Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “I’ll have a good try, anyway,” rejoined Helmsley. “Good-night!”

  He turned towards Tom o’ the Gleam.

  “Good-night!”

  “Good-night!” And Tom’s dark eyes glowed upon him with a sombre intentness. “You know the old proverb which says, ‘It’s a long lane which has never a turning’?”

  Helmsley nodded with a faint smile.

  “Your turning’s near at hand,” said Tom. “Take my word for it!”

  “Will it be a pleasant turning?” asked Helmsley, still smiling.

  “Pleasant? Ay, and peaceful!” And Tom’s mellow voice sank into a softer tone. “Peaceful as the strong love of a pure woman, and as sweet with contentment as is the summer when the harvest is full! Good-night!”

  Helmsley looked at him thoughtfully; there was something poetic and fascinating about the man.

  “I should like to meet you again,” he said impulsively.

  “Would you?” Tom o’ the Gleam smiled. “So you will, as sure as God’s in heaven! But how or when, who can tell!” His handsome face clouded suddenly, — some dark shadow of pain or perplexity contracted his brows, — then he seemed to throw the feeling, whatever it was, aside, and his features cleared. “You are bound to meet me,” he continued. “I am as much a part of this country as the woods and hills, — the Quantocks and Brendons know me as well as Exmoor and the Valley of Rocks. But you are safe from me and mine! Not one of our tribe will harm you, — you can pursue your way in peace — and if any one of us can give you help at any time, we will.”

  “You speak of a community?”

  “I speak of a Republic!” answered Tom proudly. “There are thousands of men and women in these islands whom no king governs and no law controls, — free as the air and independent as the birds! They ask nothing at any man’s hands — they take and they keep!”

  “Like the millionaires!” suggested Bill Bush, with a grin.

  “Right you are, Bill! — like the millionaires! None take more than they do, and none keep their takings closer!”

  “And very miserable they must surely be sometimes, on both their takings and their keepings,” said Helmsley.

  “No doubt of it! There’d be no justice in the mind of God if millionaires weren’t miserable,” declared Tom o’ the Gleam. “They’ve more money than they ought to have, — it’s only fair they should have less happiness. Compensation’s a natural law that there’s no getting away from, — that’s why a gypsy’s merrier than a king!”

  Helmsley smiled assent, and with another friendly good-night all round, left the room. Miss Tranter awaited him, candle in hand, and preceding him up a short flight of ancient and crooked oaken stairs, showed him a small attic room with one narrow bed in it, scrupulously neat and clean.

  “You’ll be all right here,” she said. “There’s no lock to your door, but you’re out of the truck of house work, and no one will come nigh you.”

  “Thank you, madam,” — and Helmsley bent his head gently, almost humbly,— “You are very good to me. I am most grateful!”

  “Nonsense!” said Miss Tranter, affecting snappishness. “You pay for a bed, and here it is. The lodgers here generally share one room between them, but you are an old man and need rest. It’s better you should get your sleep without any chance of disturbance. Good-night!”

  “Good-night!”

  She set down the candle by his bedside with a “Mind you put it out!” final warning, and descended the stairs to see the rest of her customers cleared off the premises, with the exception of Bill Bush, Matt Peke, and Tom o’ the Gleam, who were her frequent night lodgers. She found Tom o’ the Gleam standing up and delivering a kind of extemporary oration, while his rough cap, under the pilotage of Bill Bush, was being passed round the table in the fashion of a collecting plate.

  “The smallest contribution thankfully received!” he laughed, as he looked and saw her. “Miss Tranter, we’re doing a mission! We’re Salvationists! Now’s your chance! Give us a sixpence!”

  “What for?” And setting her arms akimbo, the hostess of the “Trusty Man” surveyed all her lingering guests with a severe face. “What games are you up to now? It’s time to clear!”

  “So it is, and all the good little boys are going to bed,” said Tom. “Don’t be cross, Mammy! We want to close our subscription list — that’s all! We’ve raised a few pennies for the old grandfather upstairs. He’ll never get to Cornwall, poor chap! He’s as white as paper. Office work doesn’t fit a man of his age for tramping the road. We’ve collected two shillings for him among us, — you give sixpence, and there’s half-a-crown all told. God bless the total!”

  He seized his cap as it was handed back to him, and shook it, to show that it was lined with jingling halfpence, and his eyes sparkled like those of a child enjoying a bit of mischief.

  “Come, Miss Tranter! Help the Gospel mission!”

  Her features relaxed into a smile, and feeling in her apron pocket, she produced the requested coin.

  “There you are!” she said.— “And now you’ve got it, how are you going to give him the money?”

  “Never you mind!” and Tom swept all the coins together, and screwed them up in a piece of newspaper. “We’ll surprise the old man as the angels surprise the children!”

  Miss Tranter said nothing more, but withdrawing to the passage, stood and watched her customers go out of the door of the “Trusty Man,” one by one. Each great hulking fellow doffed his cap to her and bade her a respectful “Good-night” as he passed, “Feathery” Joltram pausing a moment to utter an “aside” in her ear.

  “‘A fixed oop owd Arbroath for zartin zure!” — and here, with a sly wink, he gave a forcible nudge to her arm,— “An owd larrupin’ fox ’e be! — an’ Matt Peke giv’ ’im the finish wi’s fav’rite! Ha — ha — ha! ‘A can’t abide a wurrd o’ that long-legged wench! Ha — ha — ha! An’ look y’ere, Miss Tranter! I’d ‘a given a shillin’ in Tom’s ‘at when it went round, but I’m thinkin’ as zummat in the face o’ the owd gaffer up in bed ain’t zet on beggin’, an’ m’appen a charity’d ‘urt ’is feelin’s like the poor-’ouse do. But if ‘e’s wantin’ to ‘arn a mossel o’ victual, I’ll find ’im a lightsome job on the farm if he’ll reckon to walk oop to me afore noon to-morrer. Tell ‘im’ that from farmer Joltram, an’ good-night t’ye!”

  He strode out, and before eleven had struck, the old-fashioned iron bar clamped down across the portal, and the inn was closed. Then Miss Tranter turned into the bar, and before shutting it up paused, and surveyed her three lodgers critically.

  “So you pretend to be all miserably poor, and yet you actually collect what you call a ‘fund’ for the old tramp upstairs who’s a perfect stranger to you!” she said— “Rascals that you are!”

  Bill Bush looked sheepish.

  “Only halfpence, Miss,” he explained. “Poor we be as church mice, an’ ye knows that, doesn’t ye? But we aint gone broken yet, an’ Tom ’e started the idee o’ doin’ a good turn for th’ old gaffer, for say what ye like ’e do look a bit feeble for trampin’ it.”

  Miss Tranter sniffed the atmosphere of the bar with a very good assumption of lofty indifference.

  “You started the idea, did you?” she went on, looking at Tom o’ the Gleam. “You’re a nice sort of ruffian to start any idea at all, aren’t you? I thought you always took, and never gave!”

  He smiled, leaning his handsome head back against the white-washed wall of the little entry where he stood, but said nothing. Matt Peke then took up the parable.

  “Th’ old man be mortal weak an’ faint for sure,” he said. “I come upon ’im lyin’ under a tree wi’ a mossel book aside ’im, an’ I takes an’ looks at the book, an’ ’twas all portry an’ simpleton stuff like, an’ ’e looked old enough to be my dad, an’ tired enough to be fast goin’ where my dad’s gone, so I just took ’im along wi’ me, an’ giv’ ’im my name an’ purfession, an’ ’e did the same, a-tellin’ me as ‘ow ’is name
was D. David, an’ ‘ow ’e ‘d lost ’is office work through bein’ too old an’ shaky. ‘E’s all right, — an office man aint much good on the road, weak on ’is pins an’ failin’ in ’is sight. M’appen the ‘arf-crown we’ve got ’im ‘ull ‘elp ’im to a ride part o’ the way ‘e’s goin’.”

  “Well, don’t you men bother about him any more,” said Miss Tranter decisively. “You get off early in the morning, as usual. I’ll look after him!”

  “Will ye now?” and Peke’s rugged features visibly brightened— “That’s just like ye, Miss! Aint it, Tom? Aint it, Bill?”

  Both individuals appealed to agreed that it was “Miss Tranter all over.”

  “Now off to bed with you!” proceeded that lady peremptorily. “And leave your collected ‘fund’ with me — I’ll give it to him.”

  But Tom o’ the Gleam would not hear of this.

  “No, Miss Tranter! — with every respect for you, no!” he said gaily. “It’s not every night we can play angels! I play angel to my kiddie sometimes, putting a fairing in his little hammock where he sleeps like a bird among the trees all night, but I’ve never had the chance to do it to an old grandad before! Let me have my way!”

  And so it chanced that at about half-past eleven, Helmsley, having lain down with a deep sense of relief and repose on his clean comfortable little bed, was startled out of his first doze by hearing stealthy steps approaching his door. His heart began to beat quickly, — a certain vague misgiving troubled him, — after all, he thought, had he not been very rash to trust himself to the shelter of this strange and lonely inn among the wild moors and hills, among unknown men, who, at any rate by their rough and uncouth appearance, might be members of a gang of thieves? The steps came nearer, and a hand fumbled gently with the door handle. In that tense moment of strained listening he was glad to remember that when undressing, he had carefully placed his vest, lined with the banknotes he carried, under the sheet on which he lay, so that in the event of any one coming to search his clothes, nothing would be found but a few loose coins in his coat pocket. The fumbling at his door continued, and presently it slowly opened, letting in a pale stream of moonlight from a lattice window outside. He just saw the massive figure of Tom o’ the Gleam standing on the threshold, clad in shirt and trousers only, and behind him there seemed to be the shadowy outline of Matt Peke’s broad shoulders and Bill Bush’s bullet head. Uncertain what to expect, he determined to show no sign of consciousness, and half closing his eyes, he breathed heavily and regularly, feigning to be in a sound slumber. But a cold chill ran through his veins as Tom o’ the Gleam slowly and cautiously approached the bed, holding something in his right hand, while Matt Peke and Bill Bush tiptoed gently after him half-way into the room.

  “Poor old gaffer!” he heard Tom whisper— “Looks all ready laid out and waiting for the winding!”

  And the hand that held the something stole gently and ever gentlier towards the pillow. By a supreme effort Helmsley kept quite still. How he controlled his nerves he never knew, for to see through his almost shut eyelids the dark herculean form of the gypsy bending over him with the two other men behind, moved him to a horrible fear. Were they going to murder him? If so, what for? To them he was but an old tramp, — unless — unless somebody had tracked him from London! — unless somebody knew who he really was, and had pointed him out as likely to have money about him. These thoughts ran like lightning through his brain, making his blood burn and his pulses, tingle almost to the verge of a start and cry, when the creeping hand he dreaded quietly laid something on his pillow and withdrew itself with delicate precaution.

  “He’ll be pleased when he wakes,” said Tom o’ the Gleam, in the mildest of whispers, retreating softly from the bedside— “Won’t he?”

  “Ay, that he will!” responded Peke, under his breath;, “aint ’e sleepin’ sound?”

  “Sound as a babe!”

  Slowly and noiselessly they stepped backward, — slowly and noiselessly they closed the door, and the faint echo of their stealthy footsteps creeping away along the outer passage to another part of the house, was hushed at last into silence. After a long pause of intense stillness, some clock below stairs struck midnight with a mellow clang, and Helmsley opening his eyes, lay waiting till the excited beating of his heart subsided, and his quickened breath grew calm. Blaming himself for his nervous terrors, he presently rose from his bed, and struck a match from the box which Miss Tranter had thoughtfully left beside him, and lit his candle. Something had been placed on his pillow, and curiosity moved him to examine it. He looked, — but saw nothing save a mere screw of soiled newspaper. He took it up wonderingly. It was heavy, — and opening it he found it full of pennies, halfpennies, and one odd sixpence. A scrap of writing accompanied this collection, roughly pencilled thus:— “To help you along the road. From friends at the Trusty Man. Good luck!”

  For a moment he stood inert, fingering the humble coins, — for a moment he could hardly realise that these rough men of doubtful character and calling, with whom he had passed one evening, were actually humane enough to feel pity for his age, and sympathy for his seeming loneliness and poverty, and that they had sufficient heart and generosity to deprive themselves of money in order to help one whom they judged to be in greater need; — then the pure intention and honest kindness of the little “surprise” gift came upon him all at once, and he was not ashamed to feel his eyes full of tears.

  “God forgive me!” he murmured— “God forgive me that I ever judged the poor by the rich!”

  With an almost reverential tenderness, he folded the paper and coins together, and put the little packet carefully away, determining never to part with it.

  “For its value outweighs every banknote I ever handled!” he said— “And I am prouder of it than of all my millions!”

  CHAPTER VIII

  The light of the next day’s sun, beaming with all the heat and effulgence of full morning, bathed moor and upland in a wide shower of gold, when Miss Tranter, standing on the threshold of her dwelling, and shading her eyes with one hand from the dazzling radiance of the skies, watched a man’s tall figure disappear down the rough and precipitous road which led from the higher hills to the seashore. All her night’s lodgers had left her save one — and he was still soundly sleeping. Bill Bush had risen as early as five and stolen away, — Matt Peke had broken his fast with a cup of hot milk and a hunch of dry bread, and shouldering his basket, had started for Crowcombe, where he had several customers for his herbal wares.

  “Take care o’ the old gaffer I brought along wi’ me,” had been his parting recommendation to the hostess of the “Trusty Man.” “Tell ’im I’ve left a bottle o’ yerb wine in the bar for ’im. M’appen ye might find an odd job or two about th’ ‘ouse an’ garden for ’im, just for lettin’ ’im rest a while.”

  Miss Tranter had nodded curtly in response to this suggestion, but had promised nothing.

  The last to depart from the inn was Tom o’ the Gleam. Tom had risen in what he called his “dark mood.” He had eaten no breakfast, and he scarcely spoke at all as he took up his stout ash stick and prepared to fare forth upon his way. Miss Tranter was not inquisitive, but she had rather a liking for Tom, and his melancholy surliness was not lost upon her.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asked sharply. “You’re like a bear with a sore head this morning!”

  He looked at her with sombre eyes in which the flame of strongly restrained passions feverishly smouldered.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he answered slowly. “Last night I was happy. This morning I am wretched!”

  “For no cause?”

  “For no cause that I know of,” — and he heaved a sudden sigh. “It is the dark spirit — the warning of an evil hour!”

  “Stuff and nonsense!” said Miss Tranter.

  He was silent. His mouth compressed itself into a petulant line, like that of a chidden child ready to cry.

  “I shall be all
right when I have kissed the kiddie,” he said.

  Miss Tranter sniffed and tossed her head.

  “You’re just a fool over that kiddie,” she declared with emphasis,— “You make too much of him.”

  “How can I make too much of my all?” he asked.

  Her face softened.

  “Well, it’s a pity you look at it in that way,” she said. “You shouldn’t set your heart on anything in this world.”

  “Why not?” he demanded. “Is God a friend that He should grudge us love?”

  Her lips trembled a little, but she made no reply.

  “What am I to set my heart on?” he continued— “If not on anything in this world, what have I got in the next?”

  A faint tinge of colour warmed Miss Tranter’s sallow cheeks.

  “Your wife’s in the next,” she answered, quietly.

  His face changed — his eyes lightened.

  “My wife!” he echoed. “Good woman that you are, you know she was never my wife! No parson ever mocked us wild birds with his blessing! She was my love — my love! — so much more than wife! By Heaven! If prayer and fasting would bring me to the world where she is, I’d fast and pray till I turned this body of mine to dust and ashes! But my kiddie is all I have that’s left of her; and shall I not love him, nay, worship him for her sake?”

  Miss Tranter tried to look severe, but could not, — the strong vehemence of the man shook her self-possession.

  “Love him, yes! — but don’t worship him,” she said. “It’s a mistake, Tom! He’s only a child, after all, and he might be taken from you.”

  “Don’t say that!” and Tom suddenly gripped her by the arm. “For God’s sake don’t say that! Don’t send me away this morning with those words buzzing in my ears!”

  Great tears flashed into his eyes, — his face paled and contracted as with acutest agony.

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” faltered Miss Tranter, herself quite overcome by his fierce emotion— “I didn’t mean — —”