Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Reeling heavily forward, he sank in a crouching heap beside the child’s dead body and snatched it into his embrace, kissing the little cold lips and cheeks and eyelids again and again, and pressing it with frantic fervour against his breast.

  “The dark hour!” he muttered— “the dark hour! To-day when I came away over the moors I felt it creeping upon me! Last night it whispered to me, and I felt its cold breath hissing against my ears! When I climbed down the rocks to the seashore, I heard it wailing in the waves! — and through the hollows of the rocks it shrieked an unknown horror at me! Who was it that said to-day— ‘He is only a child after all, and he might be taken from you’? I remember! — it was Miss Tranter who spoke — and she was sorry afterwards — ah, yes! — she was sorry! — but it was the spirit of the hour that moved her to the utterance of a warning — she could not help herself, — and I — I should have been more careful! — I should not have left my little one for a moment, — but I never thought any harm could come to him — no, never to him! I was always sure God was too good for that!”

  Moaning drearily, he rocked the dead boy to and fro.

  “Kiddie — my Kiddie!” he murmured— “Little one with my love’s eyes! — heart’s darling with my love’s face! Don’t go to sleep, Kiddie! — not just yet! — wake up and kiss me once! — only once again, Kiddie!”

  “Oh, Tom!” sobbed Elizabeth,— “Oh, poor, poor Tom!”

  At the sound of her voice he raised his head and looked up at her. There was a strange expression on his face, — a fixed and terrible stare in his eyes. Suddenly he broke into a wild laugh.

  “Ha-ha!” he cried. “Poor Tom! Tom o’ the Gleam! That’s me! — the me that was not always me! Not always me — no! — not always Tom o’ the Gleam! It was a bold life I led in the woods long ago! — a life full of sunshine and laughter — a life for a man with man’s blood in his veins! Away out in the land that once was old Provence, we jested and sang the hours away, — the women with their guitars and mandolines — the men with their wild dances and tambourines, — and love was the keynote of the music — love! — always love! Love in the sunshine! — love under the moonbeams! — bright eyes in which to drown one’s soul, — red lips on which to crush one’s heart! — Ah, God! — such days when we were young!

  ‘Ah! Craignons de perdre un seul jour,

  De la belle saison de l’amour!’”

  He sang these lines in a rich baritone, clear and thrilling with passion, and the men grouped about him, not understanding what he sang, glanced at one another with an uneasy sense of fear. All at once he struggled to his feet without assistance, and stood upright, still clasping the body of his child in his arms.

  “Come, come!” he said thickly— “It’s time we were off, Kiddie! We must get across the moor and into camp. It’s time for all lambs to be in the fold; — time to go to bed, my little lad! Good-night, mates! Good-night! I know you all, — and you all know me — you like fair play! Fair play all round, eh? Not one law for the rich and another for the poor! Even justice, boys! Justice! Justice!”

  Here his voice broke in a great and awful cry, — blood sprang from his lips — his face grew darkly purple, — and like a huge tree snapped asunder by a storm, he reeled heavily to the ground. One of the constables caught him as he fell.

  “Hold up, Tom!” he said tremulously, the thick tears standing in his eyes. “Don’t give way! Be a man! Hold up! Steady! Here, let me take the poor Kiddie!”

  For a ghastly pallor was stealing over Tom’s features, and his lips were widely parted in a gasping struggle for breath.

  “No — no! — don’t take my boy!” he muttered feebly. “Let me — keep him — with me! God is good — good after all! — we shall not — be parted!”

  A strong convulsion shook his sinewy frame from head to foot, and he writhed in desperate agony. The officer put an arm under his head, and made an expressive sign to the awed witnesses of the scene. Helmsley, startled at this, came hurriedly forward, trembling and scarcely able to speak in the extremity of his fear and pity.

  “What — what is it?” he stammered. “Not — not —— ?”

  “Death! That’s what it is!” said the officer, gently. “His heart’s broken!”

  One rough fellow here pushed his way to the side of the fallen man, — it was the cattle-driver who had taken part in the previous conversation among the customers at the inn before the occurrence of the tragedy. He knelt down, sobbing like a child.

  “Tom!” he faltered, “Tom, old chap! Hearten up a bit! Don’t leave us! There’s not one of us us’ll think ill of ye! — no, not if the law was to shut ye up for life! You was allus good to us poor folk — an’ poor folk aint as forgittin’ o’ kindness as rich. Stay an’ help us along, Tom! — you was allus brave an’ strong an’ hearty — an’ there’s many of us wantin’ comfort an’ cheer, eh Tom?”

  Tom’s splendid dark eyes opened, and a smile, very wan and wistful, gleamed across his lips.

  “Is that you, Jim?” he muttered feebly. “It’s all dark and cold! — I can’t see! — there’ll be a frost to-night, and the lambs must be watched a bit — I’m afraid I can’t help you, Jim — not to-night! Wanting comfort, did you say? Ay! — plenty wanting that, but I’m past giving it, my boy! I’m done.”

  He drew a struggling breath with pain and difficulty.

  “You see, Jim, I’ve killed a man!” he went on, gaspingly— “And — and — I’ve no money — we all share and share alike in camp — it won’t be worth any one’s while to find excuses for me. They’d shut me up in prison if I lived — but now — God’s my judge! And He’s merciful — He’s giving me my liberty!”

  His eyelids fell wearily, and a shadow, dark at first, and then lightening into an ivory pallor, began to cover his features like a fine mask, at sight of which the girls, Elizabeth and Grace, with their mother, knelt down and hid their faces. Every one in the room knelt too, and there was a profound stillness. Tom’s breathing grew heavier and more laboured, — once they made an attempt to lift the weight of his child’s dead body from his breast, but his hands were clenched upon it convulsively and they could not loosen his hold. All at once Elizabeth lifted her head and prayed aloud —

  “O God, have mercy on our poor friend Tom, and help him through the Valley of the Shadow! Grant him Thy forgiveness for all his sins, and let him find — —” here she broke down and sobbed pitifully, — then between her tears she finished her petition— “Let him find his little child with Thee!”

  A low and solemn “Amen” was the response to her prayer from all present, and suddenly Tom opened his eyes with a surprised bright look.

  “Is Kiddie all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, Tom!” It was Elizabeth who answered, bending over him— “Kiddie’s all right! He’s fast asleep in your arms.”

  “So he is!” And the brilliancy in Tom’s eyes grew still more radiant, while with one hand he caressed the thick dark curls that clustered on the head of his dead boy— “Poor little chap! Tired out, and so am I! It’s very cold surely!”

  “Yes, Tom, it is. Very cold!”

  “I thought so! I — I must keep the child warm. They’ll be worried in camp over all this — Kiddie never stays out so late. He’s such a little fellow — only four! — and he goes to bed early always. And when — when he’s asleep — why then — then — the day’s over for me, — and night begins — night begins!”

  The smile lingered on his lips, and settled there at last in coldest gravity, — the fine mask of death covered his features with an impenetrable waxen stillness — all was over! Tom o’ the Gleam had gone with his slain child, and the victim he had sacrificed to his revenge, into the presence of that Supreme Recorder who chronicles all deeds both good and evil, and who, in the character of Divine Justice, may, perchance, find that the sheer brutal selfishness of the modern social world is more utterly to be condemned, and more criminal even than murder.

  CHAPTER XI

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sp; Sick at heart, and utterly overcome by the sudden and awful tragedy to which he had been an enforced silent witness, David Helmsley had now but one idea, and that was at once to leave the scene of horror which, like a ghastly nightmare, scarred his vision and dizzied his brain. Stumbling feebly along, and seeming to those who by chance noticed him, no more than a poor old tramp terrified out of his wits by the grief and confusion which prevailed, he made his way gradually through the crowd now pressing closely round the dead, and went forth into the village street. He held the little dog Charlie nestled under his coat, where he had kept it hidden all the evening, — the tiny creature was shivering violently with that strange consciousness of the atmosphere of death which is instinctive to so many animals, — and a vague wish to soothe its fears helped him for the moment to forget his own feelings. He would not trust himself to look again at Tom o’ the Gleam, stretched lifeless on the ground with his slaughtered child clasped in his arms; he could not speak to any one of the terrified people. He heard the constables giving hurried orders for the removal of the bodies, and he saw two more police officers arrive and go into the stableyard of the inn, there to take the number of the motor-car and write down the full deposition of that potentate of the pictorial press, James Brookfield. And he knew, without any explanation, that the whole affair would probably be served up the next day in the cheaper newspapers as a “sensational” crime, so worded as to lay all the blame on Tom o’ the Gleam, and to exonerate the act, and deplore the violent death of the “lordly” brute who, out of his selfish and wicked recklessness, had snatched away the life of an only child from its father without care or compunction. But it was the fearful swiftness of the catastrophe that affected Helmsley most, — that, and what seemed to him, the needless cruelty of fate. Only last night he had seen Tom o’ the Gleam for the first time — only last night he had admired the physical symmetry and grace of the man, — his handsome head, his rich voice, and the curious refinement, suggestive of some past culture and education, which gave such a charm to his manner, — only last night he had experienced that little proof of human sympathy and kindliness which had shown itself in the gift of the few coins which Tom had collected and placed on his pillow, — only last night he had been touched by the herculean fellow’s tenderness for his little “Kiddie,” — and now, — within the space of twenty-four hours, both father and child had gone out of life at a rush as fierce and relentless as the speed of the motor-car which had crushed a world of happiness under its merciless wheels. Was it right — was it just that such things should be? Could one believe in the goodness of God, in such a world of wanton wickedness? Moving along in a blind haze of bewilderment, Helmsley’s thoughts were all disordered and his mind in a whirl, — what consciousness he had left to him was centred in an effort to get away — away! — far away from the scene of murder and death, — away from the scent and trail of blood which seemed to infect and poison the very air!

  It was a calm and lovely night. The moon rode high, and there was a soft wind blowing in from the sea. Out over the waste of heaving water, where the moonbeams turned the small rippling waves to the resemblance of netted links of silver or steel, the horizon stretched sharply clear and definite, like a line drawn under the finished chapter of vision. There was a gentle murmur of the inflowing tide among the loose stones and pebbles fringing the beach, — but to Helmsley’s ears it sounded like the miserable moaning of a broken heart, — the wail of a sorrowful spirit in torture. He went on and on, with no very distinct idea of where he was going, — he simply continued to walk automatically like one in a dream. He did not know the time, but guessed it must be somewhere about midnight. The road was quite deserted, and its loneliness was to him, in his present over-wrought condition, appalling. Desolation seemed to involve the whole earth in gloom, — the trees stood out in the white shine of the moon like dark shrouded ghosts waving their cerements to and fro, — the fields and hills on either side of him were bare and solitary, and the gleam of the ocean was cold and cheerless as a “Dead Man’s Pool.” Slowly he plodded along, with a thousand disjointed fragments of thought and memory teasing his brain, all part and parcel of his recent experiences, — he seemed to have lived through a whole history of strange events since the herb-gatherer, Matt Peke, had befriended him on the road, — and the most curious impression of all was that he had somehow lost his own identity for ever. It was impossible and ridiculous to think of himself as David Helmsley, the millionaire, — there was, there could be no such person! David Helmsley, — the real David Helmsley, — was very old, very tired, very poor, — there was nothing left for him in this world save death. He had no children, no friends, — no one who cared for him or who wanted to know what had become of him. He was absolutely alone, — and in the hush of the summer night he fancied that the very moon looked down upon him with a chill stare as though wondering why he burdened the earth with his presence when it was surely time for him to die!

  It was not till he found that he was leaving the shore line, and that one or two gas lamps twinkled faintly ahead of him, that he realized he was entering the outskirts of a small town. Pausing a moment, he looked about him. A high-walled castle, majestically enthroned on a steep wooded height, was the first object that met his view, — every line of its frowning battlements and turrets was seen clearly against the sky as though etched out on a dark background with a pencil of light. A sign-post at the corner of a winding road gave the direction “To Dunster Castle.” Reading this by the glimmer of the moon, Helmsley stood irresolute for a minute or so, and then resumed his tramp, proceeding through the streets of what he knew must be Dunster itself. He had no intention of stopping in the town, — an inward nervousness pushed him on, on, in spite of fatigue, and Dunster was not far enough away from Blue Anchor to satisfy him. The scene of Tom o’ the Gleam’s revenge and death surrounded him with a horrible environment, — an atmosphere from which he sought to free himself by sheer distance, and he resolved to walk till morning rather than remain anywhere near the place which was now associated in his mind with one of the darkest episodes of human guilt and suffering that he had ever known. Passing by the old inn known as “The Luttrell Arms,” now fast closed for the night, a policeman on his beat stopped in his marching to and fro, and spoke to him.

  “Hillo! Which way do you come from?”

  “From Watchett.”

  “Oh! We’ve just had news of a murder up at Blue Anchor. Have you heard anything of it?”

  “Yes.” And Helmsley looked his questioner squarely in the face. “It’s a terrible business! But the murderer’s caught!”

  “Caught is he? Who’s got him?”

  “Death!” And Helmsley, lifting his cap, stood bareheaded in the moonlight. “He’ll never escape again!”

  The constable looked amazed and a little awed.

  “Death? Why, I heard it was that wild gypsy, Tom o’ the Gleam — —”

  “So it was,” — said Helmsley, gently,— “and Tom o’ the Gleam is dead!”

  “No! Don’t say that!” ejaculated the constable with real concern. “There’s a lot of good in Tom! I shouldn’t like to think he’s gone!”

  “You’ll find it’s true,” said Helmsley. “And perhaps, when you get all the details, you’ll think it for the best. Good-night!”

  “Are you staying in Dunster?” queried the officer with a keen glance.

  “No. I’m moving on.” And Helmsley smiled wearily as he again said— “Good-night!”

  He walked steadily, though slowly, through the sleeping town, and passed out of it. Ascending a winding bit of road he found himself once more in the open country, and presently came to a field where part of the fence had been broken through by the cattle. Just behind the damaged palings there was a covered shed, open in front, with a few bundles of straw packed within it. This place suggested itself as a fairly comfortable shelter for an hour’s rest, and becoming conscious of the intense aching of his limbs, he took possession of it, setting the smal
l “Charlie” down to gambol on the grass at pleasure. He was far more tired than he knew, and remembering the “yerb wine” which Matt Peke had provided him with, he took a long draught of it, grateful for its reviving warmth and tonic power. Then, half-dreamily, he watched the little dog whom he had rescued and befriended, and presently found himself vaguely entertained by the graceful antics of the tiny creature which, despite its wounded paw, capered limpingly after its own shadow flung by the moonlight on the greensward, and attempted in its own playful way to attract the attention of its new master and wile him away from his mood of utter misery. Involuntarily he thought of the frenzied cry of Shakespeare’s “Lear” over the dead body of Cordelia: —

  “What! Shall a dog, a horse, a rat, have life

  And thou no breath at all!”

  What curious caprice of destiny was it that saved the life of a dog, yet robbed a father of his child? Who could explain it? Why should a happy innocent little lad like Tom o’ the Gleam’s “Kiddie” have been hurled out of existence in a moment as it were by the mad speed of a motor’s wheels, — and a fragile “toy” terrier, the mere whim of dog-breeders and plaything for fanciful women, be plucked from starvation and death as though the great forces of creation deemed it more worth cherishing than a human being! For the murder of Lord Wrotham, Helmsley found excuse, — for the death of Tom there was ample natural cause, — but for the wanton killing of a little child no reason could justly be assigned. Propping his elbows on his knees, and resting his aching head on his hands, he thought and thought, — till Thought became almost as a fire in his brain. What was the use of life? he asked himself. What definite plan or object could there possibly be in the perpetuation of the human race?

  “To pace the same dull round