“Will you please follow me, Miss Deane?” he said, with a singular air of deference. “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 along the passage to the door which she had before seen labelled with the name of “Sir Francis Vesey” — then catching the startled and appealing glance of 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Mary looked up, and then curtsied with quite an “out-of-date” air of exquisite grace, as she found herself in the presence of a dignified white-haired old gentleman, who, standing near a large office desk on which the papers she had brought lay open, was wiping his spectacles, and looking very much as if he had been guilty of the womanish weakness of tears. He advanced to meet her.
“How do you do!” he said, uttering this commonplace with remarkable earnestness, and taking her hand kindly in his own. “You bring me sad news — very sad news! I had not expected the death of my old friend so suddenly — I had hoped to see him again — yes, I had hoped very much to see 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, — the papers I brought here were for Mr. Bulteel — —”
“Yes — yes!” said Sir Francis. “That’s quite right! Mr. Bulteel is my confidential clerk — and the packet was addressed to him. But a note inside requested that Mr. Bulteel should bring all the documents at once to 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 to explain.”
He drew up a chair for her near his desk so that she might lean her arm upon it, for she looked frightened. As a matter of fact he was frightened himself. Such a task as he had now to perform had never before been allotted to him. A letter addressed to him, and enclosed in the packet containing Helmsley’s Last Will and Testament, had explained the whole situation, and had fully described, with simple fidelity, the life his old friend had led at Weircombe, and the affectionate care with which Mary had tended him, — while the conclusion of the letter was worded 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” thus spoken of sat opposite to him, moved by evident alarm, — her blue eyes full of tears, and her face pale and scared. How was he to begin telling her what she was bound to know?
“Yes — I will — I must endeavour to explain,” he repeated, bending his brows upon her and regaining something of his self-control. “You, of course, were not aware — I mean my old friend never told you who he really was?”
Her anxious look grew more wistful.
“No, and indeed I never asked,” she said. “He was so feeble when I took him to my home out of the storm, and for weeks afterwards he was so dangerously ill, that I thought questions might worry him. Besides it was not my business to bother about where he came from. He was just old and poor and friendless — that was enough for me.”
“I hope — I do very much hope,” said Sir Francis gently, “that you will not allow yourself to be too much startled — or — or overcome by what I have 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, and she could not speak.
“David — yes! — that was quite right — David was his name,” proceeded Sir Francis cautiously. “But he had another name — a surname which perhaps you may, or may not have heard. That name was Helmsley — —”
She sprang up with a cry, remembering Angus Reay’s story about his first love, Lucy Sorrel, and her millionaire.
“Helmsley! Not David Helmsley!”
“Yes, — David Helmsley! The ‘poor old tramp’ you sheltered in your home, — the friendless and penniless stranger you cared for so unselfishly 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 the richest — —” and here, with a little stifled sob, she wrung her hands together. “Oh no — no! That can’t be true! He would never have deceived me!”
Sir Francis felt an uncomfortable tightness in his throat. The situation was embarrassing. He saw at once that she was not so much affected by the announcement of the supposed “poor” man’s riches, as by the overwhelming thought that he could have represented himself to her as any other than he truly was.
“Sit down again, and let me tell you all,” he said gently— “You will, I am 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 than twenty years — was a fortunate man in the way of material prosperity, — but he was very unfortunate in his experience of human nature. His vast wealth made it impossible for him to see much more of men and women than was just enough to show him their worst side. He was surrounded by people who sought to use him and his great influence for their own selfish ends, — and the emotions and sentiments of life, such as love, fidelity, kindness, and integrity, he seldom or never met with among either his so-called ‘friends’ or his acquaintances. His wife was false to him, and his two sons brought him nothing but shame and dishonour. They all three died — and then — then in his old age he found himself alone in the world without any one who loved him, or whom he loved — without any one to whom he could confidently leave his enormous fortune, knowing it would be wisely and nobly used. When I last saw him I urged upon him the necessity of making his Will. He said he could not make 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 Sir Francis paused, looking anxiously at his listener. She was deadly pale, and every now and then her eyes brimmed over with tears. “You can guess the rest,” he continued,— “He took no one into his confidence as to his intention, — not even me. I understood he had gone abroad — till the other day — a short time ago — when I had a letter from him telling me that he was 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 of work!” she murmured— “Oh, David, David!”
“He informed me then,” proceeded Sir Francis, “that he had made his Will. The Will is here,” — and he took up a document lying on his desk— “The manner of its execution coincides precisely with the letter of instructions received, as I say, from Exeter — of course it will have to be formally proved — —”
She lifted her eyes wonderingly.
“What is it to me?” she said— “I have nothing to do with it. I have brought you the papers — but I am sorry — oh, so sorry to hear that he was not what he made himself out to be! I cannot think of him in the same way — —”
Sir Fr
ancis drew his chair closer to hers.
“Is it possible,” he said— “Is it possible, my dear Miss Deane, that you do not understand?”
She gazed at him candidly.
“Yes, of course I understand,” she said— “I understand that he was a rich man who played the part of a poor one — to see if any one would care for him just for himself alone — and — I — I — did care — oh, I did care! — 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 bear it! You see I’m a business man” — here he took off his spectacles and rubbed them vigorously— “and my position is that of the late Mr. David Helmsley’s solicitor. In that position I am bound to tell you the straight truth — because I’m afraid you don’t grasp it at all. It is a very overwhelming thing for you, — but all the same, I am sure, quite sure, that my old friend had reason to rely confidently upon your strength 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 own position — that of the late David Helmsley’s solicitor, it is my duty to inform you that you, Mary Deane, are by his last Will and Testament, the late 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 to you absolutely and unconditionally,” went on Sir Francis, speaking with slow and deliberate emphasis— “And — even as he was one of the richest men, so you are now one of the richest women in the world!”
She turned deathly white, — then suddenly, to his great alarm and confusion, dropped on her knees before him, clasping her hands in a passion 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 me wretched — he was fond of me — he was, really! And we were so happy and peaceful in the cottage at home! There was so little money, but so much love! Don’t say I’m rich, sir! — or, if I am, let me give it all away at once! Let me give it to the starving and sick people in this great city — or please give it to them for me, — but don’t, don’t say that I must 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 I am, quite, quite poor!”
CHAPTER XXIV
There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the roar and din of the London city traffic outside, which sounded like the thunder of mighty wheels — the wheels of a rolling world. And then Sir Francis, gently taking Mary’s hand in his own, raised her from the ground.
“My dear,” — he said, huskily— “You must not — you really must not give way! See,” — and he took up a sealed letter from among the documents on the desk, addressed “To Mary” — and handed it to her— “my late friend asks me in the last written words I have from him to give this to you. I will leave you alone to read it. You will be quite private in this room — and no one will enter till you ring. Here is the bell,” — and he indicated it— “I think — indeed I am sure, when you understand everything, you will accept the great responsibility which will now devolve upon you, in as noble a spirit as that in which you accepted the care of David Helmsley himself when you thought him no more than what in very truth he was — a lonely-hearted old man, searching for what few of us ever find — an unselfish love!”
He left her then — and like one in a dream, she opened and read the letter he had given her — a letter as beautiful and wise and tender as ever the fondest father could have written to the dearest of daughters. Everything was explained in it — everything made clear; and gradually she realised the natural, strong and pardonable craving of the rich, unloved man, to seek out for himself some means whereby he might leave all his world’s gainings to one whose kindness to him had not been measured by any knowledge of his wealth, but which had been bestowed upon him solely for simple love’s sake. Every line Helmsley had written to her in this last appeal to her tenderness, came from his very heart, and went to her own 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 left to her charge.
“I could not name them in my Will,” — he wrote— “as this would have disclosed my identity — but you, my dear, will be more exact than the law in the payment of what I have here set down as just. And, therefore, to you I leave this duty.”
First among these legacies came one of Ten Thousand Pounds to “my old friend Sir Francis Vesey,” — and then followed a long list of legacies to servants, secretaries, and workpeople generally. The sum of Five Hundred Pounds was to be paid to Miss Tranter, hostess of “The Trusty Man,”— “for her kindness to me on the one night I passed under her hospitable roof,” — and sums of Two Hundred Pounds each were left to “Matthew Peke, Herb Gatherer,” and Farmer Joltram, both these personages to be found through the aforesaid Miss Tranter. Likewise a sum of Two Hundred Pounds was to be paid to one “Meg Ross — believed to hold a farm near Watchett in Somerset.” No one that had served the poor “tramp” was forgotten by the great millionaire; — a sum of Five Hundred Pounds was left to John Bunce, “with grateful and affectionate thanks for his constant care” — and a final charge to Mary was the placing of Fifty Thousand Pounds in trust for the benefit of Weircombe, its Church, and its aged poor. The money in bank notes, enclosed with the testator’s last Will and Testament, was to be given to Mary for her own immediate use, — and then came the following earnest request;— “I desire that the sum of Half-a-crown, made up of coppers and one sixpence, which will be found with these effects, shall be enclosed in a casket of gold and inscribed with the words ‘The “surprise gift” collected by “Tom o’ the Gleam” for David Helmsley, when as a tramp on the road he seemed to be in need of the charity and sympathy of his fellow men and which to him was
MORE PRECIOUS THAN MANY MILLIONS.
And I request that the said casket containing these coins may be retained by Mary Deane as a valued possession in her family, to be handed down as a talisman and cornerstone of fortune for herself and her heirs in perpetuity.”
Finally the list of bequests ended with one sufficiently unusual to be called eccentric. It ran thus:— “To Angus Reay I leave Mary Deane — and with Her, all that I value, and more than I have ever possessed!”
Gradually, very gradually, Mary, sitting alone in Sir Francis Vesey’s office, realised the whole position, — gradually the trouble and excitation of her mind calmed down, and her naturally even temperament reasserted itself. She was rich, — but though she tried to realise the fact, she could not do so, till at last the thought of Angus and how she might be able now to help him on with his career, roused a sudden rush of energy within her — which, however, was not by any means actual happiness. A great weight seemed to have fallen on her life — and she was bowed down by its heaviness. Kissing David Helmsley’s letter, she put it in her bosom, — he had asked that its contents might be held sacred, and that no eyes but her own should scan his last words, and to her that request of a dead man was more than the command of a living King. The list of bequests she held in her hand ready to show Sir Francis Vesey when he entered, which he did as soon as she touched the bell. He saw that, 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 a beautiful woman she was.
“Please forgive me for troubling you so much,” — she said, gently— “I am very sorry! I understand it all now, — I have read David’s letter, — I shall always call him David, I think! — and I quite see how it all happened. I can’t help being sorry — very sorry, that he has left his mo
ney to me — because it will be so difficult to know how to dispose of it for the best. But surely a great deal of it will go in these legacies,” — and she handed him the paper she held— “You see he names you first.”
Sir Francis stared at the document, fairly startled and overcome by his late 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 interrupted him, with an air of pathetic entreaty— “I want to carry out all his wishes exactly as if he were beside me, watching me — I think—” and her voice sank a little— “he may be here — with us — even now!” She paused a moment. “And if he is, he knows that I do not want money for myself at all — 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 estate must 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 God never meant one man to have so much money!”
“It was fairly earned,” — said Sir Francis, quietly— “David Helmsley, to my own knowledge, never wronged or oppressed a single human being on his way to his own success. His money is clean! There’s no brother’s blood on the gold — and no ‘sweated’ labour at the back of it. That I can vouch for — 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.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 697