsley wasenjoying floated under the nostrils of Mr. Arbroath, and added a freshtouch of irritation to his temper. He turned at once upon the offendingsmoker. 

"So! You pretend to be poor!" he snarled, "And yet you can smoke a cigarthat must have cost a shilling!"

"It was given to me, " replied Helmsley gently. 

"Given to you! Bah! Who would give an old tramp a cigar like that?"

"I would!" And Tom o' the Gleam sprang lightly up from his chair, hisblack eyes sparkling with mingled defiance and laughter--"And I did!Here!--will you take another?" And he drew out and opened a handsomecase full of the cigars in question. 

"Thank you!" and Arbroath's pallid lips trembled with rage. "I declineto share in stolen plunder!"

"Ha--ha--ha! Ha--ha!" laughed Tom hilariously. "Stolen plunder! That'sgood! D'ye think I'd steal when I can buy! Reverend sir, Tom o' theGleam is particular as to what he smokes, and he hasn't travelled allover the world for nothing:

 'Qu'en dictes-vous? Faut-il à ce musier, _Il n'est trésor que de vivre à son aise_!'"

Helmsley listened in wonderment. Here was a vagrant of the highroads andwoods, quoting the refrain of Villon's _Contreditz de Franc-Gontier_, and pronouncing the French language with as soft and pure an accent asever came out of Provence. Meanwhile, Mr. Arbroath, paying no attentionwhatever to Tom's outburst, looked at his watch. 

"It is now a quarter-past ten, " he announced dictatorially; "I shouldadvise you all to be going. "

"By the law we needn't go till eleven, though Miss Tranter _does_ halveit, " said Bill Bush sulkily--"and perhaps we won't!"

Mr. Arbroath fixed him with a stern glance. 

"Do you know that I am here in the cause of Temperance?" he said. 

"Oh, are ye? Then why don't ye call on Squire Evans, as is the brewerwi' the big 'ouse yonder?" queried Bill defiantly. "'E's the man to goto! Arsk 'im to shut up 'is brewery an' sell no more ale wi' pizon in'tto the poor! That'll do more for Temp'rance than the early closin' o'the 'Trusty Man. '"

"Ye're right enough, " said Matt Peke, who had refrained from taking anypart in the conversation, save by now and then whispering a side commentto Helmsley. "There's stuff put i' the beer what the brewers brew, as isenough to knock the strongest man silly. I'm just fair tired o' hearin'o' Temp'rance this an' Temp'rance that, while 'arf the men as goes toParl'ment takes their livin' out o' the brewin' o' beer an' spiritusliquors. An' they bribes their poor silly voters wi' their drink tillthey'se like a flock o' sheep runnin' into wotever field o' politicstheir shepherds drives 'em. The best way to make the temp'rance causepop'lar is to stop big brewin'. Let every ale'ouse 'ave its ownpertikler brew, an' m'appen we'll git some o' the old-fashioned maltan' 'ops agin. That'll be good for the small trader, an' the big brewin'companies can take to somethin' 'onester than the pizonin' bizness. "

"You are a would-be wise man, and you talk too much, Matthew Peke!"observed the Reverend Mr. Arbroath, smiling darkly, and still glancingaskew at his watch. "I know you of old!"

"Ye knows me an' I knows you, " responded Peke placidly. "Yer can'tinterfere wi' me nohow, an' I dessay it riles ye a bit, for ye lovesinterferin' with ivery sort o' folk, as all the parsons do. I b'longs tono parish, an' aint under you no more than Tom o' the Gleam be, an' weboth thanks the Lord for't! An' I'm earnin' a livin' my own way an'bein' a benefit to the sick an' sorry, which aint so far from properChristianity. Lor', Parson Arbroath! I wonder ye aint more 'uman like, seein' as yer fav'rite gel in the village was arskin' me t'other day ifI 'adn't any yerb for to make a love-charm. 'Love-charm!' sez I--'whatdoes ye want that for, my gel?' An' she up an' she sez--'I'd like tomake Parson Arbroath eat it!' Hor--er--hor--er--hor--er! 'I'd like tomake Parson Arbroath eat it!' sez she. An' she's a foine strappin'wench, too!--'Ullo, Parson! Goin'?"

The door slammed furiously, --Arbroath had suddenly lost his dignity andtemper together. Peke's raillery proved too much for him, and amid theloud guffaws of "Feathery" Joltram, Bill Bush and the rest, he beat ahasty retreat, and they heard his heavy footsteps go hurriedly acrossthe passage of the "Trusty Man, " and pass out into the road beyond. Roars of laughter accompanied his departure, and Peke looked round witha smile of triumph. 

"It's just like a witch-spell!" he declared. "There's nowt to do butwhisper, 'Parson's fav'rite!'--an' Parson hisself melts away like a misto' the mornin' or a weasel runnin' into its 'ole! Hor--er, hor--er, hor--er!"

And again the laughter pealed out long and loud, "Feathery" Joltrambending himself double with merriment, and slapping the sides of hishuge legs in ecstasy. Miss Tranter hearing the continuous uproar, lookedin warningly, but there was a glimmering smile on her face. 

"We'se goin', Miss Tranter!" announced Bill Bush, his wizened face allone broad grin. "We aint the sort to keep you up, never fear! Your worstcustomer's just cleared out!"

"So I see!" replied Miss Tranter calmly, --then, nodding towardsHelmsley, she said--"Your room's ready. "

Helmsley took the hint. He rose from his chair, and held out his hand toPeke. 

"Good-night!" he said. "You've been very kind to me, and I shan't forgetit!"

The herb-gatherer looked for a moment at the thin, refined white handextended to him before grasping it in his own horny palm. Then--

"Good-night, old chap!" he responded heartily. "Ef I don't see ye i' themornin' I'll leave ye a bottle o' yerb wine to take along wi' yetrampin', for the more ye drinks o't the soberer ye'll be an' the betterye'll like it. But ye should give up the idee o' footin' it to Cornwall;ye'll never git there without a liftin'. "

"I'll have a good try, anyway, " rejoined Helmsley. "Good-night!"

He turned towards Tom o' the Gleam. 

"Good-night!"

"Good-night!" And Tom's dark eyes glowed upon him with a sombreintentness. "You know the old proverb which says, 'It's a long lanewhich has never a turning'?"

Helmsley nodded with a faint smile. 

"Your turning's near at hand, " said Tom. "Take my word for it!"

"Will it be a pleasant turning?" asked Helmsley, still smiling. 

"Pleasant? Ay, and peaceful!" And Tom's mellow voice sank into a softertone. "Peaceful as the strong love of a pure woman, and as sweet withcontentment as is the summer when the harvest is full! Good-night!"

Helmsley looked at him thoughtfully; there was something poetic andfascinating about the man. 

"I should like to meet you again, " he said impulsively. 

"Would you?" Tom o' the Gleam smiled. "So you will, as sure as God's inheaven! But how or when, who can tell!" His handsome face cloudedsuddenly, --some dark shadow of pain or perplexity contracted hisbrows, --then he seemed to throw the feeling, whatever it was, aside, andhis features cleared. "You are bound to meet me, " he continued. "I am asmuch a part of this country as the woods and hills, --the Quantocks andBrendons know me as well as Exmoor and the Valley of Rocks. But you aresafe from me and mine! Not one of our tribe will harm you, --you canpursue your way in peace--and if any one of us can give you help at anytime, we will. "

"You speak of a community?"

"I speak of a Republic!" answered Tom proudly. "There are thousands ofmen and women in these islands whom no king governs and no lawcontrols, --free as the air and independent as the birds! They asknothing at any man's hands--they take and they keep!"

"Like the millionaires!" suggested Bill Bush, with a grin. 

"Right you are, Bill!--like the millionaires! None take more than theydo, and none keep their takings closer!"

"And very miserable they must surely be sometimes, on both their takingsand their keepings, " said Helmsley. 

"No doubt of it! There'd be no justice in the mind of God ifmillionaires weren't miserable, " declared Tom o' the Gleam. "They'vemore money than they ought to have, --it's only fair they should haveless happiness. Compensation's a natural law that there's no gettingaway from, --that's why a gypsy's merrier than a king!"

Helmsley smiled assent, and with another friendly good-night all round, left the room. Miss Tranter awaited him, candle in hand, and precedinghim up a short flight of ancient and crooked oaken stairs, showed him asmall attic room with one narrow bed in it, scrupulously neat and clean. 

"You'll be all right here, " she said. "There's no lock to your door, butyou're out of the truck of house work, and no one will come nigh you. "

"Thank you, madam, "--and Helmsley bent his head gently, almosthumbly, --"You are very good to me. I am most grateful!"

"Nonsense!" said Miss Tranter, affecting snappishness. "You pay for abed, and here it is. The lodgers here generally share one room betweenthem, but you are an old man and need rest. It's better you should getyour sleep without any chance of disturbance. Good-night!"

"Good-night!"

She set down the candle by his bedside with a "Mind you put it out!"final warning, and descended the stairs to see the rest of her customerscleared off the premises, with the exception of Bill Bush, Matt Peke, and Tom o' the Gleam, who were her frequent night lodgers. She foundTom o' the Gleam standing up and delivering a kind of extemporaryoration, while his rough cap, under the pilotage of Bill Bush, was beingpassed round the table in the fashion of a collecting plate. 

"The smallest contribution thankfully received!" he laughed, as helooked and saw her. "Miss Tranter, we're doing a mission! We'reSalvationists! Now's your chance! Give us a sixpence!"

"What for?" And setting her arms akimbo, the hostess of the "Trusty Man"surveyed all her lingering guests with a severe face. "What games areyou up to now? It's time to clear!"

"So it is, and all the good little boys are going to bed, " said Tom. "Don't be cross, Mammy! We want to close our subscription list--that'sall! We've raised a few pennies for the old grandfather upstairs. He'llnever get to Cornwall, poor chap! He's as white as paper. Office workdoesn't fit a man of his age for tramping the road. We've collected twoshillings for him among us, --you give sixpence, and there's half-a-crownall told. God bless the total!"

He seized his cap as it was handed back to him, and shook it, to showthat it was lined with jingling halfpence, and his eyes sparkled likethose of a child enjoying a bit of mischief. 

"Come, Miss Tranter! Help the Gospel mission!"

Her features relaxed into a smile, and feeling in her apron pocket, sheproduced the requested coin. 

"There you are!" she said. --"And now you've got it, how are you going togive him the money?"

"Never you mind!" and Tom swept all the coins together, and screwed themup in a piece of newspaper. "We'll surprise the old man as the angelssurprise the children!"

Miss Tranter said nothing more, but withdrawing to the passage, stoodand watched her customers go out of the door of the "Trusty Man, " one byone. Each great hulking fellow doffed his cap to her and bade her arespectful "Good-night" as he passed, "Feathery" Joltram pausing amoment to utter an "aside" in her ear. 

"'A fixed oop owd Arbroath for zartin zure!"--and here, with a sly wink, he gave a forcible nudge to her arm, --"An owd larrupin' fox 'e be!--an'Matt Peke giv' 'im the finish wi's fav'rite! Ha--ha--ha! 'A can't abidea wurrd o' that long-legged wench! Ha--ha--ha! An' look y'ere, MissTranter! I'd 'a given a shillin' in Tom's 'at when it went round, butI'm thinkin' as zummat in the face o' the owd gaffer up in bed ain't zeton beggin', an' m'appen a charity'd 'urt 'is feelin's like thepoor-'ouse do. But if 'e's wantin' to 'arn a mossel o' victual, I'llfind 'im a lightsome job on the farm if he'll reckon to walk oop to meafore noon to-morrer. Tell 'im' that from farmer Joltram, an' good-nightt'ye!"

He strode out, and before eleven had struck, the old-fashioned iron barclamped down across the portal, and the inn was closed. Then MissTranter turned into the bar, and before shutting it up paused, andsurveyed her three lodgers critically. 

"So you pretend to be all miserably poor, and yet you actually collectwhat you call a 'fund' for the old tramp upstairs who's a perfectstranger to you!" she said--"Rascals that you are!"

Bill Bush looked sheepish. 

"Only halfpence, Miss, " he explained. "Poor we be as church mice, an' yeknows that, doesn't ye? But we aint gone broken yet, an' Tom 'e startedthe idee o' doin' a good turn for th' old gaffer, for say what ye like'e do look a bit feeble for trampin' it. "

Miss Tranter sniffed the atmosphere of the bar with a very goodassumption of lofty indifference. 

"_You_ started the idea, did you?" she went on, looking at Tom o' theGleam. "You're a nice sort of ruffian to start any idea at all, aren'tyou? I thought you always took, and never gave!"

He smiled, leaning his handsome head back against the white-washed wallof the little entry where he stood, but said nothing. Matt Peke thentook up the parable. 

"Th' old man be mortal weak an' faint for sure, " he said. "I come upon'im lyin' under a tree wi' a mossel book aside 'im, an' I takes an'looks at the book, an' 'twas all portry an' simpleton stuff like, an' 'elooked old enough to be my dad, an' tired enough to be fast goin' wheremy dad's gone, so I just took 'im along wi' me, an' giv' 'im my name an'purfession, an' 'e did the same, a-tellin' me as 'ow 'is name was D. David, an' 'ow 'e 'd lost 'is office work through bein' too old an'shaky. 'E's all right, --an office man aint much good on the road, weakon 'is pins an' failin' in 'is sight. M'appen the 'arf-crown we've got'im 'ull 'elp 'im to a ride part o' the way 'e's goin'. "

"Well, don't you men bother about him any more, " said Miss Tranterdecisively. "You get off early in the morning, as usual. _I'll_ lookafter him!"

"Will ye now?" and Peke's rugged features visibly brightened--"That'sjust like ye, Miss! Aint it, Tom? Aint it, Bill?"

Both individuals appealed to agreed that it was "Miss Tranter all over. "

"Now off to bed with you!" proceeded that lady peremptorily. "And leaveyour collected 'fund' with me--I'll give it to him. "

But Tom o' the Gleam would not hear of this. 

"No, Miss Tranter!--with every respect for you, no!" he said gaily. "It's not every night we can play angels! I play angel to my kiddiesometimes, putting a fairing in his little hammock where he sleeps likea bird among the trees all night, but I've never had the chance to do itto an old grandad before! Let me have my way!"

And so it chanced that at about half-past eleven, Helmsley, having laindown with a deep sense of relief and repose on his clean comfortablelittle bed, was startled out of his first doze by hearing stealthy stepsapproaching his door. His heart began to beat quickly, --a certain vaguemisgiving troubled him, --after all, he thought, had he not been veryrash to trust himself to the shelter of this strange and lonely innamong the wild moors and hills, among unknown men, who, at any rate bytheir rough and uncouth appearance, might be members of a gang ofthieves? The steps came nearer, and a hand fumbled gently with the doorhandle. In that tense moment of strained listening he was glad toremember that when undressing, he had carefully placed his vest, linedwith the banknotes he carried, under the sheet on which he lay, so thatin the event of any one coming to search his clothes, nothing would befound but a few loose coins in his coat pocket. The fumbling at his doorcontinued, and presently it slowly opened, letting in a pale stream ofmoonlight from a lattice window outside. He just saw the massive figureof Tom o' the Gleam standing on the threshold, clad in shirt andtrousers only, and behind him there seemed to be the shadowy outline ofMatt Peke's broad shoulders and Bill Bush's bullet head. Uncertain whatto expect, he determined to show no sign of consciousness, and halfclosing his eyes, he breathed heavily and regularly, feigning to be in asound slumber. But a cold chill ran through his veins as Tom o' theGleam slowly and cautiously approached the bed, holding something in hisright hand, while Matt Peke and Bill Bush tiptoed gently after himhalf-way into the room. 

"Poor old gaffer!" he heard Tom whisper--"Looks all ready laid out andwaiting for the winding!"

And the hand that held the something stole gently and ever gentliertowards the pillow. By a supreme effort Helmsley kept quite still. Howhe controlled his nerves he never knew, for to see through his almostshut eyelids the dark herculean form of the gypsy bending over him withthe two other men behind, moved him to a horrible fear. Were they goingto murder him? If so, what for? To them he was but an oldtramp, --unless--unless somebody had tracked him from London!--unlesssomebody knew who he really was, and had pointed him out as likely tohave money about him. These thoughts ran like lightning through hisbrain, making his blood burn and his pulses, tingle almost to the vergeof a start and cry, when the creeping hand he dreaded quietly laidsomething on his pillow and withdrew itself with delicate precaution. 

"He'll be pleased when he wakes, " said Tom o' the Gleam, in the mildestof whispers, retreating softly from the bedside--"Won't he?"

"Ay, that he will!" responded Peke, under his breath;, "aint 'e sleepin'sound?"

"Sound as a babe!"

Slowly and noiselessly they stepped backward, --slowly and noiselesslythey closed the door, and the faint echo of their stealthy footstepscreeping away along the outer passage to another part of the house, washushed at last into silence. After a long pause of intense stillness, some clock below stairs struck midnight with a mellow clang, andHelmsley opening his eyes, lay waiting till the excited beating of hisheart subsided, and his quickened breath grew calm. Blaming himself forhis nervous terrors, he presently rose from his bed, and struck a matchfrom the box which Miss Tranter had thoughtfully left beside him, andlit his candle. Something had been placed on his pillow, and curiositymoved him to examine it. He looked, --but saw nothing save a mere screwof soiled newspaper. He took it up wonderingly. It was heavy, --andopening it he found it full of pennies, halfpennies, and one oddsixpence. A scrap of writing accompanied this collection, roughlypencilled thus:--"To help you along the road. From friends at the TrustyMan. Good luck!"

For a moment he stood inert, fingering the humble coins, --for a momenthe could hardly realise that these rough men of doubtful character andcalling, with whom he had passed one evening, were actually humaneenough to feel pity for his age, and sympathy for his seeming lonelinessand poverty, and that they had sufficient heart and generosity todeprive themselves of money in order to help one whom they judged to bein greater need;--then the pure intention and honest kindness of thelittle "surprise" gift came upon him all at once, and he was not ashamedto feel his eyes full of tears. 

"God forgive me!" he murmured--"God forgive me that I ever judged thepoor by the rich!"

With an almost reverential tenderness, he folded the paper and coinstogether, and put the little packet carefully away, determining never topart with it. 

"For its value outweighs every banknote I ever handled!" he said--"And Iam prouder of it than of all my millions!"

CHAPTER VIII

The light of the next day's sun, beaming with all the heat andeffulgence of full morning, bathed moor and upland in a wide shower ofgold, when Miss Tranter, standing on the threshold of her dwelling, andshading her eyes with one hand from the dazzling radiance of the skies, watched a man's tall figure disappear down the rough and precipitousroad which led from the higher hills to the seashore. All her night'slodgers had left her save one--and he was still soundly sleeping. BillBush had risen as early as five and stolen away, --Matt Peke had brokenhis fast with a cup of hot milk and a hunch of dry bread, andshouldering his basket, had started for Crowcombe, where he had severalcustomers for his herbal wares. 

"Take care o' the old gaffer I brought along wi' me, " had been hisparting recommendation to the hostess of the "Trusty Man. " "Tell 'imI've left a bottle o' yerb wine in the bar for 'im. M'appen ye mightfind an odd job or two about th' 'ouse an' garden for 'im, just forlettin' 'im rest a while. "

Miss Tranter had nodded curtly in response to this suggestion, but hadpromised nothing. 

The last to depart from the inn was Tom o' the Gleam. Tom had risen inwhat he called his "dark mood. " He had eaten no breakfast, and hescarcely spoke at all as he took up his stout ash stick and prepared tofare forth upon his way. Miss Tranter was not inquisitive, but she hadrather a liking for Tom, and his melancholy surliness was not lost uponher. 

"What's the matter with you?" she asked sharply. "You're like a bearwith a sore head this morning!"

He looked at her with sombre eyes in which the flame of stronglyrestrained passions feverishly smouldered. 

"I don't know what's the matter with me, " he answered slowly. "Lastnight I was happy. This morning I am wretched!"

"For no cause?"

"For no cause that I know of, "--and he heaved a sudden sigh. "It is thedark spirit--the warning of an evil hour!"

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Miss Tranter. 

He was silent. His mouth compressed itself into a petulant line, likethat of a chidden child ready to cry. 

"I shall be all right when I have kissed the kiddie, " he said. 

Miss Tranter sniffed and tossed her head. 

"You're just a fool over that kiddie, " she declared with emphasis, --"Youmake too much of him. "

"How can I make too much of my all?" he asked. 

Her face softened. 

"Well, it's a pity you look at it in that way, " she said. "You shouldn'tset your heart on anything in this world. "

"Why not?" he demanded. "Is God a friend that He should grudge us love?"

Her lips trembled a little, but she made no reply. 

"What am I to set my heart on?" he continued--"If not on anything inthis world, what have I got in the next?"

A faint tinge of colour warmed Miss Tranter's sallow cheeks. 

"Your wife's in the next, " she answered, quietly. 

His face changed--his eyes lightened. 

"My wife!" he echoed. "Good woman that you are, you know she was nevermy wife! No parson ever mocked us wild birds with his blessing! She wasmy love--my love!--so much more than wife! By Heaven! If prayer andfasting would bring me to the world where _she_ is, I'd fast and praytill I turned this body of mine to dust and ashes! But my kiddie is allI have that's left of her; and shall I not love him, nay, worship himfor _her_ sake?"

Miss Tranter tried to look severe, but could not, --the strong vehemenceof the man shook her self-possession. 

"Love him, yes!--but don't worship him, " she said. "It's a mistake, Tom!He's only a child, after all, and he might be taken from you. "

"Don't say that!" and Tom suddenly gripped her by the arm. "For God'ssake don't say that! Don't send me away this morning with those wordsbuzzing in my ears!"

Great tears flashed into his eyes, --his face paled and contracted aswith acutest agony. 

"I'm sorry, Tom, " faltered Miss Tranter, herself quite overcome by hisfierce emotion--"I didn't mean----"

"Yes--yes!--that's right! Say you didn't mean it!" muttered Tom, with apained smile--"You didn't----?"

"I didn't mean it!" declared Miss Tranter earnestly. "Upon my word Ididn't, Tom!"

He loosened his hold of her arm. 

"Thank you! God bless you!" and a shudder ran through his massive frame. "But it's all one with the dark hour!--all one with the wicked tongue ofa dream that whispers to me of a coming storm!"

He pulled his rough cap over his brows, and strode forward a step ortwo. Then he suddenly wheeled round again, and doffed the cap to MissTranter. 

"It's unlucky to turn back, " he said, "yet I'm doing it, because--because--I wouldn't have you think me sullen or ill-temperedwith _you_! Nor ungrateful. You're a good woman, for all that you're abit rough sometimes. If you want to know where we are, we've camped downby Cleeve, and we're on the way to Dunster. I take the short cuts thatno one else dare venture by--over the cliffs and through the cave-holesof the sea. When the old man comes down, tell him I'll have a care ofhim if he passes my way. I like his face! I think he's something morethan he seems. "

"So do I!" agreed Miss Tranter. "I'd almost swear that he's a gentleman, fallen on hard times. "

"A gentleman!" Tom o' the Gleam laughed disdainfully--"What's that? Onlya robber grown richer than his neighbours! Better be a plain Man any daythan your up-to-date 'gentleman'!"

With another laugh he swung away, and Miss Tranter remained, as alreadystated, at the door of the inn for many minutes, watching his easystride over the rough stones and clods of the "by-road" winding down tothe sea. His figure, though so powerfully built, was singularly gracefulin movement, and commanded the landscape much as that of some chieftainof old might have commanded it in that far back period of time whenmountain thieves and marauders were the progenitors of all the Britishkings and their attendant nobility. 

"I wish I knew that man's real history!" she mused, as he at lastdisappeared from her sight. "The folks about here, such as Mr. Joltram, for instance, say he was never born to the gypsy life, --he speaks toowell, and knows too much. Yet he's wild enough--and--yes!--I'm afraidhe's bad enough--sometimes--to be anything!"

Her meditations were here interrupted by a touch on her arm, andturning, she beheld her round-eyed handmaiden Prue. 

"The old man you sez is a gentleman is down, Mis' Tranter!"

Miss Tranter at once stepped indoors and confronted Helmsley, who, amazed to find it nearly ten o'clock, now proffered humble excuses tohis hostess for his late rising. She waived these aside with agood-humoured nod and smile. 

"That's all right!" she said. "I wanted you to have a good long rest, and I'm glad you got it. Were you disturbed at all?"

"Only by kindness, " answered Helmsley in a rather tremulous voice. "Someone came into my room while I was asleep--and--and--I found a 'surprisepacket' on my pillow----"

"Yes, I know all about it, " interrupted Miss Tranter, with a touch ofembarrassment--"Tom o' the Gleam did that. He's just gone. He's a roughchap, but he's got a heart. He thinks you're not strong enough to trampit to Cornwall. And all those great babies of men put their headstogether last night after you'd gone upstairs, and clubbed up enoughamong them to give you a ride part of the way----"

"They're very good!" murmured Helmsley. "Why should they trouble aboutan old fellow like me?"

"Oh well!" said Miss Tranter cheerfully, "it's just because you _are_ anold fellow, I suppose! You see you might walk to a station to-day, andtake the train as far as Minehead before starting on the road again. Anyhow you've time to think it over. If you'll step into the roomyonder, I'll send Prue with your breakfast. "

She turned her back upon him, and with a shrill call of "Prue! Prue!"affected to be too busy to continue the conversation. Helmsley, therefore, went as she bade him into the common room, which at this hourwas quite empty. A neat white cloth was spread at one end of the table, and on this was set a brown loaf, a pat of butter, a jug of new milk, abasin of sugar, and a brightly polished china cup and saucer. The windowwas open, and the inflow of the pure fresh morning air had done much todisperse the odours of stale tobacco and beer that subtly clung to thewalls as reminders of the drink and smoke of the previous evening. 

Just outside, a tangle of climbing roses hung like a delicate pinkcurtain between Helmsley's eyes and the sunshine, while the busy hummingof bees in and out the fragrant hearts of the flowers, made a musicalmonotony of soothing sound. He sat down and surveyed the simple scenewith a quiet sense of pleasure. He contrasted it in his memory with theweary sameness of the breakfasts served to him in his own palatialLondon residence, when the velvet-footed butler creeping obsequiouslyround the table, uttered his perpetual "Tea or coffee, sir? 'Am ortongue? Fish or heggs?" in soft sepulchral tones, as though thesecomestibles had something to do with poison rather than nourishment. With disgust at the luxury which engendered such domestic appurtenances, he thought of the two tall footmen, whose chief duty towards the servingof breakfast appeared to be the taking of covers off dishes and theputting them on again, as if six-footed able-bodied manhood were notequipped for more muscular work than that!

"We do great wrong, " he said to himself--"We who are richer than whatare called the rich, do infinite wrong to our kind by tolerating so muchneedless waste and useless extravagance. We merely generate mischief forourselves and others. The poor are happier, and far kindlier to eachother than the moneyed classes, simply because they cannot demand somuch self-indulgence. The lazy habits of wealthy men and women whoinsist on getting an unnecessary number of paid persons to do for themwhat they could very well do for themselves, are chiefly to blame forall our tiresome and ostentatious social conditions. Servants must, ofcourse, be had in every well-ordered household--but too many of themconstitute a veritable hive of discord and worry. Why have huge housesat all? Why have enormous domestic retinues? A small house is alwayscosiest, and often prettiest, and the fewer servants, the less trouble. Here again comes in the crucial question--Why do we spend all our bestyears of youth, life, and sentiment in making money, when, so far as thesweetest and highest things are concerned, money can give so little!"

At that moment, Prue entered with a brightly shining old brown "lustre"teapot, and a couple of boiled eggs. 

"Mis' Tranter sez you're to eat the eggs cos' they'se new-laid an'incloodid in the bill, " she announced glibly--"An' 'opes you've got allye want. "

Helmsley looked at her kindly. 

"You're a smart little girl!" he said. "Beginning to earn your ownliving already, eh?"

"Lor', that aint much!" retorted Prue, putting a knife by the brownloaf, and setting the breakfast things even more straightly on the tablethan they originally were. "I lives on nothin' scarcely, though I'mturned fifteen an' likes a bit o' fresh pork now an' agen. But I've gota brother as is on'y ten, an' when 'e aint at school 'e's earnin' a bitby gatherin' mussels on the beach, an' 'e do collect a goodish bit too, though 'taint reg'lar biziness, an' 'e gets hisself into such a pickleo' salt water as never was. But he brings mother a shillin' or two. "

"And who is your mother?" asked Helmsley, drawing up his chair to thetable and sitting down. 

"Misses Clodder, up at Blue-bell Cottage, two miles from 'ere across themoor, " replied Prue. "She goes out a-charing, but it's 'ard for 'er tobe doin' chars now--she's gettin' old an' fat--orful fat she be gettin'. Dunno what we'll do if she goes on fattenin'. "

It was difficult not to laugh at this statement, Prue's eyes were soround, her cheeks were so red, and she breathed so spasmodically as shespoke. David Helmsley bit his lips to hide a broad smile, and poured outhis tea. 

"Have you no father?"

"No, never 'ad, " declared Prue, quite jubilantly. "'E droonk 'isself todeath an' tumbled over a cliff near 'ere one dark night an' wasdrowned!" This, with the most thrilling emphasis. 

"That's very sad! But you can't say you never had a father, " persistedHelmsley. "You had him before he was drowned?"

"No, I 'adn't, " said Prue. "'E never comed 'ome at all. When 'e seed me'e didn't know me, 'e was that blind droonk. When my little brother wasborn 'e was 'owlin' wild down Watchet way, an' screechin' to all thefolks as 'ow the baby wasn't his'n!"

This was a doubtful subject, --a "delicate and burning question, " asreviewers for the press say when they want to praise some personalfriend's indecent novel and pass it into decent households, --andHelmsley let it drop. He devoted himself to the consideration of hisbreakfast, which was excellent, and found that he had an appetite toenjoy it thoroughly. 

Prue watched him for a minute or two in silence. 

"Ye likes yer food?" she demanded, presently. 

"Very much!"

"Thought yer did! I'll tell Mis' Tranter. "

With that she retired, and shutting the door behind her left Helmsley tohimself. 

Many and conflicting were the thoughts that chased one another throughhis brain during the quiet half-hour he gave to his morning meal, --awhole fund of new suggestions and ideas were being generated in him bythe various episodes in which he was taking an active yet seeminglypassive part. He had voluntarily entered into his present circumstances, and so far, he had nothing to complain of. He had met with friendlinessand sympathy from persons who, judged by the world's conventions, wereof no social account whatever, and he had seen for himself men in acondition of extreme poverty, who were nevertheless apparently contentedwith their lot. Of course, as a well-known millionaire, his secretarieshad always had to deal with endless cases of real or assumed distress, more often the latter, --and shoals of begging letters from peoplerepresenting themselves as starving and friendless, formed a large partof the daily correspondence with which his house and office werebesieged, --but he had never come into personal contact with theseshameless sort of correspondents, shrewdly judging them to beundeserving simply by the very fact that they wrote begging letters. Heknew that no really honest or plucky-spirited man or woman would wasteso much as a stamp in asking money from a stranger, even if such astranger were twenty times a millionaire. He had given huge sums away tocharitable institutions anonymously; and he remembered with a thrill ofpain the "Christian kindness" of some good "Church" people, who, whenthe news accidentally slipped out that he was the donor of aparticularly munificent gift to a certain hospital, remarked that "nodoubt Mr. Helmsley had given it anonymously _at first_, in order that itmight be made public more effectively _afterwards, _ by way of a personal_advertisement_!" Such spiteful comment often repeated, had effectuallychecked the outflow of his naturally warm and generous spirit, nevertheless he was always ready to relieve any pressing cases of wantwhich were proved genuine, and many a wretched family in the East End ofLondon had cause to bless him for his timely and ungrudging aid. Butthis present kind of life, --the life of the tramp, the poacher, thegypsy, who is content to be "on the road" rather than submit to thetrammels of custom and ordinance, was new to him and full of charm. Hetook a peculiar pleasure in reflecting as to what he could do to makethese men, with whom he had casually foregathered, happier? Did it liein his power to give them any greater satisfaction than that which theyalready possessed? He doubted whether a present of money to Matt Peke, for instance, would not offend that rustic philosopher, more than itwould gratify him;--while, as for Tom o' the Gleam, that handsomeruffian was more likely to rob a man of gold than accept it as a giftfrom him. Then involuntarily, his thoughts reverted to the "kiddie. " Herecalled the look in Tom's wild eyes, and the almost womanish tremble oftenderness in his rough voice, when he had spoken of this little childof his on whom he openly admitted he had set all his love. 

"I should like, " mused Helmsley, "to see that kiddie! Not that I believein the apparent promise of a child's life, --for my own sons taught methe folly of indulging in any hopes on that score--and Lucy Sorrel hascompleted the painful lesson. Who would have ever thought that she, --thelittle angel creature who seemed too lovely and innocent for this worldat ten, --could at twenty have become the extremely commonplace andpractical woman she is, --practical enough to wish to marry an old manfor his money! But that talk among the men last night about the 'kiddie'touched me somehow, --I fancy it must be a sturdy little lad, with abright face and a will of its own. I might possibly do something for thechild if, --if its father would let me! And that's very doubtful!Besides, should I not be interfering with the wiser and healthierdispensations of nature? The 'kiddie' is no doubt perfectly happy in itswild state of life, --free to roam the woods and fields, with everychance of building up a strong and vigorous constitution in the simpleopen-air existence to which it has been born and bred. All the riches inthe world could not make health or freedom for it, --and thus again Iconfront myself with my own weary problem--Why have I toiled all mylife to make money, merely to find money so useless and comfortless atthe end?"

With a sigh he rose from the table. His simple breakfast was finished, and he went to the window to look at the roses that pushed their prettypink faces up to the sun through a lattice-work of green leaves. Therewas a small yard outside, roughly paved with cobbles, but clean, andbordered here and there with bright clusters of flowers, and in oneparticularly sunny corner where the warmth from the skies had made thecobbles quite hot, a tiny white kitten rolled on its back, making themost absurd efforts to catch its own tail between its forepaws, --and apromising brood of fowls were clucking contentedly round some scatteredgrain lately flung out from the window of the "Trusty Man's" wash-housefor their delectation. There was nothing in the scene at all of acharacter to excite envy in the most morbid and dissatisfied mind;--itwas full of the tamest domesticity, and yet--it was a picture such assome thoughtful Dutch artist would have liked to paint as a suggestionof rural simplicity and peace. 

"But if one only knew the ins and outs of the life here, it might notprove so inviting, " he thought. "I daresay all the little towns andvillages in this neighbourhood are full of petty discords, jealousies, envyings and spites, --even Prue's mother, Mrs. Clodder, may have, andprobably has, a neighbour whom she hates, and wishes to get the betterof, in some way or other, for there is really no such thing as actualpeace anywhere except--in the grave! And who knows whether we shall evenfind it there! Nothing dies which does not immediately begin to live--inanother fashion. And every community, whether of insects, birds, wildanimals, or men and women, is bound to fight for existence, --thereforethose who cry: 'Peace, peace!' only clamour for a vain thing. The verystones and rocks and mountains maintain a perpetual war with destroyingelements, --they appear immutable things to our short lives, but theychange in their turn even as we do--they die to live again in otherforms, even as we do. And what is it all for? What is the sum andsubstance of so much striving--if merest Nothingness is the end?"

He was disturbed from his reverie by the entrance of Miss Tranter. Heturned round and smiled at her. 

"Well!" she said--"Enjoyed your breakfast?"

"Very much indeed, thanks to your kindness!" he replied. "I hardlythought I had such a good appetite left to me. I feel quite strong andhearty this morning. "

"You look twice the man you were last night, certainly, "--and she eyedhim thoughtfully--"Would you like a job here?"

A flush rose to his brows. He hesitated before replying. 

"You'd rather not!" snapped out Miss Tranter--"I can see 'No' in yourface. Well, please yourself!"

He looked at her. Her lips were compressed in a thin line, and she worea decidedly vexed expression. 

"Ah, you think I don't want to work!" he said--"There you're wrong! ButI haven't many years of life in me, --there's not much time left to dowhat I have to do, --and I must get on. "

"Get on, where?"

"To Cornwall. "

"Whereabouts in Cornwall?"

"Down by Penzance way. "

"You want to start off on the tramp again at once?"

"Yes. "

"All right, you must do as you like, I suppose, "--and Miss Trantersniffed whole volumes of meaning in one sniff--"But Farmer Joltram toldme to say that if you wanted a light job up on his place, --that's abouta mile from here, --- he wouldn't mind giving you a chance. You'd getgood victuals there, for he feeds his men well. And I don't mindtrusting you with a bit of gardening--you could make a shilling a dayeasy--so don't say you can't get work. That's the usual whine--but ifyou say it----"

"I shall be a liar!" said Helmsley, his sunken eyes lighting up with atwinkle of merriment--"And don't you fear, Miss Tranter, --I _won't_ sayit! I'm grateful to Mr. Joltram--but I've only one object left to me inlife, and that is--to get on, and find the person I'm looking for--if Ican!"

"Oh, you're looking for a person, are you?" queried Miss Tranter, moreamicably--"Some long-lost relative?"

"No, --not a relative, only--a friend. "

"I see!" Miss Tranter smoothed down her neatly fitting plain cotton gownwith both hands reflectively--"And you'll be all right if you find thisfriend?"

"I shall never want anything any more, " he answered, with anunconsciously pathetic tremor in his voice--"My dearest wish will begranted, and I shall be quite content to die!"

"Well, content or no content, you've got to do it, " commented MissTranter--"And so have I--and so have all of us. Which I think is a pity. I shouldn't mind living for ever and ever in this world. It's a verycomfortable world, though some folks say it isn't. That's mostly liverwith them though. People who don't over-eat or over-drink themselves, and who get plenty of fresh air, are generally fairly pleased with theworld as they find it. I suppose the friend you're looking for will beglad to see you?"

"The friend I'm looking for will certainly be glad to see me, " saidHelmsley, gently--"Glad to see me--glad to help me--glad above allthings to love me! If this were not so, I should not trouble to searchfor my friend at all. "

Miss Tranter fixed her eyes full upon him while he thus spoke. They weresharp eyes, and just now they were visibly inquisitive. 

"You've not been very long used to tramping, " she observed. 

"No. "

"I expect you've seen better days?"

"Some few, perhaps, "--and he smiled gravely--"But it comes harder to aman who has once known comfort to find himself comfortless in his oldage. "

"That's very true! Well!"--and Miss Tranter gave a short sigh--"I'msorry you won't stay on here a bit to pick up your strength--but awilful man must have his way! I hope you'll find your friend!"

"I hope I shall!" said Helmsley earnestly. "And believe me I'm mostgrateful to you----"

"Tut!" and Miss Tranter tossed her head. "What do you want to begrateful to me for! You've had food and lodging, and you've paid me forit. I've offered you work and you won't take it. That's the long andshort of it between us. "

And thereupon she marched out of the room, her head very high, hershoulders very square, and her back very straight. Helmsley watched herdignified exit with a curious sense of half-amused contrition. 

"What odd creatures some women are!" he thought. "Here's thissharp-tongued, warm-hearted hostess of a roadside inn quite angrybecause, apparently, an old tramp won't stay and do incompetent work forher! She knows that I should make a mere boggle of her garden, --she isequally aware that I could be no use in any way on 'Feathery' Joltram'sfarm--and yet she is thoroughly annoyed and disappointed because I won'ttry to do what she is perfectly confident I can't do, in order that Ishall rest well and be fed well for one or two days! Really the kindnessof the poor to one another outvalues all the gifts of the rich to thecharities they help to support. It is so much more than ordinary'charity, ' for it goes hand in hand with a touch of personal feeling. And that is what few rich men ever get, --except when their pretended'friends' think they can make something for themselves out of theirassumed 'friendship'!"

He put on his hat, and plucked one of the roses clambering in at thewindow to take with him as a remembrance of the "Trusty Man, "--a placewhich he felt would henceforward be a kind of landmark for the rest ofhis life to save him from drowning in utter cynicism, because within itswalls he had found unselfish compassion for his age and loneliness, anddisinterested sympathy for his seeming need. Then he went to saygood-bye to Miss Tranter. She was, as usual, in the bar, standing veryerect. She had taken up her knitting, and her needles clicked andglittered busily. 

"Matt Peke left a bottle of his herb wine for you, " she said. "There itis. "

She indicated by a jerk of her head a flat oblong quart flask, neatlycorked and tied with string, which lay on the counter. It was of aconveniently portable shape, and Helmsley slipped it into one of hiscoat pockets with ease. 

"Shall you be seeing Peke soon again, Miss Tranter?" he asked. 

"I don't know. Maybe so, and maybe not. He's gone on to Crowcombe. Idaresay he'll come back this way before the end of the month. He's apretty regular customer. "

"Then, will you thank him for me, and say that I shall never forget hiskindness?"

"Never forget is a long time, " said Miss Tranter. "Most folks forgettheir friends directly their backs are turned. "

"That's true, " said Helmsley, gently; "but I shall not. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" Miss Tranter paused in her knitting. "Which road are yougoing from here?"

Helmsley thought a moment. 

"Perhaps, " he said at last, "one of the main roads would be best. I'drather not risk any chance of losing my way. "

Miss Tranter stepped out of the bar and came to the open doorway of theinn. 

"Take that path across the moor, " and she pointed with one of her brightknitting needles to a narrow beaten track between the tufted grass, whitened here and there by clusters of tall daisies, "and follow it asstraight as you can. It will bring you out on the highroad to Willitonand Watchett. It's a goodish bit of tramping on a hot day like this, butif you keep to it steady you'll be sure to get a lift or so in waggonsgoing along to Dunster. And there are plenty of publics about where Idaresay you'd get a night's sixpenny shelter, though whether any of themare as comfortable as the 'Trusty Man, ' is open to question. "

"I should doubt it very much, " said Helmsley, his rare kind smilelighting up his whole face. "The 'Trusty Man' thoroughly deserves trust;and, if I may say so, its kind hostess commands respect. "

He raised his cap with the deferential easy grace which was habitual tohim, and Miss Tranter's pale cheeks reddened suddenly and violently. 

"Oh, I'm only a rough sort!" she said hastily. "But the men like mebecause I don't give them away. I hold that the poor must get a bit ofattention as well as the rich. "

"The poor deserve it more, " rejoined Helmsley. "The rich get far toomuch of everything in these days, --they are too much pampered and toomuch flattered. Yet, with it all, I daresay they are often miserable. "

"It must be pretty hard to be miserable on twenty or thirty thousand ayear!" said Miss Tranter. 

"You think so? Now, I should say it was very easy. For when one haseverything, one wants nothing. "

"Well, isn't it all right to want nothing?" she queried, looking at himinquisitively. 

"All right? No!--rather all wrong! For want stimulates the mind and bodyto work, and work generates health and energy, --and energy is the pulseof life. Without that pulse, one is a mere husk of a man--as I am!" Hedoffed his cap again. "Thank you for all your friendliness. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye! Perhaps I shall see you again some time this way?"

"Perhaps--but----"

"With your friend?" she suggested. 

"Ay--if I find my friend--then possibly I may return. Meanwhile, allgood be with you!"

He turned away, and began to ascend the path indicated across the moor. Once he looked back and waved his hand. Miss Tranter, in response, wavedher piece of knitting. Then she went on clicking her needles rapidlythrough a perfect labyrinth of stitches, her eyes fixed all the while onthe tall, thin, frail figure which, with the assistance of a stoutstick, moved slowly along between the nodding daisies. 

"He's what they call a mystery, " she said to herself. "He's as true-borna gentleman as ever lived--with a gentleman's ways, a gentleman's voice, and a gentleman's hands, and yet he's 'on the road' like a tramp! Well!there's many ups and downs in life, certainly, and those that's richto-day may be poor to-morrow. It's a queer world--and God who made itonly knows what it was made for!"

With that, having seen the last of Helmsley's retreating figure, shewent indoors, and relieved her feelings by putting Prue through herdomestic paces in a fashion that considerably flurried that small damseland caused her to wonder, "what 'ad come over Miss Tranter suddint, shewas that beside 'erself with work and temper!"

CHAPTER IX

It was pleasant walking across the moor. The July sun was powerful, butto ageing men the warmth and vital influences of the orb of day arewelcome, precious, and salutary. An English summer is seldom or nevertoo warm for those who are conscious that but few such summers are leftto them, and David Helmsley was moved by a devout sense of gratitudethat on this fair and tranquil morning he was yet able to enjoy thelovely and loving beneficence of all beautiful and natural things. Thescent of the wild thyme growing in prolific patches at his feet, --themore pungent odour of the tall daisies which were of a hardy, free-flowering kind, --the "strong sea-daisies that feast on thesun, "--and the indescribable salty perfume that swept upwards on thefaint wind from the unseen ocean, just now hidden by projecting shelvesof broken ground fringed with trees, --all combined together to refreshthe air and to make the mere act of breathing a delight. After abouttwenty minutes' walking Helmsley's step grew easier and morespringy, --almost he felt young, --almost he pictured himself living foranother ten years in health and active mental power. The lassitude and_ennui_ inseparable from a life spent for the most part in the businesscentres of London, had rolled away like a noxious mist from his mind, and he was well-nigh ready to "begin life again, " as he told himself, with a smile at his own folly. 

"No wonder that the old-world philosophers and scientists sought for the_elixir vitæ_!" he thought. "No wonder they felt that the usual tenureis too short for all that a man might accomplish, did he live well andwisely enough to do justice to all the powers with which nature hasendowed him. I am myself inclined to think that the 'Tree of Life'exists, --perhaps its leaves are the 'leaves of the Daura, ' for whichthat excellent fellow Matt Peke is looking. Or it may be the 'SectaCroa'!"

He smiled, --and having arrived at the end of the path which he hadfollowed from the door of the "Trusty Man, " he saw before him adescending bank, which sloped into the highroad, a wide track whitewith thick dust stretching straight away for about a mile and thendipping round a broad curve of land, overarched with trees. He sat downfor a few minutes on the warm grass, giving himself up to the idlepleasure of watching the birds skimming through the clear blue sky, --thebees bouncing in and out of the buttercups, --the varicolouredbutterflies floating like blown flower-petals on the breeze, --and heheard a distant bell striking the half-hour after eleven. He had notedthe time when leaving the "Trusty Man, " otherwise he would not haveknown it so exactly, having left his watch locked up at home in hisprivate desk with other personal trinkets which would have beensuperfluous and troublesome to him on his self-imposed journey. When theecho of the bell's one stroke had died away it left a great stillness inthe air. The heat was increasing as the day veered towards noon, and hedecided that it would be as well to get on further down the road andunder the shadow of the trees, which were not so very far off, and whichlooked invitingly cool in their spreading dark soft greenness. So, rising from his brief rest, he started again "on the tramp, " and soonfelt the full glare of the sun, and the hot sensation of the dust abouthis feet; but he went on steadily, determining to make light of all theinconveniences and difficulties, to which he was entirely unaccustomed, but to which he had voluntarily exposed himself. For a considerable timehe met no living creature; the highroad seemed to be as much his own asthough it were part of a private park or landed estate belonging to himonly; and it was not till he had nearly accomplished the distance whichlay between him and the shelter of the trees, that he met a horse andcart slowly jogging along towards the direction from whence he had come. The man who drove the vehicle was half-asleep, stupefied, no doubt, bythe effect of the hot sun following on a possible "glass" at apublic-house, but Helmsley called to him just for company's sake. 

"Hi! Am I going right for Watchett?"

The man opened his drowsing eyes and yawned expansively. 

"Watchett? Ay! Williton comes fust. "

"Is it far?"

"Nowt's far to your kind!" said the man, flicking his whip. "An' ye'llmeet a bobby or so on the road!"

On he went, and Helmsley without further parley resumed his tramp. Presently, reaching the clump of trees he had seen in the distance, hemoved into their refreshing shade. They were broad-branched elms, luxuriantly full of foliage, and the avenue they formed extended forabout a quarter of a mile. Cool dells and dingles of mossy green slopeddown on one side of the road, breaking into what are sometimes called"coombs" running precipitously towards the sea-coast, and slackening hispace a little he paused, looking through a tangle of shrubs and brackenat the pale suggestion of a glimmer of blue which he realised was theshining of the sunlit ocean. While he thus stood, he fancied he heard alittle plaintive whine as of an animal in pain. He listened attentively. The sound was repeated, and, descending the shelving bank a few steps hesought to discover the whereabouts of this piteous cry for help. All atonce he spied two bright sparkling eyes and a small silvery grey headperking up at him through the leaves, --the head of a tiny Yorkshire"toy" terrier. It looked at him with eloquent anxiety, and as heapproached it, it made an effort to move, but fell back again with afaint moan. Gently he picked it up, --it was a rare and beautiful littlecreature, but one of its silky forepaws had evidently been caught insome trap, for it was badly mangled and bleeding. Round its neck was asmall golden collar, something like a lady's bracelet, bearing theinscription: "I am Charlie. Take care of me!" There was no owner's nameor address, and the entreaty "Take care of me!" had certainly not beencomplied with, or so valuable a pet would not have been left wounded onthe highroad. While Helmsley was examining it, it ceased whining, andgently licked his hand. Seeing a trickling stream of water making itsway through the moss and ferns close by, he bathed the little dog'swounded paw carefully and tied it up with a strip of material torn fromhis own coat sleeve. 

"So you want to be taken care of, do you, Charlie!" he said, patting thetiny head. "That's what a good many of us want, when we feel hurt andbroken by the hard ways of the world!" Charlie blinked a dark eye, cocked a small soft ear, and ventured on another caress of the kindhuman hand with his warm little tongue. "Well, I won't leave you tostarve in the woods, or trust you to the tender mercies of thepolice, --you shall come along with me! And if I see any advertisementof your loss I'll perhaps take you back to your owner. But in themeantime we'll stay together. "

Charlie evidently agreed to this proposition, for when Helmsley tuckedhim cosily under his arm, he settled down comfortably as though wellaccustomed to the position. He was certainly nothing of a weight tocarry, and his new owner was conscious of a certain pleasure in feelingthe warm, silky little body nestling against his breast. He was notquite alone any more, --this little creature was a companion, --asomething to talk to, to caress and to protect. He ascended the bank, and regaining the highroad resumed his vagrant way. Noon was now at thefull, and the sun's heat seemed to create a silence that was bothoppressive and stifling. He walked slowly, and began to feel thatperhaps after all he had miscalculated his staying powers, and that theburden of old age would, in the end, take vengeance upon him for runningrisks of fatigue and exhaustion which, in his case, were whollyunnecessary. 

"Yet if I were really poor, " he argued with himself, "if I were in verytruth a tramp, I should have to do exactly what I am doing now. If oneman can stand 'life on the road, ' so can another. "

And he would not allow his mind to dwell on the fact that a temperamentwhich has become accustomed to every kind of comfort and luxury isseldom fitted to endure privation. On he jogged steadily, and by and bybegan to be entertained by his own thoughts as pleasantly as a poet orromancist is entertained by the fancies which come and go in the brainwith all the vividness of dramatic reality. Yet always he found himselfharking back to what he sometimes called the "incurability" of life. Over and over again he asked himself the old eternal question: Why somuch Product to end in Waste? Why are thousands of millions of worlds, swarming with life-organisms, created to revolve in space, if there isno other fate for them but final destruction?

"There _must_ be an Afterwards!" he said. "Otherwise Creation would notonly be a senseless joke, but a wicked one! Nay, it would almost be acrime. To cause creatures to be born into existence without their ownconsent, merely to destroy them utterly in a few years and make the factof their having lived purposeless, would be worse than the dreams ofmadmen. For what is the use of bringing human creatures into the worldto suffer pain, sickness, and sorrow, if mere life-torture is all we cangive them, and death is the only end?"

Here his meditations were broken in upon by the sound of a horse's hoofstrotting briskly behind him, and pausing, he saw a neat little cart andpony coming along, driven by a buxom-looking woman with a brown sun-hattied on in the old-fashioned manner under her chin. 

"Would ye like a lift?" she asked. "It's mighty warm walkin'. "

Helmsley raised his eyes to the sun-bonnet, and smiled at the cheerfulfreckled face beneath its brim. 

"You're very kind----" he began. 

"Jump in!" said the woman. "I'm taking cream and cheeses into Watchett, but it's a light load, an' Jim an' me can do with ye that far. This isJim. "

She flicked the pony's ears with her whip by way of introducing theanimal, and Helmsley clambered up into the cart beside her. 

"That's a nice little dog you've got, " she remarked, as Charlie perkedhis small black nose out from under his protector's arm to sniff thesubtle atmosphere of what was going to happen next. "He's a realbeauty!"

"Yes, " replied Helmsley, without volunteering any information as to howhe had found the tiny creature, whom he now had no inclination to partwith. "He got his paw caught in a trap, so I'm obliged to carry him. "

"Poor little soul! There's a-many traps all about 'ere, lots o' the landbein' private property. Go on, Jim!" And she shook the reins on herpony's neck, thereby causing that intelligent animal to start off at apleasantly regular pace. "I allus sez that if the rich ladies andgentlemen as eats up every bit o' land in Great Britain could put trapsin the air to catch the noses of everything but themselves as dares tobreathe it, they'd do it, singin' glory all the time. For they goes tochurch reg'lar. "

"Ah, it's a wise thing to be seen _looking_ good in public!" saidHelmsley. 

The woman laughed. 

"That's right! You can do a lot o' humbuggin' if you're friends with theparson, what more often than not humbugs everybody hisself. I'm nochurch-goer, but I turn out the best cheese an' butter in these parts, an' I never tells no lies nor cheats any one of a penny, so I aintworryin' about my soul, seein' it's straight with my neighbours. "

"Are there many rich people living about here?" inquired Helmsley. 

"Not enough to do the place real good. The owners of the big houses arehere to-day and gone to-morrow, and they don't trouble much over theirtenantry. Still we rub on fairly well. None of us can ever put by for arainy day, --and some folk as is as hard-working as ever they can be, arebound to come on the parish when they can't work no more--no doubt o'that. You're a stranger to these parts?"

"Yes, I've tramped from Bristol. "

The woman opened her eyes widely. 

"That's a long way! You must be fairly strong for your age. Where are yewantin' to get to?"

"Cornwall. "

"My word! You've got a goodish bit to go. All Devon lies before you. "

"I know that. But I shall rest here and there, and perhaps get a lift ortwo if I meet any more such kind-hearted folk as yourself. "

She looked at him sharply. 

"That's what we may call a bit o' soft soap, " she said, "and I'd adviseye to keep that kind o' thing to yourself, old man! It don't go downwith Meg Ross, I can tell ye!"

"Are you Meg Ross?" he asked, amused at her manner. 

"That's me! I'm known all over the countryside for the sharpest tongueas ever wagged in a woman's head. So you'd better look out!"

"I'm not afraid of you!" he said smiling. 

"Well, you might be if you knew me!" and she whipped up her ponysmartly. "Howsomever, you're old enough to be past hurtin' or bein'hurt. "

"That's true!" he responded gently. 

She was silent after this, and not till Watchett was reached did sheagain begin conversation. Rattling quickly through the littlewatering-place, which at this hour seemed altogether deserted or asleep, she pulled up at an inn in the middle of the principal street. 

"I've got an order to deliver here, " she said. "What are _you_ going todo with yourself?"

"Nothing in particular, " he answered, with a smile. "I shall just takemy little dog to a chemist's and get its paw dressed, and then I shallwalk on. "

"Don't you want any dinner?"

"Not yet. I had a good breakfast, I daresay I'll have a glass of milkpresently. "

"Well, if you come back here in half an hour I can drive you on a littlefurther. How would you like that?"

"Very much! But I'm afraid of troubling you----"

"Oh, you won't do that!" said Meg with a defiant air. "No man, young orold, has ever troubled _me_! I'm not married, thank the Lord!"

And jumping from the cart, she began to pull out sundry cans, jars, andboxes, while Helmsley standing by with the small Charlie under his arm, wished he could help her, but felt sure she would resent assistance evenif he offered it. Glancing at him, she gave him a kindly nod. 

"Off you go with your little dog! You'll find me ready here in half anhour. "

With that she turned from him into the open doorway of the inn, andHelmsley made his way slowly along the silent, sun-baked little streettill he found a small chemist's shop, where he took his lately foundcanine companion to have its wounded paw examined and attended to. Nobones were broken, and the chemist, a lean, pale, kindly man, assuredhim that in a few days the little animal would be quite well. 

"It's a pretty creature, " he said. "And valuable too. "

"Yes. I found it on the highroad, " said Helmsley; "and of course if Isee any advertisement out for it, I'll return it to its owner. But if noone claims it I'll keep it. "

"Perhaps it fell out of a motor-car, " said the chemist. "It looks as ifit might have belonged to some fine lady who was too wrapped up inherself to take proper care of it. There are many of that kind who comethis way touring through Somerset and Devon. "

"I daresay you're right, " and Helmsley gently stroked the tiny dog'ssoft silky coat. "Rich women will pay any amount of money for such toycreatures out of mere caprice, and will then lose them out of sheerlaziness, forgetting that they are living beings, with feelings andsentiments of trust and affection greater sometimes than our own. However, this little chap will be safe with me till he is rightfullyclaimed, if ever that happens. I don't want to steal him; I only want totake care of him. "

"I should never part with him if I were you, " said the chemist. "Thosewho were careless enough to lose him deserve their loss. "

Helmsley agreed, and left the shop. Finding a confectioner's near by, hebought a few biscuits for his new pet, an attention which that smallanimal highly appreciated. "Charlie" was hungry, and cracked and munchedthe biscuits with exceeding relish, his absurd little nose becomingquite moist with excitement and appetite. Returning presently to the innwhere he had left Meg Ross, Helmsley found that lady quite ready tostart. 

"Oh, here you are, are you?" she said, smiling pleasantly, "Well, I'mjust on the move. Jump in!"

Helmsley hesitated a moment, standing beside the pony-cart. 

"May I pay for my ride?" he said. 

"Pay?" Meg stuck her stout arms akimbo, and glanced him all over. "Well, I never! How much 'ave ye got?"

"Two or three shillings, " he answered. 

Meg laughed, showing a very sound row of even white teeth. 

"All right! You can keep 'em!" she said. "Mebbe you want 'em. _I_ don't!Now don't stand haverin' there, --get in the cart quick, or Jim'll berunnin' away. "

Jim showed no sign of this desperate intention, but, on the contrary, stood very patiently waiting till his passengers were safely seated, when he trotted off at a great pace, with such a clatter of hoofs andrattle of wheels as rendered conversation impossible. But Helmsley wasvery content to sit in silence, holding the little dog "Charlie" warmlyagainst his breast, and watching the beauties of the scenery expandbefore him like a fairy panorama, ever broadening into fresh glimpses ofloveliness. It was a very quiet coastline which the windings of the roadnow followed, --a fair and placid sea shining at wide intervals between alavish flow of equally fair and placid fields. The drive seemed all tooshort, when at the corner of a lane embowered in trees, Meg Ross pulledup short. 

"The best of friends must part!" she said. "I'm right sorry I can't takeye any further. But down 'ere's a farm where I put up for the afternoonan' 'elps 'em through with their butter-makin', for there's a lot o'skeery gals in the fam'ly as thinks more o' doin' their 'air thanchurnin', an' doin' the 'air don't bring no money in, though mebbe itmight catch a 'usband as wasn't worth 'avin'. An' Jim gets his food 'eretoo. Howsomever, I'm real put about that I can't drive ye a bit towardsCleeve Abbey, for that's rare an' fine at this time o' year, --but mebbeye're wantin' to push on quickly?"

"Yes, I must push on, " rejoined Helmsley, as he got out of the cart;then, standing in the road, he raised his cap to her. "And I'm verygrateful to you for helping me along so far, at the hottest time of theday too. It's most kind of you!"

"Oh, I don't want any thanks!" said Meg, smiling. "I'm rather sweet onold men, seein' old age aint their fault even if trampin' the road is. You'd best keep on the straight line now, till you come to Blue Anchor. That's a nice little village, and you'll find an inn there where you canget a night's lodging cheap. I wouldn't advise you to stay much roundCleeve after sundown, for there's a big camp of gypsies about there, an'they're a rough lot, pertikly a man they calls Tom o' the Gleam. "

Helmsley smiled. 

"I know Tom o' the Gleam, " he said. "He's a friend of mine. "

Meg Ross opened her round, bright brown eyes. 

"Is he? Dear life, if I'd known that, I mightn't 'ave been so ready togive you a ride with me!" she said, and laughed. "Not that I'm afraid ofTom, though he's a queer customer. I've given a good many glasses of newmilk to his 'kiddie, ' as he calls that little lad of his, so I expectI'm fairly in his favour. "

"I've never seen his 'kiddie, '" said Helmsley. "What is the boy like?"

"A real fine little chap!" said Meg, with heartiness and feeling. "I'mnot a crank on children, seein' most o' them's muckers an' trouble frommornin' to night, but if it 'ad pleased the Lord as I should wed, Ishouldn't 'a wished for a better specimen of a babe than Tom's kiddie. Pity the mother died!"

"When the child was born?" queried Helmsley gently. 

"No--oh no!"--and Meg's eyes grew thoughtful. "She got through hertrouble all right, but 'twas about a year or eighteen months arterwardsthat she took to pinin' like, an' droopin' down just like the poppiesdroops in the corn when the sun's too fierce upon 'em. She used to sitby the roadside o' Sundays, with a little red handkerchief tied acrossher shoulders, and all her dark 'air tumblin' about 'er face, an' sheused to look up with her great big black eyes an' smile at the finickyfine church misses as come mincin' an' smirkin' along, an' say: 'Tellyour fortune, lady?' She was the prettiest creature I ever saw--not agood lass--no!--nobody could say she was a good lass, for she went toTom without church or priest, but she loved him an' was faithful. An'she just worshipped her baby. " Here Meg paused a moment. "Tom was a realdanger to the country when she died, " she presently went on. "He used torun about the woods like a madman, calling her to come back to 'im, an'threatenin' to murder any one who came nigh 'im;--then, by and by, hetook to the kiddie, an' he's steadier now. "

There was something in the narration of this little history that touchedHelmsley too deeply for comment, and he was silent. 

"Well!"--and Meg gave her pony's reins a shake--"I must be off! Sorry toleave ye standin' in the middle o' the road like, but it can't behelped. Mind you keep the little dog safe!--and take a woman'sadvice--don't walk too far or too fast in one day. Good luck t' ye!"

Another shake of the reins, and "Jim" turned briskly down the lane. OnceMeg looked back and waved her hand, --then the green trees closed in uponher disappearing vehicle, and Helmsley was again alone, save for"Charlie, " who, instinctively aware that some friend had left them, licked his master's hand confidentially, as much as to say "I am stillwith you. " The air was cooler now, and Helmsley walked on withcomparative ease and pleasure. His thoughts were very busy. He wasdrawing comparisons between the conduct of the poor and the rich to oneanother, greatly to the disadvantage of the latter class. 

"If a wealthy man has a carriage, " he soliloquised, "how seldom will heoffer it or think of offering its use to any one of his acquaintanceswho may be less fortunate! How rarely will he even say a kind word toany man who is 'down'! Do I not know this myself! I remember well on oneoccasion when I wished to send my carriage for the use of a poor fellowwho had once been employed in my office, but who had been compelled togive up work, owing to illness, my secretary advised me not to show himthis mark of sympathy and attention. 'He will only take it as hisright, ' I was assured, --'these sort of men are always ungrateful. ' And Ilistened to my secretary's advice--more fool I! For it should have beennothing to me whether the man was ungrateful or not; the thing was to dothe good, and let the result be what it might. Now this poor Meg Rosshas no carriage, but such vehicle as she possesses she shares with onewhom she imagines to be in need. No other motive has moved her savewomanly pity for lonely age and infirmity. She has taught me a lesson bysimply offering a kindness without caring how it might be received orrewarded. Is not that a lovely trait in human nature?--one which I havenever as yet discovered in what is called 'swagger society'! When I wasin the hey-dey of my career, and money was pouring in from all mybusiness 'deals' like water from a never-ending main, I had a youngScotsman for a secretary, as close-fisted a fellow as ever was, whomanaged to lose me the chance of doing a great many kind actions. Morethan that, whenever I was likely to have any real friends whom I couldconfidently trust, and who wanted nothing from me but affection andsincerity, he succeeded in shaking off the hold they had upon me. Ofcourse I know now why he did this, --it was in order that he himselfmight have his grip of me more securely, but at that time I wasunsuspicious, and believed the best of every one. Yes! I honestlythought people were honest, --I trusted their good faith, with the resultthat I found out the utter falsity of their pretensions. And here Iam, --old and nearing the end of my tether--more friendless than when Ifirst began to make my fortune, with the certain knowledge that not asoul has ever cared or cares for me except for what can be got out of mein the way of hard cash! I have met with more real kindness from therough fellows at the 'Trusty Man, ' and from the 'Trusty Man's' hostess, Miss Tranter, and now from this good woman Meg Ross, than has ever beenoffered to me by those who know I am rich, and who have 'used' meaccordingly. "

Here, coming to a place where two cross-roads met, he paused, lookingabout him. The afternoon was declining, and the loveliness of thelandscape was intensified by a mellow softness in the sunshine, whichdeepened the rich green of the trees and wakened an opaline iridescencein the sea. A sign-post on one hand bore the direction "To CleeveAbbey, " and the road thus indicated wound upward somewhat steeply, disappearing amid luxuriant verdure which everywhere crowned the highersummits of the hills. While he yet stood, looking at the exquisitelyshaded masses of foliage which, like festal garlands, adorned andover-hung this ascent, the discordant "hoot" of a motor-horn sounded onthe stillness, and sheer down the winding way came at a tearing pace themotor vehicle itself. It was a large, luxurious car, and pounded alongwith tremendous speed, swerving at the bottom of the declivity with sosharp a curve as to threaten an instant overturn, but, escaping thisimminent peril by almost a hairsbreadth, it dashed onward straight aheadin a cloud of dust that for two or three minutes entirely blurred anddarkened the air. Half-blinded and choked by the rush of its furiouspassage past him, Helmsley could only just barely discern that the carwas occupied by two men, the one driving, the other sitting beside thedriver, --and shading his eyes from the sun, he strove to track its wayas it flew down the road, but in less than a minute it was out of sight. 

"There's not much 'speed limit' in that concern!" he said, half-aloud, still gazing after it. "I call such driving recklessly wicked! If Icould have seen the number of that car, I'd have given information tothe police. But numbers on motors are no use when such a pace is keptup, and the thick dust of a dry summer is whirled up by the wheels. It'sfortunate the road is clear. Yes, Charlie!"--this, as he saw his caninefoundling's head perk out from under his arm, with a little black noseall a-quiver with anxiety, --"it's just as well for you that you've got awounded paw and can't run too far for the present! If you had been inthe way of that car just now, your little life would have been ended!"

Charlie pricked his pretty ears, and listened, or appeared to listen, but had evidently no forebodings about himself or his future. He wasquite at home, and, after the fashion of dogs, who are often so muchwiser than men, argued that being safe and comfortable now, there was noreason why he should not be safe and comfortable always. And Helmsleypresently bent himself to steady walking, and got on well, only pausingto get some tea and bread and butter at a cottage by the roadside, wherea placard on the gate intimated that such refreshments were to be hadwithin. Nevertheless, he was a slow pedestrian, and what with lingeringhere and there for brief rests by the way, the sun had sunk fully anhour before he managed to reach Blue Anchor, the village of which MegRoss had told him. It was a pretty, peaceful place, set among widestretches of beach, extending for miles along the margin of the waters, and the mellow summer twilight showed little white wreaths of foamcrawling lazily up on the sand in glittering curves that gleamed likesnow for a moment and then melted softly away into the deepeningdarkness. He stopped at the first ale-house, a low-roofed, cottage-likestructure embowered in clambering flowers. It had a side entrance whichled into a big, rambling stableyard, and happening to glance that way heperceived a vehicle standing there, which he at once recognised as thelarge luxurious motor-car that had dashed past him at such a tearingpace near Cleeve. The inn door was open, and the bar faced the road, exhibiting a brave show of glittering brass taps, pewter tankards, polished glasses and many-coloured bottles, all these things beingpresided over by a buxom matron, who was not only an agreeable person tolook at in herself, but who was assisted by two pretty daughters. Theseyoung women, wearing spotless white cuffs and aprons, dispensed the beerto the customers, now and then relieving the monotony of this occupationby carrying trays of bread and cheese and meat sandwiches round the wideroom of which the bar was a part, evidently bent on making the generalcompany stay as long as possible, if fascinating manners and smilingeyes could work any detaining influence. Helmsley asked for a glass ofale and a plate of bread and cheese, and on being supplied with theserefreshments, sat down at a small table in a corner well removed fromthe light, where he could see without being seen. He did not intend toinquire for a night's lodging yet. He wished first to ascertain forhimself the kind of people who frequented the place. The fear ofdiscovery always haunted him, and the sight of that costly motor-carstanding in the stableyard had caused him to feel a certain misgivinglest any one of marked wealth or position should turn out to be itsowner. In such a case, the world being proverbially small, and rich menbeing in the minority, it was just possible that he, David Helmsley, even clad as he was in workman's clothes and partially disguised infeatures by the growth of a beard, might be recognised. With this idea, he kept himself well back in the shadow, listening attentively to thescraps of desultory talk among the dozen or so of men in the room, whilecarefully maintaining an air of such utter fatigue as to appearindifferent to all that passed around him. Nobody noticed him, for whichhe was thankful. And presently, when he became accustomed to the variouscontending voices, which in their changing tones of gruff or gentle, quick or slow, made a confused din upon his ears, he found out that thegeneral conversation was chiefly centred on one subject, that of thevery motor-car whose occupants he desired to shun. 

"Serve 'em right!" growled one man. "Serve 'em right to 'ave broke down!'Ope the darned thing's broke altogether!"

"You shouldn't say that, --'taint Christian, " expostulated his neighbourat the same table. "Them cars cost a heap o' money, from eight 'undredto two thousand pounds, I've 'eerd tell. "

"Who cares!" retorted the other. "Them as can pay a fortin on a car toswish 'emselves about in, should be made to keep on payin' till they'recleaned out o' money for good an' all. The road's a reg'lar hell sincethem engines started along cuttin' everything to pieces. There aint aman, woman, nor child what's safe from the moneyed murderers. "

"Oh come, I say!" ejaculated a big, burly young fellow in corduroys. "Moneyed murderers is going a bit too strong!"

"No 'taint!" said the first man who had spoken. "That's what themotor-car folks are--no more nor less. Only t' other day in Taunton, awoman as was the life an' soul of 'er 'usband an' childern, was knockeddown by a car as big as a railway truck. It just swept 'er off the curblike a bundle o' rags. She picked 'erself up again an' walked 'ome, tremblin' a little, an' not knowin' rightly what 'ad chanced to 'er, an'in less than an hour she was dead. An' what did they say at the inquest?Just 'death from shock'--an' no more. For them as owned the murderin'car was proprietors o' a big brewery, and the coroner hisself 'ad sharesin it. That's 'ow justice is done nowadays!"

"Yes, we's an obligin' lot, we poor folks, " observed a little man in therough garb of a cattle-driver, drawing his pipe from his mouth as hespoke. "We lets the rich ride over us on rubber tyres an' never sez aword on our own parts, but trusts to the law for doin' the same to amillionaire as 'twould to a beggar, --but, Lord!--don't we see every dayas 'ow the millionaire gets off easy while the beggar goes to prison?There used to be justice in old England, but the time for that's gonepast. "

"There's as much justice in England as you'll ever get anywheres else!"interrupted the hostess at the bar, nodding cheerfully at the men, andsmiling, --"And as for the motor-cars, they bring custom to my house, andI don't grumble at anything which does me and mine a good turn. If ithadn't been for a break-down in that big motor standing outside in thestableyard, I shouldn't have had two gentlemen staying in my best roomsto-night. I never find fault with money!"

She laughed and nodded again in the pleasantest manner. A slow smilewent round among the men, --it was impossible not to smile in response tothe gay good-humour expressed on such a beaming countenance. 

"One of them's a lord, too, " she added. "Quite a young fellow, just comeinto his title, I suppose. " And referring to her day-book, she ran herplump finger down the various entries. "I've got his namehere--Wrotham, --Lord Reginald Wrotham. "

"Wrotham? That aint a name known in these parts, " said the man incorduroys. "Wheer does 'e come from?"

"I don't know, " she replied. "And I don't very much care. It's enoughfor me that he's here and spending money!"

"Where's his chauffy?" inquired a lad, lounging near the bar. 

"He hasn't got one. He drives his car himself. He's got a friend withhim--a Mr. James Brookfield. "

There was a moment's silence. Helmsley drew further back into the cornerwhere he sat, and restrained the little dog Charlie from perking itsinquisitive head out too far, lest its beauty should attractundesirable attention. His nervous misgivings concerning the owner ofthe motor-car had not been entirely without foundation, for bothReginald Wrotham and James Brookfield were well known to him. Wrotham'scareer had been a sufficiently disgraceful one ever since he had enteredhis teens, --he was a modern degenerate of the worst type, and though hiscoming-of-age and the assumption of his family title had caused certaintime-servers to enrol themselves among his flatterers and friends, therewere very few decent houses where so soiled a member of the aristocracyas he was could find even a semblance of toleration. James Brookfieldwas a proprietor of newspapers as well as a "something in the City, " andif Helmsley had been asked to qualify that "something" by a name, hewould have found a term by no means complimentary to the individual inquestion. Wrotham and Brookfield were always seen together, --they werebrothers in every sort of social iniquity and licentiousness, and anattempt on Brookfield's part to borrow some thousands of pounds for his"lordly" patron from Helmsley, had resulted in the latter giving thewould-be borrower's go-between such a strong piece of his mind as he wasnot likely to forget. And now Helmsley was naturally annoyed to findthat these two abandoned rascals were staying at the very inn where he, in his character of a penniless wayfarer, had hoped to pass a peacefulnight; however, he resolved to avoid all danger and embarrassment byleaving the place directly he had finished his supper, and going insearch of some more suitable lodgment. Meanwhile, the hum ofconversation grew louder around him, and opinion ran high on the subjectof "the right of the road. "

"The roads are made for the people, sure-_ly_!" said one of a group ofmen standing near the largest table in the room--"And the people 'as theright to 'xpect safety to life an' limb when they uses 'em. "

"Well, the motors can put forward the same claim, " retorted another. "Motor folks are people too, an' they can say, if they likes, that ifroads is made for people, they're made for _them_ as well as t' others, and they expects to be safe on 'em with their motors at whatever pacethey travels. "

"Go 'long!" exclaimed the cattle-driver, who had before taken part inthe discussion--"Aint we got to take cows an' sheep an' 'osses by theroad? An' if a car comes along at the rate o' forty or fifty miles anhour, what's to be done wi' the animals? An' if they're not to be on theroad, which way is they to be took?"

"Them motors ought to have roads o' their own like the railways, " said aquiet-looking grey-haired man, who was the carrier of the district. "When the steam-engine was invented it wasn't allowed to go tearin'along the public highway. They 'ad to make roads for it, an' lay tracks, and they should do the same for motors which is gettin' just as fast an'as dangerous as steam-engines. "

"Yes, an' with makin' new roads an' layin' tracks, spoil the country forgood an' all!" said the man in corduroys--"An' alter it so that thereaint a bit o' peace or comfort left in the land! Level the hills an' cutdown the trees--pull up the hedges an' scare away all the singin' birds, till the hull place looks like a football field!--all to please a fewselfish rich men who'd be better dead than livin'! A fine thing forEngland that would be!"

At that moment, there was the noise of an opening door, and the hostess, with an expressive glance at her customers, held up her fingerwarningly. 

"Hush, please!" she said. "The gentlemen are coming out. "

A sudden pause ensued. The men looked round upon one another, halfsheepishly, half sullenly, and their growling voices subsided into amurmur. The hostess settled the bow at her collar more becomingly, andher two pretty daughters feigned to be deeply occupied with some drawnthread work. David Helmsley, noting everything that was going on fromhis coign of vantage, recognised at once the dissipated, effeminate-looking young man, who, stepping out of a private room whichopened on a corridor apparently leading to the inner part of the house, sauntered lazily up to the bar and, resting his arm upon its oakencounter, smiled condescendingly, not to say insolently, upon the womenwho stood behind it. There was no mistaking him, --it was the sameReginald Wrotham whose scandals in society had broken his worthyfather's heart, and who now, succeeding to a hitherto unblemished title, was doing his best to load it with dishonour. He was followed by hisfriend Brookfield, --a heavily-built, lurching sort of man, with a nosereddened by strong drink, and small lascivious eyes which glittereddully in his head like the eyes of poisonous tropical beetle. The hushamong the "lower" class of company at the inn deepened into the usualstupid awe which at times so curiously affects untutored rustics who aremade conscious of the presence of a "lord. " Said a friend of the presentwriter's to a waiter in a country hotel where one of these "lords" wasstaying for a few days: "I want a letter to catch to-night's post, butI'm afraid the mail has gone from the hotel. Could you send some one tothe post-office with it?" "Oh yes, sir!" replied the waitergrandiloquently. "The servant of the Lord will take it!" Pitiful beyondmost piteous things is the grovelling tendency of that section of humannature which has not yet been educated sufficiently to lift itself upabove temporary trappings and ornaments; pitiful it is to see men, gifted in intellect, or distinguished for bravery, flinch and cringebefore one of their own flesh and blood, who, having neither clevernessnor courage, but only a Title, presumes upon that foolish appendage sofar as to consider himself superior to both valour and ability. As wellmight a stuffed boar's head assume a superiority to other comestiblesbecause decorated by the cook with a paper frill and bow of ribbon! Theatmosphere which Lord Reginald Wrotham brought with him into thecommon-room of the bar was redolent of tobacco-smoke and whisky, yet, judging from the various propitiatory, timid, anxious, or servile lookscast upon him by all and sundry, it might have been fragrant and sacredincense wafted from the altars of the goddess Fortune to her waitingvotaries. Helmsley's spirit rose up in contempt against the effete dandyas he watched him leaning carelessly against the counter, twirling histhin sandy moustache, and talking to his hostess merely for the sake ofoffensively ogling her two daughters. 

"Charming old place you have here!--charming!" drawled his lordship. "Perfect dream! Love to pass all my days in such a delightful spot! 'Ponmy life! Awful luck for us, the motor breaking down, or we never shouldhave stopped at such a jolly place, don't-cher-know. Should we, Brookfield?"

Brookfield, gently scratching a pimple on his fat, clean-shaven face, smiled knowingly. 

"_Couldn't_ have stopped!" he declared. "We were doing a record run. Butwe should have missed a great deal, --a great deal!" And he emitted asoft chuckle. "Not only the place, --but----!"

He waved his hand explanatorily, with a slight bow, which implied anunspoken compliment to the looks of the mistress of the inn and herfamily. One of the young women blushed and peeped slyly up at him. Hereturned the glance with interest. 

"May I ask, " pursued Lord Wrotham, with an amicable leer, "the names ofyour two daughters, Madam? They've been awfully kind to usbroken-down-travellers--should just like to know the difference betweenthem. Like two roses on one stalk, don't-cher-know! Can't tell which iswhich!"

The mother of the girls hesitated a moment. She was not quite sure thatshe liked the "tone" of his lordship's speech. Finally she repliedsomewhat stiffly:--

"My eldest daughter is named Elizabeth, my lord, and her sister isGrace. "

"Elizabeth and Grace! Charming!" murmured Wrotham, leaning a little moreconfidentially over the counter--"Now which--which is Grace?"

At that moment a tall, shadowy form darkened the open doorway of theinn, and a man entered, carrying in his arms a small oblong bundlecovered with a piece of rough horse-cloth. Placing his burden down on avacant bench, he pushed his cap from his brows and stared wildly abouthim. Every one looked at him, --some with recognition, others inalarm, --and Helmsley, compelled as he was to keep himself out of thegeneral notice in his corner, almost started to his feet with aninvoluntary cry of amazement. For it was Tom o' the Gleam. 

CHAPTER X

Tom o' the Gleam, --Tom, with his clothes torn and covered withdust, --Tom, changed suddenly to a haggard and terrible unlikeness ofhimself, his face drawn and withered, its healthy bronze colour whitenedto a sickly livid hue, --Tom, with such an expression of dazed and stupidhorror in his eyes as to give the impression that he was heavily indrink, and dangerous. 

"Well, mates!" he said thickly--"A fine night and a clear moon!"

No one answered him. He staggered up to the bar. The hostess looked athim severely. 

"Now, Tom, what's the matter?" she said. 

He straightened himself, and, throwing back his shoulders as thoughparrying a blow, forced a smile. 

"Nothing! A touch of the sun!" A strong shudder ran through his limbs, and his teeth chattered, --then suddenly leaning forward on the counter, he whispered: "I'm not drunk, mother!--for God's sake don't thinkit!--I'm ill. Don't you see I'm ill?--I'll be all right in aminute, --give me a drop of brandy!"

She fixed her candid gaze full upon him. She had known him well foryears, and not only did she know him, but, rough character as he was, she liked and respected him. Looking him squarely in the face she saw atonce that he was speaking the truth. He was not drunk. He was ill, --veryill. The strained anguish on his features proved it. 

"Hadn't you better come inside the bar and sit down?" she suggested, ina low tone. 

"No, thanks--I'd rather not. I'll stand just here. "

She gave him the brandy he had asked for. He sipped it slowly, and, pushing his cap further off his brows, turned his dark eyes, full ofsmouldering fire, upon Lord Wrotham and his friend, both of whom hadsucceeded in getting up a little conversation with the hostess's youngerdaughter, the girl named Grace. Her sister, Elizabeth, put down herneedlework, and watched Tom with sudden solicitude. An instinctivedislike of Lord Wrotham and his companion caused her to avoid lookingtheir way, though she heard every word they were saying, --and herinterest became centred on the handsome gypsy, whose pallid features andterrible expression filled her with a vague alarm. 

"It would be awfully jolly of you if you'd come for a spin in my motor, "said his lordship, twirling his sandy moustache and conveying a would-beamorous twinkle into his small brown-green eyes for the benefit of thegirl he was ogling. "Beastly bore having a break-down, but it's nothingserious--half a day's work will put it all right, and if you and yoursister would like a turn before we go on from here, I shall be charmed. We can't do the record business now--not this time, --so it doesn'tmatter how long we linger in this delightful spot. "

"Especially in such delightful company!" added his friend, Brookfield. "I'm going to take a photograph of this house to-morrow, andperhaps"--here he smiled complacently--"perhaps Miss Grace and MissElizabeth will consent to come into the picture?"

"Ya-as--ya-as!--oh do!" drawled Wrotham. "Of course they will! _You_will, I'm sure, Miss Grace! This gentleman, Mr. Brookfield, has gotnearly all the pictorials under his thumb, and he'll put your portraitin them as 'The Beauty of Somerset, ' won't you, Brookfield?"

Brookfield laughed, a pleased laugh of conscious power. 

"Of course I will, " he said. "You have only to express the wish and thething is done!"

Wrotham twirled his moustache again. 

"Awful fun having a friend on the press, don't-cher-know!" he went on. "I get all my lady acquaintances into the papers, --makes 'em famous in aday! The women I like are made to look beautiful, and those I don't likeare turned into frights--positive old horrors, give you my life! Easilydone, you know!--touch up a negative whichever way you fancy, and thereyou are!"

The girl Grace lifted her eyes, --very pretty sparkling eyes theywere, --and regarded him with a mutinous air of contempt. 

"It must be 'awfully' amusing!" she said sarcastically. 

"It is!--give you my life!" And his lordship played with a charm in theshape of an enamelled pig which dangled at his watch-chain. "It pleasesall parties except those whom I want to rub up the wrong way. I've mademany a woman's hair curl, I can tell you! You'll be my 'Somersetshirebeauty, ' won't you, Miss Grace?"

"I think not!" she replied, with a cool glance. "My hair curls quiteenough already. I never use tongs!"

Brookfield burst into a laugh, and the laugh was echoed murmurously bythe other men in the room. Wrotham flushed and bit his lip. 

"That's a one--er for me, " he said lazily. "Pretty kitten as you are, Miss Grace, you can scratch! That's always the worst of women, --they'vegot such infernally sharp tongues----"

"Grace!" interrupted her mother, at this juncture--"You are wanted inthe kitchen. "

Grace took the maternal hint and retired at once. At that instant Tom o'the Gleam stirred slightly from his hitherto rigid attitude. He had onlytaken half his glass of brandy, but that small amount had brought back atinge of colour to his face and deepened the sparkle of fire in hiseyes. 

"Good roads for motoring about here!" he said. 

Lord Wrotham looked up, --then measuring the great height, muscularbuild, and commanding appearance of the speaker, nodded affably. 

"First-rate!" he replied. "We had a splendid run from Cleeve Abbey. "

"Magnificent!" echoed Brookfield. "Not half a second's stop all the way. We should have been far beyond Minehead by this time, if it hadn't beenfor the break-down. We were racing from London to the Land's End, --butwe took a wrong turning just before we came to Cleeve----"

"Oh! Took a wrong turning, did you?" And Tom leaned a little forward asthough to hear more accurately. His face had grown deadly pale again, and he breathed quickly. 

"Yes. We found ourselves quite close to Cleeve Abbey, but we didn't stopto see old ruins this time, you bet! We just tore down the first lane wesaw running back into the highroad, --a pretty steep bit of groundtoo--and, by Jove!--didn't we whizz round the corner at the bottom! Thatwas a near shave, I can tell you!"

"Ay, ay!" said Tom slowly, listening with an air of profound interest. "You've got a smart chauffeur, no doubt!"

"No chauffeur at all!" declared Brookfield, emphatically. "His lordshipdrives his car himself. "

There followed an odd silence. All the customers in the room, drinkingand eating as many of them were, seemed to be under a dumb spell. Tom o'the Gleam's presence was at all times more or less of a terror to thetimorous, and that he, who as a rule avoided strangers, should on hisown initiative enter into conversation with the two motorists, was ofitself a circumstance that awakened considerable wonder and interest. David Helmsley, sitting apart in the shadow, could not take his eyes offthe gypsy's face and figure, --a kind of fascination impelled him towatch with strained attention the dark shape, moulded with suchherculean symmetry, which seemed to command and subdue the very air thatgave it force and sustenance. 

"His lordship drives his car himself!" echoed Tom, and a curious smileparted his lips, showing an almost sinister gleam of white teeth betweenhis full black moustache and beard, --then, bringing his sombre glance tobear slowly down on Wrotham's insignificant form, he continued, --"Areyou his lordship?"

Wrotham nodded with a careless condescension, and, lighting a cigar, began to smoke it. 

"And you drive your car yourself!" proceeded Tom, --"you must have goodnerve and a keen eye!"

"Oh well!" And Wrotham laughed airily--"Pretty much so!--but I won'tboast!"

"How many miles an hour?" went on Tom, pursuing his inquiries with analmost morbid eagerness. 

"Forty or fifty, I suppose--sometimes more. I always run at the highestspeed. Of course that kind of thing knocks the motor to pieces rathersoon, but one can always buy another. "

"True!" said Tom. "Very true! One can always buy another!" He paused, and seemed to collect his thoughts with an effort, --then noticing thehalf-glass of brandy he had left on the counter, he took it up and drankit all off at a gulp. "Have you ever had any accidents on the road?"

"Accidents?" Lord Wrotham put up an eyeglass. "Accidents? What do youmean?"

"Why, what should I mean except what I say!" And Tom gave a sudden loudlaugh, --a laugh which made the hostess at the bar start nervously, whilemany of the men seated round the various tables exchanged uneasyglances. "Accidents are accidents all the world over! Haven't you everbeen thrown out, upset, shaken in body, broken in bone, or otherwiseinvolved in mischief?"

Lord Wrotham smiled, and let his eyeglass fall with a click against histop waistcoat button. 

"Never!" he said, taking his cigar from his mouth, looking at it, andthen replacing it with a relish--"I'm too fond of my own life to run anyrisk of losing it. Other people's lives don't matter so much, but mineis precious! Eh, Brookfield?"

Brookfield chuckled himself purple in the face over this pleasantry, anddeclared that his lordship's wit grew sharper with every day of hisexistence. Meanwhile Tom o' the Gleam moved a step or two nearer toWrotham. 

"You're a lucky lord!" he said, and again he laughed discordantly. "Verylucky! But you don't mean to tell me that while you're pounding along atfull speed, you've never upset anything in your way?--never knocked downan old man or woman, --never run over a dog, --or a child?"

"Oh, well, if you mean that kind of thing!" murmured Wrotham, puffingplacidly at his cigar--"Of course! That's quite common! We're alwaysrunning over something or other, aren't we, Brookie?"

"Always!" declared that gentleman pleasantly. "Really it's half thefun!"

"Positively it is, don't-cher-know!" and his lordship played again withhis enamelled pig--"But it's not our fault. If things will get into ourway, we can't wait till they get out. We're bound to ride over them. Doyou remember that old hen, Brookie?"

Brookfield spluttered into a laugh, and nodded in the affirmative. 

"There it was skipping over the road in front of us in as great a hurryas ever hen was, " went on Wrotham. "Going back to its family of eggs perexpress waddle! Whiz! Pst--and all its eggs and waddles were over! ByJove, how we screamed! Ha--ha--ha!--he--he--he!"

Lord Wrotham's laugh resembled that laugh peculiar to "society"folk, --the laugh civil-sniggering, which is just a tone between thesheep's bleat and the peewit's cry. But no one laughed in response, andno one spoke. Some heavy spell was in the air like a cloud shadowing alandscape, and an imaginative onlooker would have been inclined to thinkthat this imperceptible mystic darkness had come in with Tom o' theGleam and was centralising itself round him alone. Brookfield, seeingthat his lordly patron was inclined to talk, and that he was evidentlyanxious to narrate various "car" incidents, similar to the hen episode, took up the conversation and led it on. 

"It is really quite absurd, " he said, "for any one of common sense toargue that a motorist can, could, or should pull up every moment for thesake of a few stray animals, or even people, when they don't seem toknow or care where they are going. Now think of that child to-day! Whatan absolute little idiot! Gathering wild thyme and holding it out to thecar going full speed! No wonder we knocked it over!"

The hostess of the inn looked up quickly. 

"I hope it was not hurt?" she said. 

"Oh dear no!" answered Lord Wrotham lightly. "It just fell back andturned a somersault in the grass, --evidently enjoying itself. It had anarrow escape though!"

Tom o' the Gleam stared fixedly at him. Once or twice he essayed tospeak, but no sound came from his twitching lips. Presently, with aneffort, he found his voice. 

"Did you--did you stop the car and go back to see--to see if--if it wasall right?" he asked, in curiously harsh, monotonous accents. 

"Stop the car? Go back? By Jove, I should think not indeed! I'd lost toomuch time already through taking a wrong turning. The child was allright enough. "

"Are you sure?" muttered Tom thickly. "Are you--quite--sure?"

"Sure?" And Wrotham again had recourse to his eyeglass, which he stuckin one eye, while he fixed his interlocutor with a supercilious glance. "Of course I'm sure! What the devil d' ye take me for? It was a merebeggar's brat anyhow--there are too many of such little wretches runningloose about the roads--regular nuisances--a few might be run over withadvantage--Hullo! What now? What's the matter? Keep your distance, please!" For Tom suddenly threw up his clenched fists with aninarticulate cry of rage, and now leaped towards Wrotham in the attitudeof a wild beast springing on its prey. "Hands off! Hands off, I say!Damn you, leave me alone! Brookfield! Here! Some one get a hold of thisfellow! He's mad!"

But before Brookfield or any other man could move to his assistance, Tomhad pounced upon him with all the fury of a famished tiger. 

"God curse you!" he panted, between the gasps of his labouringbreath--"God burn you for ever in Hell!"

Down on the ground he hurled him, clutching him round the neck, andchoking every attempt at a cry. Then falling himself in all his hugeheight, breadth, and weight, upon Wrotham's prone body he crushed itunder and held it beneath him, while, with appalling swiftness andvehemence, he plunged a drawn claspknife deep in his victim's throat, hacking the flesh from left to right, from right to left with recklessferocity, till the blood spurted about him in horrid crimson jets, andgushed in a dark pool on the floor. 

Piercing screams from the women, groans and cries from the men, filledthe air, and the lately peaceful scene was changed to one of maddeningconfusion. Brookfield rushed wildly through the open door of the inninto the village street, yelling: "Help! Help! Murder! Help!" and inless than five minutes the place was filled with an excited crowd. "Tom!" "Tom o' the Gleam!" ran in frightened whispers from mouth tomouth. David Helmsley, giddy with the sudden shock of terror, roseshuddering from his place with a vague idea of instant flight in hismind, but remained standing inert, half paralysed by sheer panic, whileseveral men surrounded Tom, and dragged him forcibly up from the groundwhere he lay, still grasping his murdered man. As they wrenched thegypsy's grappling arms away, Wrotham fell back on the floor, stone dead. Life had been thrust out of him with the first blow dealt him by Tom'sclaspknife, which had been aimed at his throat as a butcher aims at thethroat of a swine. His bleeding corpse presented a frightful spectacle, the head being nearly severed from the body. 

Brookfield, shaking all over, turned his back upon the awful sight, andkept on running to and fro and up and down the street, clamouring like amadman for the police. Two sturdy constables presently came, theirappearance restoring something like order. To them Tom o' the Gleamadvanced, extending his blood-stained hands. 

"I am ready!" he said, in a quiet voice. "I am the murderer!"

They looked at him. Then, by way of precaution, one of them clasped apair of manacles on his wrists. The other, turning his eyes to thecorpse on the floor, recoiled in horror. 

"Throw something over it!" he commanded. 

He was obeyed, and the dreadful remains of what had once been human, were quickly shrouded from view. 

"How did this happen?" was the next question put by the officer of thelaw who had already spoken, opening his notebook. 

A chorus of eager tongues answered him, Brookfield's excited explanationechoing above them all. His dear friend, his great, noble, good friendhad been brutally murdered! His friend was Lord Wrotham, of WrothamHall, Blankshire! A break-down had occurred within half a mile of BlueAnchor, and Lord Wrotham had taken rooms at the present inn for thenight. His lordship had condescended to enter into a friendlyconversation with the ruffian now under arrest, who, without theslightest cause or provocation whatsoever, had suddenly attacked andoverthrown his lordship, and plunged a knife into his lordship's throat!He himself was James Brookfield, proprietor of the _Daily Post-Bag_, the_Pictorial Pie_, and the _Illustrated Invoice_, and he should make thisoutrageous, this awful crime a warning to motorists throughout theworld----!"

"That will do, thank you, " said the officer briefly--then he gave asharp glance around him--"Where's the landlady?"

She had fled in terror from the scene, and some one went in search ofher, returning with the poor woman and her two daughters, all of themdeathly pale and shivering with dread. 

"Don't be frightened, mother!" said one of the constables kindly--"Noharm will come to you. Just tell us what you saw of this affair--that'sall. "

Whereat the poor hostess, her narrative interrupted by tears, explainedthat Tom o' the Gleam was a frequent customer of hers, and that she hadnever thought badly of him. 

"He was a bit excited to-night, but he wasn't drunk, " she said. "He toldme he was ill, and asked for a glass of brandy. He looked as if he werein great pain, and I gave him the brandy at once and asked him to stepinside the bar. But he wouldn't do that, --he just stood talking with thegentlemen about motoring, and then something was said about a childbeing knocked over by the motor, --and all of a sudden----"

Here her voice broke, and she sank on a seat half swooning, whileElizabeth, her eldest girl, finished the story in low, trembling tones. Tom o' the Gleam meanwhile stood rigidly upright and silent. To him thechief officer of the law finally turned. 

"Will you come with us quietly?" he asked, "or do you mean to give ustrouble?"

Tom lifted his dark eyes. 

"I shall give no man any more trouble, " he answered. "I shall go nowheresave where I am taken. You need fear nothing from me now. But I mustspeak. "

The officer frowned warningly. 

"You'd better not!" he said. 

"I must!" repeated Tom. "You think, --all of you, --that I had nocause--no provocation--to kill the man who lies there"--and he turned afierce glance upon the covered corpse, from which a dark stream of bloodwas trickling slowly along the floor--"I swear before God that I _had_cause!--and that my cause was just! I _had_ provocation!--the bitterestand worst! That man was a murderer as surely as I am. Look yonder!" Andlifting his manacled hands he extended them towards the bench where laythe bundle covered with horse-cloth, which he had carried in his armsand set down when he had first entered the inn. "Look, I say!--and thentell me I had no cause!"

With an uneasy glance one of the officers went up to the spot indicated, and hurriedly, yet fearfully, lifted the horse-cloth and looked underit. Then uttering an exclamation of horror and pity, he drew away thecovering altogether, and disclosed to view the dead body of a child, --alittle curly-headed lad, --lying as if it were asleep, a smile on itspretty mouth, and a bunch of wild thyme clasped in the clenched fingersof its small right hand. 

"My God! It's Kiddie!"

The exclamation was uttered almost simultaneously by every one in theroom, and the girl Elizabeth sprang forward. 

"Oh, not Kiddie!" she cried--"Oh, surely not Kiddie! Oh, the poor littledarling!--the pretty little man!"

And she fell on her knees beside the tiny corpse and gave way to a wildfit of weeping. 

There was an awful silence, broken only by her sobbing. Men turned awayand covered their eyes--Brookfield edged himself stealthily through thelittle crowd and sneaked out into the open air--and the officers of thelaw stood inactive. Helmsley felt the room whirling about him in asickening blackness, and sat down to steady himself, the stinging tearsrising involuntarily in his throat and almost choking him. 

"Oh, Kiddie!" wailed Elizabeth again, looking up in plaintiveappeal--"Oh, mother, mother, see! Grace come here! Kiddie's dead! Thepoor innocent little child!" They came at her call, and knelt with her, crying bitterly, and smoothing back with tender hands the thicklytangled dark curls of the smiling dead thing, with the fragrance of wildthyme clinging about it, as though it were a broken flower torn from thewoods where it had blossomed. Tom o' the Gleam watched them, and hisbroad chest heaved with a sudden gasping sigh. 

"You all know now, " he said slowly, staring with strained piteous eyesat the little lifeless body--"you understand, --the motor killed myKiddie! He was playing on the road--I was close by among the trees--Isaw the cursed car coming full speed downhill--I rushed to take the boy, but was too late--he cried once--and then--silence! All the laughtergone out of him--all the life and love----" He paused with ashudder. --"I carried him all the way, and followed the car, " he wenton--"I would have followed it to the world's end! I ran by a short cutdown near the sea, --and then--I saw the thing break down. I thanked Godfor that! I tracked the murderers here, --I meant to kill the man whokilled my child!--and I have done it!" He paused again. Then he held outhis hands and looked at the constable. 

"May I--before I go--take him in my arms--and kiss him?" he asked. 

The chief officer nodded. He could not speak, but he unfastened Tom'smanacles and threw them on the floor. Then Tom himself moved feebly andunsteadily to where the women knelt beside his dead child. They rose ashe approached, but did not turn away. 

"You have hearts, you women!" he said faintly. "You know what it is tolove a child! And Kiddie, --Kiddie was such a happy little fellow!--sostrong and hearty!--so full of life! And now--now he's stiff and cold!Only this morning he was jumping and laughing in my arms----" He brokeoff, trembling violently, then with an effort he raised his head andturned his eyes with a wild stare upon all around him. "We are only poorfolk!" he went on, in a firmer voice. "Only gypsies, tinkers, road-menders, labourers, and the like! We cannot fight against the richwho ride us down! There's no law for us, because we can't pay for it. Wecan't fee the counsel or dine the judge! The rich can pay. They cantrample us down under their devilish motor-cars, and obliging jurieswill declare our wrongs and injuries and deaths to be mere 'accident' or'misadventure'! But if _they_ can kill, by God!--so can _we_! And if thelaw lets them off for murdering our children, we must take the law intoour own hands and murder _them_ in turn--ay! even if we swing for it!"

No one spoke. The women still sobbed convulsively, but otherwise therewas a great silence. Tom o' the Gleam stretched forth his hands with aneloquent gesture of passion. 

"Look at him lying there!" he cried--"Only a child--a little child! Sopretty and playful!--all his joy was in the birds and flowers! Therobins knew him and would perch on his shoulder, --he would call to thecuckoo, --he would race the swallow, --he would lie in the grass and singwith the skylark and talk to the daisies. He was happy with the simplestthings--and when we put him to bed in his little hammock under thetrees, he would smile up at the stars and say: 'Mother's up there!Good-night, mother!' Oh, the lonely trees, and the empty hammock! Oh, mylad!--my little pretty lad! Murdered! Murdered! Gone from me for ever!For ever! God! God!"

Reeling heavily forward, he sank in a crouching heap beside the child'sdead body and snatched it into his embrace, kissing the little cold lipsand cheeks and eyelids again and again, and pressing it with franticfervour against his breast. 

"The dark hour!" he muttered--"the dark hour! To-day when I came awayover the moors I felt it creeping upon me! Last night it whispered tome, and I felt its cold breath hissing against my ears! When I climbeddown the rocks to the seashore, I heard it wailing in the waves!--andthrough the hollows of the rocks it shrieked an unknown horror at me!Who was it that said to-day--'He is only a child after all, and he mightbe taken from you'? I remember!--it was Miss Tranter who spoke--and shewas sorry afterwards--ah, yes!--she was sorry!--but it was the spirit ofthe hour that moved her to the utterance of a warning--she could nothelp herself, --and I--I should have been more careful!--I should nothave left my little one for a moment, --but I never thought any harmcould come to him--no, never to _him_! I was always sure God was toogood for that!"

Moaning drearily, he rocked the dead boy to and fro. 

"Kiddie--my Kiddie!" he murmured--"Little one with my love'seyes!--heart's darling with my love's face! Don't go to sleep, Kiddie!--not just yet!--wake up and kiss me once!--only once again, Kiddie!"

"Oh, Tom!" sobbed Elizabeth, --"Oh, poor, poor Tom!"

At the sound of her voice he raised his head and looked up at her. Therewas a strange expression on his face, --a fixed and terrible stare in hiseyes. Suddenly he broke into a wild laugh. 

"Ha-ha!" he cried. "Poor Tom! Tom o' the Gleam! That's me!--the me thatwas not always me! Not always me--no!--not always Tom o' the Gleam! Itwas a bold life I led in the woods long ago!--a life full of sunshineand laughter--a life for a man with man's blood in his veins! Away outin the land that once was old Provence, we jested and sang the hoursaway, --the women with their guitars and mandolines--the men with theirwild dances and tambourines, --and love was the keynote of themusic--love!--always love! Love in the sunshine!--love under themoonbeams!--bright eyes in which to drown one's soul, --red lips on whichto crush one's heart!--Ah, God!--such days when we were young!

 'Ah! Craignons de perdre un seul jour, De la belle saison de l'amour!'"

He sang these lines in a rich baritone, clear and thrilling withpassion, and the men grouped about him, not understanding what he sang, glanced at one another with an uneasy sense of fear. All at once hestruggled to his feet without assistance, and stood upright, stillclasping the body of his child in his arms. 

"Come, come!" he said thickly--"It's time we were off, Kiddie! We mustget across the moor and into camp. It's time for all lambs to be in thefold;--time to go to bed, my little lad! Good-night, mates! Good-night!I know you all, --and you all know me--you like fair play! Fair play allround, eh? Not one law for the rich and another for the poor! Evenjustice, boys! Justice! Justice!"

Here his voice broke in a great and awful cry, --blood sprang from hislips--his face grew darkly purple, --and like a huge tree snapped asunderby a storm, he reeled heavily to the ground. One of the constablescaught him as he fell. 

"Hold up, Tom!" he said tremulously, the thick tears standing in hiseyes. "Don't give way! Be a man! Hold up! Steady! Here, let me take thepoor Kiddie!"

For a ghastly pallor was stealing over Tom's features, and his lips werewidely parted in a gasping struggle for breath. 

"No--no!--don't take my boy!" he muttered feebly. "Let me--keephim--with me! God is good--good after all!--we shall not--be parted!"

A strong convulsion shook his sinewy frame from head to foot, and hewrithed in desperate agony. The officer put an arm under his head, andmade an expressive sign to the awed witnesses of the scene. Helmsley, startled at this, came hurriedly forward, trembling and scarcely able tospeak in the extremity of his fear and pity. 

"What--what is it?" he stammered. "Not--not----?"

"Death! That's what it is!" said the officer, gently. "His heart'sbroken!"

One rough fellow here pushed his way to the side of the fallen man, --itwas the cattle-driver who had taken part in the previous conversationamong the customers at the inn before the occurrence of the tragedy. Heknelt down, sobbing like a child. 

"Tom!" he faltered, "Tom, old chap! Hearten up a bit! Don't leave us!There's not one of us us'll think ill of ye!--no, not if the law was toshut ye up for life! You was allus good to us poor folk--an' poor folkaint as forgittin' o' kindness as rich. Stay an' help us along, Tom!--you was allus brave an' strong an' hearty--an' there's many of uswantin' comfort an' cheer, eh Tom?"

Tom's splendid dark eyes opened, and a smile, very wan and wistful, gleamed across his lips. 

"Is that you, Jim?" he muttered feebly. "It's all dark and cold!--Ican't see!--there'll be a frost to-night, and the lambs must be watcheda bit--I'm afraid I can't help you, Jim--not to-night! Wanting comfort, did you say? Ay!--plenty wanting that, but I'm past giving it, my boy!I'm done. "

He drew a struggling breath with pain and difficulty. 

"You see, Jim, I've killed a man!" he went on, gaspingly--"And--and--I've no money--we all share and share alike incamp--it won't be worth any one's while to find excuses for me. They'dshut me up in prison if I lived--but now--God's my judge! And He'smerciful--He's giving me my liberty!"

His eyelids fell wearily, and a shadow, dark at first, and thenlightening into an ivory pallor, began to cover his features like a finemask, at sight of which the girls, Elizabeth and Grace, with theirmother, knelt down and hid their faces. Every one in the room knelt too, and there was a profound stillness. Tom's breathing grew heavier andmore laboured, --once they made an attempt to lift the weight of hischild's dead body from his breast, but his hands were clenched upon itconvulsively and they could not loosen his hold. All at once Elizabethlifted her head and prayed aloud--

"O God, have mercy on our poor friend Tom, and help him through theValley of the Shadow! Grant him Thy forgiveness for all his sins, andlet him find----" here she broke down and sobbed pitifully, --thenbetween her tears she finished her petition--"Let him find his littlechild with Thee!"

A low and solemn "Amen" was the response to her prayer from all present, and suddenly Tom opened his eyes with a surprised bright look. 

"Is Kiddie all right?" he asked. 

"Yes, Tom!" It was Elizabeth who answered, bending over him--"Kiddie'sall right! He's fast asleep in your arms. "

"So he is!" And the brilliancy in Tom's eyes grew still more radiant, while with one hand he caressed the thick dark curls that clustered onthe head of his dead boy--"Poor little chap! Tired out, and so am I!It's very cold surely!"

"Yes, Tom, it is. Very cold!"

"I thought so! I--I must keep the child warm. They'll be worried in campover all this--Kiddie never stays out so late. He's such a littlefellow--only four!--and he goes to bed early always. And when--when he'sasleep--why then--then--the day's over for me, --and night begins--nightbegins!"

The smile lingered on his lips, and settled there at last in coldestgravity, --the fine mask of death covered his features with animpenetrable waxen stillness--all was over! Tom o' the Gleam had gonewith his slain child, and the victim he had sacrificed to his revenge, into the presence of that Supreme Recorder who chronicles all deeds bothgood and evil, and who, in the character of Divine Justice, may, perchance, find that the sheer brutal selfishness of the modern socialworld is more utterly to be condemned, and more criminal even thanmurder. 

CHAPTER XI

Sick at heart, and utterly overcome by the sudden and awful tragedy towhich he had been an enforced silent witness, David Helmsley had now butone idea, and that was at once to leave the scene of horror which, likea ghastly nightmare, scarred his vision and dizzied his brain. Stumblingfeebly along, and seeming to those who by chance noticed him, no morethan a poor old tramp terrified out of his wits by the grief andconfusion which prevailed, he made his way gradually through the crowdnow pressing closely round the dead, and went forth into the villagestreet. He held the little dog Charlie nestled under his coat, where hehad kept it hidden all the evening, --the tiny creature was shiveringviolently with that strange consciousness of the atmosphere of deathwhich is instinctive to so many animals, --and a vague wish to soothe itsfears helped him for the moment to forget his own feelings. He would nottrust himself to look again at Tom o' the Gleam, stretched lifeless onthe ground with his slaughtered child clasped in his arms; he could notspeak to any one of the terrified people. He heard the constables givinghurried orders for the removal of the bodies, and he saw two more policeofficers arrive and go into the stableyard of the inn, there to take thenumber of the motor-car and write down the full deposition of thatpotentate of the pictorial press, James Brookfield. And he knew, withoutany explanation, that the whole affair would probably be served up thenext day in the cheaper newspapers as a "sensational" crime, so wordedas to lay all the blame on Tom o' the Gleam, and to exonerate the act, and deplore the violent death of the "lordly" brute who, out of hisselfish and wicked recklessness, had snatched away the life of an onlychild from its father without care or compunction. But it was thefearful swiftness of the catastrophe that affected Helmsley most, --that, and what seemed to him, the needless cruelty of fate. Only last night hehad seen Tom o' the Gleam for the first time--only last night he hadadmired the physical symmetry and grace of the man, --his handsome head, his rich voice, and the curious refinement, suggestive of some pastculture and education, which gave such a charm to his manner, --only lastnight he had experienced that little proof of human sympathy andkindliness which had shown itself in the gift of the few coins which Tomhad collected and placed on his pillow, --only last night he had beentouched by the herculean fellow's tenderness for his little"Kiddie, "--and now, --within the space of twenty-four hours, both fatherand child had gone out of life at a rush as fierce and relentless as thespeed of the motor-car which had crushed a world of happiness under itsmerciless wheels. Was it right--was it just that such things should be?Could one believe in the goodness of God, in such a world of wantonwickedness? Moving along in a blind haze of bewilderment, Helmsley'sthoughts were all disordered and his mind in a whirl, --whatconsciousness he had left to him was centred in an effort to getaway--away!--far away from the scene of murder and death, --away from thescent and trail of blood which seemed to infect and poison the very air!

It was a calm and lovely night. The moon rode high, and there was a softwind blowing in from the sea. Out over the waste of heaving water, wherethe moonbeams turned the small rippling waves to the resemblance ofnetted links of silver or steel, the horizon stretched sharply clear anddefinite, like a line drawn under the finished chapter of vision. Therewas a gentle murmur of the inflowing tide among the loose stones andpebbles fringing the beach, --but to Helmsley's ears it sounded like themiserable moaning of a broken heart, --the wail of a sorrowful spirit intorture. He went on and on, with no very distinct idea of where he wasgoing, --he simply continued to walk automatically like one in a dream. He did not know the time, but guessed it must be somewhere aboutmidnight. The road was quite deserted, and its loneliness was to him, inhis present over-wrought condition, appalling. Desolation seemed toinvolve the whole earth in gloom, --the trees stood out in the whiteshine of the moon like dark shrouded ghosts waving their cerements toand fro, --the fields and hills on either side of him were bare andsolitary, and the gleam of the ocean was cold and cheerless as a "DeadMan's Pool. " Slowly he plodded along, with a thousand disjointedfragments of thought and memory teasing his brain, all part and parcelof his recent experiences, --he seemed to have lived through a wholehistory of strange events since the herb-gatherer, Matt Peke, hadbefriended him on the road, --and the most curious impression of all wasthat he had somehow lost his own identity for ever. It was impossibleand ridiculous to think of himself as David Helmsley, themillionaire, --there was, there could be no such person! DavidHelmsley, --the real David Helmsley, --was very old, very tired, verypoor, --there was nothing left for him in this world save death. He hadno children, no friends, --no one who cared for him or who wanted to knowwhat had become of him. He was absolutely alone, --and in the hush of thesummer night he fancied that the very moon looked down upon him with achill stare as though wondering why he burdened the earth with hispresence when it was surely time for him to die!

It was not till he found that he was leaving the shore line, and thatone or two gas lamps twinkled faintly ahead of him, that he realized hewas entering the outskirts of a small town. Pausing a moment, he lookedabout him. A high-walled castle, majestically enthroned on a steepwooded height, was the first object that met his view, --every line ofits frowning battlements and turrets was seen clearly against the sky asthough etched out on a dark background with a pencil of light. Asign-post at the corner of a winding road gave the direction "To DunsterCastle. " Reading this by the glimmer of the moon, Helmsley stoodirresolute for a minute or so, and then resumed his tramp, proceedingthrough the streets of what he knew must be Dunster itself. He had nointention of stopping in the town, --an inward nervousness pushed him on, on, in spite of fatigue, and Dunster was not far enough away from BlueAnchor to satisfy him. The scene of Tom o' the Gleam's revenge and deathsurrounded him with a horrible environment, --an atmosphere from which hesought to free himself by sheer distance, and he resolved to walk tillmorning rather than remain anywhere near the place which was nowassociated in his mind with one of the darkest episodes of human guiltand suffering that he had ever known. Passing by the old inn known as"The Luttrell Arms, " now fast closed for the night, a policeman on hisbeat stopped in his marching to and fro, and spoke to him. 

"Hillo! Which way do you come from?"

"From Watchett. "

"Oh! We've just had news of a murder up at Blue Anchor. Have you heardanything of it?"

"Yes. " And Helmsley looked his questioner squarely in the face. "It's aterrible business! But the murderer's caught!"

"Caught is he? Who's got him?"

"Death!" And Helmsley, lifting his cap, stood bareheaded in themoonlight. "He'll never escape again!"

The constable looked amazed and a little awed. 

"Death? Why, I heard it was that wild gypsy, Tom o' the Gleam----"

"So it was, "--said Helmsley, gently, --"and Tom o' the Gleam is dead!"

"No! Don't say that!" ejaculated the constable with real concern. "There's a lot of good in Tom! I shouldn't like to think he's gone!"

"You'll find it's true, " said Helmsley. "And perhaps, when you get allthe details, you'll think it for the best. Good-night!"

"Are you staying in Dunster?" queried the officer with a keen glance. 

"No. I'm moving on. " And Helmsley smiled wearily as he againsaid--"Good-night!"

He walked steadily, though slowly, through the sleeping town, and passedout of it. Ascending a winding bit of road he found himself once more inthe open country, and presently came to a field where part of the fencehad been broken through by the cattle. Just behind the damaged palingsthere was a covered shed, open in front, with a few bundles of strawpacked within it. This place suggested itself as a fairly comfortableshelter for an hour's rest, and becoming conscious of the intense achingof his limbs, he took possession of it, setting the small "Charlie" downto gambol on the grass at pleasure. He was far more tired than he knew, and remembering the "yerb wine" which Matt Peke had provided him with, he took a long draught of it, grateful for its reviving warmth and tonicpower. Then, half-dreamily, he watched the little dog whom he hadrescued and befriended, and presently found himself vaguely entertainedby the graceful antics of the tiny creature which, despite its woundedpaw, capered limpingly after its own shadow flung by the moonlight onthe greensward, and attempted in its own playful way to attract theattention of its new master and wile him away from his mood of uttermisery. Involuntarily he thought of the frenzied cry of Shakespeare's"Lear" over the dead body of Cordelia:--

 "What! Shall a dog, a horse, a rat, have life And thou no breath at all!"

What curious caprice of destiny was it that saved the life of a dog, yetrobbed a father of his child? Who could explain it? Why should a happyinnocent little lad like Tom o' the Gleam's "Kiddie" have been hurledout of existence in a moment as it were by the mad speed of a motor'swheels, --and a fragile "toy" terrier, the mere whim of dog-breeders andplaything for fanciful women, be plucked from starvation and death asthough the great forces of creation deemed it more worth cherishing thana human being! For the murder of Lord Wrotham, Helmsley foundexcuse, --for the death of Tom there was ample natural cause, --but forthe wanton killing of a little child no reason could justly be assigned. Propping his elbows on his knees, and resting his aching head on hishands, he thought and thought, --till Thought became almost as a fire inhis brain. What was the use of life? he asked himself. What definiteplan or object could there possibly be in the perpetuation of the humanrace?

 "To pace the same dull round On each recurring day, For seventy years or more Till strength and hope decay, -- To trust, --and be deceived, -- And standing, --fear to fall! To find no resting-place-- _Can this be all?_"

Beginning with hope and eagerness, and having confidence in the goodfaith of his fellow-men, had he not himself fought a hard fight in theworld, setting before him a certain goal, --a goal which he had won andpassed, --to what purpose? In youth he had been very poor, --and povertyhad served him as a spur to ambition. In middle life he had become oneof the richest men in the world. He had done all that rich and ambitiousmen set themselves out to do. He might have said with the Preacher:

"Whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from them, --I withheld not myheart from any joy, for my heart rejoiced in all my labour, and this wasmy portion of all my labour. Then I looked on all the works that myhands had wrought, and on the labour that I had laboured to do, andbehold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit, and there was no profitunder the sun. "

He had loved, --or rather, he had imagined he loved, --he had married, andhis wife had dishonoured him. Sons had been born to him, who, with theirmother's treacherous blood in their veins, had brought him to shame bytheir conduct, --and now all the kith and kin he had sought to surroundhimself with were dead, and he was alone--as alone as he had ever beenat the very commencement of his career. Had his long life of toil ledhim only to this? With a sense of dull disappointment, his mind revertedto the plan he had half entertained of benefiting Tom o' the Gleam insome way and making him happy by prospering the fortunes of the child heloved so well, --though he was fully aware that perhaps he could not havedone much in that direction, as it was more than likely that Tom wouldhave resented the slightest hint of a rich man's patronage. Death, however, in its fiercest shape, had now put an abrupt end to any suchbenevolent scheme, whether or not it might have been feasible, --and, absorbed in a kind of lethargic reverie, he again and again askedhimself what use he was in the world?--what could he do with the briefremaining portion of his life?--and how he could dispose, to his ownsatisfaction, of the vast wealth which, like a huge golden mill-stone, hung round his neck, dragging him down to the grave? Such poor people ashe had met with during his tramp seemed fairly contented with their lot;he, at any rate, had heard no complaints of poverty from them. On thecontrary, they had shown an independence of thought and freedom of lifewhich was wholly incompatible with the mere desire of money. He couldput a five-pound note in an envelope and post it anonymously to MattPeke at the "Trusty Man" as a slight return for his kindness, but he wasquite sure that though Matt might be pleased enough with the money hewould equally be puzzled, and not entirely satisfied in his mind as towhether he was doing right to accept and use it. It would probably beput in a savings bank for a "rainy day. "

"It is the hardest thing in the world to do good with money!" he mused, sorrowfully. "Of course if I were to say this to the unthinkingmajority, they would gape upon me and exclaim--'Hard to do good! Why, there's nothing so easy! There are thousands of poor, --there are thehospitals--the churches!' True, --but the thousands of _real_ poor arenot so easily found! There are thousands, ay, millions of 'sham' poor. But the _real_ poor, who never ask for anything, --who would not know howto write a begging letter, and who would shrink from writing it even ifthey did know--who starve patiently, suffer uncomplainingly, and dieresignedly--these are as difficult to meet with as diamonds in a coalmine. As for hospitals, do I not know how many of them pander to thebarbarous inhumanity of vivisection!--and have I not experienced to theutmost dregs of bitterness, the melting of cash through the hands ofsecretaries and under-secretaries, and general Committee-ism, and RedTape-ism, while every hundred thousand pounds bestowed on thesenecessary institutions turns out in the end to be a mere drop in the seaof incessant demand, though the donors may possibly purchase aknighthood, a baronetcy, or even a peerage, in return for their gifts!And the churches!--my God!--as Madame Roland said of Liberty, whatcrimes are committed in Thy Name!"

He looked up at the sky through the square opening of the shed, and sawthe moon, now changed in appearance and surrounded by a curious luminoushalo like the nimbus with which painters encircle the head of a saint. It was a delicate aureole of prismatic radiance, and seemed to haveswept suddenly round the silver planet in companionship with a lightmist from the sea, --a mist which was now creeping slowly upwards andcovering the land with a glistening wetness as of dew. A few fleecyclouds, pale grey and white, were floating aloft in the western half ofthe heavens, evoked by some magic touch of the wind. 

"It will soon be morning, "--thought Helmsley--"The sun will rise in itssame old glorious way--with as measured and monotonous a circuit as ithas made from the beginning. The Garden of Eden, the Deluge, thebuilding of the Pyramids, the rise and fall of Rome, the conquests ofAlexander, the death of Socrates, the murder of Cæsar, the crucifixionof Christ, --the sun has shone on all these things of beauty, triumph orhorror with the same even radiance, always the generator of life andfruitfulness, itself indifferent as to what becomes of the atomsgerminated under its prolific heat and vitality. The sun takes no heedwhether a man dies or lives--neither does God!"

Yet with this idea came a sudden revulsion. Surely in the history ofhuman events, there was ample proof that God, or the invisible Power wecall by that name, did care? Crime was, and is, always followed bypunishment, sooner or later. Who ordained, --who ordains that this shallbe? Who is it that distinguishes between Right and Wrong, and adjuststhe balance accordingly? Not Man, --for Man in a barbarous state is oftenincapable of understanding moral law, till he is trained to it by theevolution of his being and the ever-progressive working of the unseenspiritual forces. And the first process of his evolution is theawakening of conscience, and the struggle to rise from his mere Self toa higher ideal of life, --from material needs to intellectualdevelopment. Why is he thus invariably moved towards this higher ideal?If the instinct were a mistaken one, foredoomed to disappointment, itwould not be allowed to exist. Nature does not endow us with any senseof which we do not stand in need, or any attribute which is useless tous in the shaping and unfolding of our destinies. True it is that we seemany a man and woman who appear to have no souls, but we dare not inferfrom these exceptions that the soul does not exist. Soulless beingssimply have no need of spirituality, just as the night-owl has no needof the sun, --they are bodies merely, and as bodies perish. As the angelsaid to the prophet Esdras:--"The Most High hath made this world formany, but the world to come for few. I will tell thee a similitude, Esdras; As when thou askest the earth, it shall say unto thee that itgiveth much mould whereof earthern vessels are made, but little dustthat gold cometh of, even so is the course of this present world!"

Weary of arguing with himself, Helmsley tried to reflect back on certainincidents of his youth, which now in his age came out like prominentpictures in the gallery of his brain. He remembered the pure and simplepiety which distinguished his mother, who lived her life out as sweetlyas a flower blooms, --thanking God every morning and night for Hisgoodness to her, even at times when she was most sorrowful, --he thoughtof his little sister, dead in the springtime of her girlhood, who neverhad a doubt of the unfailing goodness and beneficence of her Creator, and who, when dying, smiled radiantly, and whispered with her lastbreath, "I wish you would not cry for me, Davie dear!--the next world isso beautiful!" Was this "next world" in her imagination, or was it afact? Materialists would, of course, say it was imagination. But, in thelight of present-day science and discovery, who can pin one's faith onMaterialism?

"I have missed the talisman that would have made all the darkness oflife clear to me, " he said at last, half aloud; "and missing it, I havemissed everything of real value. Pain, loss, old age, and death wouldhave been nothing to me, if I had only won that magic glory of theworld--Love!"

His eyes again wandered to the sky, and he noticed that thegrey-and-white clouds in the west were rising still higher in fleecypyramids, and were spreading with a wool-like thickness gradually overthe whole heavens. The wind, too, had grown stronger, and its sighingsound had changed to a more strenuous moaning. The little dog, Charlie, tired of its master's gloomy absorption, jumped on his knee, andintimated by eloquent looks and wagging tail a readiness to be againnestled into some cosy corner. The shed was warm and comfortable, andafter some brief consideration, he decided to try and sleep for an houror so before again starting on his way. With this object in view, hearranged the packages of straw which filled one side of the shed intothe form of an extemporary couch, which proved comfortable enough whenhe lay down with Charlie curled up beside him. He could not helpthinking of the previous night, when he had seen the tall figure of Tomo' the Gleam approaching his bedside at the "Trusty Man, " with thelittle "surprise" gift he had so stealthily laid upon his pillow, --andit was difficult to realise or to believe that the warm, impulsive hearthad ceased to beat, and that all that splendid manhood was now butlifeless clay. He tried not to see the horribly haunting vision of themurdered Wrotham, with that terrible gash in his throat, and the bloodpouring from it, --he strove to forget the pitiful picture of the littledead "Kiddie" in the arms of its maddened and broken-hearted father--butthe impression was too recent and too ghastly for forgetfulness. 

"And yet with it all, " he mused, "Tom o' the Gleam had what I have neverpossessed--love! And perhaps it is better to die--even in the awful wayhe died--in the very strength and frenzy of love--rather than liveloveless!"

Here Charlie heaved a small sigh, and nestled a soft silky head closeagainst his breast. "I love you!" the little creature seemed to say--"Iam only a dog--but I want to comfort you if I can!" And hemurmured--"Poor Charlie! Poor wee Charlie!" and, patting the flossy coatof his foundling, was conscious of a certain consolation in the merecompanionship of an animal that trusted to him for protection. 

Presently he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. His brain was somewhatconfused, and scraps of old songs and verses he had known in boyhood, were jumbled together without cause or sequence, varying in their turnwith the events of his business, his financial "deals" and the generalresults of his life's work. He remembered quite suddenly and for noparticular reason, a battle he had engaged in with certain directors ofa company who had attempted to "better" him in a particularly importantinternational trade transaction, and he recalled his own sweepingvictory over them with a curious sense of disgust. What did itmatter--now?--whether he had so many extra millions, or so many moredegrees of power? Certain lines of Tennyson's seemed to contain greatertruths than all the money-markets of the world could supply:--

 "O let the solid earth Not fail beneath my feet, Before my life has found What some have found so sweet-- Then let come what come may, What matter if I go mad, I shall have had my day!

 "Let the sweet heavens endure Not close and 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!"

He murmured this last verse over and over again till it made meremonotony in his mind, and till at last exhausted nature had its way andlulled his senses into a profound slumber. Strange to say, as soon as hewas fast asleep, Charlie woke up. Perking his little ears sharply, hesat briskly erect on his tiny haunches, his forepaws well placed on hismaster's breast, his bright eyes watchfully fixed on the opening of theshed, and his whole attitude expressing that he considered himself "onguard. " It was evident that had the least human footfall broken thestillness, he would have made the air ring with as much noise as he wascapable of. He had a vibrating bark of his own, worthy of a much largeranimal, and he appeared to be anxiously waiting for an opportunity toshow off this special accomplishment. No such chance, however, offereditself; the minutes and hours went by in undisturbed order. Now and thena rabbit scampered across the field, or an owl flew through the treeswith a plaintive cry, --otherwise, so far as the immediate surroundingsof the visible land were concerned, everything was perfectly calm. Butup in the sky there were signs of gathering trouble. The clouds hadformed into woollier masses, --their grey had changed to black, theirwhite to grey, and the moon, half hidden, appeared to be hurryingdownward to the west in a flying scud of etheric foam. Some disturbancewas brewing in the higher altitudes of air, and a low snarling murmurfrom the sea responded to what was, perchance, the outward gust of afire-tempest in the sun. The small Charlie was, no doubt, quite ignorantof meteorological portents, nevertheless he kept himself wide awake, sniffing at empty space in a highly suspicious manner, his tiny blacknose moist with aggressive excitement, and his whole miniature beingprepared to make "much ado about nothing" on the smallest provocation. 

The morning broke sullenly, in a dull haze, though here and there palepatches of blue, and flushes of rose-pink, showed how fair the day wouldwillingly have made itself, had only the elements been propitious. Helmsley slept well on through the gradual unfolding of the dawn, and itwas fully seven o'clock when he awoke with a start, scarcely knowingwhere he was. Charlie hailed his return to consciousness with markedenthusiasm, and dropping the sentry "Who goes there?" attitude, gambolled about him delightedly. Presently remembering his environmentand the events which were a part of it, he quickly aroused himself, andcarefully packing up all the bundles of straw in the shed, exactly as hehad found them, he again went forth upon what he was disposed toconsider now a penitential pilgrimage. 

"In old times, " he said to himself, as he bathed his face and hands in alittle running stream by the roadside--"kings, when they foundthemselves miserable and did not know why they were so, went to thechurch for consolation, and were told by the priests that they hadsinned--and that it was their sins that made them wretched. And ajourney taken with fasting was prescribed--much in the way that ourfashionable physicians prescribe change of air, a limited diet andplenty of exercise to the luxurious feeders of our social hive. And theweary potentates took off their crowns and their royal robes, andtrudged along as they were told--became tramps for the nonce, like me. But I need no priest to command what I myself ordain!"

He resumed his onward way ploddingly and determinedly, though he wasbeginning to be conscious of an increasing weariness and lassitude whichseemed to threaten him with a break-down ere long. But he would notthink of this. 

"Other men have no doubt felt just as weak, " he thought. "There are manyon the road as old as I am and even older. I ought to be able to do ofmy own choice what others do from necessity. And if the worst comes tothe worst, and I am compelled to give up my project, I can always getback to London in a few hours!"

He was soon at Minehead, and found that quaint little watering-placefully astir; for so far as it could have a "season, " that season was nowon. A considerable number of tourists were about, and coaches and brakeswere getting ready in the streets for those who were inclined toundertake the twenty miles drive from Minehead to Lynton. Seeing abaker's shop open he went in and asked the cheery-looking woman behindthe counter if she would make him a cup of coffee, and let him have asaucer of milk for his little dog. She consented willingly, and showedhim a little inner room, where she spread a clean white cloth on thetable and asked him to sit down. He looked at her in some surprise. 

"I'm only 'on the road, '" he said--"Don't put yourself out too much forme. "

She smiled. 

"You'll pay for what you've ordered, I suppose?"

"Certainly!"

"Then you'll get just what everybody gets for their money, "--and hersmile broadened kindly--"We don't make any difference between poor andrich. "

She retired, and he dropped into a chair, wearily. "We don't make anydifference between poor and rich!" said this simple woman. How verysimple she was! No difference between poor and rich! Where would"society" be if this axiom were followed! He almost laughed to think ofit. A girl came in and brought his coffee with a plate of freshbread-and-butter, a dish of Devonshire cream, a pot of jam, and a smallround basket full of rosy apples, --also a saucer of milk which she setdown on the floor for Charlie, patting him kindly as she did so, withmany admiring comments on his beauty. 

"You've brought me quite a breakfast!" said Helmsley. "How much?"

"Sixpence, please. "

"Only sixpence?"

"That's all. It's a shilling with ham and eggs. "

Helmsley paid the humble coin demanded, and wondered where the "starvingpoor" came in, at any rate in Somersetshire. Any beggar on the road, making sixpence a day, might consider himself well fed with such a meal. Just as he drew up his chair to the table, a sudden gust of wind sweptround the house, shaking the whole building, and apparently hurling theweight of its fury on the roof, for it sounded as if a whole stack ofchimney-pots had fallen. 

"It's a squall, "--said the girl--"Father said there was a storm coming. It often blows pretty hard up this way. "

She went out, and left Helmsley to himself. He ate his meal, and fedCharlie with as much bread and milk as that canine epicure couldconsume, --and then sat for a while, listening to the curious hissing ofthe wind, which was like a suppressed angry whisper in his ears. 

"It will be rough weather, "--he thought--"Now shall I stay in Minehead, or go on?"

Somehow, his experience of vagabondage had bred in him a certainrestlessness, and he did not care to linger in any one place. Aninexplicable force urged him on. He was conscious that he entertained amost foolish, most forlorn secret hope, --that of finding some yetunknown consolation, --of receiving some yet unobtained heavenlybenediction. And he repeated again the lines:--

 "Let the sweet heavens endure, Not close and darken above me, Before I am quite, quite sure That there is one to love me!"

Surely a Divine Providence there was who could read his heart's desire, and who could see how sincerely in earnest he was to find some channelwherein the current of his accumulated wealth might flow after his owndeath, to fruitfulness and blessing for those who truly deserved it. 

"Is it so much to ask of destiny--just one honest heart?" he inwardlydemanded--"Is it so large a return to want from the world in which Ihave toiled so long--just one unselfish love? People would tell me I amtoo old to expect such a thing, --but I am not seeking the love of alover, --that I know is impossible. But Love, --that most god-like of allemotions, has many phases, and a merely sexual attraction is the leastand worst part of the divine passion. There is a higher form, --one farmore lasting and perfect, in which Self has very little part, --andthough I cannot give it a name, I am certain of its existence!"

Another gust of wind, more furious than the last, whistled overhead andthrough the crannies of the door. He rose, and tucking Charlie warmlyunder his coat as before, he went out, pausing on his way to thank themistress of the little bakery for the excellent meal he had enjoyed. 

"Well, you won't hurt on it, " she said, smilingly; "it's plain, but it'swholesome. That's all we claim for it. Are you going on far?"

"Yes, I'm bound for a pretty long tramp, "--he replied. "I'm walking tofind friends in Cornwall. "

She opened her eyes in unfeigned wonder and compassion. 

"Deary me!" she ejaculated--"You've a stiff road before you. And to-dayI'm afraid you'll be in for a storm. "

He glanced out through the shop-window. 

"It's not raining, "--he said. 

"Not yet, --but it's blowing hard, "--she replied--"And it's like to blowharder. "

"Never mind, I must risk it!" And he lifted his cap; "Good-day!"

"Good-day! A safe journey to you!"

"Thank you!"

And, gratefully acknowledging the kindly woman's parting nod and smile, he stepped out of the shop into the street. There he found the wind hadrisen indeed. Showers of blinding dust were circling in the air, blotting out the view, --the sky was covered with masses of murky clouddrifting against each other in threatening confusion--and there was adashing sound of the sea on the beach which seemed to be steadilyincreasing in volume and intensity. He paused for a moment under theshelter of an arched doorway, to place Charlie more comfortably underhis arm and button his coat more securely, the while he watched thepeople in the principal thoroughfare struggling with the capriciousattacks of the blast, which tore their hats off and sent them spinningacross the road, and played mischievous havoc with women's skirts, blowing them up to the knees, and making a great exhibition of feet, fewof which were worth looking at from any point of beauty or fitness. Andthen, all at once, amid the whirling of the gale, he heard a hoarsestentorian shouting--"Awful Murder! Local Crime! Murder of a Nobleman!Murder at Blue Anchor! Latest details!" and he started precipitatelyforward, walking hurriedly along with as much nervous horror as thoughhe had been guiltily concerned in the deed with which the town wasringing. Two or three boys ran past him, with printed placards in theirhands, which they waved in front of them, and on which in thick blackletters could be seen:--"Murder of Lord Wrotham! Death of the Murderer!Appalling Tragedy at Blue Anchor!" And, for a few seconds, amid theconfusion caused by the wind, and the wild clamour of the news-vendors, he felt as if every one were reeling pell-mell around him like personson a ship at sea, --men with hats blown off, --women and children runningaslant against the gale with hair streaming, --all eager to purchase thefirst papers which contained the account of a tragedy, enacted, as itwere, at their very doors. Outside a little glass and china shop at thetop of a rather hilly street a group of workingmen were standing, withthe papers they had just bought in their hands, and Helmsley, as hetrudged by, with stooping figure and bent head set against the wind, lingered near them a moment to hear them discuss the news. 

"Ah, poor Tom!" exclaimed one--"Gone at last! I mind me well how he usedto say he'd die a bad death!"

"What's a bad death?" queried another, gruffly--"And what's the truthabout this here business anyhow? Newspapers is allus full o' lies. There's a lot about a lord that's killed, but precious little aboutTom!"

"That's so!" said an old farmer, who with spectacles on was leaning hisback against the wall of the shop near which they stood, to shelterhimself a little from the force of the gale, while he read the paper heheld--"See here, --this lord was driving his motor along by Cleeve, andran over Tom's child, --why, that's the poor Kiddie we used to see Tomcarrying for miles on his shoulder----"

"Ah, the poor lamb!" And a commiserating groan ran through the littlegroup of attentive listeners. 

"And then, "--continued the farmer--"from what I can make out of thispaper, Tom picked up his baby quite dead. Then he started to run all theway after the fellow whose motor car had killed it. That's nat'ralenough!"

"Of course it is!" "I'd a' done it myself!" "Damn them motors!" mutteredthe chorus, fiercely. 

"If so be the motor 'ad gone on, Tom couldn't never 'ave caught up withit, even if he'd run till he dropped, " went on the farmer--"but as luckwould 'ave it, the thing broke down nigh to Blue Anchor, and Tom got hischance. Which he took. And--he killed this Lord Wrotham, whoever heis, --stuck him in the throat with a knife as though he were a pig!"

There was a moment's horrified silence. 

"So he wor!" said one man, emphatically--"A right-down reg'larroad-hog!"

"Then, "--proceeded the farmer, carefully studying the paper again--"Tom, 'avin' done all his best an' worst in this world, gives himself up tothe police, but just 'afore goin' off, asks if he may kiss his deadbaby, ----"

A long pause here ensued. Tears stood in many of the men's eyes. 

"And, " continued the farmer, with a husky and trembling voice--"he takesthe child in his arms, an' all sudden like falls down dead. God resthim!"

Another pause. 

"And what does the paper say about it all?" enquired one of the group. 

"It says--wait a minute!--it says--'Society will be plunged intomourning for Lord Wrotham, who was one of the most promising of ouryounger peers, and whose sporting tendencies made him a great favouritein Court circles. '"

"That's a bit o' bunkum paid for by the fam'ly!" said a great hulkingdrayman who had joined the little knot of bystanders, flicking his whipas he spoke, --"Sassiety plunged into mourning for the death of aprecious raskill, is it? I 'xpect it's often got to mourn that way! Rortan' rubbish! Tell ye what!--Tom o' the Gleam was worth a dozen o' yourmotorin' lords!--an' the hull countryside through Quantocks, ay, an'even across Exmoor, 'ull 'ave tears for 'im an' 'is pretty little Kiddiewhat didn't do no 'arm to anybody more'n a lamb skippin' in the fields. Tom worn't known in their blessed 'Court circles, '--but, by theLord!--he'd got a grip o' the people's heart about here, an' the peopledon't forget their friends in a hurry! Who the devil cares for LordWrotham!"

"Who indeed!" murmured the chorus. 

"An' who'll say a bad word for Tom o' the Gleam?"

"Nobody!" "He wor a rare fine chap!" "We'll all miss him!" eagerlyanswered the chorus. 

With a curious gesture, half of grief, half of defiance, the draymantore a scrap of black lining from his coat, and tied it to his whip. 

"Tom was pretty well known to be a terror to some folk, --specially liarsan' raskills, "--he said--"An' I aint excusin' murder. But all the sameI'm in mourning for Tom an' 'is little Kiddie, an' I don't care whoknows it!"

He went off, and the group dispersed, partly driven asunder by theincreasing fury of the wind, which was now sweeping through the streetsin strong, steady gusts, hurling everything before it. But Helmsley sethis face to the storm and toiled on. He must get out of Minehead. Thishe felt to be imperative. He could not stay in a town which now for manydays would talk of nothing else but the tragic death of Tom o' theGleam. His nerves were shaken, and he felt himself to be mentally, aswell as physically, distressed by the strange chance which hadassociated him against his will with such a grim drama of passion andrevenge. He remembered seeing the fateful motor swing down thatprecipitous road near Cleeve, --he recalled its narrow escape from acomplete upset at the end of the declivity when it had swerved round thecorner and rushed on, --how little he had dreamed that a child's life hadjust been torn away by its reckless wheels!--and that child theall-in-the-world to Tom o' the Gleam! Tom must have tracked the motor byfollowing some side-lane or short cut known only to himself, otherwiseHelmsley thought he would hardly have escaped seeing him. But, in anycase, the slow and trudging movements of an old man must have laggedfar, far behind those of the strong, fleet-footed gypsy to whom thewildest hills and dales, cliffs and sea caves were all familiar ground. Like a voice from the grave, the reply Tom had given to Matt Peke at the"Trusty Man, " when Matt asked him where he had come from, rang back uponhis ears--"From the caves of Cornwall! From picking up drift on theshore and tracking seals to their lair in the hollows of the rocks! Allsport, Matt! I live like a gentleman born, keeping or killing at mypleasure!"

Shuddering at this recollection, Helmsley pressed on in the teeth of theblast, and a sudden shower of rain scudded by, stinging him in the facewith the sharpness of needlepoints. The gale was so high, and the blowndust so thick on all sides, that he could scarcely see where he wasgoing, but his chief effort was to get out of Minehead and away from allcontact with human beings--for the time. In this he succeeded very soon. Once well beyond the town, he did not pause to make a choice of roads. He only sought to avoid the coast line, rightly judging that way to liemost open and exposed to the storm, --moreover the wind swooped in sofiercely from the sea, and the rising waves made such a terrificroaring, that, for the mere sake of greater quietness, he turned asideand followed a path which appeared to lead invitingly into some deephollow of the hills. There seemed a slight chance of the weatherclearing at noon, for though the wind was so high, the clouds werewhitening under passing gleams of sunlight, and the scud of rain hadpassed. As he walked further and further he found himself entering adeep green valley--a cleft between high hills, --and though he had noidea which way it led him, he was pleased to have reached acomparatively sheltered spot where the force of the hurricane was not sofiercely felt, and where the angry argument of the sea was deadened bydistance. There was a lovely perfume everywhere, --the dash of rain onthe herbs and field flowers had brought out their scent, and thefreshness of the stormy atmosphere was bracing and exhilarating. He putCharlie down on the grass, and was amused to see how obediently the tinycreature trotted after him, close at his heels, in the manner of awell-trained, well-taught lady's favourite. There was no danger ofwheeled or motor traffic in this peaceful little glen, which appeared tobe used solely by pedestrians. He rather wondered now and then whitherit led, but was not very greatly concerned on the subject. What pleasedhim most was that he did not see a single human being anywhere or a signof human habitation. 

Presently the path began to ascend, and he followed it upward. The climbbecame gradually steep and wearisome, and the track grew smaller, almostvanishing altogether among masses of loose stones, which had rolled downfrom the summits of the hills, and he had again to carry Charlie, whovery strenuously objected to the contact of sharp flints against hisdainty little feet. The boisterous wind now met him full-faced, --but, struggling against it, he finally reached a wide plateau, commanding aview of the surrounding country and the sea. Not a house was insight;--all around him extended a chain of hills, like a fortress setagainst invading ocean, --and straight away before his eyes ocean itselfrose and fell in a chaos of billowy blackness. What a sight it was!Here, from this point, he could take some measure and form some idea ofthe storm, which so far from abating as he had imagined it might, whenpassing through the protected seclusion of the valley he had just left, was evidently gathering itself together for a still fiercer onslaught. 

Breathless with his climbing exertions he stood watching the huge wallsof water, built up almost solidly as it seemed, by one force and dasheddown again by another, --it was as though great mountains liftedthemselves over each other to peer at the sky and were driven back againto shapelessness and destruction. The spectacle was all the more grandand impressive to him, because where he now was he could not hear thefull clamour of the rolling and retreating billows. The thunder of thesurf was diminished to a sullen moan, which came along with the wind andclung to it like a concordant note in music, forming one sustained chordof wrath and desolation. Darkening steadily over the sea and denselyover-spreading the whole sky, there were flying clouds of singularshape, --clouds tossed up into the momentary similitude of Titanesquehuman figures with threatening arms outstretched, --anon, to the filmlyoutlines of fabulous birds swooping downwards with jagged wings andravenous beaks, --or twisting into columns and pyramids of vapour asthough the showers of foam flung up by the waves had been caught inmid-air and suddenly frozen. Several sea-gulls were flying inland; twoor three soared right over Helmsley's head with a plaintive cry. Heturned to watch their graceful flight, and saw another phalanx of cloudscoming up behind to meet and cope with those already hurrying in withthe wind from the sea. The darkness of the sky was deepening everyminute, and he began to feel a little uneasy. He realised that he hadlost his way, and he looked on all sides for some glimpse of a mainroad, but could see none, and the path he had followed evidentlyterminated at the summit where he stood. To return to the valley he hadleft seemed futile, as it was only a way back to Minehead, which placehe wished to avoid. There was a small sheep track winding down on theother side of the hill, and he thought it possible that this might leadto a farm-road, which again might take him out on some more directhighway. He therefore started to follow it. He could scarcely walkagainst the wind; it blew with such increasing fury. Charlie shiveredaway from its fierce breath and snuggled his tiny body more warmly underhis protector's arm, withdrawing himself entirely from view. And nowwith a sudden hissing whirl, down came the rain. The two opposing forcesof cloud met with a sudden rush, and emptied their pent-up torrents onthe earth, while a low muttering noise, not of the wind, betokenedthunder. The prolonged heat of the last month had been very great allover the country, and a suppressed volcano was smouldering in the heartof the heavens, ready to shoot forth fire. The roaring of the sea grewmore distinct as Helmsley descended from the height and came nearer tothe coast line, --and the mingled scream of the angry surf on the shoreand the sword-like sweep of the rain, rang in his ears deafeningly, witha kind of monotonous horror. His head began to swim, and his eyes werehalf blinded by the sharp showers that whipped his face with blown dropsas hard and cold as hail. On he went, however, more like a strugglingdreamer in a dream, than with actual consciousness, --and darker andwilder grew the storm. A forked flash of lightning, running suddenlylike melted lava down the sky, flung half a second's lurid blue glareathwart the deepening blackness, --and in less than two minutes it wasfollowed by the first decisive peal of thunder rolling in deepreverberations from sea to land, from land to sea again. The war of theelements had begun in earnest. Amid their increasing giant wrath, Helmsley stumbled almost unseeingly along, --keeping his head down andleaning more heavily than was his usual wont upon the stout ash stickwhich was part of the workman's outfit he had purchased for himself inBristol, and which now served him as his best support. In the gatheringgloom, with his stooping thin figure, he looked more like a faded leaffluttering in the gale than a man, and he was beginning now to realisewith keen disappointment that his strength was not equal to the strainhe had been putting upon it. The weight of his seventy years waspressing him down, --and a sudden thrill of nervous terror ran throughhim lest his whim for wandering should cost him his life. 

"And if I were to die of exhaustion out here on the hills, what would besaid of me?" he thought--"They would find my body--perhaps--after somedays;--they would discover the money I carry in my vest lining, and aletter to Vesey which would declare my actual identity. Then I should becalled a fool or a madman--most probably the latter. No one wouldknow, --no one would guess--except Vesey--the real object with which Istarted on this wild goose chase after the impossible. It is a foolishquest! Perhaps after all I had better give it up, and return to the oldwearisome life of luxury, --the old ways!--and die in my bed in the usual'respectable' style of the rich, with expensive doctors, nurses andmedicines set in order round me, and all arrangements getting ready fora 'first-class funeral'!"

He laughed drearily. Another flash of lightning, followed almostinstantaneously by a terrific crash of thunder, brought him to a pause. He was now at the bottom of the hill which he had ascended from theother side, and perceived a distinct and well-trodden path whichappeared to lead in a circuitous direction towards the sea. Here thereseemed some chance of getting out of the labyrinth of hills into whichhe had incautiously wandered, and, summoning up his scattered forces, hepressed on. The path proved to be an interminable winding way, --firstup--then down, --now showing glimpses of the raging ocean, now dippingover bare and desolate lengths of land, --and presently it turnedabruptly into a deep thicket of trees. Drenched with rain and tired offighting against the boisterous wind which almost tore his breath away, he entered this dark wood with a vague sense of relief, --it offered somesort of shelter, and if the trees attracted the lightning and he werestruck dead beneath them, what did it matter after all! One way of dyingwas as good (or as bad) as another!

The over-arching boughs dripping with wet, closed over him and drew him, as it were, into their dense shadows, --the wind shrieked after him likea scolding fury, but its raging tone grew softer as he penetrated moredeeply into the sable-green depths of heavily foliaged solitude. Hisweary feet trod gratefully on a thick carpet of pine needles and massesof the last year's fallen leaves, --and a strong sweet scent of mingledelderflower and sweetbriar was tossed to him on every gust of rain. Herethe storm turned itself to music and revelled in a glorious symphony ofsound. 

"Oh ye Winds of God, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him forever!

"Oh ye Lightnings and Clouds, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnifyHim for ever!"

In full chords of passionate praise the hurricane swept its grand anthemthrough the rustling, swaying trees, as though these were the strings ofa giant harp on which some great Archangel played, --and the dash androar of the sea came with it, rolling in the track of another mightypeal of thunder. Helmsley stopped and listened, seized by anoverpowering enchantment and awe. 

"This--this is Life!" he said, half aloud--"Our miserable humanvanities--our petty schemes--our poor ambitions--what are they? Motes ina sunbeam!--gone as soon as realised! But Life, --the deep, self-contained divine Life of Nature--this is the only life that livesfor ever, the Immortality of which we are a part!"

A fierce gust of wind here snapped asunder a great branch from a tree, and flung it straight across his path. Had he been a few inches nearer, it would have probably struck him down with it. Charlie peeped out fromunder his arm with a pitiful little whimper, and Helmsley's heart smotehim. 

"Poor wee Charlie!" he said, fondling the tiny head; "I know what youwould say to me! You would say that if I want to risk my own life, Ineedn't risk yours! Is that it? Well!--I'll try to get you out of thisif I can! I wish I I could see some sign of a house anywhere! I'd makefor it and ask for shelter. "

He trudged patiently onwards, --but he was beginning to feel unsteady inhis limbs, --and every now and then he had to stop, overcome by asickening sensation of giddiness. The tempest had now fully developedinto a heavy thunderstorm, and the lightning quivered and gleamedthrough the trees incessantly, followed by huge claps of thunder whichclashed down without a second's warning, afterwards rolling away in longthudding detonations echoing for miles and miles. It was difficult towalk at all in such a storm, --the youngest and strongest pedestrianmight have given way under the combined onslaught of rain, wind, and thepattering shower of leaves which were literally torn, fresh and green, from their parent boughs and cast forth to whirl confusedly amid thetroubled spaces of the air. And if the young and strong would have foundit hard to brave such an uproar of the elements, how much harder was itfor an old man, who, deeming himself stronger than he actually was, andbuoyed up by sheer nerve and mental obstinacy, had, of his own choice, brought himself into this needless plight and danger. For now, in utterweariness of body and spirit, Helmsley began to reproach himselfbitterly for his rashness. A mere caprice of the imagination, --a fancythat, perhaps, among the poor and lowly he might find a love or afriendship he had never met with among the rich and powerful, was allthat had led him forth on this strange journey of which the end couldbut be disappointment and failure;--and at the present moment he felt sothoroughly conscious of his own folly, that he almost resolved onabandoning his enterprise as soon as he found himself once more on themain road. 

"I will take the first vehicle that comes by, "--he said, "and make forthe nearest railway station. And I'll end my days with a character forbeing 'hard as nails!'--that's the only way in which one can win therespectful consideration of one's fellows as a thoroughly 'sane andsensible' man!"

Just then, the path he was following started sharply up a steepacclivity, and there was no other choice left to him but still tocontinue in it, as the trees were closing in blindly intricate tanglesabout him, and the brushwood was becoming so thick that he could nothave possibly forced a passage through it. His footing grew moredifficult, for now, instead of soft pine-needles and leaves to treadupon, there were only loose stones, and the rain was blowing in downwardsqualls that almost by their very fury threw him backward on the ground. Up, still up, he went, however, panting painfully as he climbed, --hisbreath was short and uneasy--and all his body ached and shivered as withstrong ague. At last, --dizzy and half fainting, --he arrived at the topof the tedious and troublesome ascent, and uttered an involuntary cry atthe scene of beauty and grandeur stretched in front of him. How far hehad walked he had no idea, --nor did he know how many hours he had takenin walking, --but he had somehow found his way to the summit of a rockywooded height, from which he could survey the whole troubled expanse ofwild sky and wilder sea, --while just below him the hills were splitasunder into a huge cleft, or "coombe, " running straight down to thevery lip of ocean, with rampant foliage hanging about it on either sidein lavish garlands of green, and big boulders piled up about it, fromwhose smooth surfaces the rain swept off in sleety sheets, leaving themshining like polished silver. What a wild Paradise was heredisclosed!--what a matchless picture, called into shape and colour withall the forceful ease and perfection of Nature's handiwork! No glimpseof human habitation was anywhere visible; man seemed to have found nodwelling here; there was nothing--nothing, but Earth the Beautiful, andher Lover the Sea! Over these twain the lightnings leaped, and thethunder played in the sanctuary of heaven, --this hour of storm was alltheir own, and humanity was no more counted in their passionateintermingling of life than the insects on a leaf, or the grains of sandon the shore. For a moment or two Helmsley's eyes, straining and dim, gazed out on the marvellously bewitching landscape thus suddenlyunrolled before him, --then all at once a sharp pain running through hisheart caused him to flinch and tremble. It was a keen stab of anguish, as though a knife had been plunged into his body. 

"My God!" he muttered--"What--what is this?"

Walking feebly to a great stone hard by, he sat down upon it, breathingwith difficulty. The rain beat full upon him, but he did not heed it; hesought to recover from the shock of that horrible pain, --to overcome thecreeping sick sensation of numbness which seemed to be slowly freezinghim to death. With a violent effort he tried to shake the illnessoff;--he looked up at the sky--and was met by a blinding flash whichtore the clouds asunder and revealed a white blaze of palpitating firein the centre of the blackness--and at this he made some inarticulatesound, putting both his hands before his face to hide the angry mass offlame. In so doing he let the little Charlie escape, who, findinghimself out of his warm shelter and on the wet grass, stood amazed, andshivering pitifully under the torrents of rain. But Helmsley was notconscious of his canine friend's distress. Another pang, cruel andprolonged, convulsed him, --a blood-red mist swam before his eyes, and helost all hold on sense and memory. With a dull groan he fell forward, slipping from the stone on which he had been seated, in a helpless heapon the ground, --involuntarily he threw up his arms as a drowning manmight do among great waves overwhelming him, --and so wentdown--down!--into silence and unconsciousness. 

CHAPTER XII

The storm raged till sunset; and then exhausted by its own stress offury, began to roll away in angry sobs across the sea. The wind sanksuddenly; the rain as suddenly ceased. A wonderful flush of burningorange light cut the sky asunder, spreading gradually upward and palinginto fairest rose. The sullen clouds caught brightness at their summits, and took upon themselves the semblance of Alpine heights touched by themystic glory of the dawn, and a clear silver radiance flashed across theocean for a second and then vanished, as though a flaming torch had justflared up to show the troublous heaving of the waters, and had then beeninstantly quenched. As the evening came on the weather steadilycleared;--and presently a pure, calm, dark-blue expanse of etherstretched balmily across the whole width of the waves, with the eveningstar--the Star of Love--glimmering faintly aloft like a delicate jewelhanging on the very heart of the air. Far away down in the depths of the"coombe, " a church bell rang softly for some holy service, --and whenDavid Helmsley awoke at last from his death-like swoon he found himselfno longer alone. A woman knelt beside him, supporting him in herarms, --and when he looked up at her wonderingly, he saw two eyes bentupon him with such watchful tenderness that in his weak, half-consciousstate he fancied he must be wandering somewhere through heaven if thestars were so near. He tried to speak--to move, --but was checked by agentle pressure of the protecting arms about him. 

"Better now, dearie?" murmured a low anxious voice. "That's right! Don'ttry to get up just yet--take time! Let the strength come back to youfirst!"

Who was it--who could it be, that spoke to him with such affectionatesolicitude? He gazed and gazed and marvelled, --but it was too dark tosee the features of his rescuer. As consciousness grew more vivid, herealised that he was leaning against her bosom like a helplesschild, --that the wet grass was all about him, --and that he wascold, --very cold, with a coldness as of some enclosing grave. Sense andmemory returned to him slowly with sharp stabs of physical pain, andpresently he found utterance. 

"You are very kind!" he muttered, feebly--"I begin to recollect now--Ihad walked a long way--and I was caught in the storm--I felt ill, --veryill!--I suppose I must have fallen down here----"

"That's it!" said the woman, gently--"Don't try to think about it!You'll be better presently. "

He closed his eyes wearily, --then opened them again, struck by a suddenself-reproach and anxiety. 

"The little dog?" he asked, trembling--"The little dog I had withme----?"

He saw, or thought he saw, a smile on the face in the darkness. 

"The little dog's all right, --don't you worry about him!" said thewoman--"He knows how to take care of himself and you too! It was justhim that brought me along here where I found you. Bless the little soul!He made noise enough for six of his size!"

Helmsley gave a faint sigh of pleasure. 

"Poor little Charlie! Where is he?"

"Oh, he's close by! He was almost drowned with the rain, like a poormouse in a pail of water, but he went on barking all the same! I driedhim as well as I could in my apron, and then wrapped him up in mycloak, --he's sitting right in it just now watching me. "

"If--if I die, --please take care of him!" murmured Helmsley. 

"Nonsense, dearie! I'm not going to let you die out here on thehills, --don't think it!" said the woman, cheerily, --"I want to get youup, and take you home with me. The storm's well overpast, --if you couldmanage to move----"

He raised himself a little, and tried to see her more closer. 

"Do you live far from here?" he asked. 

"Only just on the upper edge of the 'coombe'--not in the village, "--sheanswered--"It's quite a short way, but a bit steep going. If you lean onme, I won't let you slip, --I'm as strong as a man, and as men gonowadays, stronger than most!"

He struggled to rise, and she assisted him. By dint of sheer mentalforce and determination he got himself on his feet, but his limbs shookviolently, and his head swam. 

"I'm afraid"--he faltered--"I'm afraid I am very ill. I shall only be atrouble to you----"

"Don't talk of trouble? Wait till I fetch the doggie!" And, turning fromhim a moment, she ran to pick up Charlie, who, as she had said, wassnugly ensconced in the folds of her cloak, which she had put for himunder the shelter of a projecting boulder, --"Could you carry him, do youthink?"

He nodded assent, and put the little animal under his coat as before, touched almost to weak tears to feel it trying to lick his hand. Meanwhile his unknown and scarcely visible protectress put an arm roundhim, holding him up as carefully as though he were a tottering infant. 

"Don't hurry--just take an easy step at a time, "--she said--"The moonrises a bit late, and we'll have to see our way as best we can with thestars. " And she gave a glance upward. "That's a bright one just over thecoombe, --the girls about here call it 'Light o' Love. '"

Moving stiffly, and with great pain, Helmsley was nevertheless impelled, despite his suffering, to look, as she was looking, towards the heavens. There he saw the same star that had peered at him through the window ofhis study at Carlton House Terrace, --the same that had sparkled out inthe sky the night that he and Matt Peke had trudged the road together, and which Matt had described as "the love-star, an' it'll be nowt elsein these parts till the world-without-end-amen!" And she whose eyes wereupturned to its silvery glory, --who was she? His sight was very dim, andin the deepening shadows he could only discern a figure of mediumwomanly height, --an uncovered head with the hair loosely knotted in athick coil at the nape of the neck, --and the outline of a face whichmight be fair or plain, --he could not tell. He was conscious of the warmstrength of the arm that supported him, for when he slipped once ortwice, he was caught up tenderly, without hurt or haste, and held evenmore securely than before. Gradually, and by halting degrees, he madethe descent of the hill, and, as his guide helped him carefully over afew loose stones in the path, he saw through a dark clump of foliage theglimmer of twinkling lights, and heard the rush of water. He paused, vaguely bewildered. 

"Nearly home now!" said his guide, encouragingly; "Just a few steps moreand we'll be there. My cottage is the last and the highest in thecoombe. The other houses are all down closer to the sea. "

Still he stood inert. 

"The sea!" he echoed, faintly--"Where is it?"

With her disengaged hand she pointed outwards. 

"Yonder! By and by, when the moon comes over the hill, it will beshining like a silver field with big daisies blowing and growing allover it. That's the way it often looks after a storm. The tops of thewaves are just like great white flowers. "

He glanced at her as she said this, and caught a closer glimpse of herface. Some faint mystical light in the sky illumined the outlines of herfeatures, and showed him a calm and noble profile, such as may be foundin early Greek sculpture, and which silently expresses the lines:

 "Beauty is truth, truth beauty, --that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know!"

He moved on with a quicker step, touched by a keen sense of expectation. Ill as he knew himself to be, he was eager to reach this woman'sdwelling and to see her more closely. A soft laugh of pleasure brokefrom her lips as he tried to accelerate his pace. 

"Oh, we're getting quite strong and bold now, aren't we!" she exclaimed, gaily--"But take care not to go too fast! There's a rough bit of bog andboulder coming. "

This was true. They had arrived at the upper edge of a bank overlookinga hill stream which was pouring noisily down in a flood made turgid bythe rain, and the "rough bit of bog and boulder" was a sort of naturalbridge across the torrent, formed by heaps of earth and rock, out ofwhich masses of wet fern and plumy meadow-sweet sprang in tall tufts andgarlands, which though beautiful to the eyes in day-time, were apt toentangle the feet in walking, especially when there was only theuncertain glimmer of the stars by which to grope one's way. Helmsley'sage and over-wrought condition made his movements nervous and falteringat this point, and nothing could exceed the firm care and delicatesolicitude with which his guide helped him over this last difficulty ofthe road. She was indeed strong, as she had said, --she seemed capableof lifting him bodily, if need were--yet she was not a woman of large orrobust frame. On the contrary, she appeared slightly built, and carriedherself with that careless grace which betokens perfect form. Oncesafely across the bridge and on the other side of the coombe, shepointed to a tiny lattice window with a light behind it which gleamedout through the surrounding foliage like a glow-worm in the darkness. 

"Here we are at home, " she said, --"Just along this path--it's quiteeasy!--now under this tree--it's a big chestnut, --you'll love it!--nowhere's the garden gate--wait till I lift the latch--that's right!--thegarden's quite small you see, --it goes straight up to the cottage--andhere's the door! Come in!"

As in a dream, Helmsley was dimly conscious of the swishing rustle ofwet leaves, and the fragrance of mignonette and roses mingling with thesalty scent of the sea, --then he found himself in a small, low, oak-raftered kitchen, with a wide old-fashioned hearth and ingle-nook, warm with the glow of a sparkling fire. A quaintly carved comfortablycushioned armchair was set in the corner, and to this his guideconducted him, and gently made him sit down. 

"Now give me the doggie!" she said, taking that little personage fromhis arms--"He'll be glad of his supper and a warm bed, poor little soul!And so will you!"

With a kindly caress she set Charlie down in front of the hearth, andproceeded to shut the cottage door, which had been left open as theyentered, --and locking it, dropped an iron bar across it for the night. Then she threw off her cloak, and hung it up on a nail in the wall, andbending over a lamp which was burning low on the table, turned up itswick a little higher. Helmsley watched her in a kind of stupefiedwonderment. As the lamplight flashed up on her features, he saw that shewas not a girl, but a woman who seemed to have thought and suffered. Herface was pale, and the lines of her mouth were serious, though verysweet. He could hardly judge whether she had beauty or not, because hesaw her at a disadvantage. He was too ill to appreciate details, and hecould only gaze at her in the dim and troubled weariness of an old andhelpless man, who for the time being was dependent on any kindly aidthat might be offered to him. Once or twice the vague idea crossed hismind that he would tell her who he was, and assure her that he hadplenty of money about him to reward her for her care and pains, --but hecould not bring himself to the point of this confession. The surpriseand sweetness of being received thus unquestioningly under the shelterof her roof as merely the poor way-worn tramp he seemed to be, were toogreat for him to relinquish. She, meanwhile, having trimmed the lamp, hurried into a neighboring room, and came in again with a bundle ofwoollen garments, and a thick flannel dressing gown on her arm. 

"This was my father's, " she said, as she brought it to him--"It's softand cosy. Get off your wet clothes and slip into it, while I go and makeyour bed ready. "

She spread the dressing gown before the fire to warm it, and was aboutto turn away again, when Helmsley laid a detaining hand on her arm. 

"Wait--wait!" he said--"Do you know what you are doing?"

She laughed. 

"Well, now that _is_ a question! Do I seem crazy?"

"Almost you do--to me!" And stirred into a sudden flicker of animation, he held her fast as he spoke--"Do you live alone here?"

"Yes, --quite alone. "

"Then don't you see how foolish you are? You are taking into your housea mere tramp, --a beggar who is more likely to die than live! Do yourealise how dangerous this is for you? I may be an escaped convict, --athief--even a murderer! You cannot tell!"

She smiled and nodded at him as a nurse might nod and smile at afanciful or querulous patient. 

"I can't tell, certainly, and don't want to know!" she replied--"I go bywhat I see. "

"And what do you see?"

She patted his thin cold hand kindly. 

"I see a very old man--older than my own dear father was when hedied--and I know he is too old and feeble to be out at night in the wetand stormy weather. I know that he is ill and weak, and suffering fromexhaustion, and that he must rest and be well nourished for a few daystill he gets strong again. And I am going to take care of him, "--hereshe gave a consoling little pressure to the hand she held. "I amindeed! And he must do as he is told, and take off his wet clothes andget ready for bed!"

Something in Helmsley's throat tightened like the contraction of arising sob. 

"You will risk all this trouble, "--he faltered--"for astranger--who--who--cannot repay you--?----"

"Now, now! You mustn't hurt me!" she said, with a touch of reproach inher soft tones--"I don't want to be repaid in any way. You know WHO itwas that said 'I was a stranger and ye took me in'? Well, He would wishme to take care of you. "

She spoke quite simply, without any affectation of religious sentiment. Helmsley looked at her steadily. 

"Is that why you shelter me?"

She smiled very sweetly, and he saw that her eyes were beautiful. 

"That is one reason, certainly!"--she answered; "But there isanother, --quite a selfish one! I loved my father, and when he died, Ilost everything I cared for in the world. You remind me of him--just alittle. Now will you do as I ask you, and take off your wet things?"

He let go her hand gently. 

"I will, "--he said, unsteadily--for there were tears in his eyes--"Iwill do anything you wish. Only tell me your name!"

"My name? My name is Mary, --Mary Deane. "

"Mary Deane!" he repeated softly--and yet again--"Mary Deane! A prettyname! Shall I tell you mine!"

"Not unless you like, "--she replied, quickly--"It doesn't matter!"

"Oh, you'd better know it!" he said--"I'm only old David--a man 'on theroad' tramping it to Cornwall. "

"That's a long way!" she murmured compassionately, as she took hisweather-beaten hat and shook the wet from it--"And why do you want totramp so far, you poor old David?"

"I'm looking for a friend, "--he answered--"And maybe it's no usetrying, --but I should like to find that friend before I die. "

"And so you will, I'm sure!" she declared, smiling at him, but withsomething of an anxious expression in her eyes, for Helmsley's face wasvery pinched and pallid, and every now and then he shivered violently aswith an ague fit--"But you must pick up your strength first. Thenyou'll get on better and quicker. Now I'm going to leave you while youchange. You'll find plenty of warm things with the dressing gown. "

She went out as before into the next room, and Helmsley managed, thoughwith considerable difficulty, to divest himself of his drenched clothesand get on the comfortable woollen garments she had put ready for him. When he took off his coat and vest, he spread them in front of the fireto dry instead of the dressing-gown which he now wore, and as soon asshe returned he specially pointed out the vest to her. 

"I should like you to put that away somewhere in your own safekeeping, "--he said. "It has a few letters and--and papers in it which Ivalue, --and I don't want any stranger to see them. Will you take care ofit for me?"

"Of course I will! Nobody shall touch it, be sure! Not a soul ever comesnigh me unless I ask for company!--so you can be quite easy in yourmind. Now I'm going to give you a cup of hot soup, and then you'll go tobed, won't you?--and, please God, you'll be better in the morning!"

He nodded feebly, and forced a smile. He had sunk back in the armchairand his eyes were fixed on the warm-hearth, where the tiny dog, Charlie, whom he had rescued, and who in turn had rescued him, was curled up andsnoozing peacefully. Now that the long physical and nervous strain ofhis journey and of his ghastly experience at Blue Anchor was past, hefelt almost too weak to lift a hand, and the sudden change from thefierce buffetings of the storm to the homely tranquillity of this littlecottage into which he had been welcomed just as though he had everyright to be there, affected him with a strange sensation which he couldnot analyse. And once he murmured half unconsciously:

"Mary! Mary Deane!"

"Yes, --that's me!" she responded cheerfully, coming to his side atonce--"I'm here!"

He lifted his head and looked at her. 

"Yes, I know you are here, --Mary!" he said, his voice trembling a littleas he uttered her name--"And I thank God for sending you to me in time!But how--how was it that you found me?"

"I was watching the storm, "--she replied--"I love wild weather!--I loveto hear the wind among the trees and the pouring of the rain! I wasstanding at my door listening to the waves thudding into the hollow ofthe coombe, and all at once I heard the sharp barking of a dog on thehill just above here--and sometimes the bark changed to a pitiful littlehowl, as if the animal were in pain. So I put on my cloak and crossedthe coombe up the bank--it's only a few minutes' scramble, though to youit seemed ever such a long way to-night, --and there I saw you lying onthe grass with the little doggie running round and round you, and makingall the noise he could to bring help. Wise little beastie!" And shestooped to pat the tiny object of her praise, who sighed comfortably andstretched his dainty paws out a little more luxuriously--"If it hadn'tbeen for him you might have died!"

He said nothing, but watched her in a kind of morbid fascination as shewent to the fire and removed a saucepan which she had set there someminutes previously. Taking a large old-fashioned Delft bowl from acupboard at one side of the fire-place, she filled it with steaming soupwhich smelt deliciously savoury and appetising, and brought it to himwith some daintily cut morsels of bread. He was too ill to feel muchhunger, but to please her, he managed to sip it by slow degrees, talkingto her between-whiles. 

"You say you live alone here, "--he murmured--"But are you always alone?"

"Always, --ever since father died. "

"How long is that ago?"

"Five years. "

"You are not--you have not been--married?"

She laughed. 

"No indeed! I'm an old maid!"

"Old?" And he raised his eyes to her face. "You are not old!"

"Well, I'm not young, as young people go, "--she declared--"I'mthirty-four. I was never married for myself in my youth, --and I shallcertainly never be married for my money in my age!" Again her prettylaugh rang softly on the silence. "But I'm quite happy, all the same!"

He still looked at her intently, --and all suddenly it dawned upon himthat she was a beautiful woman. He saw, as for the first time, the cleartransparency of her skin, the soft brilliancy of her eyes, and thewonderful masses of her warm bronze brown hair. He noted the perfectpoise of her figure, clad as it was in a cheap print gown, --the slimnessof her waist, the fulness of her bosom, the white roundness of herthroat. Then he smiled. 

"So you are an old maid!" he said--"That's very strange!"

"Oh, I don't think so!" and she shook her head deprecatingly--"Manywomen are old maids by choice as well as by necessity. Marriage isn'talways bliss, you know! And unless a woman loves a man very verymuch--so much that she can't possibly live her life without him, she'dbetter keep single. At least that's _my_ opinion. Now Mr. David, youmust go to bed!"

He rose obediently--but trembled as he rose, and could scarcely standfrom sheer weakness. Mary Deane put her arm through his to support him. 

"I'm afraid, "--he faltered--"I'm afraid I shall be a burden to you! Idon't think I shall be well enough to start again on my way to-morrow. "

"You won't be allowed to do any such foolish thing!" she answered, withquick decision--"So you can just make up your mind on _that_ score! Youmust stay here as my guest. "

"Not a paying one, I fear!" he said, with a pained smile, and a quickglance at her. 

She gave a slight gesture of gentle reproach. 

"I wouldn't have you on paying terms, "--she answered; "I don't take inlodgers. "

"But--but--how do you live?"

He put the question hesitatingly, yet with keen curiosity. 

"How do I live? You mean how do I work for a living? I am a lace mender, and a bit of a laundress too. I wash fine muslin gowns, and mend andclean valuable old lace. It's pretty work and pleasant enough in itsway. "

"Does it pay you well?"

"Oh, quite sufficiently for all my needs. I don't cost much to keep!"And she laughed--"I'm all by myself, and I was never money-hungry! Nowcome!--you mustn't talk any more. You know who I am and what I am, --andwe'll have a good long chat to-morrow. It's bed-time!"

She led him, as though he were a child, into a little room, --one of thequaintest and prettiest he had ever seen, --with a sloping rafteredceiling, and one rather wide latticed window set in a deep embrasure andcurtained with spotless white dimity. Here there was a plainold-fashioned oak bedstead, trimmed with the same white hangings, thebed itself being covered with a neat quilt of diamond-patterned silkpatchwork. Everything was delicately clean, and fragrant with the odourof dried rose-leaves and lavender, --and it was with all the zealous careof an anxious housewife that Mary Deane assured her "guest" that thesheets were well-aired, and that there was not "a speck of damp"anywhere. A kind of instinct told him that this dainty little sleepingchamber, so fresh and pure, with not even a picture on its white-washedwalls, and only a plain wooden cross hung up just opposite to the bed, must be Mary's own room, and he looked at her questioningly. 

"Where do you sleep yourself?" he asked. 

"Upstairs, "--she answered, at once--"Just above you. This is atwo-storied cottage--quite large really! I have a parlour besides thekitchen, --oh, the parlour's very sweet!--it has a big window which myfather built himself, and it looks out on a lovely view of the orchardand the stream, --then I have three more rooms, and a wash-house andcellar. It's almost too big a cottage for me, but father loved it, andhe died here, --that's why I keep all his things about me and stay on init. He planted all the roses in the orchard, --and I couldn't leavethem!"

Helmsley said nothing in answer to this. She put an armchair for himnear the bed. 

"Now as soon as you're in bed, just call to me and I'll put out thelight in the kitchen and go to bed myself, "--she said--"And I'll takethe little doggie with me, and make him comfortable for the night. I'mleaving you a candle and matches, and if you feel badly at all, there'sa handbell close by, --mind you ring it, and I'll come to you at once anddo all I can for you. "

He bent his eyes searchingly upon her in his old suspicious "business"way, his fuzzy grey eyebrows almost meeting in the intensity of hisgaze. 

"Tell me--why are you so good to me?" he asked. 

She smiled. 

"Don't ask nonsense questions, please, Mr. David! Haven't I told youalready?--not why I am 'good, ' because that's rubbish--but why I amtrying to take care of you?"

"Yes--because I am old!" he said, with a sudden pang ofself-contempt--"and--useless!"

"Good-night!" she answered, cheerfully--"Call to me when you are ready!"

She was gone before he could speak another word and he heard her talkingto Charlie in petting playful terms of endearment. Judging from thesounds in the kitchen, he concluded, and rightly, that she was gettingher own supper and that of the dog at the same time. For two or threeminutes he sat inert, considering his strange and unique position. Whatwould this present adventure lead to? Unless his new friend, Mary Deane, examined the vest he had asked her to take care of for him, she wouldnot discover who he was or from whence he came. Would she examineit?--would she unrip the lining, just out of feminine curiosity, and sewit up again, pretending that she had not touched it, after the "usualway of women"? No! He was sure, --absolutely sure--of her integrity. What? In less than an hour's acquaintance with her, would he swear toher honesty? Yes, he would! Never could such eyes as hers, so softly, darkly blue and steadfast, mirror a falsehood, or deflect the fragmentof a broken promise! And so, for the time being, in utter fatigue ofboth body and mind, he put away all thought, all care for the future, and resigned himself to the circumstances by which he was nowsurrounded. Undressing as quickly as he could in his weak and tremblingcondition, he got into the bed so comfortably prepared for him, and laydown in utter lassitude, thankful for rest. After he had lain so for afew minutes he called:

"Mary Deane!"

She came at once, and looked in, smiling. 

"All cosy and comfortable?" she queried--"That's right!" Then enteringthe room, she showed him the very vest, the possible fate of which hehad been considering. 

"This is quite dry now, "--she said--"I've been thinking that perhaps asthere are letters and papers inside, you'd like to have it near you, --soI'm just going to put it in here--see?" And she opened a small cupboardin the wall close to the bed--"There! Now I'll lock it up"--and shesuited the action to the word--"Where shall I put the key?"

"Please keep it for me yourself!" he answered, earnestly, --"It will besafest with you!"

"Well, perhaps it will, "--she agreed. "Anyhow no one can get at yourletters without _my_ consent! Now, are you quite easy?"

And, as she spoke, she came and smoothed the bedclothes over him, andpatted one of his thin, worn hands which lay, almost unconsciously tohimself, outside the quilt. 

"Quite!" he said, faintly, "God bless you!"

"And you too!" she responded--"Good-night--David!"

"Good-night--Mary!"

She went away with a light step, softly closing the door behind her. Returning to the kitchen she took up the little dog Charlie in her arms, and nestled him against her bosom, where he was very well content to be, and stood for a moment looking meditatively into the fire. 

"Poor old man!" she murmured--"I'm so glad I found him before it was toolate! He would have died out there on the hills, I'm sure! He's veryill--and so worn out and feeble!"

Involuntarily her glance wandered to a framed photograph which stood onthe mantelshelf, showing the likeness of a white-haired man standingamong a group of full-flowering roses, with a smile upon his wrinkledface, --a smile expressing the quaintest and most complete satisfaction, as though he sought to illustrate the fact that though he was old, hewas still a part of the youthful blossoming of the earth in summer-time. 

"What would you have done, father dear, if you had been hereto-night?"--she queried, addressing the portrait--"Ah, I need not ask! Iknow! You would have brought your suffering brother home, to share allyou had;--you would have said to him 'Rest, and be thankful!' For younever turned the needy from your door, my dear old dad!--never!--nomatter how much you were in need yourself!"

She wafted a kiss to the venerable face among the roses, --and thenturning, extinguished the lamp on the table. The dying glow of the fireshone upon her for a moment, setting a red sparkle in her hair, and asilvery one on the silky head of the little dog she carried, andoutlining her fine profile so that it gleamed with a pure soft palloragainst the surrounding darkness, --and with one final look round to seethat all was clear for the night, she went away noiselessly like alovely ghost and disappeared, her step making no sound on the shortwooden stairs that led to the upper room which she had hastily arrangedfor her own accommodation, in place of the one now occupied by thehomeless wayfarer she had rescued. 

There was no return of the storm. The heavens, with their mighty burdenof stars, remained clear and tranquil, --the raging voice of ocean wasgradually sinking into a gentle crooning song of sweet content, --andwithin the little cottage complete silence reigned, unbroken save forthe dash of the stream outside, rushing down through the "coombe" to thesea. 

CHAPTER XIII

The next morning Helmsley was too ill to move from his bed, or to beconscious of his surroundings. And there followed a long period which tohim was well-nigh a blank. For weeks he lay helpless in the grasp of afever which over and over again threatened to cut the last frail threadof his life asunder. Pain tortured every nerve and sinew in his body, and there were times of terrible collapse, --when he was conscious ofnothing save an intense longing to sink into the grave and have donewith all the sharp and cruel torment which kept him on the rack ofexistence. In a semi-delirious condition he tossed and moaned the hoursaway, hardly aware of his own identity. In certain brief pauses of thenights and days, when pain was momentarily dulled by stupor, he saw, orfancied he saw a woman always near him, with anxiety in her eyes andwords of soothing consolation on her lips;--and then he found himselfmuttering, "Mary! Mary! God bless you!" over and over again. Once ortwice he dimly realised that a small dark man came to his bedside andfelt his pulse and looked at him very doubtfully, and that she, Mary, called this personage "doctor, " and asked him questions in a whisper. But all within his own being was pain and bewilderment, --sometimes hefelt as though he were one drop in a burning whirlpool of madness--andsometimes he seemed to himself to be spinning round and round in a hazeof blinding rain, of which the drops were scalding hot, and heavy aslead, --and occasionally he found that he was trying to get out of bed, uttering cries of inexplicable anguish, while at such moments, somethingcool was placed on his forehead, and a gentle arm was passed round himtill the paroxysm abated, and he fell down again among his pillowsexhausted. Slowly, and as it were grudgingly, after many days, thecrisis of the illness passed and ebbed away in dull throbs ofagony, --and he sank into a weak lethargy that was almost like thecomatose condition preceding death. He lay staring at the ceiling forhours, heedless as to whether he ever moved or spoke again. Some-onecame and put spoonfuls of liquid nourishment between his lips, and heswallowed it mechanically without any sign of conscious appreciation. White as white marble, and aged by many years, he remained stretched inhis rigid corpse-like attitude, his eyes always fixedly upturned, tillone day he was roused from his deepening torpor by the sound of sobbing. With a violent effort he brought his gaze down from the ceiling, and sawa figure kneeling by his bed, and a mass of bronze brown hair fallingover a face concealed by two shapely white hands through which the tearswere falling. Feebly astonished, he stretched out his thin, tremblingfingers to touch that wonderful bright mesh of waving tresses, andasked--

"What is this? Who--who is crying?"

The hidden face was uplifted, and two soft eyes, wet with weeping, looked up hopefully. 

"It's Mary!" said a trembling voice--"You know me, don't you? Oh, dearie, if you would but try to rouse yourself, you'd get well evennow!"

He gazed at her in a kind of childish admiration. 

"It's Mary!" he echoed, faintly--"And who is Mary?"

"Don't you remember?" And rising from her knees, she dashed away hertears and smiled at him--"Or is it too hard for you to think at allabout it just now? Didn't I find you out on the hills in the storm, andbring you home here?--and didn't I tell you that my name was Mary?"

He kept his eyes upon her wistful face, --and presently a wan smilecrossed his lips. 

"Yes!--so you did!" he answered--"I know you now, Mary! I've been ill, haven't I?"

She nodded at him--the tears were still wet on her lashes. 

"Very ill!"

"Ill all night, I suppose?"

She nodded again. 

"It's morning now?"

"Yes, it's morning!"

"I shall get up presently, "--he said, in his old gentle courteousway--"I am sorry to have given you so much trouble! I must not burdenyour hospitality--your kindness----"

His voice trailed away into silence, --his eyelids drooped--and fell intoa sound slumber, --the first refreshing sleep he had enjoyed for manyweary nights and days. 

Mary Deane stood looking at him thoughtfully. The turn had come for thebetter, and she silently thanked God. Night after night, day after day, she had nursed him with unwearying patience and devotion, having noother help or guidance save her own womanly instinct, and the occasionaladvice of the village doctor, who, however, was not a qualified medicalman, but merely a herbalist who prepared his own simples. This humbleGamaliel diagnosed Helmsley's case as one of rheumatic fever, complicated by heart trouble, as well as by the natural weakness ofdecaying vitality. Mary had explained to him Helmsley's presence in hercottage by a pious falsehood, which Heaven surely forgave her as soon asit was uttered. She had said that he was a friend of her late father's, who had sought her out in the hope that she might help him to find somelight employment in his old age, and that not knowing the country atall, he had lost his way across the hills during the blinding fury ofthe storm. This story quickly ran through the little village, of whichMary's house was the last, at the summit of the "coombe, " and many ofits inhabitants came to inquire after "Mr. David, " while he lay tossingand moaning between life and death, most of them seriously commiseratingMary herself for the "sight o' trouble" she had been put to, --"all for atrampin' stranger like!"

"Though, "--observed one rustic sage--"Bein' a lone woman as y' are, Mis'Deane, m'appen if he knew yer father 'twould be pleasant to talk to himwhen 'is 'ed comes clear, if clear it iver do come. For when we've putour owd folk under the daisies, it do cheer the 'art a bit to talk of'em to those as knew 'em when they was a standin' upright, bold an'strong, for all they lays so low till last trumpet. "

Mary smiled a grave assent, and with wise tact and careful forethoughtfor the comfort and well-being of her unknown guest, quietly acceptedthe position she had brought upon herself as having given shelter andlodging to her "father's friend, " thus smoothing all difficulties awayfor him, whether he recovered from his illness or not. Had he died, shewould have borne the expenses of his burial without a word of otherexplanation than that which she had offered by way of appeasing thealways greedy curiosity of any community of human beings who aregathered in one small town or village, --and if he recovered, she wasprepared to treat him in very truth as her "father's friend. "

"For, "--she argued with herself, quite simply--"I am sure father wouldhave been kind to him, and when once _he_ was kind, it was impossiblenot to be his friend. "

And, little by little, Helmsley struggled back to life, --life that wasvery weak and frail indeed, but still, life that contained the wholeessence and elixir of being, --a new and growing interest. Little bylittle his brain cleared and recovered its poise, --once more he foundhimself thinking of things that had been done, and of things that wereyet worth doing. Watching Mary Deane as she went softly to and fro inconstant attendance on his needs, he was divided in his mind betweenadmiration, gratitude, and--a lurking suspicion, of which he wasashamed. As a business man, he had been taught to look for interestedmotives lying at the back of every action, bad or good, --and as hishealth improved, and calm reason again asserted its sway, he found itdifficult and well-nigh impossible to realise or to believe that thiswoman, to whom he was a perfect stranger, no more than a vagrant on theroad, could have given him so much of her time, attention, and care, unless she had dimly supposed him to be something other than he hadrepresented himself. Unable yet to leave his bed, he lay, to allappearances, quietly contented, acknowledging her gentle ministrationswith equally gentle words of thanks, while all the time he was mentallytormenting himself with doubts and fears. He knew that during hisillness he had been delirious, --surely in that delirium he might haveraved and talked of many things that would have yielded the entiresecret of his identity. This thought made him restless, --and oneafternoon when Mary came in with the deliciously prepared cup of teawhich she always gave him about four o'clock, he turned his eyes uponher with a sudden keen look which rather startled her by its piercingbrightness suggesting, as it did, some return of fever. 

"Tell me, "--he said--"Have I been ill long? More than a week?"

She smiled. 

"A little more than a week, "--she answered, gently--"Don't worry!"

"I'm not worrying. Please tell me what day it is!"

"What day it is? Well, to-day is Sunday. "

"Sunday! Yes--but what is the date of the month?"

She laughed softly, patting his hand. 

"Oh, never mind! What does it matter?"

"It does matter, "--he protested, with a touch of petulance--"I know itis July, but what time of July?"

She laughed again. 

"It's not July, " she said. 

"Not July!"

"No. Nor August!"

He raised himself on his pillow and stared at her in questioningamazement. 

"Not July? Not August? Then----?"

She took his hand between her own kind warm palms, stroking itsoothingly up and down. 

"It's not July, and it's not August!" she repeated, nodding at him asthough he were a worried and fractious child--"It's the second week inSeptember. There!"

His eyes turned from right to left in utter bewilderment. "But how----"he murmured----

Then he suddenly caught her hands in the one she was holding. 

"You mean to say that I have been ill all those weeks--a burden uponyou?"

"You've been ill all those weeks--yes!" she answered "But you haven'tbeen a burden. Don't you think it! You've--you've been a pleasure!" Andher blue eyes filled with soft tears, which she quickly mastered andsent back to the tender source from which they sprang; "You have, really!"

He let go her hand and sank back on his pillows with a smothered groan. 

"A pleasure!" he muttered--"I!" And his fuzzy eyebrows met in almost afrown as he again looked at her with one of the keen glances which thosewho knew him in business had learned to dread. "Mary Deane, do not tellme what is not and what cannot be true! A sick man--an old man--can beno 'pleasure' to anyone;--he is nothing but a bore and a trouble, andthe sooner he dies the better!"

The smiling softness still lingered in her eyes. 

"Ah well!"--she said--"You talk like that because you're not strong yet, and you just feel a bit cross and worried! You'll be better in anotherfew days----"

"Another few days!" he interrupted her--"No--no--that cannot be--I mustbe up and tramping it again--I must not stay on here--I have alreadystayed too long. "

A slight shadow crossed her face, but she was silent. He watched hernarrowly. 

"I've been off my head, haven't I?" he queried, affecting a certainbrusqueness in his tone--"Talking a lot of nonsense, I suppose?"

"Yes--sometimes, "--she replied--"But only when you were _very_ bad. "

"And what did I say?"

She hesitated a moment, and he grew impatient. 

"Come, come!" he demanded, irritably--"What did I say?"

She looked at him candidly. 

"You talked mostly about 'Tom o' the Gleam, '"--she answered--"That was apoor gypsy well known in these parts. He had just one little child leftto him in the world--its mother was dead. Some rich lord driving a motorcar down by Cleeve ran over the poor baby and killed it--and Tom----"

"Tom tracked the car to Blue Anchor, where he found the man who had runover his child and killed _him_!" said Helmsley, with grimsatisfaction--"I saw it done!"

Mary shuddered. 

"I saw it done!" repeated Helmsley--"And I think it was rightly done!But--I saw Tom himself die of grief and madness--with his dead child inhis arms--and _that!_--that broke something in my heart and brain andmade me think God was cruel!"

She bent over him, and arranged his pillows more comfortably. 

"I knew Tom, "--she said, presently, in a soft voice--"He was a wildcreature, but very kind and good for all that. Some folks said he hadbeen born a gentleman, and that a quarrel with his family had made himtake to the gypsy life--but that's only a story. Anyway his littlechild--'kiddie'--as it used to be called, was the dearest little fellowin the world--so playful and affectionate!--I don't wonder Tom went madwhen his one joy was killed! And you saw it all, you say?"

"Yes, I saw it all!" And Helmsley, with a faint sigh half closed hiseyes as he spoke--"I was tramping from Watchett, --and the motor passedme on my way, but I did not see the child run over. I meant to get alodging at Blue Anchor--and while I was having my supper at the publichouse Tom came in, --and--and it was all over in less than fifteenminutes! A horrible sight--a horrible, horrible sight! I see it now!--Ishall never forget it!"

"Enough to make you ill, poor dear!" said Mary, gently--"Don't think ofit now! Try and sleep a little. You mustn't talk too much. Poor Tom isdead and buried now, and his little child with him--God rest them both!It's better he should have died than lived without anyone to love him inthe world. "

"That's true!" And opening his eyes widely again, he gazed full ather--"That's the worst fate of all--to live in the world without anyoneto love you! Tell me--when I was delirious did I only talk of Tom o' theGleam?"

"That's the only person whose name you seemed to have on yourmind, "--she answered, smiling a little--"But you _did_ make a greatnoise about money!"

"Money?" he echoed--"I--I made a noise about money?"

"Yes!" And her smile deepened--"Often at night you quite startled me byshouting 'Money! Money!' I'm sure you've wanted it very badly!"

He moved restlessly and avoided her gaze. Presently he askedquerulously:

"Where is my old vest with all my papers?"

"It's just where I put it the night you came, "--she answered--"I haven'ttouched it. Don't you remember you told me to keep the key of thecupboard which is right here close to your bed? I've got it quite safe. "

He turned his head round on the pillow and looked at her with a suddensmile. 

"Thank you! You are very kind to me, Mary! But you must let me work offall I owe you as soon as I'm well. "

She put one finger meditatively on her lips and surveyed him with awhimsically indulgent air. 

"Let you work it off? Well, I don't mind that at all! But a minute agoyou were saying you must get up and go on the tramp again. Now, if youwant to work for me, you must stay----"

"I will stay till I have paid you my debt somehow!" he said--"I'mold--but I can do a few useful things yet. "

"I'm sure you can!" And she nodded cheerfully--"And you shall! Now resta while, and don't fret!"

She went away from him then to fetch the little dog, Charlie, who, nowthat his master was on the fair road to complete recovery, was alwaysbrought in to amuse him after tea. Charlie was full of exuberant life, and his gambols over the bed where Helmsley lay, his comic interest inthe feathery end of his own tail, and his general intense delight in thefact of his own existence, made him a merry and affectionate littleplaymate. He had taken immensely to his new home, and had attachedhimself to Mary Deane with singular devotion, trotting after hereverywhere as close to her heels as possible. The fame of his beauty hadgone through the village, and many a small boy and girl came timidly tothe cottage door to try and "have a peep" at the smallest dog ever seenin the neighbourhood, and certainly the prettiest. 

"That little dawg be wurth twenty pun!"--said one of the rustics toMary, on one occasion when she was sitting in her little garden, carefully brushing and combing the silky coat of the little"toy"--"Th'owd man thee's been a' nussin' ought to give 'im to thee as athank-offerin'. "

"I wouldn't take him, "--Mary answered--"He's perhaps the only friend thepoor old fellow has got in the world. It would be just selfish of me towant him. "

And so the time went on till it was past mid-September, and there came aday, mild, warm, and full of the soft subdued light of deepening autumn, when Mary told her patient that he might get up, and sit in an armchairfor a few hours in the kitchen. She gave him this news when she broughthim his breakfast, and added--

"I'll wrap you up in father's dressing gown, and you'll be quite cosyand safe from chill. And after another week you'll be so strong thatyou'll be able to dress yourself and do without me altogether!"

This phrase struck curiously on his ears. "Do without her altogether!"That would be strange indeed--almost impossible! It was quite early inthe morning when she thus spoke--about seven o'clock, --and he was not toget up till noon, "when the air was at its warmest, " said Mary--so helay very quietly, thinking over every detail of the position in which hefound himself. He was now perfectly aware that it was a position whichopened up great possibilities. His dream, --the vague indefinablelonging which possessed him for love--pure, disinterested, unselfishlove, --seemed on the verge of coming true. Yet he would not allowhimself to hope too much, --he preferred to look on the darker side ofprobable disillusion. Meanwhile, he was conscious of a sweetness andcomfort in his life such as he had never yet experienced. His thoughtsdwelt with secret pleasure on the open frankness and calm beauty of theface that had bent over him with the watchfulness of a guardian angelthrough so many days and nights of pain, delirium, and dread ofdeath, --and he noted with critically observant eyes the noiselessgraceful movement of this humbly-born woman, whose instincts were sodelicate and tender, whose voice was so gentle, and whose whole bearingexpressed such unaffected dignity and purity of mind. On this particularmorning she was busy ironing;--and she had left the door open betweenhis bedroom and the kitchen, so that he might benefit by the inflow offresh air from the garden, the cottage door itself being likewise thrownback to allow a full entrance of the invigorating influences of thelight breeze from the sea and the odours of the flowers. From his bed hecould see her slim back bent over the fine muslin frills she waspressing out with such patient precision, and he caught the glint of thesun on the rich twist of her bronze brown hair. Presently he heard someone talking to her, --a woman evidently, whose voice was pitched in aplaintive and almost querulous key. 

"Well, Mis' Deane, say 'ow ye will an' what ye will, --there's a spiderthis very blessed instant a' crawlin' on the bottom of the ironin'blanket, which is a sure sign as 'ow yer washin' won't come to no goodtry iver so 'ard, for as we all knows--'See a spider at morn, An' ye'llwish ye wornt born: See a spider at night, An' yer wrongs'll comeright!'"

Mary laughed; and Helmsley listened with a smile on his own lips. Shehad such a pretty laugh, --so low and soft and musical. 

"Oh, never mind the poor spider, Mrs. Twitt!"--she said--"Let it climbup the ironing blanket if it likes! I see dozens of spiders 'at morn, 'and I've never in my life wished I wasn't born! Why, if you go out inthe garden early, you're bound to see spiders!"

"That's true--that's Testymen true!" And the individual addressed asMrs. Twitt, heaved a profound sigh which was loud enough to flutterthrough the open door to Helmsley's ears--"Which, as I sez to Twittoften, shows as 'ow we shouldn't iver tempt Providence. Spiders thereis, an' spiders there will be 'angin' on boughs an' 'edges, frequent tooin September, but we aint called upon to look at 'em, only when thedevil puts 'em out speshul to catch the hi, an' then they meansmischief. An' that' just what 'as 'appened this present minit, Mis'Deane, --that spider on yer ironin' blanket 'as caught my hi. "

"I'm so sorry!" said Mary, sweetly--"But as long as the spider doesn'tbring _you_ any ill-luck, Mrs. Twitt, I don't mind for myself--I don't, really!"

Mrs. Twitt emitted an odd sound, much like the grunt of a small anddiscontented pig. 

"It's a reckless foot as don't mind precipeges, "--she remarked, solemnly--"'Owsomever, I've given ye fair warnin'. An' 'ow's yerfather's friend?"

"He's much better, --quite out of danger now, "--replied Mary--"He's goingto get up to-day. "

"David's 'is name, so I 'ears, "--continued Mrs. Twitt; "I've nevermyself knowed anyone called David, but it's a common name in some parts, speshul in Scripter. Is 'e older than yer father would 'a bin if so bethe Lord 'ad carried 'im upright to this present?"

"He seems a little older than father was when he died, "--answered Mary, in slow, thoughtful accents--"But perhaps it is only trouble and illnessthat makes him look so. He's very gentle and kind. Indeed, "--here shepaused for a second--then went on--"I don't know whether it's becauseI've been nursing him so long and have got accustomed to watch him andtake care of him--but I've really grown quite fond of him!"

Mrs. Twitt gave a short laugh. 

"That's nat'ral, seein' as ye're lone in life without 'usband orchilder, "--she said--"There's a many wimmin as 'ud grow fond of an AuntSally on a pea-stick if they'd nothin' else to set their 'arts on. An'as the old chap was yer father's friend, there's bin a bit o' feelin'like in lookin' arter 'im. But I wouldn't take 'im on my back as aburgin, Mis' Deane, if I were you. Ye're far better off by yerself withthe washin' an' lace-mendin' business. "

Mary was silent. 

"It's all very well, "--proceeded Mrs. Twitt--"for 'im to say 'e knew yerfather, but arter all _that_ mayn't be true. The Lord knows whether 'eaint a 'scaped convick, or a man as is grown 'oary-'edded with 'is ownwickedness. An' though 'e's feeble now an' wants all ye can give 'im, the day may come when, bein' strong again, 'e'll take a knife an' slityer throat. Bein' a tramp like, it 'ud come easy to 'im an' not to beblamed, if we may go by what they sez in the 'a'penny noospapers. I mindme well on the night o' the storm, the very night ye went out on the'ills an' found 'im, I was settin' at my door down shorewards watchin'the waves an' hearin' the wind cryin' like a babe for its mother, an' ifye'll believe me, there was a sea-gull as came and flopped down on astone just in front o' me!--a thing no sea-gull ever did to me all thetime I've lived 'ere, which is thirty years since I married Twitt. Thereit sat, drenched wi' the rain, an' Twitt came out in that slow, sillyway 'e 'as, an' 'e sez--'Poor bird! 'Ungry, are ye? an' throws it areg'lar full meal, which, if you believe me, it ate all up as cool as acowcumber. An' then----"

"And then?" queried Mary, with a mirthful quiver in her voice. 

"Then, --oh, well, then it flew away, "--and Mrs. Twitt seemed rathersorry for this commonplace end to what she imagined was a thrillingincident--"But the way that bird looked at me was somethin' awful! An'when I 'eerd as 'ow you'd found a friend o' yer father's a' trampin' an'wanderin' an' 'ad took 'im in to board an' lodge on trust, I sez toTwitt--'There you've got the meanin' o' that sea-gull! A stranger in thevillage bringin' no good to the 'and as feeds'im!'"

Mary's laughter rang out now like a little peal of bells. 

"Dear Mrs. Twitt!" she said--"I know how good and kind you are--but youmustn't have any of your presentiments about me! I'm sure the poorsea-gull meant no harm! And I'm sure that poor old David won't ever hurtme----" Here she suddenly gave an exclamation--"Why, I forgot! The doorof his room has been open all this time! He must have heard us talking!"

She made a hurried movement, and Helmsley diplomatically closed hiseyes. She entered, and came softly up to his bedside, and he felt thatshe stood there looking at him intently. He could hardly forbear asmile;--but he managed to keep up a very creditable appearance of beingfast asleep, and she stole away again, drawing the door to behind her. Thus, for the time being, he heard no more, --but he had gathered quiteenough to know exactly how matters stood with regard to his presence inher little home. 

"She has given out that I am an old friend of her father's!" hemused--"And she has done that in order to silence both inquiry andadvice as to the propriety of her having taken me under her shelter andprotection. Kind heart! Gentle soul! And--what else did she say? Thatshe had 'really grown quite fond' of me! Can I--dare I--believe that?No!--it is a mere feminine phrase--spoken out of compassionate impulse. Fond of me! In my apparent condition of utter poverty, --old, ill anduseless, who could or would be 'fond' of me!"

Yet he dwelt on the words with a kind of hope that nerved andinvigorated him, and when at noon Mary came and assisted him to get upout of bed, he showed greater evidence of strength than she had imaginedwould be possible. True, his limbs ached sorely, and he was very feeble, for even with the aid of a stick and the careful support of her strongarm, his movements were tottering and uncertain, and the few stepsbetween his bedroom and the kitchen seemed nearly a mile of exhaustingdistance. But the effort to walk did him good, and when he sank into thearmchair which had been placed ready for him near the fire, he looked upwith a smile and patted the gentle hand that had guided him along sosurely and firmly. 

"I'm an old bag of bones!" he said--"Not much good to myself or to anyone else! You'd better bundle me out on the doorstep!"

For an answer she brought him a little cup of nourishing broth tastilyprepared and bade him drink it--"every drop, mind!"--she told him with alittle commanding nod. He obeyed her, --and when he gave her back the cupempty he said, with a keen glance:

"So I am your father's friend, am I, Mary?"

The blood rushed to her cheeks in a crimson tide, --she looked at himappealingly, and her lips trembled a little. 

"You were so very ill!" she murmured--"I was afraid you might die, --andI had to send for the only doctor we have in the village--Mr. Bunce, --the boys call him Mr. Dunce, but that's their mischief, forhe's really quite clever, --and I was bound to tell him something by wayof introducing you and making him take care of you--even--even if what Isaid wasn't quite true! And--and--I made it out to myself this way--thatif father had lived he would have done just all he could for you, andthen you _would_ have been his friend--you couldn't have helpedyourself!"

He kept his eyes upon her as she spoke. He liked to see the softflitting of the colour to-and-fro in her face, --- her skin was so clearand transparent, --a physical reflection, he thought, of the cleartransparency of her mind. 

"And who was your father, Mary?" he asked, gently. 

"He was a gardener and florist, "--she answered, and taking from themantelshelf the photograph of the old man smiling serenely amid acollection of dwarf and standard roses, she showed it to him--"Here heis, just as he was taken after an exhibition where he won a prize. Hewas so proud when he heard that the first prize for a dwarf red rose hadbeen awarded to James Deane of Barnstaple. My dear old dad! He was agood, good man--he was indeed! He loved the flowers--he used to say thatthey thought and dreamed and hoped, just as we do--and that they hadtheir wishes and loves and ambitions just as we have. He had a very goodbusiness once in Barnstaple, and every one respected him, but somehow hecould not keep up with the demands for new things--'social sensations inthe way of flowers, ' he used to call them, and he failed at last, through no fault of his own. We sold all we had to pay the creditors, and then we came away from Barnstaple into Somerset, and took thiscottage. Father did a little business in the village, and for some ofthe big houses round about, --not much, of course--but I was always handywith my needle, and by degrees I got a number of customers forlace-mending and getting up ladies' fine lawn and muslin gowns. Sobetween us we made quite enough to live on--till he died. " Her voicesank--and she paused--then she added--"I've lived alone here eversince. "

He listened attentively. 

"And that is all your history, Mary? What of your mother?" he asked. 

Mary's eyes softened and grew wistful. 

"Mother died when I was ten, "--she said--"But though I was so little, Iremember her well. She was pretty--oh, so very pretty! Her hair wasquite gold like the sun, --and her eyes were blue--like the sea. Dadworshipped her, and he never would say that she was dead. He liked tothink that she was always with him, --and I daresay she was. Indeed, I amsure she was, if true love can keep souls together. "

He was silent. 

"Are you tired, David?" she asked, with sudden anxiety, --"I'm afraid I'mtalking too much!"

He raised a hand in protest. 

"No--no! I--I love to hear you talk, Mary! You have been so good tome--so more than kind--that I'd like to know all about you. But I've noright to ask you any questions--you see I'm only an old, poor man, andI'm afraid I shall never be able to do much in the way of paying youback for all you've done for me. I used to be clever at officework--reading and writing and casting up accounts, but my sight isfailing and my hands tremble, --so I'm no good in that line. But whateverI _can_ do for you, as soon as I'm able, I will!--you may depend uponthat!"

She leaned towards him, smiling. 

"I'll teach you basket-making, "--she said--"Shall I?"

His eyes lit up with a humorous sparkle. 

"If I could learn it, should I be useful to you?" he asked. 

"Why, of course you would! Ever so useful! Useful to me and useful toyourself at the same time!" And she clapped her hands with pleasure athaving thought of something easy upon which he could try his energies;"Basket-making pays well here, --the farmers want baskets for theirfruit, and the fishermen want baskets for their fish, --and its reallyquite easy work. As soon as you're a bit stronger, you shall begin--andyou'll be able to earn quite a nice little penny!"

He looked stedfastly into her radiant face. 

"I'd like to earn enough to pay you back all the expense you've been putto with me, "--he said, and his voice trembled--"But your patience andgoodness--that--I can never hope to pay for--that's heavenly!--that'sbeyond all money's worth----"

He broke off and put his hand over his eyes. Mary feigned not to noticehis profound emotion, and, taking up a paper parcel on the table, openedit, and unrolled a long piece of wonderful old lace, yellow with age, and fine as a cobweb. 

"Do you mind my going on with my work?" she asked, cheerily--"I'mmending this for a Queen!" And as he took away his hand from his eyes, which were suspiciously moist, and looked at her wonderingly, she noddedat him in the most emphatic way. "Yes, truly, David!--for a Queen! Oh, it's not a Queen who is my direct employer--no Queen ever knows anythingabout me! It's a great firm in London that sends this to me to mend fora Queen--they trust me with it, because they know me. I've had laceworth thousands of pounds in my hands, --this piece is valued at eighthundred, apart from its history--it belonged to Marie Louise, secondwife of Napoleon the First. It's a lovely bit!--but there are some cruelholes in it. Ah, dear me!" And, sitting down near the door, she bent herhead closely over the costly fabric--"Queens don't think of the eyesthat have gone out in blindness doing this beautiful work!--or the handsthat have tired and the hearts that have broken over it! They wouldnever run pins into it if they did!"

He watched her sitting as she now was in the sunlight that flooded thedoorway, and tried to overcome the emotional weakness that moved him tostretch out his arms to her as though she were his daughter, to call herto his side, and lay his hands on her head in blessing, and to beg herto let him stay with her now and always until the end of his days, --anend which he instinctively felt could not be very long in coming. But herealised enough of her character to know that were he to give himselfaway, and declare his real identity and position in the world of men, she would probably not allow him to remain in her cottage for anothertwenty-four hours. She would look at him with her candid eyes, andexpress her honest regret that he had deceived her, but he was certainthat she would not accept a penny of payment at his hands for anythingshe had done for him, --her simple familiar manner and way of speechwould change--and he should lose her--lose her altogether. And he wasnervously afraid just now to think of what her loss might mean to him. He mastered his thoughts by an effort, and presently, forcing a smile, said:

"You were ironing lace this morning, instead of mending it, weren't you, Mary?"

She looked up quickly. 

"No, I wasn't ironing lace--lace must never be ironed, David! It mustall be pulled out carefully with the fingers, and the pattern must bepricked out on a frame or a cushion, with fine steel pins, just as if itwere in the making. I was ironing a beautiful muslin gown for a lady whobuys all her washing dresses in Paris. She couldn't get any one inEngland to wash them properly till she found me. She used to send themall away to a woman in Brittany before. The French are wonderfulwashers, --we're not a patch on them over here. So you saw me ironing?"

"I could just catch a glimpse of you at work through the door, " heanswered--"and I heard you talking as well----"

"To Mrs. Twitt? Ah, I thought you did!" And she laughed. "Well, I wishyou could have seen her, as well as heard her! She is the quaintest oldsoul! She's the wife of a stonemason who lives at the bottom of thevillage, near the shore. Almost everything that happens in the day orthe night is a sign of good or bad luck with her. I expect it's becauseher husband makes so many tombstones that she gets morbid, --but, ohdear!--if God managed the world according to Mrs. Twitt's notions, whata funny world it would be!"

She laughed again, --then shook her finger archly at him. 

"You _pretended_ to be asleep, then, when I came in to see if you heardus talking?"

He nodded a smiling assent. 

"That was very wrong of you! You should never pretend to be what you arenot!" He started nervously at this, and to cover his confusion called tothe little dog, Charlie, who at once jumped up on his knees;--"Youshouldn't, really! Should he, Charlie?" Charlie sat upright, and lolleda small red tongue out between two rows of tiny white teeth, by way of alaugh at the suggestion--"People--even dogs--are always found out whenthey do that!"

"What are those bright flowers out in your garden just beyond the doorwhere you are sitting?" Helmsley asked, to change the conversation. 

"Phloxes, "--she answered--"I've got all kinds and colours--crimson, white, mauve, pink, and magenta. Those which you can see from where yousit are the crimson ones--father's favourites. I wish you could get outand look at the Virginian creeper--it's lovely just now--quite a blazeof scarlet all over the cottage. And the Michaelmas daisies are comingon finely. "

"Michaelmas!" he echoed--"How late in the year it is growing!"

"Ay, that's true!" she replied--"Michaelmas means that summer's past. "

"And it was full summer when I started on my tramp to Cornwall!" hemurmured. 

"Never mind thinking about that just now, " she said quickly--"Youmustn't worry your head. Mr. Bunce says you mustn't on any account worryyour head. "

"Mr. Bunce!" he repeated wearily--"What does Mr. Bunce care?"

"Mr. Bunce _does_ care, " averred Mary, warmly--"Mr. Bunce is a very goodlittle man, and he says you are a very gentle patient to deal with. He'sdone all he possibly could for you, and he knows you've got no money topay him, and that I'm a poor woman, too--but he's been in to see younearly every day--so you must really think well of Mr. Bunce. "

"I do think well of him--I am most grateful to him, " said Davidhumbly--"But all the same it's _you_, Mary! You even got me theattention of Mr. Bunce!"

She smiled happily. 

"You're feeling better, David!" she declared--"There's a nice brightsparkle in your eyes! I should think you were quite a cheerful old boywhen you're well!"

This suggestion amused him, and he laughed. 

"I have tried to be cheerful in my time, "--he said--"though I've not hadmuch to be cheerful about. "

"Oh, that doesn't matter!" she replied!--"Dad used to say that whateverlittle we had to be thankful for, we ought to make the most of it. It'seasy to be glad when everything is gladness, --but when you've only gotjust a tiny bit of joy in a whole wilderness of trouble, then we can'tbe too grateful for that tiny bit of joy. At least, so I take it. "

"Where did you learn your philosophy, Mary?" he asked, halfwhimsically--"I mean, who taught you to think?"

She paused in her lace-mending, needle in hand. 

"Who taught me to think! Well, I don't know!--it come natural to me. But I'm not what is called 'educated' at all. "

"Are you not?"

"No. I never learnt very much at school. I got the lessons into my headas long as I had to patter them off by heart like a parrot, --but theteachers were all so dull and prosy, and never took any real pains toexplain things to me, --indeed, now when I come to think of it, I don'tbelieve they _could_ explain!--they needed teaching themselves. Anyhow, as soon as I came away I forgot everything but reading and writing andsums--and began to learn all over again with Dad. Dad made me read tohim every night--all sorts of books. "

"Had you a Free Library at Barnstaple?"

"I don't know--I never asked, "--she said--"Father hated 'lent' books. Hehad a savings-box--he used to call it his 'book-box'--and he wouldalways drop in every spare penny he had for books till he'd got a fewshillings, and then he would buy what he called 'classics. ' They're allso cheap, you see. And by degrees we got Shakespeare and Carlyle, andEmerson and Scott and Dickens, and nearly all the poets; when you gointo the parlour you'll see quite a nice bookcase there, full of books. It's much better to have them like that for one's own, than wait turnsat a Free Library. I've read all Shakespeare at least twenty timesover. " The garden-gate suddenly clicked open and she turned her head. "Here's Mr. Bunce come to see you. "

Helmsley drew himself up a little in his chair as the village doctorentered, and after exchanging a brief "Good-morning!" with Mary, approached him. The situation was curious;--here was he, --amulti-millionaire, who could have paid the greatest specialists in theworld for their medical skill and attendance, --under the supervision andscrutiny of this simple herbalist, who, standing opposite to him, bent apair of kindly brown eyes enquiringly upon his face. 

"Up to-day, are we?" said Mr. Bunce--"That is well; that's very well!Better in ourselves, too, are we? Better in ourselves?"

"I am much better, "--replied Helmsley--"Very much better!--thanks to youand Miss Deane. You--you have both been very good to me. "

"That's well--that's very well!" And Mr. Bunce appeared to ruminate, while Helmsley studied his face and figure with greater appreciationthan he had yet been able to do. He had often seen this small dark manin the pauses of his feverish delirium, --often he had tried to answerhis gentle questions, --often in the dim light of early morning or lateevening he had sought to discern his features, and yet could makenothing clear as to their actual form, save that their expression waskind. Now, as it seemed for the first time, he saw Mr. Bunce as hewas, --small and wiry, with a thin, clean-shaven face, deeply furrowed, broad brows, and a pleasant look, --the eyes especially, deep sunk in thehead though they were, had a steady tenderness in them such as one seesin the eyes of a brave St. Bernard dog who has saved many lives. 

"We must, "--said Mr. Bunce, after a long pause--"be careful. We have gotout of bed, but we must not walk much. The heart is weak--we must avoidany strain upon it. We must sit quiet. "

Mary was listening attentively, and nodded her agreement to thispronouncement. 

"We must, "--proceeded Mr. Bunce, laboriously--"sit quiet. We may get upevery day now, --a little earlier each time, remaining up a little latereach time, --but we must sit quiet. "

Again Mary nodded gravely. Helmsley looked quickly from one to theother. A close observer might have seen the glimmer of a smile throughhis fuzzy grey-white beard, --for his thoughts were very busy. He saw inBunce another subject whose disinterested honesty might be worthdissecting. 

"But, doctor----" he began. 

Mr. Bunce raised a hand. 

"I'm not 'doctor, ' my man!" he said--"have no degree--noqualification--no diploma--no anything whatever but just a little, avery little common sense, --yes! And I am simply Bunce, "--and here asmile spread out all the furrows in his face and lit up his eyes; "Or, as the small boys call me, Dunce!"

"That's all very well, but you're a doctor to me, " said Helmsley--"Andyou've been as much as any other doctor could possibly be, I'm sure. Butyou tell me I must sit quiet--I don't see how I can do that. I was onthe tramp till I broke down, --and I must go on the tramp again, --Ican't be a burden on--on----"

He broke off, unable to find words to express himself. But his inwardeagerness to test the character and attributes of the two human beingswho had for the present constituted themselves as his guardians, madehim tremble violently. And Mr. Bunce looked at him with the scrutinisingair of a connoisseur in the ailments of all and sundry. 

"We are nervous, "--he pronounced--"We are highly nervous. And we aretherefore not sure of ourselves. We must be entirely sure of ourselves, unless we again wish to lose ourselves. Now we presume that when 'on thetramp' as we put it, we were looking for a friend. Is that not so?"

Helmsley nodded. 

"We were trying to find the house of the late Mr. James Deane?"

Mary uttered a little sound that was half a sob and half a sigh. Helmsley glanced at her with a reassuring smile, and then repliedsteadily, --

"That was so!"

"Our friend, Mr. Deane, unfortunately died some five yearssince, "--proceeded Mr. Bunce, --"And we found his daughter, or rather, his daughter found us, instead. This we may put down to an act ofProvidence. Now the only thing we can do under the present circumstancesis to remain with our late old friend's daughter, till we get well. "

"But, doctor, "--exclaimed Helmsley, determined, if possible, to shakesomething selfish, commercial and commonplace out of this odd little manwith the faithful canine eyes--"I can't be a burden on her! I've got nomoney--I can't pay you for all your care! What you do for me, you do forabsolutely nothing--nothing--nothing! Don't you understand?"

His voice rang out with an almost rasping harshness, and Mr. Buncetapped his own forehead gently, but significantly. 

"We worry ourselves, "--he observed, placidly--"We imagine what does notexist. We think that Bunce is sending in his bill. We should wait tillthe bill comes, should we not, Miss Deane?" He smiled, and Mary gave asoft laugh of agreement--"And while we wait for Bunce's bill, we willalso wait for Miss Deane's. And, in the meantime, we must sit quiet. "

There was a moment's silence. Helmsley felt a smarting moisture at theback of his eyes. He longed to pour out all his history to these twosimple unworldly souls, --to tell them that he was rich, --rich beyond thefurthest dreams of their imagining, --rich enough to weigh down thelight-hearted contentment of their lives with a burden of gold, --andyet--yet he knew that if he spoke thus and confessed himself, all thesweetness of the friendship which was now so disinterested would beembittered and lost. He thought, with a latent self-contempt andremorse, of certain moods in which he had sometimes indulged, --moods inwhich he had cynically presumed that he could buy everything in theworld for money. Kings, thrones, governments, might be had for money, heknew, for he had often purchased their good-will--but Love was a jewelhe had never found in any market--unpurchasable as God! And while he yetinwardly mused on his position, Bunce bent over him, and taking his thinwrinkled hand, patted it gently. 

"Good-bye for the present, David!" he said, kindly--"We are on themend--we are certainly on the mend! We hope the ways of nature will beremedial--and that we shall pick up our strength before the winterfairly sets in--yes, we hope--we certainly may hope for that----"

"Mr. Bunce, " said Helmsley, with sudden energy--"God bless you!"

CHAPTER XIV

The time now went on peacefully, one day very much like another, andHelmsley steadily improved in health and strength, so far recoveringsome of his old vigour and alertness as to be able to take a slow andhalting daily walk through the village, which, for present purposesshall be called Weircombe. The more he saw of the place, the more heloved it, and the more he was enchanted with its picturesque position. In itself it was a mere cluster of little houses, dotted about on eitherside of a great cleft in the rocks through which a clear mountain streamtumbled to the sea, --but the houses were covered from basement to roofwith clambering plants and flowers, especially the wild fuschia, which, with one or two later kinds of clematis and "morning glory" convolvolus, were still in brilliant bloom when the mellow days of October began toclose in to the month's end. All the cottages in the "coombe" werepretty, but to Helmsley's mind Mary Deane's was the prettiest, perchedas it was on a height overlooking the whole village and near to the tinychurch, which crowned the hill with a little tower rising heavenward. The view of the ocean from Weircombe was very wide and grand, --on sunnydays it was like an endless plain of quivering turquoise-blue, withwhite foam-roses climbing up here and there to fall and vanishagain, --and when the wind was high, it was like an onward sweeping arrayof Titanic shapes clothed in silver armour and crested with snowyplumes, all rushing in a wild charge against the shore, with such aclatter and roar as often echoed for miles inland. To make his waygradually down through the one little roughly cobbled street to the veryedge of the sea, was one of Helmsley's greatest pleasures, and he soongot to know most of the Weircombe folk, while they in their turn, grewaccustomed to seeing him about among them, and treated him with a kindlyfamiliarity, almost as if he were one of themselves. And his new leaseof life was, to himself, singularly happy. He enjoyed every moment ofit, --every little incident was a novel experience, and he was nevertired of studying the different characters he met, --especially and aboveall the character of the woman whose house was, for the time being, hishome, and who treated with him all the care and solicitude that adaughter might show to her father. And--he was learning what might becalled a trade or a craft, --which fact interested and amused him. He whohad moved the great wheel of many trades at a mere touch of his finger, was now docilely studying the art of basket-making, and training hisunaccustomed hands to the bending of withes and osiers, --he whosedeftly-laid financial schemes had held the money-markets of the world insuspense, was now patiently mastering the technical business of forminga "slath, " and fathoming the mysteries of "scalluming. " Like an obedientchild at school he implicitly followed the instructions of his teacher, Mary, who with the first basket he completed went out and effected asale as she said "for fourpence, " though really for twopence. 

"And good pay, too!" she said, cheerfully--"It's not often one gets somuch for a first make. "

"That fourpence is yours, " said Helmsley, smiling at her--"You've theright to all my earnings!"

She looked serious. 

"Would you like me to keep it?" she asked--"I mean, would it please youif I did, --would you feel more content?"

"I should--you know I should!" he replied earnestly. 

"All right, then! I'll check it off your account!" And laughing merrily, she patted his head as he sat bending over another specimen of hisbasket manufacture--"At any rate, you're not getting bald over yourwork, David! I never saw such beautiful white hair as yours!"

He glanced up at her. 

"May I say, in answer to that, that I never saw such beautiful brownhair as yours?"

She nodded. 

"Oh, yes, you may say it, because I know it's true. My hair is my onebeauty, --see!"

And pulling out two small curved combs, she let the whole wealth of hertresses unwind and fall. Her hair dropped below her knees in a gloriousmass of colour like that of a brown autumn leaf with the sun justglistening on it. She caught it up in one hand and knotted it all againat the back of her head in a minute. 

"It's lovely, isn't it?"--she said, quite simply--"I should think itlovely if I saw it on anybody else's head, or cut off hanging in ahair-dresser's shop window. I don't admire it because it's mine, youknow! I admire it as hair merely. "

"Hair merely--yes, I see!" And he bent and twisted the osiers in hishands with a sudden vigour that almost snapped them. He was thinking ofcertain women he had known in London--women whose tresses, dyed, waved, crimped and rolled over fantastically shaped "frames, " had moved him topositive repulsion, --so much so that he would rather have touched theskin of a dead rat than laid a finger on the tinted stuff called "hair"by these feminine hypocrites of fashion. He had so long been accustomedto shams that the open sincerity of the Weircombe villagers was almostconfusing to his mind. Nobody seemed to have anything to conceal. Everybody knew, or seemed to know, all about everybody else's business. There were no bye-roads or corners in Weircombe. There was only one wayout, --to the sea. Height at the one end, --width and depth at the other. It seemed useless to have any secrets. He, David Helmsley, felt himselfto be singular and apart, in that he had his own hidden mystery. Heoften found himself getting restless under the quiet observation of Mr. Bunce's eye, yet Mr. Bunce had no suspicions of him whatever. Mr. Buncemerely watched him "professionally, " and with the kindest intention. Infact, he and Bunce became great friends. Bunce had entirely accepted thestory he told about himself to the effect that he had once been "in anoffice in the city, " and looked upon him as a superannuated bank clerk, too old to be kept on in his former line of business. Questions thatwere put to him respecting his "late friend, James Deane, " he answeredwith apparent good faith by saying that it was a long time since he hadseen him, and that it was only as a "last forlorn hope" that he had setout to try and find him, "as he had always been helpful to those inneed. " Mary herself wished that this little fiction of her "father'sfriend" should be taken as fact by all the village, and a curious partof her character was that she never sought to ask Helmsley privately, for her own enlightenment, anything of his history. She seemed contentto accept him as an old and infirm man, who must be taken care of simplybecause he was old and infirm, without further question or argument. Bunce was always very stedfast in his praise of her. 

"She ought--yes--she ought possibly to have married, --" he said, in hisslow, reflective way--"She would have made a good wife, and a stillbetter mother. But an all-wise Providence has a remarkable habit--yes, Ithink we may call it quite a remarkable habit!--of persuading mengenerally to choose thriftless and flighty women for their wives, and toleave the capable ones single. That is so. Or in Miss Deane's case itmay be an illustration of the statement that 'Mary hath chosen thebetter part. ' Certainly when either men or women are happy in a state ofsingle blessedness, a reference to the Seventh Chapter of the Epistle ofSt. Paul to the Corinthians, will strengthen their minds andconsiderably assist them to remain in that condition. "

Thus Bunce would express himself, with a weighty air as of having givensome vastly important and legal pronouncement. And when Helmsleysuggested that it was possible Mary might yet marry, he shook his headin a strongly expressed negative. 

"No, David--no!" he said--"She is what we call--yes, I think we callit--an old maid. This is not a kind term, perhaps, but it is a true one. She is, I believe, in her thirty-fifth year, --a settled and maturewoman. No man would take her unless she had a little money--enough, letus say, to help him set up a farm. For if a man takes youth to hisbosom, he does not always mind poverty, --but if he cannot have youth healways wants money. Always! There is no middle course. Now our good MissDeane will never have any money. And, even if she had, we may takeit--yes, I certainly _think_ we may take it--that she would not care to_buy_ a husband. No--no! Her marrying days are past. "

"She is a beautiful woman!" said Helmsley, quietly. 

"You think so? Well, well, David! We have got used to her inWeircombe, --she seems to be a part of the village. When one is familiarwith a person, one often fails to perceive the beauty that is apparentto a stranger. I believe this to be so--I believe, in general, we maytake it to be so. "

And such was the impression that most of the Weircombe folks had aboutMary--that she was just "a part of the village. " During his slowramblings about the little sequestered place, Helmsley talked to many ofthe cottagers, who all treated him with that good-humour and tolerancewhich they considered due to his age and feebleness. Young men gave hima ready hand if they saw him inclined to falter or to stumble over roughplaces in the stony street, --little children ran up to him with theflowers they had gathered on the hills, or the shells they had collectedfrom the drift on the shore--women smiled at him from their open doorsand windows--girls called to him the "Good morning!" or"Good-night!"--and by and by he was almost affectionately known as "OldDavid, who makes baskets up at Miss Deane's. " One of his favouritehaunts was the very end of the "coombe, " which, --sharply cutting down tothe shore, --seemed there to have split asunder with volcanic force, hurling itself apart to right and left in two great castellated rocks, which were piled up, fortress-like, to an altitude of about four hundredor more feet, and looked sheer down over the sea. When the tide was highthe waves rushed swirlingly round the base of these natural towers, forming a deep blackish-purple pool in which the wash to and fro of palerose and deep magenta seaweed, flecked with trails of pale grassy green, were like the colours of a stormy sunset reflected in a prism. Thesounds made here by the inflowing and outgoing of the waves werecuriously musical, --like the thudding of a great organ, with harpmelodies floating above the stronger bass, while every now and then asweet sonorous call, like that of a silver trumpet, swung from thecavernous depths into clear space and echoed high up in the air, dyinglingeringly away across the hills. Near this split of the "coombe" stoodthe very last house at the bottom of the village, built of white stoneand neatly thatched, with a garden running to the edge of the mountainstream, which at this point rattled its way down to the sea with thatusual tendency to haste exhibited by everything in life and nature whencoming to an end. A small square board nailed above the door bore theinscription legibly painted in plain black letters:--

 ABEL TWITT, Stone Mason, N. B. Good Grave-Work Guaranteed. 

The author of this device, and the owner of the dwelling, was a round, rosy-faced little man, with shrewd sparkling grey eyes, a pleasantsmile, and a very sociable manner. He was the great "gossip" of theplace; no old woman at a wash-tub or behind a tea-tray ever wagged hertongue more persistently over the concerns of he and she and you andthey, than Abel Twitt. He had a leisurely way of talking, --a "slow andsilly way" his wife called it, --but he managed to convey a good deal ofinformation concerning everybody and everything, whether right or wrong, in a very few sentences. He was renowned in the village for hiswonderful ability in the composition of epitaphs, and by some of hisfriends he was called "Weircombe's Pote Lorit. " One of his mostcelebrated couplets was the following:--

 "_This Life while I lived it, was Painful and seldom Victorious, I trust in the Lord that the next will be Pleasant and Glorious!_"

Everybody said that no one but Abel Twitt could have thought of suchgrand words and good rhymes. Abel himself was not altogether without acertain gentle consciousness that in this particular effort he had donewell. But he had no literary vanity. 

"It comes nat'ral to me, "--he modestly declared--"It's a God's giftwhich I takes thankful without pride. "

Helmsley had become very intimate with both Mr. And Mrs. Twitt. In hisevery-day ramble down to the ocean end of the "coombe" he often took arest of ten minutes or a quarter of an hour at Twitt's house beforeclimbing up the stony street again to Mary Deane's cottage, and Mrs. Twitt, in her turn, was a constant caller on Mary, to whom she broughtall the news of the village, all the latest remedies for every sort ofailment, and all the oddest superstitions and omens which she couldeither remember or invent concerning every incident that had occurred toher or to her neighbours within the last twenty-four hours. There was noreal morbidity of character in Mrs. Twitt; she only had that peculiarturn of mind which is found quite as frequently in the educated as inthe ignorant, and which perceives a divine or a devilish meaning inalmost every trifling occurrence of daily life. A pin on the groundwhich was not picked up at the very instant it was perceived, meantterrible ill-luck to Mrs. Twitt, --if a cat sneezed, it was a sign thatthere was going to be sickness in the village, --and she always carriedin her pocket "a bit of coffin" to keep away the cramp. She also had alimitless faith in the power of cursing, and she believed mostimplicitly in the fiendish abilities of a certain person, (whether maleor female, she did not explain) whose address she gave vaguely as, "outon the hills, " and who, if requested, and paid for the trouble, wouldput a stick into the ground, muttering a mysterious malison on any manor woman you chose to name as an enemy, with the pronounced guarantee:--

 "As this stick rotteth to decay, So shall (Mr, Miss or Mrs So-and-so) rot away!"

But with the exception of these little weaknesses, Mrs. Twitt was a goodsort of motherly old body, warm-hearted and cheerful, too, despite herbelief in omens. She had taken quite a liking to "old David" as shecalled him, and used to watch his thin frail figure, now since hisillness sadly bent, jogging slowly down the street towards the sea, withmuch kindly solicitude. For despite Mr. Bunce's recommendation that heshould "sit quiet, " Helmsley could not bring himself to the passivelyrestful condition of weak and resigned old age. He had too much on hismind for that. He worked patiently every morning at basket-making, inwhich he was quickly becoming an adept; but in the afternoon he grewrestless, and Mary, seeing it was better for him to walk as long aswalking was possible to him, let him go out when he fancied it, thoughalways with a little anxiety for him lest he should meet with someaccident. In this anxiety, however, all the neighbours took a share, sothat he was well watched, and more carefully guarded than he knew, onhis way down to the shore and back again, Abel Twitt himself oftengiving him an arm on the upward climb home. 

"You'll have to do some of that for me soon!" said Helmsley on one ofthese occasions, pointing up with his stick at the board over Twitt'sdoor, which said "Good Grave-Work Guaranteed:"

Twitt rolled his eyes slowly up in the direction indicated, smiled, androlled them down again. 

"So I will, --so I will!" he replied cheerfully--"An I'll charge yenothin' either. I'll make ye as pretty a little stone as iver yesaw--what'll last too!--ay, last till th' Almighty comes a' tearin' downin clouds o' glory. A stone well bedded in, ye unnerstan'?--one as'llstay upright--no slop work. An' if ye can't think of a hepitaph foryerself I'll write one for ye--there now! Bible texes is goin' out o'fashion--it's best to 'ave somethin' orig'nal--an' for originality Idon't think I can be beat in these parts. I'll do ye yer hepitaph withpleasure!"

"That will be kind!" And Helmsley smiled a little sadly--"What will yousay of me when I'm gone?"

Twitt looked at him thoughtfully, with his head very much on one side. 

"Well, ye see, I don't know yer history, "--he said--"But I considers ye'armless an' unfortunate. I'd 'ave to make it out in my own mind like. Now Timbs, the grocer an' 'aberdashery man, when 'is wife died, hewouldn't let me 'ave my own way about the moniment at all. 'Put 'erdown, ' sez 'e--'Put 'er down as the Dearly-Beloved Wife of SamuelTimbs. ' 'Now, Timbs, ' sez I--'don't ye go foolin' with 'ell-fire! Yeknow she wor'nt yer Dearly Beloved, forbye that she used to throw wetdish-clouts at yer 'ed, screechin' at ye for all she was wuth, an' thereain't no Dearly Beloved in that. Why do ye want to put a lie on a stonefor the Lord to read?' But 'e was as obst'nate as pigs. 'Dish-clouts orno dish-clouts, ' sez 'e, 'I'll 'ave 'er fixed up proper as myDearly-Beloved Wife for sight o' parson an' neighbours. ' 'Ah, Sam!' sezI--'I've got ye! It's for parson an' neighbours ye want the hepitaph, an' not for the Lord at all! Well, I'll do it if so be yer wish it, butI won't take the 'sponsibility of it at the Day o' Judgment. ' 'I don'twant ye to'--sez 'e, quite peart. 'I'll take it myself. ' An' if ye'llbelieve me, David, 'e sits down an' writes me what 'e calls a 'Memo' ofwhat 'e wants put on the grave stone, an' it's the biggest whopper I'veiver seen out o' the noospapers. I've got it 'ere--" And, referring to amuch worn and battered old leather pocket-book, Twitt drew from it asoiled piece of paper, and read as follows--

 Here lies All that is Mortal of CATHERINE TIMBS The Dearly Beloved Wife of Samuel Timbs of Weircombe. She Died At the Early Age of Forty-Nine Full of Virtues and Excellencies Which those who knew Her Deeply Deplore and NOW is in Heaven. 

"And the only true thing about that hepitaph, "--continued Twitt, foldingup the paper again and returning it to its former receptacle, --"is thewords 'Here Lies. '"

Helmsley laughed, and Twitt laughed with him. 

"Some folks 'as the curiousest ways o' wantin' theirselves rememberedarter they're gone"--he went on--"An' others seems as if they don't carefor no mem'ry at all 'cept in the 'arts o' their friends. Now there wasTom o' the Gleam, a kind o' gypsy rover in these parts, 'im as murdereda lord down at Blue Anchor this very year's July----"

Helmsley drew a quick breath. 

"I know!" he said--"I was there!"

"So I've 'eerd say, "--responded Twitt sympathetically--"An' an awsomesight it must a' bin for ye! Mary Deane told us as 'ow ye'd bin ravin'about Tom--an' m'appen likely it give ye a turn towards yer longsickness. "

"I was there, "--said Helmsley, shuddering at the recollection--"I hadstopped on the road to try and get a cheap night's lodging at the veryinn where the murder took place--but--but there were two murders thatday, and the _first_ one was the worst!"

"That's what I said at the time, an' that's what I've allusthought!"--declared Twitt--"Why that little 'Kiddie' child o' Tom's wasthe playfullest, prettiest little rogue ye'd see in a hundred mile ormore! 'Oldin' out a posy o' flowers to a motor-car, poor littleinnercent! It might as well 'ave 'eld out flowers to the devil!--thoughmy own opinion is as the devil 'imself wouldn't 'a ridden down a child. But a motorin' lord o' these days is neither man nor beast nordevil, --'e's a somethin' altogether _on_human--_on_human out an' out, --athing wi' goggles over his eyes an' no 'art in his body, which we aintiver seen in this poor old world afore. Thanks be to the Lord no motorscan ever come into Weircombe, --they tears round an' round by anotherroad, an' we neither sees, 'ears, nor smells 'em, for which I often sezto my wife--'O be joyful in the Lord all ye lands; serve the Lord withgladness an' come before His presence with a song!' An' she ups an'sez--'Don't be blaspheemous, Twitt, --I'll tell parson'--an' I sez--'Tell'im, old 'ooman, if ye likes!' An' when she tells 'im, 'e smiles nicean' kind, an' sez--'It's quite lawful, Mrs. Twitt, to quote Scripturalthanksgiving on all _necessary_ occasions!' E's a good little chap, ourparson, but 'e's that weak on his chest an' ailing that 'e's goin' awaythis year to Madeira for rest and warm--an' a blessid old Timp'ranceraskill's coming to take dooty in 'is place. Ah!--none of us Weircombefolk 'ill be very reg'lar church-goers while Mr. Arbroath's here. "

Helmsley started slightly. 

"Arbroath? I've seen that man. "

'Ave ye? Well, ye 'aven't seen no beauty!" And Twitt gave vent to achuckling laugh--"'E'll be startin' 'is 'Igh Jink purcessions an'vestiments in our plain little church up yonder, an' by the Lord, 'e'll'ave to purcess an' vestiment by 'isself, for Weircombe wont 'elp 'im. We aint none of us 'Igh Jink folks. "

"Is that your name for High Church?" asked Helmsley, amused. 

"It is so, an' a very good name it be, " declared Twitt, stoutly--"For ifall the bobbins' an' scrapins' an' crosses an' banners aint a sort o'jinkin' Lord Mayor's show, then what be they? It's fair oaffish to bobto the east as them 'Igh Jinkers does, for we aint never told in theGospels that th' Almighty 'olds that partikler quarter o' the wind as aplace o' residence. The Lord's everywhere, --east, west, north, south, --why he's with us at this very minute!"--and Twitt raised hiseyes piously to the heavens--"He's 'elpin' you an' me to draw the breaththrough our lungs--for if He didn't 'elp, we couldn't do it, that'scertain. An' if He makes the sun to rise in the east, He makes it tosink in the west, an' there's no choice either way, an' we sez ourprayers simple both times o' day, not to the sun at all, but to theMaker o' the sun, an' of everything else as we sees. No, no!--no 'IghJinks for me!--I don't want to bow to no East when I sees the Lord's nomore east than He's west, an' no more in either place than He is here, close to me an' doin' more for me than I could iver do for myself. 'IghJinks is unchristin, --as unchristin as cremation, an' nothin's moreunchristin than that!"

"Why, what makes you think so?" asked Helmsley, surprised. 

"What makes me think so?" And Twitt drew himself up with a kind ofreproachful dignity--"Now, old David, don't go for to say as _you_ don'tthink so too?"

"Cremation unchristian? Well, I can't say I've ever thought of it inthat light, --it's supposed to be the cleanest way of getting rid of thedead----"

"Gettin' rid of the dead!"--echoed Twitt, almost scornfully--"That'swhat ye can never do! They'se everywhere, all about us, if we only hadstrong eyes enough to see 'em. An' cremation aint Christin. I'll tell yefor why, "--here he bent forward and tapped his two middle fingers slowlyon Helmsley's chest to give weight to his words--"Look y'ere! Supposin'our Lord's body 'ad been cremated, where would us all a' bin? Wherewould a' bin our 'sure an' certain 'ope' o' the resurrection?"

Helmsley was quite taken aback by this sudden proposition, whichpresented cremation in an entirely new light. But a moment's thoughtrestored to him his old love of argument, and he at once replied:--

"Why, it would have been just the same as it is now, surely! If Christwas divine, he could have risen from burnt ashes as well as from atomb. "

"Out of a hurn?" demanded Twitt, persistently--"If our Lord's body 'adbin burnt an' put in a hurn, an' the hurn 'ad bin took into the 'ouse o'Pontis Pilate, an' sealed, an' _kept till now_? Eh? What d'ye say tothat? I tell ye, David, there wouldn't a bin no savin' grace o'Christ'anity at all! An' that's why I sez cremation is unchristin, --it'sblaspheemous an' 'eethen. For our Lord plainly said to 'is disciplesarter he came out o' the tomb--'Behold my hands and my feet, --handle meand see, '--an' to the doubtin' Thomas He said--'Reach hither thy handand thrust it into my side, and be not faithless but believing. ' David, you mark my words!--them as 'as their bodies burnt in crematorums isjust as dirty in their souls as they can be, an' they 'opes to burn allthe blackness o' theirselves into nothingness an' never to rise no more, 'cos they'se afraid! They don't want to be laid in good old motherearth, which is the warm forcin' place o' the Lord for raisin' up 'umansouls as He raises up the blossoms in spring, an' all other things whichdo give Him grateful praise an' thanksgivin'! They gits theirselvesburnt to ashes 'cos they don't _want_ to be raised up, --they'se neverpraised the Lord 'ere, an' they wouldn't know 'ow to do it _there_! But, mercy me!" concluded Twitt ruminatingly, --"I've seen orful queer thingsbred out of ashes!--beetles an' sich like reptiles, --an' I wouldn't muchcare to see the spechul stock as raises itself from the burnt bits of aliar!"

Helmsley hardly knew whether to smile or to look serious, --such quaintpropositions as this old stonemason put forward on the subject ofcremation were utterly novel to his experience. And while he yet stoodunder the little porch of Twitt's cottage, there came shivering upthrough the quiet autumnal air a slow thud of breaking waves. 

"Tide's comin' in, "--said Twitt, after listening a minute or two--"An'that minds me o' what I was goin' to tell ye about Tom o' the Gleam. After the inkwist, the gypsies came forward an' claimed the bodies o'Tom an' 'is Kiddie, --an' they was buried accordin' to Tom's own wish, which it seems 'e'd told one of 'is gypsy pals to see as was carried outwhenever an' wheresoever 'e died. An' what sort of a buryin'd'ye think'e 'ad?"

Helmsley shook his head in an expressed inability to imagine. 

"'Twas out there, "--and Twitt pointed with one hand to the shiningexpanse of the ocean--"The gypsies put 'im an' is Kiddie in a basketcoffin which they made theirselves, an' covered it all over wi' garlandso' flowers an' green boughs, an' then fastened four great lumps o' leadto the four corners, an' rowed it out in a boat to about four or fivemiles from the shore, right near to the place where the moon at full'makes a hole in the middle o' the sea, ' as the children sez, and therethey dropped it into the water. Then they sang a funeral song--an' bythe Lord!--the sound o' that song crept into yer veins an' made yerblood run cold!--'twas enough to break a man's 'art, let alone awoman's, to 'ear them gypsy voices all in a chorus wailin' a farewell tothe man an' the child in the sea, --an' the song floated up an' about, 'ere an' there an' everywhere, all over the land from Cleeve Abbeyonnards, an' at Blue Anchor, so they sez, it was so awsome an' eeriethat the people got out o' their beds, shiverin', an' opened theirwindows to listen, an' when they listened they all fell a cryin' likechildren. An' it's no wonder the inn where poor Tom did his bad deed anddied his bad death, is shut up for good, an' the people as kept it goneaway--no one couldn't stay there arter that. Ay, ay!" and Twitt sighedprofoundly--"Poor wild ne'er-do-weel Tom! He lies deep down enough nowwith the waves flowin' over 'im an' 'is little 'Kiddie' clasped tight in'is arms. For they never separated 'em, --death 'ad locked 'em up toofast together for that. An' they're sleepin' peaceful, --an' therethey'll sleep till--till 'the sea gives up its dead. '"

Helmsley could not speak, --he was too deeply moved. The sound of thein-coming tide grew fuller and more sonorous, and Twitt presently turnedto look critically at the heaving waters. 

"There's a cry in the sea to-day, "--he said, --"M'appen it'll be roughto-night. "

They were silent again, till presently Helmsley roused himself from thebrief melancholy abstraction into which he had been plunged by the storyof Tom o' the Gleam's funeral. 

"I think I'll go down on the shore for a bit, "--he said; "I like to getas close to the waves as I can when they're rolling in. "

"Well, don't get too close, "--said Twitt, kindly--"We'll be havin' yewashed away if ye don't take care! There's onny an hour to tea-time, an'Mary Deane's a punctooal 'ooman!"

"I shall not keep her waiting--never fear!" and Helmsley smiled as hesaid good-day, and jogged slowly along his favourite accustomed path tothe beach. The way though rough, was not very steep, and it was becomingquite easy and familiar to him. He soon found himself on the firm brownsand sprinkled with a fringe of seaweed and shells, and further adornedin various places with great rough boulders, picturesquely set up onend, like the naturally hewn memorials of great heroes passed away. Here, the ground being level, he could walk more quickly and withgreater comfort than in the one little precipitous street of Weircombe, and he paced up and down, looking at the rising and falling hollows ofthe sea with wistful eyes that in their growing age and dimness had anintensely pathetic expression, --the expression one sometimes sees in theeyes of a dog who knows that its master is leaving it for an indefiniteperiod. 

"What a strange chaos of brain must be that of the suicide!" hethought--"Who, that can breathe the fresh air and watch the lights andshadows in the sky and on the waves, would really wish to leave theworld, unless the mind had completely lost its balance! We have neverseen anything more beautiful than this planet upon which we areborn, --though there is a sub-consciousness in us which prophesies of yetgreater beauty awaiting higher vision. The subconscious self! That isthe scientist's new name for the Soul, --but the Soul is a better term. Now my subconscious self--my Soul, --is lamenting the fact that it mustleave life when it has just begun to learn how to live! I should liketo be here and see what Mary will do when--when I am gone! Yet how do Iknow but that in very truth I shall be here?--or in some way be madeaware of her actions? She has a character such as I never thought tofind in any mortal woman, --strong, pure, tender, --and sincere!--ah, thatsincerity of hers is like the very sunlight!--so bright and warm, andclean of all ulterior motive! And measured by a worldly estimateonly--what is she? The daughter of a humble florist, --herself a meremender of lace, and laundress of fine ladies' linen! And her sweet andhonest eyes have never looked upon that rag-fair of nonsense we call'society';--she never thinks of riches;--and yet she has refined andartistic taste enough to love the lace she mends, just for pureadmiration of its beauty, --not because she herself desires to wear it, but because it represents the work and lives of others, and because itis in itself a miracle of design. I wonder if she ever notices howclosely I watch her! I could draw from memory the shapely outline of herhand, --a white, smooth, well-kept hand, never allowed to remain soiledby all her various forms of domestic labour, --an expressive hand, indicating health and sanity, with that deep curve at the wrist, and thedelicately shaped fingers which hold the needle so lightly and guide itso deftly through the intricacies of the riven lace, weaving a web ofsuch fairy-like stitches that the original texture seems never to havebeen broken. I have sat quiet for an hour or more studying her when shehas thought me asleep in my chair by the fire, --and I have fancied thatmy life is something like the damaged fabric she is so carefullyrepairing, --holes and rents everywhere, --all the symmetry of designdropping to pieces, --the little garlands of roses and laurels snappedasunder, --and she, with her beautiful white hands is gently drawing thethreads together and mending it, --for what purpose?--to what end?"

And here the involuntary action of some little brain-cell gave him thememory of certain lines in Browning's "Rabbi Ben Ezra":--

 "Therefore I summon age To grant youth's heritage Life's struggle having so far reached its term; Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a god, though in the germ. And I shall thereupon Take rest ere I be gone Once more on my adventures brave and new-- Fearless--and unperplexed When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armour to indue!"

 * * * * *

He turned his eyes again to the sea just as a lovely light, pale goldenand clear as topaz, opened suddenly in the sky, shedding a shower ofluminant reflections on the waves. He drew a deep breath, andunconsciously straightened himself. 

"When death comes it shall find me ready!" he said, half aloud;--andthen stood, confronting the ethereal glory. The waves rolled in slowlyand majestically one after the other, and broke at his feet in longwreaths of creamy foam, --and presently one or two light gusts of arather chill wind warned him that he had best be returning homeward. While he yet hesitated, a leaf of paper blew towards him, and dancedabout like a large erratic butterfly, finally dropping just where thestick on which he leaned made a hole in the sand. He stooped and pickedit up. It was covered with fine small handwriting, and before he couldmake any attempt to read it, a man sprang up from behind one of therocky boulders close by, and hurried forward, raising his cap as hecame. 

"That's mine!" he said, quickly, with a pleasant smile--"It's a loosepage from my notebook. Thank-you so much for saving it!"

Helmsley gave him the paper at once, with a courteous inclination of thehead. 

"I've been scribbling down here all day, "--proceeded the new comer--"Andthere's not been much wind till now. But"--and he glanced up and abouthim critically; "I think we shall have a puff of sou'wester to-night. "

Helmsley looked at him with interest. He was a man of distinctiveappearance, --tall, well-knit, and muscular, with a fine intellectualface and keen clear grey eyes. Not a very young man;--he seemed aboutthirty-eight or forty, perhaps more, for his dark hair was fairlysprinkled with silver. But his manner was irresistibly bright andgenial, and it was impossible to meet his frank, open, almost boyishgaze, without a desire to know more of him, and an inclination to likehim. 

"Do you make the seashore your study?" asked Helmsley, with a slightgesture towards the notebook into which the stranger was now carefullyputting the strayed leaflet. 

"Pretty much so!" and he laughed--"I've only got one room to livein--and it has to serve for both sleeping and eating--so I come out hereto breathe and expand a bit. " He paused, and then added gently--"May Igive you my arm up to Miss Deane's cottage?"

"Why, how do you know I live there?" and Helmsley smiled as he put thequestion. 

"Oh, well, all the village knows that!--and though I'm quite new to thevillage--I've only been here a week--I know it too. You're old David, the basket-maker, aren't you?"

"Yes. " And Helmsley nodded emphatically--"That's me!"

"Then I know all about you! My name's Angus Reay. I'm a Scotchman, --Iam, or rather, I _was_ a journalist, and as poor as Job! That's _me_!Come along!"

The cheery magnetism of his voice and look attracted Helmsley, andalmost before he knew it he was leaning on this new friend's arm, chatting with him concerning the village, the scenery, and the weather, in the easiest way possible. 

"I came on here from Minehead, "--said Reay--"That was too expensive aplace for me!" And a bright smile flashed from lips to eyes with anirresistible sunny effect; "I've got just twenty pounds in the world, and I must make it last me a year. For room, food, fuel, clothes, drinkand smoke! I've promptly cut off the last two!"

"And you're none the worse for it, I daresay!" rejoined Helmsley. 

"Not a bit! A good deal the better. In Fleet Street the men drank andsmoked pretty heavily, and I had to drink and smoke with them, if Iwanted to keep in with the lot. I did want to keep in with them, and yetI didn't. It was a case of 'needs must when the devil drives!'"

"You say you were a journalist. Aren't you one now?"

"No. I'm 'kicked off'!" And Reay threw back his head and laughedjoyously. "'Off you go!' said my editor, one fine morning, after I hadslaved away for him for nearly two years--'We don't want any cantingtruth-tellers here!' Now mind that stone! You nearly slipped. Hold myarm tighter!"

Helmsley did as he was told, quite meekly, looking up with a good dealof curiosity at this tall athletic creature, with the handsome head andmasterful manner. Reay caught his enquiring glance and laughed again. 

"You look as if you wanted to know more about me, old David!" he saidgaily--"So you shall! I've nothing to conceal! As I tell you I was'kicked off' out of journalism--my fault being that I published aleaderette exposing a mean 'deal' on the part of a certain cityplutocrat. I didn't know the rascal had shares in the paper. But he_had_--under an 'alias. ' And he made the devil's own row about it withthe editor, who nearly died of it, being inclined to apoplexy--andbetween the two of them I was 'dropped. ' Then the word ran along thepress wires that I was an 'unsafe' man. I could not get any post worthhaving--I had saved just twenty pounds--so I took it all and walked awayfrom London--literally _walked_ away! I haven't spent a penny in otherlocomotion than my own legs since I left Fleet Street. "

Helmsley listened with eager interest. Here was a man who had done thevery thing which he himself had started to do;--"tramped" the road. But--with what a difference! Full manhood, physical strength, andactivity on the one side, --decaying power, feebleness of limb andweariness on the other. They had entered the village street by thistime, and were slowly walking up it together. 

"You see, "--went on Reay, --"of course I could have taken the train--buttwenty pounds is only twenty pounds--and it must last me twelve solidmonths. By that time I shall have finished my work. "

"And what's that?" asked Helmsley. 

"It's a book. A novel. And"--here he set his teeth hard--"I intend thatit shall make me--famous!"

"The intention is good, "--said Helmsley, slowly--"But--there are so manynovels!"

"No, there are not!" declared Reay, decisively--"There are plenty ofrag-books _called_ novels--but they are not real 'novels. ' There'snothing 'new' in them. There's no touch of real, suffering, palpitatinghumanity in them! The humanity of to-day is infinitely more complex thanit was in the days of Scott or Dickens, but there's no Scott or Dickensto epitomise its character or delineate its temperament. I want to bethe twentieth century Scott and Dickens rolled into one stupendousliterary Titan!"

His mellow laughter was hearty and robust. Helmsley caught its infectionand laughed too. 

"But why, "--he asked--"do you want to write a novel? Why not write areal _book_?"

"What do you call a real book, old David?" demanded Reay, looking downupon him with a sudden piercing glance. 

Helmsley was for a moment confused. He was thinking of such books asCarlyle's "Past and Present"--Emerson's "Essays" and the works ofRuskin. But he remembered in good time that for an old "basket-maker" tobe familiar with such literary masterpieces might seem strange to awide-awake "journalist, " therefore he checked himself in time. 

"Oh, I don't know! I believe I was thinking of 'Pilgrim's Progress'!" hesaid. 

"'Pilgrim's Progress'? Ah! A fine book--a grand book! Twelve years and ahalf of imprisonment in Bedford Jail turned Bunyan out immortal! Andhere am I--_not_ in jail--but free to roam where I choose, --with twentypounds! By Jove! I ought to be greater than Bunyan! Now 'Pilgrim'sProgress' was a 'novel, ' if you like!"

"I thought, "--submitted Helmsley, with the well-assumed air of a man whowas not very conversant with literature--"that it was a religious book?"

"So it is. A religious novel. And a splendid one! But humanity's gonepast that now--it wants a wider view--a bigger, broader outlook. Do youknow--" and here he stopped in the middle of the rugged winding street, and looked earnestly at his companion--"do you know what I see men doingat the present day?--I see them rushing towards the verge--the veryextreme edge of what they imagine to be the Actual--and from that edgegetting ready to plunge--into Nothingness!"

Something thrilling in his voice touched a responsive chord inHelmsley's own heart. 

"Why--that is where we all tend!" he said, with a quick sigh--"That iswhere _I_ am tending!--where _you_, in your time, must alsotend--nothingness--or death!"

"No!" said Reay, almost loudly--"That's not true! That's just what Ideny! For me there is no 'Nothingness'--no 'death'! Space is full ofcreative organisms. Dissolution means re-birth. It is alllife--life:--glorious life! We live--we have always lived--we _shall_always live!" He paused, flushing a little as though half ashamed ofhis own enthusiasm--then, dropping his voice to its normal tone hesaid--"You've got me on my hobby horse--I must come off it, or I shallgallop too far! We're just at the top of the street now. Shall I leaveyou here?"

"Please come on to the cottage, "--said Helmsley--"I'm sure Mary--MissDeane--will give you a cup of tea. "

Angus Reay smiled. 

"I don't allow myself that luxury, "--he said. 

"Not when you're invited to share it with others?"

"Oh yes, in that way I do--but I'm not overburdened with friends justnow. A man must have more than twenty pounds to be 'asked out'anywhere!"

"Well, _I_ ask you out!"--said Helmsley, smiling--"Or rather, I ask you_in_. I'm sure Miss Deane will be glad to talk to you. She is very fondof books. "

"I've seen her just once in the village, "--remarked Reay--"She seems tobe very much respected here. And what a beautiful woman she is!"

"You think so?" and Helmsley's eyes lighted with pleasure--"Well, Ithink so, too--but they tell me that it's only because I'm old, and aptto see everyone beautiful who is kind to me. There's a good deal inthat!--there's certainly a good deal in that!"

They could now see the garden gate of Mary's cottage through the boughsof the great chestnut tree, which at this season was nearly stripped ofall its leaves, and which stood like a lonely forest king with somescanty red and yellow rags of woodland royalty about him, in solitarygrandeur at the bending summit of the hill. And while they were yetwalking the few steps which remained of the intervening distance, Maryherself came out to the gate, and, leaning one arm lightly across it, watched them approaching. She wore a pale lilac print gown, high to theneck and tidily finished off by a plain little muslin collar fastenedwith a coquettish knot of black velvet, --her head was uncovered, and thefitful gleams of the sinking sun shed a russet glow on her shining hairand reddened the pale clear transparency of her skin. In that restfulwaiting attitude, with a smile on her face, she made a perfect picture, and Helmsley stole a side-glance at his companion, to see if he seemedto be in any way impressed by her appearance. Angus Reay was certainlylooking at her, but what he thought could hardly be guessed by hisoutward expression. They reached the gate, and she opened it. 

"I was getting anxious about you, David!"--she said; "you aren't quitestrong enough to be out in such a cold wind. " Then she turned her eyesenquiringly on Reay, who lifted his cap while Helmsley explained hispresence. 

"This is a gentleman who is staying in the village--Mr. Reay, "--hesaid--"He's been very kind in helping me up the hill--and I said youwould give him a cup of tea. "

"Why, of course!"--and Mary smiled--"Please come in, sir!"

She led the way, and in another few minutes, all three of them wereseated in her little kitchen round the table and Mary was busy pouringout the tea and dispensing the usual good things that are always foundin the simplest Somersetshire cottage, --cream, preserved fruit, scones, home-made bread and fresh butter. 

"So you met David on the seashore?" she said, turning her soft dark-blueeyes enquiringly on Reay, while gently checking with one hand theexcited gambols of Charlie, who, as an epicurean dog, always gavehimself up to the wildest enthusiasms at tea-time, owing to hispartiality for a small saucer of cream which came to him at thathour--"I sometimes think he must expect to pick up a fortune down amongthe shells and seaweed, he's so fond of walking about there!"--And shesmiled as she put Helmsley's cup of tea before him, and gently pattedhis wrinkled hand in the caressing fashion a daughter might show to afather whose health gave cause for anxiety. 

"Well, _I_ certainly don't go down to the shore in any suchexpectation!" said Reay, laughing--"Fortunes are not so easily pickedup, are they, David?"

"No, indeed!" replied Helmsley, and his old eyes sparkled up humorouslyunder their cavernous brows; "fortunes take some time to make, and onedoesn't meet millionaires every day!"

"Millionaires!" exclaimed Reay--"Don't speak of them! I hate them!"

Helmsley looked at him stedfastly. 

"It's best not to hate anybody, "--he said--"Millionaires are often theloneliest and most miserable of men. "

"They deserve to be!" declared Reay, hotly--"It isn't right--it isn'tjust that two or three, or let us say four or five men should be ableto control the money-markets of the world. They generally get theirwealth through some unscrupulous 'deal, ' or through 'sweating' labour. Ihate all 'cornering' systems. I believe in having enough to live upon, but not too much. "

"It depends on what you call enough, "--said Helmsley, slowly--"We'retold that some people never know when they _have_ enough. "

"Why _this_ is enough!" said Reay, looking admiringly round the littlekitchen in which they sat--"This sweet little cottage with this oakraftered ceiling, and all the dear old-fashioned crockery, and theingle-nook over there, --who on earth wants more?"

Mary laughed. 

"Oh dear me!" she murmured, gently--"You praise it too much!--it's onlya very poor place, sir, ----"

He interrupted her, the colour rushing to his brows. 

"Please don't!"

She glanced at him in surprise. 

"Don't--what?"

"Don't call me 'sir'! I'm only a poor chap, --my father was a shepherd, and I began life as a cowherd--I don't want any titles of courtesy. "

She still kept her eyes upon him thoughtfully. 

"But you're a gentleman, aren't you?" she asked. 

"I hope so!" And he laughed. "Just as David is! But we neither of uswish the fact emphasised, do we, David? It goes without saying!"

Helmsley smiled. This Angus Reay was a man after his own heart. 

"Of course it does!"--he said--"In the way you look at it! But youshould tell Miss Deane all about yourself--she'll be interested. "

"Would you really care to hear?" enquired Reay, suddenly, turning hisclear grey eyes full on Mary's face. 

"Why certainly I should!" she answered, frankly meeting his glance, --andthen, from some sudden and inexplicable embarrassment, she blushedcrimson, and her eyelids fell. And Reay thought what a clear, healthyskin she had, and how warmly the blood flowed under it. 

"Well, after tea I'll hold forth!" he said--"But there isn't much totell. Such as there is, you shall know, for I've no mysteries about me. Some fellows love a mystery--I cannot bear it! Everything must be fair, open and above board with me, --else I can't breathe! Pouf!" And heexpanded his broad chest and took a great gulp of air in as he spoke--"Ihate a man who tries to hide his own identity, don't you, David?"

"Yes--yes--certainly!" murmured Helmsley, absently, feigning to beabsorbed in buttering a scone for his own eating--"It is often veryawkward--for the man. "

"I always say, and I always will maintain, "--went on Reay--"let a man bea man--a something or a nothing. If he is a criminal, let him say he isa criminal, and not pretend to be virtuous--if he is an atheist, let himsay he is an atheist, and not pretend to be religious--if he's a beggarand can't help himself, let him admit the fact--if he's a millionaire, don't let him skulk round pretending he's as poor as Job--always let himbe himself and no other!--eh?--what is it, David?"

For Helmsley was looking at him intently with eyes that were almostyoung in their sudden animation and brilliancy. 

"Did you ever meet a millionaire who skulked round pretending he was aspoor as Job?" he enquired, with a whimsical air--"_I_ never did!"

"Well no, I never did, either!" And Reay's mellow laughter was so loudand long that Mary was quite infected by it, and laughed with him--"Butyou see millionaires are all marked men. Everybody knows them. Theirportraits are in all the newspapers--horrid-looking rascals most ofthem!--Nature doesn't seem to endow them with handsome features anyway. 'Keep your gold, and never mind your face, '--she seems to say--'_I'll_take care of that!' And she does take care of it! O Lord! The onlymillionaire I ever saw in my life was ugly enough to frighten a babyinto convulsions!"

"What was his name?" asked Helmsley. 

"Well, it wouldn't be fair to tell his name now, after what I've said!"laughed Reay--"Besides, he lives in America, thank God! He's one of thefew who have spared the old country his patronage!"

Here a diversion was created by the necessity of serving the tiny butautocratic Charlie with his usual "dish of cream, " of which he partookon Mary's knee, while listening (as was evident from the attentivecocking of his silky ears) to the various compliments he was accustomedto receive on his beauty. This business over, they rose from thetea-table. The afternoon had darkened into twilight, and the autumnalwind was sighing through the crannies of the door. Mary stirred the fireinto a brighter blaze, and drawing Helmsley's armchair close to its warmglow, stood by him till he was comfortably seated--then she placedanother chair opposite for Reay, and sat down herself on a low oakensettle between the two. 

"This is the pleasantest time of the day just now, "--she said--"And thebest time for talking! I love the gloaming. My father loved it too. "

"So did _my_ father!" and Reay's eyes softened as he bent them on thesparkling fire--"In winter evenings when the darkness fell down upon ourwild Highland hills, he would come home to our shieling on the edge ofthe moor, shaking all the freshness of the wind and the scent of thedying heather out of his plaid as he threw it from his shoulders, --andhe would toss fresh peat on the fire till it blazed red and golden, andhe would lay his hand on my head and say to me: 'Come awa' bairnie! Nowfor a bogle story in the gloamin'!' Ah, those bogle stories! They areanswerable for a good deal in my life! They made me want to write boglestories myself!"

"And _do_ you write them?" asked Mary. 

"Not exactly. Though perhaps all human life is only a bogle tale!Invented to amuse the angels!"

She smiled, and taking up a delicate piece of crochet lace, which shecalled her "spare time work, " began to ply the glittering needle in andout fine intricacies of thread, her shapely hands gleaming likealabaster in the fire-light reflections. 

"Well, now tell us your own bogle tale!" she said--"And David and I willplay the angels!"

CHAPTER XV

He watched her working for a few minutes before he spoke again. Andshading his eyes with one hand from the red glow of the fire, DavidHelmsley watched them both. 

"Well, it's rather cool of me to take up your time talking about my ownaffairs, "--began Reay, at last--"But I've been pretty much by myself fora good while, and it's pleasant to have a chat with friendly people--manwasn't made to live alone, you know! In fact, neither man nor beast norbird can stand it. Even a sea cormorant croaks to the wind!"

Mary laughed. 

"But not for company's sake, "--she said--"It croaks when it's hungry. "

"Oh, I've often croaked for that reason!" and Reay pushed from hisforehead a wayward tuft of hair which threatened to drop over his eye ina thick silvery brown curl--"But it's wonderful how little a fellow canlive upon in the way of what is called food. I know all sorts of dodgeswherewith to satisfy the greedy cravings of the vulgar part of me. "

Helmsley took his hand from his eyes, and fixed a keenly observant lookupon the speaker. Mary said nothing, but her crochet needle moved moreslowly. 

"You see, " went on Reay, "I've always been rather fortunate in havinghad very little to eat. "

"You call it 'fortunate'?" queried Helmsley, abruptly. 

"Why, of course! I've never had what the doctors call an 'overloadedsystem'--therefore I've no lading bill to pay. The million or so ofcells of which I am composed are not at all anxious to throw any extranourishment off, --sometimes they intimate a strong desire to take someextra nourishment in--but that is an uneducated tendency in them which Isternly repress. I tell all those small grovelling cells that extranourishment would not be good for them. And they shrink back from mymoral reproof ashamed of themselves--and become wiry instead of fatty. Which is as it should be. "

"You're a queer chap!" said Helmsley, with a laugh. 

"Think so? Well, I daresay I am--all Scotsmen are. There's always thebuzzing of the bee in our bonnets. I come of an ancient Highland stockwho were certainly 'queer' as modern ways go, --for they were famous fortheir pride, and still more famous for their poverty all the waythrough. As far back as I can go in the history of my family, and that'sa pretty long way, we were always at our wit's end to live. From thedays of the founder of our house, a glorious old chieftain who used topillage his neighbour chieftain in the usual style of those glorious oldtimes, we never had more than just enough for the bare necessities oflife. My father, as I told you, was a shepherd--a strong, fine-lookingman over six feet in height, and as broad-chested as a Hercules--heherded sheep on the mountains for a Glasgow dealer, as low-down a rascalas ever lived, a man who, so far as race and lineage went, wasn't fit toscrape mud off my father's boots. But we often see gentlemen of birthobliged to work for knaves of cash. That was the way it was with myfather. As soon as I was old enough--about ten, --I helped him in hiswork--I used to tramp backwards and forwards to school in the nearestvillage, but after school hours I got an evening job of a shilling aweek for bringing home eight Highland bull-heifers from pasture. The manwho owned them valued them highly, but was afraid of them--wouldn't gonear them for his life--and before I'd been with them a fortnight theyall knew me. I was only a wee laddie, but they answered to my call likefriendly dogs rather than the great powerful splendid beasts they were, with their rough coats shining like floss silk in the sunset, when Iwent to drive them home, singing as I came. And my father said to me onenight--'Laddie, tell me the truth--are ye ever scared at the bulls!''No, father!' said I--'It's a bonnie boy I am to the bulls!' And helaughed--by Jove!--how he laughed! 'Ye're a wee raskell!' he said--'An'as full o' conceit as an egg's full o' meat!' I expect that was truetoo, for I always thought well of myself. You see, if I hadn't thoughtwell of myself, no one would ever have thought well of _me_!"

"There's something in that!" said Helmsley, the smile still lingering inhis eyes--"Courage and self-reliance have often conquered more thaneight bulls!"

"Oh, I don't call it either courage or self-reliance--it was just thatI thought myself of too much importance to be hurt by bulls or anythingelse, "--and Angus laughed, --then with a sudden knitting of his brows asthough his thoughts were making hard knots in his brain, he added--"Evenas a laddie I had an idea--and I have it now--that there was somethingin me which God had put there for a purpose of His own, --something thathe would not and _could_ not destroy till His purpose had beenfulfilled!"

Mary stopped working and looked at him earnestly. Her breath came andwent quickly--her eyes shone dewily like stars in a summer haze, --shewas deeply interested. 

"That was--and _is_--a conceited notion, of course, "--went on Angus, reflectively--"And I don't excuse it. But I'm not one of the 'meek whoshall inherit the earth. ' I'm a robustious combustious sort of chap--ifa fellow knocks me down, I jump up and give it him back with as jollygood interest as I can--and if anyone plays me a dirty trick I'll moveall the mental and elemental forces of the universe to expose him. That's my way--unfortunately----"

"Why 'unfortunately'?" asked Helmsley. 

Reay threw back his head and indulged in one of his mellow peals oflaughter. 

"Can you ask why? Oh David, good old David!--it's easy to see you don'tknow much of the world! If you did, you'd realise that the best way to'get on' in the usual way of worldly progress, is to make up to allsorts of social villains and double-dyed millionaire-scoundrels, findout all their tricks and their miserable little vices and pamper them, David!--pamper them and flatter them up to the top of their bent tillyou've got them in your power--and then--then _use_ them--use them foreverything you want. For once you know what blackguards they are, they'll give you anything not to tell!"

"I should be sorry to think that's true, "--murmured Mary. 

"Don't think it, then, "--said Angus--"You needn't, --because millionairesare not likely to come in your way. Nor in mine--now. I've cut myselfadrift from all chance of ever meeting them. But only a year ago I wason the road to making a good thing out of one or two of the so-called'kings of finance'--then I suddenly took a 'scunner' as we Scots say, atthe whole lot, and hated and despised myself for ever so much asthinking that it might serve my own ends to become their tool. So Ijust cast off ropes like a ship, and steamed out of harbour. "

"Into the wide sea!" said Mary, looking at him with a smile that waslovely in its radiance and sympathy. 

"Into the wide sea--yes!" he answered--"And sea that was pretty rough atfirst. But one can get accustomed to anything--even to the highrock-a-bye tossing of great billows that really don't want to put you tosleep so much as to knock you to pieces. But I'm galloping along toofast. From the time I made friends with young bulls to the time I beganto scrape acquaintance with newspaper editors is a far cry--and in theinterim my father died. I should have told you that I lost my motherwhen I was born--and I don't think that the great wound her death leftin my father's heart ever really healed. He never seemed quite at onewith the things of life--and his 'bogle tales' of which I was so fond, all turned on the spirits of the dead coming again to visit those whomthey had loved, and from whom they had been taken--and he used to tellthem with such passionate conviction that sometimes I trembled andwondered if any spirit were standing near us in the light of the peatfire, or if the shriek of the wind over our sheiling were the cry ofsome unhappy soul in torment. Well! When his time came, he was notallowed to suffer--one day in a great storm he was struck by lightningon the side of the mountain where he was herding in his flocks--andthere he was found lying as though he were peacefully asleep. Death musthave been swift and painless--and I always thank God for that!" Hepaused a moment--then went on--"When I found myself quite alone in theworld, I hired myself out to a farmer for five years--and workedfaithfully for him--worked so well that he raised my wages and wouldwillingly have kept me on--but I had the 'bogle tales' in my head andcould not rest. It was in the days before Andrew Carnegie started tryingto rub out the memory of his 'Homestead' cruelty by planting 'free'libraries, (for which taxpayers are rated) all over the country--andpauperising Scottish University education by grants of money--I supposehe is a sort of little Pontiff unto himself, and thinks that money canpacify Heaven, and silence the cry of brothers' blood rising from theHomestead ground. In my boyhood a Scottish University education had tobe earned by the would-be student himself--earned by hard work, hardliving, patience, perseverance and _grit_. That's the one quality Ihad--grit--and it served me well in all I wanted. I entered at St. Andrews--graduated, and came out an M. A. That helped to give me my firstchance with the press. But I'm sure I'm boring you by all this chatterabout myself! David, _you_ stop me when you think Miss Deane has hadenough!"

Helmsley looked at Mary's figure in its pale lilac gown touched here andthere by the red sparkle of the fire, and noted the attentive poise ofher head, and the passive quietude of her generally busy hands which nowlay in her lap loosely folded over her lace work. 

"Have we had enough, Mary, do you think?" he asked, with the glimmeringof a tender little smile under his white moustache. 

She glanced at him quickly in a startled way, as though she had beensuddenly wakened from a reverie. 

"Oh no!" she answered--"I love to hear of a brave man's fight with theworld--it's the finest story anyone can listen to. "

Reay coloured like a boy. 

"I'm not a brave man, "--he said--"I hope I haven't given you that idea. I'm an awful funk at times. "

"When are those times?" and Mary smiled demurely, as she put thequestion. 

Again the warm blood rushed up to his brows. 

"Well, --please don't laugh! I'm afraid--horribly afraid--of women!"

Helmsley's old eyes sparkled. 

"Upon my word!" he exclaimed--"That's a funny thing for you to say!"

"It is, rather, "--and Angus looked meditatively into the fire--"It's notthat I'm bashful, at all--no--I'm quite the other way, really, --only--only--ever since I was a lad I've made such an ideal ofwoman that I'm afraid of her when I meet her, --afraid lest she shouldn'tcome up to my ideal, and equally afraid lest I shouldn't come up tohers! It's all conceit again! Fear of anything or anybody is always bornof self-consciousness. But I've been disappointed once----"

"In your ideal?" questioned Mary, raising her eyes and letting them restobservantly upon his face. 

"Yes. I'll come to that presently. I was telling you how I graduated atSt. Andrews, and came out with M. A. Tacked to my name, but with no otherfortune than those two letters. I had made a few friends, however, andone of them, a worthy old professor, gave me a letter of recommendationto a man in Glasgow, who was the proprietor of one of the newspapersthere. He was a warm-hearted, kindly fellow, and gave me a berth atonce. It was hard work for little pay, but I got into thorough harness, and learnt all the ins and outs of journalism. I can't say that I everadmired the general mechanism set up for gulling the public, but I hadto learn how it was done, and I set myself to master the whole business. I had rather a happy time of it in Glasgow, for though it's thedirtiest, dingiest and most depressing city in the world, with itsinnumerable drunkards and low Scoto-Irish ne'er-do-weels loafing aboutthe streets on Saturday nights, it has one great charm--you can get awayfrom it into some of the loveliest scenery in the world. All my sparetime was spent in taking the steamer up the Clyde, and sometimes goingas far as Crinan and beyond it--or what I loved best of all, taking atrip to Arran, and there roaming about the hills to my heart's content. Glorious Arran! It was there I first began to feel my wings growing!"

"Was it a pleasant feeling?" enquired Helmsley, jocosely. 

"Yes--it _was_!" replied Angus, clenching his right hand and bringing itdown on his knee with emphasis; "whether they were goose wings or eaglewings didn't matter--the pricking of the budding quills was an _alive_sensation! The mountains, the burns, the glens, all had something to sayto me--or I thought they had--something new, vital and urgent. GodHimself seemed to have some great command to impose upon me--and I wasready to hear and obey. I began to write--first verse--then prose--andby and by I got one or two things accepted here and there--not verymuch, but still enough to fire me to further endeavours. Then onesummer, when I was taking a holiday at a little village near LochLomond, I got the final dig of the spur of fate--I fell in love. "

Mary raised her eyes again and looked at him. A slow smile parted herlips. 

"And did the girl fall in love with you?" she asked. 

"For a time I believe she did, "--said Reay, and there was an under-toneof whimsical amusement in his voice as he spoke--"She was spending thesummer in Scotland with her mother and father, and there wasn't anythingfor her to do. She didn't care for scenery very much--and I just camein as a sort of handy man to amuse her. She was a lovely creature inher teens, --I thought she was an angel--till--till I found her out. "

"And then?" queried Helmsley. 

"Oh well, then of course I was disillusioned. When I told her that Iloved her more than anything else in the world, she laughed ever sosweetly, and said, 'I'm sure you do!' But when I asked her if she loved_me_, she laughed again, and said she didn't know what I was talkingabout--she didn't believe in love. 'What do you believe in?' I askedher. And she looked at me in the prettiest and most innocent waypossible, and said quite calmly and slowly--'A rich marriage. ' And myheart gave a great dunt in my side, for I knew it was all over. 'Thenyou won't marry _me_?'--I said--'for I'm only a poor journalist. But Imean to be famous some day!' 'Do you?' she said, and again that littlelaugh of hers rippled out like the tinkle of cold water--'Don't youthink famous men are very tiresome? And they're always dreadfully poor!'Then I took hold of her hands, like the desperate fool I was, and kissedthem, and said, 'Lucy, wait for me just a few years! Wait for me! You'reso young'--for she was only seventeen, and still at school in Brightonsomewhere--'You can afford to wait, --give me a chance!' And she lookeddown at the water--we were 'on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond, ' as thesong says--in quite a picturesque little attitude of reflection, andsighed ever so prettily, and said--'I can't, Angus! You're very nice andkind!--and I like you very much!--but I am going to marry amillionaire!' Now you know why I hate millionaires. "

"Did you say her name was Lucy?" asked Helmsley. 

"Yes. Lucy Sorrel. "

A bright flame leaped up in the fire and showed all three faces to oneanother--Mary's face, with its quietly absorbed expression of attentiveinterest--Reay's strongly moulded features, just now somewhat sternlyshadowed by bitter memories--and Helmsley's thin, worn, delicatelyintellectual countenance, which in the brilliant rosy light flung uponit by the fire-glow, was like a fine waxen mask, impenetrable in itsunmoved austerity and calm. Not so much as the faintest flicker ofemotion crossed it at the mention of the name of the woman he knew sowell, --the surprise he felt inwardly was not apparent outwardly, and heheard the remainder of Reay's narration with the most perfectlycontrolled imperturbability of demeanour. 

"She told me then, " proceeded Reay--"that her parents had spent nearlyall they had upon her education, in order to fit her for a position asthe wife of a rich man--and that she would have to do her best to'catch'--that's the way she put it--to 'catch' this rich man as soon asshe got a good opportunity. He was quite an old man, she said--oldenough to be her grandfather. And when I asked her how she couldreconcile it to her conscience to marry such a hoary-headed rascal----"

Here Helmsley interrupted him. 

"Was he a hoary-headed rascal?"

"He must have been, " replied Angus, warmly--"Don't you see he must?"

Helmsley smiled. 

"Well--not exactly!" he submitted, with a gentle air of deference--"Ithink--perhaps--he might deserve a little pity for having to be 'caught'as you say just for his money's sake. "

"Not a bit of it!" declared Reay--"Any old man who would marry a younggirl like that condemns himself as a villain. An out-an-out, golden-dusted villain!"

"But _has_ he married her?" asked Mary. 

Angus was rather taken aback at this question, --and rubbed his foreheadperplexedly. 

"Well, no, he hasn't--not yet--not that I know of, and I've watched thepapers carefully too. Such a marriage couldn't take place withoutcolumns and columns of twaddle about it--all the dressmakers who madegowns for the bride would want a mention--and if they paid for it ofcourse they'd get it. No--it hasn't come off yet--but it will. Thevenerable bridegroom that is to be has just gone abroad somewhere--so Isee by one of the 'Society' rags, --probably to the States to make somemore 'deals' in cash before his wedding. "

"You know his name, then?"

"Oh yes! Everybody knows it, and knows him too! David Helmsley's toorich to hide his light under a bushel! They call him 'King David' in thecity. Now your name's David--but, by Jove, what a difference in Davids!"And he laughed, adding quickly--"I prefer the David I see before me now, to the David I never saw!"

"Oh! You never saw the old rascal then?" murmured Helmsley, putting upone hand to stroke his moustache slowly down over the smile which hecould not repress. 

"Never--and don't want to! If I become famous--which I _will_ do, "--andhere Angus set his teeth hard--"I'll make my bow at one of Mrs. Millionaire Helmsley's receptions one day! And how will she look then!"

"I should say she would look much the same as usual, "--said Helmsley, drily--"If she is the kind of young woman you describe, she is notlikely to be overcome by the sight of a merely 'famous' man. You wouldhave to be twice or three times as wealthy as herself to move her to anysense of respect for you. That is, if we are to judge by what ournewspapers tell us of 'society' people. The newspapers are all we poorfolk have got to go by. "

"Yes--I've often thought of that!" and Angus rubbed his forehead againin a vigorous way as though he were trying to rub ideas out of it--"AndI've pitied the poor folks from the bottom of my heart! They get prettyoften misled--and on serious matters too. "

"Oh, we're not all such fools as we seem, "--said Helmsley--"We can readbetween the lines as well as anyone--and we understand pretty clearlythat it's only money which 'makes' the news. We read of 'society ladies'doing this, that and t' other thing, and we laugh at their doings--andwhen we read of a great lady conducting herself like an outcast, we feela contempt for her such as we never visit on her poor sister of thestreets. The newspapers may praise these women, but we 'common people'estimate them at their true worth--and that is--nothing! Now the girlyou made an ideal of----"

"She was to be bought and sold, "--interrupted Reay; "I know that now. But I didn't know it then. She looked a sweet innocent angel, --with apretty face and beautiful eyes--just the kind of creature we men fall inlove with at first sight----"

"The kind of creature who, if you had married her, would have made youwretched for life, "--said Helmsley. "Be thankful you escaped her!"

"Oh, I'm thankful enough now!" and Reay pushed back his rebellious lockof hair again--"For when one has a great ambition in view, freedom isbetter than love----"

Helmsley raised his wrinkled, trembling hand. 

"No, don't say that!" he murmured, gently--"Nothing--nothing in all theworld is better than love!"

Involuntarily his eyes turned towards Mary with a strange wistfulness. There was an unspoken yearning in his face that was almost pain. Herquick instinctive sympathy responded to his thought, and rising, shewent to him on the pretext of re-arranging the cushion in his chair, sothat he might lean back more comfortably. Then she took his hand andpatted it kindly. 

"You're a sentimental old boy, aren't you, David!" she said, playfully--"You like being taken care of and fussed over! Of course youdo! Was there ever a man that didn't!"

He was silent, but he pressed her caressing hand gratefully. 

"No one has ever taken care of or fussed over _me_, " said Reay--"Ishould rather like to try the experiment!"

Mary laughed good-humouredly. 

"You must find yourself a wife, "--she said--"And then you'll see how youlike it. "

"But wives don't make any fuss over their husbands it seems to me, "replied Reay--"At any rate in London, where I have lived for the pastfive years--husbands seem to be the last persons in the world whom theirwives consider. I don't think I shall ever marry. "

"I'm sure _I_ shan't, "--said Mary, smiling--and as she spoke, she bentover the fire, and threw a fresh log of wood on to keep up the brightglow which was all that illuminated the room, from which almost everypale glimmer of the twilight had now departed--"I'm an old maid. But Iwas an engaged girl once!"

Helmsley lifted up his head with sudden and animated interest. 

"Were you, Mary?"

"Oh, yes!" And the smile deepened round her expressive mouth and playedsoftly in her eyes--"Yes, David, really! I was engaged to a verygood-looking young man in the electrical engineering business. And I wasvery fond of him. But when my father lost every penny, my good-lookingyoung man went too. He said he couldn't possibly marry a girl withnothing but the clothes on her back. I cried very much at the time, andthought my heart was broken. But--it wasn't!"

"I should hope it wouldn't break for such a selfish rascal!" said Reay, warmly. 

"Do you think he was more selfish than most?" queried Mary, thoughtfully--"There's a good many who would do as he did. "

A silence followed. She sat down and resumed her work. 

"Have you finished your story?" she asked Reay--"It has interested me somuch that I'm hoping there's some more to tell. "

As she spoke to him he started as if from a dream. He had been watchingher so earnestly that he had almost forgotten what he had previouslybeen talking about. He found himself studying the beautiful outline ofher figure, and wondering why he had never before seen such graciouscurves of neck and shoulder, waist and bosom as gave symmetricalperfection of shape to this simple woman born of the "common" people. 

"More to tell?" he echoed, hastily, --"Well, there's a little--but notmuch. My love affair at Loch Lomond did one thing for me, --it made mework hard. I had a sort of desperate idea that I might wrest a fortuneout of journalism by dint of sheer grinding at it--but I soon found outmy mistake there. I toiled away so steadily and got such a firm hold ofall the affairs of the newspaper office where I was employed, that onefine morning I was dismissed. My proprietor, genial and kindly as ever, said he found 'no fault'--but that he wanted 'a change. ' I quiteunderstood that. The fact is I knew too much--that's all. I had saved abit, and so, with a few good letters of introduction, went on fromGlasgow to London. There, in that great black ant-hill full of crawlingsooty human life, I knocked about for a time from one newspaper officeto another, doing any sort of work that turned up, just to keep body andsoul together, --and at last I got a fairly good berth in the Londonbranch of a big press syndicate. It was composed of three or fourproprietors, ever so many editors, and an army of shareholdersrepresenting almost every class in Great Britain. Ah, thoseshareholders! There's the whole mischief of the press nowadays!"

"I suppose it's money again!" said Helmsley. 

"Of course it is. Here's how the matter stands. A newspaper syndicate islike any other trading company, composed for the sole end and object ofmaking as much profit out of the public as possible. The lion's portionnaturally goes to the heads of the concern--then come the shareholders'dividends. The actual workers in the business, such as the 'editors, 'are paid as little as their self-respect will allow them to take, and asfor the other fellows _under_ the editors--well!--you can just imaginethey get much less than the little their self-respect would claim, ifthey were not, most of them, so desperately poor, and so anxious for afoothold somewhere as to be ready to take anything. I took the firstchance I could get, and hung on to it, not for the wretched pay, but forthe experience, and for the insight it gave me into men and things. Iwitnessed the whole business;--the 'doctoring up' of socialscandals, --the tampering with the news in order that certain items mightnot affect certain shares on the Stock Exchange, --the way 'discussions'of the most idiotic kind were started in the office just to fill upspace, such as what was best to make the hair grow; what a baby ought toweigh at six months; what food authors write best on; and whether moderngirls make as good wives as their mothers did, and so on. These thingswere generally got up by 'the fool of the office' as we called him--aman with a perpetual grin and an undyingly good opinion of himself. Hewas always put into harness when for some state or financial reason theactual facts had to be euphonised or even suppressed and the public 'letdown gently. ' For a time I was drafted off on the 'social'business--ugh?--how I hated it?"

"What did you have to do?" asked Mary, amused. 

"Oh, I had to deal with a motley crowd of court flunkeys, Jews, tailorsand dressmakers, and fearful-looking women catering for 'fashion, ' whocame with what they called 'news, ' which was generally that 'Mrs. "Bunny" Bumpkin looked sweet in grey'--or that 'Miss "Toby" Tosspot wasamong the loveliest of the débutantes at Court. ' Sometimes a son ofIsrael came along, all in a mortal funk, and said he 'didn't want itmentioned' that Mrs. So-and-So had dined with him at a certain publicrestaurant last night. Generally, he was a shareholder, and his ordershad to be obeyed. The shareholders in fact had most to do with the'society' news, --and they bored me nearly to death. The trifles theywanted 'mentioned' were innumerable--the other trifles they didn't wantmentioned, were quite as endless. One day there was a regular row--asort of earthquake in the place. Somebody had presumed to mention thatthe beautiful Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup had smoked several cigarettes withinfinite gusto at a certain garden party, --now what are you laughing at, Miss Deane?"

"At the beautiful Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup!" and Mary's clear laughterrippled out in a silvery peal of purest merriment--"That's not her namesurely!"

"Oh no, that's not her name!" and Angus laughed too--"It wouldn't do togive her real name!--but Ketchup's quite as good and high-sounding asthe one she's got. And as I tell you, the whole 'staff' was convulsed. Three shareholders came down post haste to the office--one at full speedin a motor, --and said how _dare_ I mention Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup at all?It was like my presumption to notice that she had smoked! Mrs. MushroomKetchup's name must be kept out of the papers--she was a 'lady'! Oh, byJove!--how I laughed!--I couldn't help myself! I just roared withlaughter in the very faces of those shareholders! 'A lady!' saidI--'Why, she's---- ' But I wasn't allowed to say what she was, for theshareholder who had arrived in the motor, fixed a deadly glance upon meand said--'If you value your po-seetion'--he was a Lowland Scot, withthe Lowland accent--'if you value your po-seetion on this paper, you'llhold your tongue!' So I did hold my tongue then--but only because Imeant to wag it more violently afterwards. I always devote Mrs. MushroomKetchup to the blue blazes, because I'm sure it was through her I lostmy post. You see a shareholder in a paper has a good deal of influence, especially if he has as much as a hundred thousand shares. You'd besurprised if I told you the real names of some of the fellows whocontrol newspaper syndicates!--you wouldn't believe it! Or at any rate, if you _did_ believe it, you'd never believe the newspapers!"

"I don't believe them now, "--said Helmsley--"They say one thing to-dayand contradict it to-morrow. "

"Oh, but that's like all news!" said Mary, placidly--"Even in our littlevillage here, you never know quite what to believe. One morning you aretold that Mrs. Badge's baby has fallen downstairs and broken its neck, and you've scarcely done being sorry for Mrs. Badge, when in comes Mrs. Badge herself, baby and all, quite well and smiling, and she says she'never did hear such tales as there are in Wiercombe'!"

They all laughed. 

"Well, there's the end of my story, "--said Angus--"I worked on thesyndicate for two years, and then was given the sack. The cause of mydismissal was, as I told you, that I published a leading articleexposing a mean and dirty financial trick on the part of a man whopublicly assumed to be a world's benefactor--and he turned out to be ashareholder in the paper under an 'alias. ' There was no hope for meafter that--it was a worse affair than that of Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup. SoI marched out of the office, and out of London--I meant to make forExmoor, which is wild and solitary, because I thought I might find somecheap room in a cottage there, where I might live quietly on almostnothing and write my book--but I stumbled by chance on this placeinstead--and I rather like being so close to the sea. "

"You are writing a book?" said Mary, her eyes resting upon himthoughtfully. 

"Yes. I've got a room in the village for half-a-crown a week and 'boardmyself' as the good woman of the house says. And I'm perfectly happy!"

A long pause followed. The fire was dying down from a flame to a dullred glow, and a rush of wind against the kitchen window was accompaniedby the light pattering of rain. Angus Reay rose. 

"I must be going, "--he said--"I've made you quite a visitation! OldDavid is nearly asleep!"

Helmsley looked up. 

"Not I!" and he smiled--"I'm very wide awake: I like your story, and Ilike _you_! Perhaps you'll come in again sometimes and have a chat withus?"

Reay glanced enquiringly at Mary, who had also risen from her chair, andwas now lighting the lamp on the table. 

"May I?" he asked hesitatingly. 

"Why, of course!" And her eyes met his with hospitable frankness--"Comewhenever you feel lonely!"

"I often do that!" he said. 

"All the better!--then we shall often see you!"--she answered--"Andyou'll always be welcome!"

"Thank-you! I believe you mean it!"

Mary smiled. 

"Why of course I do! I'm not a newspaper syndicate!"

"Nor a Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup!" put in Helmsley. 

Angus threw back his head and gave one of his big joyous laughs. 

"No! You're a long way off that!" he said--"Good-evening, David!"

And going up to the armchair where Helmsley sat he shook hands with him. 

"Good-evening, Mr. Reay!" rejoined Helmsley, cheerily; "I'm very glad wemet this afternoon!"

"So am I!" declared Angus, with energy--"I don't feel quite so much of asolitary bear as I did. I'm in a better temper altogether with the worldin general!"

"That's right!" said Mary--"Whatever happens to you it's never the faultof the world, remember!--it's only the trying little ways of the peoplein it!"

She held out her hand in farewell, and he pressed it gently. Then hethrew on his cap, and she opened her cottage door for him to pass out. Asoft shower of rain blew full in their faces as they stood on thethreshold. 

"You'll get wet, I'm afraid!" said Mary. 

"Oh, that's nothing!" And he buttoned his coat across his chest--"What'sthat lovely scent in the garden here, just close to the door?"

"It's the old sweetbriar bush, "--she replied--"It lasts in leaf tillnearly Christmas and always smells so delicious. Shall I give you a bitof it?"

"It's too dark to find it now, surely!" said Angus. 

"Oh, no! I can feel it!"

And stretching out her white hand into the raining darkness, she broughtit back holding a delicate spray of odorous leaves. 

"Isn't it sweet?" she said, as she gave it to him. 

"It is indeed!" he placed the little sprig in his buttonhole. "Thank-you! Good-night!"

"Good-night!"

He lifted his hat and smiled into her eyes--then walked quickly throughthe tiny garden, opened the gate, shut it carefully behind him, anddisappeared. Mary listened for a moment to the swish of the falling rainamong the leaves, and the noise of the tumbling hill-torrent over itsstony bed. Then she closed and barred the door. 

"It's going to be a wet night, David!" she said, as she came backtowards the fire--"And a bit rough, too, by the sound of the sea. "

He did not answer immediately, but watched her attentively as she madeup the fire, and cleared the table of the tea things, packing up thecups and plates and saucers in the neat and noiseless manner which wasparticularly her own, preparatory to carrying them all on a tray out tothe little scullery adjoining the kitchen, which with its well polishedsaucepans, kettles, and crockery was quite a smart feature of her smallestablishment. Then--

"What do you think of him, Mary?" he asked suddenly. 

"Of Mr. Reay?"

"Yes. "

She hesitated a moment, looking intently at a small crack in one of theplates she was putting by. 

"Well, I don't know, David!--it's rather difficult to say on such ashort acquaintance--but he seems to me quite a good fellow. "

"Quite a good fellow, yes!" repeated Helmsley, nodding gravely--"That'show he seems to me, too. "

"I think, "--went on Mary, slowly--"that he's a thoroughly manlyman, --don't you?" He nodded gravely again, and echoed her words----

"A thoroughly manly man!"

"And perhaps, " she continued--"it would be pleasant for you, David, tohave a chat with him now and then especially in the long winterevenings--wouldn't it?"

She had moved to his side, and now stood looking down upon him with sucha wistful sweetness of expression, that he was content to merely watchher, without answering her question. 

"Because those long winter evenings are sometimes very dull, you know!"she went on--"And I'm afraid I'm not very good company when I'm at workmending the lace--I have to take all my stitches so carefully that Idare not talk much lest I make a false knot. "

He smiled. 

"_You_ make a false knot!" he said--"You couldn't do it, if you tried!You'll never make a false knot--never!"--and his voice sank to an almostinaudible murmur--"Neither in your lace nor in your life!"

She looked at him a little anxiously. 

"Are you tired, David?"

"No, my dear! Not tired--only thinking!"

"Well, you mustn't think too much, "--she said--"Thinking is weary work, sometimes!"

He raised his eyes and looked at her steadily. 

"Mr. Reay was very frank and open in telling us all about himself, wasn't he, Mary?"

"Oh yes!" and she laughed--"But I think he is one of those men whocouldn't possibly be anything else but frank and open. "

"Oh, you do?"

"Yes. "

"Don't you sometimes wonder, "--went on Helmsley slowly, keeping his gazefixed on the fire--"why _I_ haven't told you all about myself?"

She met his eyes with a candid smile. 

"No--I haven't thought about it!" she said. 

"Why haven't you thought about it?" he persisted. 

She laughed outright. 

"Simply because I haven't! That's all!"

"Mary, "--he said, seriously--"You know I was not your 'father's friend'!You know I never saw your father!"

The smile still lingered in her eyes. 

"Yes--I know that!"

"And yet you never ask me to give an account of myself!"

She thought he was worrying his mind needlessly, and bending over himtook his hand in hers. 

"No, David, I never ask impertinent questions!" she said--"I don't wantto know anything more about you than you choose to tell. You seem to melike my dear father--not quite so strong as he was, perhaps--but I havetaken care of you for so many weeks, that I almost feel as if youbelonged to me! And I want to take care of you still, because I know you_must_ be taken care of. And I'm so well accustomed to you now that Ishouldn't like to lose you, David--I shouldn't really! Because you'vebeen so patient and gentle and grateful for the little I have been ableto do for you, that I've got fond of you, David! Yes!--actually fond ofyou! What do you say to that?"

"Say to it!" he murmured, pressing the hand he held. "I don't know whatto say to it, Mary!--except--God bless you!"

She was silent a minute--then she went on in a cheerfully rallyingtone--

"So I don't want to know anything about you, you see! Now, as to Mr. Reay----"

"Ah, yes!" and Helmsley gave her a quick observant glance which sheherself did not notice--"What about Mr. Reay?"

"Well it would be nice if we could cheer him up a little and make himbear his poor and lonely life more easily. Wouldn't it?"

"Cheer him up a little and make him bear his poor and lonely life moreeasily!" repeated Helmsley, slowly, "Yes. And do you think we can dothat, Mary?"

"We can try!" she said, smiling--"At any rate, while he's living inWiercombe, we can be friendly to him, and give him a bit of dinner nowand then!"

"So we can!" agreed Helmsley--"Or rather, so _you_ can!"

"_We!_" corrected Mary--"_You're_ helping me to keep house now, David, --remember that!"

"Why I haven't paid half or a quarter of my debt to you yet!" heexclaimed. 

"But you're paying it off every day, "--she answered; "Don't you fear! Imean to have every penny out of you that I can!"

She laughed gaily, and taking up the tray upon which she had packed allthe tea-things, carried it out of the kitchen. Helmsley heard hersinging softly to herself in the scullery, as she set to work to washthe cups and saucers. And bending his old eyes on the fire, hesmiled, --and an indomitable expression of energetic resolve strengthenedevery line of his features. 

"You mean to have every penny out of me that you can, my dear, do you!"he said, softly--"And so--if Love can find out the way--you will!"

CHAPTER XVI

The winter now closed in apace, --and though the foliage all aboutWeircombe was reluctant to fall, and kept its green, russet and goldtints well on into December, the high gales which blew in from the seaplayed havoc with the trembling leaves at last and brought them to theground like the painted fragments of Summer's ruined temple. All thefishermen's boats were hauled up high and dry, and great stretches ofcoarse net like black webs, were spread out on the beach for drying andmending, --while through the tunnels scooped out of the tall castellatedrocks which guarded either side of the little port, or "weir, " the greatbillows dashed with a thunderous roar of melody, oftentimes throwingaloft fountains of spray well-nigh a hundred feet in height--spray whichthe wild wind caught and blew in pellets of salty foam far up the littlevillage street. Helmsley was now kept a prisoner indoors, --he had notsufficient strength to buffet with a gale, or to stand any unusuallysharp nip of cold, --so he remained very comfortably by the side of thefire, making baskets, which he was now able to turn out quickly withquite an admirable finish, owing to the zeal and earnestness with whichhe set himself to the work. Mary's business in the winter months wasentirely confined to the lace-mending--she had no fine laundry work todo, and her time was passed in such household duties as kept her littlecottage sweet and clean, in attentive guardianship and care of her"father's friend"--and in the delicate weaving of threads whereby thefine fabric which had once perchance been damaged and spoilt byflaunting pride, was made whole and beautiful again by simple patience. Helmsley was never tired of watching her. Whether she knelt down with apail of suds, and scrubbed her cottage doorstep--or whether she satquietly opposite to him, with the small "Charlie" snuggled on a rugbetween them, while she mended her lace, his eyes always rested upon herwith deepening interest and tenderness. And he grew daily more consciousof a great peace and happiness--peace and happiness such as he hadnever known since his boyhood's days. He, who had found the ways ofmodern society dull to the last point of excruciating boredom, was notaware of any monotony in the daily round of the hours, which, laden withsimple duties and pleasures, came and went softly and slowly like angelmessengers stepping gently from one heaven to another. The world--orthat which is called the world, --had receded from him altogether. Here, where he had found a shelter, there was no talk of finance--the claimsof the perpetual "bridge" party had vanished like the misty confusion ofa bad dream from the brain--the unutterably vulgar intrigues common tothe so-called "better" class of twentieth century humanity could notintrude any claim on his attention or his time--the perpetual lending ofmoney to perpetually dishonest borrowers was, for the present, afinished task--and he felt himself to be a free man--far freer than hehad been for many years. And, to add to the interest of his days, hebecame engrossed in a scheme--a strange scheme which built itself up inhis head like a fairy palace, wherein everything beautiful, graceful, noble, helpful and precious, found place and position, and grew frompromise to fulfilment as easily as a perfect rosebud ripens to a perfectrose. But he said nothing of his thoughts. He hugged them, as it were, to himself, and toyed with them as though they were jewels, --preciousjewels selected specially to be set in a crown of inestimable worth. Meanwhile his health kept fairly equable, though he was well awarewithin his own consciousness that he did not get stronger. But he wasstrong enough to be merry at times--and his kindly temper and cheeryconversation made him a great favourite with the Weircombe folk, whowere never tired of "looking in" as they termed it, on Mary, and "'avin'a bit of a jaw with old David. "

Sociable evenings they had too, during that winter--evenings when AngusReay came in to tea and stayed to supper, and after supper entertainedthem by singing in a deep baritone voice as soft as honey, the oldScotch songs now so hopelessly "out of fashion"--such as "My NannieO"--"Ae fond kiss"--and "Highland Mary, " in which last exquisite balladhe was always at his best. And Mary sang also, accompanying herself on aquaint old Hungarian zither, which she said had been left with herfather as guarantee for ten shillings which he had lent to a streetmusician wandering about Barnstaple. The street musician disappeared andthe ten shillings were never returned, so Mary took possession of thezither, and with the aid of a cheap instruction book, managed to learnenough of its somewhat puzzling technique to accompany her own voicewith a few full, rich, plaintive chords. And it was in this fashion thatAngus heard her first sing what she called "A song of the sea, " runningthus:

 I heard the sea cry out in the night Like a fretful child-- Moaning under the pale moonlight In a passion wild-- And my heart cried out with the sea, in tears, For the sweet lost joys of my vanished years!

 I heard the sea laugh out in the noon Like a girl at play-- All forgot was the mournful moon In the dawn of day! And my heart laughed out with the sea, in gladness, And I thought no more of bygone sadness. 

 I think the sea is a part of me With its gloom and glory-- What Has Been, and what yet Shall Be Is all its story; Rise up, O Heart, with the tidal flow, And drown the sorrows of Long Ago!

Something eerie and mystical there was in these words, sung as she sangthem in a low, soft, contralto, sustained by the pathetic quiver of thezither strings throbbing under the pressure of her white fingers, andAngus asked her where she had learned the song. 

"I found it, "--she answered, somewhat evasively. 

"Did you compose it yourself?"

She flushed a little. 

"How can you imagine such a thing?"

He was silent, but "imagined" the more. And after this he began to showher certain scenes and passages in the book he was writing, sometimesreading them aloud to her with all that eager eloquence which an authorwho loves and feels his work is bound to convey into the pronouncedexpression of it. And she listened, absorbed and often entranced, forthere was no gain-saying the fact that Angus Reay was a man of genius. He was inclined to underrate rather than overestimate his ownabilities, and often showed quite a pathetic mistrust of himself in hisvery best and most original conceptions. 

"When I read to you, "--he said to her, one day--"You must tell me theinstant you feel bored. That's a great point! Because if _you_ feelbored, other people who read the book will feel bored exactly as you doand at the very same passage. And you must criticise me mercilessly!Rend me to pieces--tear my sentences to rags, and pick holes in everydetail, if you like! That will do me a world of good!"

Mary laughed. 

"But why?" she asked, "Why do you want me to be so unkind to you?"

"It won't be unkind, "--he declared--"It will be very helpful. And I'lltell you why. There's no longer any real 'criticism' of literary work inthe papers nowadays. There's only extravagant eulogium written up by anauthor's personal friends and wormed somehow into the press--or equallyextravagant abuse, written and insinuated in similar fashion by anauthor's personal enemies. Well now, you can't live without having bothfriends and enemies--you generally have more of the latter than theformer, particularly if you are successful. There's nothing a lazy manwon't do to 'down' an industrious one, --nothing an unknown scrub won'tattempt in the way of trying to injure a great fame. It's a delightfulworld for that sort of thing!--so truly 'Christian, ' pleasant andcharitable! But the consequence of all these mean and petty 'personal'views of life is, that sound, unbiased, honest literary criticism is adead art. You can't get it anywhere. And yet if you could, there'snothing that would be so helpful, or so strengthening to a man's work. It would make him put his best foot foremost. I should like to thinkthat my book when it comes out, would be 'reviewed' by a man who had noprejudices, no 'party' politics, no personal feeling for or againstme, --but who simply and solely considered it from an impartial, thoughtful, just and generous point of view--taking it as a piece ofwork done honestly and from a deep sense of conviction. Criticism fromfellows who just turn over the pages of a book to find fault casuallywherever they can--(I've seen them at it in newspaper offices!) or toquote unfairly mere scraps of sentences without context, --or to fly offinto a whirlwind of personal and scurrilous calumnies against an authorwhom they don't know, and perhaps never will know, --that sort of thingis quite useless to me. It neither encourages nor angers me. It is amere flabby exhibition of incompetency--much as if a jelly-fish shouldtry to fight a sea-gull! Now you, --if you criticise me, --your criticismwill be valuable, because it will be quite honest--there will be no'personal' feeling in it----"

She raised her eyes to his and smiled. 

"No?"

Something warm and radiant in her glance flashed into his soul andthrilled it strangely. Vaguely startled by an impression which he didnot try to analyse, he went on hastily--"No--because you see you areneither my friend nor my enemy, are you?"

She was quite silent. 

"I mean, "--he continued, blundering along somewhat lamely, --"You don'thate me very much, and you don't like me very much. I'm just an ordinaryman to you. Therefore you're bound to be perfectly impartial, becausewhat I do is a matter of 'personal' indifference to you. That's why yourcriticism will be so helpful and valuable. "

She bent her head closely over the lace she was mending for a minute ortwo, as though she were making a very intricate knot. Then she looked upagain. 

"Well, if you wish it, I'll tell you just what I think, " she said, quietly--"But you mustn't call it criticism. I'm not clever enough tojudge a book. I only know what pleases _me_, --and what pleases me maynot please the world. I know very little about authors, and I've taughtmyself all that I do know. I love Shakespeare, --but I could not explainto you why I love him, because I'm not clever enough. I only feel hiswork, --I feel that it's all right and beautiful and wonderful--but Icouldn't criticise it. "

"No one can, --no one should!" said Reay, warmly--"Shakespeare is aboveall criticism!"

"But is he not always being criticised?" she asked. 

"Yes. By little men who cannot understand greatness, "--he answered--"Itgives a kind of 'scholarly importance' to the little men, but it leavesthe great one unscathed. "

This talk led to many others of a similar nature between them, andReay's visits to Mary's cottage became more and more frequent. DavidHelmsley, weaving his baskets day by day, began to weave something moredelicate and uncommon than the withes of willow, --a weaving which wenton in his mind far more actively than the twisting and plaiting of theosiers in his hands. Sometimes in the evenings, when work was done, andhe sat in his comfortable easy chair by the fire watching Mary at hersewing and Angus talking earnestly to her, he became so absorbed in hisown thoughts that he scarcely heard their voices, and often when theyspoke to him, he started from a profound reverie, unconscious of theirwords. But it was not the feebleness or weariness of age that made himseem at times indifferent to what was going on around him--it was theintensity and fervour of a great and growing idea of happiness in hissoul, --an idea which he cherished so fondly and in such close secrecy, as to be almost afraid to whisper it to himself lest by some unhappychance it should elude his grasp and vanish into nothingness. 

And so the time went on to Christmas and New Year. Weircombe kept thesefestivals very quietly, yet not without cheerfulness. There was plentyof holly about, and the children, plunging into the thick of the woodsat the summit of the "coombe" found mistletoe enough for the commonneed. The tiny Church was prettily decorated by the rector's wife anddaughters, assisted by some of the girls of the village, and everybodyattended service on Christmas morning, not only because it wasChristmas, but because it was the last time their own parson wouldpreach to them, before he went away for three months or more to a warmclimate for the benefit of his health. But Helmsley did not join thelittle crowd of affectionate parishioners--he stayed at home while Marywent, as she said "to pray for him. " He watched her from the opencottage door, as she ascended the higher part of the "coombe, " dressedin a simple stuff gown of darkest blue, with a prim little "old maid's"bonnet, as she called it, tied neatly under her rounded white chin--andcarrying in her hand a much worn "Book of Common Prayer" which she heldwith a certain delicate reverence not often shown to holy things by thechurch-going women of the time. Weircombe Church had a small but musicalchime of bells, presented to it by a former rector--and the silverysweetness of the peal just now ringing was intensified by the closeproximity of the mountain stream, which, rendered somewhat turbulent byrecent rains, swept along in a deep swift current, carrying the melodyof the chimes along with it down to the sea and across the waves inbroken pulsation, till they touched with a faint mysterious echo themasts of home-returning ships, and brought a smile to the faces ofsailors on board who, recognising the sound, said "Weircombe bells, sure-_ly_!"

Helmsley stood listening, lost in meditation. To anyone who could haveseen him then, a bent frail figure just within the cottage door, withhis white hair, white beard, and general appearance of gentle andresigned old age, he would have seemed nothing more than a venerablepeasant, quietly satisfied with his simple surroundings, and as farapart from every association of wealth, as the daisy in the grass isfrom the star in the sky. Yet, in actual fact, his brain was busyweighing millions of money, --the fate of an accumulated mass of wealthhung on the balance of his decision, --and he was mentally arranging hisplans with all the clearness, precision and practicality which haddistinguished him in his biggest financial schemes, --schemes which hadfrom time to time amazed and convulsed the speculating world. A certainwistful sadness touched him as he looked on the quiet country landscapein the wintry sunlight of this Christmas morn, --some secret instinctiveforeboding told him that it might be the last Christmas he should eversee. And a sudden wave of regret swept over his soul, --regret that hehad not appreciated the sweet things of life more keenly when he hadbeen able to enjoy their worth. So many simple joys missed!--so manygracious and helpful sentiments discarded!--all the best of his yearsgiven over to eager pursuit of gold, --not because he cared for goldreally, but because, owing to a false social system which perverted themoral sense, it seemed necessary to happiness. Yet he had proved it tobe the very last thing that could make a man happy. The more money, theless enjoyment of it--the greater the wealth, the less the content. Wasthis according to law?--the spiritual law of compensation, which workssteadily behind every incident which we may elect to call good or evil?He thought it must be so. This very festival--Christmas--how thoroughlyhe had been accustomed by an effete and degenerate "social set" toregard it as a "bore, "--an exploded superstition--a saturnalia of beefand pudding--a something which merely served as an excuse for throwingaway good money on mere stupid sentiment. "Stupid" sentiment? Had heever thought true, tender, homely sentiment "stupid"? Yes, --perhaps hehad, when in the bold carelessness of full manhood he had assumed thatthe race was to the swift and the battle to the strong--but now, whenthe shadows were falling--when, perhaps, he would never hear theChristmas bells again, or be troubled by the "silly superstitions" ofloving, praying, hoping, believing humanity, he would have given muchcould he have gone back in fancy to every Christmas of his life and seeneach one spent cheerily amid the warm associations of such "sentiments"as make friendship valuable and lasting. He looked up half vaguely atthe sky, clear blue on this still frosty morning, and was conscious oftears that crept smartingly behind his eyes and for a moment dimmed hissight. And he murmured dreamily--

 "Behold we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last--far off--at last, to all-- And every winter change to spring!"

A tall, athletic figure came between him and the light, and Angus Reay'svoice addressed him--

"Hullo, David! A merry Christmas to you! Do you know you are standingout in the cold? What would Miss Mary say?"

"Miss Mary" was the compromise Angus hit upon between "Miss Deane" and"Mary, "--considering the first term too formal, and the last toofamiliar. 

Helmsley smiled. 

"Miss Mary has gone to church, "--he replied--"I thought you had gonetoo. "

Reay gave a slight gesture of mingled regret and annoyance. 

"No--I never go to church, "--he said--"But don't you think I despise thegoing. Not I. I wish I could go to church! I'd give anything to go as Iused to do with my father every Sunday. "

"And why can't you?"

"Because the church is not what it used to be, "--declared Reay--"Don'tget me on that argument, David, or I shall never cease talking! Now, seehere!--if you stand any longer at that open door you'll get a chill! Yougo inside the house and imitate Charlie's example--look at him!" And hepointed to the tiny toy terrier snuggled up as usual in a ball of silkycomfort on the warm hearth--"Small epicure! Come back to your chair, David, and sit by the fire--your hands are quite cold. "

Helmsley yielded to the persuasion, not because he felt cold, butbecause he was rather inclined to be alone with Reay for a little. Theyentered the house and shut the door. 

"Doesn't it look a different place without her!" said Angus, glancinground the trim little kitchen--"As neat as a pin, of course, but all thelife gone from it. "

Helmsley smiled, but did not answer. Seating himself in his armchair, hespread out his thin old hands to the bright fire, and watched Reay as hestood near the hearth, leaning one arm easily against a rough beam whichran across the chimney piece. 

"She is a wonderful woman!" went on Reay, musingly; "She has a power ofwhich she is scarcely conscious. "

"And what is that?" asked Helmsley, slowly rubbing his hands with quitean abstracted air. 

Angus laughed lightly, though a touch of colour reddened his bronzedcheeks. 

"The power that the old alchemists sought and never could find!" heanswered--"The touch that transmutes common metals to fine gold, andchanges the every-day prose of life to poetry. "

Helmsley went on rubbing his hands slowly. 

"It's so extraordinary, don't you think, David, "--he continued--"thatthere should be such a woman as Miss Mary alive at all?"

Helmsley looked up at him questioningly, but said nothing. 

"I mean, "--and Angus threw out his hand with an impetuous gesture--"thatconsidering all the abominable, farcical tricks women play nowadays, itis simply amazing to find one who is contented with a simple life likethis, and who manages to make that simple life so gracious andbeautiful!"

Still Helmsley was silent. 

"Now, just think of that girl I've told you about--LucySorrel, "--proceeded Angus--"Nothing would have contented her in all thisworld!"

"Not even her old millionaire?" suggested Helmsley, placidly. 

"No, certainly not! Poor old devil! He'll soon find himself put on theshelf if he marries her. He won't be able to call his soul his own! Ifhe gives her diamonds, she'll want more diamonds--if he covers her andstuffs her with money, she'll never have enough! She'll want all she canget out of him while he lives and everything he has ever possessed whenhe's dead. "

Helmsley rubbed his hands more vigorously together. 

"A very nice young lady, " he murmured. "Very nice indeed! But if youjudge her in this way now, why did you ever fall in love with her?"

"She was pretty, David!" and Reay smiled--"That's all! My passion forher was skin-deep! And hers for me didn't even touch the cuticle! Shewas pretty--as pretty as a wax-doll, --perfect eyes, perfect hair, perfect figure, perfect complexion--ugh! how I hate perfection!"

And taking up the poker, he gave a vigorous blow to a hard lump of coalin the grate, and split it into a blaze. 

"I hate perfection!" he resumed--"Or rather, I hate what passes forperfection, for, as a matter of fact, there's nothing perfect. And Ispecially and emphatically hate the woman that considers herself a'beauty, ' that gets herself photographed as a 'beauty, ' that the pressreporter speaks of as a 'beauty, '--and that affronts you with her'beauty' whenever you look at her, as though she were some sort offirst-class goods for sale. Now Miss Mary is a beautiful woman--and shedoesn't seem to know it. "

"Her time for vanity is past, "--said Helmsley, sententiously--"She is anold maid. "

"Old maid be shot!" exclaimed Angus, impetuously--"By Jove! Any manmight be proud to marry her!"

A keen, sharp glance, as incisive as any that ever flashed up and downthe lines of a business ledger, gleamed from under Helmsley's fuzzybrows. 

"Would you?" he asked. 

"Would I marry her?" And Angus reddened suddenly like a boy--"Dear oldDavid, bless you! That's just what I want you to help me to do!"

For a moment such a great wave of triumph swept over Helmsley's soulthat he could not speak. But he mastered his emotion by an effort. 

"I'm afraid, "--he said--"I'm afraid I should be no use to you in such abusiness, --you'd much better speak to her yourself--"

"Why, of course I mean to speak to her myself, "--interrupted Reay, warmly--"Don't be dense, David! You don't suppose I want _you_ to speakfor me, do you? Not a bit of it! Only before I speak, I do wish youcould find out whether she likes me a little--because--because--I'mafraid she doesn't look upon me at all in _that_ light----"

"In what light?" queried Helmsley, gently. 

"As a lover, "--replied Angus--"She's given up thinking of lovers. "

Helmsley leaned back in his chair, and clasping his hands together sothat the tips of his fingers met, looked over them in almost the samemeditative businesslike way as he had looked at Lucy Sorrel when he hadquestioned her as to her ideas of her future. 

"Well, naturally she has, "--he answered--"Lovers have given up thinkingof _her_!"

"I hope they have!" said Angus, fervently--"I hope I have no rivals! Formy love for her is a jealous love, David! I must be all in all to her, or nothing! I must be the very breath of her breath, the life of herlife! I must!--or I am no use to her. And I want to be of use. I want towork for her, to look upon her as the central point of all myactions--the very core of ambition and endeavour, --so that everything Ido may be well done enough to meet with her praise. If she does not likeit, it will be worthless. For her soul is as pure as the sunlight and asfull of great depths as the sea! Simplest and sweetest of women as sheis, she has enough of God in her to make a man live up to the best thatis in him!"

His voice thrilled with passion as he spoke--and Helmsley felt a strangecontraction at his heart--a pang of sharp memory, desire and regret allin one, which moved him to a sense of yearning for this love which hehad never known--this divine and wonderful emotion whose power could sotransform a man as to make him seem a very king among men. For so AngusReay looked just now, with his eyes flashing unutterable tenderness, andhis whole aspect expressive of a great hope born of a great ideal. Buthe restrained the feeling that threatened to over-master him, and merelysaid very quietly, and with a smile--

"I see you are very much in love with her, Mr. Reay!"

"In love?" Angus laughed--"No, my dear old David! I'm not a bit 'inlove. ' I love her! That's love with a difference. But you know how it iswith me. I haven't a penny in the world but just what I told you mustlast me for a year--and I don't know when I shall make any more. So thatI wouldn't be such a cad as to speak to her about it yet. But--if Icould only get a little hope, --if I could just find out whether sheliked me a little, that would give me more energy in my work, don't yousee? And that's where you could help me, David!"

Helmsley smiled ever so slightly. 

"Tell me how, "--he said. 

"Well, you might talk to her sometimes and ask her if she ever thinks ofgetting married--"

"I have done that, "--interrupted Helmsley--"and she has always said'No. '"

"Never mind what she _has_ said--ask her again, David, "--persistedAngus--"And then lead her on little by little to talk about me--"

"Lead her on to talk about you--yes!" and Helmsley nodded his headsagaciously. 

"David, my dear old man, you _will_ interrupt me, "--and Angus laughedlike a boy--"Lead her on, I say, --and find out whether she likes me everso little--and then----"

"And then?" queried Helmsley, his old eyes beginning to sparkle--"Must Ising your praises to her?"

"Sing my praises! No, by Jove!--there's nothing to praise in me. I don'twant you to say a word, David. Let _her_ speak--hear what _she_says--and then--and then tell _me_!"

"Then tell _you_--yes--yes, I see!" And Helmsley nodded again in afashion that was somewhat trying to Reay's patience. "But, suppose shefinds fault with you, and says you are not at all the style of man shelikes--what then?"

"Then, "--said Reay, gloomily--"my book will never be finished!"

"Dear, dear!" Helmsley raised his hands with a very well acted gestureof timid concern--"So bad as all that!"

"So bad as all that!" echoed Reay, with a quick sigh; "Or rather so goodas all that. I don't know how it has happened, David, but she has quitesuddenly become the very life of my work. I don't think I could get onwith a single page of it, if I didn't feel that I could go to her andask her what she thinks of it. "

"But, "--said Helmsley, in a gentle, argumentative way--"all this is verystrange! She is not an educated woman. "

Reay laughed lightly. 

"No? What do you call an educated woman, David?"

Helmsley thought a moment. The situation was a little difficult, for hehad to be careful not to say too much. 

"Well, I mean, "--he said, at last--"She is not a lady. "

Reay's eyes flashed sudden indignation. 

"Not a lady!" he ejaculated--"Good God! Who is a lady then?"

Helmsley glanced at him covertly. How fine the man looked, with histall, upright figure, strong, thoughtful face, and air of absolutedetermination!

"I'm afraid, "--he murmured, humbly--"I'm afraid I don't know how toexpress myself, --but what I want to say is that she is not what theworld would call a lady, --just a simple lace-mender, --real 'ladies'would not ask her to their houses, or make a friend of her, perhaps--"

"She's a simple lace-mender, --I was a common cowherd, "--said Angus, grimly--"Do you think those whom the world calls 'ladies' would make afriend of _me_?"

Helmsley smiled. 

"You're a man--and to women it doesn't matter what a man _was_, so longas he _is_ something. You were a cowherd, as you say--but you educatedyourself at a University and got a degree. In that way you've raisedyourself to the rank of a gentleman--"

"I was always that, "--declared Angus, boldly, "even as a cowherd! Yourarguments won't hold with me, David! A gentleman is not made by a frockcoat and top hat. And a lady is not a lady because she wears fineclothes and speaks one or two foreign languages very badly. For that'sabout all a 'lady's' education amounts to nowadays. According toVictorian annals, 'ladies' used to be fairly accomplished--they playedand sang music well, and knew that it was necessary to keep upintelligent conversation and maintain graceful manners--but they've goneback to sheer barbarism in the frantic ugliness of their performancesat hockey--and they've taken to the repulsive vices of Charles theSecond's time in gambling and other immoralities. No, David! I don'ttake kindly to the 'ladies' who disport themselves under the benevolentdispensation of King Edward the Seventh. "

Helmsley was silent. After a pause, Reay went on--

"You see, David, I'm a poor chap--poorer than Mary is. If I could get ahundred, or say, two hundred pounds for my book when it is finished, Icould ask her to marry me then, because I could bring that money to herand do something to keep up the home. I never want anything sweeter orprettier than this little cottage to live in. If she would let me shareit with her as her husband, we should live a perfectly happy life--alife that thousands would envy us! That is, of course, if she loved me. "

"Ay!--that's a very important 'if, '" said Helmsley. 

"I know it is. That's why I want you to help me to find out her mind, David--will you? Because, if you should discover that I am objectionableto her in any way, it would be better for me, I think, to go straightaway from Weircombe, and fight my trouble out by myself. Then, you see, she would never know that I wanted to bother her with my life-longpresence. Because she's very happy as she is, --her face has all thelovely beauty of perfect content--and I'd rather do anything thantrouble her peace. "

There followed a pause. The fire crackled and burned with a warmChristmas glow, and Charlie, uncurling his soft silky body, stretchedout each one of his tiny paws separately, with slow movements expressiveof intense comfort. If ever that little dog had known what it was to liein the lap of luxury amid aristocratic surroundings, it was certain thathe was conscious of being as well off in a poor cottage as in a palaceof a king. And after a minute or two, Helmsley raised himself in hischair and held out his hand to Angus Reay, who grasped it warmly. 

"I'll do my best, "--he said, quietly--"I know what you mean--and I thinkyour feeling does you honour. Of course you know I'm only a kind ofstranger here--just a poor old lonely man, very dependent on Miss Deanefor her care of me, and trying my best to show that I'm not ungratefulto her for all her goodness--and I mustn't presume too far--but--I'll domy best. And I hope--I hope all will be well!" He paused--and pressedReay's hand again--then glanced up at the quaint sheep-faced clock thatticked monotonously against the kitchen wall. "She will be coming backfrom church directly, "--he continued--"Won't you go and meet her?"

"Shall I?" And Reay's face brightened. 

"Do!"

Another moment, and Helmsley was alone--save for the silent company ofthe little dog stretched out upon the hearth. And he lost himself in aprofound reverie, the while he built a castle in the air of his owndesigning, in which Self had no part. How many airy fabrics of beautyand joy had he not raised one after the other in his mind, only to seethem crumble into dust!--but this one, as he planned it in his thoughts, nobly uplifted above all petty limits, with all the light of a broadbeneficence shining upon it, and a grand obliteration of his ownpersonality serving as the very cornerstone of its foundation, seemedlikely to be something resembling the house spoken of by Christ, whichwas built upon a rock--against which neither winds, nor rains, norfloods could prevail. And when Mary came back from Church, with Reayaccompanying her, she found him looking very happy. In fact, she toldhim he had quite "a Christmas face. "

"What is a Christmas face, Mary?" he asked, smiling. 

"Don't you know? A face that looks glad because other people areglad, "--she replied, simply. 

An expressive glance flashed from Reay's eyes, --a glance which Helmsleycaught and understood in all its eloquent meaning. 

"We had quite a touching little sermon this morning, " she went on, untying her bonnet strings, and taking off that unassuminghead-gear--"It was just a homely simple, kind talk. Our parson's sorryto be going away, but he hopes to be back with us at the beginning ofApril, fit and well again. He's looking badly, poor soul! I felt a bitlike crying when he wished us all a bright Christmas and happy New Year, and said he hoped God would allow him to see us all again. "

"Who is going to take charge of the parish in his absence?" asked Reay. 

"A Mr. Arbroath. He isn't a very popular man in these parts, and I can'tthink why he has volunteered to come here, seeing he's got severalparishes of his own on the other side of Dunster to attend to. But I'mtold he also wants a change--so he's got some one to take his duties, and he is coming along to us. Of course, it's well known that he likesto try a new parish whenever he can. "

"Has he any reason for that special taste?" enquired Reay. 

"Oh yes!" answered Mary, quietly--"He's a great High Churchman, and hewants to introduce Mass vestments and the confessional whenever he can. Some people say that he receives an annual payment from Rome for doingthis kind of work. "

"Another form of the Papal secret service!" commented Reay, drily--"Iunderstand! I've seen enough of it!"

Mary had taken a clean tablecloth from an oaken press, and was spreadingit out for dinner. 

"Well, " she said, smilingly, "he won't find it very advantageous to himto take the duties here. For every man and woman in the village intendsto keep away from Church altogether if he does not give us our servicesexactly as we have always been accustomed to them. And it won't bepleasant for him to read prayers and preach to empty seats, will it?"

"Scarcely!"

And Angus, standing near the fire, bent his brows with meditativesternness on the glowing flames. Then suddenly addressing Helmsley, hesaid--"You asked me a while ago, David, why I didn't go to Church. Itold you I wished I could go, as I used to do with my father everySunday. For, when I was a boy, our Sundays were real devotionaldays--our preachers _felt_ what they preached, and when they told us toworship the great Creator 'in spirit and in truth, ' we knew they were inearnest about it. Now, religion is made a mere 'party' system--a form ofstruggle as to which sect can get the most money for its own purposes. Christ, --the grand, patient, long-suffering Ideal of all goodness, isgone from it! How can He remain with it while it is such a Sham! Ourbishops in England truckle to Rome--and, Rome itself is employing everypossible means to tamper with the integrity of the British constitution. The spies and emissaries of Rome are everywhere--both in our so-called'national' Church and in our most distinctly _un_-national Press!"

Helmsley listened with keen interest. As a man of business, education, observation, and discernment, he knew that what Reay said was true, --butin his assumed rôle of a poor and superannuated old office clerk, whohad been turned adrift from work by reason of age and infirmities, hehad always to be on his guard against expressing his opinion too openlyor frankly. 

"I don't know much about the newspapers, "--he said, mildly--"I readthose I can get, just for the news--but there isn't much news, itappears to me----"

"And what there is may be contradicted in an hour's time, "--saidAngus--"I tell you, David, when I started working in journalism, Ithought it was the finest profession going. It seemed to me to have allthe responsibilities of the world on its back. I considered it a forcewith which to educate, help, and refine all peoples, and all classes. But I found it was only a money speculation after all. How much profitcould be made out of it? That was the chief point of action. That wasthe mainspring of every political discussion--and in election times, oneside had orders to abuse the other, merely to keep up the popularexcitement. By Jove! I should like to take a select body of electors'behind the scenes' of a newspaper office and show them how the wholebusiness is run!"

"You know too much, evidently!" said Mary smiling--"I don't wonder youwere dismissed!"

He laughed--then as suddenly frowned. 

"I swear as I stand here, " he said emphatically, "that the press is notserving the people well! Do you know--no, of course you don't!--but Ican tell you for a fact that a short time ago an offer was made fromAmerica through certain financial powers in the city, to buy up severalof the London dailies, and run them on American lines![1] Germany had afinger in the pie, too, through her German Jews!"

Helmsley looked at his indignant face with a slight imperceptible smile. 

"Well!" he said, with a purposely miscomprehending air. 

"Well! You say 'Well, ' David, as if such a proposition contained nothingremarkable. That's because you don't understand! Imagine for a momentthe British Press being run by America!"

Helmsley stroked his beard thoughtfully. 

"I _can't_ imagine it, "--he said. 

"No--of course you can't! But a few rascally city financiers _could_imagine it, and more than that, were prepared to carry the thingthrough. Then, the British people would have been led, guided, advised, and controlled by a Yankee syndicate! And the worst of it is that thissame British people would have been kept in ignorance of the 'deal. 'They would actually have been paying their pennies to keep up the sharesof a gang of unscrupulous rascals whose sole end and object was to getthe British press into their power! Think of it!"

"But did they succeed?" asked Helmsley. 

"No, they didn't. Somebody somewhere had a conscience. Somebodysomewhere refused to 'swop' the nation's much boasted 'liberty of thepress' for so much cash down. I believe the 'Times' is backed by theRothschilds, and managed by American advertisers--I don't know whetherit is so or not--but I _do_ know that the public ought to be put ontheir guard. If I were a powerful man and a powerful speaker I wouldcall mass meetings everywhere, and urge the people not to purchase asingle newspaper till each one published in its columns a full andhonest list of the shareholders concerned in it. Then the public wouldhave a chance of seeing where they are. At present they _don't_ knowwhere they are. "

"Well, you know very well where _you_ are!" said Mary, interrupting himat this juncture--"You are in my house, --it's Christmas Day, anddinner's ready!"

He laughed, and they all three sat down to table. It had been arrangedfor fully a week before that Angus should share his Christmas dinnerwith Mary and "old David"--and a very pleasant and merry meal they madeof it. And in the afternoon and evening some of the villagers came in togossip--and there was singing of songs, and one or two bashful attemptson the part of certain gawky lads to kiss equally gawky girls under themistletoe. And Mary, as hostess of the haphazard little party, did herbest to promote kindly feeling among them all, effacing herself soutterly, and playing the "old maid" with such sweet and placidloveliness that Angus became restless, and was moved by a feverishdesire to possess himself of one of the little green twigs with whiteberries, which, looking so innocent, were apparently so provocative, and to try its effect by holding it suddenly above the glorious massesof her brown hair, which shone with the soft and shimmering hue ofevening sunlight. But he dared not. Kissing under the mistletoe was allvery well for boys and girls--but for a mature bachelor of thirty-nineand an "old maid" of thirty-five, these uncouth and calf-likegambollings lacked dignity. Moreover, when he looked at Mary's pureprofile--the beautifully shaped eyes, classic mouth, and exquisite lineof neck and shoulder, the very idea of touching those lips with a kissgiven in mere lightness, seemed fraught with impertinence andirreverence. If ever he kissed Mary, he thought, --and then all thepowers of his mind galloped off like wild horses let loose on asun-baked ranch--if ever he kissed Mary! What a dream!--what a boldnessunprecedented! But again--if ever he kissed her, it must be with thekiss of a lover, for whom such a token of endearment was the sign of asacred betrothal. And he became so lost and abstracted in his musingsthat he almost forgot the simple village merriment around him, and onlycame back to himself a little when the party broke up altogether, and hehimself had to say "good-night, " and go with the rest. Mary, whilegiving him her hand in farewell, looked at him with a sisterlysolicitude. 

"You're tired, Mr. Reay, "--she said--"I'm afraid we've been too noisyfor you, haven't we? But one can't keep boys and girls quiet!"

"I don't want them kept quiet, "--said Reay, holding her hand veryhard--"And I'm not tired. I've only been thinking. "

"Ah! Of your book?"

"Yes. Of my book. "

He went then, and came no more to the cottage till a week later when itwas New Year's Eve. This they celebrated very quietly--just they threealone. Mary thought it somewhat imprudent for "old David" to sit up tillmidnight in order to hear the bells "ring out the Old, ring in theNew"--but he showed a sudden vigorous resolution about it which was notto be gainsaid. 

"Let me have my way, my dear, "--he implored her--"I may never seeanother New Year!"

"Nonsense, David!" she said cheerily--"You will see many and many a one, please God!"

"Please God, I shall!" he answered, quietly--"But if it should notplease God--then--"

"There!--you want to stay up, and you shall stay up!" she declared, smiling--"After all, as Mr. Reay is with us, the time won't perhaps seemso long for you. "

"But for you, "--put in Angus--"it will seem very long won't it!"

"Oh, I always sit up for the coming-in of the New Year, "--shereplied--"Father used to do it, and I like to keep up all father's ways. Only I thought David might feel too tired. You must sing to us, Mr. Reay, to pass the hours away. "

"And so must you!" he replied. 

And she did sing that night as she had never sung to them before, with afuller voice and more passion than she had hitherto shown, --one littlewild ballad in particular taking Reay's fancy so much that he asked herto sing it more than once. The song contained just three six-linestanzas, having little merit save in their suggestiveness. 

 Oh love, my love! I have giv'n you my heart Like a rose full-blown, With crimson petals trembling apart-- It is all your own-- What will you do with it. Dearest, --say? Keep it for ever or throw it away?

 Oh love, my love! I have giv'n you my life, Like a ring of gold; Symbol of peace in a world of strife, To have and to hold. What will you do with it, Dearest, --say? Treasure it always, or throw it away?

 Oh love, my love! Have all your will-- I am yours to the end; Be false or faithful--comfort or kill, Be lover or friend, -- Where gifts are given they must remain, I never shall ask for them back again!

"Do you know that you have a very beautiful voice, Miss Mary?" saidAngus, after hearing this for the second time. 

"Oh, I don't think so at all, "--she answered, quickly; "Father used tolike to hear me sing--but I can only just give ballads their meaning, and pronounce the words carefully so the people may know what I amtrying to sing about. I've no real voice. "

"You have!" And Angus turned to Helmsley for his opinion--"Hasn't she, David?"

"Her voice is the sweetest _I_ ever heard, "--replied Helmsley--"But thenI'm not much of a judge. "

And his thoughts went roving back to certain entertainments in Londonwhich he had given for the benefit of his wealthy friends, when he hadpaid as much as five or six hundred guineas in fees to famous operasingers, that they might shriek or warble, as their respective talentsdictated, to crowds of indifferent loungers in his rooms, who cared nomore for music than they did for religion. He almost smiled as herecalled those nights, and contrasted them with this New Year's evening, when seated in an humble cottage, he had for his companions only alowly-born poor woman, and an equally lowly-born poor man, both of whomevinced finer education, better manners, greater pride of spirit, andmore resolute independence than nine-tenths of the "society" people whohad fawned upon him and flattered him, simply because they knew he was amillionaire. And the charm of his present position was that these two, poor, lowly-born people were under the impression that even in theirpoverty and humility they were better off than he was, and that becausefortune had been, as they considered, kind to them, they were bound totreat him in a way that should not remind him of his dependent anddefenceless condition. It was impossible to imagine greater satisfactionthan that which he enjoyed in the contemplation of his own actualsituation as compared with that which he had impressed upon the minds ofthese two friends of his who had given him their friendship trustinglyand frankly for himself alone. And he listened placidly, with foldedhands and half shut eyes, while Angus, at Mary's request, trolled forth"The Standard on the Braes o' Mar" and "Sound the pibroch, "--varyingthose warlike ditties with "Jock o' Hazledean, " and "Will ye no comeback again, "--till all suddenly Mary rose from her chair, and with herfinger to her lips said "Hark!" The church-bells were ringing out theOld Year, and glancing at the clock, they saw it wanted but ten minutesto midnight. Softly Mary stepped to the cottage door and opened it. Thechime swung melodiously in, and Angus Reay went to the threshold, andstood beside Mary, listening. Had they glanced back that instant theywould have seen Helmsley looking at them both, with an intensity ofyearning in his pale face and sad old eyes that was pitiful and earnestbeyond all expression--they would have seen his lips move, as hemurmured--"God grant that I may make their lives beautiful! God give methis peace of mind before I die! God bless them!" But they were absorbedin listening--and presently with a deep clang the bells ceased. Maryturned her head. 

"The Old Year's out, David!"

Then she went to him and knelt down beside him. 

"It's been a kind old year!"--she said--"It brought you to me to takecare of, and _me_ to you to take care of you--didn't it?"

He laid one hand on hers, tremblingly, but was silent. She turned up herkind, sweet face to his. 

"You're not tired, are you?"

He shook his head. 

"No, my dear, no!"

A rush and a clang of melody swept suddenly through the open door--thebells had begun again. 

"A Happy New Year, Miss Mary!" said Angus, looking towards her fromwhere he stood on the threshold--"And to you, David!"

With an irrepressible movement of tenderness Helmsley raised histrembling hands and laid them gently on Mary's head. 

"Take an old man's blessing, my dear!" he said, softly, "And from a mostgrateful heart!"

She caught his hands as he lifted them again from her brow, and kissedthem. There were tears in her eyes, but she brushed them quickly away. 

"You talk just like father!" she said, smiling--"He was always gratefulfor nothing!"

And rising from her kneeling attitude by Helmsley's chair, she wentagain towards the open cottage door, holding out her two hands to Reay. Looking at her as she approached he seemed to see in her some graciousangel, advancing with all the best possibilities of life for him in hersole power and gift. 

"A Happy New Year, Mr. Reay! And success to the book!"

He clasped the hands she extended. 

"If you wish success for it, success is bound to come!" he answered in alow voice--"I believe in your good influence!"

She looked at him, and whatever answer rose to her lips was suddenlysilenced by the eloquence of his eyes. She coloured hotly, and then grewvery pale. They both stood on the threshold of the open door, silent andstrangely embarrassed, while the bells swung and clanged musicallythrough the frosty air, and the long low swish of the sea swept up likea harmonious bass set to the silvery voice of the chimes. They littleguessed with what passionate hope, yearning, and affection, Helmsleywatched them standing there!--they little knew that on them the lastambition of his life was set!--and that any discovery of sham orfalsehood in their natures would make cruel havoc of his dearest dreams!They waited, looking out on the dark quiet space, and listening to therush of the stream till the clamour of the bells ceased again, andsounded no more. In the deep stillness that followed Angus said softly--

"There's not a leaf left on the old sweetbriar bush now!"

"No, "--answered Mary, in the same soft tone--"But it will be the firstthing to bud with the spring. "

"I've kept the little sprig you gave me, "--he added, apparently by wayof a casual after-thought. 

"Have you?"

Silence fell again--and not another word passed between them save agentle "Good-night" when, the New Year having fully come in, theyparted. 

[Footnote 1: A fact. ]

CHAPTER XVII

The dreariest season of the year had now set in, but frost and cold werevery seldom felt severely in Weircombe. The little village lay in a deepwarm hollow, and was thoroughly protected at the back by the hills, while in the front its shores were washed by the sea, which had awarming as well as bracing effect on the atmosphere. To invalidsrequiring an equable temperature, it would have been a far more idealwinter resort than any corner of the much-vaunted Riviera, except indeedfor the fact that feeding and gambling dens were not among itsattractions. To "society" people it would have proved insufferably dull, because society people, lacking intelligence to do anything themselves, always want everything done for them. Weircombe folk would not haveunderstood that method of living. To them it seemed proper andreasonable that men, and women too, should work for what they ate. Thetheory that only a few chosen persons, not by any means estimable eitheras to their characters or their abilities, should eat what others werestarved for, would not have appealed to them. They were a small andunimportant community, but their ideas of justice and principles ofconduct were very firmly established. They lived on the lines laid downby their forefathers, and held that a simple faith in God, coupled withhonest hard labour, was sufficient to make life well worth living. And, on the whole they were made of that robust human material of which inthe days gone by there was enough to compose and consolidate thegreatness of Britain. They were kindly of heart, but plain inspeech, --and their remarks on current events, persons and things, wouldhave astonished and perhaps edified many a press man had he been amongthem, when on Saturday nights they "dropped in" at the one littlepublic-house of the village, and argued politics and religion tillclosing-time. Angus Reay soon became a favourite with them all, thoughat first they had looked upon him with a little distrust as a "gentleman_tow_-rist"; but when he had mixed with them freely and familiarly, making no secret of the fact that he was poor, and that he wasendeavouring to earn a livelihood like all the rest of them, only in adifferent way, they abandoned all reserve, and treated him as one ofthemselves. Moreover, when it was understood that "Mis' Deane, " whosereputation stood very high in the village, considered him not unworthyof her friendship, he rose up several degrees in the popular estimation, and many a time those who were the self-elected wits and wise-acres ofthe place, would "look in" as they termed it, at Mary's cottage, andpass the evening talking with him and with "old David, " who, if he didnot say much, listened the more. Mr. Bunce, the doctor, and Mr. Twitt, the stonemason, were in particular profoundly impressed when they knewthat Reay had worked for two years on a London newspaper. 

"Ye must 'ave a ter'uble knowledge of the world, Mister!" said Twitt, thoughtfully--"Just ter'uble!"

"Yes, I should assume it must be so, "--murmured Bunce--"I should thinkit could hardly fail to be so?"

Reay gave a short laugh. 

"Well, I don't know!" he said--"You may call it a knowledge of the worldif you like--I call it an unpleasant glimpse into the shady side oflife. I'd rather walk in the sunshine. "

"And what would you call the sunshine, sir?" asked Bunce, with his headvery much on one side like a meditative bird. 

Honesty, truth, belief in God, belief in good!"--answered Angus, withsome passion--"Not perpetual scheming, suspicion of motives, personalslander, and pettiness--O Lord!--such pettiness as can hardly bebelieved! Journalism is the most educational force in the world, but itspower is being put to wrong uses. "

"Well, --said Twitt, slowly--"I aint so blind but I can see through awall when there's a chink in it. An' when I gets my 'Daily' down fromLunnun, an' sees harf a page given up to a kind o' poster about Pills, an' another harf a page praisin' up somethin' about Tonics, I often sezto myself: 'Look 'ere, Twitt! What are ye payin' yer pennies out for?For a Patent Pill or for News? For a Nervy Tonic or for the latestpol'tics?' An' myself--me--Twitt--answers an' sez--'Why ye're payin' fornews an' pol'tics, of course!' Well then, I sez, 'Twitt, ye aintgettin' nothin' o' the sort!' An' t' other day, blow'd if I didn't seein my paper a long piece about ''Ow to be Beautiful'--an' that 'adn'tnothin' to do wi' me nor no man, but was just mere gabble for foolwomen. ''Ow to be Beautiful, ' aint news o' the world!"

"No, "--said Reay--"You're not intended to know the news of the world. News, real news, is the property of the Stock Exchange. It's chieflyintended for company gambling purposes. The People are not expected toknow much about it. Modern Journalism seeks to play Pope and assert thedoctrine of infallibility. What It does not authorise, isn't supposed toexist. "

"Is that truly so?" asked Bunce, solemnly. 

"Most assuredly!"

"You mean to say, "--said Helmsley, breaking in upon the conversation, and speaking in quiet unconcerned tones--"that the actual nationalaffairs of the world are not told to the people as they should be, butare jealously guarded by a few whose private interests are at stake?"

"Yes. I certainly do mean that. "

"I thought you did. You see, " went on Helmsley--"when I was in regularoffice work in London, I used to hear a good deal concerning thebusiness schemes of this, that and the other great house in thecity, --and I often wondered what the people would say if they ever cameto know!"

"Came to know what?" said Mr. Bunce, anxiously. 

"Why, the names of the principal shareholders in the newspapers, "--saidReay, placidly--"_That_ might possibly open their eyes to the way theiropinions are manufactured for them! There's very little 'liberty of thepress' in Great Britain nowadays. The press is the property of a fewrich men. "

Mary, who was working very intently on a broad length of old lace shewas mending, looked up at him--her eyes were brilliant and her cheekssoftly flushed. 

"I hope you will be brave enough to say that some day right out to thepeople as you say it to us, "--she observed. 

"I will! Never fear about that! If I _am_ ever anything--if I ever _can_be anything--I will do my level best to save my nation from beingswallowed up by a horde of German-American Jews!" said Reay, hotly--"Iwould rather suffer anything myself than see the dear old countrybrought to shame. "

"Right, very right!" said Mr. Bunce, approvingly--"And many--yes, Ithink we may certainly say many, --are of your spirit, --what do youthink, David?"

Helmsley had raised himself in his chair, and was looking wonderfullyalert. The conversation interested him. 

"I quite agree, "--he said--"But Mr. Reay must remember that if he shouldever want to make a clean sweep of German-American Jews and speculatorsas he says, and expose the way they tamper with British interests, hewould require a great deal of money. A _very_ great deal of money!" herepeated, slowly, --"Now I wonder, Mr. Reay, what you would do with amillion?--two millions?--three millions?--four millions?"--

"Stop, stop, old David!"--interrupted Twitt, suddenly holding up hishand--"Ye takes my breath away!"

They all laughed, Reay's hearty tones ringing above the rest. 

"Oh, I should know what to do with them!"--he said; "but I wouldn'tspend them on my own selfish pleasures--that I swear! For one thing, I'drun a daily newspaper on _honest_ lines----"

"It wouldn't sell!" observed Helmsley, drily. 

"It would--it _should_!" declared Reay--"And I'd tell the people thetruth of things, --I'd expose every financial fraud I could find----"

"And you'd live in the law-courts, I fear!" said Mr. Bunce, gravelyshaking his head--"We may be perfectly certain, I think--may we not, David?--that the law-courts would be Mr. Reay's permanent address?"

They laughed again, and the conversation turned to other topics, thoughits tenor was not forgotten by anyone, least of all by Helmsley, who satvery silent for a long time afterwards, thinking deeply, and seeing inhis thoughts various channels of usefulness to the world and the world'sprogress, which he had missed, but which others after him would find. 

Meanwhile Weircombe suffered a kind of moral convulsion in the advent ofthe Reverend Mr. Arbroath, who arrived to "take duty" in the absence ofits legitimate pastor. He descended upon the tiny place like an embodiedblack whirlwind, bringing his wife with him, a lady whose faciallineaments bore the strangest and most remarkable resemblance to thoseof a china cat; not a natural cat, because there is something soft andappealing about a real "pussy, "--whereas Mrs. Arbroath's countenance wascold and hard and shiny, like porcelain, and her smile was preciselythat of the immovable and ruthless-looking animal designed long ago byold-time potters and named "Cheshire. " Her eyes were similar to the eyesof that malevolent china creature--and when she spoke, her voice had theshrill tone which was but a few notes off the actual "_me-iau_" of anangry "Tom. " Within a few days after their arrival, every cottage in the"coombe" had been "visited, " and both Mr. And Mrs. Arbroath had made uptheir minds as to the neglected, wholly unspiritual and unregeneratenature of the little flock whom they had offered, for sake of their ownhealth and advantage, to tend. The villagers had received them civilly, but without enthusiasm. When tackled on the subject of their religiousopinions, most of them declined to answer, except Mr. Twitt, who, fixinga filmy eye sternly on the plain and gloomy face of Mr. Arbroath, saidemphatically:

"We aint no 'Igh Jinks!"

"What do you mean, my man?" demanded Arbroath, with a dark smile. 

"I mean what I sez"--rejoined Twitt--"I've been stonemason 'ere goin' onnow for thirty odd years an' it's allus been the same 'ere--no 'IghJinks. Purcessin an' vestiments"--here Twitt spread out a broad dirtythumb and dumped it down with each word into the palm of his otherhand--"candles, crosses, bobbins an' bowins--them's what we calls 'IghJinks, an' I make so bold as to say that if ye gets 'em up 'ere, Mr. Arbroath, ye'll be mighty sorry for yourself!"

"I shall conduct the services as I please!" said Arbroath. "You take toomuch upon yourself to speak to me in such a fashion! You should mindyour own business!"

"So should you, Mister, so should you!" And Twitt chuckledcontentedly--"An' if ye _don't_ mind it, there's those 'ere as'll _make_ye!"

Arbroath departed in a huff, and the very next Sunday announced that"Matins" would be held at seven o'clock daily in the Church, and"Evensong" at six in the afternoon. Needless to say, the announcementwas made in vain. Day after day passed, and no one attended. Smartingwith rage, Arbroath sought to "work up" the village to a proper "'IghJink" pitch--but his efforts were wasted. And a visit to Mary Deane'scottage did not sweeten his temper, for the moment he caught sight ofHelmsley sitting in his usual corner by the fire, he recognised him asthe "old tramp" he had interviewed in the common room of the "TrustyMan. "

"How did _you_ come here?" he demanded, abruptly. 

Helmsley, who happened to be at work basket-making, looked up, but madeno reply. Whereupon Arbroath turned upon Mary--

"Is this man a relative of yours?" he asked. 

Mary had risen from her chair out of ordinary civility as the clergymanentered, and now replied quietly. 

"No, sir. "

"Oh! Then what is he doing here?"

"You can see what he is doing, "--she answered, with a slight smile--"Heis making baskets. "

"He is a tramp!" said Arbroath, pointing an inflexible finger at him--"Isaw him last summer smoking and drinking with a gang of low ruffians ata roadside inn called 'The Trusty Man'!" And he advanced a step towardsHelmsley--"Didn't I see you there?"

Helmsley looked straight at him. 

"You did. "

"You told me you were tramping to Cornwall. "

"So I was. "

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Earning a living. "

Arbroath turned sharply on Mary. 

"Is that true?"

"Of course it is true, "--she replied--"Why should he tell you a lie?"

"Does he lodge with you?"

"Yes. "

Arbroath paused a moment, his little brown eyes sparkling vindictively. 

"Well, you had better be careful he does not rob you!" he said. "For Ican prove that he seemed to be very good friends with that notoriousrascal Tom o' the Gleam who murdered a nobleman at Blue Anchor lastsummer, and who would have hung for his crime if he had not fortunatelysaved the expense of a rope by dying. "

Helmsley, bending over his basket-weaving, suddenly straightened himselfand looked the clergyman full in the face. 

"I never knew Tom o' the Gleam till that night on which you saw me at'The Trusty Man, '" he said--"But I know he had terrible provocation forthe murder he committed. I saw that murder done!"

"You saw it done!" exclaimed Arbroath--"And you are here?"

"Why should I not be here?" demanded Helmsley--"Would you have expectedme to stay _there_? I was only one of many witnesses to that terribledeed of vengeance--but, as God lives, it was a just vengeance!"

"Just? You call murder just!" and Arbroath gave a gesture of scorn andhorror--"And you, "--he continued, turning to Mary indignantly--"canallow a ruffian like this to live in your house?"

"He is no ruffian, "--said Mary steadily, --"Nor was Tom o' the Gleam aruffian either. He was well-known in these parts for many and many adeed of kindness. The real ruffian was the man who killed his littlechild. Indeed I think he was the chief murderer. "

"Oh, you do, do you?" and Mr. Arbroath frowned heavily--"And you callyourself a respectable woman?"

Mary smiled, and resuming her seat, bent her head intently over her lacework. 

Arbroath stood irresolute, gazing at her. He was a sensual man, and herphysical beauty annoyed him. He would have liked to sit down alone withher and take her hand in his own and talk to her about her "soul" whilegloating over her body. But in the "old tramp's" presence there wasnothing to be done. So he assumed a high moral tone. 

"Accidents will happen, "--he said, sententiously--"If a child gets intothe way of a motor going at full speed, it is bound to beunfortunate--for the child. But Lord Wrotham was a rich man--and nodoubt he would have paid a handsome sum down in compensation----"

"Compensation!" And Helmsley suddenly stood up, drawing his frail thinfigure erect--"Compensation! Money! Money for a child's life--money fora child's love! Are you a minister of Christ, that you can talk of sucha thing as possible? What is all the wealth of the world compared tothe life of one beloved human creature! Reverend sir, I am an old poorman, --a tramp as you say, consorting with rogues and ruffians--but wereI as rich as the richest millionaire that ever 'sweated' honest labour, I would rather shoot myself than offer money compensation to a fatherfor the loss of a child whom my selfish pleasure had slain!"

He trembled from head to foot with the force of his own eloquence, andArbroath stared at him dumb-foundered. 

"You are a preacher, "--went on Helmsley--"You are a teacher of theGospel. Do you find anything in the New Testament that gives men licenceto ride rough-shod over the hearts and emotions of their fellow-men? Doyou find there that selfishness is praised or callousness condoned? Inthose sacred pages are we told that a sparrow's life is valueless, or achild's prayer despised? Sir, if you are a Christian, teach Christianityas Christ taught it--_honestly_!"

Arbroath turned livid. 

"How dare you--!" he began--when Mary quietly rose. 

"I would advise you to be going, sir, "--she said, quitecourteously--"The old man is not very strong, and he has a trouble ofthe heart. It is little use for persons to argue who feel sodifferently. We poor folk do not understand the ways of the gentry. "

And she held open the door of her cottage for him to pass out. Hepressed his slouch-hat more heavily over his eyes, and glared at herfrom under the shadow of its brim. 

"You are harbouring a dangerous customer in your house!" he said--"Adangerous customer! It will be my duty to warn the parish against him!"

She smiled. 

"You are very welcome to do so, sir! Good-morning!"

And as he tramped away through her tiny garden, she quickly shut andbarred the door after him, and hurried to Helmsley in some anxiety, forhe looked very pale, and his breath came and went somewhat rapidly. 

"David dear, why did you excite yourself so much over that man!" shesaid, kneeling beside him as he sank back exhausted in his chair--"Wasit worth while?"

He patted her head with a tremulous hand. 

"Perhaps not!" And he smiled--"Perhaps not, Mary! But the cold-bloodedway in which he said that a money compensation might have been offeredto poor Tom o' the Gleam for his little child's life--my God! As if anysort of money could compare with love!"

He stroked her hair gently, and went on murmuring to himself--

"As if all the gold in the world could make up for the loss of oneloving heart!"

Mary was silent. She saw that he was greatly agitated, and thought itbetter to let him speak out his whole mind rather than suppress hisfeelings. 

"What can a man do with wealth!" he went on, speaking more to himselfthan to her--"He can buy everything that is to be bought, certainly--butif he has no one to share his goods with him, what then? Eh, Mary? Whatthen?"

"Why then he'd be a very miserable man, David!" she answered, smiling--"He'd wish he were poor, with some one to love him!"

He looked at her, and his sunken eyes flashed with quite an eager light. 

"That's true!" he said--"He'd wish he were poor with some one to lovehim! Mary, you've been so kind to me--promise me one thing!"

"What's that?" and she patted his hand soothingly. 

"Just this--if I die on your hands don't let that man Arbroath bury me!I think my very bones would split at the sound of his rasping voice!"

Mary laughed. 

"Don't you worry about that!" she said--"Mr. Arbroath won't have thechance to bury you, David! Besides, he never takes the burials of thevery poor folk even in his own parishes. He wrote a letter in one of thecountryside papers not very long ago, to complain of the smallness ofthe burial fees, and said it wasn't worth his while to bury paupers!"And she laughed again. "Poor, bitter-hearted man! He must be verywretched in himself to be so cantankerous to others. "

"Well, don't let him bury _me_!" said Helmsley--"That's all I ask. I'dmuch rather Twitt dug a hole in the seashore and put my body into ithimself, without any prayers at all, than have a prayer croaked over meby that clerical raven! Remember that!"

"I'll remember!" And Mary's face beamed with kindly tolerance andgood-humour--"But you're really quite an angry old boy to-day, David! Inever saw you in such a temper!"

Her playful tone brought a smile to his face at last. 

"It was that horrible suggestion of money compensation for a child'slife that angered me, "--he said, half apologetically--"The notion thatpounds, shillings and pence could pay for the loss of love, got on mynerves. Why, love is the only good thing in the world!"

She had been half kneeling by his chair--but she now rose slowly, andstretched her arms out with a little gesture of sudden weariness. 

"Do you think so, David?" and she sighed, almost unconsciously toherself--"I'm not so sure!"

He glanced at her in sudden uneasiness. Was she too going to say, likeLucy Sorrel, that she did not believe in love? He thought of Angus Reay, and wondered. She caught his look and smiled. 

"I'm not so sure!" she repeated--"There's a great deal talked aboutlove, --but it often seems as if there was more talk than deed. At leastthere is in what is generally called 'love. ' I know there's a very realand beautiful love, like that which I had for my father, and which hehad for me, --that was as near being perfect as anything could be in thisworld. But the love I had for the young man to whom I was once engagedwas quite a different thing altogether. "

"Of course it was!" said Helmsley--"And quite naturally, too. You lovedyour father as a daughter loves--and I suppose you loved the young manas a sweetheart loves--eh?"

"Sweetheart is a very pretty word, "--she answered, the smile stilllingering about her lips--"It's quite old-fashioned too, and I loveold-fashioned things. But I don't think I loved the young man exactly asa 'sweetheart. ' It all came about in a very haphazard way. He took afancy to me, and we used to go long walks together. He hadn't very muchto say for himself--he smoked most of the time. But he was honest andrespectable--and I got rather fond of him--so that when he asked me tomarry him, I thought it would perhaps please father to see me providedfor--and I said yes, without thinking very much about it. Then, whenfather failed in business and my man threw me over, I fretted a bit justfor a day or two--mostly I think because we couldn't go any more Sundaywalks together. I was in the early twenties, but now I'm getting on inthe thirties. I know I didn't understand a bit about real love then. Itwas just fancy and the habit of seeing the one young man oftener thanothers. And, of course, that isn't love. "

Helmsley listened to her every word, keenly interested. Surely, if heguided the conversation skilfully enough, he might now gain some usefulhints which would speed the cause of Angus Reay?

"No--of course that isn't love, "--he echoed--"But what do you take to_be_ love?--Can you tell me?"

Her eyes filled with a dreamy light, and her lips quivered a little. 

"Can I tell you? Not very well, perhaps--but I'll try. Of course it'sall over for me now--and I can only just picture what I think it oughtto be. I never had it. I mean I never had that kind of love I havedreamed about, and it seems silly for an old maid to even talk of such athing. But love to my mind ought to be the everything of life! If Iloved a man----" Here she suddenly paused, and a wave of colour flushedher cheeks. Helmsley never took his eyes off her face. 

"Yes?" he said, tentatively--"Well!--go on--if you loved a man?----"

"If I loved a man, David, "--she continued, slowly, clasping her handsmeditatively behind her back, and looking thoughtfully into the glowingcentre of the fire--"I should love him so completely that I should neverthink of anything in which he had not the first and greatest share. Ishould see his kind looks in every ray of sunshine--I should hear hisloving voice in every note of music, --if I were to read a book alone, Ishould wonder which sentence in it would please _him_ the most--if Iplucked a flower, I should ask myself if he would like me to wear it, --Ishould live _through_ him and _for_ him--he would be my very eyes andheart and soul! The hours would seem empty without him----"

She broke off with a little sob, and her eyes brimmed over with tears. 

"Why Mary! Mary, my dear!" murmured Helmsley, stretching out his hand totouch her--"Don't cry!"

"I'm not crying, David!" and a rainbow smile lighted her face--"I'm onlyjust--_feeling_! It's like when I read a little verse of poetry that isvery sad and sweet, I get tears into my eyes--and when I talk aboutlove--especially now that I shall never know what it is, something risesin my throat and chokes me----"

"But you do know what it is, "--said Helmsley, powerfully moved by thetouching simplicity of her confession of loneliness--"There isn't a moreloving heart than yours in the world, I'm sure!"

She came and knelt down again beside him. 

"Oh yes, I've a loving heart!" she said--"But that's just the worst ofit! I can love, but no one loves or ever will love me--now. I'm past theage for it. No woman over thirty can expect to be loved by a lover, youknow! Romance is all over--and one 'settles down, ' as they say. I'venever quite 'settled'--there's always something restless in me. You'resuch a dear old man, David, and so kind!--I can speak to you just as ifyou were my father--and I daresay you will not think it very wrong orselfish of me if I say I have longed to be loved sometimes! More thanthat, I've wished it had pleased God to send me a husband andchildren--I should have dearly liked to hold a baby in my arms, andsoothe its little cries, and make it grow up to be happy and good, and ablessing to every one. Some women don't care for children--but I shouldhave loved mine!"

She paused a moment, and Helmsley took her hand, and silently pressed itin his own. 

"However, "--she went on, more lightly--"it's no good grieving over whatcannot be helped. No man has ever really loved me--because, of course, the one I was engaged to wouldn't have thrown me over just because I waspoor if he had cared very much about me. And I shall be thirty-five thisyear--so I must--I really _must_"--and she gave herself an admonitorylittle shake--"settle down! After all there are worse things in lifethan being an old maid. I don't mind it--it's only sometimes when I feelinclined to grizzle, that I think to myself what a lot of love I've gotin my heart--all wasted!"

"Wasted?" echoed Helmsley, gently--"Do you think love is ever wasted?"

Her eyes grew serious and dreamy. 

"Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't"--she answered--"When I begin tolike a person very much I often pull myself back and say 'Take care!Perhaps he doesn't like _you!_'"

"Oh! The person must be a 'he' then!" said Helmsley, smiling a little. 

She coloured. 

"Oh no--not exactly!--but I mean, --now, for instance, "--and she spokerapidly as though to cover some deeper feeling--"I like _you_ verymuch--indeed I'm fond of you, David!--I've got to know you so well, andto understand all your ways--but I can't be sure that you like _me_ asmuch as I like _you_, can I?"

He looked at her kind and noble face with eyes full of tenderness andgratitude. 

"If you can be sure of anything, you can be sure of that!"--he said--"Tosay I 'like' you would be a poor way of expressing myself. I owe my verylife to you--and though I am only an old poor man, I would say I lovedyou if I dared!"

She smiled--and her whole face shone with the reflected sunshine of hersoul. 

"Say it, David dear! Do say it! I should like to hear it!"

He drew the hand he held to his lips, and gently kissed it. 

"I love you, Mary!" he said--"As a father loves a daughter I love you, and bless you! You have been a good angel to me--and I only wish I werenot so old and weak and dependent on your care. I can do nothing to showmy affection for you--I'm only a burden upon your hands----"

She laid her fingers lightly across his lips. 

"Sh-sh!" she said--"That's foolish talk, and I won't listen to it! I'mglad you're fond of me--it makes life so much pleasanter. Do you know, Isometimes think God must have sent you to me?"

"Do you? Why?"

"Well, I used to fret a little at being so much alone, --the days seemedso long, and it was hard to have to work only for one's wretched self, and see nothing in the future but just the same old round--and I missedmy father always. I never could get accustomed to his empty chair. Thenwhen I found you on the hills, lost and solitary, and ill, and broughtyou home to nurse and take care of, all the vacancy seemed filled--and Iwas quite glad to have some one to work for. I've been ever so muchhappier since you've been with me. We'll be like father and daughter tothe end, won't we?"

She put one arm about him coaxingly. He did not answer. 

"You won't go away from me now, --will you, David?" she urged--"Even whenyou've paid me back all you owe me as you wish by your own earnings, youwon't go away?"

He lifted his head and looked at her as she bent over him. 

"You mustn't ask me to promise anything, "--he said, "I will stay withyou--as long as I can!"

She withdrew her arm from about him, and stood for a moment irresolute. 

"Well--I shall be very miserable if you do go, "--she said--"And I'm sureno one will take more care of you than I will!"

"I'm sure of that, too, Mary!" and a smile that was almost youthful inits tenderness brightened his worn features--"I've never been so welltaken care of in all my life before! Mr. Reay thinks I am a very luckyold fellow. "

"Mr. Reay!" She echoed the name--and then, stooping abruptly towards thefire, began to make it up afresh. Helmsley watched her intently. 

"Don't you like Mr. Reay?" he asked. 

She turned a smiling face round upon him. 

"Why, of course I like him!" she answered--"I think everyone inWeircombe likes him. "

"I wonder if he'll ever marry?" pursued Helmsley, with a meditative air. 

"Ah, I wonder! I hope if he does, he'll find some dear sweet little girlwho will really love him and be proud of him! For he's going to be agreat man, David!--a great and famous man some day!"

"You think so?"

"I'm sure of it!"

And she lifted her head proudly, while her blue eyes shone withenthusiastic fervour. Helmsley made a mental note of her expression, andwondered how he could proceed. 

"And you'd like him to marry some 'dear sweet little girl'"--he went on, reflectively--"I'll tell him that you said so!"

She was silent, carefully piling one or two small logs on the fire. 

"Dear sweet little girls are generally uncommonly vain of themselves, "resumed Helmsley--"And in the strength of their dearness and sweetnessthey sometimes fail to appreciate love when they get it. Now Mr. Reaywould love very deeply, I should imagine--and I don't think he couldbear to be played with or slighted. "

"But who would play with or slight such love as his?" asked Mary, with awarm flush on her face--"No woman that knew anything of his heart wouldwilfully throw it away!"

Helmsley stroked his beard thoughtfully. 

"That story of his about a girl named Lucy Sorrel, "--he began. 

"Oh, she was wicked--downright wicked!" declared Mary, with somepassion--"Any girl who would plan and scheme to marry an old man for hismoney must be a worthless creature. I wish I had been in that LucySorrel's place!"

"Ah! And what would you have done?" enquired Helmsley. 

"Well, if I had been a pretty girl, in my teens, and I had beenfortunate enough to win the heart of a splendid fellow like AngusReay, "--said Mary, "I would have thanked God, as Shakespeare tells us todo, for a good man's love! And I would have waited for him years, if hehad wished me to! I would have helped him all I could, and cheered himand encouraged him in every way I could think of--and when he had wonhis fame, I should have been prouder than a queen! Yes, I should!--Ithink any girl would have been lucky indeed to get such a man to carefor her as Angus Reay!"

Thus spake Mary, with sparkling eyes and heaving bosom--and Helmsleyheard her, showing no sign of any especial interest, the while he wenton meditatively stroking his beard. 

"It is a pity, "--he said, after a discreet pause--"that you are not afew years younger, Mary! You might have loved him yourself. "

Her face grew suddenly scarlet, and she seemed about to utter anexclamation, but she repressed it. The colour faded from her cheeks asrapidly as it had flushed them, leaving her very pale. 

"So I might!" she answered quietly, --and she smiled; "Indeed I think itwould have been very likely! But that sort of thing is all over for me. "

She turned away, and began busying herself with some of her householdduties. Helmsley judged that he had said enough--and quietly exulted inhis own mind at the discovery which he was confident he had made. Allseemed clear and open sailing for Angus Reay--if--if she could bepersuaded that it was for herself and herself alone that he loved her. 

"Now if she were a rich woman, she would never believe in his love!" hethought--"There again comes in the curse of money! Suppose she werewealthy as women in her rank of life would consider it--suppose that shehad a prosperous farm, and a reliable income of so much per annum, shewould never flatter herself that a man loved her for her own good andbeautiful self--especially a man in the situation of Reay, with onlytwenty pounds in the world to last him a year, and nothing beyond itsave the dream of fame! She would think--and naturally too--that hesought to strengthen and improve his prospects by marrying a woman ofsome 'substance' as they call it. And even as it is the whole businessrequires careful handling. I myself must be on my guard. But I think Imay give hope to Reay!--indeed I shall try and urge him to speak to heras soon as possible--before fortune comes to either of them! Love in itspurest and most unselfish form, is such a rare blessing--such a gloriousAngel of the kingdom of Heaven, that we should not hesitate to give itwelcome, or delay in offering it reverence! It is all that makes lifeworth living--God knows how fully I have proved it!"

And that night in the quiet darkness of his own little room, he foldedhis worn hands and prayed--

"Oh God, before whom I appear as a wasted life, spent with toil ingetting what is not worth the gaining, and that only seems as dross inThy sight!--Give me sufficient time and strength to show my gratefulnessto Thee for Thy mercy in permitting me to know the sweetness of Love atlast, and in teaching me to understand, through Thy guidance, that thosewho may seem to us the unconsidered and lowly in this world, are oftento be counted among Thy dearest creatures! Grant me but this, O God, anddeath when it comes, shall find me ready and resigned to Thy Will!"

Thus he murmured half aloud, --and in the wonderful restfulness which heobtained by the mere utterance of his thoughts to the Divine Source ofall good, closed his eyes with a sense of abiding joy, and sleptpeacefully. 

CHAPTER XVIII

And now by slow and beautiful degrees the cold and naked young year grewwarm, and expanded from weeping, shivering infancy into the delightedconsciousness of happy childhood. The first snowdrops, the earliestaconites, perked up their pretty heads in Mary's cottage garden, andthroughout all nature there came that inexplicable, indefinite, softpulsation of new life and new love which we call the spring. Tiny buds, rosy and shining with sap, began to gleam like rough jewels on everytwig and tree--a colony of rooks which had abode in the elms surroundingWeircombe Church, started to make great ado about their housekeeping, and kept up as much jabber as though they were inaugurating an Irishnight in the House of Commons, --and, over a more or less tranquil sea, the gulls poised lightly on the heaving waters in restful attitudes, asthough conscious that the stress of winter was past. To look atWeircombe village as it lay peacefully aslant down the rocky "coombe, "no one would have thought it likely to be a scene of silent, but nonethe less violent, internal feud; yet such nevertheless was the case, andall the trouble had arisen since the first Sunday of the first month ofthe Reverend Mr. Arbroath's "taking duty" in the parish. On that day sixsmall choirboys had appeared in the Church, together with a tall lankyyouth in a black gown and white surplice--and to the stupefied amazementof the congregation, the lanky youth had carried a gilt cross round theChurch, followed by Arbroath himself and the six little boys, allchanting in a manner such as the Weircombe folk had never heard before. It was a deeply resented innovation, especially as the six little boysand the lanky cross-bearer, as well as the cross itself, had beenmysteriously "hired" from somewhere by Mr. Arbroath, and were altogetherstrange to the village. Common civility, as well as deeply rootednotions of "decency and order, " kept the parishioners in their seatsduring what they termed the "play-acting" which took place on thisoccasion, but when they left the Church and went their several ways, they all resolved on the course they meant to adopt with the undesiredintroduction of "'Igh Jinks" for the future. And from that datehenceforward not one of the community attended Church. Sunday afterSunday, the bells rang in vain. Mr. Arbroath conducted the servicesolely for Mrs. Arbroath and for one ancient villager who acted thedouble part of sexton and verger, and whose duties therefore compelledhim to remain attached to the sacred edifice. And the people read theirmorning prayers in their own houses every Sunday, and never stirred outon that day till after their dinners. In vain did both Mr. And Mrs. Arbroath run up and down the little village street, calling at everyhouse, coaxing, cajoling, and promising, --they spoke to deaf ears. Nothing they could say or do made amends for the "insult" to which theparishioners considered they had been subjected, by the suddenappearance of six strange choirboys and the lanky youth in a black gown, who had carried a gilt cross round and round the tiny precincts of theirsimple little Church, which, --until the occurrence of this remarkable"mountebank" performance as they called it, --had been everything to themthat was sacred in its devout simplicity. Finally, in despair, Mr. Arbroath wrote a long letter of complaint to the Bishop of the diocese, and after a considerable time of waiting, was informed by the secretaryof that gentleman that the matter would be enquired into, but that inthe meantime he had better conduct the Sunday services in the manner towhich the parishioners had been accustomed. This order Arbroath flatlyrefused to obey, and there ensued a fierce polemical correspondence, during which the Church remained, as has been stated, empty ofworshippers altogether. Casting about for reasons which should provesome contumacious spirit to be the leader of this rebellion, Arbroathattacked Mary Deane among others, and asked her if she was "a regularCommunicant. " To which she calmly replied--

"No, sir. "

"And why are you not?" demanded the clergyman imperiously. 

"Because I do not feel like it, " she said; "I do not believe in going toCommunion unless one really feels the spiritual wish and desire. "

"Oh! Then that is to say that you are very seldom conscious of anyspiritual wish or desire?"

She was silent. 

"I am sorry for you!" And Arbroath shook his bullet head dismally. "Youare one of the unregenerate, and if you do not amend your ways will beamong the lost----"

"'I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, when thou liest howling!'" said Helmsley suddenly. 

Arbroath turned upon him sharply. 

"What's that?" he snarled. 

"Shakespeare!" and Helmsley smiled. 

"Shakespeare! Much you know about Shakespeare!" snapped out theirritated clergyman. "But atheists and ruffians always quote Shakespeareas glibly as they quote the New Testament!"

"It's lucky that atheists and ruffians have got such good authorities toquote from, " said Helmsley placidly. 

Arbroath gave an impatient exclamation, and again addressed Mary. 

"Why don't you come to Church?" he asked. 

She raised her calm blue eyes and regarded him steadfastly. 

"I don't like the way you conduct the service, sir, and I don't take youaltogether for a Christian. "

"What!" And he stared at her so furiously that his little pig eyes grewalmost large for the moment--"You don't take me--_me_--for a Christian?"

"No, sir, --not altogether. You are too hard and too proud. You are notcareful of us poor folk, and you don't seem to mind whether you hurt ourfeelings or not. We're only very humble simple people here in Weircombe, but we're not accustomed to being ordered about as if we were children, or as if our parson was a Romish priest wanting to get us all under histhumb. We believe in God with all our hearts and souls, and we love thedear gentle Saviour who came to show us how to live and how to die, --butwe like to pray as we've always been accustomed to pray, just withoutany show, as our Lord taught us to do, not using any 'vainrepetitions. '"

Helmsley, who was bending some stiff osiers in his hands, paused tolisten. Arbroath stared gloomily at the noble, thoughtful face on whichthere was just now an inspired expression of honesty and truth whichalmost shamed him. 

"I think, " went on Mary, speaking very gently and modestly--"that if weread the New Testament, we shall find that our Lord expressly forbadeall shows and ceremonies, --and that He very much disliked them. Indeed, if we strictly obeyed all His orders, we should never be seen praying inpublic at all! Of course it is pleasant and human for people to meettogether in some place and worship God--but I think such a meetingshould be quite without any ostentation--and that all our prayers shouldbe as simple as possible. Pray excuse me if I speak too boldly--but thatis the spirit and feeling of most of the Weircombe folk, and they arereally very good, honest people. "

The Reverend Mr. Arbroath stood inert and silent for about two minutes, his eyes still fixed upon her, --then, without a word, he turned on hisheel and left the cottage. And from that day he did his best to sowsmall seeds of scandal against her, --scattering half-impliedinnuendoes, --faint breathings of disparagement, coarse jests as to her"old maid" condition, and other mean and petty calumnies, which, however, were all so much wasted breath on his part, as the Weircombevillagers were as indifferent to his attempted mischief as Mary herself. Even with the feline assistance of Mrs. Arbroath, who came readily toher husband's aid in his capacity of "downing" a woman, especially asthat woman was so much better-looking than herself, nothing of anyimportance was accomplished in the way of either shaking Mary'sestablished position in the estimation of Weircombe, or of persuadingthe parishioners to a "'Igh Jink" view of religious matters. Indeed, onthis point they were inflexible, and as Mrs. Twitt remarked on oneoccasion, with a pious rolling-up of the whites of her eyes--

"To see that little black man with the 'igh stomach a-walkin' about thisvillage is enough to turn a baby's bottle sour! It don't seem nat'rallike--he's as different from our good old parson as a rat is from abird, an' you'll own, Mis' Deane, as there's a mighty difference betweenthey two sorts of insecks. An' that minds me, on the Saturday nightafore they got the play-actin' on up in the Church, the wick o' mycandle guttered down in a windin' sheet as long as long, an' I sez toTwitt--'There you are! Our own parson's gone an' died over in Madery, an' we'll never 'ave the likes of 'im no more! There's trouble comin'for the Church, you mark my words. ' An' Twitt, 'e says, 'G'arn, old'ooman, it's the draught blowin' in at the door as makes the candlegutter, '--but all the same my words 'as come true!"

"Why no, surely not!" said Mary, "Our parson isn't dead in Madeira atall! The Sunday-school mistress had a letter from him only yesterdaysaying how much better he felt, and that he hoped to be home again withus very soon. "

Mrs. Twitt pursed her lips and shook her head. 

"That may be!" she observed--"I aint a-sayin' nuthin' again it. I sez toTwitt, there's trouble comin' for the Church, an' so there is. An' thewindin' sheet in the candle means a death for somebody somewhere!"

Mary laughed, though her eyes were a little sad and wistful. 

"Well, of course, there's always somebody dying somewhere, they say!"And she sighed. "There's a good deal of grief in the world that nobodyever sees or hears of. "

"True enough, Mis' Deane!--true enough!" And Mrs. Twitt shook her headagain--"But ye're spared a deal o' worrit, seein' ye 'aven't a husbandnor childer to drive ye silly. When I 'ad my three boys at 'ome I neverknow'd whether I was on my 'ed or my 'eels, they kept up such a racketan' torment, but the Lord be thanked they're all out an' doin' fortheirselves in the world now--forbye the eldest is thinkin' o' marryin'a girl I've never seen, down in Cornwall, which is where 'e be a-workin'in tin mines, an' when I 'eerd as 'ow 'e was p'raps a-goin' to tiehisself up in the bonds o' matterimony, I stepped out in the garden justcasual like, an' if you'll believe me, I sees a magpie! Now, Mis' Deane, magpies is total strangers on these coasts--no one as I've ever 'eardtell on 'as ever seen one--an' they's the unlikeliest and unluckiestbirds to come across as ever the good God created. An' of course I knowsif my boy marries that gel in Cornwall, it'll be the worst chance andchange for 'im that 'e's 'ad ever since 'e was born! That magpie comed'ere to warn me of it!"

Mary tried to look serious, but Helmsley was listening to theconversation, and she caught the mirthful glance of his eyes. So shelaughed, and taking Mrs. Twitt by the shoulders, kissed her heartily onboth cheeks. 

"You're a dear!" she said--"And I'll believe in the magpie if you wantme to! But all the same, I don't think any mischief is coming for yourson or for you. I like to hope that everything happening in this worldis for the best, and that the good God means kindly to all of us. Don'tyou think that's the right way to live?"

"It may be the right way to live, " replied Mrs. Twitt with a doubtfulair--"But there's ter'uble things allus 'appenin', an' I sez if warningsis sent to us even out o' the mouths o' babes and sucklings, let'saccept 'em in good part. An' if so be a magpie is chose by the Lord as amessenger we'se fools if we despises the magpie. But that little paunchyArbroath's worse than a whole flock o' magpies comin' together, an' 'e'sactin' like a pestilence in keepin' decent folk away from their ownChurch. 'Owsomever, Twitt reads prayers every Sunday mornin', an't'other day Mr. Reay came in an' 'eerd 'im. An' Mr. Reay sez--'Twitt, ye're better than any parson I ever 'eerd!' An' I believe 'e is--'e'sgot real 'art an' feelin' for Scripter texes, an' sez 'em just as solemnas though 'e was carvin' 'em on tombstones. It's powerful movin'!"

Mary kept a grave face, but said nothing. 

"An' last Sunday, " went on Mrs. Twitt, encouraged, "Mr. Reay hisselfread us a chapter o' the New Tesymen, an' 'twas fine! Twitt an' me, wefelt as if we could 'a served the Lord faithful to the end of the world!An' we 'ardly ever feels like that in Church. In Church they reads thewords so sing-songy like, that, bein' tired, we goes to sleep wi' thesoothin' drawl. But Mr. Reay, he kep' us wide awake an' starin'! An'there's one tex which sticks in my 'ed an' comforts me for myself an'for everybody in trouble as I ever 'eerd on----"

"And what's that, Mrs. Twitt?" asked Helmsley, turning round in hischair, that he might see her better. 

"It's this, Mister David, " and Mrs. Twitt drew a long breath inpreparation before beginning the quotation, --"an' it's beautiful! 'Ifthe world hate you, ye know that it hated Me before it hated you. ' Nowif that aint enuff to send us on our way rejoicin', I don't know whatis! For Lord knows if the dear Christ was hated, we can put up wi' a bito' the hate for ourselves!"

There was a pause. 

"So Mr. Reay reads very well, does he?" asked Mary. 

"Fine!" said Mrs. Twitt, --"'E's a lovely man with a lovely voice! If'e'd bin a parson 'e'd 'a drawed thousands to 'ear 'im! 'E wouldn't 'awanted crosses nor candles to show us as 'e was speakin' true. Twitt sezto 'im t'other day--'Why aint you a parson, Mr. Reay?' an' 'e sez, 'CosI'm goin' to be a preacher!' An' we couldn't make this out nohow, till'e showed us as 'ow 'e was a-goin' to tell people things as they oughtto know in the book 'e's writin'. An' 'e sez it's the only way, cos theparsons is gettin' so uppish, an' the Pope 'as got 'old o' some o' thenewspapers, so that there aint no truth told nowheres, unless a fewwriters o' books will take 'art o' grace an' speak out. An' 'e sezthere's a many as 'll do it, an' he tells Twitt--'Twitt, ' sez he, 'Pinyour faith on brave books! Beware o' newspapers, an' fight off thepriest! Read brave books--books that were written centuries ago to teachpeople courage--an' read brave books that are written now to keepcourage goin'!' An' we sez, so we will--for books is cheap enuff, Godknows!--an' only t'other day Twitt went over to Minehead an' bought anew book by Sir Walter Scott called _Guy Mannering_ for ninepence. It'sa grand story! an' keeps us alive every evenin'! I'm just mad on thatold woman in it--Meg Merrilies--she knew a good deal as goes on in theworld, I'll warrant! All about signs an' omens too. It's just fine! I'dlike to see Sir Walter Scott!"

"He's dead, " said Mary, "dead long ago. But he was a good as well as agreat man. "

"'E must 'a bin, " agreed Mrs. Twitt; "I'm right sorry 'e's dead. Somefolks die as is bound to be missed, an' some folks lives on as one 'udbe glad to see in their long 'ome peaceful at rest, forbye their bein'born so grumblesome like. Twitt 'ud be at 'is best composin' a hepitaphfor Mr. Arbroath now!"

As she said this the corners of her mouth, which usually drooped insomewhat lachrymose lines, went up in a whimsical smile. And feelingthat she had launched a shaft of witticism which could not fail to reachits mark, she trotted off on further gossiping errands bent. 

The tenor of her conversation was repeated to Angus Reay that afternoonwhen he arrived, as was often his custom, for what was ostensibly "achat with old David, " but what was really a silent, watchful worship ofMary. 

"She is a dear old soul!" he said, "and Twitt is a rough diamond ofBritish honesty. Such men as he keep the old country together and helpto establish its reputation for integrity. But that man Arbroath oughtto be kicked out of the Church! In fact, I as good as told him so!"

"You did!" And Helmsley's sunken eyes began to sparkle with suddenanimation. "Upon my word, sir, you are very bold!"

"Bold? Why, what can he do to me?" demanded Angus. "I told him I hadbeen for some years on the press, and that I knew the ins and outs ofthe Jesuit propaganda there. I told him he was false to the principlesunder which he had been ordained. I told him that he was assisting tointroduce the Romish 'secret service' system into Great Britain, andthat he was, with a shameless disregard of true patriotism, using suchlimited influence as he had to put our beloved free country under thetyranny of the Vatican. I said, that if ever I got a hearing with theBritish public, I meant to expose him, and all such similar wolves insheep's clothing as himself. "

"But--what did he say?" asked Mary eagerly. 

"Oh, he turned livid, and then told me I was an atheist, adding thatnearly all writers of books were of the same evil persuasion as myself. I said that if I believed that the Maker of Heaven and Earth took anypleasure in seeing him perambulate a church with a cross and sixwretched little boys who didn't understand a bit what they were doing, Ishould be an atheist indeed. I furthermore told him I believed in God, who upheld this glorious Universe by the mere expressed power of Histhought, and I said I believed in Christ, the Teacher who showed to menthat the only way to obtain immortal life and happiness was by theconquest of Self. 'You may call that atheistical if you like, ' Isaid, --'It's a firm faith that will help to keep _me_ straight, and thatwill hold me to the paths of right and truth without any crosses orcandles. ' Then I told him that this little village of Weircombe, in itsdesire for simplicity in forms of devotion, was nearer heaven than hewas. And--and I think, " concluded Angus, ruffling up his hair with onehand, "that's about all I told him!"

Helmsley gave a low laugh of intense enjoyment. 

"All!" he echoed, "I should say it was enough!"

"I hope it was, " said Angus seriously, "I meant it to be. " And moving toMary's side, he took up the end of a lace flounce on which she was atwork. "What a creation in cobwebs!" he exclaimed--"Who does it belongto, Miss Mary?"

"To a very great lady, " she replied, working busily with her needle andavoiding the glance of his eyes; "her name is often in the papers. " Andshe gave it. "No doubt you know her?"

"Know her? Not I!" And he shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "But sheis very generally known--as a thoroughly bad woman! I _hate_ to see youworking on anything for her!"

She looked up surprised, and the colour came and went in a delicateflush on her face. 

"False to her husband, false to her children, and false to herself!"went on Angus hotly--"And disloyal to her king! And having turned on herown family and her own class, she seeks to truckle to the People underpretence of serving _them_, while all the time her sole object is tosecure notoriety for herself! She is a shame to England!"

"You speak very hotly, sir!" said Helmsley, slowly. "Are you sure ofyour facts?"

"The facts are not concealed, " returned Reay--"They are public property. That no one has the courage to denounce such women--women who openlyflaunt their immoralities in our midst--is a bad sign of the times. Women are doing a great deal of mischief just now. Look at them fussingabout Female Suffrage! Female Suffrage, quotha! Let them govern theirhomes properly, wisely, reasonably, and faithfully, and they will governthe nation!"

"That's true!" And Helmsley nodded gravely. "That's very true!"

"A woman who really loves a man, " went on Angus, mechanically fingeringthe skeins of lace thread which lay on the table at Mary's side, readyfor use--"governs him, unconsciously to herself, by the twin powers ofsex and instinct. She was intended for his help-mate, to guide him inthe right way by her finer forces. If she neglects to cultivate thesefiner forces--if she tramples on her own natural heritage, and seeks to'best' him with his own weapons--she fails--she must fail--she deservesto fail! But as true wife and true mother, she is supreme!"

"But the ladies are not content with such a limited sphere, " beganHelmsley, with a little smile. 

"Limited? Good God!--where does the limit come in?" demanded Reay. "Itis because they are not sufficiently educated to understand their ownprivileges that women complain of limitations. An unthinking, unreasoning, unintelligent wife and mother is of course no higher thanany other female of the animal species--but I do not uphold this class. I claim that the woman who _thinks_, and gives her intelligence fullplay--the woman who is physically sound and morally pure--the woman whodevoutly studies the noblest side of life, and tries to bring herselfinto unison with the Divine intention of human progress towards theutmost good--she, as wife and mother, is the angel of the world. She_is_ the world!--she makes it, she rejuvenates it, she gives itstrength! Why should she condescend to mix with the passing politicalsquabbles of her slaves and children?--for men are no more than herslaves and children. Love is her weapon--one true touch of that, and thewildest heart that ever beat in a man's breast is tamed. "

There was a silence. Suddenly Mary pushed aside her work, and going tothe door opened it. 

"It's so warm to-day, don't you think?" she asked, passing her hand alittle wearily across her forehead. "One would think it was almostJune. "

"You are tired, Miss Mary!" said Reay, somewhat anxiously. 

"No--I'm not tired--but"--here all at once her eyes filled with tears. "I've got a bit of a headache, " she murmured, forcing a smile--"I thinkI'll go to my room and rest for half an hour. Good-bye, Mr. Reay!"

"Good-bye--for the moment!" he answered--and taking her hand he pressedit gently. "I hope the headache will soon pass. "

She withdrew her hand from his quickly and left the kitchen. Anguswatched her go, and when she had disappeared heaved an involuntary butmost lover-like sigh. Helmsley looked at him with a certain whimsicalamusement. 

"Well!" he said. 

Reay gave himself a kind of impatient shake. 

"Well, old David!" he rejoined. 

"Why don't you speak to her?"

"I dare not! I'm too poor!"

"Is she so rich?"

"She's richer than I am. "

"It is quite possible, " said Helmsley slowly, "that she will always bericher than you. Literary men must never expect to be millionaires. "

"Don't tell me that--I know it!" and Angus laughed. "Besides, I don'twant to be a millionaire--wouldn't be one for the world! By the way, youremember that man I told you about--the old chap my first love was goingto marry--David Helmsley?"

Helmsley did not move a muscle. 

"Yes--I remember!" he answered quietly. 

"Well, the papers say he's dead. "

"Oh! the papers say he's dead, do they?"

"Yes. It appeared that he went abroad last summer, --it is thought thathe went to the States on some matters of business--and has not sincebeen heard of. "

Helmsley kept an immovable face. 

"He may possibly have got murdered for his money, " went on Angusreflectively--"though I don't see how such an act could benefit themurderer. Because his death wouldn't stop the accumulation of hismillions, which would eventually go to his heir. "

"Has he an heir?" enquired Helmsley placidly. 

"Oh, he's sure to have left his vast fortune to somebody, " replied Reay. "He had two sons, so I was told--but they're dead. It's possible he mayhave left everything to Lucy Sorrel. "

"Ah yes! Quite possible!"

"Of course, " went on Reay, "it's only the newspapers that say he'sdead--and there never was a newspaper yet that could give an absolutelyveracious account of anything. His lawyers--a famous firm, Vesey andSymonds, --have written a sort of circular letter to the press statingthat the report of his death is erroneous--that he is travelling forhealth's sake, and on account of a desire for rest and privacy, does notwish his whereabouts to be made publicly known. "

Helmsley smiled. 

"I knew I might trust Vesey!" he thought. Aloud he said--

"Well, I should believe the gentleman's lawyers more than the newspaperreporters. Wouldn't you?"

"Of course. I shouldn't have taken the least interest in the rumour, ifI hadn't been once upon a time in love with Lucy Sorrel. Because if theold man is really dead and has done nothing in the way of providing forher, I wonder what she will do?"

"Go out charing!" said Helmsley drily. "Many a better woman than youhave described her to be, has had to come to that. "

There was a silence. Presently Helmsley spoke again in a quiet voice--

"I think, Mr. Reay, you should tell all your mind to Miss Mary. "

Angus started nervously. 

"Do you, David? Why?"

"Why?--well--because--" Here Helmsley spoke very gently--"because Ibelieve she loves you!"

The colour kindled in Reay's face. 

"Ah, don't fool me, David!" he said--"you don't know what it would meanto me----"

"Fool you!" Helmsley sat upright in his chair and looked at him with anearnestness which left no room for doubt. "Do you think I would 'fool'you, or any man, on such a matter? Old as I am, and lonely andfriendless as I _was_, before I met this dear woman, I know that love isthe most sacred of all things--the most valuable of all things--betterthan gold--greater than power--the only treasure we can lay up in heaven'where neither moth nor rust do corrupt, and where thieves do not breakthrough nor steal!' Do not"--and here his strong emotion threatened toget the better of him--"do not, sir, think that because I was trampingthe road in search of a friend to help me, before Miss Mary found me andbrought me home here and saved my life, God bless her!--do not think, Isay, that I have no feeling! I feel very much--very strongly--" He brokeoff breathing quickly, and his hands trembled. Reay hastened to his sidein some alarm, remembering what Mary had told him about the old man'sheart. 

"Dear old David, I know!" he said. "Don't worry! I know you feel itall--I'm sure you do! Now, for goodness' sake, don't excite yourselflike this--she--she'll never forgive me!" and he shook up the cushion atthe back of Helmsley's chair and made him lean upon it. "Only it wouldbe such a joy to me--such a wonder--such a help--to know that she reallyloved me!--_loved_ me, David!--you understand--why, I think I couldconquer the world!"

Helmsley smiled faintly. He was suffering physical anguish at themoment--the old sharp pain at his heart to which he had become more orless wearily accustomed, had dizzied his senses for a space, but as thespasm passed he took Reay's hand and pressed it gently. 

"What does the Great Book tell us?" he muttered. "'If a man would giveall the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned!'That's true! And I would never 'fool' or mislead you on a matter of suchlife and death to you, Mr. Reay. That's why I tell you to speak to MissMary as soon as you can find a good opportunity--for I am sure she lovesyou!"

"Sure, David?"

"Sure!"

Reay stood silent, --his eyes shining, and "the light that never was onsea or land" transfigured his features. 

At that moment a tap came at the door. A hand, evidently accustomed tothe outside management of the latch, lifted it, and Mr. Twitt entered, his rubicund face one broad smile. 

"'Afternoon, David! 'Afternoon, Mister! Wheer's Mis' Deane?"

"She's resting a bit in her room, " replied Helmsley. 

"Ah, well! You can tell 'er the news when she comes in. Mr. Arbroath'saway for 'is life wi' old Nick in full chase arter 'im! It don't dot'ave a fav'rite gel!"

Helmsley and Reay stared at him, and then at one another. 

"Why, what's up?" demanded Reay. 

"Oh, nuthin' much!" and Twitt's broad shoulders shook with internallaughter. "It's wot 'appens often in the fam'lies o' the haris-to-crazy, an' aint taken no notice of, forbye 'tis not so common among poor folk. Ye see Mr. Arbroath he--he--he--he--he--he----" and here the pronoun"he" developed into a long chuckle. "He's got a sweet'art on the sly, an'--an'--an'--_'is wife's found it out_! Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he! 'Is wife'sfound it out! That's the trouble! An' she's gone an' writ to the Bishop'erself! Oh lor'! Never trust a woman wi' cat's eyes! She's writ to theBishop, an' gone 'ome in a tearin' fit o' the rantin' 'igh-strikes, --an'Mister Arbroath 'e's follerd 'er, an' left us wi' a curate--a 'armlesslittle chap wi' a bad cold in 'is 'ed, an' a powerful red nose--but'onest an' 'omely like 'is own face. An' 'e'll take the services tillour own vicar comes 'ome, which'll be, please God, this day fort_night_. But oh lor'!--to think o' that grey-'aired rascal Arbroath with afav'rite gel on the sly! Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he! We'se be all mortal!" andTwitt shook his head with profound solemnity. "Ef I was a-goin' to carvea tombstone for that 'oly 'igh Churchman, I'd write on it the old'ackneyed sayin', 'Man wants but little 'ere below, Nor wants thatlittle long!' Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he!"

His round jolly face beamed with merriment, and Angus Reay caughtinfection from his mirth and laughed heartily. 

"Twitt, you're an old rascal!" he exclaimed. "I really believe you enjoyshowing up Mr. Arbroath's little weaknesses!"

"Not I--not I, Mister!" protested Twitt, his eyes twinkling. "I sez, befair to all men! I sez, if a parson wants to chuck a gel under the chin, let 'im do so by all means, God willin'! But don't let 'im purtend as 'e_couldn't_ chuck 'er under the chin for the hull world! Don't let 'im goround lookin' as if 'e was vinegar gone bad, an' preach at the parish asif we was all mis'able sinners while 'e's the mis'ablest one hisself. But old Arbroath--damme!" and he gave a sounding slap to his leg insheer ecstacy. "Caught in the act by 'is wife! Oh lor', oh lor'! 'Iswife! An' _aint_ she a tartar!"

"But how did all this happen?" asked Helmsley, amused. 

"Why, this way, David--quite 'appy an' innocent like, Missis Arbroath, she opens a letter from 'ome, which 'avin' glanced at the envelopecasual-like she thinks was beggin' or mothers' meetin', an' there shefinds it all out. Vicar's fav'rite gel writin' for money or clothes orsummat, an' endin' up 'Yer own darlin'!' Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he! Oh Lord!There was an earthquake up at the rect'ry this marnin'--the cook theresez she never 'eerd sich a row in all 'er life--an' Missis Arbroath shewas a-shriekin' for a divorce at the top of 'er voice! It's a smallplace, Weircombe Rect'ry, an' a woman can't shriek an' 'owl in itwithout bein' 'eerd. So both the cook an' 'ousemaid worn't by no mannero' means surprised when Mister Arbroath packed 'is bag an' went off in atrap to Minehead--an' we'll be left with a cheap curate in charge of ourpore souls! Ha-ha-ha! But 'e's a decent little chap, --an' there'll be no'igh falutin' services with _'im_, so we can all go to Church nextSunday comfortable. An' as for old Arbroath, we'll be seein' big'edlines in the papers by and by about 'Scandalous Conduck of aClergyman with 'is Fav'rite Gel!'" Here he made an effort to pull agrave face, but it was no use, --his broad smile beamed out once moredespite himself. "Arter all, " he said, chuckling, "the two things doesfit in nicely together an' nat'ral like--'Igh Jinks an' a fav'rite gel!"

It was impossible not to derive a sense of fun from his shining eyes andbeaming countenance, and Angus Reay gave himself up to the enjoyment ofthe moment, and laughed again and again. 

"So you think he's gone altogether, eh?" he said, when he could speak. 

"Oh, 'e's gone all right!" rejoined Twitt placidly. "A man may do lotso' queer things in this world, an' so long as 'is old 'ooman don't find'im out, it's pretty fair sailin'; but once a parson's wife gets 'ernose on to the parson's fav'rite, then all the fat's bound to be in thefire! An' quite right as it should be! I wouldn't bet on the fav'ritewhen it come to a neck-an'-neck race atween the two!"

He laughed again, and they all talked awhile longer on this unexpectedevent, which, to such a village as Weircombe, was one of startlingimportance and excitement, and then, as the afternoon was drawing in andMary did not reappear, Angus Reay took his departure with Twitt, leavingHelmsley sitting alone in his chair by the fire. But he did not gowithout a parting word--a word which was only a whisper. 

"You think you are _sure_, David!" he said--"Sure that she loves me! Iwish you would make doubly, trebly sure!--for it seems much too good tobe true!"

Helmsley smiled, but made no answer. 

When he was left alone in the little kitchen to which he was now soaccustomed, he sat for a space gazing into the red embers of the fire, and thinking deeply. He had attained what he never thought it would bepossible to attain--a love which had been bestowed upon him for himselfalone. He had found what he had judged would be impossible to find--twohearts which, so far as he personally was concerned, were utterlyuninfluenced by considerations of self-interest. Both Mary Deane andAngus Reay looked upon him as a poor, frail old man, entirelydefenceless and dependent on the kindness and care of such strangers assympathised with his condition. Could they now be suddenly told that hewas the millionaire, David Helmsley, they would certainly never believeit. And even if they were with difficulty brought to believe it, theywould possibly resent the deception he had practised on them. Sometimeshe asked himself whether it was quite fair or right to so deceive them?But then, --reviewing his whole life, and seeing how at every step of hiscareer men, and women too, had flattered him and fawned upon him as wellas fooled him for mere money's sake, --he decided that surely he had theright at the approaching end of that career to make a fair and freetrial of the world as to whether any thing or any one purely honestcould be found in it. 

"For it makes me feel more at peace with God, " he said--"to know and torealise that there _are_ unselfish loving hearts to be found, if only inthe very lowliest walks of life! I, --who have seen Society, --the modernJuggernaut, --rolling its great wheels recklessly over the hopes and joysand confidences of thousands of human beings--I, who know that evenkings, who should be above dishonesty, are tainted by their secretspeculations in the money-markets of the world, --surely I may bepermitted to rejoice for my few remaining days in the finding of twotruthful and simple souls, who have no motive for their kindness tome, --who see nothing in me but age, feebleness and poverty, --and whom Ihave perhaps been the means, through God's guidance, of bringingtogether. For it was to me that Reay first spoke that day on theseashore--and it was at my request that he first entered Mary's home. Can this be the way in which Divine Wisdom has chosen to redeem me?I, --who have never been loved as I would have desired to be loved, --am Inow instructed how, --leaving myself altogether out of the question, --Imay prosper the love of others and make two noble lives happy? It may beso, --and that in the foundation of their joy, I shall win my own soul'speace! So--leaving my treasures on earth, --I shall find my treasure inheaven, 'where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves donot break through nor steal!'"

Still looking at the fire he watched the glowing embers, now reddening, now darkening--or leaping up into sparks of evanescent flame, --andpresently stooping, picked up the little dog Charlie from his warmcorner on the hearth and fondled him. 

"You were the first to love me in my loneliness!" he said, stroking thetiny animal's soft ears--"And, --to be quite exact, --I owe my life andall my present surroundings to you, Charlie! What shall I leave you inmy will, eh?"

Charlie yawned capaciously, showing very white teeth and a very redtongue, and winked one bright eye. 

"You're only a dog, Charlie! You've no use for money! You rely entirelyupon your own attractiveness and the kindness of human nature! And sofar your confidence has not been misplaced. But your fidelity andaffection are only additional proofs of the powerlessness of money. Money bought you, Charlie, no doubt, in the first place--but moneyfailed to keep you! And now, though by your means Mary found me where Ilay helpless and unconscious on the hills in the storm, I can neithermake you richer nor happier, Charlie! You're only a dog!--and amillionaire is no more to you than any other man!"

Charlie yawned comfortably again. He seemed to be perfectly aware thathis master was talking to him, but what it was about he evidently didnot know, and still more evidently did not care. He liked to be pettedand made much of--and presently curled himself up in a soft silken ballon Helmsley's knee, with his little black nose pointed towards the fire, and his eyes blinking lazily at the sparkle of the flames. And so Maryfound them, when at last she came down from her room to prepare supper. 

"Is the headache better, my dear?" asked Helmsley, as she entered. 

"It's quite gone, David!" she answered cheerily--"Mending the lace oftentries one's eyes--it was nothing but that. "

He looked at her intently. 

"But you've been crying!" he said, with real concern. 

"Oh, David! Women always cry when they feel like it!"

"But did _you_ feel like it?"

"Yes. I often do. "

"Why?"

She gave a playful gesture with her hands. 

"Who can tell! I remember when I was quite a child, I cried when I sawthe first primrose of the spring after a long winter. I knelt down andkissed it, too! That's me all over. I'm stupid, David! My heart's toobig for me--and there's too much in it that never comes out!"

He took her hand gently. 

"All shut up like a volcano, Mary! But the fire is there!"

She laughed, with a touch of embarrassment. 

"Oh yes! The fire is there! It will take years to cool down!"

"May it never cool down!" said Helmsley--"I hope it will always burn, and make life warm for you! For without the fire that is in _your_heart, my dear, Heaven itself would be cold!"

CHAPTER XIX

The scandal affecting the Reverend Mr. Arbroath's reputation which hadbeen so graphically related by Twitt, turned out to be true in everyrespect, and though considerable efforts were made to hush it up, theoutraged feelings of the reverend gentleman's wife were not to besilenced. Proceedings for divorce were commenced, and it was understoodthat there would be no defence. In due course the "big 'edlines" whichannounced to the world in general that one of the most imperious "High"Anglicans of the Church had not only slipped from moral rectitude, buthad intensified that sin by his publicly aggressive assumption ofhypocritical virtue, appeared in the newspapers, and the village ofWeircombe for about a week was brought into a certain notoriety whichwas distinctly displeasing to itself. The arrival of the "dailies"became a terror to it, and a general feeling of devout thankfulness wasexperienced by the whole community, when the rightful spiritual shepherdof the little flock returned from his sojourn abroad to take up thereigns of government, and restore law and order to his tiny distractedcommonwealth. Fortunately for the peace of Weircombe, the frantic rushof social events, and incidents in which actual "news" of interest hasno part, is too persistent and overwhelming for any one occurrence outof the million to occupy more than a brief passing notice, which is inits turn soon forgotten, and the "Scandalous Conduck of a Clergyman, " asMr. Twitt had put it, was soon swept aside in other examples of"Scandalous Conduck" among all sorts and conditions of men and women, which, caught up by flying Rumour with her thousand false and blatanttongues, is the sort of useless and pernicious stuff which chiefly keepsthe modern press alive. Even the fact that the Reverend Mr. Arbroath wassummarily deprived of his living and informed by the Bishop in the usualway, that his services would no longer be required, created very littleinterest. Some months later a small journalistic flourish was heard onbehalf of the discarded gentleman, upon the occasion of his being"received" into the Church of Rome, with all his sins forgiven, --but sofar as Weircombe was concerned, the story of himself and his "fav'rite"was soon forgotten, and his very name ceased to be uttered. The littlecommunity resumed its normal habit of cheerful attendance at Churchevery Sunday, satisfied to have shown to the ecclesiastical powers thatbe, the fact that "'Igh Jinks" in religion would never be toleratedamongst them; and the life of Weircombe went on in the usual placid way, divided between work and prayer, and governed by the twin forces ofpeace and contentment. 

Meantime, the secret spells of Mother Nature were silently at work inthe development and manifestation of the Spring. The advent of Aprilcame like a revelation of divine beauty to the little village nestled inthe "coombe, " and garlanded it from summit to base with tangles offestal flowers. The little cottage gardens and higher orchards weresmothered in the snow of plum and cherry-blossom, --primroses carpetedthe woods which crowned the heights of the hills, and the long darkspikes of bluebells, ready to bud and blossom, thrust themselves throughthe masses of last year's dead leaves, side by side with the uncurlingfronds of the bracken and fern. Thrushes and blackbirds piped withcheerful persistence among the greening boughs of the old chestnut whichshaded Mary Deane's cottage, and children roaming over the grassy downsabove the sea, brought news of the skylark's song and the cuckoo's call. Many a time in these lovely, fresh and sunny April days Angus Reay wouldpersuade Mary away from her lace-mending to take long walks with himacross the downs, or through the woods--and on each occasion when theystarted on these rambles together, David Helmsley would sit and watchfor their return in a curious sort of timorous suspense--wondering, hoping, and fearing, --eager for the moment when Angus should speak hismind to the woman he loved, and yet always afraid lest that womanshould, out of some super-sensitive feeling, put aside and reject thatlove, even though she might long to accept it. However, day after daypassed and nothing happened. Either Angus hesitated, or else Mary wasunapproachable--and Helmsley worried himself in vain. They, who did notknow his secret, could not of course imagine the strained condition ofmind in which their undeclared feelings kept him, --and and he foundhimself more perplexed and anxious over their apparent uncertainty thanhe had ever been over some of his greatest financial schemes. Facts andfigures can to a certain extent be relied upon, but the fluctuatinghumours and vagaries of a man and woman in love with each other arebeyond the most precise calculations of the skilled mathematician. Forit often happens that when they seem to be coldest they are warmest--andcases have been known where they have taken the greatest pains to avoideach other at a time when they have most deeply longed to be alwaystogether. It was during this uncomfortable period of uneasiness andhesitation for Helmsley, that Angus and Mary were perhaps most supremelyhappy. Dimly, sweetly conscious that the gate of Heaven was open forthem and that it was Love, the greatest angel of all God's mighty host, that waited for them there, they hovered round and round upon thethreshold of the glory, eager, yet afraid to enter. Up in theprimrose-carpeted woods together they talked, like good friends, of athousand things, --of the weather, of the promise of fruit in theorchards, of the possibilities of a good fishing year, and of thegeneral beauty of the scenery around Weircombe. Then, of course, therewas the book which Angus was writing--a book now nearing completion. Itwas a very useful book, because it gave them a constant and safe topicof conversation. Many chapters were read and re-read--many passageswritten and re-written for Mary's hearing and criticism, --and it may atonce be said that what had at first been merely clever, brilliant, andintellectual writing, was now becoming not so much a book as an artisticcreation, through which the blood and colour of human life pulsed andflowed, giving it force and vitality. Sometimes they persuaded Helmsleyto accompany them on some of their shorter rambles, --but he was notstrong enough to walk far, and he often left them half-way up the"coombe, " returning to the cottage alone. Mary had frequently expresseda great wish to take him to a favourite haunt of hers, which she calledthe "Giant's Castle"--but he was unable to make the steep ascent--so onone fine afternoon she took Angus there instead. "The Giant's Castle"had no recognised name among the Weircombe villagers save this one whichMary had bestowed upon it, and which the children repeated after her sooften that it seemed highly probable that the title would stick to itfor ever. "Up Giant's Castle way" was quite a familiar direction to anyone ascending the "coombe, " or following the precipitous and narrow pathwhich wound along the edge of the cliffs to certain pastures whereshepherds as well as sheep were in daily danger of landslips, and whichto the ordinary pedestrian were signalled by a warning board as"Dangerous. " But "Giant's Castle" itself was merely the larger andloftier of the two towering rocks which guarded the sea-front ofWeircombe village. A tortuous grassy path led up to its very pinnacle, and from here, there was an unbroken descent as straight and smooth as awell-built wall, of several hundred feet sheer down into the sea, whichat this point swirled round the rocky base in dark, deep, blackish-greeneddies, sprinkled with trailing sprays of brown and crimson weed. It wasa wonderful sight to look down upon this heaving mass of water, if itcould be done without the head swimming and the eyes growing blind withthe light of the sky striking sharp against the restless heaving of thewaves, and Mary was one of the few who could stand fearlessly on almostthe very brink of the parapet of the "Giant's Castle, " and watch thesweep of the gulls as they flew under and above her, uttering theirbrief plaintive cries of gladness or anger as the wild wind bore them toand fro. When Reay first saw her run eagerly to the very edge, and standthere, a light, bold, beautiful figure, with the wind fluttering hergarments and blowing loose a long rippling tress of her amber-brownhair, he could not refrain from an involuntary cry of terror, and anequally involuntary rush to her side with his arms outstretched. But asshe turned her sweet face and grave blue eyes upon him there wassomething in the gentle dignity and purity of her look that held himback, abashed, and curiously afraid. She made him feel the power of hersex, --a power invincible when strengthened by modesty and reserve, --andthe easy licence which modern women, particularly those of a degradedaristocracy, permit to men in both conversation and behaviour nowadays, would have found no opportunity of being exercised in her presence. So, though his impulse moved him to catch her round the waist and draw herwith forcible tenderness away from the dizzy eminence on which shestood, he dared not presume so far, and merely contented himself with abounding stride which brought him to the same point of danger asherself, and the breathless exclamation--

"Miss Mary! Take care!"

She smiled. 

"Oh, there is nothing to be frightened of!" she said. "Often and often Ihave come here quite alone and looked down upon the sea in all weathers. Just after my father's death, this used to be the place I loved best, where I could feel that I was all by myself with God, who aloneunderstood my sadness. At night, when the moon is at the full, it isvery beautiful here. One looks down into the water and sees a world ofwaving light, and then, looking up to the sky, there is a heaven ofstars!--and all the weary ways of life are forgotten! The angels seem sonear!"

A silent agreement with this latter statement shone in Reay's eyes as helooked at her. 

"It's good sometimes to find a woman who still believes in angels, " hesaid. 

"Don't _you_ believe in them?"

"Implicitly, --with all my heart and soul!" And again his eyes wereeloquent. 

A wave of rosy colour flitted over her face, and shading her eyes fromthe strong glare of the sun, she gazed across the sea. 

"I wish dear old David could see this glorious sight!" she said. "Buthe's not strong--and I'm afraid--I hardly like to think it--that he'sweaker than he knows. "

"Poor old chap!" said Angus, gently. "Any way, you've done all you canfor him, and he's very grateful. I hope he'll last a few years longer. "

"I hope so too, " she answered quickly. "For I should miss him very much. I've grown quite to love him. "

"I think he feels that, " and Angus seated himself on a jutting crag ofthe "Giant's Castle" and prepared for the utterance of somethingdesperate. "Any one would, you know!"

She made no reply. Her gaze was fixed on the furthest silver gleamingline of the ocean horizon. 

"Any one would be bound to feel it, if you loved--if you were fond ofhim, " he went on in rather a rambling way. "It would make all thedifference in the world----"

She turned towards him quickly with a smile. Her breathing was a littlehurried. 

"Shall we go back now?" she said. 

"Certainly!--if--if you wish--but isn't it rather nice up here?" hepleaded. 

"We'll come another day, " and she ran lightly down the first half of thegrassy path which had led them to the summit. "But I mustn't waste anymore time this afternoon. "

"Why? Any pressing demands for mended lace?" asked Angus, as he followedher. 

"Oh no! Not particularly so. Only when the firm that employs me, sendsany very specially valuable stuff worth five or six hundred pounds orso, I never like to keep it longer that I can help. And the piece I'm atwork on is valued at a thousand guineas. "

"Wouldn't you like to wear it yourself?" he asked suddenly, with alaugh. 

"I? I wouldn't wear it for the world! Do you know, Mr. Reay, that Ialmost hate beautiful lace! I admire the work and design, of course--noone could help that--but every little flower and leaf in the fabricspeaks to me of so many tired eyes growing blind over the intricatestitches--so many weary fingers, and so many aching hearts--all toilingfor the merest pittance! For it is not the real makers of the lace whoget good profit by their work, it is the merchants who sell it that haveall the advantage. If I were a great lady and a rich one, I would refuseto buy any lace from the middleman, --I would seek out the actual poorworkers, and give them my orders, and see that they were comfortably fedand housed as long as they worked for me. "

"And it's just ten chances to one whether they would be grateful toyou----" Angus began. She silenced him by a slight gesture. 

"But I shouldn't care whether they were grateful or not, " she said. "Ishould be content to know that I had done what was right and just to myfellow-creatures. "

They had no more talk that day, and Helmsley, eagerly expectant, andwatching them perhaps more intently than a criminal watches the face ofa judge, was as usual disappointed. His inward excitement, alwayssuppressed, made him somewhat feverish and irritable, and Mary, allunconscious of the cause, stayed in to "take care of him" as she said, and gave up her afternoon walks with Angus for a time altogether, whichmade the situation still more perplexing, and to Helmsley almostunbearable. Yet there was nothing to be done. He felt it would be unwiseto speak of the matter in any way to her--she was a woman who wouldcertainly find it difficult to believe that she had won, or couldpossibly win the love of a lover at her age;--she might even resentit, --no one could tell. And so the days of April paced softly on, inbloom and sunlight, till May came in with a blaze of colour andradiance, and the last whiff of cold wind blew itself away across thesea. The "biting nor'easter, " concerning which the comic press givesitself up to senseless parrot-talk with each recurrence of the Maymonth, no matter how warm and beautiful that month may be, was a "thingforegone and clean forgotten, "--and under the mild and beneficialinfluences of the mingled sea and moorland air, Helmsley gained atemporary rush of strength, and felt so much better, that he was able towalk down to the shore and back again once or twice a a day, without anyassistance, scarcely needing even the aid of his stick to lean upon. Theshore remained his favourite haunt; he was never tired of watching thelong waves roll in, edged with gleaming ribbons of foam, and roll outagain, with the musical clatter of drawn pebbles and shells followingthe wake of the backward sweeping ripple, --and he made friends with manyof the Weircombe fisherfolk, who were always ready to chat with himconcerning themselves and the difficulties and dangers of their trade. The children, too, were all eager to run after "old David, " as theycalled him, --and many an afternoon he would sit in the sun, with a groupof these hardy little creatures gathered about him, listening entranced, while he told them strange stories of foreign lands and fartravels, --travels which men took "in search of gold"--as he would say, with a sad little smile--"gold, which is not nearly so much use as itseems to be. "

"But can't us buy everything with plenty of money?" asked aseven-year-old urchin, on one of these occasions, looking solemnly upinto his face with a pair of very round, big brown eyes. 

"Not everything, my little man, " he answered, smoothing the rough locksof the small inquirer with a very tender hand. "I could not buy _you_, for instance! Your mother wouldn't sell you!"

The child laughed. 

"Oh, no! But I didn't mean me!"

"I know you didn't mean me!" and Helmsley smiled. "But suppose some oneput a thousand golden sovereigns in a bag on one side, and you in yourrough little torn clothes on the other, and asked your mother which shewould like best to have--what do you think she would say?"

"She'd 'ave _me_!" and a smile of confident satisfaction beamed on thegrinning little face like a ray of sunshine. 

"Of course she would! The bag of sovereigns would be no use at allcompared to you. So you see we cannot buy everything with money. "

"But--most things?" queried the boy--"Eh?"

"Most things--perhaps, " Helmsley answered, with a slight sigh. "Butthose 'most things' are not things of much value even when you get them. You can never buy love, --and that is the only real treasure, --thetreasure of Heaven!"

The child looked at him, vaguely impressed by his sudden earnestness, but scarcely understanding his words. 

"Wouldn't _you_ like a little money?" And the inquisitive young eyesfixed themselves on his face with an expression of tenderest pity. "You'se a very poor old man!"

Helmsley laughed, and again patted the little curly head. 

"Yes--yes--a very poor old man!" he repeated. "But I don't want any morethan I've got!"

One afternoon towards mid-May, a strong yet soft sou'wester gale blewacross Weircombe, bringing with it light showers of rain, which, as theyfell upon the flowering plants and trees, brought out all the perfume ofthe spring in such rich waves of sweetness, that, though as yet therewere no roses, and the lilac was only just budding out, the wholecountryside seemed full of the promised fragrance of the blossoms thatwere yet to be. The wind made scenery in the sky, heaping up snowymasses of cloud against the blue in picturesque groups resembling Alpineheights, and fantastic palaces of fairyland, and when, --after a gloriousday of fresh and invigorating air which swept both sea and hillside, asudden calm came with the approach of sunset, the lovely colours ofearth and heaven, melting into one another, where so pure and brilliant, that Mary, always a lover of Nature, could not resist Angus Reay'searnest entreaty that she would accompany him to see the splendiddeparture of the orb of day, in all its imperial panoply of royal goldand purple. 

"It will be a beautiful sunset, " he said--"And from the 'Giant's Castle'rock, a sight worth seeing. "

Helmsley looked at him as he spoke, and looking, smiled. 

"Do go, my dear, " he urged--"And come back and tell me all about it. "

"I really think you want me out of your way, David!" she saidlaughingly. "You seem quite happy when I leave you!"

"You don't get enough fresh air, " he answered evasively. "And this isjust the season of the year when you most need it. "

She made no more demur, and putting on the simple straw hat, which, plainly trimmed with a soft knot of navy-blue ribbon, was all her summerhead-gear, she left the house with Reay. After a while, Helmsley alsowent out for his usual lonely ramble on the shore, from whence he couldsee the frowning rampart of the "Giant's Castle" above him, though itwas impossible to discern any person who might be standing at itssummit, on account of the perpendicular crags that intervened. From bothshore and rocky height the scene was magnificent. The sun, dippingslowly down towards the sea, shot rays of glory around itself in anaureole of gold, which, darting far upwards, and spreading from north tosouth, pierced the drifting masses of floating fleecy cloud like arrows, and transfigured their whiteness to splendid hues of fiery rose andglowing amethyst, while just between the falling Star of Day and theocean, a rift appeared of smooth and delicate watery green, touched hereand there with flecks of palest pink and ardent violet. Up on theparapet of the "Giant's Castle, " all this loyal panoply of festal colourwas seen at its best, sweeping in widening waves across the wholesurface of the Heavens; and there was a curious stillness everywhere, asthough earth itself were conscious of a sudden and intense awe. Standingon the dizzy edge of her favourite point of vantage, Mary Deane gazedupon the sublime spectacle with eyes so passionately tender in theirfar-away expression, that, to Angus Reay, who watched those eyes withmuch more rapt admiration than he bestowed upon the splendour of thesunset, they looked like the eyes of some angel, who, seeing heaven allat once revealed, recognised her native home, and with the recognition, was prepared for immediate flight And on the impulse which gave him thisfantastic thought, he said softly--

"Don't go away, Miss Mary! Stay with us--with me--as long as you can!"

She turned her head and looked at him, smiling. 

"Why, what do you mean? I'm not going away anywhere--who told you that Iwas?"

"No one, "--and Angus drew a little nearer to her--"But just now youseemed so much a part of the sea and the sky, leaning forward and givingyourself entirely over to the glory of the moment, that I felt as if youmight float away from me altogether. " Here he paused--then added in alower tone--"And I could not bear to lose you!"

She was silent. But her face grew pale, and her lips quivered. He sawthe tremor pass over her, and inwardly rejoiced, --his own nervesthrilling as he realised that, after all, _if_--if she loved him, he wasthe master of her fate. 

"We've been such good friends, " he went on, dallying with his own desireto know the best or worst--"Haven't we?"

"Indeed, yes!" she answered, somewhat faintly. "And I hope we alwayswill be. "

"I hope so, too!" he answered in quite a matter-of-fact way. "You seeI'm rather a clumsy chap with women----"

She smiled a little. 

"Are you?"

"Yes, --I mean I never get on with them quite as well as other fellows dosomehow--and--er--and--what I want to say, Miss Mary, is that I've nevergot on with any woman so well as I have with you--and----"

He paused. At no time in his life had he been at such a loss forlanguage. His heart was thumping in the most extraordinary fashion, andhe prodded the end of his walking-stick into the ground with quite aferocious earnestness. She was still looking at him and still smiling. 

"And, " he went on ramblingly, "that's why I hope we shall always be goodfriends. "

As he uttered this perfectly commonplace remark, he cursed himself for afool. "What's the matter with me?" he inwardly demanded. "My tongueseems to be tied up!--or I'm going to have lockjaw! It's awful!Something better than this has got to come out of me somehow!" Andacting on a brilliant flash of inspiration which suddenly seemed to haveillumined his brain, he said--

"The fact is, I want to get married. I'm thinking about it. "

How quiet she was! She seemed scarcely to breathe. 

"Yes?" and the word, accentuated without surprise and merely as aquestion, was spoken very gently. "I do hope you have found some one wholoves you with all her heart!"

She turned her head away, and Angus saw, or thought he saw, the brighttears brim up from under her lashes and slowly fall. Without anotherinstant's pause he rushed upon his destiny, and in that rush grewstrong. 

"Yes, Mary!" he said, and moving to her side he caught her hand in hisown--"I dare to think I have found that some one! I believe I have! Ibelieve that a woman whom I love with all my heart, loves me in return!If I am mistaken, then I've lost the whole world! Tell me, Mary! Am Iwrong?"

She could not speak, --the tears were thick in her eyes. 

"Mary--dear, dearest Mary!" and he pressed the hand he held--"You know Ilove you!--you know----"

She turned her face towards him--a pale, wondering face, --and tried tosmile. 

"How do I know?" she murmured tremulously--"How can I believe? I'm pastthe time for love!"

For all answer he drew her into his arms. 

"Ask Love itself about that, Mary!" he said. "Ask my heart, which beatsfor you, --ask my soul, which longs for you!--ask me, who worship you, you, best and dearest of women, about the time for love! That time forus is now, Mary!--now and always!"

Then came a silence--that eloquent silence which surpasses all speech. Love has no written or spoken language--it is incommunicable as God. AndMary, whose nature was open and pure as the daylight, would not havebeen the woman she was if she could have expressed in words the deeptenderness and passion which at that supreme moment silently respondedto her lover's touch, her lover's embrace. And when, --lifting her facebetween his two hands, he gazed at it long and earnestly, a smile, shining between tears, brightened her sweet eyes. 

"You are looking at me as if you never saw me before, Angus!" she said, her voice sinking softly, as she pronounced his name. 

"Positively, I don't think I ever have!" he answered "Not as you arenow, Mary! I have never seen you look so beautiful! I have never seenyou before as my love! my wife!"

She drew herself a little away from him. 

"But, are you sure you are doing right for yourself?" she asked--"Youknow you could marry anybody----"

He laughed, and threw one arm round her waist. 

"Thanks!--I don't want to marry 'anybody'--I want to marry _you_! Thequestion is, will you have me?"

She smiled. 

"If I thought it would be for your good----"

Stooping quickly he kissed her. 

"_That's_ very much for my good!" he declared. "And now that I've toldyou my mind, you must tell me yours. Do you love me, Mary?"

"I'm afraid you know that already too well!" she said, with a wistfulradiance in her eyes. 

"I don't!" he declared--"I'm not at all sure of you----"

She interrupted him. 

"Are you sure of yourself?"

"Mary!"

"Ah, don't look so reproachful! It's only for you I'm thinking! You seeI'm nothing but a poor working woman of what is called the lowerclasses--I'm not young, and I'm not clever. Now you've got genius;you'll be a great man some day, quite soon perhaps--you may even becomerich as well as famous, and then perhaps you'll be sorry you ever metme----"

"In that case I'll call upon the public hangman and ask him to give me aquick despatch, " he said promptly; "Though I shouldn't be worth theexpense of a rope!"

"Angus, you won't be serious!"

"Serious? I never was more serious in my life! And I want my questionanswered. "

"What question?"

"Do you love me? Yes or no!"

He held her close and looked her full in the face as he made thisperemptory demand. Her cheeks grew crimson, but she met his searchinggaze frankly. 

"Ah, though you are a man, you are a spoilt child!" she said. "You knowI love you more than I can say!--and yet you want me to tell you whatcan never be told!"

He caught her to his heart, and kissed her passionately. 

"That's enough!" he said--"For if you love me, Mary, your love is loveindeed!--it's no sham; and like all true and heavenly things, it willnever change. I believe, if I turned out to be an utter wastrel, you'dlove me still!"

"Of course I should!" she answered. 

"Of course you would!" and he kissed her again. "Mary, _my_ Mary, ifthere were more women like you, there would be more men!--men in thereal sense of the word--manly men, whose love and reverence for womenwould make them better and braver in the battle of life. Do you know, Ican do anything now, with you to love me! I don't suppose, "--and here heunconsciously squared his shoulders--"I really don't suppose there is asingle difficulty in my way that I won't conquer!"

She smiled, leaning against him. 

"If you feel like that, I am very happy!" she said. 

As she spoke, she raised her eyes to the sky, and uttered an involuntaryexclamation. 

"Look, look!" she cried--"How glorious!"

The heavens above them were glowing red, --forming a dome of burningrose, deepening in hue towards the sea, where the outer rim of thenearly vanished sun was slowly disappearing below the horizon--and inthe centre of this ardent glory, a white cloud, shaped like a dove withoutspread wings, hung almost motionless. The effect was marvellouslybeautiful, and Angus, full of his own joy, was more than ever consciousof the deep content of a spirit attuned to the infinite joy of nature. 

"It is like the Holy Grail, " he said, and, with one arm round the womanhe loved, he softly quoted the lines:--

 "And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail, Rose-red, with beatings in it as if alive!"

"That is Tennyson, " she said. 

"Yes--that is Tennyson--the last great poet England can boast, " heanswered. "The poet who hated hate and loved love. "

"All poets are like that, " she murmured. 

"Not all, Mary! Some of the modern ones hate love and love hate!"

"Then they are not poets, " she said. "They would not see any beauty inthat lovely sky--and they would not understand----"

"Us!" finished Angus. "And I assure you, Mary at the present moment, weare worth understanding!"

She laughed softly. 

"Do we understand ourselves?" she asked. 

"Of course we don't! If we did, we should probably be miserable. It'sjust because we are mysterious one to another, that we are so happy. Nohuman being should ever try to analyse the fact of existence. It'senough that we exist--and that we love each other. Isn't it, Mary?"

"Enough? It is too much, --too much happiness altogether for _me_, at anyrate, " she said. "I can't believe in it yet! I can't really, Angus! Whyshould you love me?"

"Why, indeed!" And his eyes grew dark and warm with tenderness--"Whyshould you love _me_?"

"Ah, there's so much to love in you!" and she made her heart'sconfession with a perfectly naïve candour. "I daresay you don't see ityourself, but I do!"

"And I assure you, Mary, " he declared, with a whimsical solemnity, "thatthere's ever so much more to love in you! I know you don't see it foryourself, but I do!"

Then they laughed together like two children, and all constraint was atan end between them. Hand in hand they descended the grassy steep of the"Giant's Castle"--charmed with one another, and at every step of the wayseeing some new delight which they seemed to have missed before. Thecrimson sunset burned about them like the widening petals of a rose infullest bloom, --earth caught the fervent glory and reflected it backagain in many varying tints of brilliant colour, shading from green togold, from pink to amethyst--and as they walked through the splendidvaporous light, it was as though they were a living part of the glory ofthe hour. 

"We must tell David, " said Mary, as they reached the bottom of the hill. "Poor old dear! I think he will be glad. "

"I know he will!" and Angus smiled confidently. "He's been waiting forthis ever since Christmas Day!"

Mary's eyes opened in wonderment. 

"Ever since Christmas Day?"

"Yes. I told him then that I loved you, Mary, --that I wanted to ask youto marry me, --but that I felt I was too poor----"

Her hand stole through his arm. 

"Too poor, Angus! Am I not poor also?"

"Not as poor as I am, " he answered, promptly possessing himself of thecaressing hand. "In fact, you're quite rich compared to me. You've got ahouse, and you've got work, which brings you in enough to liveupon, --now I haven't a roof to call my own, and my stock of money israpidly coming to an end. I've nothing to depend upon but my book, --andif I can't sell that when it's finished, where am I? I'm nothing but abeggar--less well off than I was as a wee boy when I herded cattle. AndI'm not going to marry you----"

She stopped in her walk and looked at him with a smile. 

"Oh Angus! I thought you were!"

He kissed the hand he held. 

"Don't make fun of me, Mary! I won't allow it! I _am_ going to marryyou!--but I'm _not_ going to marry you till I've sold my book. I don'tsuppose I'll get more than a hundred pounds for it, but that will do tostart housekeeping together on. Won't it?"

"I should think it would indeed!" and she lifted her head with quite aproud gesture--"It will be a fortune!"

"Of course, " he went on, "the cottage is yours, and all that is in it. Ican't add much to that, because to my mind, it's just perfect. I neverwant any sweeter, prettier little home. But I want to work _for_ you, Mary, so that you'll not have to work for yourself, you understand?"

She nodded her head gravely. 

"I understand! You want me to sit with my hands folded in my lap, doingnothing at all, and getting lazy and bad-tempered. "

"Now you know I don't!" he expostulated. 

"Yes, you do, Angus! If you don't want me to work, you want me to be aperfectly useless and tiresome woman! Why, my dearest, now that you loveme, I should like to work all the harder! If you think the cottagepretty, I shall try to make it even prettier. And I don't want to giveup all my lace-mending. It's just as pleasant and interesting as thefancy-work which the rich ladies play with You must really let me go onworking, Angus! I shall be a perfectly unbearable person if you don't!"

She looked so sweetly at him, that as they were at the moment passingunder the convenient shadow of a tree he took her in his arms and kissedher. 

"When _you_ become a perfectly unbearable person, " he said, "then itwill be time for another deluge, and a general renovation of human kind. You shall work if you like, my Mary, but you shall not work for _me_. See?"

A tender smile lingered in her eyes. 

"I see!" and linking her arm through his again, she moved on with himover the thyme-scented grass, her dress gently sweeping across the strayclusters of golden cowslips that nodded here and there. "_I_ will workfor myself, _you_ will work for _me_, and old David will work for bothof us!"

They laughed joyously. 

"Poor old David!" said Angus. "He's been wondering why I have not spokento you before, --he declared he couldn't understand it. But then I wasn'tquite sure whether you liked me at all----"

"Weren't you?" and her glance was eloquent. 

"No--and I asked him to find out!"

She looked at him in a whimsical wonderment. 

"You asked him to find out? And did he?"

"He seems to think so. At any rate, he gave me courage to speak. "

Mary grew suddenly meditative. 

"Do you know, Angus, " she said, "I think old David was sent to me for aspecial purpose. Some great and good influence guided him to me--I amsure of it. You don't know all his history. Shall I tell it to you?"

"Yes--do tell me--but I think I know it. Was he not a former old friendof your father's?"

"No--that's a story I had to invent to satisfy the curiosity of thevillagers. It would never have done to let them know that he was only anold tramp whom I found ill and nearly dying out on the hills during agreat storm we had last summer. There had been heavy thunder andlightning all the afternoon, and when the storm ceased I went to my doorto watch the clearing off of the clouds, and I heard a dog yelpingpitifully on the hill just above the coombe. I went out to see what wasthe matter, and there I found an old man lying quite unconscious on thewet grass, looking as if he were dead, and a little dog--you knowCharlie?--guarding him and barking as loudly as it could. Well, Ibrought him back to life, and took him home and nursed him--and--that'sall. He told me his name was David--and that he had been 'on the tramp'to Cornwall to find a friend. You know the rest. "

"Then he is really quite a stranger to you, Mary?" said Anguswonderingly. 

"Quite. He never knew my father. But I am sure if Dad had been alive, hewould have rescued him just as I did, and then he _would_ have been his'friend, '--he could not have helped himself. That's the way I argued itout to my own heart and conscience. "

Angus looked at her. 

"You darling!" he said suddenly. 

She laughed. 

"That doesn't come in!" she said. 

"It does come in! It comes in everywhere!" he declared. "There's noother woman in the world that would have done so much for a poor forlornold tramp like that, adrift on the country roads. And you exposedyourself to some risk, too, Mary! He might have been a dangerouscharacter!"

"Poor dear, he didn't look it, " she said gently--"and he hasn't provedit. Everything has gone well for me since I did my best for him. It waseven through him that you came to know me, Angus!--think of that!Blessings on the dear old man!--I'm sure he must be an angel indisguise!"

He smiled. 

"Well, we never know!" he said. "Angels certainly don't come to us withall the celestial splendour which is supposed to belong to them--theymay perhaps choose the most unlikely way in which to make their errandsknown. I have often--especially lately--thought that I have seen anangel looking at me out of the eyes of a woman!"

"You _will_ talk poetry!" protested Mary. 

"I'm not talking it--I'm living it!" he answered. 

There was nothing to be said to this. He was an incorrigible lover, andremonstrances were in vain. 

"You must not tell David's real history to any of the villagers, " saidMary presently, as they came in sight of her cottage--"I wouldn't likethem to know it. "

"They shall never know it so far as I am concerned, " he answered. "He'sbeen a good friend to me--and I wouldn't cause him a moment's trouble. I'd like to make him happier if I could!"

"I don't think that's possible, "--and her eyes were clouded for a momentwith a shadow of melancholy--"You see he has no money, except the littlehe earns by basket-making, and he's very far from strong. We must bekind to him, Angus, as long as he needs kindness. "

Angus agreed, with sundry ways of emphasis that need not here benarrated, as they composed a formula which could not be rendered intoset language. Arriving at the cottage they found the door open, and noone in the kitchen, --but on the table lay two sprigs of sweetbriar. Angus caught sight of them at once. 

"Mary! See! Don't you think he knows?"

She stood hesitating, with a lovely wavering colour in her cheeks. 

"Don't you remember, " he went on, "you gave me a bit of sweetbriar onthe evening of the first day we ever met?"

"I remember!" and her voice was very soft and tremulous. 

"I have that piece of sweetbriar still, " he said; "I shall never partwith it. And old David must have known all about it!"

He took up the little sprays set ready for them, and putting one in hisown buttonhole, fastened the other in her bodice with a loving, lingering touch. 

"It's a good emblem, " he said, kissing her--"Sweet Briar--sweetLove!--not without thorns, which are the safety of the rose!"

A slow step sounded on the garden path, and they saw Helmsleyapproaching, with the tiny "Charlie" running at his heels. Pausing onthe threshold of the open door, he looked at them with a questioningsmile. 

"Well, did you see the sunset?" he asked, "Or only each other?"

Mary ran to him, and impulsively threw her arms about his neck. 

"Oh David!" she said. "Dear old David! I am so happy!"

He was silent, --her gentle embrace almost unmanned him. He stretched outa hand to Angus, who grasped it warmly. 

"So it's all right!" he said, in a low voice that trembled a little. "You've settled it together?"

"Yes--we've settled it, David!" Angus answered cheerily. "Give us yourblessing!"

"You have that--God knows you have that!"--and as Mary, in her usualkindly way, took his hat and stick from him, keeping her arm through hisas he went to his accustomed chair by the fireside, he glanced at hertenderly. "You have it with all my heart and soul, Mr. Reay!--and as forthis dear lady who is to be your wife, all I can say is that you havewon a treasure--yes, a treasure of goodness and sweetness and patience, and most heavenly kindness----"

His voice failed him, and the quick tears sprang to Mary's eyes. 

"Now, David, please stop!" she said, with a look between affection andremonstrance. "You are a terrible flatterer! You mustn't spoil me. "

"Nothing will spoil you!" he answered, quietly. "Nothing could spoilyou! All the joy in the world, all the prosperity in the world, couldnot change your nature, my dear! Mr. Reay knows that as well as Ido, --and I'm sure he thanks God for it! You are all love and gentleness, as a woman should be, --as all women would be if they were wise!"

He paused a moment, and then, raising himself a little more uprightly inhis chair, looked at them both earnestly. 

"And now that you have made up your minds to share your lives together, "he went on, "you must not think that I will be so selfish as to stay onhere and be a burden to you both. I should like to see you married, butafter that I will go away----"

"You will do nothing of the sort!" said Mary, dropping on her kneesbeside him and lifting her serene eyes to his face. "You don't want tomake us unhappy, do you? This is your home, as long as it is ours, remember! We would not have you leave us on any account, would we, Angus?"

"Indeed no!" answered Reay, heartily. "David, what are you talkingabout? Aren't _you_ the cause of my knowing Mary? Didn't _you_ bring meto this dear little cottage first of all? Don't I owe all my happinessto _you_? And you talk about going away! It's pretty evident you don'tknow what's good for you! Look here! If I'm good for anything at all, I'm good for hard work--and for that matter I may as well go in for thebasket-making trade as well as the book-making profession. We've gotMary to work for, David!--and we'll both work for her--together!"

Helmsley turned upon him a face in which the expression was difficult todefine. 

"You really mean that?" he said. 

"Really mean it! Of course I do! Why shouldn't I mean it?"

There was a moment's silence, and Helmsley, looking down on Mary as sheknelt beside him, laid his hand caressingly on her hair. 

"I think, " he said gently, "that you are both too kind-hearted andimpulsive, and that you are undertaking a task which should not beimposed upon you. You offer me a continued home with you after yourmarriage--but who am I that I should accept such generosity from you? Iam not getting younger. Every day robs me of some strength--and mywork--such work as I can do--will be of very little use to you. I maysuffer from illness, which will cause you trouble and expense, --death iscloser to me than life--and why should I die on your hands? It can onlymean trouble for you if I stay on, --and though I am grateful to you withall my heart--more grateful than I can say"--and his voice trembled--"Iknow I ought to be unselfish, --and that the truest and best way to thankyou for all you have done for me is to go away and leave you in peaceand happiness----"

"We should not be happy without you, David!" declared Mary. "Can't you, won't you understand that we are both fond of you?"

"Fond of me!" And he smiled. "Fond of a useless old wreck who canscarcely earn a day's wage!"

"That's rather wide of the mark, David!" said Reay. "Mary's not thewoman--and I'm sure I'm not the man--to care for any one on account ofthe money he can make. We like you for yourself, --so don't spoil thishappiest day of our lives by suggesting any separation between us. Doyou hear?"

"I hear!"--and a sudden brightness flashed up in Helmsley's sunken eyes, making them look almost young--"And I understand! I understand thatthough I am poor and old, and a stranger to you, --you are giving mefriendship such as rich men often seek for and never find!--and I willtry, --yes, I will try, God helping me, --to be worthy of your trust! If Istay with you----"

"There must be no 'if' in the case, David!" said Mary, smiling up athim. 

He stroked her bright hair caressingly. 

"Well, then, I will put it not 'if, ' but as long as I stay with you, " heanswered--"as long as I stay with you, I will do all I can to show youhow grateful I am to you, --and--and--I will never give you cause"--herehe spoke more slowly, and with deliberate emphasis--"I will never giveyou cause to regret your confidence in me! I want you both to beglad--not sorry--that you spared a lonely old man a little of youraffection!"

"We _are_ glad, David!"--and Mary, as he lifted his hand from her head, caught it and kissed it lightly. "And we shall never be sorry! And hereis Charlie"--and she picked up the little dog as she spoke and fondledit playfully, --"wondering why he is not included in the family party!For, after all, it is quite your affair, isn't it, Charlie? _You_ werethe cause of my finding David out on the hills!--and David was the causeof my knowing Angus--so if it hadn't been for _you_, nothing would havehappened at all, Charlie!--and I should have been a lonely old maid allthe days of my life! And I can't do anything to show my gratitude toyou, you quaint wee soul, but give you a saucer of cream!"

She laughed, and springing up, began to prepare the tea. While she wasmoving quickly to and fro on this household business, Helmsley beckonedReay to come closer to him. 

"Speak frankly, Mr. Reay!" he said. "As the master of her heart, you arethe master of her home. I can easily slip away--and tramping is not suchhard work in summer time. Shall I go?"

"If you go, I shall start out and bring you back again, " replied Reay, shaking his head at him determinedly. "You won't get so far but that Ishall be able to catch you up in an hour! Please consider that youbelong to us, --and that we have no intention of parting with you!"

Tears rose in Helmsley's eyes, and for a moment he covered them with hishand. Angus saw that he was deeply moved, and to avoid noticing him, especially as he was somewhat affected himself by the touchinggratefulness of this apparently poor and lonely old man, went after Marywith all the pleasant ease and familiarity of an accepted lover, to helpher bring in the tea. The tiny "Charlie, " meanwhile, sitting on thehearth in a vigilantly erect attitude, with quivering nose pointed in acreamward direction, waited for the approach of the expected afternoonrefreshment, trembling from head to tail with nervous excitement. AndHelmsley, left alone for those few moments, presently mastered thestrong emotion which made him long to tell his true history to the twosincere souls who, out of his whole life's experience, had alone provedthemselves faithful to the spirit of a friendship wherein the claims ofcash had no part. Regaining full command of himself, and determining toact out the part he had elected to play to whatever end should mostfittingly arrive, --an end he could not as yet foresee, --he sat quietlyin his chair as usual, gazing into the fire with the meditative patienceand calm of old age, and silently building up in a waking dream the laststory of his House of Love, --which now promised to be like that housespoken of in the Divine Parable--"And the rain descended, and the floodscame, and the winds blew and beat upon that house, and it fell not, forit was founded upon a rock. " For as he knew, --and as we all must surelyknow, --the greatest rains and floods and winds of a world of sorrow, arepowerless to destroy love, if love be true. 

CHAPTER XX

Three days later, when the dawn was scarcely declared and the earliestnotes of the waking birds trembled on the soft air with the faintsweetness of a far-off fluty piping, the door of Mary Deane's cottageopened stealthily, and David Helmsley, dressed ready for a journey, stepped noiselessly out into the little garden. He wore the sameordinary workman's outfit in which he had originally started on hisintended " tramp, " including the vest which he had lined with banknotes, and which he had not used once since his stay with Mary Deane. For shehad insisted on his wearing the warmer and softer garments which hadonce belonged to her own father, --and all these he had now taken off andleft behind him, carefully folded up on the bed in his room. He hadexamined his money and had found it just as he had placed it, --even thelittle "surprise packet" which poor Tom o' the Gleam had collected forhis benefit in the "Trusty Man's" common room, was still in theside-pocket where he had himself put it. Unripping a corner of the vestlining, he took out two five-pound notes, and with these in a roughleather purse for immediate use, and his stout ash stick grasped firmlyin his hand, he started out to walk to the top of the coombe where heknew the path brought him to the verge of the highroad leading toMinehead. As he moved almost on tip-toe through Mary's garden, now allfragrant with golden wall-flowers, lilac, and mayblossom, he paused amoment, --looking up at the picturesque gabled eaves and latticedwindows. A sudden sense of loneliness affected him almost to tears. Fornow he had not even the little dog Charlie with him to console him--thatcanine friend slept in a cushioned basket in Mary's room, and wastherefore 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 beforeI die! Meanwhile--good-bye, Mary! Good-bye, dearest and kindest ofwomen! God bless you!"

He turned away with an effort--and, lifting the latch of the gardengate, opened it and closed it softly behind him. Then he began theascent of the coombe. Not a soul was in sight, --the actual day had notyet begun. The hill torrent flowed along with a subdued purling soundover the rough stones and pebbles, --there had been little rain of lateand the water was shallow, though clear and bright enough to gleam likea wavering silver ribbon in the dimness of the early morning, --and as hefollowed it upward and finally reached a point from whence the open seawas visible he rested a moment, leaning on his stick and lookingbackward on the way he had come. Strangely beautiful and mystical wasthe scene his eyes dwelt upon, --or rather perhaps it should be said thathe 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 nowby a delicate dark grey mist, which, like a veil, covered its placidbosom, --a mist which presently the rising sun would scatter with itsglorious rays of gold;--here at his feet nestled Weircombe, --a clusterof simple cottages, sweetly adorned by nature with her fairestgarlanding of springtime flowers, --and behind him, just across a lengthof barren moor, was the common highroad leading to the wider, busiertowns. And he thought as he stood alone, --a frail and solitary figure, gazing dreamily out of himself, as it were, to things altogether beyondhimself, --that the dim and shadowy ocean was like the vast Unknown whichwe call Death, --which we look upon tremblingly, --afraid of its darkness, and unable to realise that the sun of Life will ever rise again topierce its gloom with glory. And the little world--the only world thatcan be called a world, --namely, that special corner of the planet whichholds the hearts that love us--a world which for him, themulti-millionaire, was just a tiny village with one sweet woman livingin it--resembled a garland of flowers flung down from the rocks asthough to soften their ruggedness, --a garland broken asunder at theshoreline, even as all earthly garlands must break and fade at the touchof the first cold wave of the Infinite. As for the further road in whichhe was about to turn and go, that, to his fancy, was a nearer similitudeof an approach to hell than any scene ever portrayed in Dante's _DivineComedy_. For it led to the crowded haunts of men--the hives of greedybusiness, --the smoky, suffocating centres where each human unit seeksto over-reach and outrival the other--where there is no time to bekind--no room to be courteous; where the passion for gain and theworship of self are so furious and inexhaustible, that all the old fairvirtues which make nations great and lasting, are trampled down in thedust, and jeered at as things contemptible and of no value, --where, if aman is honourable, he is asked "What do you get by it?"--and where, if awoman 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 longingfor, something better--something truer and more productive of peace andlasting good. Almost everything he had touched had turned tomoney, --while nothing he had ever gained had turned to love. Exceptnow--now when the end was drawing nigh--when he must soon say farewellto the little earth, so replete with natural beauty--farewell to thelovely sky, which whether in storm or calm, ever shows itself as avisible reflex of divine majesty and power--farewell to the sweet birds, which for no thanks at all, charm the ear by their tender songs andgraceful wingëd ways--farewell to the flowers, which, flourishing in thewoods and fields without care, lift their cups to the sun, and fill theair with fragrance, --and above all, farewell to the affection which hehad found so late!--to the heart whose truth he had tested--to the womanfor whose sake, could he in some way have compassed her surer andgreater happiness, he would gladly have lived half his life over again, working with every moment of it to add to her joy. But an instinctivepremonition warned him that the sands in Time's hour-glass were for himrunning to an end, --there was no leisure left to him now for any newscheme or plan by which he could improve or strengthen that which he hadalready accomplished. He realised this fully, with a passing pang ofregret which soon tempered itself into patient resignation, --and as thefirst arrowy beam of the rising sun shot upwards from the east, heslowly turned his back on the quiet hamlet where in a few months he hadfound what he had vainly sought for in many long and weary years, andplodded steadily across the moor to the highroad. Here he sat down onthe bank to wait till some conveyance going to Minehead should passby--for he knew he had not sufficient strength to walk far. "Trampingit" now was for him impossible, --moreover, his former thirst foradventure was satisfied; he had succeeded in his search for "a friend"without going so far as Cornwall. There was no longer any cause for himto endure unnecessary fatigue--so he waited patiently, listening to thefirst wild morning carol of a skylark, which, bounding up from its nesthard by, darted into the air with quivering wings beating against thedispersing vapours of the dawn, and sang aloud in the full rapture of ajoy made perfect by innocence. And he thought of the lovely lines ofGeorge 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 learneven a quarter of the alphabet which would help us to understand themeaning of that 'Word!'--the Word which 'was in the beginning, and theword was with God, and the word _was_ God!' Then we should be wiseindeed with a wisdom that would profit us, --we should have no fears andno forebodings, --we should know that all is, all _must_ be for thebest!" And he raised his eyes to the slowly brightening sky. "Yet, afterall, the attitude of simple faith is the right one for us, if we wouldcall ourselves children of God--the faith which affirms--'Though Heslay me, yet will I trust in Him!'"

As he thus mused, a golden light began to spread around him, --the sunhad risen above the horizon, and its cheerful radiance sparkled on everyleaf and every blade of grass that bore a drop of dew. The morning mistsrose hoveringly, paused awhile, and then lightly rolled away, disclosingone picture after another of exquisite sylvan beauty, --every livingthing took up anew its burden of work and pleasure for the day, and"Now" was again declared the acceptable time. To enjoy the moment, andto make much of the moment while it lasts, is the very keynote ofNature's happiness, and David Helmsley found himself on this particularmorning more or less in tune with the general sentiment. Certain sadthoughts oppressed him from time to time, but they were tempered andwell-nigh overcome by the secret pleasure he felt within himself athaving been given the means wherewith to ensure happiness for those whomhe considered were more deserving of it than himself. And he satpatiently watching the landscape grow in glory as the sun rose higherand higher, till presently, struck by a sudden fear lest Mary Deaneshould get up earlier than usual, and missing him, should come out toseek for him, he left the bank by the roadside, and began to trudgeslowly along in the direction of Minehead. He had not walked for a muchlonger time than about ten minutes, when he heard the crunching sound ofheavy wheels behind him, and, looking back, saw a large mill waggonpiled with sacks of flour and drawn by two sturdy horses, comingleisurely along. He waited till it drew near, and then called to thewaggoner--

"Will you give me a lift to Minehead for half a crown?"

The waggoner, stout, red-faced, and jolly-looking, nodded an emphaticassent. 

"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 theprojecting corners of two flour sacks, which in their way were ascomfortable as cushions. 

"'Old on there, " said the waggoner, "an' ye'll be as safe as though yewas in Abram's bosom. Not that I knows much about Abram anyway. Wheerabouts 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 heavyhoofs on the dusty road, and the noise made by the grind of the cartwheels, checked any attempt at prolonged conversation, for whichHelmsley was thankful. He considered himself lucky in having met with atotal stranger, for the name of the owner of the waggon, which was dulydisplayed both on the vehicle itself and the sacks of flour itcontained, was unknown to him, and the place from which it had come wasan inland village several miles away from Weircombe. He was thereforesafe--so far--from any chance of recognition. To be driven along in aheavy mill cart was a rumblesome, drowsy way of travelling, but it wasrestful, and when Minehead was at last reached, he did not feel himselfat all tired. The waggoner had to get his cargo of flour off by rail, sothere was no lingering in the town itself, which was as yet scarcelyastir. They were in time for the first train going to Exeter, andHelmsley, changing one of his five-pound notes at the railway station, took a third-class ticket to that place. Then he paid the promisedhalf-crown to his friendly driver, with an extra threepence for amorning "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 Churchfor '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 wotI sez is, we'se all a bit o' devil in us, an' we can't be temp'ranceivry 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. Thewhirr and noise of the panting engine confused Helmsley's ears and dazedhis brain, after his months of seclusion in such a quiet little spot asWeircombe, --and he was seized with quite a nervous terror and doubt asto whether he would be able, after all, to undertake the journey he haddecided upon, alone. But an energetic porter put an end to hisindecision by opening all the doors of the various compartments in thetrain and banging them to again, whereupon he made up his mind quickly, and managed, with some little difficulty, to clamber up the high step ofa third-class carriage and get in before the aforesaid porter had thechance to push him in head foremost. In another few minutes the enginewhistle set up a deafening scream, and the train ran swiftly out of thestation. He was off;--the hills, the sea, were left behind--andWeircombe--restful, simple little Weircombe, seemed not only miles ofdistance, but ages of time away! Had he ever lived there, he hazilywondered? Would he ever go back? Was he "old David the basket-maker, " orDavid Helmsley the millionaire? He hardly knew. It did not seem worthwhile to consider the problem of his own identity. One figure alone wasreal, --one face alone smiled out of the cloudy vista of thoughts andmemories, with the true glory of an ineffable tenderness--the sweet, pure face of Mary, with her clear and candid eyes lighting everyexpression to new loveliness. On Angus Reay his mind did not dwell somuch--Angus was a man--and as a man he regarded him with warm liking andsympathy--but it was as the future husband and protector of Mary that hethought of him most--as the one out of all the world who would care forher, when he, David Helmsley, was no more. Mary was the centre of hisdreams--the pivot round which all his last ambitions in this world weregathered together in one focus, --without her there was, there could benothing for him--nothing to give peace or comfort to his lastdays--nothing to satisfy him as to the future of all that his life hadbeen spent to gain. 

Meantime, --while the train bearing him to Exeter was rushing alongthrough wide and ever-varying stretches of fair landscape, --there wasamazement and consternation in the little cottage he had left behindhim. Mary, rising from a sound night's sleep, and coming down to thekitchen as usual to light the fire and prepare breakfast, saw a letteron 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 hereyes. 

"Oh, David!" she exclaimed. "Poor, poor old man! What will he do all byhimself, wandering about the country with no money! It's dreadful! Howcould he think of such a thing! He is so weak, too!--he can't possiblyget very far!"

Here a sudden thought struck her, and picking up Charlie, who hadfollowed her downstairs from her bedroom and was now trotting to andfro, sniffing the air in a somewhat disconsolate and dubious manner, sheran out of the house bareheaded, and hurried up to the top of the"coombe. " There she paused, shading her eyes from the sun and lookingall about her. It was a lovely morning, and the sea, calm and sparklingwith sunbeams, shone like a blue glass flecked with gold. The sky wasclear, and the landscape fresh and radiant with the tender green of thespringtime verdure. But everything was quite solitary. Vainly her glanceswept from left to right and from right to left again, --there was nofigure in sight such as the one she sought and half-expected todiscover. Putting Charlie down to follow at her heels, she walkedquickly across the intervening breadth of moor to the highroad, andthere paused, looking up and down its dusty length, hoping against hopethat she might see David somewhere trudging slowly along on his lonelyway, but there was not a human creature visible. Charlie, assuming ahighly vigilant attitude, cocked his tiny ears and sniffed the airsuspiciously, as though he scented the trail of his lost master, but noclue presented itself as likely to serve the purpose of tracking the wayin which he had gone. Moved by a sudden loneliness and despondency, Maryslowly returned to the cottage, carrying the little dog in her arms, andwas affected to tears again when she entered the kitchen, because itlooked so empty. The bent figure, the patient aged face, on which forher there was ever a smile of grateful tenderness--these had composed apicture by her fireside to which she had grown affectionatelyaccustomed, --and to see it no longer there made her feel almostdesolate. She lit the fire listlessly and prepared her own breakfastwithout interest--it was a solitary meal and lacked flavour. She wasglad when, after breakfast, Angus Reay came in, as was now his custom, to say good-morning, and to "gain inspiration, "--so he told her, --forhis day's work. He was no less astonished than herself at David's suddendeparture. 

"Poor old chap! I believe he thinks he is in our way, Mary!" he said, ashe read the letter of explanation which their missing friend had leftbehind him. "And yet he says quite plainly here that he will be backbefore Sunday. Perhaps he will. But where can he have gone to?"

"Not far, surely!" and Mary looked, as she felt, perplexed. "He has nomoney!"

"Not a penny?"

"Not a penny! He makes me take everything he earns to help pay for hiskeep and as something towards the cost of his illness last year. I don'twant it--but it pleases him that I should have it----"

"Of course--I understand that, "--and Angus slipped an arm round herwaist, while he read the letter through again. "But if he hasn't apenny, how can he get along?"

"He must be on the tramp again, " said Mary. "But he isn't strong enoughto tramp. I went up the coombe this morning and right out to thehighroad, for I thought I might see him and catch up with him--because Iknow it would take him ever so long to walk a mile. But he had gonealtogether. "

Reay stood thinking. 

"I tell you what, Mary, " he said at last, "I'll take a brisk walk downthe road towards Minehead. I should think that's the only place wherehe'd try for work. I daresay I shall overtake him. "

Her eyes brightened. 

"Yes, that's quite possible, "--and she was evidently pleased at thesuggestion. "He's so old and feeble, and you're so strong and quick onyour feet----"

"Quick with my lips, too, " said Angus, promptly kissing her. "But Ishall have to be on my best behaviour now you're all alone in thecottage, Mary! David has left you defenceless!"

He laughed, but as she raised her eyes questioningly to his face, grewserious. 

"Yes, my Mary! You'll have to stay by your own sweet lonesome! Otherwiseall the dear, kind, meddlesome old women in the village will talk! Mrs. Twitt will lead the chorus, with the best intentions, unless--and thisis a dreadful alternative!--you can persuade her to come up and playpropriety!"

The puzzled look left her face, and she smiled though a wave of colourflushed her cheeks. 

"Oh! I see what you mean, Angus! But I'm too old to want lookingafter--I can look after myself. "

"Can you?" And he took her into his arms and held her fast. "And howwill you do it?"

She was silent a moment, looking into his eyes with a grave and musingtenderness. Then she said quietly--

"By trusting you, my love, now and always!"

Very gently he released her from his embrace--very reverently he kissedher. 

"And you shall never regret your trust, you dear, sweet angel of awoman! Be sure of that! Now I'm off to look for David--I'll try andbring him back with me. By the way, Mary, I've told Mr. And Mrs. Twittand good old Bunce that we are engaged--so the news is now the publicproperty of the whole village. In fact, we might just as well have putup 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 "MyNannie O" as he made the ascent. Twice he turned to wave his hand toMary who stood watching him from her garden gate, and then hedisappeared. She waited a moment among all the sweetly perfumed flowersin her little garden, looking at the bright glitter of the hill streamas it flowed equably by. 

"How wonderful it is, " she thought, "that God should have been so goodto me! I have done nothing to deserve any love at all, and yet Angusloves me! It seems too beautiful to be real! I am not worthy of suchhappiness! Sometimes I dare not think too much of it lest it should allprove to be only a dream! For surely no one in the world could wish fora better life than we shall live--Angus and I--in this dear littlecottage together, --he with his writing, which I know will some day movethe world, --and I with my usual work, helping as much as I can to makehis life sweet to him. For we have the great secret of all joy--we loveeach other!"

With her eyes full of the dreamy light of inward heart's content, sheturned and went into the house. The sight of David's empty chair by thefire troubled her, --but she tried to believe that Angus would succeed infinding him on the highroad, and in persuading him to return at once. Towards noon Mrs. Twitt came in, somewhat out of breath, on account ofhaving climbed the village street more rapidly than was her custom onsuch a warm day as it had turned out to be, and straightway beganconversation. 

"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'slife 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'da' got engaged to be married! I would, an' that's a Gospel truth! Yeseemed so steady like an' settled--lor' a mussy me!" And here, despiteher effort to look serious, a broad smile got the better of her. "An' afine man too you've got, --none o' your scallywag weaklings as one seestoo much of nowadays, but a real upright sort o' chap wi' no nonsenseabout 'im. An' I wishes ye well, Mary, my dear, "--and the worthy soultook Mary's hand in hers and gave her a hearty kiss. "For it's never toolate to mend, as the Scripter tells us, an' forbye ye're not in yergreen gooseberry days there's those as thinks ripe fruit better thansour-growin' young codlings. An' ye may take 'art o' grace for onething--them as marries young settles quickly old--an' to look at theskin an' the 'air an' the eyes of ye, you beat ivery gel I've ivir seenin 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 'imearly!"

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 dealtoo good for me. "

Mrs. Twitt sniffed meaningly. 

"Well, I'm not in any way sure o' that, " she observed. "When a man's toogood for a woman it's what we may call a Testymen' miracle. For theworst wife as ivir lived is never so bad as a bad 'usband. There's asuthin' 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' hymnsone hour an' drinkin' 'isself silly the next. 'Owsomever, Mister Reayseems a decent chap, forbye 'e do give 'is time to writin' which don'tappear to make 'is pot boil----"

"Ah, but he will be famous!" interrupted Mary exultantly. "I know hewill!"

"An' what's the good o' that?" enquired Mrs. Twitt. "If bein' famous isbein' 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 thegreat pint is that you an' 'e is a-goin' to be man an' wife, an' I'mright glad to 'ear it, for it's a lonely life ye've been leadin' sinceyer 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 hasgone 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, andexplained how Angus Reay had started off to walk towards Minehead, inthe hope of overtaking the wanderer. 

"Well, I never!" And Mrs. Twitt gave a short gasp of wonder. "Wants tofind employment, do 'e? The poor old innercent! Why, Twitt would 'agiven 'im a job in the stoneyard if 'e'd 'a known. He'll never find athing to do anywheres on the road at 'is age!"

And the news of David's sudden and lonely departure affected her morepowerfully than the prospect of Mary's marriage, which had, in the firstplace, occupied all her mental faculties. 

"An' that reminds me, " she went on, "of 'ow the warnin' came to meyesterday 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. Putthat together with the lump o' clinkers as flew out o' the fire lastweek and split in two in the middle of the kitchen, an' there ye 'ave itall writ plain. I sez to Twitt--'Suthin's goin' to 'appen'--an' 'e sezin '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' Isez, '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 twospoons in a saucer does convey 'ints o' the same, an' two spoons was inTwitt's saucer only this very mornin'. Which I wishes both man an' womanas runs the risk everlastin' joy!' An' Twitt, as is allus puttin' in 'isword where 'taint wanted, sez, 'Don't talk about everlastin' joy, mother, 'tis like a hepitaph'--which I answers quick an' sez, 'Your mindmay run on hepitaphs, Twitt, seein' 'tis your livin', but mine don't dono such thing, an' when I sez everlastin' joy for man an' wife, I meansit. ' An' then Mister Reay comes an' pats me on the shoulder cosy likean' sez, 'Right you are, Mrs. Twitt!' an' 'e walks off laughin', an'Twitt 'e laughs too an' sez, 'Good luck to the bridegroom an' thebride, ' which I aint denyin', but there was still the thought o' thepotato peel an' the clinker, an' it's come clear to-day now I've 'eerdas 'ow poor old David's gone!" She paused to take breath, and shook herhead 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 theshore '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 theunexpected departure of "old David" became known. Angus Reay, returningin the afternoon, reported that he had walked half the way, and haddriven 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 waifand stray. Coming back to Weircombe with the carrier's cart, he hadquestioned the carrier as to whether he had seen the old man anywherealong the road, but this inquiry likewise met with failure. 

"So the only thing to do, Mary, " said Angus, finally, "is to believe hisown written word, --that he will be back with us before Sunday. I don'tthink he means to leave you altogether in such an abrupt way, --thatwould be churlish and ungrateful--and I'm sure he is neither. "

"Oh, he's anything but churlish!" she answered quickly. "He has alwaysbeen most thoughtful and kind to me; and as for gratitude!--why, thepoor old dear makes too much of it altogether--one would think I hadgiven him a fortune instead of just taking common human care of him. Iexpect he must have worked in some very superior house of business, forthough he's so poor, he has all the ways of a gentleman. "

"What are the ways of a gentleman, my Mary?" demanded Angus, gaily. "Doyou know? I mean, do you know what they are nowadays? To stick a cigarin one's mouth and smoke it all the time a woman is present--to keepone's hat on before her, and to talk to her in such a loose, free andeasy fashion as might bring one's grandmother out of her grave and makeher venerable hair curl! Those are the 'ways' of certain present-time'gentlemen' who keep all the restaurants and music-halls of Londongoing--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 courtesyof a gentleman, as 'gentlemen' used to be before our press was degradedto its present level by certain clowns and jesters who make it theirbusiness to jeer at every "gentlemanly" feeling that ever inspiredhumanity--yes, I understand! He is a gentleman of the oldschool, --well, --I think he is--and I think he would always be that, ifhe 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 getturned 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, ifI choose to make a name in it! Think of that, my Mary! The gloriousindependence of it! An author is a law unto himself, and if he succeeds, he is the master of his own fate. Publishers are his humbleservants--waiting eagerly to snatch up his work that they may get allthey can for themselves out of it, --and the public--the great publicwhich, apart from all 'interested' critical bias, delivers its ownverdict, is always ready to hearken and to applaud the writer of itschoice. There is no more splendid and enviable life!--if I could onlymake a hundred pounds a year by it, I would rather be an author than aking! For if one has something in one's soul to say--something that isvital, true, and human as well as divine, the whole world will pause tolisten. Yes, Mary! In all its toil and stress, its scheming forself-advantage, its political changes, its little temporary passingshows of empires and monarchies, the world will stop to hear what theThinker and the Writer tells it! The words of old Socrates still ringdown the ages--the thoughts of Shakespeare are still the basis ofEnglish literature!--what a grand life it is to be among the least ofone of the writing band! I tell you, Mary, that even if I fail, I shallbe proud to have at any rate _tried_ to succeed!"

"You will not fail!" she said, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm. "Ishall see you win your triumph!"

"Well, if I cannot conquer everything with you by my side, I shall bebut a poor and worthless devil!" he answered. "And now I must be off andendeavour 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 hisword 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 thetime alone. It would have been impossible to her to express in wordshow greatly she missed the companionship of the gentle old man who hadso long been the object of her care. There was a sense of desolateemptiness in the little cottage such as had not so deeply affected herfor years--not indeed since the first months following immediately onher own father's death. That Angus Reay kept away was, she knew, carefor her on his part. Solitary woman as she was, the villagers, like allpeople who live in very small, mentally restricted country places, wouldhave idly gossiped away her reputation had she received her lover intoher house alone. So she passed a very dismal time all by herself; andclosing up the house early, took little Charlie in her arms and went tobed, 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 toget fairly good food and a glass of wine at one of the junctions wherehe had changed _en route_. On leaving the Exeter railway station, hemade his way towards the Cathedral, and happening to chance on a verysmall and unpretending "Temperance Hotel" in a side street, where aplacard intimating that "Good Accommodation for Travellers" might be hadwithin, he entered and asked for a bedroom. He obtained it at once, forhis appearance was by no means against him, being that of a respectableold working man who was prepared to pay his way in a humble, butperfectly honest fashion. As soon as he had secured his room, which wasa curious little three-cornered apartment, partially obscured by theshadows of the many buttresses of the Cathedral, his next care was to goout into the High Street and provide himself with a good stock ofwriting materials. These obtained, he returned to his temporary lodging, where, after supper, he went to bed early in order to rise early. Withthe morning light he was up and dressed, eager to be at work, --an inrushof his old business energy came back on him, --his brain was clear, hismental force keen and active. There happened to be an old-fashioned oaktable in his room, and drawing this to the window, he sat down to writethe document which his solicitor and friend, Sir Francis Vesey, had sooften urged him to prepare--his Will. He knew what a number of legaltechnicalities might, or could be involved in this business, and wastherefore 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 characteristiccaligraphy, 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 hopethat she would, if she saw fit to do so, carry out certain requests ofhis, the testator's, as conveyed privately to her in a letteraccompanying the Will. All the morning long he sat thoughtfullyconsidering and weighing each word he used--till at last, when thedocument was finished to his satisfaction, he folded it up, and puttingit in his pocket, started out to get his midday meal and find a lawyer'soffice. He was somewhat surprised at his own alertness and vigour as hewalked through the streets of Exeter on this quest;--excitement buoyedhim up to such a degree that be was not conscious of the slightestfatigue or lassitude--he felt almost young. He took his lunch at a smallrestaurant where he saw city clerks and others of that type going in, and afterwards, strolling up a dull little street which ended in a _culde sac_, he spied a dingy archway, offering itself as an approach to aflight of equally dingy stairs. Here a brass plate, winking at thepasser-by, stated that "Rowden and Owlett, Solicitors, " would be foundon the first floor. Helmsley paused, considering a moment--then, makingup his mind that "Rowden and Owlett" would suit his purpose as well asany other equally unknown firm, he slowly climbed the steep and unwashedstair. Opening the first door at the top of the flight, he saw a smallboy leaning both arms across a large desk, and watching the gyrations oftwo 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 thewhite 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 tohimself at the evidences of slack business which the offices of Messrs. Rowden and Owlett presented. In about five minutes the boy returned, andgave him a confidential nod. 

"You can go in now, " he said; "Mr. Owlett was taking his after-dinnersnooze, 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 asmall apartment where Mr. Owlett, a comfortably stout, middle-agedgentleman, sat at a large bureau covered with papers, pretending toread. He looked up as his hoped-for client entered, and flushed redly inthe face with suppressed vexation as he saw that it was only a workingman after all--"Some fellow wanting a debt collected, " he decided, pushing away his papers with a rather irritated movement. However, intimes when legal work was so scarce, it did not serve any good purposeto show anger, so, smoothing his ruffled brow, he forced a reluctantlycondescending 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 Ido for you?"

"Well, not so very much, sir, " and Helmsley took off his hatdeferentially, standing in an attitude of humility. "It's only a matterof making my Will, --I've written it out myself, and if you would be sogood as to see whether it is all in order, I'm prepared to pay you foryour trouble. "

"Oh, certainly, certainly!" Here Mr. Owlett took off his spectacles andpolished them. "I suppose you know it's not always a wise thing to drawup your own Will yourself? You should always let a lawyer draw it up foryou. "

"Yes, sir, I've heard that, " answered Helmsley, with an air ofrespectful attention--"And that's why I've brought the paper to you, forif there's anything wrong with it, you can put it right, or draw it upagain if you think proper. Only I'd rather not be put to more expensethan I can help. "

"Just so!" And the worthy solicitor sighed, as he realised that therewere no "pickings" to be made out of his present visitor--"Have youbrought the document with you?"

"Yes, sir!" Helmsley fumbled in his pocket, and drew out the paper witha well-assumed air of hesitation; "I'm leaving everything I've got to awoman who has been like a daughter to me in my old age--my wife andchildren are dead--and I've no one that has any blood claim on me--so Ithink the best thing I can do is to give everything I've got to the onethat's been kind to me in my need. "

"Very right--very proper!" murmured Mr. Owlett, as he took the offereddocument from Helmsley's hand and opened it--"Um--um!--let me see!----"Here he read aloud--"I, DavidHelmsley, --um--um!--Helmsley--Helmsley!--that's a name that I seem tohave heard somewhere!--David Helmsley!--yes!--why that's the name of amulti-millionaire!--ha-ha-ha! A multi-millionaire! That's curious! Doyou know, my man, that your name is the same as that of one of therichest 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 beamedat his humble client through them condescendingly--"One of the richestmen in the world!" And he smacked his lips as though he had justswallowed a savoury morsel--"Amazing! Now if you were he, your Willwould 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 rapturousmusing--"The disposal of a rich man's millions is always a mostinteresting subject of conversation! And you actually didn't know youhad such a rich namesake?"

"No, sir, I did not. "

"Ah well! I suppose you live in the country, and people in the countryseldom hear of the names that are famous in towns. Now let me considerthis Will again--'I, David Helmsley, being in sound health of mind andbody, thanks be to God, do make this to be my Last Will and Testament, revoking all former Wills, Codicils and Testamentary Dispositions. FirstI commend my soul into the hands of God my Creator, hoping andbelieving, through the merits of Jesus Christ my Saviour, to be madepartaker of life everlasting'--Dear me, dear me!" and Mr. Owlett tookoff his spectacles. "You must be a very old-fashioned man! This sort ofthing is not at all necessary nowadays!"

"Not necessary, perhaps, " said Helmsley gently--"But there is no harm inputting it in, sir, I hope?"

"Oh, there's no harm! It doesn't affect the Will itself, ofcourse, --but--but--it's odd--it's unusual! You see nobody minds whatbecomes of your Soul, or your Body either--the only question ofimportance to any one is what is to be done with your Money!"

"I see!" And Helmsley nodded his head and spoke with perfectmildness--"But I'm an old man, and I've lived long enough to be fonderof old-fashioned ways than new, and I should like, if you please, to letit be known that I died a Christian, which is, to me, not a member ofany particular church or chapel, but just a Christian--a man whofaithfully believes in the teaching of our Lord Jesus Christ. "

The attorney stared at him astonished, and moved by a curious sense ofshame. There was something both pathetic and dignified in the aspect ofthis frail old "working man, " who stood before him so respectfully withhis venerable white hair uncovered, and his eyes full of an earnestresolution which was not to be gainsaid. Coughing a cough of nervousembarrassment, he again glanced at the document before him. 

"Of course, " he said--"if you wish it, there is not the slightestobjection to your making this--this public statement as to yourreligious convictions. It does not affect the disposal of your worldlygoods in any way. It used--yes, it used to be quite the ordinary way ofbeginning a Last Will and Testament--but we have got beyond any specialcommendation of our souls to God, you know----"

"Oh yes, I quite understand that, " rejoined Helmsley. "Present-daypeople like to think that God takes no interest whatever in His owncreation. It's a more comfortable doctrine to believe that He isindifferent rather than observant. But, so far as I'm concerned, I don'tgo with the time. "

"No, I see you don't, " and Mr. Owlett bent his attention anew on theWill--"And the religious preliminary being quite unimportant, you shallhave it your own way. Apart from that, you've drawn it up quitecorrectly, and in very good form. I suppose you understand that you havein this Will left 'everything' to the named legatee, Mary Deane, spinster, that is to say, excluding no item whatsoever? That she becomesthe 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 onany 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 bellsharply twice. An angular man with a youngish face and a very elderlymanner 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 toleave worth the trouble of making a Will at all. Mr. Owlett dipped a penin ink, and handed it to his client. Whereat, Helmsley wrote hissignature in a clear, bold, unfaltering hand. Mr. Owlett appended hisown name, and then Prindle stepped up to sign. As he saw the signature"David Helmsley, " he paused and seemed astonished. Mr. Owlett gave ashort 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, noddingtowards Helmsley. "You didn't know, my man, did you, that there was amulti-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 theCrown if he hasn't!"

Prindle, meanwhile, was slowly writing "James George Prindle, Clerk tothe aforesaid Robert Owlett" underneath his legal employer's signature. 

"I should suggest, " said Mr. Owlett, addressing David, jocosely, "thatyou go and make yourself known to the rich Mr. Helmsley as a namesake ofhis!"

"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 ahandsome present, or leave you a little legacy!"

Helmsley smiled--he very nearly laughed. But he carefully guarded hisequanimity. 

"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 andlaying 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 headobstinately. "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 sosavage at being put in the wrong that they'll blazon the lies all themore rather than confess them. That will do, Prindle! You can go. "

Prindle, aware that his employer was not a man to be argued with, atonce 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. "Yousee I'm old and not very strong, and I might die at any time. I'd liketo keep my Will on my own person. "

"Well, take care of it, that's all, " said the solicitor, smiling at whathe thought his client's rustic _naïveté_. "No matter how little you'vegot to leave, it's just as well it should go where you want it to gowithout trouble or difficulty. And there's generally a quarrel overevery Will. "

"I hope there's no chance of any quarrel over mine, " said Helmsley, witha touch of anxiety. 

"Oh no! Not the least in the world! Even if you were as great amillionaire 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 hisrightful fee, which that respectable personage accepted without anyhesitation. "I'm very much obliged to you. Good afternoon!"

"Good afternoon!" And Mr. Owlett leaned back in his chair, blandlysurveying his visitor. "I suppose you quite understand that, having madeyour legatee, Mary Deane, your sole executrix likewise, you give herabsolute control?"

"Oh yes, I quite understand that!" answered Helmsley. "That is what Iwish her to have--the free and absolute control of all I die possessedof. "

"Then you may be quite easy in your mind, " said the lawyer. "You havemade that perfectly clear. "

Whereat Helmsley again said "Good afternoon, " and again Mr. Owlettbriefly responded, sweeping the money his client had paid him off hisdesk, and pocketing the same with that resigned air of injured virtuewhich was his natural expression whenever he thought of how little goodhard cash a country solicitor could make in the space of twenty-fourhours. Helmsley, on leaving the office, returned at once to his lodgingunder the shadow of the Cathedral and resumed his own work, which wasthat of writing several letters to various persons connected with hisfinancial affairs, showing to each and all what a grip he held, even inabsence, on the various turns of the wheel of fortune, and dating allhis communications from Exeter, "at which interesting old town I ammaking a brief stay, " he wrote, for the satisfaction of such curiosityas his correspondents might evince, as well as for the silencing of allrumours respecting his supposed death. Last of all he wrote to SirFrancis 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 hehad written, and then passed the evening in listening to the organistpractising grave anthems and voluntaries in the Cathedral. Every littleitem he could think of in his business affairs was carefully gone overduring the three days he spent in Exeter, --nothing was left undone thatcould be so arranged as to leave his worldly concerns in perfect andunquestionable order--and when, as "Mr. David, " he paid his last dailyscore at the little Temperance hotel where he had stayed since theTuesday night, and started by the early train of Saturday morning on hisreturn to Minehead, he was at peace with himself and all men. True itwas that the making of his will had brought home to him the fact that itwas not the same thing as when, being in the prime of life, he had madeit in favour of his two sons, who were now dead, --it was really andtruly a final winding-up of his temporal interests, and an admittedapproach to the verge of the Eternal, --but he was not depressed by thisconsciousness. On the contrary, a happy sense of perfect calm pervadedhis whole being, and as the train bore him swiftly through the quiet, lovely land back to Minehead, that sea-washed portal to the littlevillage paradise which held the good angel of his life, he silentlythanked 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 belovedface of the one woman in all the world who had given him a trueaffection without any "motive, " or hope of reward. And he murmured againhis 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 alldoubt, 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, asthe dimpled hill coast of Somerset came into view, and the warm springsunshine danced upon the sea. 

CHAPTER XXI

Arriving at Minehead, Helmsley passed out of the station unnoticed byany one, and made his way easily through the sunny little town. He wassoon able to secure a "lift" towards Weircombe in a baker's cart goinghalf the way; the rest of the distance he judged he could very wellmanage to walk, albeit slowly. A fluttering sense of happiness, like thescarcely suppressed excitement of a boy going home from school for theholidays, made him feel almost agile on his feet, --if he had only had atrifle more strength he thought he could have run the length of everymile stretching between him and the dear cottage in the coombe, whichhad now become the central interest of his life. The air was so pure, the sun so bright--the spring foliage was so fresh and green, the birdssang so joyously--all nature seemed to be in such perfect tune with thedeep ease and satisfaction of his own soul, that every breath he tookwas more or less of a thanksgiving to God for having been spared toenjoy the beauty of such halcyon hours. By the willing away of all hismillions to one whom he knew to be of a pure, noble, and incorruptiblenature, a great load had been lifted from his mind, --he had done withworld's work for ever; and by some inexplicable yet divine compensationit seemed as though the true meaning of the life to come had beensuddenly disclosed to him, and that he was allowed to realise for thefirst time not only the possibility, but the certainty, that Death isnot an End, but a new Beginning. And he felt himself to be a freeman, --free of all earthly confusion and worry--free to recommenceanother cycle of nobler work in a higher and wider sphere of action, Andhe argued with himself thus:--

"A man is born into this world without his own knowledge or consent. Yethe finds himself--also without his own knowledge or consent--surroundedby natural beauty and perfect order--he finds nothing in the planetwhich can be accounted valueless--he learns that even a grain of dusthas its appointed use, and that not a sparrow shall fall to the groundwithout 'Our Father. ' Everything is ready to his hand to minister to hisreasonable wants--and it is only when he misinterprets the mysticmeaning of life, and puts God aside as an 'unknown quantity, ' thatthings go wrong. His mission is that of progress and advancement--butnot progress and advancement in base material needs and pleasures, --theprogress and advancement required of him is primarily spiritual. For thespiritual, or Mind, is the only Real. Matter is merely the husk in whichthe seed of Spirit is enclosed--and Man's mistake is always that heattaches himself to the perishable husk instead of the ever germinatingseed. He advances, but advances wrongly, and therefore has to go backupon his steps. He progresses in what he calls civilisation, which solong as it is purely self-aggrandisement, is but a common circle, bringing him back in due course to primitive savagery. Now I, forexample, started in life to make money--I made it, and it brought mepower, which I thought progress; but now, at the end of my tether, I seeplainly that I have done no good in my career save such good as willcome from my having placed all my foolish gainings under the control ofa nature simpler and therefore stronger than my own. And I, leaving mydross behind me, must go forward and begin again--spiritually the wiserfor my experience of this world, which may help me better to understandthe next. "

Thus he mused, as he slowly trudged along under the bright and burningsun--happy enough in his thoughts except that now and then a curioustouch of foreboding fear came over him as to whether anything ill hadhappened to Mary in his absence. 

"For one never knows!"--and a faint shudder came over him as heremembered Tom o' the Gleam, and the cruel, uncalled-for death of hischild, the only human creature left to him in the world to care for. "One can never tell, whether in the scheme of creation there is such abeing as a devil, who takes joy in running counter to the beneficentintentions of the Creator! Light exists--and Darkness. Good seemsco-equal with Evil. It is all mystery! Now, suppose Mary were to die?Suppose she were, at this very moment, dead?"

Such a horror came over him as this idea presented itself to his mindthat he trembled from head to foot, and his brain grew dizzy. He hadwalked for a longer time than he knew since the cart in which he hadridden part of the way had left him at about four miles away fromWeircombe, and he felt that he must sit down on the roadside and restfor a bit before going further. How cruel, how fiendish it would be, hecontinued to imagine, if Mary were dead! It would be devil's work!--andhe would have no more faith in God! He would have lost his lasthope, --and he would fall into the grave a despairing atheist andblasphemer! Why, if Mary were dead, then the world was a snare, andheaven a delusion!--truth a trick, and goodness a lie! Then--was all thepast, the present, and future hanging for him like a jewel on the fingerof one woman? He was bound to admit that it was so. He was also bound toadmit that all the past, present, and future had, for poor Tom o' theGleam, been centred in one little child. And--God?--no, not God--but adevil, using as his tools devilish men, --had killed that child! Then, might not that devil kill Mary? His head swam, and a sickening sense ofbafflement and incompetency came over him. He had made his will, --thatwas true!--but who could guarantee that she whom he had chosen as hisheiress would live to inherit his wealth?

"I wish I did not think of such horrible things!" he said wearily--"Or Iwish I could walk faster, and get home--home to the little cottagequickly, and see for myself that she is safe and well!"

Sitting among the long grass and field flowers by the roadside, hegrasped his stick in one hand and leaned his head upon that support, closing his eyes in sheer fatigue and despondency. Suddenly a soundstartled him, and he struggled to his feet, his eyes shining with anintent and eager look. That clear, tender voice!--that quick, sweet cry!

"David!"

He listened with a vague and dreamy sense of pleasure. The soft patterof feet across the grass--the swish of a dress against the leaves, andthen--then--why, here was Mary herself, one tress of her lovely hairtumbling loose in the sun, her eyes bright and her cheeks crimson withrunning. 

"Oh, David, dear old David! Here you are at last! Why _did_ you go away!We have missed you dreadfully! David, you look _so_ tired!--where haveyou been? Angus and I have been waiting for you ever so long, --you saidin your letter you would be back by Sunday, and we thought you wouldlikely choose to-day to come--oh, David?--you are quite worn out!Don't--don't give way!"

For with the longed-for sight of her, the world's multi-millionaire hadbecome only a weak, over-wrought old man, and his tired heart had leapedin his breast with quite a poor and common human joy which brought thetears falling from his eyes despite himself. She was beside him in amoment, her arm thrown affectionately about his shoulders, and her sweetface turned up close to his, all aglow with sympathy and tenderness. 

"Why did you leave us?" she went on with a gentle playfulness, thoughthe tears were in her own eyes. "Whatever made you think of getting workout of Weircombe? Oh, you dissatisfied old boy! I thought you were quitehappy with me!"

He took her hand and held it a moment, then pressed it to his lips. 

"Happy!" he murmured. "My dear, I was _too_ happy!--and I felt that Iowed you too much! I went away for a bit just to see if I could dosomething for you more profitable than basket-making----"

Mary nodded her head at him in wise-like fashion, just as if he were aspoilt child. 

"I daresay you did!" she said, smiling. "And what's the end of it all, eh?"

He looked at her, and in the brightness of her smile, smiled also. 

"Well, the end of it all is that I've come back to you in exactly thesame condition in which I went away, " he said. "No richer, --no poorer!I've got nothing to do. Nobody wants old people on their hands nowadays. It's a rough time of the world!"

"You'll always find the world rough on you if you turn your back onthose that love you!" she said. 

He lifted his head and gazed at her with such a pained and piteousappeal, that her heart smote her. He looked so very ill, and his wornface with the snow-white hair ruffled about it, was so pallid and thin. 

"God forbid that I should do that!" he murmured tremulously. "Godforbid! Mary, you don't think I would ever do that?"

"No--of course not!" she answered soothingly. "Because you see, you'vecome back again. But if you had gone away altogether----"

"You'd have thought me an ungrateful, worthless old rascal, wouldn'tyou?" And the smile again sparkled in his dim eyes. "And you and AngusReay would have said--'Well, never mind him! He served one usefulpurpose at any rate--he brought us together!'"

"Now, David!" said Mary, holding up a warning finger, "You know weshouldn't have talked in such a way of you at all! Even if you had nevercome back, we should always have thought of you kindly--and I shouldhave always loved you and prayed for you!"

He was silent, mentally pulling himself together. Then he put his armgently through hers. 

"Let us go home, " he said. "I can walk now. Are we far from the coombe?"

"Not ten minutes off, " she answered, glad to see him more cheerful andalert. "By the short cut it's just over the brow of the hill. Will youcome that way?"

"Any way you like to take me, " and leaning on her arm he walked bravelyon. "Where is Angus?"

"I left him sitting under a tree at the top of the coombe near theChurch, " she replied. "He was busy with his writing, and I told him Iwould just run across the hill and see if you were coming. I had a sortof fancy you would be tramping home this morning! And where have youbeen all these days?"

"A good way, " he answered evasively. "I'm rather a slow walker. "

"I should think you were!" and she laughed good-humouredly. "You musthave been pretty near us all the while!"

He made no answer, and together they paced slowly across the grass, sweet with the mixed perfume of thousands of tiny close-growing herbsand flowers which clung in unseen clumps to the soil. All at once thequaint little tower of Weircombe Church thrust its ivy-covered summitabove the edge of the green slope which they were ascending, and anotherfew steps showed the glittering reaches of the sunlit sea. Helmsleypaused, and drew a deep breath. 

"I am thankful to see it all again!" he said. 

She waited, while leaning heavily on her arm he scanned the whole fairlandscape with a look of eager love and longing. She saw that he wasvery tired and exhausted, and wondered what he had been doing withhimself in his days of absence from her care, but she had too muchdelicacy and feeling for him to ask him any questions. And she was gladwhen a cheery "Hillo!" echoed over the hill and Angus appeared, stridingacross the grass and waving his cap in quite a jubilant fashion. As soonas he saw them plainly he exchanged his stride for a run and came up tothem in a couple of minutes. 

"Why, David!" he exclaimed. "How are you, old boy? Welcome back! So Maryis right as usual! She said she was sure you would be home to-day!"

Helmsley could not speak. He merely returned the pressure of Reay'swarm, strong hand with all the friendly fervour of which he was capable. A glance from Mary's eyes warned Angus that the old man was sorelytired--and he at once offered him his arm. 

"Lean on me, David, " he said. "Strong as bonnie Mary is, I'm just a bitstronger. We'll be across the brae in no time! Charlie's at home keepinghouse!"

He laughed, and Helmsley smiled. 

"Poor wee Charlie!" he said. "Did he miss me?"

"That he did!" answered Mary. "He's been quite lonesome, and notcontented at all with only me. Every morning and every night he wentinto your room looking for you, and whined so pitifully at not findingyou that I had quite a trouble to comfort him. "

"More tender-hearted than many a human so-called 'friend'!" murmuredHelmsley. 

"Why yes, of course!" said Reay. "There's nothing more faithful on earththan a faithful dog--except"--and he smiled--"a faithful husband!"

Mary laughed. 

"Or a faithful wife--which?" she playfully demanded. "How does the oldrhyme go--

 'A wife, a dog, and a walnut tree, The more you beat 'em, the better they be!'

Are you going to try that system when we are married, Angus?"

She laughed again, and without waiting for an answer, ran on a little infront, in order to be first across the natural bridge which separatedthem from the opposite side of the "coombe, " and from the spot where thebig chestnut-tree waved its fan-like green leaves and plumes of pinkywhite blossom over her garden gate. Another few steps made easily withthe support of Reay's strong arm, and Helmsley found himself again inthe simple little raftered cottage kitchen, with Charlie tearing madlyround and round him in ecstasy, uttering short yelps of joy. Somethingstruggled in his throat for utterance, --it seemed ages since he had lastseen this little abode of peace and sweet content, and a curiousimpression was in his mind of having left one identity here to take upanother less pleasing one elsewhere. A deep, unspeakable gratitudeoverwhelmed him, --he felt to the full the sympathetic environment oflove, --that indescribable sense of security which satisfies the heartwhen it knows it is "dear to some one else. "

 "If I be dear to some one else, Then I should be to myself more dear. "

For there is nothing in the whole strange symphony of human life, withits concordances and dissonances, that strikes out such a chord ofperfect music as the consciousness of love. To feel that there is one atleast in the world to whom you are more dear than to any other livingbeing, is the very centralisation of life and the mainspring of action. For that one you will work and plan, --for that one you will seek to benoble and above the average in your motives and character--for that oneyou will, despite a multitude of drawbacks, agree to live. But withoutthis melodious note in the chorus all the singing is in vain. 

Led to his accustomed chair by the hearth, Helmsley sank into itrestfully, and closed his eyes. He was so thoroughly tired out mentallyand physically with the strain he had put upon himself in undertakinghis journey, as well as in getting through the business he had set outto do, that he was only conscious of a great desire to sleep. So thatwhen he shut his eyes for a moment, as he thought, he was quite unawarethat he fell into a dead faint and so remained for nearly half an hour. When he came to himself again, Mary was kneeling beside him with a verypale face, and Angus was standing quite close to him, while no less apersonage than Mr. Bunce was holding his hand and feeling his pulse. 

"Better now?" said Mr. Bunce, in a voice of encouraging mildness. "Wehave done too much. We have walked too far. We must rest. "

Helmsley smiled--the little group of three around him looked sotroubled, while he himself felt nothing unusual. 

"What's the matter?" he asked. "I'm all right--quite all right. Onlyjust a little tired!"

"Exactly!" And Mr. Bunce nodded profoundly. "Just a little tired! Wehave taken a very unnecessary journey away from our friends, and we aresuffering for it! We must now be very good; we must stay at home andkeep quiet!"

Helmsley looked from one to the other questioningly. 

"Do you think I'm ill?" he asked. "I'm not, really! I feel very well. "

"That's all right, David, dear!" said Mary, patting his hand. "But you_are_ tired--you know you are!"

His eyes rested on her fondly. 

"Yes, I'm tired, " he confessed. "But that's nothing. " He waited aminute, looking at them all. "That's nothing! Is it, Mr. Bunce?"

"When we are young it is nothing, " replied Mr. Bunce cautiously. "Butwhen we are old, we must be careful!"

Helmsley smiled. 

"Shake hands, Bunce!" he said, suiting the action to the word. "I'llobey your orders, never fear! I'll sit quiet!"

And he showed so much cheerfulness, and chatted with them all sobrightly, that, for the time, anxiety was dispelled. Mr. Bunce took hisdeparture promptly, only pausing at the garden gate to give a hint toAngus Reay. 

"He will require the greatest care. Don't alarm Miss Deane--but hisheart was always weak, and it has grown perceptibly weaker. He needscomplete repose. "

Angus returned to the cottage somewhat depressed after this, and fromthat moment Helmsley found himself surrounded with evidences of tenderforethought for his comfort such as no rich man could ever obtain formere cash payment. The finest medical skill and the best trained nursingare, we know, to be had for money, --but the soothing touch of love, --thewordless sympathy which manifests itself in all the looks and movementsof those by whom a life is really and truly held precious--these areneither to be bought nor sold. And David Helmsley in his assumedcharacter of a man too old and too poor to have any so-called "useful"friends--a mere wayfarer on the road apparently without a home, or anyprospect of obtaining one, --had, by the simplest, yet strangest chancein the world, found an affection such as he had never in his mostsuccessful and most brilliant days been able to win. He upon whom thesociety women of London and Paris had looked with greedy and speculativeeyes, wondering how much they could manage to get out of him, was nowbeing cared for by one simple-hearted sincere woman, who had no othermotive for her affectionate solicitude save gentlest compassion andkindness;--he whom crafty kings had invited to dine with them because ofhis enormous wealth, and because is was possible that, for the "honour"of sitting at the same table with them he might tide them over afinancial difficulty, was now tended with more than the duty andwatchfulness of a son in the person of a poor journalist, kicked out ofemployment for telling the public certain important facts concerningfinancial "deals" on the part of persons of influence--a journalist, whofor this very cause was likely never more to be a journalist, but rathera fighter against bitter storm and stress, for the fair wind of popularfavour, --that being generally the true position of any independentauthor who has something new and out of the common to say to the world. Angus Reay, working steadily and hopefully on his gradually diminishinglittle stock of money, with all his energies bent on cutting a diamondof success out of the savagely hard rock of human circumstance, was morefilial in his respect and thought for Helmsley than either of Helmsley'sown sons had been; while his character was as far above the charactersof those two ne'er-do-weel sprouts of their mother's treachery as lightis above darkness. And the multi-millionaire was well content to rest inthe little cottage where he had found a real home, watching the quietcourse of events, --and waiting--waiting for something which he foundhimself disposed to expect--a something to which he could not give aname. 

There was quite a little rejoicing in the village of Weircombe when itwas known he had returned from his brief wanderings, and there was alsoa good deal of commiseration expressed for him when it was known that hewas somewhat weakened in physical health by his efforts to find morepaying work. Many of the children with whom he was a favourite came upto see him, bringing little knots of flowers, or curious trophies ofweed and shells from the seashore--and now that the weather was settledfine and warm, he became accustomed to sit in his chair outside thecottage door in the garden, with the old sweetbriar bush sheddingperfume around him, and a clambering rose breaking into voluptuouscreamy pink blossom above his head. Here he would pursue his occupationof basket-making, and most of the villagers made it their habit to passup and down at least once or twice a day in their turns, to see how hefared, or, as they themselves expressed it, "to keep old David going. "His frail bent figure, his thin, intellectual face, with its composedexpression of peace and resignation, his soft white hair, and his slowyet ever patiently working hands, made up a picture which, set in thedelicate framework of leaf and blossom, was one to impress theimagination and haunt the memory. Mr. And Mrs. Twitt were constantvisitors, and many were the would-be jocose remarks of the oldstonemason on David's temporary truancy. 

"Wanted more work, did ye?" And thrusting his hands deep in the pocketsof his corduroys, Twitt looked at him with a whimsical complacency. "Well, why didn't ye come down to the stoneyard an' learn 'ow to cut ahepitaph? Nice chippy, easy work in its way, an' no 'arm in yer sittin'down to it. Why didn't ye, eh?"

"I've never had enough education for such work as that, Mr. Twitt, "answered David mildly, with something of a humorous sparkle in his eyes. "I'm afraid I should spoil more than I could pay for. You want anartist--not an untrained clumsy old fellow like me. "

"Oh, blow artists!" said Mr. Twitt irreverently. "They talks a lot--theytalks yer 'ed off--but they doos onny 'arf the labour as they spends inwaggin' their tongues. An' for a hepitaph, they none of 'em aint got anidee. It's allus Scripter texes with 'em, --they aint got no 'riginality. Now I'm a reg'lar Scripter reader, an' nowheres do I find it writ aswe're to use the words o' God Himself to carve on tombstones for ourspeshul convenience, cos we aint no notions o' feelin' an' respect ofour own. But artists can't think o' nothin', an' I never cares to employ'em. Yet for all that there's not a sweeter, pruttier place than ourlittle cemetery nowheres in all the world. There aint no tyranny in it, an' no pettifoggin' interference. Why, there's places in England whereye can't put what ye likes over the grave o' yer dead friends!--ye'vegot to 'submit' yer idee to the parzon, or wot's worse, the Corporation, if ser be yer last go-to-bed place is near a town. There's a town I knowof, " and here Mr. Twitt began to laugh, --"wheer ye can't 'ave a monimentput up to your dead folk without 'subjectin'' the design to the TownCouncil--an' we all knows the fine taste o' Town Councils! They'se'artists, ' an' no mistake! I've got the rules of the cemetery of thattown for my own eddification. They runs like this--" And drawing a paperfrom his pocket, he read as follows:--

"'All gravestones, monuments, tombs, tablets, memorials, palisades, curbs, and inscriptions shall be subject to the approval of the TownCouncil; and a drawing, showing the form, materials, and dimensions ofevery gravestone, monument, tomb, tablet, memorial, palisades, or curbproposed to be erected or fixed, together with a copy of the inscriptionintended to be cut thereon (if any), on the form provided by the TownCouncil, must be left at the office of the Clerk at least ten daysbefore the first Tuesday in any month. The Town Council reserve tothemselves the right to remove or prevent the erection of any monument, tomb, tablet, memorial, etc. , which shall not have previously receivedtheir sanction. ' There! What d' ye think of that?"

Helmsley had listened in astonishment. 

"Think? I think it is monstrous!" he said, with some indignation. "Sucha Town Council as that is a sort of many-headed tyrant, resolved topersecute the unhappy townspeople into their very graves!"

"Right y' are!" said Twitt. "But there's a many on 'em! An' ye may thankyer stars ye're not anywheres under 'em. Now when _you_ goes the way o'all flesh----"

He paused, suddenly embarrassed, and conscious that he had perhapstouched on a sore subject. But Helmsley reassured him. 

"Yes, Twitt? Don't stop!--what then?"

"Why, then, " said Twitt, almost tenderly, "ye'll 'ave our good oldparzon to see ye properly tucked under a daisy quilt, an' wotever yewants put on yer tomb, or wotever's writ on it, can be yer own desire, if ye'll think about it afore ye goes. An' there'll be no expense atall--for I tell ye just the truth--I've grown to like ye that well thatI'll carve ye the pruttiest little tombstone ye ever seed for nothin'!"

Helmsley smiled. 

"Well, I shan't be able to thank you then, Mr. Twitt, so I thank younow, " he said. "You know a good deed is always rewarded, if not in thisworld, then in the next. "

"I b'leeve that, " rejoined Twitt; "I b'leeve it true. And though I knowMis' Deane is that straight an' 'onest, she'd see ye properly mementoedan' paid for, I wouldn't take a penny from 'er--not on account of akindly old gaffer like yerself. I'd do it all friendly. "

"Of course you would!" and Helmsley shook his hand heartily; "And ofcourse you _will_!"

This, and many other conversations he had with Twitt and a certain fewof the villagers, showed him that the little community of Weircombeevidently thought of him as being not long for this world. He acceptedthe position quietly, and passed day after day peacefully enough, without feeling any particular illness, save a great weakness in hislimbs. He was in himself particularly happy, for Mary was always withhim, and Angus passed every evening with them both. Another greatpleasure, too, he found in the occasional and entirely unobtrusivevisits of the parson of the little parish--a weak and ailing manphysically, but in soul and intellect exceptionally strong. As differentfrom the Reverend Mr. Arbroath as an old-time Crusader would be from amodern jockey, he recognised the sacred character of his mission as anordained minister of Christ, and performed that mission simply andfaithfully. He would sit by Helmsley's chair of a summer afternoon andtalk with him as friend to friend--it made no difference to him that toall appearances the old man was poor and dependent on Mary Deane'sbounty, and that his former life was, to him, the clergyman, a sealedbook; he was there to cheer and to comfort, not to inquire, reproach, orcondemn. He was the cheeriest of companions, and the most hopeful ofbelievers. 

"If all clergymen were like you, sir, " said Helmsley to him one day, "there would be no atheists!"

The good man reddened at the compliment, as though he had been accusedof a crime. 

"You think too kindly of my efforts, " he said gently. "I only speak toyou as I would wish others to speak to me. "

"'For this is the Law and the Prophets!'" murmured Helmsley. "Sir, willyou tell me one thing--are there many poor people in Weircombe?"

The clergyman looked a trifle surprised. 

"Why, yes, to tell the exact truth, they are all poor people inWeircombe, " he answered. "You see, it is really only a little fishingvillage. The rich people's places are situated all about it, here andthere at various miles of distance, but no one with money lives inWeircombe itself. "

"Yet every one seems happy, " said Helmsley thoughtfully. 

"Oh, yes, every one not only seems, but _is_ happy!" and the clergymansmiled. "They have the ordinary troubles that fall to the common lot, ofcourse--but they are none of them discontented. There's very littledrunkenness, and as a consequence, very little quarrelling. They are agood set of people--typically English of England!"

"If some millionaire were to leave every man, woman, and child athousand or more pounds apiece, I wonder what would happen?" suggestedHelmsley. 

"Their joy would be turned to misery!" said the clergyman--"and theirlittle heaven would become a hell! Fortunately for them, such a disasteris not likely to happen!"

Helmsley was silent; and after his kindly visitor had left him that daysat for a long time absorbed in thought, his hands resting idly on theosiers which he was gradually becoming too weak to bend. 

It was now wearing on towards the middle of June, and on one finemorning when Mary was carefully spreading out on a mending-frame awonderful old flounce of priceless _point d'Alençon_ lace, preparatoryto examining the numerous repairs it needed, Helmsley turned towards herabruptly with the question--

"When are you and Angus going to be married, my dear?"

Mary smiled, and the soft colour flew over her face at the suggestion. 

"Oh, not for a long time yet, David!" she replied. "Angus has not yetfinished his book, --and even when it is all done, he has to get itpublished. He won't have the banns put up till the book is accepted. "

"Won't he?" And Helmsley's eyes grew very wistful. "Why not?"

"Well, it's for quite a good reason, after all, " she said. "He wants tofeel perfectly independent. You see, if he could get even a hundredpounds down for his book he would be richer than I am, and it would beall right. He'd never marry me with nothing at all of his own. "

"Yet _you_ would marry him?"

"I'm not sure that I would, " and she lifted her hand with a prettilyproud gesture. "You see, David, I really love him! And my love is toostrong and deep for me to be so selfish as to wish to drag him down. Iwouldn't have him lower his own self-respect for the world!"

"Love is greater than self-respect!" said Helmsley. 

"Oh, David! You know better than that! There's no love _without_self-respect--no real love, I mean. There are certain kinds of stupidfancies called love--but they've no 'wear' in them!" and she laughed. "They wouldn't last a month, let alone a lifetime!"

He sighed a little, and his lips trembled nervously. 

"I'm afraid, my dear, --I'm afraid I shall not live to see you married!"he said. 

She left her lace frame and came to his side. 

"Don't say that, David! You mustn't think it for a moment. You're muchbetter than you were--even Mr. Bunce says so!"

"Even Mr. Bunce!" And he took her hand in his own and studied its smoothwhiteness and beautiful shape attentively--anon he patted it tenderly. "You have a pretty hand, Mary! It's a rare beauty!"

"Is it?" And she looked at her rosy palm meditatively. "I've neverthought much about it--but I've noticed that Angus and you both havenice hands. "

"Especially Angus!" said Helmsley, with a smile. 

Her face reflected the smile. 

"Yes. Especially Angus!"

After this little conversation Helmsley was very quiet and thoughtful. Often indeed he sat with eyes closed, pretending to sleep, in orderinwardly to meditate on the plans he had most at heart. He saw no reasonto alter them, --though the idea presented itself once or twice as towhether he should not reveal his actual identity to the clergyman whovisited him so often, and who was, apart from his sacred calling, notonly a thinking, feeling, humane creature, but a very perfect gentleman. But on due reflection he saw that this might possibly lead to awkwardcomplications, so he still resolved to pursue the safer policy ofsilence. 

One evening, when Angus Reay had come in as usual to sit awhile and chatwith him before he went to bed, he could hardly control a slight nervousstart when Reay observed casually--

"By the way, David, that old millionaire I told you about, Helmsley, isn't dead after all!"

"Oh--isn't he?" And Helmsley feigned to be affected with a troublesomecough which necessitated his looking away for a minute. "Has he turnedup?"

"Yes--he's turned up. That is to say, that he's expected back in townfor the 'season, ' as the Cooing Column of the paper says. "

"Why, what's the Cooing Column?" asked Mary, laughing. 

"The fashionable intelligence corner, " answered Angus, joining in herlaughter. "I call it the Cooing Column, because it's the place where allthe doves of society, soiled and clean, get their little grain ofpersonal advertisement. They pay for it, of course. There it is that thedisreputable Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup gets it announced that she wore acollar of diamonds at the Opera, and there the battered, dissipated Lord'Jimmy' Jenkins has it proudly stated that his yacht is undergoing'extensive alterations. ' Who in the real work-a-day, sane world cares abutton whether his lordship Jenkins sails in his yacht or sinks in it!And Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup's diamonds are only so much fresh fuel piledon the burning anguish of starving and suffering men, --anguish whichresults in anarchy. Any number of anarchists are bred from the CooingColumn!"

"What would you have rich men do?" asked Helmsley suddenly. "If alltheir business turns out much more successfully than they have everexpected, and they make millions almost despite their own desire, whatwould you have them do with their wealth?"

Angus thought a moment. 

"It would be difficult to advise, " he said at last. "For one thing Iwould not have them pauperise two of the finest things in this world andthe best worth fighting for--Education and Literature. The man who hasno struggle at all to get himself educated is only half a man. Andliterature which is handed to the people free of cost is shamed by beingput at a lower level than beer and potatoes, for which every man has to_pay_. Andrew Carnegie I look upon as one of the world's big meddlers. A'cute' meddler too, for he takes care to do nothing that hasn't got hisname tacked on to it. However, I'm in great hopes that his pauperisingof Scottish University education may in time wear itself out, and thatScotsmen will be sufficiently true to the spirit of Robert Burns tostick to the business of working and paying for what they get. I hateall things that are given _gratis_. There's always a smack of theadvertising agent about them. God Himself gives nothing 'free'--you'vegot to pay with your very life for each gulp of air you breathe, --andrightly too! And if you try to get something out of His creation_without_ paying for it, the bill is presented in due course withcompound interest!"

"I agree with you, " said Helmsley. "But what, then, of the poor richmen? You don't approve of Carnegie's methods of disbursing wealth. Whatwould you suggest?"

"The doing of private good, " replied Angus promptly. "Good that is neverheard of, never talked of, never mentioned in the Cooing Column. A richman could perform acts of the most heavenly and helpful kindness if hewould only go about personally and privately among the very poor, makefriends with them, and himself assist them. But he will hardly ever dothis. Now the millionaire who is going to marry my first love, LucySorrel----"

"Oh, _is_ he going to marry her?" And Helmsley looked up with suddeninterest. 

"Well, I suppose he is!" And Angus threw back his head and laughed. "He's to be back in town for the 'season'--and you know what the London'season' is!"

"I'm sure we don't!" said Mary, with an amused glance. "Tell us!"

"An endless round of lunches, dinners, balls, operas, theatres, card-parties, and inane jabber, " he answered. "A mixture of variouskinds of food which people eat recklessly with the naturalresults, --dyspepsia, inertia, mental vacuity, and general uselessness. Afew Court 'functions, ' some picture shows, and two or three greatraces--and--that's all. Some unfortunate marriages are usually theresult of each year's motley. "

"And you think the millionaire you speak of will be one of theunfortunate ones?" said Helmsley. 

"Yes, David, I do! If he's going back to London for the season, LucySorrel will never let him out of her sight again! She's made up her mindto be a Mrs. Millionaire, and she's not troubled by anyover-sensitiveness or delicacy of sentiment. "

"That I quite believe--from what you have told me, "--and Helmsleysmiled. "But what do the papers--what does the Cooing Column say?"

"The Cooing Column says that one of the world's greatest millionaires, Mr. David Helmsley, who has been abroad for nearly a year for thebenefit of his health, will return to his mansion in Carlton HouseTerrace this month for the 'season. '"

"Is that all?"

"That's all. Mary, my bonnie Mary, "--and Angus put an arm tenderly roundthe waist of his promised wife--"Your husband may, perhaps--onlyperhaps!--become famous--but you'll never, never be a Mrs. Millionaire!"

She laughed and blushed as he kissed her. 

"I don't want ever to be rich, " she said. "I'd rather be poor!"

They went out into the little garden then, with their armsentwined, --and Helmsley, seated in his chair under the rose-coveredporch, watched them half in gladness, half in trouble. Was he doing wellfor them, he wondered? Or ill? Would the possession of wealth disturbthe idyll of their contented lives, their perfect love? Almost he wishedthat he really were in very truth the forlorn and homeless wayfarer hehad assumed to be, --wholly and irrevocably poor!

That night in his little room, when everything was quiet, and Mary wassoundly sleeping in the attic above him, he rose quietly from his bed, and lighting a candle, took pen and ink and made a few additions to theletter of instructions which accompanied his will. Some eveningspreviously, when Mary and Angus had gone out for a walk together, he hadtaken the opportunity to disburden his "workman's coat" of all thebanknotes contained in the lining, and, folding them up in one parcel, had put them in a sealed envelope, which envelope he marked in acertain fashion, enclosing it in the larger envelope which contained hiswill. In the same way he made a small, neatly sealed packet of the"collection" made for him at the "Trusty Man" by poor Tom o' the Gleam, marking that also. Now, on this particular night, feeling that he haddone all he could think of to make business matters fairly easy to dealwith, he packed up everything in one parcel, which he tied with a stringand sealed securely, addressing it to Sir Francis Vesey. This parcel heagain enclosed in another, equally tied up and sealed, the outer wrapperof which he addressed to one John Bulteel at certain offices in London, which were in truth the offices of Vesey and Symonds, Bulteel beingtheir confidential clerk. The fact that Angus Reay knew the name of thefirm which had been mentioned in the papers as connected with the famousmillionaire, David Helmsley, caused him to avoid inscribing it on thepacket which would have to be taken to its destination immediately afterhis death. As he had now arranged things, it would be conveyed to theoffice unsuspectingly, and Bulteel, opening the first wrapper, would seethat the contents were for Sir Francis, and would take them to him atonce. Locking the packet in the little cupboard in the wall which Maryhad given him, as she playfully said, "to keep his treasures in"--hethrew himself again on his bed, and, thoroughly exhausted, tried tosleep. 

"It will be all right, I think!" he murmured to himself, as he closedhis eyes wearily--"At any rate, so far as I am concerned, I have donewith the world! God grant some good may come of my millions after I amdead! After I am dead! How strange it sounds! What will it seem like, Iwonder, --to be dead?"

And he suddenly thought of a poem he had read some years back, --one ofthe finest and most daring thoughts ever expressed in verse, from thepen of a fine and much neglected poet, Robert Buchanan:--

 "Master, if there be Doom, All men are bereaven! If in the Universe One Spirit receive the curse, Alas for Heaven! If there be Doom for one, Thou, Master, art undone! "Were I a Soul in Heaven, Afar from pain;-- Yea, on thy breast of snow, At the scream of one below, I should scream again-- Art Thou less piteous than The conception of a Man?"

"No, no, not less piteous!" he murmured--"But surely infinitely morepitiful!"

CHAPTER XXII

And now there came a wondrous week of perfect weather. All the lovelySomersetshire coast lay under the warmth and brilliance of a dazzlingsun, --the sea was smooth, --and small sailing skiffs danced merrily upand down from Minehead to Weircombe and back again with the ease andsecurity of seabirds, whose happiest resting-place is on the waves. Alovely calm environed the little village, --it was not a haunt of cheap"trippers, "--and summer-time was not only a working-time, but a playingtime too with all the inhabitants, both young and old. The shore, withits fine golden sand, warm with the warmth of the cloudless sky, was apopular resort, and Helmsley, though his physical weakness perceptiblyincreased, was often able to go down there, assisted by Mary and Angus, one on each side supporting him and guarding his movements. It pleasedhim to sit under the shelter of the rocks and watch the long shiningripples of ocean roll forwards and backwards on the shore in silverylines, edged with delicate, lace-like fringes of foam, --and the slow, monotonous murmur of the gathering and dispersing water soothed hisnerves and hushed a certain inward fretfulness of spirit which teasedhim 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 tobe old just as he was beginning to learn how to live, --hard to pass outof the beauty and wonder of this present life with all its best joysscarcely experienced, and exchange the consciousness of what little heknew for something concerning which no one could honestly give him anyauthentic information. 

"Yet I might have said the same, had I been conscious, before I wasborn!" 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 havenot 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--forwhat? Only to learn a lesson! That is truly all I have done. For themaking of money is as nothing in the sight of Eternal Law, --it ismerely man's accumulation of perishable matter, which, like allperishable things, is swept away in due course, while he who accumulatedit is of no more account as a mere corpse than his poverty-strickenbrother. 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 permittedto pass into a higher standard, and begin again!"

These inner musings sometimes comforted and sometimes perplexed him, andoften he was made suddenly aware of a strange and exhilaratingimpression of returning youthfulness--a buoyancy of feeling and adelightful ease, such as a man in full vigour experiences when, afterascending some glorious mountain summit, he sees the panorama of a worldbelow him. His brain was very clear and active--and whenever he chose totalk, there were plenty of his humble friends ready to listen. One daythe morning papers were full of great headlines announcing theassassination of one of the world's throned rulers, and the Weircombefishermen, discussing the news, sought the opinion of "old David"concerning the matter. "Old David" was, however, somewhat slow to bedrawn on so questionable a subject, but Angus Reay was not so reticent. 

"Why should kings spend money recklessly on their often filthy vices andpleasures, " he demanded, "while thousands, ay, millions of theirsubjects starve? As long as such a wretched state of things exists, solong will there be Anarchy. But I know the head and front of theoffending! 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'ssimply the Irresponsible Journalist!"

"As you were once!" suggested Helmsley, with a smile. 

"No, I was never 'irresponsible, '" declared Reay, emphatically. "I mayhave been faulty in the following of my profession, but I never wrote aline that I thought might cause uneasiness in the minds of the million. What I mean is, that the Irresponsible Journalist who gives moreprominence 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 thefeelings of a starving man who reads in a newspaper that certain peoplein 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 ofwant, when he reads that the mistress of a king wears diamonds worthforty thousand pounds round her throat! If the balance of materialthings is for the present thus set awry, and such vile and criminalanachronisms exist, the proprietors of newspapers should have bettersense than to flaunt them before the public eye as though they deservedadmiration. The Anarchist at any rate has an ideal. It may be a mistakenideal, but whatever it is, it is a desperate effort to break down asystem which anarchists imagine is at the root of all the bribery, corruption, flunkeyism and money-grubbing of the world. Moreover, theAnarchist carries his own life in his hand, and the risk he runs canscarcely be for his pleasure. Yet he braves everything for the 'ideal, 'which he fancies, if realised, will release others from the yoke ofinjustice and tyranny. Few people have any 'ideals' at allnowadays;--what they want to do is to spend as much as they like, andeat as much as they can. And the newspapers that persist in chroniclingthe amount of their expenditure and the extent of their appetites, arethe real breeders and encouragers of every form of anarchy under thesun!"

"You may be right, " said Helmsley, slowly. "Indeed I fear you are! Ifone is to judge by old-time records, it was a kinder, simpler world whenthere 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 andbrave deeds were praised and recorded, and as a consequence--perhaps asa result of imitation--there were many heroes. In our times a good orbrave deed is squeezed into an obscure paragraph, --while intellect andbrilliant talent receive scarcely any acknowledgment--the silly doingsof 'society' and the Court are the chief matter, --hence, possibly, thepreponderance 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 twothousand comes out of the pockets of the nation--and the starving manthinks some of it ought to fall in _his_ way instead of providing for acooker of royal victuals! There is no end to the mischief generated bythe publication of such snobbish statements, whether true or false. Thiswas the kind of irresponsible talk that set Jean-Jacques Rousseauthinking and writing, and kindling the first spark of the fire of theFrench Revolution. 'Royal-Flunkey' methods of journalism provoke deepresentment in the public mind, --for a king after all is only the paidservant of the people--he is not an idol or a deity to which anindependent nation should for ever crook the knee. And from thesmouldering anger of the million at what they conceive to be injusticeand hypocrisy, springs Anarchy. "

"All very well said, --but now suppose you were a wealthy man, what wouldyou do with your money?" asked Helmsley. 

Angus smiled. 

"I don't know, David!--I've never realised the position yet. But Ishould try to serve others more than to serve myself. "

The conversation ceased then, for Helmsley looked pale and exhausted. Hehad been on the seashore for the greater part of the afternoon, and itwas now sunset. Yet he was very unwilling to return home, and it wasonly by gentle and oft-repeated persuasion that he at last agreed toleave his well-loved haunt, leaning as usual on Mary's arm, with Anguswalking on the other side. Once or twice as he slowly ascended thevillage street he paused, and looked back at the tranquil loveliness ofocean, glimmering as with millions of rubies in the red glow of thesinking sun. 

"'And there shall be no more sea!'" he quoted, dreamily--"I should besorry if that were true! One would miss the beautiful sea!--even inheaven!"

He walked very feebly, and Mary exchanged one or two anxious glanceswith 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 gravityinto his face. 

"Asking me how I am, aren't you, Charlie!" he said, cheerfully--"I'm allright, wee man!--all right!"

Apparently Charlie was not quite sure about it, for he declined to beremoved from the position he had chosen, and snuggling close down onhis 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 notso profound as they seemed. 

That evening when Angus had gone, after saying a prolonged good-night toMary in the little scented garden under the lovely radiance of an almostfull 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 tosay 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 papersyourself to the address that is written on them? That's all I ask ofyou! Will you?"

"Of course I will!" she said, readily--"You know you've kept the keyyourself since you got well from your bad fever last year----"

"There is the key, " he said, drawing it from his pocket, and holding itup to her--"Take it now!"

"But why now----?" she began. 

"Because I wish it!" he answered, with a slight touch ofobstinacy--then, smiling rather wistfully, he added, "It will comfort meto know you have it in your own possession. And Mary--promise me thatyou will let no one--not even Angus--see or touch these papers!--thatyou will take the parcel just as you find it, straight to the person towhom it is addressed, and deliver it yourself to him! I don't want youto _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 entrustedto me. When he dies I will take it my own self to the person to whom itis addressed, and wait till I am told that everything in it has beenreceived and understood. ' Will you, for my comfort, say these wordsafter me, Mary?"

"Of course I will!"

And placing her hand in his, she repeated it slowly word for word. Hewatched 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 likeme to sit up with you?"

"No, no, my dear, no! All I want is a good sleep--a good long sleep. I'monly tired. "

She saw him into his room, and, according to her usual custom, put ahandbell on the small table which was at the side of his bed. Charlie, trotting at her heels, suddenly began to whimper. She stooped and pickedthe little creature up in her arms. 

"Mind you ring if you want me, " she said to Helmsley then, --"I'm justabove you, and I can hear the least sound. "

He looked at her earnestly. His eyes were almost young in theirbrightness. 

"God bless you, Mary!" he said--"You've been a good angel to me! I neverquite believed in Heaven, but looking at you I know there is such aplace--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 Iwere! 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 nestlingagainst 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 ahome with you!"

"Now, David! You really are tired out and over-melancholy! As if Ishould ever part with him!" And she kissed Charlie's silky head--"We'llall keep together! Good-night, David!"

"Good-night!" he answered. He watched her as she went through thedoorway, holding the dog in her arms and turning back to smile at himover her shoulder--anon he listened to her footfall ascending thestairway to her own room--then, to her gentle movements to and fro abovehis bed--till presently all was silent. Silence--except for the measuredplash of the sea, which he heard distinctly echoing up through thecoombe from the shore. A great loneliness environed him--touched by agreat awe. He felt himself to be a solitary soul in the midst of somevast desert, yet not without the consciousness that a mystic joy, anundreamed-of glory, was drawing near that should make that desert"blossom like the rose. " He moved slowly and feebly to thewindow--against one-half of the latticed pane leaned a bunch of whiteroses, 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 rightmind 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 enteredit; may there not be another world still more beautiful of which youequally 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 acertainty. 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 somewhatsurprised to feel his body so feeble and aching, when at last heundressed, and lay down to sleep. He thought of many things--of hisboyhood's home out in Virginia--of the stress and excitement of hisbusiness career--of his extraordinary successes, piled one on the top ofthe other--and then of the emptiness of it all!

"I should have been happier and wiser, " he said, "if I had lived thelife of a student in some quiet home among the hills--where I shouldhave seen less of men and learned more of God. But it is too latenow--too late!"

And a curious sorrow and pity moved him for certain men he knew who wereeating up the best time of their lives in a mad struggle for money, losing everything of real value in their scramble for what was, afterall, so valueless, --sacrificing peace, honour, love, and a quiet mind, for what in the eternal countings is of no more consideration than thedust of the highroad. Not what a man _has_, but what he _is_, --this isthe sole concern of Divine Equity. Earthly ideas of justice are indirect opposition to this law, but the finite can never overbalance theinfinite. We may, if we so please, honour a king as king, --but with Godthere are no kings. There are only Souls, "made in His image. " Andwhosoever defaces that Divine Image, whether he be base-born churl orcrowned potentate, must answer for the wicked deed. How many of us viewour social acquaintances from any higher standard than the extent oftheir cash accounts, or the "usefulness" of their influence? Yet theinexorable Law works silently on, --and day after day, century aftercentury, shows us the vanity of riches, the fall of pride and power, thetriumph of genius, the immutability of love! And we are still turningover the well-worn pages of the same old school-book which was setbefore Tyre and Sidon, Carthage and Babylon--the same, the very same, with one saving exception--that a Divine Teacher came to show us how tospell it and read it aright--and He was crucified! Doubtless were He tocome again and once more try to help us, we should re-enact thatold-time Jewish murder!

Lying quietly in his bed, Helmsley conversed with his inner self, as itwere, reasoning with his own human perplexities and graduallyunravelling 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 thoughthow singular it was that chance should have brought him into touch withthe very man who would have given her that "rose of love" he desired sheshould wear, had she realised the value and beauty of that immortalflower. He, David Helmsley, had been apparently led by devious ways, notonly to find an unselfish love for himself, but also to be theinstrument of atoning to Angus Reay for his first love-disappointment, and uniting him to a woman whose exquisitely tender and faithful naturewas bound to make the joy and sanctity of his life. In this, had notall things been ordered well? Did it not seem that, notwithstanding his, Helmsley's, self-admitted worthlessness, the Divine Power had used himfor the happiness of others, to serve as a link of love between twodeserving souls? He began to think that it was not by chance that he hadbeen led to wander away from the centre of his business interests, andlose himself on the hills above Weircombe. Not accident, but a highdesign had been hidden in this incident--a design in which Self had beentransformed to Selflessness, and loneliness to love. "I should like tobelieve in God--if I could!" This he had said to his friend Vesey, onthe last night he had seen him. And now--did he believe? Yes!--for hehad benefited by his first experience of what a truly God-like love maybe--the love of a perfectly unselfish, tender, devout woman who, for nomotive at all, but simply out of pure goodness and compassion for sorrowand suffering, had rescued one whom she judged to be in need of help. Iftherefore God could make one poor woman so divinely forbearing andgentle, it was certain that He, from whom all Love must emanate, was yetmore merciful than the most merciful woman, as well as stronger than thestrongest man. And he believed--believed implicitly;--lifted to theheight of a perfect faith by the help of a perfect love. In the mirrorof one sweet and simple human character he had seen the face of God--andhe 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 wasconscious of a strange dual personality, --some spirit within himurgently expressed itself as being young, clamorous, inquisitive, eager, and impatient of restraint, while his natural bodily self was so wearyand feeble that he felt as if he could scarcely move a hand. He listenedfor a little while to the ticking of the clock in the kitchen which wasnext to his room, --and by and by, being thoroughly drowsy, he sank intoa heavy slumber. He did not know that Mary, anxious about him, had notgone to bed at all, but had resolved to sit up all night in case heshould call her or want for anything. But the hours wore on peacefullyfor him till the moon began her downward course towards the west, andthe tide having rolled in to its highest mark, began to ebb and flow outagain. Then--all at once--he awoke--smitten bya shock of pain that seemed to crash through his heart and send hisbrain swirling into a blind chaos. Struggling for breath, he sprang upin his bed, and instinctively snatched the handbell at his side. He washardly aware of ringing it, so great was his agony--but presently, regaining a glimmering sense of consciousness, he found Mary's armsround 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 sofaithful 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 throwopen the lattice. In that same moment, the dog Charlie, who had followedher downstairs from her room, jumped on the bed, and finding hismaster's hand lying limp and pallid outside the coverlet, fawned upon itwith a plaintive cry. The cool sea-air rushed in, and Helmsley's sinkingstrength revived. He turned his eyes gratefully towards the stream ofsilvery moonlight that poured through the open casement. 

"'Angels ever bright and fair!'" he murmured--then as Mary came back tohis side, he smiled vaguely; "I thought I heard my little sistersinging!"

Slipping her arm again under his head, she carefully administered a doseof the cordial which had been made up for him as a calmative against hissudden 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 tohave wakened you up, Mary!--but you're always kind and patient----"

His voice broke--and a grey pallor began to steal almost imperceptiblyupwards over his wasted features. She watched him, her heart beatingfast with grief and terror, --the tears rushing to her eyes in spite ofher efforts to restrain them. For she saw that he was dying. Thesolemnly musical plash of the sea sounded rhythmically upon the quietair like the soothing murmur of a loving mother's lullaby, and theradiance of the moonlight flooded the little room with mystical glory. In her womanly tenderness she drew him more protectingly into theembrace of her kind arm, as though seeking to hold him back from theabyss of the Unknown, and held his head close against her breast. Heopened his eyes and saw her thus bending over him. A smile brightenedhis face--a smile of youth, and hope, and confidence. 

"The end is near, Mary!" he said in a clear, calm voice; "but--it's notdifficult! There is no pain. And you are with me. That is enough!--thatis more than I ever hoped for!--more than I deserve! God bless youalways!"

He shut his eyes again--but opened them quickly in a sudden struggle forbreath. 

"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 itencountered the soft, crouching head of the little dog who was lyingclose to him, shivering in every limb. 

"Why, here's Charlie!" he whispered, weakly. "Poor wee Charlie! 'Takecare 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, butstraight ahead, as though they saw some wondrous vision in the littleroom. 

"Strange!--strange that I did not know all this before!" hemurmured--and then was silent, still gazing straight before him. All atonce a great shudder shook his body--and his thin features grew suddenlypinched and wan. 

"It is almost morning!" he said, and his voice was like an echo ofitself from very far away. "The sun will rise--but I shall not be hereto see the sun or you, Mary!" and rallying his fast ebbing strength heturned towards her. "Keep your arms about me!--pray for me!--God willhear 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 hewere a child, and tenderly smoothing back his venerable snow-whitehair. A slumbrous look of perfect peace softened the piteousness of hisdying eyes. 

"The only treasure!" he murmured, faintly. "The treasure ofHeaven--Love! God bless you for giving it to me, Mary!--good-bye, mydear!"

"Not good-bye, David!" she cried. "No--not good-bye!"

"Yes--good-bye!" he said, --and then, as another strong shudder convulsedhim, 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 bythe gentle murmur of the sea, and the sound of a woman's weeping. 

[Footnote 2: Beethoven. ]

CHAPTER XXIII

Not often is the death of a man, who to all appearances was nothing morethan a "tramp, " attended by any demonstrations of sorrow. There are somany "poor" men! The roads are infested with them. It would seem, infact, that they have no business to live at all, especially when theyare old, and can do little or nothing to earn their bread. Such, generally and roughly speaking, is the opinion of the matter-of-factworld. Nevertheless, the death of "old David" created quite anatmosphere of mourning in Weircombe, though, had it been known that hewas one of the world's famous millionaires, such kindly regret andcompassion might have been lacking. As things were, he carried histriumph of love to the grave with him. Mary's grief for the loss of thegentle old man was deep and genuine, and Angus Reay shared it with herto the full. 

"I shall miss him so much!" she sobbed, looking at the empty chair, which had been that of her own father. "He was always so kind andthoughtful for me--never wishing to give trouble!--poor dear oldDavid!--and he did so hope to see us married, Angus!--you know it wasthrough him that we knew each other!"

"I know!"--and Angus, profoundly moved, was not ashamed of the tears inhis own eyes--"God bless him! He was a dear, good old fellow! But, Mary, you must not fret; he would not like to see your pretty eyes all redwith weeping. This life was getting very difficult for him, remember, --he endured a good deal of pain. Bunce says he must havesuffered acutely often without saying a word about it, lest you shouldbe anxious. He is at rest now. "

"Yes, he is at rest!"--and Mary struggled to repress her tears--"Comeand see!"

Hand in hand they entered the little room where the dead man lay, covered with a snowy sheet, his waxen hands crossed peacefully outsideit, and delicate clusters of white roses and myrtle laid here and therearound him. His face was like a fine piece of sculptured marble in itsstill repose--the gravity and grandeur of death had hallowed the wornfeatures of old age, and given them a great sweetness and majesty. Thetwo lovers stood gazing at the corpse for a moment in silent awe--thenMary whispered softly--

"He seems only asleep! And he looks happy. "

"He _is_ happy, dear!--he must be happy!"--and Angus drew her gentlyaway. "Poor and helpless as he was, still he found a friend in you atthe last, and now all his troubles are over. He has gone to Heaven withthe help and blessing of your kind and tender heart, my Mary! I am sureof that!"

She sighed, and her eyes were clouded with sadness. 

"Heaven seems very far away sometimes!" she said. "And--often Iwonder--what _is_ Heaven?"

"Love!" he answered--"Love made perfect--Love that knows no change andno end! 'Nothing is sweeter than love; nothing stronger, nothing higher, nothing broader, nothing more pleasant, nothing fuller or better inheaven and in earth, for love is born of God, and can rest only in Godabove all things created. '"

He quoted the beautiful words from the _Imitation of Christ_ reverentlyand tenderly. 

"Is that not true, my Mary?" he said, kissing her. 

"Yes, Angus! For _us_ I know it is true!--I wish it were true for allthe world!"

And then there came a lovely day, perfectly brilliant and intenselycalm, on which "old David, " was quietly buried in the picturesque littlechurchyard of Weircombe. Mary and Angus together had chosen hisresting-place, a grassy knoll swept by the delicate shadows of a noblebeech-tree, and facing the blue expanse of the ocean. Every man who hadknown and talked with him in the village offered to contribute to theexpenses of his funeral, which, however, were very slight. The goodVicar would accept no burial fee, and all who knew the story of the old"tramp's" rescue from the storm by Mary Deane, and her gentle care ofhim afterwards, were anxious to prove that they too were not destituteof that pure and true charity which "suffereth long and is kind. " HadDavid Helmsley been buried as David Helmsley the millionaire, it is morethan likely that he might not have had one sincere mourner at his grave, with the exception of his friend, Sir Francis Vesey, and his valetBenson. There would have been a few "business" men, --and some emptycarriages belonging to fashionable folk sent out of so-called "respect";but of the many he had entertained, assisted and benefited, not oneprobably would have taken the trouble to pay him, so much as a lasthonour. As the poor tramping old basket-maker, whose failing strengthwould not allow him to earn much of a living, his simple funeral wasattended by nearly a whole village, --honest men who stood respectfullybareheaded as the coffin was lowered into the grave--kind-hearted womenwho wept for "poor lonely soul"--as they expressed it, --and littlechildren who threw knots of flowers into that mysterious dark hole inthe ground "where people went to sleep for a little, and then came outagain as angels"--as their parents told them. It was a simple ceremony, performed in a spirit of perfect piety, and without any hypocrisy orformality. And when it was all over, and the villagers had dispersed totheir homes, Mr. Twitt on his way "down street, " as he termed it, fromthe churchyard, paused at Mary Deane's cottage to unburden his mind of aweighty resolution. 

"Ye see, Mis' Deane, it's like this, " he said--"I as good as promisedthe poor old gaffer as I'd do 'im a tombstone for nuthin', an' I'm 'ereto say as I aint a-goin' back on that. But I must take my time on it. I'd like to think out a speshul hepitaph--an' doin' portry takes a bitof 'ard brain work. So when the earth's set down on 'is grave a bit, an'the daisies is a-growin' on the grass, I'll mebbe 'ave got an ideawot'll please ye. 'E aint left any mossel o' paper writ out like, withwot 'e'd like put on 'im, I s'pose?"

Mary felt the colour rush to her face. 

"N--no! Not that I know of, Mr. Twitt, " she said. "He has left a fewpapers which I promised him I would take to a friend of his, but Ihaven't even looked at them yet, and don't know to whom they areaddressed. If I find anything I'll let you know. "

"Ay, do so!" and Twitt rubbed his chin meditatively. "I wouldn't runagin' 'is wishes for anything if ser be I can carry 'em out. I considersas 'e wor a very fine sort--gentle as a lamb, an' grateful for all wotwas done for 'im, an' I wants to be as friendly to 'im in 'is death as Iwos in 'is life--ye understand?"

"Yes--I know--I quite understand, " said Mary. "But there's plenty oftime---"

"Yes, there's plenty of time!" agreed Twitt. "But, lor, ' if you couldonly know what a pain it gives me in the 'ed to work the portry out ofit, ye wouldn't wonder at my preparin' ye, as 'twere. Onny I wishes yejust to understand that it'll all be done for love--an' no charge. "

Mary thanked him smiling, yet with tears in her eyes, and he strolledaway down the street in his usual slow and somewhat casual manner. 

That evening, --the evening of the day on which all that was mortal of"old David" had been committed to the gentle ground, Mary unlocked thecupboard of which he had given her the key on the last night of hislife, and took out the bulky packet it contained. She read thesuperscription with some surprise and uneasiness. It was addressed to aMr. Bulteel, in a certain street near Chancery Lane, London. Now Maryhad never been to London in her life. The very idea of going to thatvast unknown metropolis half scared her, and she sat for some minutes, with the sealed packet in her lap, quite confused and troubled. 

"Yet I made the promise!" she said to herself--"And I dare not break it!I must go. And I must not tell Angus anything about it--that's the worstpart of all!"

She gazed wistfully at the packet, --anon she turned it over and over. Itwas sealed in several places--but the seal had no graven impress, thewax having merely been pressed with the finger. 

"I must go!" she repeated. "I'm bound to deliver it myself to the manfor whom it is intended. But what a journey it will be! To London!"

Absorbed in thought, she started as a tap came at the cottage door, --andrising, she hurriedly put the package out of sight, just as Angusentered. 

"Mary, " he said, as he came towards her--"Do you know, I've beenthinking we had better get quietly married as soon as possible?"

She smiled. 

"Why? Is the book finished?" she asked. 

"No, it isn't. I wish it was! But it will be finished in anothermonth----"

"Then let us wait that other month, " she said. "You will be happier, Iknow, if the work is off your mind. "

"Yes--I shall be happier--but Mary, I can't bear to think of you allalone in this little cottage----"

She gently interrupted him. 

"I was all alone for five years after my father died, " she said. "Andthough I was sometimes a little sad, I was not dull, because I alwayshad work to do. Dear old David was a good companion, and it was pleasantto take care of him--indeed, this last year has been quite a happy onefor me, and I shan't find it hard to live alone in the cottage for justa month now. Don't worry about me, Angus!"

He stooped and picked up Charlie, who, since his master's death, hadbeen very dispirited. 

"You see, Mary, " he said, as he fondled the little dog and stroked itssilky hair--"nothing will alter the fact that you are richer than I am. You do regular work for which you get regular pay--now I have no settledwork at all, and not much chance of pay, even for the book on which I'vebeen spending nearly a year of my time. You've got a house which you cankeep going--and very soon I shall not be able to afford so much as aroom!--think of that! And yet--I have the impertinence to ask you tomarry me! Forgive me, dear! It is, as you say, better to wait. "

She came and entwined her arms about him. 

"I'll wait a month, " she said--"No longer, Angus! By that time, if youdon't marry me, I shall summons you for breach of promise!"

She smiled--but he still remained thoughtful. 

"Angus!" she said suddenly--"I want to tell you--I shall have to go awayfrom Weircombe for a day--perhaps two days. "

He looked surprised. 

"Go away!" he echoed. "What for? Where to?"

She told him then of "old David's" last request to her, and of the dutyshe had undertaken to perform. 

He listened gravely. 

"You must do it, of course, " he said. "But will you have to travel far?"

"Some distance from Weircombe, " she answered, evasively. 

"May I not go with you?" he asked. 

She hesitated. 

"I promised----" she began. 

"And you shall not break your word, " he said, kissing her. "You are sotrue, my Mary, that I wouldn't tempt you to change one word or even halfa word of what you have said to any one, living or dead. When do youwant to take this journey?"

"To-morrow, or the next day, " she said. "I'll ask Mrs. Twitt to see tothe house and look after Charlie, and I'll be back again as quickly as Ican. Because, when I've given the papers over to David's friend, whoeverhe is, I shall have nothing more to do but just come home. "

This being settled, it was afterwards determined that the next day butone would be the most convenient for her to go, as she could then availherself of the carrier's cart to take her as far as Minehead. But shewas not allowed to start on her unexpected travels without a burst ofprophecy from Mrs. Twitt. 

"As I've said an' allus thought, " said that estimable lady--"Old David'ad suthin' 'idden in 'is 'art wot 'e never giv' away to nobody. Mark mywords, Mis' Deane!--'e 'ad a sin or a sorrer at the back of 'im, an'whichever it do turn out to be I'm not a-goin' to blame 'im either way, for bein' dead 'e's dead, an' them as sez unkind o' the dead is apt tobe picked morsels for the devil's gridiron. But now that you've got apacket to take to old David's friends somewheres, you may take my wordfor 't, Mis' Deane, you'll find out as 'e was wot ye didn't expect. Onnylast night, as I was a-sittin' afore the kitchen fire, for though bein'summer I'm that chilly that I feels the least change in the temper o'the sea, --as I was a-sittin', I say, out jumps a cinder as long as apine cone, red an' glowin' like a candle at the end. An' I stares at thething, an' I sez: 'That's either a purse o' money, or a journey with acoffin at the end'--an' the thing burns an' shines like a reg'lar sparkof old Nick's cookin' stove, an' though I pokes an' pokes it, it won'tgo out, but lies on the 'erth, frizzlin' all the time. An' I do 'ope, Mis' Deane, as now yer goin' off to 'and over old David's effecks to theparty interested, ye'll come back safe, for the poor old dear 'adn't apenny to bless 'isself with, so the cinder must mean the journey, an'bein' warned, ye'll guard agin the coffin at the end. "

Mary smiled rather sadly. 

"I'll take care!" she said. "But I don't think anything very serious islikely to happen. Poor old David had no friends, --and probably the fewpapers he has left are only for some relative who would not do anythingfor him while he was alive, but who, all the same, has to be told thathe is dead. "

"Maybe so!" and Mrs. Twitt nodded her head profoundly--"But that cinderworn't made in the fire for nowt! Such a shape as 'twas don't grow outof the flames twice in twenty year!"

And, with the conviction of the village prophetess she assumed to be, she was not to be shaken from the idea that strange discoveries werepending respecting "old David. " Mary herself could not quite get rid ofa vague misgiving and anxiety, which culminated at last in herdetermination to show Angus Reay the packet left in her charge, in orderthat he might see to whom it was addressed. 

"For that can do no harm, " she thought--"I feel that he really ought toknow that I have to go all the way to London. "

Angus, however, on reading the superscription, was fully as perplexed asshe was. He was familiar with the street near Chancery Lane where themysterious "Mr. Bulteel" lived, but the name of Bulteel as a resident inthat street was altogether unknown to him. Presently a bright ideastruck him. 

"I have it!" he said. "Look here, Mary, didn't David say he used to beemployed in office-work?"

"Yes, " she answered, --"He had to give up his situation, so I understand, on account of old age. "

"Then that makes it clear, " Angus declared. "This Mr. Bulteel isprobably a man who worked with him in the same office--perhaps the onlylink he had with his past life. I think you'll find that's the way itwill turn out. But I hate to think of your travelling to London allalone!--for the first time in your life, too!"

"Oh well, that doesn't matter much!" she said, cheerfully, --"Now thatyou know where I am going, it's all right. You forget, Angus!--I'm quiteold enough to take care of myself. How many times must I remind you thatyou are engaged to be married to an old maid of thirty-five? You treatme as if I were quite a young girl!"

"So I do--and so I will!" and his eyes rested upon her with a proud lookof admiration. "For you _are_ young, Mary--young in your heart and souland nature--younger than any so-called young girl I ever met, andtwenty times more beautiful. So there!"

She smiled gravely. 

"You are easily satisfied, Angus, " she said--"But the world will notagree with you in your ideas of me. And when you become a famousman----"

"If I become a famous man----" he interrupted. 

"No--not 'if'--I say 'when, '" she repeated. "When you become a famousman, people will say, 'what a pity he did not marry some one younger andmore suited to his position----"

She could speak no more, for Angus silenced her with a kiss. 

"Yes, what a pity it will be!" he echoed. "What a pity! When other men, less fortunate, see that I have won a beautiful and loving wife, whoseheart is all my own, --who is pure and true as the sun in heaven, --'whata pity, ' they will say, 'that we are not so lucky!' That's what the talkwill be, Mary! For there's no man on earth who does not crave to beloved for himself alone--a selfish wish, perhaps--but it's implanted inevery son of Adam. And a man's life is always more or less spoilt bylack of the love he needs. "

She put her arms round his neck, and her true eyes looked straightlyinto his own. 

"Your life will not be spoilt that way, dear!" she said. "Trust me forthat!"

"Do I not know it!" he answered, passionately. "And would I not lose thewhole world, with all its chances of fame and fortune, rather than lose_you_!"

And in their mutual exchange of tenderness and confidence they forgotall save

 "The time and place And the loved one all together!"

It was a perfect summer's morning when Mary, for the first time in manyyears, left her little home in Weircombe and started upon a journey shehad never taken and never had thought of taking--a journey which, to herunsophisticated mind, seemed fraught with strange possibilities ofdifficulty, even of peril. London had loomed upon her horizon throughthe medium of the daily newspaper, as a vast over-populated city where(if she might believe the press) humanity is more selfish thangenerous, more cruel than kind, --where bitter poverty and starvation areseen side by side with criminal extravagance and luxury, --and where, according to her simple notions, the people were forgetting or hadforgotten God. It was with a certain lingering and wistful backward lookthat she left her little cottage embowered among roses, and wavedfarewell to Mrs. Twitt, who, standing at the garden gate with Charlie inher arms, waved hearty response, cheerfully calling out "Good Luck!"after her, and adding the further assurance--"Ye'll find everything aswell an' straight as ye left it when ye comes 'ome, please God!"

Angus Reay accompanied her in the carrier's cart to Minehead, and thereshe caught the express to London. On enquiry, she found there was amidnight train which would bring her back from the metropolis at aboutnine o'clock the next morning, and she resolved to travel home by it. 

"You will be so tired!" said Angus, regretfully. "And yet I would ratheryou did not stay away a moment longer than you can help!"

"Don't fear!" and she smiled. "You cannot be a bit more anxious for meto come back than I am to come back myself! Good-bye! It's only for aday!"

She waved her hand as the train steamed out of the station, and hewatched her sweet face smiling at him to the very last, when theexpress, gathering speed, rushed away with her and whirled her into thefar distance. A great depression fell upon his soul, --all the lightseemed gone out of the landscape--all the joy out of his life--and herealised, as it were suddenly, what her love meant to him. 

"It is everything!" he said. "I don't believe I could write a linewithout her!--in fact I know I wouldn't have the heart for it! She is sodifferent to every woman I have ever known, --she seems to make the worldall warm and kind by just smiling her own bonnie smile!"

And starting off to walk part of the way back to Weircombe, he sangsoftly under his breath as he went a verse of "Annie Laurie"--

 "Like dew on the gowan lyin' Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; And like winds in simmer sighin' Her voice is low an' sweet Her voice is low an' sweet; An' she's a' the world to me; An' for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doun and dee!"

And all the beautiful influences of nature, --the bright sunshine, thewealth of June blossom, the clear skies and the singing of birds, seemedpart of that enchanting old song, expressing the happiness which aloneis made perfect by love. 

Meanwhile, no adventures of a startling or remarkable kind occurred toMary during her rather long and tedious journey. Various passengers gotinto her third-class compartment and got out again, but they weresomewhat dull and commonplace folk, many of them being of that curiouslyunsociable type of human creature which apparently mistrusts itsfellows. Contrary to her ingenuous expectation, no one seemed to think ajourney to London was anything of a unique or thrilling experience. Onceonly, when she was nearing her destination, did she venture to ask afellow-passenger, an elderly man with a kindly face, how she ought to goto Chancery Lane. He looked at her with a touch of curiosity. 

"That's among the hornets' nests, " he said. 

She raised her pretty eyebrows with a little air of perplexity. 

"Hornets' nests?"

"Yes. Where a good many lawyers live, or used to live. "

"Oh, I see!" And she smiled responsively to what he evidently intendedas a brilliant satirical joke. "But is it easy to get there?"

"Quite easy. Take a 'bus. "

"From the station?"

"Of course!"

And he subsided into silence. 

She asked no more questions, and on her arrival at Paddington confidedher anxieties to a friendly porter, who, announcing that he was "fromSomerset born himself and would see her through, " gave her concisedirections which she attentively followed; with the result that despitemuch bewilderment in getting in and getting out of omnibuses, andjostling against more people than she had ever seen in the course of herwhole life, she found herself at last at the entrance of a ratherobscure-looking smutty little passage, guarded by a couple of roundcolumns, on which were painted in black letters a considerable number ofnames, among which were those of "Vesey and Symonds. " The numeralinscribed above the entrance to this passage corresponded to the numberon the address of the packet which she carried for "Mr. Bulteel"--butthough she read all the names on the two columns, "Bulteel" was notamong them. Nevertheless, she made her way perseveringly into whatseemed nothing but a little blind alley leading nowhere, and as she didso, a small boy came running briskly down a flight of dark stairs, whichwere scarcely visible from the street, and nearly knocked her over. 

"'Ullo! Beg pardon 'm! Which office d' ye want?"

"Is there, " began Mary, in her gentle voice--"is there a Mr. Bulteel----?"

"Bulteel? Yes--straight up--second floor--third door--Vesey andSymonds!"

With these words jerked out of himself at lightning speed, the boyrushed past her and disappeared. 

With a beating heart Mary cautiously climbed the dark staircase which hehad just descended. When she reached the second floor, she paused. Therewere three doors all facing her, --on the first one was painted the nameof "Sir Francis Vesey"--on the second "Mr. John Symonds"--and on thethird "Mr. Bulteel. " As soon as she saw this last, she heaved a littlesigh of relief, and going straight up to it knocked timidly. It wasopened at once by a young clerk who looked at her questioningly. 

"Mr. Bulteel?" she asked, hesitatingly. 

"Yes. Have you an appointment?"

"No. I am quite a stranger, " she said. "I only wish to tell Mr. Bulteelof the death of some one he knows. "

The clerk glanced at her and seemed dubious. 

"Mr. Bulteel is very busy, " he began--"and unless you have anappointment----"

"Oh, please let me see him!" And Mary's eyes almost filled with tears. "See!"--and she held up before him the packet she carried. "I'vetravelled all the way from Weircombe, in Somerset, to bring him thisfrom his dead friend, and I promised to give it to him myself. Please, please do not turn me away!"

The clerk stared hard at the superscription on the packet, as he wellmight. For he had at once recognised the handwriting of David Helmsley. But he suppressed every outward sign of surprise, save such as mightappear in a glance of unconcealed wonder at Mary herself. Then he saidbriefly--

"Come in!"

She obeyed, and was at once shut in a stuffy cupboard-like room whichhad no other furniture than an office desk and high stool. 

"Name, please!" said the clerk. 

She looked startled--then smiled. 

"My name? Mary Deane. "

"Miss or Mrs. ?"

"'Miss, ' if you please, sir, " she answered, the colour flushing hercheeks with confusion at the sharpness of his manner. 

The clerk gave her another up-and-down look, and opening a door behindhis office desk vanished like a conjuror tricking himself through ahole. 

She waited patiently for a couple of minutes--and then the clerk cameback, with traces of excitement in his manner. 

"Yes--Mr. Bulteel will see you. This way!"

She followed him with her usual quiet step and composed demeanour, andbent her head with a pretty air of respect as she found herself in thepresence of an elderly man with iron-grey whiskers and a severelypreoccupied air of business hardening his otherwise rather benevolentfeatures. He adjusted his spectacles and looked keenly at her as sheentered. She spoke at once. 

"You are Mr. Bulteel?"

"Yes. "

"Then this is for you, " she said, approaching him, and handing him thepacket she had brought. "They are some papers belonging to a poor oldtramp named David, who lodged in my house for nearly a year--it will bea year come July. He was very weak and feeble and got lost in a storm onthe hills above Weircombe--that's where I live--and I found him lyingquite unconscious in the wet and cold, and took him home and nursed him. He got better and stayed on with me, making baskets for a living--he wastoo feeble to tramp any more--but he gave me no trouble, he was such akind, good old man. I was very fond of him. And--and--last week hedied"--here her sweet voice trembled. "He suffered great pain--but atthe end he passed away quite peacefully--in my arms. He was very anxiousthat I should bring his papers to you myself--and I promised I wouldso----"

She paused, a little troubled by his silence. Surely he looked verystrangely at her. 

"I am sorry, " she faltered, nervously--"if I have brought you any badnews;--poor David seemed to have no friends, but perhaps you were afriend to him once and may have a kind recollection of him----"

He was still quite silent. Slowly he broke the seals of the packet, anddrawing out a slip of paper which came first to his hand, read what waswritten upon it. Then he rose from his chair. 

"Kindly wait one moment, " he said. "These--these papers and letters arenot for me, but--but for--for another gentleman. "

He hurried out of the room, taking the packet with him, and Maryremained alone for nearly a quarter of an hour, vaguely perplexed, andwondering how any "other gentleman" could possibly be concerned in thematter. Presently Mr. Bulteel returned, in an evident state ofsuppressed agitation. 

"Will you please follow me, Miss Deane?" he said, with a singular air ofdeference. "Sir Francis is quite alone and will see you at once. "

Mary's blue eyes opened in amazement. 

"Sir Francis----!" she stammered. "I don't quite understand----"

"This way, " said Mr. Bulteel, escorting her out of his own room alongthe passage to the door which she had before seen labelled with the nameof "Sir Francis Vesey"--then catching the startled and appealing glanceof her eyes, he added kindly: "Don't be alarmed! It's all right!"

Thereupon he opened the door and announced--

"Miss Deane, Sir Francis. "

Mary looked up, and then curtsied with quite an "out-of-date" air ofexquisite grace, as she found herself in the presence of a dignifiedwhite-haired old gentleman, who, standing near a large office desk onwhich the papers she had brought lay open, was wiping his spectacles, and looking very much as if he had been guilty of the womanish weaknessof tears. He advanced to meet her. 

"How do you do!" he said, uttering this commonplace with remarkableearnestness, and taking her hand kindly in his own. "You bring me sadnews--very sad news! I had not expected the death of my old friend sosuddenly--I had hoped to see him again--yes, I had hoped very much tosee him again quite soon! And so you were with him at the last?"

Mary looked, as she felt, utterly bewildered. 

"I think, " she murmured--"I think there must be some mistake, --thepapers I brought here were for Mr. Bulteel----"

"Yes--yes!" said Sir Francis. "That's quite right! Mr. Bulteel is myconfidential clerk--and the packet was addressed to him. But a noteinside requested that Mr. Bulteel should bring all the documents at onceto me, which he has done. Everything is quite correct--quite in order. But--I forgot! You do not know! Please sit down--and I will endeavour toexplain. "

He drew up a chair for her near his desk so that she might lean her armupon it, for she looked frightened. As a matter of fact he wasfrightened himself. Such a task as he had now to perform had neverbefore been allotted to him. A letter addressed to him, and enclosed inthe packet containing Helmsley's Last Will and Testament, had explainedthe whole situation, and had fully described, with simple fidelity, thelife his old friend had led at Weircombe, and the affectionate care withwhich Mary had tended him, --while the conclusion of the letter wasworded in terms of touching farewell. 

 "For, " wrote Helmsley, "when you read this, I shall be dead and in my quiet grave at Weircombe. Let me rest there in peace, --for though my eyes will no more see the sun, --or the kindness in the eyes of the woman whose unselfish goodness has been more than the sunshine to me, I shall--or so I think and hope--be spiritually conscious that my mortal remains are buried where humble and simple folk think well of me. This last letter from my hand to you is one not of business so much as friendship--for I have learned that what we call 'business' counts for very little, while the ties of sympathy, confidence, and love between human beings are the only forces that assist in the betterment of the world. And so farewell! Let the beloved angel who brings you these last messages from me have all honour from you for my sake. --Yours, David Helmsley. "

 * * * * *

And now, to Sir Francis Vesey's deep concern, the "beloved angel" thusspoken of sat opposite to him, moved by evident alarm, --her blue eyesfull of tears, and her face pale and scared. How was he to begin tellingher what she was bound to know?

"Yes--I will--I must endeavour to explain, " he repeated, bending hisbrows upon her and regaining something of his self-control. "You, ofcourse, were not aware--I mean my old friend never told you who hereally was?"

Her anxious look grew more wistful. 

"No, and indeed I never asked, " she said. "He was so feeble when I tookhim to my home out of the storm, and for weeks afterwards he was sodangerously ill, that I thought questions might worry him. Besides itwas not my business to bother about where he came from. He was just oldand poor and friendless--that was enough for me. "

"I hope--I do very much hope, " said Sir Francis gently, "that you willnot allow yourself to be too much startled--or--or overcome by what Ihave to tell you. David--he said his name was David, did he not?"

She made a sign of assent. A strange terror was creeping upon her, andshe could not speak. 

"David--yes!--that was quite right--David was his name, " proceeded SirFrancis cautiously. "But he had another name--a surname which perhapsyou may, or may not have heard. That name was Helmsley----"

She sprang up with a cry, remembering Angus Reay's story about his firstlove, Lucy Sorrel, and her millionaire. 

"Helmsley! Not David Helmsley!"

"Yes, --David Helmsley! The 'poor old tramp' you sheltered in yourhome, --the friendless and penniless stranger you cared for sounselfishly and tenderly, was one of the richest men in the world!"

She stood amazed, --stricken as by a lightning shock. 

"One of the richest men in the world!" she faltered. "One of therichest----" and here, with a little stifled sob, she wrung her handstogether. "Oh no--no! That can't be true! He would never have deceivedme!"

Sir Francis felt an uncomfortable tightness in his throat. Thesituation was embarrassing. He saw at once that she was not so muchaffected by the announcement of the supposed "poor" man's riches, as bythe overwhelming thought that he could have represented himself to heras any other than he truly was. 

"Sit down again, and let me tell you all, " he said gently--"You will, Iam sure, forgive him for the part he played when you know his history. David Helmsley--who was my friend as well as my client for more thantwenty years--was a fortunate man in the way of materialprosperity, --but he was very unfortunate in his experience of humannature. His vast wealth made it impossible for him to see much more ofmen and women than was just enough to show him their worst side. He wassurrounded by people who sought to use him and his great influence fortheir own selfish ends, --and the emotions and sentiments of life, suchas love, fidelity, kindness, and integrity, he seldom or never met withamong either his so-called 'friends' or his acquaintances. His wife wasfalse to him, and his two sons brought him nothing but shame anddishonour. They all three died--and then--then in his old age he foundhimself alone in the world without any one who loved him, or whom heloved--without any one to whom he could confidently leave his enormousfortune, knowing it would be wisely and nobly used. When I last saw himI urged upon him the necessity of making his Will. He said he could notmake it, as there was no one living whom he cared to name as his heir. Then he left London, --ostensibly on a journey for his health. " Here SirFrancis paused, looking anxiously at his listener. She was deadly pale, and every now and then her eyes brimmed over with tears. "You can guessthe rest, " he continued, --"He took no one into his confidence as to hisintention, --not even me. I understood he had gone abroad--till the otherday--a short time ago--when I had a letter from him telling me that hewas passing through Exeter. "

She clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. 

"Ah! That was where he went when he told me he had gone in search ofwork!" she murmured--"Oh, David, David!"

"He informed me then, " proceeded Sir Francis, "that he had made hisWill. The Will is here, "--and he took up a document lying on hisdesk--"The manner of its execution coincides precisely with the letterof instructions received, as I say, from Exeter--of course it will haveto be formally proved----"

She lifted her eyes wonderingly. 

"What is it to me?" she said--"I have nothing to do with it. I havebrought you the papers--but I am sorry--oh, so sorry to hear that he wasnot what he made himself out to be! I cannot think of him in the sameway----"

Sir Francis drew his chair closer to hers. 

"Is it possible, " he said--"Is it possible, my dear Miss Deane, that youdo not understand?"

She gazed at him candidly. 

"Yes, of course I understand, " she said--"I understand that he was arich man who played the part of a poor one--to see if any one would carefor him just for himself alone--and--I--I--did care--oh, I didcare!--and now I feel as if I couldn't care any more----"

Her voice broke sobbingly, and Sir Francis Vesey grew desperate. 

"Don't cry!" he said--"Please don't cry! I should not be able to bearit! You see I'm a business man"--here he took off his spectacles andrubbed them vigorously--"and my position is that of the late Mr. DavidHelmsley's solicitor. In that position I am bound to tell you thestraight truth--because I'm afraid you don't grasp it at all. It is avery overwhelming thing for you, --but all the same, I am sure, quitesure, that my old friend had reason to rely confidently upon yourstrength of character--as well as upon your affection for him----"

She had checked her sobs and was looking at him steadily. 

"And, therefore, " he proceeded--"referring again to my ownposition--that of the late David Helmsley's solicitor, it is my duty toinform you that you, Mary Deane, are by his last Will and Testament, thelate David Helmsley's sole heiress. "

She started up in terror. 

"Oh no, no!--not me!" she cried. 

"Everything which the late David Helmsley died possessed of, is left toyou absolutely and unconditionally, " went on Sir Francis, speaking withslow and deliberate emphasis--"And--even as he was one of the richestmen, so you are now one of the richest women in the world!"

She turned deathly white, --then suddenly, to his great alarm andconfusion, dropped on her knees before him, clasping her hands in apassion of appeal. 

"Oh, don't say that, sir!" she exclaimed--"Please, please don't say it!I cannot be rich--I would not! I should be miserable--I should indeed!Oh, David, dear old David! I'm sure he never wished to make mewretched--he was fond of me--he was, really! And we were so happy andpeaceful in the cottage at home! There was so little money, but so muchlove! Don't say I'm rich, sir!--or, if I am, let me give it all away atonce! Let me give it to the starving and sick people in this greatcity--or please give it to them for me, --but don't, don't say that Imust keep it myself!--I could not bear it!--oh, I could not bear it!Help me, oh, do help me to give it all away and let me remain just as Iam, quite, quite poor!"

CHAPTER XXIV

There was a moment's silence, broken only by the roar and din of theLondon city traffic outside, which sounded like the thunder of mightywheels--the wheels of a rolling world. And then Sir Francis, gentlytaking Mary's hand in his own, raised her from the ground. 

"My dear, "--he said, huskily--"You must not--you really must not giveway! See, "--and he took up a sealed letter from among the documents onthe desk, addressed "To Mary"--and handed it to her--"my late friendasks me in the last written words I have from him to give this to you. Iwill leave you alone to read it. You will be quite private in thisroom--and no one will enter till you ring. Here is the bell, "--and heindicated it--"I think--indeed I am sure, when you understandeverything, you will accept the great responsibility which will nowdevolve upon you, in as noble a spirit as that in which you accepted thecare of David Helmsley himself when you thought him no more than what invery truth he was--a lonely-hearted old man, searching for what few ofus ever find--an unselfish love!"

He left her then--and like one in a dream, she opened and read theletter he had given her--a letter as beautiful and wise and tender asever the fondest father could have written to the dearest of daughters. Everything was explained in it--everything made clear; and gradually sherealised the natural, strong and pardonable craving of the rich, unlovedman, to seek out for himself some means whereby he might leave all hisworld's gainings to one whose kindness to him had not been measured byany knowledge of his wealth, but which had been bestowed upon him solelyfor simple love's sake. Every line Helmsley had written to her in thislast appeal to her tenderness, came from his very heart, and went to herown 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 leftto her charge. 

"I could not name them in my Will, "--he wrote--"as this would havedisclosed my identity--but you, my dear, will be more exact than the lawin the payment of what I have here set down as just. And, therefore, toyou I leave this duty. "

First among these legacies came one of Ten Thousand Pounds to "my oldfriend Sir Francis Vesey, "--and then followed a long list of legacies toservants, secretaries, and workpeople generally. The sum of Five HundredPounds was to be paid to Miss Tranter, hostess of "The TrustyMan, "--"for her kindness to me on the one night I passed under herhospitable roof, "--and sums of Two Hundred Pounds each were left to"Matthew Peke, Herb Gatherer, " and Farmer Joltram, both these personagesto be found through the aforesaid Miss Tranter. Likewise a sum of TwoHundred Pounds was to be paid to one "Meg Ross--believed to hold a farmnear Watchett in Somerset. " No one that had served the poor "tramp" wasforgotten by the great millionaire;--a sum of Five Hundred Pounds wasleft to John Bunce, "with grateful and affectionate thanks for hisconstant care"--and a final charge to Mary was the placing of FiftyThousand Pounds in trust for the benefit of Weircombe, its Church, andits aged poor. The money in bank notes, enclosed with the testator'slast Will and Testament, was to be given to Mary for her own immediateuse, --and then came the following earnest request;--"I desire that thesum of Half-a-crown, made up of coppers and one sixpence, which will befound with these effects, shall be enclosed in a casket of gold andinscribed with the words 'The "surprise gift" collected by "Tom o' theGleam" for David Helmsley, when as a tramp on the road he seemed to bein need of the charity and sympathy of his fellow men and which to himwas

 MORE PRECIOUS THAN MANY MILLIONS. 

And I request that the said casket containing these coins may beretained by Mary Deane as a valued possession in her family, to behanded down as a talisman and cornerstone of fortune for herself and herheirs in perpetuity. "

Finally the list of bequests ended with one sufficiently unusual to becalled eccentric. It ran thus:--"To Angus Reay I leave Mary Deane--andwith Her, all that I value, and more than I have ever possessed!"

Gradually, very gradually, Mary, sitting alone in Sir Francis Vesey'soffice, realised the whole position, --gradually the trouble andexcitation of her mind calmed down, and her naturally even temperamentreasserted itself. She was rich, --but though she tried to realise thefact, she could not do so, till at last the thought of Angus and how shemight be able now to help him on with his career, roused a sudden rushof energy within her--which, however, was not by any means actualhappiness. A great weight seemed to have fallen on her life--and she wasbowed down by its heaviness. Kissing David Helmsley's letter, she put itin her bosom, --he had asked that its contents might be held sacred, andthat no eyes but her own should scan his last words, and to her thatrequest of a dead man was more than the command of a living King. Thelist of bequests she held in her hand ready to show Sir Francis Veseywhen he entered, which he did as soon as she touched the bell. He sawthat, 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 abeautiful woman she was. 

"Please forgive me for troubling you so much, "--she said, gently--"I amvery sorry! I understand it all now, --I have read David's letter, --Ishall always call him David, I think!--and I quite see how it allhappened. I can't help being sorry--very sorry, that he has left hismoney to me--because it will be so difficult to know how to dispose ofit for the best. But surely a great deal of it will go in theselegacies, "--and she handed him the paper she held--"You see he names youfirst. "

Sir Francis stared at the document, fairly startled and overcome by hislate 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 interruptedhim, with an air of pathetic entreaty--"I want to carry out all hiswishes exactly as if he were beside me, watching me--I think--" and hervoice sank a little--"he may be here--with us--even now!" She paused amoment. "And if he is, he knows that I do not want money for myself atall--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 estatemust 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 Godnever meant one man to have so much money!"

"It was fairly earned, "--said Sir Francis, quietly--"David Helmsley, tomy own knowledge, never wronged or oppressed a single human being on hisway to his own success. His money is clean! There's no brother's bloodon the gold--and no 'sweated' labour at the back of it. That I can vouchfor--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 wealthand no one to care for him! Oh yes, the more I think of it the more Iunderstand it! But now there is only one thing for me to do--I must gethome as quickly as possible and tell Angus"--here she pointed to thelast paragraph in Helmsley's list of bequests--"You see, "--she wenton--"he leaves Mary Deane--that's me--to Angus Reay, 'and with Her allthat I value. ' I am engaged to be married to Mr. Reay--David wished verymuch 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--hewrites books, and he will be famous very soon--while I--" She pausedagain, then went on, looking very earnestly at Sir Francis--"MayI--would you--write out something for me that I might sign before I goaway to-day, to make it sure that if I die, all that I have--includingthis terrible, terrible fortune--shall come to Angus Reay? You seeanything might happen to me--quite suddenly, --the very train I am goingback in to-night might meet with some accident, and I might bekilled--and then poor David's money would be lost, and his legaciesnever paid. Don't you see that?"

Sir Francis certainly saw it, but was not disposed to admit itspossibility. 

"There is really no necessity to anticipate evil, " he began. 

"There is perhaps no necessity--but I should like to be sure, quitesure, that in case of such evil all was right, "--she said, with greatfeeling--"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 Willin ten minutes, "--he said, smiling benevolently--"Would that satisfyyou? You have only to sign it, and the thing is done. "

It was wonderful to see how she rejoiced at this proposition, --the eagerdelight with which she contemplated the immediate disposal of the wealthshe had not as yet touched, to the man she loved best in the world--andthe 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 inhis own handwriting, in which form she, with the same precision as thatof David Helmsley, left "everything of which she died possessed, absolutely and unconditionally, " to her promised husband. With a smileon her face and sparkling eyes, she signed this document in the presenceof two witnesses, clerks of the office called up for the purpose, who, if it had been their business to express astonishment, would undoubtedlyhave expressed it then. 

"You will keep it here for me, won't you?" she said, when the clerks hadretired and the business was concluded--"And I shall feel so much moreat rest now! For when I have talked it over with Angus I shall realiseeverything more clearly--he will advise me what to do--he is so muchwiser than I am! And you will write to me and tell me all that isneedful for me to know--shall I leave this paper?"--and she held up thedocument in which the list of Helmsley's various legacies waswritten--"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 onwhich my name is so generously remembered, in your own possession, MissDeane. You understand, I suppose, that you are not _by the law_compelled to pay any of these legacies. They are left entirely to yourown discretion. They merely represent the last purely personal wishes ofmy late friend, David Helmsley, and you must yourself decide whetheryou consider it practical to carry them out. "

She looked surprised. 

"But the personal wishes of the dead are more than any law" sheexclaimed--"They are sacred. How could I"--and moved by a sudden impulseshe laid her hand appealingly on his arm--"How could I neglect or failto fulfil any one of them? It would be impossible!

Responding to her earnest look and womanly gentleness, Sir Francis whohad not forgotten the old courtesies once practised by gentlemen towomen whom they honoured, raised the hand that rested so lightly on hisarm, and kissed it. 

"I know" he said--"that it would be impossible for you to do what is notright and true and just! And you will need no advice from me save suchas is purely legal and technical. Let me be your friend in thesematters----"

"And in others too, "--said Mary, sweetly--"I do hope you will notdislike 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 onewould have to be a criminal or a madman! In a little while they fellinto conversation as naturally as if they had known each other foryears: Sir Francis listening with profound interest to the story of hisold friend's last days. And presently, despatching a telegram to hiswife to say that he was detained in the city by pressing business, hetook Mary out with him to a quiet little restaurant where he dined withher, and finally saw her off from Paddington station by the midnighttrain for Minehead. Nothing would induce her to stay in London, --her oneaim and object in life now was to return to Weircombe and explaineverything to Angus as quickly as possible. And when the train had gone, Sir Francis left the platform in a state of profound abstraction, andwas driven home in his brougham feeling more like a sentimentalist thana lawyer. 

"Extraordinary!" he ejaculated--"The most extraordinary thing I everheard of in my life? But I knew--I felt that Helmsley would dispose ofhis wealth in quite an unexpected way! Now I wonder how the man--MaryDeane's lover--will take it? I wonder! But what a woman she is!--howbeautiful!--how simple and honest--above all how purely womanly!--withall the sweet grace and gentleness which alone commands, and ever willcommand man's adoration! Helmsley must have been very much at peace andhappy in his last days! Yes!--the sorrowful 'king' of many millions musthave at last found the treasure he sought and which he considered moreprecious than all his money! For Solomon was right: 'If a man would giveall the substance of his house for love, it would be utterlycontemned!'"

 * * * * *

At Weircombe next day there was a stiff gale of wind blowing inland, andthe village, with its garlands and pyramids of summer blossom, was sweptfrom end to end by warm, swift, salty gusts, that bent the trees andshook the flowers in half savage, half tender sportiveness, while thesea, shaping itself by degrees into "wild horses" of blue water bridledwith foam, raced into the shore with ever-increasing hurry and fury. Butnotwithstanding the strong wind, there was a bright sun, and a dazzlingblue sky, scattered over with flying masses of cloud, like flocks ofwhite birds soaring swiftly to some far-off region of rest. Everythingin nature looked radiant and beautiful, --health and joy were exhaledfrom every breath of air--and yet in one place--one prettyrose-embowered cottage, where, until now, the spirit of content had heldits happy habitation, a sudden gloom had fallen, and a dark cloud hadblotted out all the sunshine. Mary's little "home sweet home" had beenall at once deprived of sweetness, --and she sat within it like amournful castaway, clinging to the wreck of that which had so long beenher peace and safety. Tired out by her long night journey and lack ofsleep, she looked very white and weary and ill--and Angus Reay, sittingopposite to her, looked scarcely less worn and weary than herself. Hehad met her on her return from London at the Minehead station, with allthe ardour and eagerness of a lover and a boy, --and he had at once seenin her face that something unexpected had happened, --something that haddeeply affected her--though she had told him nothing, till on theirarrival 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 otherthan David Helmsley the millionaire, --the very man whom his first love, Lucy Sorrel, had schemed and hoped to marry. And he realised--and Godalone knew with what a passion of despair he realised it!--thatMary--his bonnie Mary--his betrothed wife--had been chosen to inheritthose very millions which had formerly stood between him and what he hadthen imagined to be his happiness. And listening to the strange story, he had sunk deeper and deeper into the Slough of Despond, and now satrigidly silent, with all the light gone out of his features, and all theardour quenched in his eyes. Mary looking at him, and reading everyexpression in that dark beloved face, felt the tears rising thickly inher throat, but bravely suppressed them, and tried to smile. 

"I knew you would be sorry when you heard all about it, Angus, "--shesaid--"I felt sure you would! I wish it had happened differently--" Hereshe stopped, and taking up the little dog Charlie, settled him on herknee. He was whimpering to be caressed, and she bent over his smallsilky head to hide the burning drops that fell from her eyes despiteherself. "If it could only be altered!--but it can't--and the only thingto do is to give the money away to those who need it as quickly aspossible----"

"Give it away!" answered Angus, bitterly--"Good God! Why, to give awayseven or eight millions of money in the right quarters would occupy oneman's lifetime!"

His voice was harsh, and his hand clenched itself involuntarily as hespoke. 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'shouse--his priceless pictures, his books--his yacht--a thousand and oneother things that he possessed, and which now belong to you. Oh Mary! Iwish 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 littlekitchen--"Better that I should never have loved you, Mary, than be soparted from you! By money, too! The last thing that should ever havecome 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 ofparting? The money makes no difference to our love!"

"No difference? No difference? Oh Mary, don't you see!" and he turnedupon her a face white and drawn with his inward anguish--"Do youthink--can you imagine that I would marry a woman with millions ofmoney--I--a poor devil, with nothing in the world to call my own, and nomeans of livelihood save in my brain, which, after all, may turn out tobe quite of a worthless quality! Do you think I would live on yourbounty? Do you think I would accept money from you? Surely you know mebetter! Mary, I love you! I love you with my whole heart and soul!--butI 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 haveeverything you want in the world now!--and I--I am no use to you! I cando nothing for you--nothing!--you are David Helmsley's heiress, and withsuch wealth as he has left you, you might marry a prince of the royalblood if you cared--for princes are to be bought, --like anything else inthe world's market! But you are not of the world--you never were--andnow--now--the world will take you! The world leaves nothing alone thathas 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, shethought half vaguely, would love her just as well whether she was richor poor. 

"How can the world take me, Angus?" she said--"Am I not yours?--allyours!--and what has the world to do with me? Do not speak in such astrange way--you hurt me----"

"I know I hurt you!" he said, stopping in his restless walk and facingher--"And I know I should always hurt you--now! If David Helmsley hadnever 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!" shesaid--"His dream--his last hope was that we two might be happy! Hebrought us together, --and I am sure, quite sure, that he hoped we woulddo 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 whomhe loved in his last days!" She smothered a rising sob, and went onentreatingly--"He has forgotten no one who was friendly tohim--and--and--Angus--remember!--remember in that paper I have shown toyou--that list of bequests, which he has entrusted me to pay, he hasleft 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 tremblingwith suppressed emotion--"I cannot take it--even though you, the mostprecious 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 robbedme of my energy for work--I cannot work without you--and I must give youup! Even if I could curb my pride and sink my independence, and takemoney which I have not earned, I should never be great as awriter--never be famous. For the need of patience and grit would begone--I should have nothing to work for--no object in view--no goal toattain. Don't you see how it is with me? And so--as things have turnedout--I must leave Weircombe at once--I must fight this business throughby myself----"

"Angus!" and putting Charlie gently down, she rose from her chair andcame towards him, trembling--"Do you mean--do you really mean that allis 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 loveyou! No other woman shall ever rest on my heart--here--thus--as you areresting now! I will never kiss another woman's lips as I kiss yoursnow!" And he kissed her again and again--"But, at the same time, I willnever live upon your wealth like a beggar on the bounty of a queen! Iwill never accept a penny at your hands! I will go away and work--andif possible, will make the fame I have dreamed of--but I will nevermarry you, Mary--never! That can never be!" He clasped her more closelyand tenderly in his arms--"Don't--don't cry, dear! You are tired withyour long journey--and--and--with all the excitement and trouble. Liedown and rest awhile--and--don't--don't worry about me! You deserve yourfortune--you will be happy with it by and by, when you find out how muchit can do for you, and what pleasures you can have with it--and lifewill 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 sakeand my own"--here he gently detached her arms from about hisneck--"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 cottagedoor opened and closed--he was gone. 

Vaguely she looked about her. There was a great sickness at herheart--her eyes ached, and her brain was giddy. She was tired, --verytired--and hardly knowing what she did, she crept like a beaten andwounded animal into the room which had formerly been her own, but whichshe had so long cheerfully resigned for Helmsley's occupation and bettercomfort, --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 sohard--so hard!--to have won the greatest joy that life can give--andthen--to lose it all!"

She closed her eyes, --they were hot and burning, and now no tearsrelieved the pressure on her brain. By and by she fell into a heavyslumber. As the afternoon wore slowly away, Mrs. Twitt, on neighbourlythoughts intent, came up to the cottage, eager to hear all the newsconcerning "old David"--but she found the kitchen deserted; and peepinginto the bedroom adjoining, saw Mary lying there fast asleep, withCharlie curled up beside her. 

"She's just dead beat and tired out for sure!" and Mrs. Twitt stolesoftly away again on tip-toe. "'Twould be real cruel to wake her. I'llput 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 lastawoke it was quite dark. Dark save for the glimmer of the moon whichshone with a white vividness through the lattice window--shedding on theroom something of the same ghostly light as on the night when Helmsleydied. She sat up, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples, --for amoment she hardly knew where she was. Then, with a sudden rush ofrecollection, she realised her surroundings--and smiled. She was one ofthe 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 manhas 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 "oldDavid" standing near the door, --how pale and cold he seemed!--what asorrow there was in his eyes! She stretched out her arms to the fanciedphantom. 

"Don't, --don't be unhappy, David dear!" she said--"You meant all for thebest--I know--I know! But even you, old as you were, tried to find someone to care for you--and you see--surely in Heaven you see how hard itis for me to have found that some one, and then to lose him! But youmust not grieve!--it will be all right!"

Mechanically she smoothed her tumbled hair--and taking up Charlie fromthe 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 thetable. A gust of wind rushed round the house, shaking the door and thewindow, then swept away again with a plaintive cry, --and pausing tolisten, she heard the low, thunderous boom of the sea. Moving aboutalmost automatically, she prepared Charlie's supper and gave it to him, and slipping a length of ribbon through his collar, tied him securely toa chair. The little animal was intelligent enough to consider this anunusual proceeding on her part--and as a consequence of the impressionit made upon his canine mind, refused to take his food. She sawthis--but made no attempt to coax or persuade him. Opening a drawer inher oaken press, she took out pen, ink, and paper, and sitting down atthe 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 fallupon it. Then she looked around her. Everything was very quiet. Charliealone was restless--and sat on his tiny haunches, trembling nervously, refusing to eat, and watching her every movement. She stooped suddenlyand kissed him--then without hat or cloak, went out, closing the cottagedoor behind her. 

What a night it was! What a scene of wild sky splendour! Overhead themoon, now at the full, raced through clouds of pearl-grey, lightening tomilky whiteness, and the wind played among the trees as though withgiant hands, bending them to and fro like reeds, and rustling throughthe foliage with a swishing sound like that of falling water. The rippleof the hill-torrent was almost inaudible, overwhelmed as it was by theroar of the gale and the low thunder of the sea--and Mary, going swiftlyup 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 andalmost blinded her eyes. But she scarcely heeded this. She was notconscious of the weather--she knew nothing of the hour. She saw themoon--the white, cold moon, staring at her now and then betweenpinnacles of cloud--and whenever it gleamed whitely upon her path, shethought of David Helmsley's dead face--its still smile--its peacefullyclosed eyelids. And with that face ever before her, she went to hisgrave. A humble grave--with the clods of earth still fresh and brownupon it--the chosen grave of "one of the richest men in the world!" Sherepeated this phrase over and over again to herself, not knowing why shedid so. Then she knelt down and tried to pray, but could find nowords--save "O God, bless my dear love, and make him happy!" It wasfoolish to say this so often, --God would be tired of it, she thoughtdreamily--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 thegrass--and she uttered a cry of terror. Then, turning, she rushed out ofthe churchyard, and away--away up the hills, towards the rocks thatover-hung the sea. 

Meanwhile, Angus Reay, feverish and miserable, had been shut up in hisone humble little room for hours, wrestling with himself and trying towork out the way in which he could best master and overcome what hechose to consider the complete wreck of his life at what had promisedto be its highest point of happiness. He could not shake himself free ofthe clinging touch of Mary's arms--her lovely, haunting blue eyes lookedat him piteously out of the very air. Never had she been to him sodear--so unutterably beloved!--never had she seemed so beautiful as nowwhen 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, "--hesaid--"Even rich men, who do not need her millions, are likely to admireher--and why should I stand in her way?--I, who haven't a penny to callmy own! I should be a coward if I kept her to her promise. For she doesnot know yet--she does not see what the possession of Helmsley'smillions will mean to her. And by and bye when she does know she willchange--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 andfaithful!--and she will do all the good with Helmsley's money that hebelieved 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 toher that day--abrupt in parting from her--even unkind in overwhelmingher with the force of his abnegation, when she was so tired with herjourney--so worn out--so weary looking. Acting on a sudden impulse, hethrew 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 cottagewindow 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. Hetried the latch; it was unfastened, and he entered. The first object hesaw was Charlie, tied to a chair, with a small saucer of untasted foodbeside him. The little dog capered to the length of his ribbon, andmutely expressed the absence of his kind mistress, while Angus, bewildered, looked round the deserted dwelling in amazement. All at oncehis eyes caught sight of the letter addressed to him, and he tore itopen. 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, Angusrushed 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 atrance of desperate uncertainty--and as the delicate odour floated by, arush 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 itwere with a mad panic. Rushing up the coombe, he sprang across thetorrent, 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 upits steep ascent with an almost crazy speed. At the summit he haltedabruptly, looking keenly from side to side. Was there any one there?No. There seemed to be no one. Chilled with a nameless horror, he stoodwatching--watching and listening to the crashing noise of the greatbillows as they broke against the rocks below. He raised his eyes to theheavens, and saw--almost unseeingly--a white cloud break asunder andshow a dark blue space between, --just an azure setting for one brilliantstar that shone out with a sudden flash like a signal. And then--then hecaught sight of a dark crouching figure in the corner of the rockyplatform over-hanging the sea, --a dear, familiar figure that even whilehe looked, rose up and advanced to the extreme edge with outstretchedarms, --its lovely hair loosely flowing and flecked with glints of goldby the light of the moon. Nearer, nearer to the very edge of the dizzyheight it moved--and Angus, breathless with terror, and fearing to uttera sound lest out of sudden alarm it should leap from its footing and belost for ever, crept closer and ever closer. Closer still, --and he heardMary's sweet voice murmuring plaintively--

"I wish I did not love him so dearly! I wish the world were not sobeautiful! I wish I could stay--but I must go--I must go!--"Here therewas a little sobbing cry--"You are so deep and cruel, you sea!--you havedrowned 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--andlet me forget--oh, no, no! Dear God, don't let me forget Angus!--I wantto remember him always--always!"

She swayed towards the brink--one second more--and then, with a swiftstrong clasp and passionate cry Angus had caught her in her arms. 

"Mary! Mary, my love! My wife! Anything but that, Mary! Anything butthat!"

Heart to heart they stood, their arms entwined, clasping each other in awild passion of tenderness, --Angus trembling in all his strong framewith the excitement and horror of the past moment, and Mary sobbing outall her weakness, weariness and gladness on his breast. Above theirheads the bright star shone, pendant between the snowy wings of thedividing cloud, and the sound of the sea was as a sacred psalm ofjubilation in their ears. 

"Thank God I came in time! Thank God I have you safe!" and Angus drewher closer and yet closer into his fervent embrace--"Oh Mary, mydarling!--sweetest of women! How could you think of leaving me? Whatshould I have done without you! Poverty or riches--either or neither--Icare not which! But I cannot lose _you_, Mary! I cannot let my heavenlytreasure go! Nothing else matters in all the world--I only wantlove--and you!"

 THE END

+---------------------------------------------------------------------+| || 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") || |+---------------------------------------------------------------------+