The Treasure of Heaven Part 29

"Only sixpence?"

"That's all. It's a s.h.i.+lling with ham and eggs."

Helmsley paid the humble coin demanded, and wondered where the "starving poor" came in, at any rate in Somersets.h.i.+re. Any beggar on the road, making sixpence a day, might consider himself well fed with such a meal.

Just as he drew up his chair to the table, a sudden gust of wind swept round the house, shaking the whole building, and apparently hurling the weight of its fury on the roof, for it sounded as if a whole stack of chimney-pots had fallen.

"It's a squall,"--said the girl--"Father said there was a storm coming.

It often blows pretty hard up this way."

She went out, and left Helmsley to himself. He ate his meal, and fed Charlie with as much bread and milk as that canine epicure could consume,--and then sat for a while, listening to the curious hissing of the wind, which was like a suppressed angry whisper in his ears.

"It will be rough weather,"--he thought--"Now shall I stay in Minehead, or go on?"

Somehow, his experience of vagabondage had bred in him a certain restlessness, and he did not care to linger in any one place. An inexplicable force urged him on. He was conscious that he entertained a most foolish, most forlorn secret hope,--that of finding some yet unknown consolation,--of receiving some yet un.o.btained heavenly benediction. And he repeated again the lines:--

"Let the sweet heavens endure, Not close and darken above me, Before I am quite, quite sure That there is one to love me!"

Surely a Divine Providence there was who could read his heart's desire, and who could see how sincerely in earnest he was to find some channel wherein the current of his acc.u.mulated wealth might flow after his own death, to fruitfulness and blessing for those who truly deserved it.

"Is it so much to ask of destiny--just one honest heart?" he inwardly demanded--"Is it so large a return to want from the world in which I have toiled so long--just one unselfish love? People would tell me I am too old to expect such a thing,--but I am not seeking the love of a lover,--that I know is impossible. But Love,--that most G.o.d-like of all emotions, has many phases, and a merely s.e.xual attraction is the least and worst part of the divine pa.s.sion. There is a higher form,--one far more lasting and perfect, in which Self has very little part,--and though I cannot give it a name, I am certain of its existence!"

Another gust of wind, more furious than the last, whistled overhead and through the crannies of the door. He rose, and tucking Charlie warmly under his coat as before, he went out, pausing on his way to thank the mistress of the little bakery for the excellent meal he had enjoyed.

"Well, you won't hurt on it," she said, smilingly; "it's plain, but it's wholesome. That's all we claim for it. Are you going on far?"

"Yes, I'm bound for a pretty long tramp,"--he replied. "I'm walking to find friends in Cornwall."

She opened her eyes in unfeigned wonder and compa.s.sion.

"Deary me!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed--"You've a stiff road before you. And to-day I'm afraid you'll be in for a storm."

He glanced out through the shop-window.

"It's not raining,"--he said.

"Not yet,--but it's blowing hard,"--she replied--"And it's like to blow harder."

"Never mind, I must risk it!" And he lifted his cap; "Good-day!"

"Good-day! A safe journey to you!"

"Thank you!"

And, gratefully acknowledging the kindly woman's parting nod and smile, he stepped out of the shop into the street. There he found the wind had risen indeed. Showers of blinding dust were circling in the air, blotting out the view,--the sky was covered with ma.s.ses of murky cloud drifting against each other in threatening confusion--and there was a das.h.i.+ng sound of the sea on the beach which seemed to be steadily increasing in volume and intensity. He paused for a moment under the shelter of an arched doorway, to place Charlie more comfortably under his arm and b.u.t.ton his coat more securely, the while he watched the people in the princ.i.p.al thoroughfare struggling with the capricious attacks of the blast, which tore their hats off and sent them spinning across the road, and played mischievous havoc with women's skirts, blowing them up to the knees, and making a great exhibition of feet, few of which were worth looking at from any point of beauty or fitness. And then, all at once, amid the whirling of the gale, he heard a hoa.r.s.e stentorian shouting--"Awful Murder! Local Crime! Murder of a n.o.bleman!

Murder at Blue Anchor! Latest details!" and he started precipitately forward, walking hurriedly along with as much nervous horror as though he had been guiltily concerned in the deed with which the town was ringing. Two or three boys ran past him, with printed placards in their hands, which they waved in front of them, and on which in thick black letters could be seen:--"Murder of Lord Wrotham! Death of the Murderer!

Appalling Tragedy at Blue Anchor!" And, for a few seconds, amid the confusion caused by the wind, and the wild clamour of the news-vendors, he felt as if every one were reeling pell-mell around him like persons on a s.h.i.+p at sea,--men with hats blown off,--women and children running aslant against the gale with hair streaming,--all eager to purchase the first papers which contained the account of a tragedy, enacted, as it were, at their very doors. Outside a little gla.s.s and china shop at the top of a rather hilly street a group of workingmen were standing, with the papers they had just bought in their hands, and Helmsley, as he trudged by, with stooping figure and bent head set against the wind, lingered near them a moment to hear them discuss the news.

"Ah, poor Tom!" exclaimed one--"Gone at last! I mind me well how he used to say he'd die a bad death!"

"What's a bad death?" queried another, gruffly--"And what's the truth about this here business anyhow? Newspapers is allus full o' lies.

There's a lot about a lord that's killed, but precious little about Tom!"

"That's so!" said an old farmer, who with spectacles on was leaning his back against the wall of the shop near which they stood, to shelter himself a little from the force of the gale, while he read the paper he held--"See here,--this lord was driving his motor along by Cleeve, and ran over Tom's child,--why, that's the poor Kiddie we used to see Tom carrying for miles on his shoulder----"

"Ah, the poor lamb!" And a commiserating groan ran through the little group of attentive listeners.

"And then,"--continued the farmer--"from what I can make out of this paper, Tom picked up his baby quite dead. Then he started to run all the way after the fellow whose motor car had killed it. That's nat'ral enough!"

"Of course it is!" "I'd a' done it myself!" "d.a.m.n them motors!" muttered the chorus, fiercely.

"If so be the motor 'ad gone on, Tom couldn't never 'ave caught up with it, even if he'd run till he dropped," went on the farmer--"but as luck would 'ave it, the thing broke down nigh to Blue Anchor, and Tom got his chance. Which he took. And--he killed this Lord Wrotham, whoever he is,--stuck him in the throat with a knife as though he were a pig!"

There was a moment's horrified silence.

"So he wor!" said one man, emphatically--"A right-down reg'lar road-hog!"

"Then,"--proceeded the farmer, carefully studying the paper again--"Tom, 'avin' done all his best an' worst in this world, gives himself up to the police, but just 'afore goin' off, asks if he may kiss his dead baby,----"

A long pause here ensued. Tears stood in many of the men's eyes.

"And," continued the farmer, with a husky and trembling voice--"he takes the child in his arms, an' all sudden like falls down dead. G.o.d rest him!"

Another pause.

"And what does the paper say about it all?" enquired one of the group.

"It says--wait a minute!--it says--'Society will be plunged into mourning for Lord Wrotham, who was one of the most promising of our younger peers, and whose sporting tendencies made him a great favourite in Court circles.'"

"That's a bit o' bunk.u.m paid for by the fam'ly!" said a great hulking drayman who had joined the little knot of bystanders, flicking his whip as he spoke,--"Sa.s.siety plunged into mourning for the death of a precious raskill, is it? I 'xpect it's often got to mourn that way! Rort an' rubbis.h.!.+ Tell ye what!--Tom o' the Gleam was worth a dozen o' your motorin' lords!--an' the hull countryside through Quantocks, ay, an'

even across Exmoor, 'ull 'ave tears for 'im an' 'is pretty little Kiddie what didn't do no 'arm to anybody more'n a lamb skippin' in the fields.

Tom worn't known in their blessed 'Court circles,'--but, by the Lord!--he'd got a grip o' the people's heart about here, an' the people don't forget their friends in a hurry! Who the devil cares for Lord Wrotham!"

"Who indeed!" murmured the chorus.

"An' who'll say a bad word for Tom o' the Gleam?"

"n.o.body!" "He wor a rare fine chap!" "We'll all miss him!" eagerly answered the chorus.

With a curious gesture, half of grief, half of defiance, the drayman tore a sc.r.a.p of black lining from his coat, and tied it to his whip.

"Tom was pretty well known to be a terror to some folk,--specially liars an' raskills,"--he said--"An' I aint excusin' murder. But all the same I'm in mourning for Tom an' 'is little Kiddie, an' I don't care who knows it!"

He went off, and the group dispersed, partly driven asunder by the increasing fury of the wind, which was now sweeping through the streets in strong, steady gusts, hurling everything before it. But Helmsley set his face to the storm and toiled on. He must get out of Minehead. This he felt to be imperative. He could not stay in a town which now for many days would talk of nothing else but the tragic death of Tom o' the Gleam. His nerves were shaken, and he felt himself to be mentally, as well as physically, distressed by the strange chance which had a.s.sociated him against his will with such a grim drama of pa.s.sion and revenge. He remembered seeing the fateful motor swing down that precipitous road near Cleeve,--he recalled its narrow escape from a complete upset at the end of the declivity when it had swerved round the corner and rushed on,--how little he had dreamed that a child's life had just been torn away by its reckless wheels!--and that child the all-in-the-world to Tom o' the Gleam! Tom must have tracked the motor by following some side-lane or short cut known only to himself, otherwise Helmsley thought he would hardly have escaped seeing him. But, in any case, the slow and trudging movements of an old man must have lagged far, far behind those of the strong, fleet-footed gypsy to whom the wildest hills and dales, cliffs and sea caves were all familiar ground.

Like a voice from the grave, the reply Tom had given to Matt Peke at the "Trusty Man," when Matt asked him where he had come from, rang back upon his ears--"From the caves of Cornwall! From picking up drift on the sh.o.r.e and tracking seals to their lair in the hollows of the rocks! All sport, Matt! I live like a gentleman born, keeping or killing at my pleasure!"

Shuddering at this recollection, Helmsley pressed on in the teeth of the blast, and a sudden shower of rain scudded by, stinging him in the face with the sharpness of needlepoints. The gale was so high, and the blown dust so thick on all sides, that he could scarcely see where he was going, but his chief effort was to get out of Minehead and away from all contact with human beings--for the time. In this he succeeded very soon.

Once well beyond the town, he did not pause to make a choice of roads.

He only sought to avoid the coast line, rightly judging that way to lie most open and exposed to the storm,--moreover the wind swooped in so fiercely from the sea, and the rising waves made such a terrific roaring, that, for the mere sake of greater quietness, he turned aside and followed a path which appeared to lead invitingly into some deep hollow of the hills. There seemed a slight chance of the weather clearing at noon, for though the wind was so high, the clouds were whitening under pa.s.sing gleams of sunlight, and the scud of rain had pa.s.sed. As he walked further and further he found himself entering a deep green valley--a cleft between high hills,--and though he had no idea which way it led him, he was pleased to have reached a comparatively sheltered spot where the force of the hurricane was not so fiercely felt, and where the angry argument of the sea was deadened by distance. There was a lovely perfume everywhere,--the dash of rain on the herbs and field flowers had brought out their scent, and the freshness of the stormy atmosphere was bracing and exhilarating. He put Charlie down on the gra.s.s, and was amused to see how obediently the tiny creature trotted after him, close at his heels, in the manner of a well-trained, well-taught lady's favourite. There was no danger of wheeled or motor traffic in this peaceful little glen, which appeared to be used solely by pedestrians. He rather wondered now and then whither it led, but was not very greatly concerned on the subject. What pleased him most was that he did not see a single human being anywhere or a sign of human habitation.