“He’s dead,” said Mary, “dead long ago. But he was a good as well as a great man.”
“’E must ‘a bin,” agreed Mrs. Twitt; “I’m right sorry ‘e’s dead. Some folks die as is bound to be missed, an’ some folks lives on as one ‘ud be 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 hepitaph for Mr. Arbroath now!”
As she said this the corners of her mouth, which usually drooped in somewhat lachrymose lines, went up in a whimsical smile. And feeling that she had launched a shaft of witticism which could not fail to reach its mark, she trotted off on further gossiping errands bent.
The tenor of her conversation was repeated to Angus Reay that afternoon when he arrived, as was often his custom, for what was ostensibly “a chat with old David,” but what was really a silent, watchful worship of Mary.
“She is a dear old soul!” he said, “and Twitt is a rough diamond of British honesty. Such men as he keep the old country together and help to establish its reputation for integrity. But that man Arbroath ought to 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 sudden animation. “Upon my word, sir, you are very bold!”
“Bold? Why, what can he do to me?” demanded Angus. “I told him I had been for some years on the press, and that I knew the ins and outs of the Jesuit propaganda there. I told him he was false to the principles under which he had been ordained. I told him that he was assisting to introduce the Romish ‘secret service’ system into Great Britain, and that he was, with a shameless disregard of true patriotism, using such limited influence as he had to put our beloved free country under the tyranny of the Vatican. I said, that if ever I got a hearing with the British public, I meant to expose him, and all such similar wolves in sheep’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 that nearly 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 any pleasure in seeing him perambulate a church with a cross and six wretched little boys who didn’t understand a bit what they were doing, I should be an atheist indeed. I furthermore told him I believed in God, who upheld this glorious Universe by the mere expressed power of His thought, and I said I believed in Christ, the Teacher who showed to men that the only way to obtain immortal life and happiness was by the conquest of Self. ‘You may call that atheistical if you like,’ I said,— ‘It’s a firm faith that will help to keep me straight, and that will hold me to the paths of right and truth without any crosses or candles.’ Then I told him that this little village of Weircombe, in its desire for simplicity in forms of devotion, was nearer heaven than he was. And — and I think,” concluded Angus, ruffling up his hair with one hand, “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 to Mary’s side, he took up the end of a lace flounce on which she was at work. “What a creation in cobwebs!” he exclaimed— “Who does it belong to, Miss Mary?”
“To a very great lady,” she replied, working busily with her needle and avoiding the glance of his eyes; “her name is often in the papers.” And she gave it. “No doubt you know her?”
“Know her? Not I!” And he shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “But she is very generally known — as a thoroughly bad woman! I hate to see you working on anything for her!”
She looked up surprised, and the colour came and went in a delicate flush 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 her own family and her own class, she seeks to truckle to the People under pretence of serving them, while all the time her sole object is to secure notoriety for herself! She is a shame to England!”
“You speak very hotly, sir!” said Helmsley, slowly. “Are you sure of your facts?”
“The facts are not concealed,” returned Reay— “They are public property. That no one has the courage to denounce such women — women who openly flaunt 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 fussing about Female Suffrage! Female Suffrage, quotha! Let them govern their homes properly, wisely, reasonably, and faithfully, and they will govern the nation!”
“That’s true!” And Helmsley nodded gravely. “That’s very true!”
“A woman who really loves a man,” went on Angus, mechanically fingering the skeins of lace thread which lay on the table at Mary’s side, ready for use— “governs him, unconsciously to herself, by the twin powers of sex and instinct. She was intended for his help-mate, to guide him in the right way by her finer forces. If she neglects to cultivate these finer forces — if she tramples on her own natural heritage, and seeks to ‘best’ him with his own weapons — she fails — she must fail — she deserves to fail! But as true wife and true mother, she is supreme!”
“But the ladies are not content with such a limited sphere,” began Helmsley, with a little smile.
“Limited? Good God! — where does the limit come in?” demanded Reay. “It is because they are not sufficiently educated to understand their own privileges that women complain of limitations. An unthinking, unreasoning, unintelligent wife and mother is of course no higher than any other female of the animal species — but I do not uphold this class. I claim that the woman who thinks, and gives her intelligence full play — the woman who is physically sound and morally pure — the woman who devoutly studies the noblest side of life, and tries to bring herself into unison with the Divine intention of human progress towards the utmost good — she, as wife and mother, is the angel of the world. She is the world! — she makes it, she rejuvenates it, she gives it strength! Why should she condescend to mix with the passing political squabbles of her slaves and children? — for men are no more than her slaves and children. Love is her weapon — one true touch of that, and the wildest heart that ever beat in a man’s breast is tamed.”
There was a silence. Suddenly Mary pushed aside her work, and going to the door opened it.
“It’s so warm to-day, don’t you think?” she asked, passing her hand a little wearily across her forehead. “One would think it was almost June.”
“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 think I’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 pressed it gently. “I hope the headache will soon pass.”
She withdrew her hand from his quickly and left the kitchen. Angus watched her go, and when she had disappeared heaved an involuntary but most lover-like sigh. Helmsley looked at him with a certain whimsical amusement.
“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 be richer than you. Literary men must never expect to be millionaires.”
“Don’t tell me that — I know it!” and Angus laughed. “Besides, I don’t want to be a millionaire — wouldn’t be one for the world! By the way, you remember that man I told you about — the old chap my first love was going to marry — David Helmsley?”
Helmsley did not move a mus
cle.
“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 that he went to the States on some matters of business — and has not since been heard of.”
Helmsley kept an immovable face.
“He may possibly have got murdered for his money,” went on Angus reflectively— “though I don’t see how such an act could benefit the murderer. Because his death wouldn’t stop the accumulation of his millions, 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 may have left everything to Lucy Sorrel.”
“Ah yes! Quite possible!”
“Of course,” went on Reay, “it’s only the newspapers that say he’s dead — and there never was a newspaper yet that could give an absolutely veracious account of anything. His lawyers — a famous firm, Vesey and Symonds, — have written a sort of circular letter to the press stating that the report of his death is erroneous — that he is travelling for health’s sake, and on account of a desire for rest and privacy, does not wish 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 newspaper reporters. Wouldn’t you?”
“Of course. I shouldn’t have taken the least interest in the rumour, if I hadn’t been once upon a time in love with Lucy Sorrel. Because if the old man is really dead and has done nothing in the way of providing for her, I wonder what she will do?”
“Go out charing!” said Helmsley drily. “Many a better woman than you have 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 I believe 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 mean to me — —”
“Fool you!” Helmsley sat upright in his chair and looked at him with an earnestness 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 and friendless as I was, before I met this dear woman, I know that love is the most sacred of all things — the most valuable of all things — better than 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 break through nor steal!’ Do not” — and here his strong emotion threatened to get the better of him— “do not, sir, think that because I was tramping the road in search of a friend to help me, before Miss Mary found me and brought me home here and saved my life, God bless her! — do not think, I say, that I have no feeling! I feel very much — very strongly—” He broke off breathing quickly, and his hands trembled. Reay hastened to his side in some alarm, remembering what Mary had told him about the old man’s heart.
“Dear old David, I know!” he said. “Don’t worry! I know you feel it all — I’m sure you do! Now, for goodness’ sake, don’t excite yourself like this — she — she’ll never forgive me!” and he shook up the cushion at the back of Helmsley’s chair and made him lean upon it. “Only it would be such a joy to me — such a wonder — such a help — to know that she really loved me! — loved me, David! — you understand — why, I think I could conquer the world!”
Helmsley smiled faintly. He was suffering physical anguish at the moment — the old sharp pain at his heart to which he had become more or less wearily accustomed, had dizzied his senses for a space, but as the spasm passed he took Reay’s hand and pressed it gently.
“What does the Great Book tell us?” he muttered. “‘If a man would give all 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 such life and death to you, Mr. Reay. That’s why I tell you to speak to Miss Mary as soon as you can find a good opportunity — for I am sure she loves you!”
“Sure, David?”
“Sure!”
Reay stood silent, — his eyes shining, and “the light that never was on sea or land” transfigured his features.
At that moment a tap came at the door. A hand, evidently accustomed to the 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’s away for ’is life wi’ old Nick in full chase arter ’im! It don’t do t’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 internal laughter. “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’s found 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 the Bishop, 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 ‘armless little 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 till our own vicar comes ‘ome, which’ll be, please God, this day fortnight. But oh lor’! — to think o’ that grey-’aired rascal Arbroath with a fav’rite gel on the sly! Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he! We’se be all mortal!” and Twitt shook his head with profound solemnity. “Ef I was a-goin’ to carve a tombstone for that ‘oly ‘igh Churchman, I’d write on it the old ‘ackneyed sayin’, ‘Man wants but little ’ere below, Nor wants that little long!’ Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he!”
His round jolly face beamed with merriment, and Angus Reay caught infection from his mirth and laughed heartily.
“Twitt, you’re an old rascal!” he exclaimed. “I really believe you enjoy showing up Mr. Arbroath’s little weaknesses!”
“Not I — not I, Mister!” protested Twitt, his eyes twinkling. “I sez, be fair 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 go round lookin’ as if ’e was vinegar gone bad, an’ preach at the parish as if 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 in sheer ecstacy. “Caught in the act by ’is wife! Oh lor’, oh lor’! ‘Is wife! 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 envelope casual-like she thinks was beggin’ or mothers’ meetin’, an’ there she finds it all out. Vicar’s fav’rite gel writin’ for money or clothes or summat, 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 there sez she never ‘eerd sich a row in all ‘er life — an’ Missis Arbroath she was a-shriekin’ for a divorce at the top of ‘er voice! It’s a small place, Weircombe Rect’ry, an’ a woman can’t shriek an’ ‘owl in it without bein’ ‘eerd. So both the cook an’ ‘ousemaid worn’t by no manner o’ means surprised when Mister Arbroath packed ’is bag an’ went off in a trap to Minehead — an’ we’ll be left with a cheap curate in charge of our pore 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 next Sunday comfortable. An’ as for old Arbroath, we’ll be seein’ big ‘edlines in the papers by and by about ‘Scandalous Conduck of a Clergyman with ’is Fav’rite Gel!’” Here he made an effort to pull a grave face, but it was no use, — his broad smile beamed out once more despite himself. “Arter all,” he said, chuckling, “the two things does fit 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 and beaming countenance, and Angus Reay gave himself up to the enjoyment of the 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 lots o’ 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 ‘er nose on to the parson’s fav’rite, then all the fat’s bound to be in the fire! An’ quite right as it should be! I wouldn’t bet on the fav’rite when it come to a neck-an’-neck race atween the two!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 685
