The Treasure of Heaven Part 21

touched me somehow,--I fancy it must be a st.u.r.dy little lad, with a bright face and a will of its own. I might possibly do something for the child if,--if its father would let me! And that's very doubtful!

Besides, should I not be interfering with the wiser and healthier dispensations of nature? The 'kiddie' is no doubt perfectly happy in its wild state of life,--free to roam the woods and fields, with every chance of building up a strong and vigorous const.i.tution in the simple open-air existence to which it has been born and bred. All the riches in the world could not make health or freedom for it,--and thus again I confront myself with my own weary problem--Why have I toiled all my life to make money, merely to find money so useless and comfortless at the end?"

With a sigh he rose from the table. His simple breakfast was finished, and he went to the window to look at the roses that pushed their pretty pink faces up to the sun through a lattice-work of green leaves. There was a small yard outside, roughly paved with cobbles, but clean, and bordered here and there with bright cl.u.s.ters of flowers, and in one particularly sunny corner where the warmth from the skies had made the cobbles quite hot, a tiny white kitten rolled on its back, making the most absurd efforts to catch its own tail between its forepaws,--and a promising brood of fowls were clucking contentedly round some scattered grain lately flung out from the window of the "Trusty Man's" wash-house for their delectation. There was nothing in the scene at all of a character to excite envy in the most morbid and dissatisfied mind;--it was full of the tamest domesticity, and yet--it was a picture such as some thoughtful Dutch artist would have liked to paint as a suggestion of rural simplicity and peace.

"But if one only knew the ins and outs of the life here, it might not prove so inviting," he thought. "I daresay all the little towns and villages in this neighbourhood are full of petty discords, jealousies, envyings and spites,--even Prue's mother, Mrs. Clodder, may have, and probably has, a neighbour whom she hates, and wishes to get the better of, in some way or other, for there is really no such thing as actual peace anywhere except--in the grave! And who knows whether we shall even find it there! Nothing dies which does not immediately begin to live--in another fas.h.i.+on. And every community, whether of insects, birds, wild animals, or men and women, is bound to fight for existence,--therefore those who cry: 'Peace, peace!' only clamour for a vain thing. The very stones and rocks and mountains maintain a perpetual war with destroying elements,--they appear immutable things to our short lives, but they change in their turn even as we do--they die to live again in other forms, even as we do. And what is it all for? What is the sum and substance of so much striving--if merest Nothingness is the end?"

He was disturbed from his reverie by the entrance of Miss Tranter. He turned round and smiled at her.

"Well!" she said--"Enjoyed your breakfast?"

"Very much indeed, thanks to your kindness!" he replied. "I hardly thought I had such a good appet.i.te left to me. I feel quite strong and hearty this morning."

"You look twice the man you were last night, certainly,"--and she eyed him thoughtfully--"Would you like a job here?"

A flush rose to his brows. He hesitated before replying.

"You'd rather not!" snapped out Miss Tranter--"I can see 'No' in your face. Well, please yourself!"

He looked at her. Her lips were compressed in a thin line, and she wore a decidedly vexed expression.

"Ah, you think I don't want to work!" he said--"There you're wrong! But I haven't many years of life in me,--there's not much time left to do what I have to do,--and I must get on."

"Get on, where?"

"To Cornwall."

"Whereabouts in Cornwall?"

"Down by Penzance way."

"You want to start off on the tramp again at once?"

"Yes."

"All right, you must do as you like, I suppose,"--and Miss Tranter sniffed whole volumes of meaning in one sniff--"But Farmer Joltram told me to say that if you wanted a light job up on his place,--that's about a mile from here,--- he wouldn't mind giving you a chance. You'd get good victuals there, for he feeds his men well. And I don't mind trusting you with a bit of gardening--you could make a s.h.i.+lling a day easy--so don't say you can't get work. That's the usual whine--but if you say it----"

"I shall be a liar!" said Helmsley, his sunken eyes lighting up with a twinkle of merriment--"And don't you fear, Miss Tranter,--I _won't_ say it! I'm grateful to Mr. Joltram--but I've only one object left to me in life, and that is--to get on, and find the person I'm looking for--if I can!"

"Oh, you're looking for a person, are you?" queried Miss Tranter, more amicably--"Some long-lost relative?"

"No,--not a relative, only--a friend."

"I see!" Miss Tranter smoothed down her neatly fitting plain cotton gown with both hands reflectively--"And you'll be all right if you find this friend?"

"I shall never want anything any more," he answered, with an unconsciously pathetic tremor in his voice--"My dearest wish will be granted, and I shall be quite content to die!"

"Well, content or no content, you've got to do it," commented Miss Tranter--"And so have I--and so have all of us. Which I think is a pity.

I shouldn't mind living for ever and ever in this world. It's a very comfortable world, though some folks say it isn't. That's mostly liver with them though. People who don't over-eat or over-drink themselves, and who get plenty of fresh air, are generally fairly pleased with the world as they find it. I suppose the friend you're looking for will be glad to see you?"

"The friend I'm looking for will certainly be glad to see me," said Helmsley, gently--"Glad to see me--glad to help me--glad above all things to love me! If this were not so, I should not trouble to search for my friend at all."

Miss Tranter fixed her eyes full upon him while he thus spoke. They were sharp eyes, and just now they were visibly inquisitive.

"You've not been very long used to tramping," she observed.

"No."

"I expect you've seen better days?"

"Some few, perhaps,"--and he smiled gravely--"But it comes harder to a man who has once known comfort to find himself comfortless in his old age."

"That's very true! Well!"--and Miss Tranter gave a short sigh--"I'm sorry you won't stay on here a bit to pick up your strength--but a wilful man must have his way! I hope you'll find your friend!"

"I hope I shall!" said Helmsley earnestly. "And believe me I'm most grateful to you----"

"Tut!" and Miss Tranter tossed her head. "What do you want to be grateful to me for! You've had food and lodging, and you've paid me for it. I've offered you work and you won't take it. That's the long and short of it between us."

And thereupon she marched out of the room, her head very high, her shoulders very square, and her back very straight. Helmsley watched her dignified exit with a curious sense of half-amused contrition.

"What odd creatures some women are!" he thought. "Here's this sharp-tongued, warm-hearted hostess of a roadside inn quite angry because, apparently, an old tramp won't stay and do incompetent work for her! She knows that I should make a mere boggle of her garden,--she is equally aware that I could be no use in any way on 'Feathery' Joltram's farm--and yet she is thoroughly annoyed and disappointed because I won't try to do what she is perfectly confident I can't do, in order that I shall rest well and be fed well for one or two days! Really the kindness of the poor to one another outvalues all the gifts of the rich to the charities they help to support. It is so much more than ordinary 'charity,' for it goes hand in hand with a touch of personal feeling.

And that is what few rich men ever get,--except when their pretended 'friends' think they can make something for themselves out of their a.s.sumed 'friends.h.i.+p'!"

He put on his hat, and plucked one of the roses clambering in at the window to take with him as a remembrance of the "Trusty Man,"--a place which he felt would henceforward be a kind of landmark for the rest of his life to save him from drowning in utter cynicism, because within its walls he had found unselfish compa.s.sion for his age and loneliness, and disinterested sympathy for his seeming need. Then he went to say good-bye to Miss Tranter. She was, as usual, in the bar, standing very erect. She had taken up her knitting, and her needles clicked and glittered busily.

"Matt Peke left a bottle of his herb wine for you," she said. "There it is."

She indicated by a jerk of her head a flat oblong quart flask, neatly corked and tied with string, which lay on the counter. It was of a conveniently portable shape, and Helmsley slipped it into one of his coat pockets with ease.

"Shall you be seeing Peke soon again, Miss Tranter?" he asked.

"I don't know. Maybe so, and maybe not. He's gone on to Crowcombe. I daresay he'll come back this way before the end of the month. He's a pretty regular customer."

"Then, will you thank him for me, and say that I shall never forget his kindness?"

"Never forget is a long time," said Miss Tranter. "Most folks forget their friends directly their backs are turned."

"That's true," said Helmsley, gently; "but I shall not. Good-bye!"

"Good-bye!" Miss Tranter paused in her knitting. "Which road are you going from here?"

Helmsley thought a moment.

"Perhaps," he said at last, "one of the main roads would be best. I'd rather not risk any chance of losing my way."

Miss Tranter stepped out of the bar and came to the open doorway of the inn.

"Take that path across the moor," and she pointed with one of her bright knitting needles to a narrow beaten track between the tufted gra.s.s, whitened here and there by cl.u.s.ters of tall daisies, "and follow it as straight as you can. It will bring you out on the highroad to Williton and Watchett. It's a goodish bit of tramping on a hot day like this, but if you keep to it steady you'll be sure to get a lift or so in waggons going along to Dunster. And there are plenty of publics about where I daresay you'd get a night's sixpenny shelter, though whether any of them are as comfortable as the 'Trusty Man,' is open to question."

"I should doubt it very much," said Helmsley, his rare kind smile lighting up his whole face. "The 'Trusty Man' thoroughly deserves trust; and, if I may say so, its kind hostess commands respect."