Lying quietly in his bed, Helmsley conversed with his inner self, as it were, reasoning with his own human perplexities and gradually unravelling them. After all, if his life had been, as he considered, only a lesson, was it not good for him that he had learned that lesson? A passing memory of Lucy Sorrel flitted across his brain — and he thought how singular it was that chance should have brought him into touch with the very man who would have given her that “rose of love” he desired she should wear, had she realised the value and beauty of that immortal flower. He, David Helmsley, had been apparently led by devious ways, not only to find an unselfish love for himself, but also to be the instrument of atoning to Angus Reay for his first love-disappointment, and uniting him to a woman whose exquisitely tender and faithful nature was bound to make the joy and sanctity of his life. In this, had not all things been ordered well? Did it not seem that, notwithstanding his, Helmsley’s, self-admitted worthlessness, the Divine Power had used him for the happiness of others, to serve as a link of love between two deserving souls? He began to think that it was not by chance that he had been led to wander away from the centre of his business interests, and lose himself on the hills above Weircombe. Not accident, but a high design had been hidden in this incident — a design in which Self had been transformed to Selflessness, and loneliness to love. “I should like to believe in God — if I could!” This he had said to his friend Vesey, on the last night he had seen him. And now — did he believe? Yes! — for he had benefited by his first experience of what a truly God-like love may be — the love of a perfectly unselfish, tender, devout woman who, for no motive at all, but simply out of pure goodness and compassion for sorrow and suffering, had rescued one whom she judged to be in need of help. If therefore God could make one poor woman so divinely forbearing and gentle, it was certain that He, from whom all Love must emanate, was yet more merciful than the most merciful woman, as well as stronger than the strongest man. And he believed — believed implicitly; — lifted to the height of a perfect faith by the help of a perfect love. In the mirror of one sweet and simple human character he had seen the face of God — and he was of the same mind as the mighty musician who, when he was dying, cried out in rapture— “I believe I am only at the Beginning!”[A] He was conscious of a strange dual personality, — some spirit within him urgently expressed itself as being young, clamorous, inquisitive, eager, and impatient of restraint, while his natural bodily self was so weary and feeble that he felt as if he could scarcely move a hand. He listened for a little while to the ticking of the clock in the kitchen which was next to his room, — and by and by, being thoroughly drowsy, he sank into a heavy slumber. He did not know that Mary, anxious about him, had not gone to bed at all, but had resolved to sit up all night in case he should call her or want for anything. But the hours wore on peacefully for him till the moon began her downward course towards the west, and the tide having rolled in to its highest mark, began to ebb and flow out again. Then — all at once — he awoke — smitten by a shock of pain that seemed to crash through his heart and send his brain swirling into a blind chaos. Struggling for breath, he sprang up in his bed, and instinctively snatched the handbell at his side. He was hardly aware of ringing it, so great was his agony — but presently, regaining a glimmering sense of consciousness, he found Mary’s arms round him, and saw Mary’s eyes looking tenderly into his own.
“David, dear David!” And the sweet voice was shaken by tears. “David! — Oh, my poor dear, don’t you know me?”
Know her? In the Valley of the Shadow what other Angel could there be so faithful or so tender! He sighed, leaning heavily against her bosom.
“Yes, dear — I know you!” he gasped, faintly. “But — I am very ill — dying, I think! Open the window — give me air!”
She laid his head gently back on the pillow, and ran quickly to throw open the lattice. In that same moment, the dog Charlie, who had followed her downstairs from her room, jumped on the bed, and finding his master’s hand lying limp and pallid outside the coverlet, fawned upon it with a plaintive cry. The cool sea-air rushed in, and Helmsley’s sinking strength revived. He turned his eyes gratefully towards the stream of silvery moonlight that poured through the open casement.
“‘Angels ever bright and fair!’” he murmured — then as Mary came back to his side, he smiled vaguely; “I thought I heard my little sister singing!”
Slipping her arm again under his head, she carefully administered a dose of the cordial which had been made up for him as a calmative against his sudden heart attacks.
He swallowed it slowly and with difficulty.
“I’m — I’m all right,” he said, feebly. “The pain has gone. I’m sorry to have wakened you up, Mary! — but you’re always kind and patient — —”
His voice broke — and a grey pallor began to steal almost imperceptibly upwards over his wasted features. She watched him, her heart beating fast with grief and terror, — the tears rushing to her eyes in spite of her efforts to restrain them. For she saw that he was dying. The solemnly musical plash of the sea sounded rhythmically upon the quiet air like the soothing murmur of a loving mother’s lullaby, and the radiance of the moonlight flooded the little room with mystical glory. In her womanly tenderness she drew him more protectingly into the embrace of her kind arm, as though seeking to hold him back from the abyss of the Unknown, and held his head close against her breast. He opened his eyes and saw her thus bending over him. A smile brightened his face — a smile of youth, and hope, and confidence.
“The end is near, Mary!” he said in a clear, calm voice; “but — it’s not difficult! There is no pain. And you are with me. That is enough! — that is more than I ever hoped for! — more than I deserve! God bless you always!”
He shut his eyes again — but opened them quickly in a sudden struggle for breath.
“The papers!” he gasped. “Mary — Mary — you won’t forget — your promise!”
“No, David! — dear David!” she sobbed. “I won’t forget!”
The paroxysm passed, and his hand wandered over the coverlet, where it encountered the soft, crouching head of the little dog who was lying close to him, shivering in every limb.
“Why, here’s Charlie!” he whispered, weakly. “Poor wee Charlie! ‘Take care of me’ is written on his collar. Mary will take care of you, Charlie! — good-bye, little man!”
He lay quiet then, but his eyes were wide open, gazing not upward, but straight ahead, as though they saw some wondrous vision in the little room.
“Strange! — strange that I did not know all this before!” he murmured — and then was silent, still gazing straight before him. All at once a great shudder shook his body — and his thin features grew suddenly pinched and wan.
“It is almost morning!” he said, and his voice was like an echo of itself from very far away. “The sun will rise — but I shall not be here to see the sun or you, Mary!” and rallying his fast ebbing strength he turned towards her. “Keep your arms about me! — pray for me! — God will hear you — God must hear His own! Don’t cry, dear! Kiss me!”
She kissed him, clasping his poor frail form to her heart as though he were a child, and tenderly smoothing back his venerable snow-white hair. A slumbrous look of perfect peace softened the piteousness of his dying eyes.
“The only treasure!” he murmured, faintly. “The treasure of Heaven — Love! God bless you for giving it to me, Mary! — good-bye, my dear!”
“Not good-bye, David!” she cried. “No — not good-bye!”
“Yes — good-bye!” he said, — and then, as another strong shudder convulsed him, he made a last feeble effort to lay his head against her bosom. “Don’t let me go, Mary! Hold me! — closer! — closer! Your heart is warm, ah, so warm, Mary! — and death is cold — cold —— !”
Another moment — and the moonlight, streaming through the open window, fell on the quiet face of a dead man. Then came silence — broken only by the gentle murmur of the sea, and the sound of a w
oman’s weeping.
Footnote A: Beethoven.
CHAPTER XXIII
Not often is the death of a man, who to all appearances was nothing more than a “tramp,” attended by any demonstrations of sorrow. There are so many “poor” men! The roads are infested with them. It would seem, in fact, that they have no business to live at all, especially when they are old, and can do little or nothing to earn their bread. Such, generally and roughly speaking, is the opinion of the matter-of-fact world. Nevertheless, the death of “old David” created quite an atmosphere of mourning in Weircombe, though, had it been known that he was one of the world’s famous millionaires, such kindly regret and compassion might have been lacking. As things were, he carried his triumph of love to the grave with him. Mary’s grief for the loss of the gentle old man was deep and genuine, and Angus Reay shared it with her to the full.
“I shall miss him so much!” she sobbed, looking at the empty chair, which had been that of her own father. “He was always so kind and thoughtful for me — never wishing to give trouble! — poor dear old David! — and he did so hope to see us married, Angus! — you know it was through him that we knew each other!”
“I know!” — and Angus, profoundly moved, was not ashamed of the tears in his own eyes— “God bless him! He was a dear, good old fellow! But, Mary, you must not fret; he would not like to see your pretty eyes all red with weeping. This life was getting very difficult for him, remember, — he endured a good deal of pain. Bunce says he must have suffered acutely often without saying a word about it, lest you should be anxious. He is at rest now.”
“Yes, he is at rest!” — and Mary struggled to repress her tears— “Come and see!”
Hand in hand they entered the little room where the dead man lay, covered with a snowy sheet, his waxen hands crossed peacefully outside it, and delicate clusters of white roses and myrtle laid here and there around him. His face was like a fine piece of sculptured marble in its still repose — the gravity and grandeur of death had hallowed the worn features of old age, and given them a great sweetness and majesty. The two lovers stood gazing at the corpse for a moment in silent awe — then Mary whispered softly —
“He seems only asleep! And he looks happy.”
“He is happy, dear! — he must be happy!” — and Angus drew her gently away. “Poor and helpless as he was, still he found a friend in you at the last, and now all his troubles are over. He has gone to Heaven with the help and blessing of your kind and tender heart, my Mary! I am sure of that!”
She sighed, and her eyes were clouded with sadness.
“Heaven seems very far away sometimes!” she said. “And — often I wonder — what is Heaven?”
“Love!” he answered— “Love made perfect — Love that knows no change and no end! ‘Nothing is sweeter than love; nothing stronger, nothing higher, nothing broader, nothing more pleasant, nothing fuller or better in heaven and in earth, for love is born of God, and can rest only in God above all things created.’”
He quoted the beautiful words from the Imitation of Christ reverently and tenderly.
“Is that not true, my Mary?” he said, kissing her.
“Yes, Angus! For us I know it is true! — I wish it were true for all the world!”
And then there came a lovely day, perfectly brilliant and intensely calm, on which “old David,” was quietly buried in the picturesque little churchyard of Weircombe. Mary and Angus together had chosen his resting-place, a grassy knoll swept by the delicate shadows of a noble beech-tree, and facing the blue expanse of the ocean. Every man who had known and talked with him in the village offered to contribute to the expenses of his funeral, which, however, were very slight. The good Vicar would accept no burial fee, and all who knew the story of the old “tramp’s” rescue from the storm by Mary Deane, and her gentle care of him afterwards, were anxious to prove that they too were not destitute of that pure and true charity which “suffereth long and is kind.” Had David Helmsley been buried as David Helmsley the millionaire, it is more than likely that he might not have had one sincere mourner at his grave, with the exception of his friend, Sir Francis Vesey, and his valet Benson. There would have been a few “business” men, — and some empty carriages belonging to fashionable folk sent out of so-called “respect”; but of the many he had entertained, assisted and benefited, not one probably would have taken the trouble to pay him, so much as a last honour. As the poor tramping old basket-maker, whose failing strength would not allow him to earn much of a living, his simple funeral was attended by nearly a whole village, — honest men who stood respectfully bareheaded as the coffin was lowered into the grave — kind-hearted women who wept for “poor lonely soul” — as they expressed it, — and little children who threw knots of flowers into that mysterious dark hole in the ground “where people went to sleep for a little, and then came out again as angels” — as their parents told them. It was a simple ceremony, performed in a spirit of perfect piety, and without any hypocrisy or formality. And when it was all over, and the villagers had dispersed to their homes, Mr. Twitt on his way “down street,” as he termed it, from the churchyard, paused at Mary Deane’s cottage to unburden his mind of a weighty resolution.
“Ye see, Mis’ Deane, it’s like this,” he said— “I as good as promised the poor old gaffer as I’d do ’im a tombstone for nuthin’, an’ I’m ’ere to say as I aint a-goin’ back on that. But I must take my time on it. I’d like to think out a speshul hepitaph — an’ doin’ portry takes a bit of ‘ard brain work. So when the earth’s set down on ’is grave a bit, an’ the daisies is a-growin’ on the grass, I’ll mebbe ‘ave got an idea wot’ll please ye. ’E aint left any mossel o’ paper writ out like, with wot ‘e’d like put on ’im, I s’pose?”
Mary felt the colour rush to her face.
“N — no! Not that I know of, Mr. Twitt,” she said. “He has left a few papers which I promised him I would take to a friend of his, but I haven’t even looked at them yet, and don’t know to whom they are addressed. If I find anything I’ll let you know.”
“Ay, do so!” and Twitt rubbed his chin meditatively. “I wouldn’t run agin’ ’is wishes for anything if ser be I can carry ’em out. I considers as ’e wor a very fine sort — gentle as a lamb, an’ grateful for all wot was done for ’im, an’ I wants to be as friendly to ’im in ’is death as I wos in ’is life — ye understand?”
“Yes — I know — I quite understand,” said Mary. “But there’s plenty of time—”
“Yes, there’s plenty of time!” agreed Twitt. “But, lor,’ if you could only know what a pain it gives me in the ‘ed to work the portry out of it, ye wouldn’t wonder at my preparin’ ye, as ‘twere. Onny I wishes ye just to understand that it’ll all be done for love — an’ no charge.”
Mary thanked him smiling, yet with tears in her eyes, and he strolled away down the street in his usual slow and somewhat casual manner.
That evening, — the evening of the day on which all that was mortal of “old David” had been committed to the gentle ground, Mary unlocked the cupboard of which he had given her the key on the last night of his life, and took out the bulky packet it contained. She read the superscription with some surprise and uneasiness. It was addressed to a Mr. Bulteel, in a certain street near Chancery Lane, London. Now Mary had never been to London in her life. The very idea of going to that vast unknown metropolis half scared her, and she sat for some minutes, with the sealed packet in her lap, quite confused and troubled.
“Yet I made the promise!” she said to herself— “And I dare not break it! I must go. And I must not tell Angus anything about it — that’s the worst part of all!”
She gazed wistfully at the packet, — anon she turned it over and over. It was sealed in several places — but the seal had no graven impress, the wax having merely been pressed with the finger.
“I must go!” she repeated. “I’m bound to deliver it myself to the man for whom it is intended. But what a journey it will be! To
London!”
Absorbed in thought, she started as a tap came at the cottage door, — and rising, she hurriedly put the package out of sight, just as Angus entered.
“Mary,” he said, as he came towards her— “Do you know, I’ve been thinking we had better get quietly married as soon as possible?”
She smiled.
“Why? Is the book finished?” she asked.
“No, it isn’t. I wish it was! But it will be finished in another month — —”
“Then let us wait that other month,” she said. “You will be happier, I know, if the work is off your mind.”
“Yes — I shall be happier — but Mary, I can’t bear to think of you all alone in this little cottage — —”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 695