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

by Marie Corelli

  He laughed again, and they all talked awhile longer on this unexpected event, which, to such a village as Weircombe, was one of startling importance and excitement, and then, as the afternoon was drawing in and Mary did not reappear, Angus Reay took his departure with Twitt, leaving Helmsley sitting alone in his chair by the fire. But he did not go without a parting word — a word which was only a whisper.

  “You think you are sure, David!” he said— “Sure that she loves me! I wish you would make doubly, trebly sure! — for it seems much too good to be true!”

  Helmsley smiled, but made no answer.

  When he was left alone in the little kitchen to which he was now so accustomed, 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 be possible to attain — a love which had been bestowed upon him for himself alone. He had found what he had judged would be impossible to find — two hearts which, so far as he personally was concerned, were utterly uninfluenced by considerations of self-interest. Both Mary Deane and Angus Reay looked upon him as a poor, frail old man, entirely defenceless and dependent on the kindness and care of such strangers as sympathised with his condition. Could they now be suddenly told that he was the millionaire, David Helmsley, they would certainly never believe it. And even if they were with difficulty brought to believe it, they would possibly resent the deception he had practised on them. Sometimes he 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 his career men, and women too, had flattered him and fawned upon him as well as fooled him for mere money’s sake, — he decided that surely he had the right at the approaching end of that career to make a fair and free trial of the world as to whether any thing or any one purely honest could be found in it.

  “For it makes me feel more at peace with God,” he said— “to know and to realise that there are unselfish loving hearts to be found, if only in the very lowliest walks of life! I, — who have seen Society, — the modern Juggernaut, — rolling its great wheels recklessly over the hopes and joys and confidences of thousands of human beings — I, who know that even kings, who should be above dishonesty, are tainted by their secret speculations in the money-markets of the world, — surely I may be permitted to rejoice for my few remaining days in the finding of two truthful and simple souls, who have no motive for their kindness to me, — who see nothing in me but age, feebleness and poverty, — and whom I have perhaps been the means, through God’s guidance, of bringing together. For it was to me that Reay first spoke that day on the seashore — 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 I now instructed how, — leaving myself altogether out of the question, — I may prosper the love of others and make two noble lives happy? It may be so, — and that in the foundation of their joy, I shall win my own soul’s peace! So — leaving my treasures on earth, — I shall find my treasure in heaven, ‘where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not 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, — and presently stooping, picked up the little dog Charlie from his warm corner on the hearth and fondled him.

  “You were the first to love me in my loneliness!” he said, stroking the tiny animal’s soft ears— “And, — to be quite exact, — I owe my life and all my present surroundings to you, Charlie! What shall I leave you in my will, eh?”

  Charlie yawned capaciously, showing very white teeth and a very red tongue, and winked one bright eye.

  “You’re only a dog, Charlie! You’ve no use for money! You rely entirely upon your own attractiveness and the kindness of human nature! And so far your confidence has not been misplaced. But your fidelity and affection are only additional proofs of the powerlessness of money. Money bought you, Charlie, no doubt, in the first place — but money failed to keep you! And now, though by your means Mary found me where I lay helpless and unconscious on the hills in the storm, I can neither make you richer nor happier, Charlie! You’re only a dog! — and a millionaire is no more to you than any other man!”

  Charlie yawned comfortably again. He seemed to be perfectly aware that his master was talking to him, but what it was about he evidently did not know, and still more evidently did not care. He liked to be petted and made much of — and presently curled himself up in a soft silken ball on 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 Mary found 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 often tries 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 saw the first primrose of the spring after a long winter. I knelt down and kissed it, too! That’s me all over. I’m stupid, David! My heart’s too big 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 had been so graphically related by Twitt, turned out to be true in every respect, and though considerable efforts were made to hush it up, the outraged feelings of the reverend gentleman’s wife were not to be silenced. Proceedings for divorce were commenced, and it was understood that there would be no defence. In due course the “big ‘edlines” which announced to the world in general that one of the most imperious “High” Anglicans of the Church had not only slipped from moral rectitude, but had intensified that sin by his publicly aggressive assumption of hypocritical virtue, appeared in the newspapers, and the village of Weircombe for about a week was brought into a certain notoriety which was distinctly displeasing to itself. The arrival of the “dailies” became a terror to it, and a general feeling of devout thankfulness was experienced by the whole community, when the rightful spiritual shepherd of the little flock returned from his sojourn abroad to take up the reigns of government, and restore law and order to his tiny distracted commonwealth. Fortunately for the peace of Weircombe, the frantic rush of social events, and incidents in which actual “news” of interest has no part, is too persistent and overwhelming for any one occurrence out of the million to occupy more than a brief passing notice, which is in its turn soon forgotten, and the “Scandalous Conduck of a Clergyman,” as Mr. 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 blatant tongues, is the sort of useless and pernicious stuff which chiefly keeps the modern press alive. Even the fact that the Reverend Mr. Arbroath was summarily deprived of his living and informed by the Bishop in the usual way, that his services would no longer be required, created very little interest. Some months later a small journalistic flourish was heard on behalf of the discarded gentleman, upon the occasion of his being “rec
eived” into the Church of Rome, with all his sins forgiven, — but so far as Weircombe was concerned, the story of himself and his “fav’rite” was soon forgotten, and his very name ceased to be uttered. The little community resumed its normal habit of cheerful attendance at Church every Sunday, satisfied to have shown to the ecclesiastical powers that be, the fact that “‘Igh Jinks” in religion would never be tolerated amongst them; and the life of Weircombe went on in the usual placid way, divided between work and prayer, and governed by the twin forces of peace and contentment.

  Meantime, the secret spells of Mother Nature were silently at work in the development and manifestation of the Spring. The advent of April came like a revelation of divine beauty to the little village nestled in the “coombe,” and garlanded it from summit to base with tangles of festal flowers. The little cottage gardens and higher orchards were smothered in the snow of plum and cherry-blossom, — primroses carpeted the woods which crowned the heights of the hills, and the long dark spikes of bluebells, ready to bud and blossom, thrust themselves through the masses of last year’s dead leaves, side by side with the uncurling fronds of the bracken and fern. Thrushes and blackbirds piped with cheerful persistence among the greening boughs of the old chestnut which shaded Mary Deane’s cottage, and children roaming over the grassy downs above 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 would persuade Mary away from her lace-mending to take long walks with him across the downs, or through the woods — and on each occasion when they started on these rambles together, David Helmsley would sit and watch for their return in a curious sort of timorous suspense — wondering, hoping, and fearing, — eager for the moment when Angus should speak his mind to the woman he loved, and yet always afraid lest that woman should, out of some super-sensitive feeling, put aside and reject that love, even though she might long to accept it. However, day after day passed and nothing happened. Either Angus hesitated, or else Mary was unapproachable — and Helmsley worried himself in vain. They, who did not know his secret, could not of course imagine the strained condition of mind in which their undeclared feelings kept him, — and and he found himself more perplexed and anxious over their apparent uncertainty than he had ever been over some of his greatest financial schemes. Facts and figures can to a certain extent be relied upon, but the fluctuating humours and vagaries of a man and woman in love with each other are beyond the most precise calculations of the skilled mathematician. For it often happens that when they seem to be coldest they are warmest — and cases have been known where they have taken the greatest pains to avoid each other at a time when they have most deeply longed to be always together. It was during this uncomfortable period of uneasiness and hesitation for Helmsley, that Angus and Mary were perhaps most supremely happy. Dimly, sweetly conscious that the gate of Heaven was open for them 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 the threshold of the glory, eager, yet afraid to enter. Up in the primrose-carpeted woods together they talked, like good friends, of a thousand things, — of the weather, of the promise of fruit in the orchards, of the possibilities of a good fishing year, and of the general beauty of the scenery around Weircombe. Then, of course, there was the book which Angus was writing — a book now nearing completion. It was a very useful book, because it gave them a constant and safe topic of conversation. Many chapters were read and re-read — many passages written and re-written for Mary’s hearing and criticism, — and it may at once be said that what had at first been merely clever, brilliant, and intellectual writing, was now becoming not so much a book as an artistic creation, through which the blood and colour of human life pulsed and flowed, giving it force and vitality. Sometimes they persuaded Helmsley to accompany them on some of their shorter rambles, — but he was not strong enough to walk far, and he often left them half-way up the “coombe,” returning to the cottage alone. Mary had frequently expressed a great wish to take him to a favourite haunt of hers, which she called the “Giant’s Castle” — but he was unable to make the steep ascent — so on one fine afternoon she took Angus there instead. “The Giant’s Castle” had no recognised name among the Weircombe villagers save this one which Mary had bestowed upon it, and which the children repeated after her so often that it seemed highly probable that the title would stick to it for ever. “Up Giant’s Castle way” was quite a familiar direction to any one ascending the “coombe,” or following the precipitous and narrow path which wound along the edge of the cliffs to certain pastures where shepherds as well as sheep were in daily danger of landslips, and which to the ordinary pedestrian were signalled by a warning board as “Dangerous.” But “Giant’s Castle” itself was merely the larger and loftier of the two towering rocks which guarded the sea-front of Weircombe village. A tortuous grassy path led up to its very pinnacle, and from here, there was an unbroken descent as straight and smooth as a well-built wall, of several hundred feet sheer down into the sea, which at this point swirled round the rocky base in dark, deep, blackish-green eddies, sprinkled with trailing sprays of brown and crimson weed. It was a wonderful sight to look down upon this heaving mass of water, if it could be done without the head swimming and the eyes growing blind with the light of the sky striking sharp against the restless heaving of the waves, and Mary was one of the few who could stand fearlessly on almost the very brink of the parapet of the “Giant’s Castle,” and watch the sweep of the gulls as they flew under and above her, uttering their brief plaintive cries of gladness or anger as the wild wind bore them to and fro. When Reay first saw her run eagerly to the very edge, and stand there, a light, bold, beautiful figure, with the wind fluttering her garments and blowing loose a long rippling tress of her amber-brown hair, he could not refrain from an involuntary cry of terror, and an equally involuntary rush to her side with his arms outstretched. But as she turned her sweet face and grave blue eyes upon him there was something in the gentle dignity and purity of her look that held him back, abashed, and curiously afraid. She made him feel the power of her sex, — a power invincible when strengthened by modesty and reserve, — and the easy licence which modern women, particularly those of a degraded aristocracy, 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 her with forcible tenderness away from the dizzy eminence on which she stood, he dared not presume so far, and merely contented himself with a bounding stride which brought him to the same point of danger as herself, and the breathless exclamation —

  “Miss Mary! Take care!”

  She smiled.

  “Oh, there is nothing to be frightened of!” she said. “Often and often I have 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 alone understood my sadness. At night, when the moon is at the full, it is very beautiful here. One looks down into the water and sees a world of waving light, and then, looking up to the sky, there is a heaven of stars! — and all the weary ways of life are forgotten! The angels seem so near!”

  A silent agreement with this latter statement shone in Reay’s eyes as he looked at her.

  “It’s good sometimes to find a woman who still believes in angels,” he said.

  “Don’t you believe in them?”

  “Implicitly, — with all my heart and soul!” And again his eyes were eloquent.

  A wave of rosy colour flitted over her face, and shading her eyes from the strong glare of the sun, she gazed across the sea.

  “I wish dear old David could see this glorious sight!” she said. “But he’s not strong — and I’m afraid — I hardly like to think it — that he’s weaker than he knows.”

  “Poor old chap!” said Angus, gently. “Any way, you’ve done all you can for 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 of the “Giant’s Castle” and prepared for the utterance of something desperate. “Any one would, you know!”

  She made no reply. Her gaze was fixed on the furthest silver gleaming line of the ocean horizon.

  “Any one would be bound to feel it, if you loved — if you were fond of him,” he went on in rather a rambling way. “It would make all the difference in the world — —”

  She turned towards him quickly with a smile. Her breathing was a little hurried.

  “Shall we go back now?” she said.

  “Certainly! — if — if you wish — but isn’t it rather nice up here?” he pleaded.

  “We’ll come another day,” and she ran lightly down the first half of the grassy path which had led them to the summit. “But I mustn’t waste any more time this afternoon.”

  “Why? Any pressing demands for mended lace?” asked Angus, as he followed her.

  “Oh no! Not particularly so. Only when the firm that employs me, sends any very specially valuable stuff worth five or six hundred pounds or so, I never like to keep it longer that I can help. And the piece I’m at work on is valued at a thousand guineas.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to wear it yourself?” he asked suddenly, with a laugh.

  “I? I wouldn’t wear it for the world! Do you know, Mr. Reay, that I almost hate beautiful lace! I admire the work and design, of course — no one could help that — but every little flower and leaf in the fabric speaks to me of so many tired eyes growing blind over the intricate stitches — so many weary fingers, and so many aching hearts — all toiling for the merest pittance! For it is not the real makers of the lace who get good profit by their work, it is the merchants who sell it that have all the advantage. If I were a great lady and a rich one, I would refuse to buy any lace from the middleman, — I would seek out the actual poor workers, and give them my orders, and see that they were comfortably fed and housed as long as they worked for me.”