Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Ah, it’s a wise thing to be seen looking good in public!” said Helmsley.

  The woman laughed.

  “That’s right! You can do a lot o’ humbuggin’ if you’re friends with the parson, what more often than not humbugs everybody hisself. I’m no church-goer, but I turn out the best cheese an’ butter in these parts, an’ I never tells no lies nor cheats any one of a penny, so I aint worryin’ about my soul, seein’ it’s straight with my neighbours.”

  “Are there many rich people living about here?” inquired Helmsley.

  “Not enough to do the place real good. The owners of the big houses are here to-day and gone to-morrow, and they don’t trouble much over their tenantry. Still we rub on fairly well. None of us can ever put by for a rainy day, — and some folk as is as hard-working as ever they can be, are bound to come on the parish when they can’t work no more — no doubt o’ that. You’re a stranger to these parts?”

  “Yes, I’ve tramped from Bristol.”

  The woman opened her eyes widely.

  “That’s a long way! You must be fairly strong for your age. Where are ye wantin’ to get to?”

  “Cornwall.”

  “My word! You’ve got a goodish bit to go. All Devon lies before you.”

  “I know that. But I shall rest here and there, and perhaps get a lift or two if I meet any more such kind-hearted folk as yourself.”

  She looked at him sharply.

  “That’s what we may call a bit o’ soft soap,” she said, “and I’d advise ye to keep that kind o’ thing to yourself, old man! It don’t go down with Meg Ross, I can tell ye!”

  “Are you Meg Ross?” he asked, amused at her manner.

  “That’s me! I’m known all over the countryside for the sharpest tongue as ever wagged in a woman’s head. So you’d better look out!”

  “I’m not afraid of you!” he said smiling.

  “Well, you might be if you knew me!” and she whipped up her pony smartly. “Howsomever, you’re old enough to be past hurtin’ or bein’ hurt.”

  “That’s true!” he responded gently.

  She was silent after this, and not till Watchett was reached did she again begin conversation. Rattling quickly through the little watering-place, which at this hour seemed altogether deserted or asleep, she pulled up at an inn in the middle of the principal street.

  “I’ve got an order to deliver here,” she said. “What are you going to do with yourself?”

  “Nothing in particular,” he answered, with a smile. “I shall just take my little dog to a chemist’s and get its paw dressed, and then I shall walk on.”

  “Don’t you want any dinner?”

  “Not yet. I had a good breakfast, I daresay I’ll have a glass of milk presently.”

  “Well, if you come back here in half an hour I can drive you on a little further. How would you like that?”

  “Very much! But I’m afraid of troubling you — —”

  “Oh, you won’t do that!” said Meg with a defiant air. “No man, young or old, has ever troubled me! I’m not married, thank the Lord!”

  And jumping from the cart, she began to pull out sundry cans, jars, and boxes, while Helmsley standing by with the small Charlie under his arm, wished he could help her, but felt sure she would resent assistance even if he offered it. Glancing at him, she gave him a kindly nod.

  “Off you go with your little dog! You’ll find me ready here in half an hour.”

  With that she turned from him into the open doorway of the inn, and Helmsley made his way slowly along the silent, sun-baked little street till he found a small chemist’s shop, where he took his lately found canine companion to have its wounded paw examined and attended to. No bones were broken, and the chemist, a lean, pale, kindly man, assured him that in a few days the little animal would be quite well.

  “It’s a pretty creature,” he said. “And valuable too.”

  “Yes. I found it on the highroad,” said Helmsley; “and of course if I see any advertisement out for it, I’ll return it to its owner. But if no one claims it I’ll keep it.”

  “Perhaps it fell out of a motor-car,” said the chemist. “It looks as if it might have belonged to some fine lady who was too wrapped up in herself to take proper care of it. There are many of that kind who come this way touring through Somerset and Devon.”

  “I daresay you’re right,” and Helmsley gently stroked the tiny dog’s soft silky coat. “Rich women will pay any amount of money for such toy creatures out of mere caprice, and will then lose them out of sheer laziness, forgetting that they are living beings, with feelings and sentiments of trust and affection greater sometimes than our own. However, this little chap will be safe with me till he is rightfully claimed, if ever that happens. I don’t want to steal him; I only want to take care of him.”

  “I should never part with him if I were you,” said the chemist. “Those who were careless enough to lose him deserve their loss.”

  Helmsley agreed, and left the shop. Finding a confectioner’s near by, he bought a few biscuits for his new pet, an attention which that small animal highly appreciated. “Charlie” was hungry, and cracked and munched the biscuits with exceeding relish, his absurd little nose becoming quite moist with excitement and appetite. Returning presently to the inn where he had left Meg Ross, Helmsley found that lady quite ready to start.

  “Oh, here you are, are you?” she said, smiling pleasantly, “Well, I’m just on the move. Jump in!”

  Helmsley hesitated a moment, standing beside the pony-cart.

  “May I pay for my ride?” he said.

  “Pay?” Meg stuck her stout arms akimbo, and glanced him all over. “Well, I never! How much ‘ave ye got?”

  “Two or three shillings,” he answered.

  Meg laughed, showing a very sound row of even white teeth.

  “All right! You can keep ’em!” she said. “Mebbe you want ’em. I don’t! Now don’t stand haverin’ there, — get in the cart quick, or Jim’ll be runnin’ away.”

  Jim showed no sign of this desperate intention, but, on the contrary, stood very patiently waiting till his passengers were safely seated, when he trotted off at a great pace, with such a clatter of hoofs and rattle of wheels as rendered conversation impossible. But Helmsley was very content to sit in silence, holding the little dog “Charlie” warmly against his breast, and watching the beauties of the scenery expand before him like a fairy panorama, ever broadening into fresh glimpses of loveliness. It was a very quiet coastline which the windings of the road now followed, — a fair and placid sea shining at wide intervals between a lavish flow of equally fair and placid fields. The drive seemed all too short, when at the corner of a lane embowered in trees, Meg Ross pulled up short.

  “The best of friends must part!” she said. “I’m right sorry I can’t take ye any further. But down ‘ere’s a farm where I put up for the afternoon an’ ‘elps ’em through with their butter-makin’, for there’s a lot o’ skeery gals in the fam’ly as thinks more o’ doin’ their ‘air than churnin’, an’ doin’ the ‘air don’t bring no money in, though mebbe it might catch a ‘usband as wasn’t worth ‘avin’. An’ Jim gets his food ’ere too. Howsomever, I’m real put about that I can’t drive ye a bit towards Cleeve Abbey, for that’s rare an’ fine at this time o’ year, — but mebbe ye’re wantin’ to push on quickly?”

  “Yes, I must push on,” rejoined Helmsley, as he got out of the cart; then, standing in the road, he raised his cap to her. “And I’m very grateful to you for helping me along so far, at the hottest time of the day too. It’s most kind of you!”

  “Oh, I don’t want any thanks!” said Meg, smiling. “I’m rather sweet on old men, seein’ old age aint their fault even if trampin’ the road is. You’d best keep on the straight line now, till you come to Blue Anchor. That’s a nice little village, and you’ll find an inn there where you can get a night’s lodging cheap. I wouldn’t advise you to stay much round Cleeve after sundown, for there’s a big c
amp of gypsies about there, an’ they’re a rough lot, pertikly a man they calls Tom o’ the Gleam.”

  Helmsley smiled.

  “I know Tom o’ the Gleam,” he said. “He’s a friend of mine.”

  Meg Ross opened her round, bright brown eyes.

  “Is he? Dear life, if I’d known that, I mightn’t ‘ave been so ready to give you a ride with me!” she said, and laughed. “Not that I’m afraid of Tom, though he’s a queer customer. I’ve given a good many glasses of new milk to his ‘kiddie,’ as he calls that little lad of his, so I expect I’m fairly in his favour.”

  “I’ve never seen his ‘kiddie,’” said Helmsley. “What is the boy like?”

  “A real fine little chap!” said Meg, with heartiness and feeling. “I’m not a crank on children, seein’ most o’ them’s muckers an’ trouble from mornin’ to night, but if it ‘ad pleased the Lord as I should wed, I shouldn’t ‘a wished for a better specimen of a babe than Tom’s kiddie. Pity the mother died!”

  “When the child was born?” queried Helmsley gently.

  “No — oh no!” — and Meg’s eyes grew thoughtful. “She got through her trouble all right, but ’twas about a year or eighteen months arterwards that she took to pinin’ like, an’ droopin’ down just like the poppies droops in the corn when the sun’s too fierce upon ’em. She used to sit by the roadside o’ Sundays, with a little red handkerchief tied across her shoulders, and all her dark ‘air tumblin’ about ‘er face, an’ she used to look up with her great big black eyes an’ smile at the finicky fine church misses as come mincin’ an’ smirkin’ along, an’ say: ‘Tell your fortune, lady?’ She was the prettiest creature I ever saw — not a good lass — no! — nobody could say she was a good lass, for she went to Tom without church or priest, but she loved him an’ was faithful. An’ she just worshipped her baby.” Here Meg paused a moment. “Tom was a real danger to the country when she died,” she presently went on. “He used to run about the woods like a madman, calling her to come back to ’im, an’ threatenin’ to murder any one who came nigh ’im; — then, by and by, he took to the kiddie, an’ he’s steadier now.”

  There was something in the narration of this little history that touched Helmsley too deeply for comment, and he was silent.

  “Well!” — and Meg gave her pony’s reins a shake— “I must be off! Sorry to leave ye standin’ in the middle o’ the road like, but it can’t be helped. Mind you keep the little dog safe! — and take a woman’s advice — don’t walk too far or too fast in one day. Good luck t’ ye!”

  Another shake of the reins, and “Jim” turned briskly down the lane. Once Meg looked back and waved her hand, — then the green trees closed in upon her disappearing vehicle, and Helmsley was again alone, save for “Charlie,” who, instinctively aware that some friend had left them, licked his master’s hand confidentially, as much as to say “I am still with you.” The air was cooler now, and Helmsley walked on with comparative ease and pleasure. His thoughts were very busy. He was drawing comparisons between the conduct of the poor and the rich to one another, greatly to the disadvantage of the latter class.

  “If a wealthy man has a carriage,” he soliloquised, “how seldom will he offer it or think of offering its use to any one of his acquaintances who may be less fortunate! How rarely will he even say a kind word to any man who is ‘down’! Do I not know this myself! I remember well on one occasion when I wished to send my carriage for the use of a poor fellow who had once been employed in my office, but who had been compelled to give up work, owing to illness, my secretary advised me not to show him this mark of sympathy and attention. ‘He will only take it as his right,’ I was assured,— ‘these sort of men are always ungrateful.’ And I listened to my secretary’s advice — more fool I! For it should have been nothing to me whether the man was ungrateful or not; the thing was to do the good, and let the result be what it might. Now this poor Meg Ross has no carriage, but such vehicle as she possesses she shares with one whom she imagines to be in need. No other motive has moved her save womanly pity for lonely age and infirmity. She has taught me a lesson by simply offering a kindness without caring how it might be received or rewarded. Is not that a lovely trait in human nature? — one which I have never as yet discovered in what is called ‘swagger society’! When I was in the hey-dey of my career, and money was pouring in from all my business ‘deals’ like water from a never-ending main, I had a young Scotsman for a secretary, as close-fisted a fellow as ever was, who managed to lose me the chance of doing a great many kind actions. More than that, whenever I was likely to have any real friends whom I could confidently trust, and who wanted nothing from me but affection and sincerity, he succeeded in shaking off the hold they had upon me. Of course I know now why he did this, — it was in order that he himself might have his grip of me more securely, but at that time I was unsuspicious, and believed the best of every one. Yes! I honestly thought people were honest, — I trusted their good faith, with the result that I found out the utter falsity of their pretensions. And here I am, — old and nearing the end of my tether — more friendless than when I first began to make my fortune, with the certain knowledge that not a soul has ever cared or cares for me except for what can be got out of me in the way of hard cash! I have met with more real kindness from the rough fellows at the ‘Trusty Man,’ and from the ‘Trusty Man’s’ hostess, Miss Tranter, and now from this good woman Meg Ross, than has ever been offered to me by those who know I am rich, and who have ‘used’ me accordingly.”

  Here, coming to a place where two cross-roads met, he paused, looking about him. The afternoon was declining, and the loveliness of the landscape was intensified by a mellow softness in the sunshine, which deepened the rich green of the trees and wakened an opaline iridescence in the sea. A sign-post on one hand bore the direction “To Cleeve Abbey,” and the road thus indicated wound upward somewhat steeply, disappearing amid luxuriant verdure which everywhere crowned the higher summits of the hills. While he yet stood, looking at the exquisitely shaded masses of foliage which, like festal garlands, adorned and over-hung this ascent, the discordant “hoot” of a motor-horn sounded on the stillness, and sheer down the winding way came at a tearing pace the motor vehicle itself. It was a large, luxurious car, and pounded along with tremendous speed, swerving at the bottom of the declivity with so sharp a curve as to threaten an instant overturn, but, escaping this imminent peril by almost a hairsbreadth, it dashed onward straight ahead in a cloud of dust that for two or three minutes entirely blurred and darkened the air. Half-blinded and choked by the rush of its furious passage past him, Helmsley could only just barely discern that the car was occupied by two men, the one driving, the other sitting beside the driver, — and shading his eyes from the sun, he strove to track its way as it flew down the road, but in less than a minute it was out of sight.

  “There’s not much ‘speed limit’ in that concern!” he said, half-aloud, still gazing after it. “I call such driving recklessly wicked! If I could have seen the number of that car, I’d have given information to the police. But numbers on motors are no use when such a pace is kept up, and the thick dust of a dry summer is whirled up by the wheels. It’s fortunate the road is clear. Yes, Charlie!” — this, as he saw his canine foundling’s head perk out from under his arm, with a little black nose all a-quiver with anxiety,— “it’s just as well for you that you’ve got a wounded paw and can’t run too far for the present! If you had been in the way of that car just now, your little life would have been ended!”

  Charlie pricked his pretty ears, and listened, or appeared to listen, but had evidently no forebodings about himself or his future. He was quite at home, and, after the fashion of dogs, who are often so much wiser than men, argued that being safe and comfortable now, there was no reason why he should not be safe and comfortable always. And Helmsley presently bent himself to steady walking, and got on well, only pausing to get some tea and bread and butter at a cottage by the roadside, where a placard on the
gate intimated that such refreshments were to be had within. Nevertheless, he was a slow pedestrian, and what with lingering here and there for brief rests by the way, the sun had sunk fully an hour before he managed to reach Blue Anchor, the village of which Meg Ross had told him. It was a pretty, peaceful place, set among wide stretches of beach, extending for miles along the margin of the waters, and the mellow summer twilight showed little white wreaths of foam crawling lazily up on the sand in glittering curves that gleamed like snow for a moment and then melted softly away into the deepening darkness. He stopped at the first ale-house, a low-roofed, cottage-like structure embowered in clambering flowers. It had a side entrance which led into a big, rambling stableyard, and happening to glance that way he perceived a vehicle standing there, which he at once recognised as the large luxurious motor-car that had dashed past him at such a tearing pace near Cleeve. The inn door was open, and the bar faced the road, exhibiting a brave show of glittering brass taps, pewter tankards, polished glasses and many-coloured bottles, all these things being presided over by a buxom matron, who was not only an agreeable person to look at in herself, but who was assisted by two pretty daughters. These young women, wearing spotless white cuffs and aprons, dispensed the beer to the customers, now and then relieving the monotony of this occupation by carrying trays of bread and cheese and meat sandwiches round the wide room of which the bar was a part, evidently bent on making the general company stay as long as possible, if fascinating manners and smiling eyes could work any detaining influence. Helmsley asked for a glass of ale and a plate of bread and cheese, and on being supplied with these refreshments, sat down at a small table in a corner well removed from the light, where he could see without being seen. He did not intend to inquire for a night’s lodging yet. He wished first to ascertain for himself the kind of people who frequented the place. The fear of discovery always haunted him, and the sight of that costly motor-car standing in the stableyard had caused him to feel a certain misgiving lest any one of marked wealth or position should turn out to be its owner. In such a case, the world being proverbially small, and rich men being in the minority, it was just possible that he, David Helmsley, even clad as he was in workman’s clothes and partially disguised in features by the growth of a beard, might be recognised. With this idea, he kept himself well back in the shadow, listening attentively to the scraps of desultory talk among the dozen or so of men in the room, while carefully maintaining an air of such utter fatigue as to appear indifferent to all that passed around him. Nobody noticed him, for which he was thankful. And presently, when he became accustomed to the various contending voices, which in their changing tones of gruff or gentle, quick or slow, made a confused din upon his ears, he found out that the general conversation was chiefly centred on one subject, that of the very motor-car whose occupants he desired to shun.