“A man is born into this world without his own knowledge or consent. Yet he finds himself — also without his own knowledge or consent — surrounded by natural beauty and perfect order — he finds nothing in the planet which can be accounted valueless — he learns that even a grain of dust has its appointed use, and that not a sparrow shall fall to the ground without ‘Our Father.’ Everything is ready to his hand to minister to his reasonable wants — and it is only when he misinterprets the mystic meaning of life, and puts God aside as an ‘unknown quantity,’ that things go wrong. His mission is that of progress and advancement — but not progress and advancement in base material needs and pleasures, — the progress and advancement required of him is primarily spiritual. For the spiritual, or Mind, is the only Real. Matter is merely the husk in which the seed of Spirit is enclosed — and Man’s mistake is always that he attaches himself to the perishable husk instead of the ever germinating seed. He advances, but advances wrongly, and therefore has to go back upon his steps. He progresses in what he calls civilisation, which so long as it is purely self-aggrandisement, is but a common circle, bringing him back in due course to primitive savagery. Now I, for example, started in life to make money — I made it, and it brought me power, which I thought progress; but now, at the end of my tether, I see plainly that I have done no good in my career save such good as will come from my having placed all my foolish gainings under the control of a nature simpler and therefore stronger than my own. And I, leaving my dross behind me, must go forward and begin again — spiritually the wiser for my experience of this world, which may help me better to understand the next.”
Thus he mused, as he slowly trudged along under the bright and burning sun — happy enough in his thoughts except that now and then a curious touch of foreboding fear came over him as to whether anything ill had happened to Mary in his absence.
“For one never knows!” — and a faint shudder came over him as he remembered Tom o’ the Gleam, and the cruel, uncalled-for death of his child, 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 a being as a devil, who takes joy in running counter to the beneficent intentions of the Creator! Light exists — and Darkness. Good seems co-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 mind that he trembled from head to foot, and his brain grew dizzy. He had walked for a longer time than he knew since the cart in which he had ridden part of the way had left him at about four miles away from Weircombe, and he felt that he must sit down on the roadside and rest for a bit before going further. How cruel, how fiendish it would be, he continued to imagine, if Mary were dead! It would be devil’s work! — and he would have no more faith in God! He would have lost his last hope, — and he would fall into the grave a despairing atheist and blasphemer! Why, if Mary were dead, then the world was a snare, and heaven a delusion! — truth a trick, and goodness a lie! Then — was all the past, the present, and future hanging for him like a jewel on the finger of one woman? He was bound to admit that it was so. He was also bound to admit that all the past, present, and future had, for poor Tom o’ the Gleam, been centred in one little child. And — God? — no, not God — but a devil, using as his tools devilish men, — had killed that child! Then, might not that devil kill Mary? His head swam, and a sickening sense of bafflement and incompetency came over him. He had made his will, — that was true! — but who could guarantee that she whom he had chosen as his heiress would live to inherit his wealth?
“I wish I did not think of such horrible things!” he said wearily— “Or I wish I could walk faster, and get home — home to the little cottage quickly, and see for myself that she is safe and well!”
Sitting among the long grass and field flowers by the roadside, he grasped his stick in one hand and leaned his head upon that support, closing his eyes in sheer fatigue and despondency. Suddenly a sound startled him, and he struggled to his feet, his eyes shining with an intent and eager look. That clear, tender voice! — that quick, sweet cry!
“David!”
He listened with a vague and dreamy sense of pleasure. The soft patter of feet across the grass — the swish of a dress against the leaves, and then — then — why, here was Mary herself, one tress of her lovely hair tumbling loose in the sun, her eyes bright and her cheeks crimson with running.
“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 have you been? Angus and I have been waiting for you ever so long, — you said in your letter you would be back by Sunday, and we thought you would likely 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 had become only a weak, over-wrought old man, and his tired heart had leaped in his breast with quite a poor and common human joy which brought the tears falling from his eyes despite himself. She was beside him in a moment, her arm thrown affectionately about his shoulders, and her sweet face turned up close to his, all aglow with sympathy and tenderness.
“Why did you leave us?” she went on with a gentle playfulness, though the tears were in her own eyes. “Whatever made you think of getting work out of Weircombe? Oh, you dissatisfied old boy! I thought you were quite happy 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 I owed you too much! I went away for a bit just to see if I could do something for you more profitable than basket-making — —”
Mary nodded her head at him in wise-like fashion, just as if he were a spoilt 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 the same 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 on those that love you!” she said.
He lifted his head and gazed at her with such a pained and piteous appeal, that her heart smote her. He looked so very ill, and his worn face with the snow-white hair ruffled about it, was so pallid and thin.
“God forbid that I should do that!” he murmured tremulously. “God forbid! Mary, you don’t think I would ever do that?”
“No — of course not!” she answered soothingly. “Because you see, you’ve come back again. But if you had gone away altogether — —”
“You’d have thought me an ungrateful, worthless old rascal, wouldn’t you?” And the smile again sparkled in his dim eyes. “And you and Angus Reay would have said— ‘Well, never mind him! He served one useful purpose at any rate — he brought us together!’”
“Now, David!” said Mary, holding up a warning finger, “You know we shouldn’t have talked in such a way of you at all! Even if you had never come back, we should always have thought of you kindly — and I should have always loved you and prayed for you!”
He was silent, mentally pulling himself together. Then he put his arm gently 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 and alert. “By the short cut it’s just over the brow of the hill. Will you come that way?”
“Any way you like to take me,” and leaning on her arm he walked bravely on. “Where is Angus?”
“I left him sitting under a tree at the top of the coombe near the Church,” she replied. “He was busy with his writing, and I told him I would just run across the hill and se
e if you were coming. I had a sort of fancy you would be tramping home this morning! And where have you been 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 must have 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 herbs and flowers which clung in unseen clumps to the soil. All at once the quaint little tower of Weircombe Church thrust its ivy-covered summit above the edge of the green slope which they were ascending, and another few steps showed the glittering reaches of the sunlit sea. Helmsley paused, 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 fair landscape with a look of eager love and longing. She saw that he was very tired and exhausted, and wondered what he had been doing with himself in his days of absence from her care, but she had too much delicacy and feeling for him to ask him any questions. And she was glad when a cheery “Hillo!” echoed over the hill and Angus appeared, striding across the grass and waving his cap in quite a jubilant fashion. As soon as he saw them plainly he exchanged his stride for a run and came up to them in a couple of minutes.
“Why, David!” he exclaimed. “How are you, old boy? Welcome back! So Mary is 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’s warm, 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 sorely tired — and he at once offered him his arm.
“Lean on me, David,” he said. “Strong as bonnie Mary is, I’m just a bit stronger. We’ll be across the brae in no time! Charlie’s at home keeping house!”
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 not contented at all with only me. Every morning and every night he went into your room looking for you, and whined so pitifully at not finding you that I had quite a trouble to comfort him.”
“More tender-hearted than many a human so-called ‘friend’!” murmured Helmsley.
“Why yes, of course!” said Reay. “There’s nothing more faithful on earth than a faithful dog — except” — and he smiled— “a faithful husband!”
Mary laughed.
“Or a faithful wife — which?” she playfully demanded. “How does the old rhyme 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 in front, in order to be first across the natural bridge which separated them from the opposite side of the “coombe,” and from the spot where the big chestnut-tree waved its fan-like green leaves and plumes of pinky white blossom over her garden gate. Another few steps made easily with the support of Reay’s strong arm, and Helmsley found himself again in the simple little raftered cottage kitchen, with Charlie tearing madly round and round him in ecstasy, uttering short yelps of joy. Something struggled in his throat for utterance, — it seemed ages since he had last seen this little abode of peace and sweet content, and a curious impression was in his mind of having left one identity here to take up another less pleasing one elsewhere. A deep, unspeakable gratitude overwhelmed him, — he felt to the full the sympathetic environment of love, — that indescribable sense of security which satisfies the heart when 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, with its concordances and dissonances, that strikes out such a chord of perfect music as the consciousness of love. To feel that there is one at least in the world to whom you are more dear than to any other living being, 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 be noble and above the average in your motives and character — for that one you will, despite a multitude of drawbacks, agree to live. But without this melodious note in the chorus all the singing is in vain.
Led to his accustomed chair by the hearth, Helmsley sank into it restfully, and closed his eyes. He was so thoroughly tired out mentally and physically with the strain he had put upon himself in undertaking his journey, as well as in getting through the business he had set out to do, that he was only conscious of a great desire to sleep. So that when he shut his eyes for a moment, as he thought, he was quite unaware that 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 very pale face, and Angus was standing quite close to him, while no less a personage than Mr. Bunce was holding his hand and feeling his pulse.
“Better now?” said Mr. Bunce, in a voice of encouraging mildness. “We have done too much. We have walked too far. We must rest.”
Helmsley smiled — the little group of three around him looked so troubled, while he himself felt nothing unusual.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “I’m all right — quite all right. Only just a little tired!”
“Exactly!” And Mr. Bunce nodded profoundly. “Just a little tired! We have taken a very unnecessary journey away from our friends, and we are suffering for it! We must now be very good; we must stay at home and keep 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 a minute, looking at them all. “That’s nothing! Is it, Mr. Bunce?”
“When we are young it is nothing,” replied Mr. Bunce cautiously. “But when we are old, we must be careful!”
Helmsley smiled.
“Shake hands, Bunce!” he said, suiting the action to the word. “I’ll obey your orders, never fear! I’ll sit quiet!”
And he showed so much cheerfulness, and chatted with them all so brightly, that, for the time, anxiety was dispelled. Mr. Bunce took his departure promptly, only pausing at the garden gate to give a hint to Angus Reay.
“He will require the greatest care. Don’t alarm Miss Deane — but his heart was always weak, and it has grown perceptibly weaker. He needs complete repose.”
Angus returned to the cottage somewhat depressed after this, and from that moment Helmsley found himself surrounded with evidences of tender forethought for his comfort such as no rich man could ever obtain for mere cash payment. The finest medical skill and the best trained nursing are, we know, to be had for money, — but the soothing touch of love, — the wordless sympathy which manifests itself in all the looks and movements of those by whom a life is really and truly held precious — these are neither to be bought nor sold. And David Helmsley in his assumed character 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 any prospect of obtaining one, — had, by the simplest, yet strangest chance in the world, found an affection such as he had never in his most successful and most brilliant days been able to win. He upon whom the society women of London and Paris had looked with greedy and speculative eyes, wondering how much they could manage to get out of him, was now being cared for by one simple-hearted sincere woman, who had no other motive for her affectionate solicitude save gentlest compassion and kindness; — he whom crafty kings had invited to dine with them because of his enormous we
alth, and because is was possible that, for the “honour” of sitting at the same table with them he might tide them over a financial difficulty, was now tended with more than the duty and watchfulness of a son in the person of a poor journalist, kicked out of employment for telling the public certain important facts concerning financial “deals” on the part of persons of influence — a journalist, who for this very cause was likely never more to be a journalist, but rather a fighter against bitter storm and stress, for the fair wind of popular favour, — that being generally the true position of any independent author who has something new and out of the common to say to the world. Angus Reay, working steadily and hopefully on his gradually diminishing little stock of money, with all his energies bent on cutting a diamond of success out of the savagely hard rock of human circumstance, was more filial in his respect and thought for Helmsley than either of Helmsley’s own sons had been; while his character was as far above the characters of those two ne’er-do-weel sprouts of their mother’s treachery as light is above darkness. And the multi-millionaire was well content to rest in the little cottage where he had found a real home, watching the quiet course of events, — and waiting — waiting for something which he found himself disposed to expect — a something to which he could not give a name.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 692
