The Treasure of Heaven Part 68

"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 woman's weeping.

[Footnote 2: 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 compa.s.sion 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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--"G.o.d 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 cl.u.s.ters 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 G.o.d, and can rest only in G.o.d 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 gra.s.sy knoll swept by the delicate shadows of a n.o.ble 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 dest.i.tute 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 fas.h.i.+onable folk sent out of so-called "respect"; but of the many he had entertained, a.s.sisted 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 gra.s.s, 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----"

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.