Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “But, please God, I shall come back in a day or two!” he murmured. “ Please God, I shall see this dear shrine of peace and love again before I die! Meanwhile — good-bye, Mary! Good-bye, dearest and kindest of women! God bless you!”

  He turned away with an effort — and, lifting the latch of the garden gate, opened it and closed it softly behind him. Then he began the ascent of the coombe. Not a soul was in sight, — the actual day had not yet begun. The hill torrent flowed along with a subdued purling sound over the rough stones and pebbles, — there had been little rain of late and the water was shallow, though clear and bright enough to gleam like a wavering silver ribbon in the dimness of the early morning, — and as he followed it upward and finally reached a point from whence the open sea was visible he rested a moment, leaning on his stick and looking backward on the way he had come. Strangely beautiful and mystical was the scene his eyes dwelt upon, — or rather perhaps it should be said that he saw it in a somewhat strange and mystical fashion of his own. There, out beyond the furthest edge of land, lay the ocean, shadowed just now by a delicate dark grey mist, which, like a veil, covered its placid bosom, — a mist which presently the rising sun would scatter with its glorious rays of gold; — here at his feet nestled Weircombe, — a cluster of simple cottages, sweetly adorned by nature with her fairest garlanding of springtime flowers, — and behind him, just across a length of barren moor, was the common highroad leading to the wider, busier towns. And he thought as he stood alone, — a frail and solitary figure, gazing dreamily out of himself, as it were, to things altogether beyond himself, — that the dim and shadowy ocean was like the vast Unknown which we call Death, — which we look upon tremblingly, — afraid of its darkness, and unable to realise that the sun of Life will ever rise again to pierce its gloom with glory. And the little world — the only world that can be called a world, — namely, that special corner of the planet which holds the hearts that love us — a world which for him, the multi-millionaire, was just a tiny village with one sweet woman living in it — resembled a garland of flowers flung down from the rocks as though to soften their ruggedness, — a garland broken asunder at the shoreline, even as all earthly garlands must break and fade at the touch of the first cold wave of the Infinite. As for the further road in which he was about to turn and go, that, to his fancy, was a nearer similitude of an approach to hell than any scene ever portrayed in Dante’s Divine Comedy. For it led to the crowded haunts of men — the hives of greedy business, — the smoky, suffocating centres where each human unit seeks to over-reach and outrival the other — where there is no time to be kind — no room to be courteous; where the passion for gain and the worship of self are so furious and inexhaustible, that all the old fair virtues which make nations great and lasting, are trampled down in the dust, and jeered at as things contemptible and of no value, — where, if a man is honourable, he is asked “What do you get by it?” — and where, if a woman would remain simple and chaste, she is told she is giving herself “no chance.” In this whirl of avarice, egotism, and pushfulness, Helmsley had lived nearly all his life, always conscious of, and longing for, something better — something truer and more productive of peace and lasting good. Almost everything he had touched had turned to money, — while nothing he had ever gained had turned to love. Except now — now when the end was drawing nigh — when he must soon say farewell to the little earth, so replete with natural beauty — farewell to the lovely sky, which whether in storm or calm, ever shows itself as a visible reflex of divine majesty and power — farewell to the sweet birds, which for no thanks at all, charm the ear by their tender songs and graceful wingëd ways — farewell to the flowers, which, flourishing in the woods and fields without care, lift their cups to the sun, and fill the air with fragrance, — and above all, farewell to the affection which he had found so late! — to the heart whose truth he had tested — to the woman for whose sake, could he in some way have compassed her surer and greater happiness, he would gladly have lived half his life over again, working with every moment of it to add to her joy. But an instinctive premonition warned him that the sands in Time’s hour-glass were for him running to an end, — there was no leisure left to him now for any new scheme or plan by which he could improve or strengthen that which he had already accomplished. He realised this fully, with a passing pang of regret which soon tempered itself into patient resignation, — and as the first arrowy beam of the rising sun shot upwards from the east, he slowly turned his back on the quiet hamlet where in a few months he had found what he had vainly sought for in many long and weary years, and plodded steadily across the moor to the highroad. Here he sat down on the bank to wait till some conveyance going to Minehead should pass by — for he knew he had not sufficient strength to walk far. “Tramping it” now was for him impossible, — moreover, his former thirst for adventure was satisfied; he had succeeded in his search for “a friend” without going so far as Cornwall. There was no longer any cause for him to endure unnecessary fatigue — so he waited patiently, listening to the first wild morning carol of a skylark, which, bounding up from its nest hard by, darted into the air with quivering wings beating against the dispersing vapours of the dawn, and sang aloud in the full rapture of a joy made perfect by innocence. And he thought of the lovely lines of George Herbert: —

  “How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean

  Are Thy returns! Ev’n as the flowers in Spring,

  To which, besides their own demean,

  The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring;

  Grief melts away

  Like snow in May,

  As if there were no such cold thing.

  “Who would have thought my shrivell’d heart

  Could have recover’d greenness? It was gone

  Quite under ground; as flowers depart

  To see their mother-root, when they have blown,

  Where they together

  All the hard weather,

  Dead to the world, keep house unknown.

  “These are Thy wonders, Lord of power,

  Killing and quick’ning, bringing down to Hell

  And up to Heaven in an hour;

  Making a chiming of a passing bell.

  We say amiss

  This or that is;

  Thy Word is all, if we could spell!”

  “If we could spell!” he murmured, half aloud. “Ay, if we could learn even a quarter of the alphabet which would help us to understand the meaning of that ‘Word!’ — the Word which ‘was in the beginning, and the word was with God, and the word was God!’ Then we should be wise indeed with a wisdom that would profit us, — we should have no fears and no forebodings, — we should know that all is, all must be for the best!” And he raised his eyes to the slowly brightening sky. “Yet, after all, the attitude of simple faith is the right one for us, if we would call ourselves children of God — the faith which affirms— ‘Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him!’”

  As he thus mused, a golden light began to spread around him, — the sun had risen above the horizon, and its cheerful radiance sparkled on every leaf and every blade of grass that bore a drop of dew. The morning mists rose hoveringly, paused awhile, and then lightly rolled away, disclosing one picture after another of exquisite sylvan beauty, — every living thing took up anew its burden of work and pleasure for the day, and “Now” was again declared the acceptable time. To enjoy the moment, and to make much of the moment while it lasts, is the very keynote of Nature’s happiness, and David Helmsley found himself on this particular morning more or less in tune with the general sentiment. Certain sad thoughts oppressed him from time to time, but they were tempered and well-nigh overcome by the secret pleasure he felt within himself at having been given the means wherewith to ensure happiness for those whom he considered were more deserving of it than himself. And he sat patiently watching the landscape grow in glory as the sun rose higher and higher, till presently, struck by a sudden fear lest Mary Deane should get up earlier than usual,
and missing him, should come out to seek for him, he left the bank by the roadside, and began to trudge slowly along in the direction of Minehead. He had not walked for a much longer time than about ten minutes, when he heard the crunching sound of heavy wheels behind him, and, looking back, saw a large mill waggon piled with sacks of flour and drawn by two sturdy horses, coming leisurely along. He waited till it drew near, and then called to the waggoner —

  “Will you give me a lift to Minehead for half a crown?”

  The waggoner, stout, red-faced, and jolly-looking, nodded an emphatic assent.

  “I’d do it for ‘arf the money!” he said. “Gi’ us yer ‘and, old gaffer!”

  The “old gaffer” obeyed, and was soon comfortably seated between the projecting corners of two flour sacks, which in their way were as comfortable as cushions.

  “‘Old on there,” said the waggoner, “an’ ye’ll be as safe as though ye was in Abram’s bosom. Not that I knows much about Abram anyway. Wheer abouts d’ye want in Minehead?”

  “The railway station.”

  “Right y’ are! That’s my ticket too. Tired o’ trampin’ it, I s’pose, aint ye?”

  “A bit tired — yes. I’ve walked since daybreak.”

  The waggoner cracked his whip, and the horses plodded on. Their heavy hoofs on the dusty road, and the noise made by the grind of the cart wheels, checked any attempt at prolonged conversation, for which Helmsley was thankful. He considered himself lucky in having met with a total stranger, for the name of the owner of the waggon, which was duly displayed both on the vehicle itself and the sacks of flour it contained, was unknown to him, and the place from which it had come was an inland village several miles away from Weircombe. He was therefore safe — so far — from any chance of recognition. To be driven along in a heavy mill cart was a rumblesome, drowsy way of travelling, but it was restful, and when Minehead was at last reached, he did not feel himself at all tired. The waggoner had to get his cargo of flour off by rail, so there was no lingering in the town itself, which was as yet scarcely astir. They were in time for the first train going to Exeter, and Helmsley, changing one of his five-pound notes at the railway station, took a third-class ticket to that place. Then he paid the promised half-crown to his friendly driver, with an extra threepence for a morning “dram,” whereat the waggoner chuckled.

  “Thankee! I zee ye be no temp’rance man!”

  Helmsley smiled.

  “No. I’m a sober man, not a temperance man!”

  “Ay! We’d a parzon in these ’ere parts as was temp’rance, but ’e took ’is zpirits different like! ’E zkorned ’is glass, but ’e loved ’is gel! Har — ar — ar! Ivir ‘eerd o’ Parzon Arbroath as woz put out o’ the Church for ‘avin’ a fav’rite?”

  “I saw something about it in the papers,” said Helmsley.

  “Ay, ‘twoz in the papers. Har — ar — ar! ’E woz a temp’rance man. But wot I sez is, we’se all a bit o’ devil in us, an’ we can’t be temp’rance ivry which way. An’ zo, if not the glass, then the gel! Har — ar — ar! Good-day t’ ye, an’ thank ye kindly!”

  He went off then, and a few minutes later the train came gliding in. The whirr and noise of the panting engine confused Helmsley’s ears and dazed his brain, after his months of seclusion in such a quiet little spot as Weircombe, — and he was seized with quite a nervous terror and doubt as to whether he would be able, after all, to undertake the journey he had decided upon, alone. But an energetic porter put an end to his indecision by opening all the doors of the various compartments in the train and banging them to again, whereupon he made up his mind quickly, and managed, with some little difficulty, to clamber up the high step of a third-class carriage and get in before the aforesaid porter had the chance to push him in head foremost. In another few minutes the engine whistle set up a deafening scream, and the train ran swiftly out of the station. He was off; — the hills, the sea, were left behind — and Weircombe — restful, simple little Weircombe, seemed not only miles of distance, but ages of time away! Had he ever lived there, he hazily wondered? Would he ever go back? Was he “old David the basket-maker,” or David Helmsley the millionaire? He hardly knew. It did not seem worth while to consider the problem of his own identity. One figure alone was real, — one face alone smiled out of the cloudy vista of thoughts and memories, with the true glory of an ineffable tenderness — the sweet, pure face of Mary, with her clear and candid eyes lighting every expression to new loveliness. On Angus Reay his mind did not dwell so much — Angus was a man — and as a man he regarded him with warm liking and sympathy — but it was as the future husband and protector of Mary that he thought of him most — as the one out of all the world who would care for her, when he, David Helmsley, was no more. Mary was the centre of his dreams — the pivot round which all his last ambitions in this world were gathered together in one focus, — without her there was, there could be nothing for him — nothing to give peace or comfort to his last days — nothing to satisfy him as to the future of all that his life had been spent to gain.

  Meantime, — while the train bearing him to Exeter was rushing along through wide and ever-varying stretches of fair landscape, — there was amazement and consternation in the little cottage he had left behind him. Mary, rising from a sound night’s sleep, and coming down to the kitchen as usual to light the fire and prepare breakfast, saw a letter on the table addressed to her, and opening, it read as follows: —

  “My dear Mary, — Do not be anxious this morning when you find that I am gone. I shall not be long away. I have an idea of getting some work to do, which may be more useful to you and Angus than my poor attempts at basket-making. At any rate I feel it would be wrong if I did not try to obtain some better paying employment, of a kind which I can do at home, so that I may be of greater assistance to you both when you marry and begin your double housekeeping. Old though I am and ailing, I want to feel less of a burden and more of a help. You will not think any the worse of me for wishing this. You have been so good and charitable to me in my need, that I should not die happy if I, in my turn, did not make an effort to give you some substantial proof of gratitude. This is Tuesday morning, and I shall hope to be home again with you before Sunday. In the meanwhile, do not worry at all about me, for I feel quite strong enough to do what I have in my mind. I leave Charlie with you. He is safest and happiest in your care. Good-bye for a little while, dear, kind friend, and God bless you!

  David.”

  She read this with amazement and distress, the tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Oh, David!” she exclaimed. “Poor, poor old man! What will he do all by himself, wandering about the country with no money! It’s dreadful! How could he think of such a thing! He is so weak, too! — he can’t possibly get very far!”

  Here a sudden thought struck her, and picking up Charlie, who had followed her downstairs from her bedroom and was now trotting to and fro, sniffing the air in a somewhat disconsolate and dubious manner, she ran out of the house bareheaded, and hurried up to the top of the “coombe.” There she paused, shading her eyes from the sun and looking all about her. It was a lovely morning, and the sea, calm and sparkling with sunbeams, shone like a blue glass flecked with gold. The sky was clear, and the landscape fresh and radiant with the tender green of the springtime verdure. But everything was quite solitary. Vainly her glance swept from left to right and from right to left again, — there was no figure in sight such as the one she sought and half-expected to discover. Putting Charlie down to follow at her heels, she walked quickly across the intervening breadth of moor to the highroad, and there paused, looking up and down its dusty length, hoping against hope that she might see David somewhere trudging slowly along on his lonely way, but there was not a human creature visible. Charlie, assuming a highly vigilant attitude, cocked his tiny ears and sniffed the air suspiciously, as though he scented the trail of his lost master, but no clue presented itself as likely to serve the purpose of tracking the way in which he had gone. Moved
by a sudden loneliness and despondency, Mary slowly returned to the cottage, carrying the little dog in her arms, and was affected to tears again when she entered the kitchen, because it looked so empty. The bent figure, the patient aged face, on which for her there was ever a smile of grateful tenderness — these had composed a picture by her fireside to which she had grown affectionately accustomed, — and to see it no longer there made her feel almost desolate. She lit the fire listlessly and prepared her own breakfast without interest — it was a solitary meal and lacked flavour. She was glad when, after breakfast, Angus Reay came in, as was now his custom, to say good-morning, and to “gain inspiration,” — so he told her, — for his day’s work. He was no less astonished than herself at David’s sudden departure.

  “Poor old chap! I believe he thinks he is in our way, Mary!” he said, as he read the letter of explanation which their missing friend had left behind him. “And yet he says quite plainly here that he will be back before Sunday. Perhaps he will. But where can he have gone to?”

  “Not far, surely!” and Mary looked, as she felt, perplexed. “He has no money!”

  “Not a penny?”

  “Not a penny! He makes me take everything he earns to help pay for his keep and as something towards the cost of his illness last year. I don’t want it — but it pleases him that I should have it — —”