The Treasure of Heaven Part 54

Helmsley smiled.

"I knew I might trust Vesey!" he thought. Aloud he said--

"Well, I should believe the gentleman's lawyers more than the newspaper reporters. Wouldn't you?"

"Of course. I shouldn't have taken the least interest in the rumour, if I hadn't been once upon a time in love with Lucy Sorrel. Because if the old man is really dead and has done nothing in the way of providing for her, I wonder what she will do?"

"Go out charing!" said Helmsley drily. "Many a better woman than you have described her to be, has had to come to that."

There was a silence. Presently Helmsley spoke again in a quiet voice--

"I think, Mr. Reay, you should tell all your mind to Miss Mary."

Angus started nervously.

"Do you, David? Why?"

"Why?--well--because--" Here Helmsley spoke very gently--"because I believe she loves you!"

The colour kindled in Reay's face.

"Ah, don't fool me, David!" he said--"you don't know what it would mean to me----"

"Fool you!" Helmsley sat upright in his chair and looked at him with an earnestness which left no room for doubt. "Do you think I would 'fool'

you, or any man, on such a matter? Old as I am, and lonely and friendless as I _was_, before I met this dear woman, I know that love is the most sacred of all things--the most valuable of all things--better than gold--greater than power--the only treasure we can lay up in heaven 'where neither moth nor rust do corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal!' Do not"--and here his strong emotion threatened to get the better of him--"do not, sir, think that because I was tramping the road in search of a friend to help me, before Miss Mary found me and brought me home here and saved my life, G.o.d bless her!--do not think, I say, that I have no feeling! I feel very much--very strongly--" He broke off breathing quickly, and his hands trembled. Reay hastened to his side in some alarm, remembering what Mary had told him about the old man's heart.

"Dear old David, I know!" he said. "Don't worry! I know you feel it all--I'm sure you do! Now, for goodness' sake, don't excite yourself like this--she--she'll never forgive me!" and he shook up the cus.h.i.+on at the back of Helmsley's chair and made him lean upon it. "Only it would be such a joy to me--such a wonder--such a help--to know that she really loved me!--_loved_ me, David!--you understand--why, I think I could conquer the world!"

Helmsley smiled faintly. He was suffering physical anguish at the moment--the old sharp pain at his heart to which he had become more or less wearily accustomed, had dizzied his senses for a s.p.a.ce, but as the spasm pa.s.sed he took Reay's hand and pressed it gently.

"What does the Great Book tell us?" he muttered. "'If a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned!'

That's true! And I would never 'fool' or mislead you on a matter of such life and death to you, Mr. Reay. That's why I tell you to speak to Miss Mary as soon as you can find a good opportunity--for I am sure she loves you!"

"Sure, David?"

"Sure!"

Reay stood silent,--his eyes s.h.i.+ning, and "the light that never was on sea or land" transfigured his features.

At that moment a tap came at the door. A hand, evidently accustomed to the outside management of the latch, lifted it, and Mr. Twitt entered, his rubicund face one broad smile.

"'Afternoon, David! 'Afternoon, Mister! Wheer's Mis' Deane?"

"She's resting a bit in her room," replied Helmsley.

"Ah, well! You can tell 'er the news when she comes in. Mr. Arbroath's away for 'is life wi' old Nick in full chase arter 'im! It don't do t'ave a fav'rite gel!"

Helmsley and Reay stared at him, and then at one another.

"Why, what's up?" demanded Reay.

"Oh, nuthin' much!" and Twitt's broad shoulders shook with internal laughter. "It's wot 'appens often in the fam'lies o' the haris-to-crazy, an' aint taken no notice of, forbye 'tis not so common among poor folk.

Ye see Mr. Arbroath he--he--he--he--he--he----" and here the p.r.o.noun "he" developed into a long chuckle. "He's got a sweet'art on the sly, an'--an'--an'--_'is wife's found it out_! Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he! 'Is wife's found it out! That's the trouble! An' she's gone an' writ to the Bishop 'erself! Oh lor'! Never trust a woman wi' cat's eyes! She's writ to the Bishop, an' gone 'ome in a tearin' fit o' the rantin' 'igh-strikes,--an'

Mister Arbroath 'e's follerd 'er, an' left us wi' a curate--a 'armless little chap wi' a bad cold in 'is 'ed, an' a powerful red nose--but 'onest an' 'omely like 'is own face. An' 'e'll take the services till our own vicar comes 'ome, which'll be, please G.o.d, this day fort_night_.

But oh lor'!--to think o' that grey-'aired rascal Arbroath with a fav'rite gel on the sly! Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he! We'se be all mortal!" and Twitt shook his head with profound solemnity. "Ef I was a-goin' to carve a tombstone for that 'oly 'igh Churchman, I'd write on it the old 'ackneyed sayin', 'Man wants but little 'ere below, Nor wants that little long!' Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he!"

His round jolly face beamed with merriment, and Angus Reay caught infection from his mirth and laughed heartily.

"Twitt, you're an old rascal!" he exclaimed. "I really believe you enjoy showing up Mr. Arbroath's little weaknesses!"

"Not I--not I, Mister!" protested Twitt, his eyes twinkling. "I sez, be fair to all men! I sez, if a parson wants to chuck a gel under the chin, let 'im do so by all means, G.o.d willin'! But don't let 'im purtend as 'e _couldn't_ chuck 'er under the chin for the hull world! Don't let 'im go round lookin' as if 'e was vinegar gone bad, an' preach at the parish as if we was all mis'able sinners while 'e's the mis'ablest one hisself.

But old Arbroath--damme!" and he gave a sounding slap to his leg in sheer ecstacy. "Caught in the act by 'is wife! Oh lor', oh lor'! 'Is wife! An' _aint_ she a tartar!"

"But how did all this happen?" asked Helmsley, amused.

"Why, this way, David--quite 'appy an' innocent like, Missis Arbroath, she opens a letter from 'ome, which 'avin' glanced at the envelope casual-like she thinks was beggin' or mothers' meetin', an' there she finds it all out. Vicar's fav'rite gel writin' for money or clothes or summat, an' endin' up 'Yer own darlin'!' Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he! Oh Lord!

There was an earthquake up at the rect'ry this marnin'--the cook there sez she never 'eerd sich a row in all 'er life--an' Missis Arbroath she was a-shriekin' for a divorce at the top of 'er voice! It's a small place, Weircombe Rect'ry, an' a woman can't shriek an' 'owl in it without bein' 'eerd. So both the cook an' 'ousemaid worn't by no manner o' means surprised when Mister Arbroath packed 'is bag an' went off in a trap to Minehead--an' we'll be left with a cheap curate in charge of our pore souls! Ha-ha-ha! But 'e's a decent little chap,--an' there'll be no 'igh falutin' services with _'im_, so we can all go to Church next Sunday comfortable. An' as for old Arbroath, we'll be seein' big 'edlines in the papers by and by about 'Scandalous Conduck of a Clergyman with 'is Fav'rite Gel!'" Here he made an effort to pull a grave face, but it was no use,--his broad smile beamed out once more despite himself. "Arter all," he said, chuckling, "the two things does fit in nicely together an' nat'ral like--'Igh Jinks an' a fav'rite gel!"

It was impossible not to derive a sense of fun from his s.h.i.+ning eyes and beaming countenance, and Angus Reay gave himself up to the enjoyment of the moment, and laughed again and again.

"So you think he's gone altogether, eh?" he said, when he could speak.

"Oh, 'e's gone all right!" rejoined Twitt placidly. "A man may do lots o' queer things in this world, an' so long as 'is old 'ooman don't find 'im out, it's pretty fair sailin'; but once a parson's wife gets 'er nose on to the parson's fav'rite, then all the fat's bound to be in the fire! An' quite right as it should be! I wouldn't bet on the fav'rite when it come to a neck-an'-neck race atween the two!"

He laughed again, and they all talked awhile longer on this unexpected event, which, to such a village as Weircombe, was one of startling importance and excitement, and then, as the afternoon was drawing in and Mary did not reappear, Angus Reay took his departure with Twitt, leaving Helmsley sitting alone in his chair by the fire. But he did not go without a parting word--a word which was only a whisper.

"You think you are _sure_, David!" he said--"Sure that she loves me! I wish you would make doubly, trebly sure!--for it seems much too good to be true!"

Helmsley smiled, but made no answer.

When he was left alone in the little kitchen to which he was now so accustomed, he sat for a s.p.a.ce gazing into the red embers of the fire, and thinking deeply. He had attained what he never thought it would be possible to attain--a love which had been bestowed upon him for himself alone. He had found what he had judged would be impossible to find--two hearts which, so far as he personally was concerned, were utterly uninfluenced by considerations of self-interest. Both Mary Deane and Angus Reay looked upon him as a poor, frail old man, entirely defenceless and dependent on the kindness and care of such strangers as sympathised with his condition. Could they now be suddenly told that he was the millionaire, David Helmsley, they would certainly never believe it. And even if they were with difficulty brought to believe it, they would possibly resent the deception he had practised on them. Sometimes he asked himself whether it was quite fair or right to so deceive them?

But then,--reviewing his whole life, and seeing how at every step of his career men, and women too, had flattered him and fawned upon him as well as fooled him for mere money's sake,--he decided that surely he had the right at the approaching end of that career to make a fair and free trial of the world as to whether any thing or any one purely honest could be found in it.

"For it makes me feel more at peace with G.o.d," he said--"to know and to realise that there _are_ unselfish loving hearts to be found, if only in the very lowliest walks of life! I,--who have seen Society,--the modern Juggernaut,--rolling its great wheels recklessly over the hopes and joys and confidences of thousands of human beings--I, who know that even kings, who should be above dishonesty, are tainted by their secret speculations in the money-markets of the world,--surely I may be permitted to rejoice for my few remaining days in the finding of two truthful and simple souls, who have no motive for their kindness to me,--who see nothing in me but age, feebleness and poverty,--and whom I have perhaps been the means, through G.o.d's guidance, of bringing together. For it was to me that Reay first spoke that day on the seash.o.r.e--and it was at my request that he first entered Mary's home.

Can this be the way in which Divine Wisdom has chosen to redeem me?

I,--who have never been loved as I would have desired to be loved,--am I now instructed how,--leaving myself altogether out of the question,--I may prosper the love of others and make two n.o.ble lives happy? It may be so,--and that in the foundation of their joy, I shall win my own soul's peace! So--leaving my treasures on earth,--I shall find my treasure in heaven, 'where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal!'"

Still looking at the fire he watched the glowing embers, now reddening, now darkening--or leaping up into sparks of evanescent flame,--and presently stooping, picked up the little dog Charlie from his warm corner on the hearth and fondled him.

"You were the first to love me in my loneliness!" he said, stroking the tiny animal's soft ears--"And,--to be quite exact,--I owe my life and all my present surroundings to you, Charlie! What shall I leave you in my will, eh?"

Charlie yawned capaciously, showing very white teeth and a very red tongue, and winked one bright eye.

"You're only a dog, Charlie! You've no use for money! You rely entirely upon your own attractiveness and the kindness of human nature! And so far your confidence has not been misplaced. But your fidelity and affection are only additional proofs of the powerlessness of money.

Money bought you, Charlie, no doubt, in the first place--but money failed to keep you! And now, though by your means Mary found me where I lay helpless and unconscious on the hills in the storm, I can neither make you richer nor happier, Charlie! You're only a dog!--and a millionaire is no more to you than any other man!"

Charlie yawned comfortably again. He seemed to be perfectly aware that his master was talking to him, but what it was about he evidently did not know, and still more evidently did not care. He liked to be petted and made much of--and presently curled himself up in a soft silken ball on Helmsley's knee, with his little black nose pointed towards the fire, and his eyes blinking lazily at the sparkle of the flames. And so Mary found them, when at last she came down from her room to prepare supper.