Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Helmsley, bending over his basket-weaving, suddenly straightened himself and looked the clergyman full in the face.

  “I never knew Tom o’ the Gleam till that night on which you saw me at ‘The Trusty Man,’” he said— “But I know he had terrible provocation for the murder he committed. I saw that murder done!”

  “You saw it done!” exclaimed Arbroath— “And you are here?”

  “Why should I not be here?” demanded Helmsley— “Would you have expected me to stay there? I was only one of many witnesses to that terrible deed of vengeance — but, as God lives, it was a just vengeance!”

  “Just? You call murder just!” and Arbroath gave a gesture of scorn and horror— “And you,” — he continued, turning to Mary indignantly— “can allow a ruffian like this to live in your house?”

  “He is no ruffian,” — said Mary steadily,— “Nor was Tom o’ the Gleam a ruffian either. He was well-known in these parts for many and many a deed of kindness. The real ruffian was the man who killed his little child. Indeed I think he was the chief murderer.”

  “Oh, you do, do you?” and Mr. Arbroath frowned heavily— “And you call yourself a respectable woman?”

  Mary smiled, and resuming her seat, bent her head intently over her lace work.

  Arbroath stood irresolute, gazing at her. He was a sensual man, and her physical beauty annoyed him. He would have liked to sit down alone with her and take her hand in his own and talk to her about her “soul” while gloating over her body. But in the “old tramp’s” presence there was nothing to be done. So he assumed a high moral tone.

  “Accidents will happen,” — he said, sententiously— “If a child gets into the way of a motor going at full speed, it is bound to be unfortunate — for the child. But Lord Wrotham was a rich man — and no doubt he would have paid a handsome sum down in compensation — —”

  “Compensation!” And Helmsley suddenly stood up, drawing his frail thin figure erect— “Compensation! Money! Money for a child’s life — money for a child’s love! Are you a minister of Christ, that you can talk of such a thing as possible? What is all the wealth of the world compared to the life of one beloved human creature! Reverend sir, I am an old poor man, — a tramp as you say, consorting with rogues and ruffians — but were I as rich as the richest millionaire that ever ‘sweated’ honest labour, I would rather shoot myself than offer money compensation to a father for the loss of a child whom my selfish pleasure had slain!”

  He trembled from head to foot with the force of his own eloquence, and Arbroath stared at him dumb-foundered.

  “You are a preacher,” — went on Helmsley— “You are a teacher of the Gospel. Do you find anything in the New Testament that gives men licence to ride rough-shod over the hearts and emotions of their fellow-men? Do you find there that selfishness is praised or callousness condoned? In those sacred pages are we told that a sparrow’s life is valueless, or a child’s prayer despised? Sir, if you are a Christian, teach Christianity as Christ taught it — honestly!”

  Arbroath turned livid.

  “How dare you — !” he began — when Mary quietly rose.

  “I would advise you to be going, sir,” — she said, quite courteously— “The old man is not very strong, and he has a trouble of the heart. It is little use for persons to argue who feel so differently. We poor folk do not understand the ways of the gentry.”

  And she held open the door of her cottage for him to pass out. He pressed his slouch-hat more heavily over his eyes, and glared at her from under the shadow of its brim.

  “You are harbouring a dangerous customer in your house!” he said— “A dangerous customer! It will be my duty to warn the parish against him!”

  She smiled.

  “You are very welcome to do so, sir! Good-morning!”

  And as he tramped away through her tiny garden, she quickly shut and barred the door after him, and hurried to Helmsley in some anxiety, for he looked very pale, and his breath came and went somewhat rapidly.

  “David dear, why did you excite yourself so much over that man!” she said, kneeling beside him as he sank back exhausted in his chair— “Was it worth while?”

  He patted her head with a tremulous hand.

  “Perhaps not!” And he smiled— “Perhaps not, Mary! But the cold-blooded way in which he said that a money compensation might have been offered to poor Tom o’ the Gleam for his little child’s life — my God! As if any sort of money could compare with love!”

  He stroked her hair gently, and went on murmuring to himself —

  “As if all the gold in the world could make up for the loss of one loving heart!”

  Mary was silent. She saw that he was greatly agitated, and thought it better to let him speak out his whole mind rather than suppress his feelings.

  “What can a man do with wealth!” he went on, speaking more to himself than to her— “He can buy everything that is to be bought, certainly — but if he has no one to share his goods with him, what then? Eh, Mary? What then?”

  “Why then he’d be a very miserable man, David!” she answered, smiling— “He’d wish he were poor, with some one to love him!”

  He looked at her, and his sunken eyes flashed with quite an eager light.

  “That’s true!” he said— “He’d wish he were poor with some one to love him! Mary, you’ve been so kind to me — promise me one thing!”

  “What’s that?” and she patted his hand soothingly.

  “Just this — if I die on your hands don’t let that man Arbroath bury me! I think my very bones would split at the sound of his rasping voice!”

  Mary laughed.

  “Don’t you worry about that!” she said— “Mr. Arbroath won’t have the chance to bury you, David! Besides, he never takes the burials of the very poor folk even in his own parishes. He wrote a letter in one of the countryside papers not very long ago, to complain of the smallness of the burial fees, and said it wasn’t worth his while to bury paupers!” And she laughed again. “Poor, bitter-hearted man! He must be very wretched in himself to be so cantankerous to others.”

  “Well, don’t let him bury me!” said Helmsley— “That’s all I ask. I’d much rather Twitt dug a hole in the seashore and put my body into it himself, without any prayers at all, than have a prayer croaked over me by that clerical raven! Remember that!”

  “I’ll remember!” And Mary’s face beamed with kindly tolerance and good-humour— “But you’re really quite an angry old boy to-day, David! I never saw you in such a temper!”

  Her playful tone brought a smile to his face at last.

  “It was that horrible suggestion of money compensation for a child’s life that angered me,” — he said, half apologetically— “The notion that pounds, shillings and pence could pay for the loss of love, got on my nerves. Why, love is the only good thing in the world!”

  She had been half kneeling by his chair — but she now rose slowly, and stretched her arms out with a little gesture of sudden weariness.

  “Do you think so, David?” and she sighed, almost unconsciously to herself— “I’m not so sure!”

  He glanced at her in sudden uneasiness. Was she too going to say, like Lucy Sorrel, that she did not believe in love? He thought of Angus Reay, and wondered. She caught his look and smiled.

  “I’m not so sure!” she repeated— “There’s a great deal talked about love, — but it often seems as if there was more talk than deed. At least there is in what is generally called ‘love.’ I know there’s a very real and beautiful love, like that which I had for my father, and which he had for me, — that was as near being perfect as anything could be in this world. But the love I had for the young man to whom I was once engaged was quite a different thing altogether.”

  “Of course it was!” said Helmsley— “And quite naturally, too. You loved your father as a daughter loves — and I suppose you loved the young man as a sweetheart loves — eh?”

  “Sweetheart is a very pretty word,�
� — she answered, the smile still lingering about her lips— “It’s quite old-fashioned too, and I love old-fashioned things. But I don’t think I loved the young man exactly as a ‘sweetheart.’ It all came about in a very haphazard way. He took a fancy to me, and we used to go long walks together. He hadn’t very much to say for himself — he smoked most of the time. But he was honest and respectable — and I got rather fond of him — so that when he asked me to marry him, I thought it would perhaps please father to see me provided for — and I said yes, without thinking very much about it. Then, when father failed in business and my man threw me over, I fretted a bit just for a day or two — mostly I think because we couldn’t go any more Sunday walks together. I was in the early twenties, but now I’m getting on in the thirties. I know I didn’t understand a bit about real love then. It was just fancy and the habit of seeing the one young man oftener than others. And, of course, that isn’t love.”

  Helmsley listened to her every word, keenly interested. Surely, if he guided the conversation skilfully enough, he might now gain some useful hints which would speed the cause of Angus Reay?

  “No — of course that isn’t love,” — he echoed— “But what do you take to be love? — Can you tell me?”

  Her eyes filled with a dreamy light, and her lips quivered a little.

  “Can I tell you? Not very well, perhaps — but I’ll try. Of course it’s all over for me now — and I can only just picture what I think it ought to be. I never had it. I mean I never had that kind of love I have dreamed about, and it seems silly for an old maid to even talk of such a thing. But love to my mind ought to be the everything of life! If I loved a man — —” Here she suddenly paused, and a wave of colour flushed her cheeks. Helmsley never took his eyes off her face.

  “Yes?” he said, tentatively— “Well! — go on — if you loved a man? — —”

  “If I loved a man, David,” — she continued, slowly, clasping her hands meditatively behind her back, and looking thoughtfully into the glowing centre of the fire— “I should love him so completely that I should never think of anything in which he had not the first and greatest share. I should see his kind looks in every ray of sunshine — I should hear his loving voice in every note of music, — if I were to read a book alone, I should wonder which sentence in it would please him the most — if I plucked a flower, I should ask myself if he would like me to wear it, — I should live through him and for him — he would be my very eyes and heart and soul! The hours would seem empty without him — —”

  She broke off with a little sob, and her eyes brimmed over with tears.

  “Why Mary! Mary, my dear!” murmured Helmsley, stretching out his hand to touch her— “Don’t cry!”

  “I’m not crying, David!” and a rainbow smile lighted her face— “I’m only just — feeling! It’s like when I read a little verse of poetry that is very sad and sweet, I get tears into my eyes — and when I talk about love — especially now that I shall never know what it is, something rises in my throat and chokes me — —”

  “But you do know what it is,” — said Helmsley, powerfully moved by the touching simplicity of her confession of loneliness— “There isn’t a more loving heart than yours in the world, I’m sure!”

  She came and knelt down again beside him.

  “Oh yes, I’ve a loving heart!” she said— “But that’s just the worst of it! I can love, but no one loves or ever will love me — now. I’m past the age for it. No woman over thirty can expect to be loved by a lover, you know! Romance is all over — and one ‘settles down,’ as they say. I’ve never quite ‘settled’ — there’s always something restless in me. You’re such a dear old man, David, and so kind! — I can speak to you just as if you were my father — and I daresay you will not think it very wrong or selfish of me if I say I have longed to be loved sometimes! More than that, I’ve wished it had pleased God to send me a husband and children — I should have dearly liked to hold a baby in my arms, and soothe its little cries, and make it grow up to be happy and good, and a blessing to every one. Some women don’t care for children — but I should have loved mine!”

  She paused a moment, and Helmsley took her hand, and silently pressed it in his own.

  “However,” — she went on, more lightly— “it’s no good grieving over what cannot be helped. No man has ever really loved me — because, of course, the one I was engaged to wouldn’t have thrown me over just because I was poor if he had cared very much about me. And I shall be thirty-five this year — so I must — I really must” — and she gave herself an admonitory little shake— “settle down! After all there are worse things in life than being an old maid. I don’t mind it — it’s only sometimes when I feel inclined to grizzle, that I think to myself what a lot of love I’ve got in my heart — all wasted!”

  “Wasted?” echoed Helmsley, gently— “Do you think love is ever wasted?”

  Her eyes grew serious and dreamy.

  “Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don’t” — she answered— “When I begin to like a person very much I often pull myself back and say ‘Take care! Perhaps he doesn’t like you!’”

  “Oh! The person must be a ‘he’ then!” said Helmsley, smiling a little.

  She coloured.

  “Oh no — not exactly! — but I mean, — now, for instance,” — and she spoke rapidly as though to cover some deeper feeling— “I like you very much — indeed I’m fond of you, David! — I’ve got to know you so well, and to understand all your ways — but I can’t be sure that you like me as much as I like you, can I?”

  He looked at her kind and noble face with eyes full of tenderness and gratitude.

  “If you can be sure of anything, you can be sure of that!” — he said— “To say I ‘like’ you would be a poor way of expressing myself. I owe my very life to you — and though I am only an old poor man, I would say I loved you if I dared!”

  She smiled — and her whole face shone with the reflected sunshine of her soul.

  “Say it, David dear! Do say it! I should like to hear it!”

  He drew the hand he held to his lips, and gently kissed it.

  “I love you, Mary!” he said— “As a father loves a daughter I love you, and bless you! You have been a good angel to me — and I only wish I were not so old and weak and dependent on your care. I can do nothing to show my affection for you — I’m only a burden upon your hands — —”

  She laid her fingers lightly across his lips.

  “Sh-sh!” she said— “That’s foolish talk, and I won’t listen to it! I’m glad you’re fond of me — it makes life so much pleasanter. Do you know, I sometimes think God must have sent you to me?”

  “Do you? Why?”

  “Well, I used to fret a little at being so much alone, — the days seemed so long, and it was hard to have to work only for one’s wretched self, and see nothing in the future but just the same old round — and I missed my father always. I never could get accustomed to his empty chair. Then when I found you on the hills, lost and solitary, and ill, and brought you home to nurse and take care of, all the vacancy seemed filled — and I was quite glad to have some one to work for. I’ve been ever so much happier since you’ve been with me. We’ll be like father and daughter to the end, won’t we?”

  She put one arm about him coaxingly. He did not answer.

  “You won’t go away from me now, — will you, David?” she urged— “Even when you’ve paid me back all you owe me as you wish by your own earnings, you won’t go away?”

  He lifted his head and looked at her as she bent over him.

  “You mustn’t ask me to promise anything,” — he said, “I will stay with you — as long as I can!”

  She withdrew her arm from about him, and stood for a moment irresolute.

  “Well — I shall be very miserable if you do go,” — she said— “And I’m sure no one will take more care of you than I will!”

  “I’m sure of that, too, Mary!” and a smile that was almos
t youthful in its tenderness brightened his worn features— “I’ve never been so well taken care of in all my life before! Mr. Reay thinks I am a very lucky old fellow.”

  “Mr. Reay!” She echoed the name — and then, stooping abruptly towards the fire, began to make it up afresh. Helmsley watched her intently.

  “Don’t you like Mr. Reay?” he asked.

  She turned a smiling face round upon him.

  “Why, of course I like him!” she answered— “I think everyone in Weircombe likes him.”

  “I wonder if he’ll ever marry?” pursued Helmsley, with a meditative air.

  “Ah, I wonder! I hope if he does, he’ll find some dear sweet little girl who will really love him and be proud of him! For he’s going to be a great man, David! — a great and famous man some day!”

  “You think so?”

  “I’m sure of it!”

  And she lifted her head proudly, while her blue eyes shone with enthusiastic fervour. Helmsley made a mental note of her expression, and wondered how he could proceed.

  “And you’d like him to marry some ‘dear sweet little girl’” — he went on, reflectively— “I’ll tell him that you said so!”

  She was silent, carefully piling one or two small logs on the fire.

  “Dear sweet little girls are generally uncommonly vain of themselves,” resumed Helmsley— “And in the strength of their dearness and sweetness they sometimes fail to appreciate love when they get it. Now Mr. Reay would love very deeply, I should imagine — and I don’t think he could bear to be played with or slighted.”

  “But who would play with or slight such love as his?” asked Mary, with a warm flush on her face— “No woman that knew anything of his heart would wilfully throw it away!”

  Helmsley stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  “That story of his about a girl named Lucy Sorrel,” — he began.