The Treasure of Heaven Part 45

It would make him put his best foot foremost. I should like to think that my book when it comes out, would be 'reviewed' by a man who had no prejudices, no 'party' politics, no personal feeling for or against me,--but who simply and solely considered it from an impartial, thoughtful, just and generous point of view--taking it as a piece of work done honestly and from a deep sense of conviction. Criticism from fellows who just turn over the pages of a book to find fault casually wherever they can--(I've seen them at it in newspaper offices!) or to quote unfairly mere sc.r.a.ps of sentences without context,--or to fly off into a whirlwind of personal and scurrilous calumnies against an author whom they don't know, and perhaps never will know,--that sort of thing is quite useless to me. It neither encourages nor angers me. It is a mere flabby exhibition of incompetency--much as if a jelly-fish should try to fight a sea-gull! Now you,--if you criticise me,--your criticism will be valuable, because it will be quite honest--there will be no 'personal' feeling in it----"

She raised her eyes to his and smiled.

"No?"

Something warm and radiant in her glance flashed into his soul and thrilled it strangely. Vaguely startled by an impression which he did not try to a.n.a.lyse, he went on hastily--"No--because you see you are neither my friend nor my enemy, are you?"

She was quite silent.

"I mean,"--he continued, blundering along somewhat lamely,--"You don't hate me very much, and you don't like me very much. I'm just an ordinary man to you. Therefore you're bound to be perfectly impartial, because what I do is a matter of 'personal' indifference to you. That's why your criticism will be so helpful and valuable."

She bent her head closely over the lace she was mending for a minute or two, as though she were making a very intricate knot. Then she looked up again.

"Well, if you wish it, I'll tell you just what I think," she said, quietly--"But you mustn't call it criticism. I'm not clever enough to judge a book. I only know what pleases _me_,--and what pleases me may not please the world. I know very little about authors, and I've taught myself all that I do know. I love Shakespeare,--but I could not explain to you why I love him, because I'm not clever enough. I only feel his work,--I feel that it's all right and beautiful and wonderful--but I couldn't criticise it."

"No one can,--no one should!" said Reay, warmly--"Shakespeare is above all criticism!"

"But is he not always being criticised?" she asked.

"Yes. By little men who cannot understand greatness,"--he answered--"It gives a kind of 'scholarly importance' to the little men, but it leaves the great one unscathed."

This talk led to many others of a similar nature between them, and Reay's visits to Mary's cottage became more and more frequent. David Helmsley, weaving his baskets day by day, began to weave something more delicate and uncommon than the withes of willow,--a weaving which went on in his mind far more actively than the twisting and plaiting of the osiers in his hands. Sometimes in the evenings, when work was done, and he sat in his comfortable easy chair by the fire watching Mary at her sewing and Angus talking earnestly to her, he became so absorbed in his own thoughts that he scarcely heard their voices, and often when they spoke to him, he started from a profound reverie, unconscious of their words. But it was not the feebleness or weariness of age that made him seem at times indifferent to what was going on around him--it was the intensity and fervour of a great and growing idea of happiness in his soul,--an idea which he cherished so fondly and in such close secrecy, as to be almost afraid to whisper it to himself lest by some unhappy chance it should elude his grasp and vanish into nothingness.

And so the time went on to Christmas and New Year. Weircombe kept these festivals very quietly, yet not without cheerfulness. There was plenty of holly about, and the children, plunging into the thick of the woods at the summit of the "coombe" found mistletoe enough for the common need. The tiny Church was prettily decorated by the rector's wife and daughters, a.s.sisted by some of the girls of the village, and everybody attended service on Christmas morning, not only because it was Christmas, but because it was the last time their own parson would preach to them, before he went away for three months or more to a warm climate for the benefit of his health. But Helmsley did not join the little crowd of affectionate paris.h.i.+oners--he stayed at home while Mary went, as she said "to pray for him." He watched her from the open cottage door, as she ascended the higher part of the "coombe," dressed in a simple stuff gown of darkest blue, with a prim little "old maid's"

bonnet, as she called it, tied neatly under her rounded white chin--and carrying in her hand a much worn "Book of Common Prayer" which she held with a certain delicate reverence not often shown to holy things by the church-going women of the time. Weircombe Church had a small but musical chime of bells, presented to it by a former rector--and the silvery sweetness of the peal just now ringing was intensified by the close proximity of the mountain stream, which, rendered somewhat turbulent by recent rains, swept along in a deep swift current, carrying the melody of the chimes along with it down to the sea and across the waves in broken pulsation, till they touched with a faint mysterious echo the masts of home-returning s.h.i.+ps, and brought a smile to the faces of sailors on board who, recognising the sound, said "Weircombe bells, sure-_ly_!"

Helmsley stood listening, lost in meditation. To anyone who could have seen him then, a bent frail figure just within the cottage door, with his white hair, white beard, and general appearance of gentle and resigned old age, he would have seemed nothing more than a venerable peasant, quietly satisfied with his simple surroundings, and as far apart from every a.s.sociation of wealth, as the daisy in the gra.s.s is from the star in the sky. Yet, in actual fact, his brain was busy weighing millions of money,--the fate of an acc.u.mulated ma.s.s of wealth hung on the balance of his decision,--and he was mentally arranging his plans with all the clearness, precision and practicality which had distinguished him in his biggest financial schemes,--schemes which had from time to time amazed and convulsed the speculating world. A certain wistful sadness touched him as he looked on the quiet country landscape in the wintry sunlight of this Christmas morn,--some secret instinctive foreboding told him that it might be the last Christmas he should ever see. And a sudden wave of regret swept over his soul,--regret that he had not appreciated the sweet things of life more keenly when he had been able to enjoy their worth. So many simple joys missed!--so many gracious and helpful sentiments discarded!--all the best of his years given over to eager pursuit of gold,--not because he cared for gold really, but because, owing to a false social system which perverted the moral sense, it seemed necessary to happiness. Yet he had proved it to be the very last thing that could make a man happy. The more money, the less enjoyment of it--the greater the wealth, the less the content. Was this according to law?--the spiritual law of compensation, which works steadily behind every incident which we may elect to call good or evil?

He thought it must be so. This very festival--Christmas--how thoroughly he had been accustomed by an effete and degenerate "social set" to regard it as a "bore,"--an exploded superst.i.tion--a saturnalia of beef and pudding--a something which merely served as an excuse for throwing away good money on mere stupid sentiment. "Stupid" sentiment? Had he ever thought true, tender, homely sentiment "stupid"? Yes,--perhaps he had, when in the bold carelessness of full manhood he had a.s.sumed that the race was to the swift and the battle to the strong--but now, when the shadows were falling--when, perhaps, he would never hear the Christmas bells again, or be troubled by the "silly superst.i.tions" of loving, praying, hoping, believing humanity, he would have given much could he have gone back in fancy to every Christmas of his life and seen each one spent cheerily amid the warm a.s.sociations of such "sentiments"

as make friends.h.i.+p valuable and lasting. He looked up half vaguely at the sky, clear blue on this still frosty morning, and was conscious of tears that crept smartingly behind his eyes and for a moment dimmed his sight. And he murmured dreamily--

"Behold we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last--far off--at last, to all-- And every winter change to spring!"

A tall, athletic figure came between him and the light, and Angus Reay's voice addressed him--

"Hullo, David! A merry Christmas to you! Do you know you are standing out in the cold? What would Miss Mary say?"

"Miss Mary" was the compromise Angus. .h.i.t upon between "Miss Deane" and "Mary,"--considering the first term too formal, and the last too familiar.

Helmsley smiled.

"Miss Mary has gone to church,"--he replied--"I thought you had gone too."

Reay gave a slight gesture of mingled regret and annoyance.

"No--I never go to church,"--he said--"But don't you think I despise the going. Not I. I wish I could go to church! I'd give anything to go as I used to do with my father every Sunday."

"And why can't you?"

"Because the church is not what it used to be,"--declared Reay--"Don't get me on that argument, David, or I shall never cease talking! Now, see here!--if you stand any longer at that open door you'll get a chill! You go inside the house and imitate Charlie's example--look at him!" And he pointed to the tiny toy terrier snuggled up as usual in a ball of silky comfort on the warm hearth--"Small epicure! Come back to your chair, David, and sit by the fire--your hands are quite cold."

Helmsley yielded to the persuasion, not because he felt cold, but because he was rather inclined to be alone with Reay for a little. They entered the house and shut the door.

"Doesn't it look a different place without her!" said Angus, glancing round the trim little kitchen--"As neat as a pin, of course, but all the life gone from it."

Helmsley smiled, but did not answer. Seating himself in his armchair, he spread out his thin old hands to the bright fire, and watched Reay as he stood near the hearth, leaning one arm easily against a rough beam which ran across the chimney piece.

"She is a wonderful woman!" went on Reay, musingly; "She has a power of which she is scarcely conscious."

"And what is that?" asked Helmsley, slowly rubbing his hands with quite an abstracted air.

Angus laughed lightly, though a touch of colour reddened his bronzed cheeks.

"The power that the old alchemists sought and never could find!" he answered--"The touch that trans.m.u.tes common metals to fine gold, and changes the every-day prose of life to poetry."

Helmsley went on rubbing his hands slowly.

"It's so extraordinary, don't you think, David,"--he continued--"that there should be such a woman as Miss Mary alive at all?"

Helmsley looked up at him questioningly, but said nothing.

"I mean,"--and Angus threw out his hand with an impetuous gesture--"that considering all the abominable, farcical tricks women play nowadays, it is simply amazing to find one who is contented with a simple life like this, and who manages to make that simple life so gracious and beautiful!"

Still Helmsley was silent.

"Now, just think of that girl I've told you about--Lucy Sorrel,"--proceeded Angus--"Nothing would have contented her in all this world!"

"Not even her old millionaire?" suggested Helmsley, placidly.

"No, certainly not! Poor old devil! He'll soon find himself put on the shelf if he marries her. He won't be able to call his soul his own! If he gives her diamonds, she'll want more diamonds--if he covers her and stuffs her with money, she'll never have enough! She'll want all she can get out of him while he lives and everything he has ever possessed when he's dead."

Helmsley rubbed his hands more vigorously together.

"A very nice young lady," he murmured. "Very nice indeed! But if you judge her in this way now, why did you ever fall in love with her?"

"She was pretty, David!" and Reay smiled--"That's all! My pa.s.sion for her was skin-deep! And hers for me didn't even touch the cuticle! She was pretty--as pretty as a wax-doll,--perfect eyes, perfect hair, perfect figure, perfect complexion--ugh! how I hate perfection!"

And taking up the poker, he gave a vigorous blow to a hard lump of coal in the grate, and split it into a blaze.

"I hate perfection!" he resumed--"Or rather, I hate what pa.s.ses for perfection, for, as a matter of fact, there's nothing perfect. And I specially and emphatically hate the woman that considers herself a 'beauty,' that gets herself photographed as a 'beauty,' that the press reporter speaks of as a 'beauty,'--and that affronts you with her 'beauty' whenever you look at her, as though she were some sort of first-cla.s.s goods for sale. Now Miss Mary is a beautiful woman--and she doesn't seem to know it."

"Her time for vanity is past,"--said Helmsley, sententiously--"She is an old maid."

"Old maid be shot!" exclaimed Angus, impetuously--"By Jove! Any man might be proud to marry her!"

A keen, sharp glance, as incisive as any that ever flashed up and down the lines of a business ledger, gleamed from under Helmsley's fuzzy brows.

"Would you?" he asked.

"Would I marry her?" And Angus reddened suddenly like a boy--"Dear old David, bless you! That's just what I want you to help me to do!"