Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “We must tell David,” said Mary, as they reached the bottom of the hill. “Poor old dear! I think he will be glad.”

  “I know he will!” and Angus smiled confidently. “He’s been waiting for this ever since Christmas Day!”

  Mary’s eyes opened in wonderment.

  “Ever since Christmas Day?”

  “Yes. I told him then that I loved you, Mary, — that I wanted to ask you to marry me, — but that I felt I was too poor — —”

  Her hand stole through his arm.

  “Too poor, Angus! Am I not poor also?”

  “Not as poor as I am,” he answered, promptly possessing himself of the caressing hand. “In fact, you’re quite rich compared to me. You’ve got a house, and you’ve got work, which brings you in enough to live upon, — now I haven’t a roof to call my own, and my stock of money is rapidly coming to an end. I’ve nothing to depend upon but my book, — and if I can’t sell that when it’s finished, where am I? I’m nothing but a beggar — less well off than I was as a wee boy when I herded cattle. And I’m not going to marry you — —”

  She stopped in her walk and looked at him with a smile.

  “Oh Angus! I thought you were!”

  He kissed the hand he held.

  “Don’t make fun of me, Mary! I won’t allow it! I am going to marry you! — but I’m not going to marry you till I’ve sold my book. I don’t suppose I’ll get more than a hundred pounds for it, but that will do to start housekeeping together on. Won’t it?”

  “I should think it would indeed!” and she lifted her head with quite a proud gesture— “It will be a fortune!”

  “Of course,” he went on, “the cottage is yours, and all that is in it. I can’t add much to that, because to my mind, it’s just perfect. I never want any sweeter, prettier little home. But I want to work for you, Mary, so that you’ll not have to work for yourself, you understand?”

  She nodded her head gravely.

  “I understand! You want me to sit with my hands folded in my lap, doing nothing at all, and getting lazy and bad-tempered.”

  “Now you know I don’t!” he expostulated.

  “Yes, you do, Angus! If you don’t want me to work, you want me to be a perfectly useless and tiresome woman! Why, my dearest, now that you love me, I should like to work all the harder! If you think the cottage pretty, I shall try to make it even prettier. And I don’t want to give up all my lace-mending. It’s just as pleasant and interesting as the fancy-work which the rich ladies play with You must really let me go on working, Angus! I shall be a perfectly unbearable person if you don’t!”

  She looked so sweetly at him, that as they were at the moment passing under the convenient shadow of a tree he took her in his arms and kissed her.

  “When you become a perfectly unbearable person,” he said, “then it will be time for another deluge, and a general renovation of human kind. You shall work if you like, my Mary, but you shall not work for me. See?”

  A tender smile lingered in her eyes.

  “I see!” and linking her arm through his again, she moved on with him over the thyme-scented grass, her dress gently sweeping across the stray clusters of golden cowslips that nodded here and there. “I will work for myself, you will work for me, and old David will work for both of us!”

  They laughed joyously.

  “Poor old David!” said Angus. “He’s been wondering why I have not spoken to you before, — he declared he couldn’t understand it. But then I wasn’t quite sure whether you liked me at all — —”

  “Weren’t you?” and her glance was eloquent.

  “No — and I asked him to find out!”

  She looked at him in a whimsical wonderment.

  “You asked him to find out? And did he?”

  “He seems to think so. At any rate, he gave me courage to speak.”

  Mary grew suddenly meditative.

  “Do you know, Angus,” she said, “I think old David was sent to me for a special purpose. Some great and good influence guided him to me — I am sure of it. You don’t know all his history. Shall I tell it to you?”

  “Yes — do tell me — but I think I know it. Was he not a former old friend of your father’s?”

  “No — that’s a story I had to invent to satisfy the curiosity of the villagers. It would never have done to let them know that he was only an old tramp whom I found ill and nearly dying out on the hills during a great storm we had last summer. There had been heavy thunder and lightning all the afternoon, and when the storm ceased I went to my door to watch the clearing off of the clouds, and I heard a dog yelping pitifully on the hill just above the coombe. I went out to see what was the matter, and there I found an old man lying quite unconscious on the wet grass, looking as if he were dead, and a little dog — you know Charlie? — guarding him and barking as loudly as it could. Well, I brought him back to life, and took him home and nursed him — and — that’s all. He told me his name was David — and that he had been ‘on the tramp’ to Cornwall to find a friend. You know the rest.”

  “Then he is really quite a stranger to you, Mary?” said Angus wonderingly.

  “Quite. He never knew my father. But I am sure if Dad had been alive, he would have rescued him just as I did, and then he would have been his ‘friend,’ — he could not have helped himself. That’s the way I argued it out to my own heart and conscience.”

  Angus looked at her.

  “You darling!” he said suddenly.

  She laughed.

  “That doesn’t come in!” she said.

  “It does come in! It comes in everywhere!” he declared. “There’s no other woman in the world that would have done so much for a poor forlorn old tramp like that, adrift on the country roads. And you exposed yourself to some risk, too, Mary! He might have been a dangerous character!”

  “Poor dear, he didn’t look it,” she said gently— “and he hasn’t proved it. Everything has gone well for me since I did my best for him. It was even through him that you came to know me, Angus! — think of that! Blessings on the dear old man! — I’m sure he must be an angel in disguise!”

  He smiled.

  “Well, we never know!” he said. “Angels certainly don’t come to us with all the celestial splendour which is supposed to belong to them — they may perhaps choose the most unlikely way in which to make their errands known. I have often — especially lately — thought that I have seen an angel looking at me out of the eyes of a woman!”

  “You will talk poetry!” protested Mary.

  “I’m not talking it — I’m living it!” he answered.

  There was nothing to be said to this. He was an incorrigible lover, and remonstrances were in vain.

  “You must not tell David’s real history to any of the villagers,” said Mary presently, as they came in sight of her cottage— “I wouldn’t like them to know it.”

  “They shall never know it so far as I am concerned,” he answered. “He’s been a good friend to me — and I wouldn’t cause him a moment’s trouble. I’d like to make him happier if I could!”

  “I don’t think that’s possible,” — and her eyes were clouded for a moment with a shadow of melancholy— “You see he has no money, except the little he earns by basket-making, and he’s very far from strong. We must be kind to him, Angus, as long as he needs kindness.”

  Angus agreed, with sundry ways of emphasis that need not here be narrated, as they composed a formula which could not be rendered into set language. Arriving at the cottage they found the door open, and no one in the kitchen, — but on the table lay two sprigs of sweetbriar. Angus caught sight of them at once.

  “Mary! See! Don’t you think he knows?”

  She stood hesitating, with a lovely wavering colour in her cheeks.

  “Don’t you remember,” he went on, “you gave me a bit of sweetbriar on the evening of the first day we ever met?”

  “I remember!” and her voice was very soft and tremulous.

  “I
have that piece of sweetbriar still,” he said; “I shall never part with it. And old David must have known all about it!”

  He took up the little sprays set ready for them, and putting one in his own buttonhole, fastened the other in her bodice with a loving, lingering touch.

  “It’s a good emblem,” he said, kissing her— “Sweet Briar — sweet Love! — not without thorns, which are the safety of the rose!”

  A slow step sounded on the garden path, and they saw Helmsley approaching, with the tiny “Charlie” running at his heels. Pausing on the threshold of the open door, he looked at them with a questioning smile.

  “Well, did you see the sunset?” he asked, “Or only each other?”

  Mary ran to him, and impulsively threw her arms about his neck.

  “Oh David!” she said. “Dear old David! I am so happy!”

  He was silent, — her gentle embrace almost unmanned him. He stretched out a hand to Angus, who grasped it warmly.

  “So it’s all right!” he said, in a low voice that trembled a little. “You’ve settled it together?”

  “Yes — we’ve settled it, David!” Angus answered cheerily. “Give us your blessing!”

  “You have that — God knows you have that!” — and as Mary, in her usual kindly way, took his hat and stick from him, keeping her arm through his as he went to his accustomed chair by the fireside, he glanced at her tenderly. “You have it with all my heart and soul, Mr. Reay! — and as for this dear lady who is to be your wife, all I can say is that you have won a treasure — yes, a treasure of goodness and sweetness and patience, and most heavenly kindness — —”

  His voice failed him, and the quick tears sprang to Mary’s eyes.

  “Now, David, please stop!” she said, with a look between affection and remonstrance. “You are a terrible flatterer! You mustn’t spoil me.”

  “Nothing will spoil you!” he answered, quietly. “Nothing could spoil you! All the joy in the world, all the prosperity in the world, could not change your nature, my dear! Mr. Reay knows that as well as I do, — and I’m sure he thanks God for it! You are all love and gentleness, as a woman should be, — as all women would be if they were wise!”

  He paused a moment, and then, raising himself a little more uprightly in his chair, looked at them both earnestly.

  “And now that you have made up your minds to share your lives together,” he went on, “you must not think that I will be so selfish as to stay on here and be a burden to you both. I should like to see you married, but after that I will go away — —”

  “You will do nothing of the sort!” said Mary, dropping on her knees beside him and lifting her serene eyes to his face. “You don’t want to make us unhappy, do you? This is your home, as long as it is ours, remember! We would not have you leave us on any account, would we, Angus?”

  “Indeed no!” answered Reay, heartily. “David, what are you talking about? Aren’t you the cause of my knowing Mary? Didn’t you bring me to this dear little cottage first of all? Don’t I owe all my happiness to you? And you talk about going away! It’s pretty evident you don’t know what’s good for you! Look here! If I’m good for anything at all, I’m good for hard work — and for that matter I may as well go in for the basket-making trade as well as the book-making profession. We’ve got Mary to work for, David! — and we’ll both work for her — together!”

  Helmsley turned upon him a face in which the expression was difficult to define.

  “You really mean that?” he said.

  “Really mean it! Of course I do! Why shouldn’t I mean it?”

  There was a moment’s silence, and Helmsley, looking down on Mary as she knelt beside him, laid his hand caressingly on her hair.

  “I think,” he said gently, “that you are both too kind-hearted and impulsive, and that you are undertaking a task which should not be imposed upon you. You offer me a continued home with you after your marriage — but who am I that I should accept such generosity from you? I am not getting younger. Every day robs me of some strength — and my work — such work as I can do — will be of very little use to you. I may suffer from illness, which will cause you trouble and expense, — death is closer to me than life — and why should I die on your hands? It can only mean trouble for you if I stay on, — and though I am grateful to you with all my heart — more grateful than I can say” — and his voice trembled— “I know I ought to be unselfish, — and that the truest and best way to thank you for all you have done for me is to go away and leave you in peace and happiness — —”

  “We should not be happy without you, David!” declared Mary. “Can’t you, won’t you understand that we are both fond of you?”

  “Fond of me!” And he smiled. “Fond of a useless old wreck who can scarcely earn a day’s wage!”

  “That’s rather wide of the mark, David!” said Reay. “Mary’s not the woman — and I’m sure I’m not the man — to care for any one on account of the money he can make. We like you for yourself, — so don’t spoil this happiest day of our lives by suggesting any separation between us. Do you hear?”

  “I hear!” — and a sudden brightness flashed up in Helmsley’s sunken eyes, making them look almost young— “And I understand! I understand that though I am poor and old, and a stranger to you, — you are giving me friendship such as rich men often seek for and never find! — and I will try, — yes, I will try, God helping me, — to be worthy of your trust! If I stay with you — —”

  “There must be no ‘if’ in the case, David!” said Mary, smiling up at him.

  He stroked her bright hair caressingly.

  “Well, then, I will put it not ‘if,’ but as long as I stay with you,” he answered— “as long as I stay with you, I will do all I can to show you how grateful I am to you, — and — and — I will never give you cause” — here he spoke more slowly, and with deliberate emphasis— “I will never give you cause to regret your confidence in me! I want you both to be glad — not sorry — that you spared a lonely old man a little of your affection!”

  “We are glad, David!” — and Mary, as he lifted his hand from her head, caught it and kissed it lightly. “And we shall never be sorry! And here is Charlie” — and she picked up the little dog as she spoke and fondled it playfully,— “wondering why he is not included in the family party! For, after all, it is quite your affair, isn’t it, Charlie? You were the cause of my finding David out on the hills! — and David was the cause of my knowing Angus — so if it hadn’t been for you, nothing would have happened at all, Charlie! — and I should have been a lonely old maid all the days of my life! And I can’t do anything to show my gratitude to you, you quaint wee soul, but give you a saucer of cream!”

  She laughed, and springing up, began to prepare the tea. While she was moving quickly to and fro on this household business, Helmsley beckoned Reay to come closer to him.

  “Speak frankly, Mr. Reay!” he said. “As the master of her heart, you are the master of her home. I can easily slip away — and tramping is not such hard work in summer time. Shall I go?”

  “If you go, I shall start out and bring you back again,” replied Reay, shaking his head at him determinedly. “You won’t get so far but that I shall be able to catch you up in an hour! Please consider that you belong to us, — and that we have no intention of parting with you!”

  Tears rose in Helmsley’s eyes, and for a moment he covered them with his hand. Angus saw that he was deeply moved, and to avoid noticing him, especially as he was somewhat affected himself by the touching gratefulness of this apparently poor and lonely old man, went after Mary with all the pleasant ease and familiarity of an accepted lover, to help her bring in the tea. The tiny “Charlie,” meanwhile, sitting on the hearth in a vigilantly erect attitude, with quivering nose pointed in a creamward direction, waited for the approach of the expected afternoon refreshment, trembling from head to tail with nervous excitement. And Helmsley, left alone for those few moments, presently mastered the strong emotion
which made him long to tell his true history to the two sincere souls who, out of his whole life’s experience, had alone proved themselves faithful to the spirit of a friendship wherein the claims of cash had no part. Regaining full command of himself, and determining to act out the part he had elected to play to whatever end should most fittingly arrive, — an end he could not as yet foresee, — he sat quietly in his chair as usual, gazing into the fire with the meditative patience and calm of old age, and silently building up in a waking dream the last story of his House of Love, — which now promised to be like that house spoken of in the Divine Parable— “And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat upon that house, and it fell not, for it was founded upon a rock.” For as he knew, — and as we all must surely know, — the greatest rains and floods and winds of a world of sorrow, are powerless to destroy love, if love be true.

  CHAPTER XX

  Three days later, when the dawn was scarcely declared and the earliest notes of the waking birds trembled on the soft air with the faint sweetness of a far-off fluty piping, the door of Mary Deane’s cottage opened stealthily, and David Helmsley, dressed ready for a journey, stepped noiselessly out into the little garden. He wore the same ordinary workman’s outfit in which he had originally started on his intended “ tramp,” including the vest which he had lined with banknotes, and which he had not used once since his stay with Mary Deane. For she had insisted on his wearing the warmer and softer garments which had once belonged to her own father, — and all these he had now taken off and left behind him, carefully folded up on the bed in his room. He had examined his money and had found it just as he had placed it, — even the little “surprise packet” which poor Tom o’ the Gleam had collected for his benefit in the “Trusty Man’s” common room, was still in the side-pocket where he had himself put it. Unripping a corner of the vest lining, he took out two five-pound notes, and with these in a rough leather purse for immediate use, and his stout ash stick grasped firmly in his hand, he started out to walk to the top of the coombe where he knew the path brought him to the verge of the highroad leading to Minehead. As he moved almost on tip-toe through Mary’s garden, now all fragrant with golden wall-flowers, lilac, and mayblossom, he paused a moment, — looking up at the picturesque gabled eaves and latticed windows. A sudden sense of loneliness affected him almost to tears. For now he had not even the little dog Charlie with him to console him — that canine friend slept in a cushioned basket in Mary’s room, and was therefore all unaware that his master was leaving him.