They all laughed.
“Well, there’s the end of my story,” — said Angus— “I worked on the syndicate for two years, and then was given the sack. The cause of my dismissal was, as I told you, that I published a leading article exposing a mean and dirty financial trick on the part of a man who publicly assumed to be a world’s benefactor — and he turned out to be a shareholder in the paper under an ‘alias.’ There was no hope for me after that — it was a worse affair than that of Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup. So I marched out of the office, and out of London — I meant to make for Exmoor, which is wild and solitary, because I thought I might find some cheap room in a cottage there, where I might live quietly on almost nothing and write my book — but I stumbled by chance on this place instead — and I rather like being so close to the sea.”
“You are writing a book?” said Mary, her eyes resting upon him thoughtfully.
“Yes. I’ve got a room in the village for half-a-crown a week and ‘board myself’ as the good woman of the house says. And I’m perfectly happy!”
A long pause followed. The fire was dying down from a flame to a dull red glow, and a rush of wind against the kitchen window was accompanied by the light pattering of rain. Angus Reay rose.
“I must be going,” — he said— “I’ve made you quite a visitation! Old David is nearly asleep!”
Helmsley looked up.
“Not I!” and he smiled— “I’m very wide awake: I like your story, and I like you! Perhaps you’ll come in again sometimes and have a chat with us?”
Reay glanced enquiringly at Mary, who had also risen from her chair, and was now lighting the lamp on the table.
“May I?” he asked hesitatingly.
“Why, of course!” And her eyes met his with hospitable frankness— “Come whenever you feel lonely!”
“I often do that!” he said.
“All the better! — then we shall often see you!” — she answered— “And you’ll always be welcome!”
“Thank-you! I believe you mean it!”
Mary smiled.
“Why of course I do! I’m not a newspaper syndicate!”
“Nor a Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup!” put in Helmsley.
Angus threw back his head and gave one of his big joyous laughs.
“No! You’re a long way off that!” he said— “Good-evening, David!”
And going up to the armchair where Helmsley sat he shook hands with him.
“Good-evening, Mr. Reay!” rejoined Helmsley, cheerily; “I’m very glad we met this afternoon!”
“So am I!” declared Angus, with energy— “I don’t feel quite so much of a solitary bear as I did. I’m in a better temper altogether with the world in general!”
“That’s right!” said Mary— “Whatever happens to you it’s never the fault of the world, remember! — it’s only the trying little ways of the people in it!”
She held out her hand in farewell, and he pressed it gently. Then he threw on his cap, and she opened her cottage door for him to pass out. A soft shower of rain blew full in their faces as they stood on the threshold.
“You’ll get wet, I’m afraid!” said Mary.
“Oh, that’s nothing!” And he buttoned his coat across his chest— “What’s that lovely scent in the garden here, just close to the door?”
“It’s the old sweetbriar bush,” — she replied— “It lasts in leaf till nearly Christmas and always smells so delicious. Shall I give you a bit of it?”
“It’s too dark to find it now, surely!” said Angus.
“Oh, no! I can feel it!”
And stretching out her white hand into the raining darkness, she brought it back holding a delicate spray of odorous leaves.
“Isn’t it sweet?” she said, as she gave it to him.
“It is indeed!” he placed the little sprig in his buttonhole. “Thank-you! Good-night!”
“Good-night!”
He lifted his hat and smiled into her eyes — then walked quickly through the tiny garden, opened the gate, shut it carefully behind him, and disappeared. Mary listened for a moment to the swish of the falling rain among the leaves, and the noise of the tumbling hill-torrent over its stony bed. Then she closed and barred the door.
“It’s going to be a wet night, David!” she said, as she came back towards the fire— “And a bit rough, too, by the sound of the sea.”
He did not answer immediately, but watched her attentively as she made up the fire, and cleared the table of the tea things, packing up the cups and plates and saucers in the neat and noiseless manner which was particularly her own, preparatory to carrying them all on a tray out to the little scullery adjoining the kitchen, which with its well polished saucepans, kettles, and crockery was quite a smart feature of her small establishment. Then —
“What do you think of him, Mary?” he asked suddenly.
“Of Mr. Reay?”
“Yes.”
She hesitated a moment, looking intently at a small crack in one of the plates she was putting by.
“Well, I don’t know, David! — it’s rather difficult to say on such a short acquaintance — but he seems to me quite a good fellow.”
“Quite a good fellow, yes!” repeated Helmsley, nodding gravely— “That’s how he seems to me, too.”
“I think,” — went on Mary, slowly— “that he’s a thoroughly manly man, — don’t you?” He nodded gravely again, and echoed her words ——
“A thoroughly manly man!”
“And perhaps,” she continued— “it would be pleasant for you, David, to have a chat with him now and then especially in the long winter evenings — wouldn’t it?”
She had moved to his side, and now stood looking down upon him with such a wistful sweetness of expression, that he was content to merely watch her, without answering her question.
“Because those long winter evenings are sometimes very dull, you know!” she went on— “And I’m afraid I’m not very good company when I’m at work mending the lace — I have to take all my stitches so carefully that I dare not talk much lest I make a false knot.”
He smiled.
“You make a false knot!” he said— “You couldn’t do it, if you tried! You’ll never make a false knot — never!” — and his voice sank to an almost inaudible murmur— “Neither in your lace nor in your life!”
She looked at him a little anxiously.
“Are you tired, David?”
“No, my dear! Not tired — only thinking!”
“Well, you mustn’t think too much,” — she said— “Thinking is weary work, sometimes!”
He raised his eyes and looked at her steadily.
“Mr. Reay was very frank and open in telling us all about himself, wasn’t he, Mary?”
“Oh yes!” and she laughed— “But I think he is one of those men who couldn’t possibly be anything else but frank and open.”
“Oh, you do?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you sometimes wonder,” — went on Helmsley slowly, keeping his gaze fixed on the fire— “why I haven’t told you all about myself?”
She met his eyes with a candid smile.
“No — I haven’t thought about it!” she said.
“Why haven’t you thought about it?” he persisted.
She laughed outright.
“Simply because I haven’t! That’s all!”
“Mary,” — he said, seriously— “You know I was not your ‘father’s friend’! You know I never saw your father!”
The smile still lingered in her eyes.
“Yes — I know that!”
“And yet you never ask me to give an account of myself!”
She thought he was worrying his mind needlessly, and bending over him took his hand in hers.
“No, David, I never ask impertinent questions!” she said— “I don’t want to know anything more about you than you choose to tell. You seem to me like my dear father — not quite so strong as he was, perhaps — but I have taken c
are of you for so many weeks, that I almost feel as if you belonged to me! And I want to take care of you still, because I know you must be taken care of. And I’m so well accustomed to you now that I shouldn’t like to lose you, David — I shouldn’t really! Because you’ve been so patient and gentle and grateful for the little I have been able to do for you, that I’ve got fond of you, David! Yes! — actually fond of you! What do you say to that?”
“Say to it!” he murmured, pressing the hand he held. “I don’t know what to say to it, Mary! — except — God bless you!”
She was silent a minute — then she went on in a cheerfully rallying tone —
“So I don’t want to know anything about you, you see! Now, as to Mr. Reay — —”
“Ah, yes!” and Helmsley gave her a quick observant glance which she herself did not notice— “What about Mr. Reay?”
“Well it would be nice if we could cheer him up a little and make him bear his poor and lonely life more easily. Wouldn’t it?”
“Cheer him up a little and make him bear his poor and lonely life more easily!” repeated Helmsley, slowly, “Yes. And do you think we can do that, Mary?”
“We can try!” she said, smiling— “At any rate, while he’s living in Wiercombe, we can be friendly to him, and give him a bit of dinner now and then!”
“So we can!” agreed Helmsley— “Or rather, so you can!”
“We!” corrected Mary— “You’re helping me to keep house now, David, — remember that!”
“Why I haven’t paid half or a quarter of my debt to you yet!” he exclaimed.
“But you’re paying it off every day,” — she answered; “Don’t you fear! I mean to have every penny out of you that I can!”
She laughed gaily, and taking up the tray upon which she had packed all the tea-things, carried it out of the kitchen. Helmsley heard her singing softly to herself in the scullery, as she set to work to wash the cups and saucers. And bending his old eyes on the fire, he smiled, — and an indomitable expression of energetic resolve strengthened every line of his features.
“You mean to have every penny out of me that you can, my dear, do you!” he said, softly— “And so — if Love can find out the way — you will!”
CHAPTER XVI
The winter now closed in apace, — and though the foliage all about Weircombe was reluctant to fall, and kept its green, russet and gold tints well on into December, the high gales which blew in from the sea played havoc with the trembling leaves at last and brought them to the ground like the painted fragments of Summer’s ruined temple. All the fishermen’s boats were hauled up high and dry, and great stretches of coarse net like black webs, were spread out on the beach for drying and mending, — while through the tunnels scooped out of the tall castellated rocks which guarded either side of the little port, or “weir,” the great billows dashed with a thunderous roar of melody, oftentimes throwing aloft fountains of spray well-nigh a hundred feet in height — spray which the wild wind caught and blew in pellets of salty foam far up the little village street. Helmsley was now kept a prisoner indoors, — he had not sufficient strength to buffet with a gale, or to stand any unusually sharp nip of cold, — so he remained very comfortably by the side of the fire, making baskets, which he was now able to turn out quickly with quite an admirable finish, owing to the zeal and earnestness with which he set himself to the work. Mary’s business in the winter months was entirely confined to the lace-mending — she had no fine laundry work to do, and her time was passed in such household duties as kept her little cottage sweet and clean, in attentive guardianship and care of her “father’s friend” — and in the delicate weaving of threads whereby the fine fabric which had once perchance been damaged and spoilt by flaunting pride, was made whole and beautiful again by simple patience. Helmsley was never tired of watching her. Whether she knelt down with a pail of suds, and scrubbed her cottage doorstep — or whether she sat quietly opposite to him, with the small “Charlie” snuggled on a rug between them, while she mended her lace, his eyes always rested upon her with deepening interest and tenderness. And he grew daily more conscious of a great peace and happiness — peace and happiness such as he had never known since his boyhood’s days. He, who had found the ways of modern society dull to the last point of excruciating boredom, was not aware of any monotony in the daily round of the hours, which, laden with simple duties and pleasures, came and went softly and slowly like angel messengers stepping gently from one heaven to another. The world — or that which is called the world, — had receded from him altogether. Here, where he had found a shelter, there was no talk of finance — the claims of the perpetual “bridge” party had vanished like the misty confusion of a bad dream from the brain — the unutterably vulgar intrigues common to the so-called “better” class of twentieth century humanity could not intrude any claim on his attention or his time — the perpetual lending of money to perpetually dishonest borrowers was, for the present, a finished task — and he felt himself to be a free man — far freer than he had been for many years. And, to add to the interest of his days, he became engrossed in a scheme — a strange scheme which built itself up in his head like a fairy palace, wherein everything beautiful, graceful, noble, helpful and precious, found place and position, and grew from promise to fulfilment as easily as a perfect rosebud ripens to a perfect rose. But he said nothing of his thoughts. He hugged them, as it were, to himself, and toyed with them as though they were jewels, — precious jewels selected specially to be set in a crown of inestimable worth. Meanwhile his health kept fairly equable, though he was well aware within his own consciousness that he did not get stronger. But he was strong enough to be merry at times — and his kindly temper and cheery conversation made him a great favourite with the Weircombe folk, who were never tired of “looking in” as they termed it, on Mary, and “‘avin’ a bit of a jaw with old David.”
Sociable evenings they had too, during that winter — evenings when Angus Reay came in to tea and stayed to supper, and after supper entertained them by singing in a deep baritone voice as soft as honey, the old Scotch songs now so hopelessly “out of fashion” — such as “My Nannie O”— “Ae fond kiss” — and “Highland Mary,” in which last exquisite ballad he was always at his best. And Mary sang also, accompanying herself on a quaint old Hungarian zither, which she said had been left with her father as guarantee for ten shillings which he had lent to a street musician wandering about Barnstaple. The street musician disappeared and the ten shillings were never returned, so Mary took possession of the zither, and with the aid of a cheap instruction book, managed to learn enough of its somewhat puzzling technique to accompany her own voice with a few full, rich, plaintive chords. And it was in this fashion that Angus heard her first sing what she called “A song of the sea,” running thus:
I heard the sea cry out in the night
Like a fretful child —
Moaning under the pale moonlight
In a passion wild —
And my heart cried out with the sea, in tears,
For the sweet lost joys of my vanished years!
I heard the sea laugh out in the noon
Like a girl at play —
All forgot was the mournful moon
In the dawn of day!
And my heart laughed out with the sea, in gladness,
And I thought no more of bygone sadness.
I think the sea is a part of me
With its gloom and glory —
What Has Been, and what yet Shall Be
Is all its story;
Rise up, O Heart, with the tidal flow,
And drown the sorrows of Long Ago!
Something eerie and mystical there was in these words, sung as she sang them in a low, soft, contralto, sustained by the pathetic quiver of the zither strings throbbing under the pressure of her white fingers, and Angus asked her where she had learned the song.
“I found it,” — she answered, somewhat evasively.
“Did you com
pose it yourself?”
She flushed a little.
“How can you imagine such a thing?”
He was silent, but “imagined” the more. And after this he began to show her certain scenes and passages in the book he was writing, sometimes reading them aloud to her with all that eager eloquence which an author who loves and feels his work is bound to convey into the pronounced expression of it. And she listened, absorbed and often entranced, for there was no gain-saying the fact that Angus Reay was a man of genius. He was inclined to underrate rather than overestimate his own abilities, and often showed quite a pathetic mistrust of himself in his very best and most original conceptions.
“When I read to you,” — he said to her, one day— “You must tell me the instant you feel bored. That’s a great point! Because if you feel bored, other people who read the book will feel bored exactly as you do and at the very same passage. And you must criticise me mercilessly! Rend me to pieces — tear my sentences to rags, and pick holes in every detail, if you like! That will do me a world of good!”
Mary laughed.
“But why?” she asked, “Why do you want me to be so unkind to you?”
“It won’t be unkind,” — he declared— “It will be very helpful. And I’ll tell you why. There’s no longer any real ‘criticism’ of literary work in the papers nowadays. There’s only extravagant eulogium written up by an author’s personal friends and wormed somehow into the press — or equally extravagant abuse, written and insinuated in similar fashion by an author’s personal enemies. Well now, you can’t live without having both friends and enemies — you generally have more of the latter than the former, particularly if you are successful. There’s nothing a lazy man won’t do to ‘down’ an industrious one, — nothing an unknown scrub won’t attempt in the way of trying to injure a great fame. It’s a delightful world for that sort of thing! — so truly ‘Christian,’ pleasant and charitable! But the consequence of all these mean and petty ‘personal’ views of life is, that sound, unbiased, honest literary criticism is a dead art. You can’t get it anywhere. And yet if you could, there’s nothing that would be so helpful, or so strengthening to a man’s work. It would make him put his best foot foremost. I should like to think that my book when it comes out, would be ‘reviewed’ by a man who had no prejudices, no ‘party’ politics, no personal feeling for or against me, — but who simply and solely considered it from an impartial, thoughtful, just and generous point of view — taking it as a piece of work done honestly and from a deep sense of conviction. Criticism from fellows who just turn over the pages of a book to find fault casually wherever they can — (I’ve seen them at it in newspaper offices!) or to quote unfairly mere scraps of sentences without context, — or to fly off into a whirlwind of personal and scurrilous calumnies against an author whom they don’t know, and perhaps never will know, — that sort of thing is quite useless to me. It neither encourages nor angers me. It is a mere flabby exhibition of incompetency — much as if a jelly-fish should try to fight a sea-gull! Now you, — if you criticise me, — your criticism will be valuable, because it will be quite honest — there will be no ‘personal’ feeling in it — —”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 679