The Treasure of Heaven Part 65

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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 some 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 h.e.l.l! 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'Alencon_ 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 ident.i.ty 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt. 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 b.u.t.ton whether his lords.h.i.+p 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. G.o.d 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 a.s.sist 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, b.a.l.l.s, 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?"