Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  She gently interrupted him.

  “I was all alone for five years after my father died,” she said. “And though I was sometimes a little sad, I was not dull, because I always had work to do. Dear old David was a good companion, and it was pleasant to take care of him — indeed, this last year has been quite a happy one for me, and I shan’t find it hard to live alone in the cottage for just a month now. Don’t worry about me, Angus!”

  He stooped and picked up Charlie, who, since his master’s death, had been very dispirited.

  “You see, Mary,” he said, as he fondled the little dog and stroked its silky hair— “nothing will alter the fact that you are richer than I am. You do regular work for which you get regular pay — now I have no settled work at all, and not much chance of pay, even for the book on which I’ve been spending nearly a year of my time. You’ve got a house which you can keep going — and very soon I shall not be able to afford so much as a room! — think of that! And yet — I have the impertinence to ask you to marry me! Forgive me, dear! It is, as you say, better to wait.”

  She came and entwined her arms about him.

  “I’ll wait a month,” she said— “No longer, Angus! By that time, if you don’t marry me, I shall summons you for breach of promise!”

  She smiled — but he still remained thoughtful.

  “Angus!” she said suddenly— “I want to tell you — I shall have to go away from Weircombe for a day — perhaps two days.”

  He looked surprised.

  “Go away!” he echoed. “What for? Where to?”

  She told him then of “old David’s” last request to her, and of the duty she had undertaken to perform.

  He listened gravely.

  “You must do it, of course,” he said. “But will you have to travel far?”

  “Some distance from Weircombe,” she answered, evasively.

  “May I not go with you?” he asked.

  She hesitated.

  “I promised — —” she began.

  “And you shall not break your word,” he said, kissing her. “You are so true, my Mary, that I wouldn’t tempt you to change one word or even half a word of what you have said to any one, living or dead. When do you want to take this journey?”

  “To-morrow, or the next day,” she said. “I’ll ask Mrs. Twitt to see to the house and look after Charlie, and I’ll be back again as quickly as I can. Because, when I’ve given the papers over to David’s friend, whoever he is, I shall have nothing more to do but just come home.”

  This being settled, it was afterwards determined that the next day but one would be the most convenient for her to go, as she could then avail herself of the carrier’s cart to take her as far as Minehead. But she was not allowed to start on her unexpected travels without a burst of prophecy from Mrs. Twitt.

  “As I’ve said an’ allus thought,” said that estimable lady— “Old David ‘ad suthin’ ‘idden in ’is ‘art wot ’e never giv’ away to nobody. Mark my words, Mis’ Deane!— ’e ‘ad a sin or a sorrer at the back of ’im, an’ whichever it do turn out to be I’m not a-goin’ to blame ’im either way, for bein’ dead ‘e’s dead, an’ them as sez unkind o’ the dead is apt to be picked morsels for the devil’s gridiron. But now that you’ve got a packet to take to old David’s friends somewheres, you may take my word for ‘t, Mis’ Deane, you’ll find out as ’e was wot ye didn’t expect. Onny last night, as I was a-sittin’ afore the kitchen fire, for though bein’ summer I’m that chilly that I feels the least change in the temper o’ the sea, — as I was a-sittin’, I say, out jumps a cinder as long as a pine cone, red an’ glowin’ like a candle at the end. An’ I stares at the thing, an’ I sez: ‘That’s either a purse o’ money, or a journey with a coffin at the end’ — an’ the thing burns an’ shines like a reg’lar spark of old Nick’s cookin’ stove, an’ though I pokes an’ pokes it, it won’t go out, but lies on the ‘erth, frizzlin’ all the time. An’ I do ‘ope, Mis’ Deane, as now yer goin’ off to ‘and over old David’s effecks to the party interested, ye’ll come back safe, for the poor old dear ‘adn’t a penny to bless ‘isself with, so the cinder must mean the journey, an’ bein’ warned, ye’ll guard agin the coffin at the end.”

  Mary smiled rather sadly.

  “I’ll take care!” she said. “But I don’t think anything very serious is likely to happen. Poor old David had no friends, — and probably the few papers he has left are only for some relative who would not do anything for him while he was alive, but who, all the same, has to be told that he is dead.”

  “Maybe so!” and Mrs. Twitt nodded her head profoundly— “But that cinder worn’t made in the fire for nowt! Such a shape as ’twas don’t grow out of the flames twice in twenty year!”

  And, with the conviction of the village prophetess she assumed to be, she was not to be shaken from the idea that strange discoveries were pending respecting “old David.” Mary herself could not quite get rid of a vague misgiving and anxiety, which culminated at last in her determination to show Angus Reay the packet left in her charge, in order that he might see to whom it was addressed.

  “For that can do no harm,” she thought— “I feel that he really ought to know that I have to go all the way to London.”

  Angus, however, on reading the superscription, was fully as perplexed as she was. He was familiar with the street near Chancery Lane where the mysterious “Mr. Bulteel” lived, but the name of Bulteel as a resident in that street was altogether unknown to him. Presently a bright idea struck him.

  “I have it!” he said. “Look here, Mary, didn’t David say he used to be employed in office-work?”

  “Yes,” she answered,— “He had to give up his situation, so I understand, on account of old age.”

  “Then that makes it clear,” Angus declared. “This Mr. Bulteel is probably a man who worked with him in the same office — perhaps the only link he had with his past life. I think you’ll find that’s the way it will turn out. But I hate to think of your travelling to London all alone! — for the first time in your life, too!”

  “Oh well, that doesn’t matter much!” she said, cheerfully,— “Now that you know where I am going, it’s all right. You forget, Angus! — I’m quite old enough to take care of myself. How many times must I remind you that you are engaged to be married to an old maid of thirty-five? You treat me as if I were quite a young girl!”

  “So I do — and so I will!” and his eyes rested upon her with a proud look of admiration. “For you are young, Mary — young in your heart and soul and nature — younger than any so-called young girl I ever met, and twenty times more beautiful. So there!”

  She smiled gravely.

  “You are easily satisfied, Angus,” she said— “But the world will not agree with you in your ideas of me. And when you become a famous man — —”

  “If I become a famous man — —” he interrupted.

  “No — not ‘if’ — I say ‘when,’” she repeated. “When you become a famous man, people will say, ‘what a pity he did not marry some one younger and more suited to his position — —”

  She could speak no more, for Angus silenced her with a kiss.

  “Yes, what a pity it will be!” he echoed. “What a pity! When other men, less fortunate, see that I have won a beautiful and loving wife, whose heart is all my own, — who is pure and true as the sun in heaven,— ‘what a pity,’ they will say, ‘that we are not so lucky!’ That’s what the talk will be, Mary! For there’s no man on earth who does not crave to be loved for himself alone — a selfish wish, perhaps — but it’s implanted in every son of Adam. And a man’s life is always more or less spoilt by lack of the love he needs.”

  She put her arms round his neck, and her true eyes looked straightly into his own.

  “Your life will not be spoilt that way, dear!” she said. “Trust me for that!”

  “Do I not know it!” he answered, passionately. “And would I not lose the whole world, with all its chances of fame and fortu
ne, rather than lose you!”

  And in their mutual exchange of tenderness and confidence they forgot all save

  “The time and place

  And the loved one all together!”

  It was a perfect summer’s morning when Mary, for the first time in many years, left her little home in Weircombe and started upon a journey she had never taken and never had thought of taking — a journey which, to her unsophisticated mind, seemed fraught with strange possibilities of difficulty, even of peril. London had loomed upon her horizon through the medium of the daily newspaper, as a vast over-populated city where (if she might believe the press) humanity is more selfish than generous, more cruel than kind, — where bitter poverty and starvation are seen side by side with criminal extravagance and luxury, — and where, according to her simple notions, the people were forgetting or had forgotten God. It was with a certain lingering and wistful backward look that she left her little cottage embowered among roses, and waved farewell to Mrs. Twitt, who, standing at the garden gate with Charlie in her arms, waved hearty response, cheerfully calling out “Good Luck!” after her, and adding the further assurance— “Ye’ll find everything as well an’ straight as ye left it when ye comes ‘ome, please God!”

  Angus Reay accompanied her in the carrier’s cart to Minehead, and there she caught the express to London. On enquiry, she found there was a midnight train which would bring her back from the metropolis at about nine o’clock the next morning, and she resolved to travel home by it.

  “You will be so tired!” said Angus, regretfully. “And yet I would rather you did not stay away a moment longer than you can help!”

  “Don’t fear!” and she smiled. “You cannot be a bit more anxious for me to come back than I am to come back myself! Good-bye! It’s only for a day!”

  She waved her hand as the train steamed out of the station, and he watched her sweet face smiling at him to the very last, when the express, gathering speed, rushed away with her and whirled her into the far distance. A great depression fell upon his soul, — all the light seemed gone out of the landscape — all the joy out of his life — and he realised, as it were suddenly, what her love meant to him.

  “It is everything!” he said. “I don’t believe I could write a line without her! — in fact I know I wouldn’t have the heart for it! She is so different to every woman I have ever known, — she seems to make the world all warm and kind by just smiling her own bonnie smile!”

  And starting off to walk part of the way back to Weircombe, he sang softly under his breath as he went a verse of “Annie Laurie” —

  “Like dew on the gowan lyin’

  Is the fa’ o’ her fairy feet;

  And like winds in simmer sighin’

  Her voice is low an’ sweet

  Her voice is low an’ sweet;

  An’ she’s a’ the world to me;

  An’ for bonnie Annie Laurie

  I’d lay me doun and dee!”

  And all the beautiful influences of nature, — the bright sunshine, the wealth of June blossom, the clear skies and the singing of birds, seemed part of that enchanting old song, expressing the happiness which alone is made perfect by love.

  Meanwhile, no adventures of a startling or remarkable kind occurred to Mary during her rather long and tedious journey. Various passengers got into her third-class compartment and got out again, but they were somewhat dull and commonplace folk, many of them being of that curiously unsociable type of human creature which apparently mistrusts its fellows. Contrary to her ingenuous expectation, no one seemed to think a journey to London was anything of a unique or thrilling experience. Once only, when she was nearing her destination, did she venture to ask a fellow-passenger, an elderly man with a kindly face, how she ought to go to Chancery Lane. He looked at her with a touch of curiosity.

  “That’s among the hornets’ nests,” he said.

  She raised her pretty eyebrows with a little air of perplexity.

  “Hornets’ nests?”

  “Yes. Where a good many lawyers live, or used to live.”

  “Oh, I see!” And she smiled responsively to what he evidently intended as a brilliant satirical joke. “But is it easy to get there?”

  “Quite easy. Take a ‘bus.”

  “From the station?”

  “Of course!”

  And he subsided into silence.

  She asked no more questions, and on her arrival at Paddington confided her anxieties to a friendly porter, who, announcing that he was “from Somerset born himself and would see her through,” gave her concise directions which she attentively followed; with the result that despite much bewilderment in getting in and getting out of omnibuses, and jostling against more people than she had ever seen in the course of her whole life, she found herself at last at the entrance of a rather obscure-looking smutty little passage, guarded by a couple of round columns, on which were painted in black letters a considerable number of names, among which were those of “Vesey and Symonds.” The numeral inscribed above the entrance to this passage corresponded to the number on the address of the packet which she carried for “Mr. Bulteel” — but though she read all the names on the two columns, “Bulteel” was not among them. Nevertheless, she made her way perseveringly into what seemed nothing but a little blind alley leading nowhere, and as she did so, a small boy came running briskly down a flight of dark stairs, which were scarcely visible from the street, and nearly knocked her over.

  “‘Ullo! Beg pardon ‘m! Which office d’ ye want?”

  “Is there,” began Mary, in her gentle voice— “is there a Mr. Bulteel —— ?”

  “Bulteel? Yes — straight up — second floor — third door — Vesey and Symonds!”

  With these words jerked out of himself at lightning speed, the boy rushed past her and disappeared.

  With a beating heart Mary cautiously climbed the dark staircase which he had just descended. When she reached the second floor, she paused. There were three doors all facing her, — on the first one was painted the name of “Sir Francis Vesey” — on the second “Mr. John Symonds” — and on the third “Mr. Bulteel.” As soon as she saw this last, she heaved a little sigh of relief, and going straight up to it knocked timidly. It was opened at once by a young clerk who looked at her questioningly.

  “Mr. Bulteel?” she asked, hesitatingly.

  “Yes. Have you an appointment?”

  “No. I am quite a stranger,” she said. “I only wish to tell Mr. Bulteel of the death of some one he knows.”

  The clerk glanced at her and seemed dubious.

  “Mr. Bulteel is very busy,” he began— “and unless you have an appointment — —”

  “Oh, please let me see him!” And Mary’s eyes almost filled with tears. “See!” — and she held up before him the packet she carried. “I’ve travelled all the way from Weircombe, in Somerset, to bring him this from his dead friend, and I promised to give it to him myself. Please, please do not turn me away!”

  The clerk stared hard at the superscription on the packet, as he well might. For he had at once recognised the handwriting of David Helmsley. But he suppressed every outward sign of surprise, save such as might appear in a glance of unconcealed wonder at Mary herself. Then he said briefly —

  “Come in!”

  She obeyed, and was at once shut in a stuffy cupboard-like room which had no other furniture than an office desk and high stool.

  “Name, please!” said the clerk.

  She looked startled — then smiled.

  “My name? Mary Deane.”

  “Miss or Mrs.?”

  “‘Miss,’ if you please, sir,” she answered, the colour flushing her cheeks with confusion at the sharpness of his manner.

  The clerk gave her another up-and-down look, and opening a door behind his office desk vanished like a conjuror tricking himself through a hole.

  She waited patiently for a couple of minutes — and then the clerk came back, with traces of excitement in his manner.
>
  “Yes — Mr. Bulteel will see you. This way!”

  She followed him with her usual quiet step and composed demeanour, and bent her head with a pretty air of respect as she found herself in the presence of an elderly man with iron-grey whiskers and a severely preoccupied air of business hardening his otherwise rather benevolent features. He adjusted his spectacles and looked keenly at her as she entered. She spoke at once.

  “You are Mr. Bulteel?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then this is for you,” she said, approaching him, and handing him the packet she had brought. “They are some papers belonging to a poor old tramp named David, who lodged in my house for nearly a year — it will be a year come July. He was very weak and feeble and got lost in a storm on the hills above Weircombe — that’s where I live — and I found him lying quite unconscious in the wet and cold, and took him home and nursed him. He got better and stayed on with me, making baskets for a living — he was too feeble to tramp any more — but he gave me no trouble, he was such a kind, good old man. I was very fond of him. And — and — last week he died” — here her sweet voice trembled. “He suffered great pain — but at the end he passed away quite peacefully — in my arms. He was very anxious that I should bring his papers to you myself — and I promised I would so — —”

  She paused, a little troubled by his silence. Surely he looked very strangely at her.

  “I am sorry,” she faltered, nervously— “if I have brought you any bad news; — poor David seemed to have no friends, but perhaps you were a friend to him once and may have a kind recollection of him — —”

  He was still quite silent. Slowly he broke the seals of the packet, and drawing out a slip of paper which came first to his hand, read what was written upon it. Then he rose from his chair.

  “Kindly wait one moment,” he said. “These — these papers and letters are not for me, but — but for — for another gentleman.”

  He hurried out of the room, taking the packet with him, and Mary remained alone for nearly a quarter of an hour, vaguely perplexed, and wondering how any “other gentleman” could possibly be concerned in the matter. Presently Mr. Bulteel returned, in an evident state of suppressed agitation.