Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  There was quite a little rejoicing in the village of Weircombe when it was known he had returned from his brief wanderings, and there was also a good deal of commiseration expressed for him when it was known that he was somewhat weakened in physical health by his efforts to find more paying work. Many of the children with whom he was a favourite came up to see him, bringing little knots of flowers, or curious trophies of weed and shells from the seashore — and now that the weather was settled fine and warm, he became accustomed to sit in his chair outside the cottage door in the garden, with the old sweetbriar bush shedding perfume around him, and a clambering rose breaking into voluptuous creamy pink blossom above his head. Here he would pursue his occupation of basket-making, and most of the villagers made it their habit to pass up and down at least once or twice a day in their turns, to see how he fared, or, as they themselves expressed it, “to keep old David going.” His frail bent figure, his thin, intellectual face, with its composed expression of peace and resignation, his soft white hair, and his slow yet ever patiently working hands, made up a picture which, set in the delicate framework of leaf and blossom, was one to impress the imagination and haunt the memory. Mr. and Mrs. Twitt were constant visitors, and many were the would-be jocose remarks of the old stonemason on David’s temporary truancy.

  “Wanted more work, did ye?” And thrusting his hands deep in the pockets of his corduroys, Twitt looked at him with a whimsical complacency. “Well, why didn’t ye come down to the stoneyard an’ learn ‘ow to cut a hepitaph? Nice chippy, easy work in its way, an’ no ‘arm in yer sittin’ down to it. Why didn’t ye, eh?”

  “I’ve never had enough education for such work as that, Mr. Twitt,” answered David mildly, with something of a humorous sparkle in his eyes. “I’m afraid I should spoil more than I could pay for. You want an artist — not an untrained clumsy old fellow like me.”

  “Oh, blow artists!” said Mr. Twitt irreverently. “They talks a lot — they talks yer ‘ed off — but they doos onny ‘arf the labour as they spends in waggin’ their tongues. An’ for a hepitaph, they none of ’em aint got an idee. It’s allus Scripter texes with ’em, — they aint got no ‘riginality. Now I’m a reg’lar Scripter reader, an’ nowheres do I find it writ as we’re to use the words o’ God Himself to carve on tombstones for our speshul convenience, cos we aint no notions o’ feelin’ an’ respect of our own. But artists can’t think o’ nothin’, an’ I never cares to employ ’em. Yet for all that there’s not a sweeter, pruttier place than our little cemetery nowheres in all the world. There aint no tyranny in it, an’ no pettifoggin’ interference. Why, there’s places in England where ye can’t put what ye likes over the grave o’ yer dead friends! — ye’ve got to ‘submit’ yer idee to the parzon, or wot’s worse, the Corporation, if ser be yer last go-to-bed place is near a town. There’s a town I know of,” and here Mr. Twitt began to laugh,— “wheer ye can’t ‘ave a moniment put up to your dead folk without ‘subjectin’’ the design to the Town Council — an’ we all knows the fine taste o’ Town Councils! They’se ‘artists,’ an’ no mistake! I’ve got the rules of the cemetery of that town for my own eddification. They runs like this—” And drawing a paper from his pocket, he read as follows: —

  “‘All gravestones, monuments, tombs, tablets, memorials, palisades, curbs, and inscriptions shall be subject to the approval of the Town Council; and a drawing, showing the form, materials, and dimensions of every gravestone, monument, tomb, tablet, memorial, palisades, or curb proposed to be erected or fixed, together with a copy of the inscription intended to be cut thereon (if any), on the form provided by the Town Council, must be left at the office of the Clerk at least ten days before the first Tuesday in any month. The Town Council reserve to themselves the right to remove or prevent the erection of any monument, tomb, tablet, memorial, etc., which shall not have previously received their sanction.’ There! What d’ ye think of that?”

  Helmsley had listened in astonishment.

  “Think? I think it is monstrous!” he said, with some indignation. “Such a Town Council as that is a sort of many-headed tyrant, resolved to persecute the unhappy townspeople into their very graves!”

  “Right y’ are!” said Twitt. “But there’s a many on ’em! An’ ye may thank yer stars ye’re not anywheres under ’em. Now when you goes the way o’ all flesh — —”

  He paused, suddenly embarrassed, and conscious that he had perhaps touched on a sore subject. But Helmsley reassured him.

  “Yes, Twitt? Don’t stop! — what then?”

  “Why, then,” said Twitt, almost tenderly, “ye’ll ‘ave our good old parzon to see ye properly tucked under a daisy quilt, an’ wotever ye wants put on yer tomb, or wotever’s writ on it, can be yer own desire, if ye’ll think about it afore ye goes. An’ there’ll be no expense at all — for I tell ye just the truth — I’ve grown to like ye that well that I’ll carve ye the pruttiest little tombstone ye ever seed for nothin’!”

  Helmsley smiled.

  “Well, I shan’t be able to thank you then, Mr. Twitt, so I thank you now,” he said. “You know a good deed is always rewarded, if not in this world, then in the next.”

  “I b’leeve that,” rejoined Twitt; “I b’leeve it true. And though I know Mis’ Deane is that straight an’ ‘onest, she’d see ye properly mementoed an’ paid for, I wouldn’t take a penny from ‘er — not on account of a kindly old gaffer like yerself. I’d do it all friendly.”

  “Of course you would!” and Helmsley shook his hand heartily; “And of course you will!”

  This, and many other conversations he had with Twitt and a certain few of the villagers, showed him that the little community of Weircombe evidently thought of him as being not long for this world. He accepted the position quietly, and passed day after day peacefully enough, without feeling any particular illness, save a great weakness in his limbs. He was in himself particularly happy, for Mary was always with him, and Angus passed every evening with them both. Another great pleasure, too, he found in the occasional and entirely unobtrusive visits of the parson of the little parish — a weak and ailing man physically, but in soul and intellect exceptionally strong. As different from the Reverend Mr. Arbroath as an old-time Crusader would be from a modern jockey, he recognised the sacred character of his mission as an ordained minister of Christ, and performed that mission simply and faithfully. He would sit by Helmsley’s chair of a summer afternoon and talk with him as friend to friend — it made no difference to him that to all appearances the old man was poor and dependent on Mary Deane’s bounty, and that his former life was, to him, the clergyman, a sealed book; he was there to cheer and to comfort, not to inquire, reproach, or condemn. He was the cheeriest of companions, and the most hopeful of believers.

  “If all clergymen were like you, sir,” said Helmsley to him one day, “there would be no atheists!”

  The good man reddened at the compliment, as though he had been accused of a crime.

  “You think too kindly of my efforts,” he said gently. “I only speak to you as I would wish others to speak to me.”

  “‘For this is the Law and the Prophets!’” murmured Helmsley. “Sir, will you tell me one thing — are there many poor people in Weircombe?”

  The clergyman looked a trifle surprised.

  “Why, yes, to tell the exact truth, they are all poor people in Weircombe,” he answered. “You see, it is really only a little fishing village. The rich people’s places are situated all about it, here and there at various miles of distance, but no one with money lives in Weircombe itself.”

  “Yet every one seems happy,” said Helmsley thoughtfully.

  “Oh, yes, every one not only seems, but is happy!” and the clergyman smiled. “They have the ordinary troubles that fall to the common lot, of course — but they are none of them discontented. There’s very little drunkenness, and as a consequence, very little quarrelling. They are a good set of people — typically English of England!”

  “If som
e millionaire were to leave every man, woman, and child a thousand or more pounds apiece, I wonder what would happen?” suggested Helmsley.

  “Their joy would be turned to misery!” said the clergyman— “and their little heaven would become a hell! Fortunately for them, such a disaster is not likely to happen!”

  Helmsley was silent; and after his kindly visitor had left him that day sat for a long time absorbed in thought, his hands resting idly on the osiers which he was gradually becoming too weak to bend.

  It was now wearing on towards the middle of June, and on one fine morning when Mary was carefully spreading out on a mending-frame a wonderful old flounce of priceless point d’Alençon lace, preparatory to examining the numerous repairs it needed, Helmsley turned towards her abruptly with the question —

  “When are you and Angus going to be married, my dear?”

  Mary smiled, and the soft colour flew over her face at the suggestion.

  “Oh, not for a long time yet, David!” she replied. “Angus has not yet finished his book, — and even when it is all done, he has to get it published. He won’t have the banns put up till the book is accepted.”

  “Won’t he?” And Helmsley’s eyes grew very wistful. “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s for quite a good reason, after all,” she said. “He wants to feel perfectly independent. You see, if he could get even a hundred pounds down for his book he would be richer than I am, and it would be all right. He’d never marry me with nothing at all of his own.”

  “Yet you would marry him?”

  “I’m not sure that I would,” and she lifted her hand with a prettily proud gesture. “You see, David, I really love him! And my love is too strong and deep for me to be so selfish as to wish to drag him down. I wouldn’t have him lower his own self-respect for the world!”

  “Love is greater than self-respect!” said Helmsley.

  “Oh, David! You know better than that! There’s no love without self-respect — no real love, I mean. There are certain kinds of stupid fancies called love — but they’ve no ‘wear’ in them!” and she laughed. “They wouldn’t last a month, let alone a lifetime!”

  He sighed a little, and his lips trembled nervously.

  “I’m afraid, my dear, — I’m afraid I shall not live to see you married!” he said.

  She left her lace frame and came to his side.

  “Don’t say that, David! You mustn’t think it for a moment. You’re much better than you were — even Mr. Bunce says so!”

  “Even Mr. Bunce!” And he took her hand in his own and studied its smooth whiteness and beautiful shape attentively — anon he patted it tenderly. “You have a pretty hand, Mary! It’s a rare beauty!”

  “Is it?” And she looked at her rosy palm meditatively. “I’ve never thought much about it — but I’ve noticed that Angus and you both have nice hands.”

  “Especially Angus!” said Helmsley, with a smile.

  Her face reflected the smile.

  “Yes. Especially Angus!”

  After this little conversation Helmsley was very quiet and thoughtful. Often indeed he sat with eyes closed, pretending to sleep, in order inwardly to meditate on the plans he had most at heart. He saw no reason to alter them, — though the idea presented itself once or twice as to whether he should not reveal his actual identity to the clergyman who visited him so often, and who was, apart from his sacred calling, not only a thinking, feeling, humane creature, but a very perfect gentleman. But on due reflection he saw that this might possibly lead to awkward complications, so he still resolved to pursue the safer policy of silence.

  One evening, when Angus Reay had come in as usual to sit awhile and chat with him before he went to bed, he could hardly control a slight nervous start when Reay observed casually —

  “By the way, David, that old millionaire I told you about, Helmsley, isn’t dead after all!”

  “Oh — isn’t he?” And Helmsley feigned to be affected with a troublesome cough which necessitated his looking away for a minute. “Has he turned up?”

  “Yes — he’s turned up. That is to say, that he’s expected back in town for the ‘season,’ as the Cooing Column of the paper says.”

  “Why, what’s the Cooing Column?” asked Mary, laughing.

  “The fashionable intelligence corner,” answered Angus, joining in her laughter. “I call it the Cooing Column, because it’s the place where all the doves of society, soiled and clean, get their little grain of personal advertisement. They pay for it, of course. There it is that the disreputable Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup gets it announced that she wore a collar of diamonds at the Opera, and there the battered, dissipated Lord ‘Jimmy’ Jenkins has it proudly stated that his yacht is undergoing ‘extensive alterations.’ Who in the real work-a-day, sane world cares a button whether his lordship Jenkins sails in his yacht or sinks in it! And Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup’s diamonds are only so much fresh fuel piled on the burning anguish of starving and suffering men, — anguish which results in anarchy. Any number of anarchists are bred from the Cooing Column!”

  “What would you have rich men do?” asked Helmsley suddenly. “If all their business turns out much more successfully than they have ever expected, and they make millions almost despite their own desire, what would you have them do with their wealth?”

  Angus thought a moment.

  “It would be difficult to advise,” he said at last. “For one thing I would not have them pauperise two of the finest things in this world and the best worth fighting for — Education and Literature. The man who has no struggle at all to get himself educated is only half a man. And literature which is handed to the people free of cost is shamed by being put at a lower level than beer and potatoes, for which every man has to pay. Andrew Carnegie I look upon as one of the world’s big meddlers. A ‘cute’ meddler too, for he takes care to do nothing that hasn’t got his name tacked on to it. However, I’m in great hopes that his pauperising of Scottish University education may in time wear itself out, and that Scotsmen will be sufficiently true to the spirit of Robert Burns to stick to the business of working and paying for what they get. I hate all things that are given gratis. There’s always a smack of the advertising agent about them. God Himself gives nothing ‘free’ — you’ve got to pay with your very life for each gulp of air you breathe, — and rightly too! And if you try to get something out of His creation without paying for it, the bill is presented in due course with compound interest!”

  “I agree with you,” said Helmsley. “But what, then, of the poor rich men? You don’t approve of Carnegie’s methods of disbursing wealth. What would you suggest?”

  “The doing of private good,” replied Angus promptly. “Good that is never heard of, never talked of, never mentioned in the Cooing Column. A rich man could perform acts of the most heavenly and helpful kindness if he would only go about personally and privately among the very poor, make friends with them, and himself assist them. But he will hardly ever do this. Now the millionaire who is going to marry my first love, Lucy Sorrel — —”

  “Oh, is he going to marry her?” And Helmsley looked up with sudden interest.

  “Well, I suppose he is!” And Angus threw back his head and laughed. “He’s to be back in town for the ‘season’ — and you know what the London ‘season’ is!”

  “I’m sure we don’t!” said Mary, with an amused glance. “Tell us!”

  “An endless round of lunches, dinners, balls, operas, theatres, card-parties, and inane jabber,” he answered. “A mixture of various kinds of food which people eat recklessly with the natural results, — dyspepsia, inertia, mental vacuity, and general uselessness. A few Court ‘functions,’ some picture shows, and two or three great races — and — that’s all. Some unfortunate marriages are usually the result of each year’s motley.”

  “And you think the millionaire you speak of will be one of the unfortunate ones?” said Helmsley.

  “Yes, David, I do! If he’s going back to London for the season,
Lucy Sorrel will never let him out of her sight again! She’s made up her mind to be a Mrs. Millionaire, and she’s not troubled by any over-sensitiveness or delicacy of sentiment.”

  “That I quite believe — from what you have told me,” — and Helmsley smiled. “But what do the papers — what does the Cooing Column say?”

  “The Cooing Column says that one of the world’s greatest millionaires, Mr. David Helmsley, who has been abroad for nearly a year for the benefit of his health, will return to his mansion in Carlton House Terrace this month for the ‘season.’”

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s all. Mary, my bonnie Mary,” — and Angus put an arm tenderly round the waist of his promised wife— “Your husband may, perhaps — only perhaps! — become famous — but you’ll never, never be a Mrs. Millionaire!”

  She laughed and blushed as he kissed her.

  “I don’t want ever to be rich,” she said. “I’d rather be poor!”

  They went out into the little garden then, with their arms entwined, — and Helmsley, seated in his chair under the rose-covered porch, watched them half in gladness, half in trouble. Was he doing well for them, he wondered? Or ill? Would the possession of wealth disturb the idyll of their contented lives, their perfect love? Almost he wished that he really were in very truth the forlorn and homeless wayfarer he had assumed to be, — wholly and irrevocably poor!

  That night in his little room, when everything was quiet, and Mary was soundly sleeping in the attic above him, he rose quietly from his bed, and lighting a candle, took pen and ink and made a few additions to the letter of instructions which accompanied his will. Some evenings previously, when Mary and Angus had gone out for a walk together, he had taken the opportunity to disburden his “workman’s coat” of all the banknotes contained in the lining, and, folding them up in one parcel, had put them in a sealed envelope, which envelope he marked in a certain fashion, enclosing it in the larger envelope which contained his will. In the same way he made a small, neatly sealed packet of the “collection” made for him at the “Trusty Man” by poor Tom o’ the Gleam, marking that also. Now, on this particular night, feeling that he had done all he could think of to make business matters fairly easy to deal with, he packed up everything in one parcel, which he tied with a string and sealed securely, addressing it to Sir Francis Vesey. This parcel he again enclosed in another, equally tied up and sealed, the outer wrapper of which he addressed to one John Bulteel at certain offices in London, which were in truth the offices of Vesey and Symonds, Bulteel being their confidential clerk. The fact that Angus Reay knew the name of the firm which had been mentioned in the papers as connected with the famous millionaire, David Helmsley, caused him to avoid inscribing it on the packet which would have to be taken to its destination immediately after his death. As he had now arranged things, it would be conveyed to the office unsuspectingly, and Bulteel, opening the first wrapper, would see that the contents were for Sir Francis, and would take them to him at once. Locking the packet in the little cupboard in the wall which Mary had given him, as she playfully said, “to keep his treasures in” — he threw himself again on his bed, and, thoroughly exhausted, tried to sleep.