The Treasure of Heaven Part 49

"Right, very right!" said Mr. Bunce, approvingly--"And many--yes, I think we may certainly say many,--are of your spirit,--what do you think, David?"

Helmsley had raised himself in his chair, and was looking wonderfully alert. The conversation interested him.

"I quite agree,"--he said--"But Mr. Reay must remember that if he should ever want to make a clean sweep of German-American Jews and speculators as he says, and expose the way they tamper with British interests, he would require a great deal of money. A _very_ great deal of money!" he repeated, slowly,--"Now I wonder, Mr. Reay, what you would do with a million?--two millions?--three millions?--four millions?"--

"Stop, stop, old David!"--interrupted Twitt, suddenly holding up his hand--"Ye takes my breath away!"

They all laughed, Reay's hearty tones ringing above the rest.

"Oh, I should know what to do with them!"--he said; "but I wouldn't spend them on my own selfish pleasures--that I swear! For one thing, I'd run a daily newspaper on _honest_ lines----"

"It wouldn't sell!" observed Helmsley, drily.

"It would--it _should_!" declared Reay--"And I'd tell the people the truth of things,--I'd expose every financial fraud I could find----"

"And you'd live in the law-courts, I fear!" said Mr. Bunce, gravely shaking his head--"We may be perfectly certain, I think--may we not, David?--that the law-courts would be Mr. Reay's permanent address?"

They laughed again, and the conversation turned to other topics, though its tenor was not forgotten by anyone, least of all by Helmsley, who sat very silent for a long time afterwards, thinking deeply, and seeing in his thoughts various channels of usefulness to the world and the world's progress, which he had missed, but which others after him would find.

Meanwhile Weircombe suffered a kind of moral convulsion in the advent of the Reverend Mr. Arbroath, who arrived to "take duty" in the absence of its legitimate pastor. He descended upon the tiny place like an embodied black whirlwind, bringing his wife with him, a lady whose facial lineaments bore the strangest and most remarkable resemblance to those of a china cat; not a natural cat, because there is something soft and appealing about a real "p.u.s.s.y,"--whereas Mrs. Arbroath's countenance was cold and hard and s.h.i.+ny, like porcelain, and her smile was precisely that of the immovable and ruthless-looking animal designed long ago by old-time potters and named "Ches.h.i.+re." Her eyes were similar to the eyes of that malevolent china creature--and when she spoke, her voice had the shrill tone which was but a few notes off the actual "_me-iau_" of an angry "Tom." Within a few days after their arrival, every cottage in the "coombe" had been "visited," and both Mr. and Mrs. Arbroath had made up their minds as to the neglected, wholly unspiritual and unregenerate nature of the little flock whom they had offered, for sake of their own health and advantage, to tend. The villagers had received them civilly, but without enthusiasm. When tackled on the subject of their religious opinions, most of them declined to answer, except Mr. Twitt, who, fixing a filmy eye sternly on the plain and gloomy face of Mr. Arbroath, said emphatically:

"We aint no 'Igh Jinks!"

"What do you mean, my man?" demanded Arbroath, with a dark smile.

"I mean what I sez"--rejoined Twitt--"I've been stonemason 'ere goin' on now for thirty odd years an' it's allus been the same 'ere--no 'Igh Jinks. Purcessin an' vestiments"--here Twitt spread out a broad dirty thumb and dumped it down with each word into the palm of his other hand--"candles, crosses, bobbins an' bowins--them's what we calls 'Igh Jinks, an' I make so bold as to say that if ye gets 'em up 'ere, Mr.

Arbroath, ye'll be mighty sorry for yourself!"

"I shall conduct the services as I please!" said Arbroath. "You take too much upon yourself to speak to me in such a fas.h.i.+on! You should mind your own business!"

"So should you, Mister, so should you!" And Twitt chuckled contentedly--"An' if ye _don't_ mind it, there's those 'ere as'll _make_ ye!"

Arbroath departed in a huff, and the very next Sunday announced that "Matins" would be held at seven o'clock daily in the Church, and "Evensong" at six in the afternoon. Needless to say, the announcement was made in vain. Day after day pa.s.sed, and no one attended. Smarting with rage, Arbroath sought to "work up" the village to a proper "'Igh Jink" pitch--but his efforts were wasted. And a visit to Mary Deane's cottage did not sweeten his temper, for the moment he caught sight of Helmsley sitting in his usual corner by the fire, he recognised him as the "old tramp" he had interviewed in the common room of the "Trusty Man."

"How did _you_ come here?" he demanded, abruptly.

Helmsley, who happened to be at work basket-making, looked up, but made no reply. Whereupon Arbroath turned upon Mary--

"Is this man a relative of yours?" he asked.

Mary had risen from her chair out of ordinary civility as the clergyman entered, and now replied quietly.

"No, sir."

"Oh! Then what is he doing here?"

"You can see what he is doing,"--she answered, with a slight smile--"He is making baskets."

"He is a tramp!" said Arbroath, pointing an inflexible finger at him--"I saw him last summer smoking and drinking with a gang of low ruffians at a roadside inn called 'The Trusty Man'!" And he advanced a step towards Helmsley--"Didn't I see you there?"

Helmsley looked straight at him.

"You did."

"You told me you were tramping to Cornwall."

"So I was."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Earning a living."

Arbroath turned sharply on Mary.

"Is that true?"

"Of course it is true,"--she replied--"Why should he tell you a lie?"

"Does he lodge with you?"

"Yes."

Arbroath paused a moment, his little brown eyes sparkling vindictively.

"Well, you had better be careful he does not rob you!" he said. "For I can prove that he seemed to be very good friends with that notorious rascal Tom o' the Gleam who murdered a n.o.bleman at Blue Anchor last summer, and who would have hung for his crime if he had not fortunately saved the expense of a rope by dying."

Helmsley, bending over his basket-weaving, suddenly straightened himself and looked the clergyman full in the face.

"I never knew Tom o' the Gleam till that night on which you saw me at 'The Trusty Man,'" he said--"But I know he had terrible provocation for the murder he committed. I saw that murder done!"

"You saw it done!" exclaimed Arbroath--"And you are here?"

"Why should I not be here?" demanded Helmsley--"Would you have expected me to stay _there_? I was only one of many witnesses to that terrible deed of vengeance--but, as G.o.d lives, it was a just vengeance!"

"Just? You call murder just!" and Arbroath gave a gesture of scorn and horror--"And you,"--he continued, turning to Mary indignantly--"can allow a ruffian like this to live in your house?"

"He is no ruffian,"--said Mary steadily,--"Nor was Tom o' the Gleam a ruffian either. He was well-known in these parts for many and many a deed of kindness. The real ruffian was the man who killed his little child. Indeed I think he was the chief murderer."

"Oh, you do, do you?" and Mr. Arbroath frowned heavily--"And you call yourself a respectable woman?"

Mary smiled, and resuming her seat, bent her head intently over her lace work.

Arbroath stood irresolute, gazing at her. He was a sensual man, and her physical beauty annoyed him. He would have liked to sit down alone with her and take her hand in his own and talk to her about her "soul" while gloating over her body. But in the "old tramp's" presence there was nothing to be done. So he a.s.sumed a high moral tone.

"Accidents will happen,"--he said, sententiously--"If a child gets into the way of a motor going at full speed, it is bound to be unfortunate--for the child. But Lord Wrotham was a rich man--and no doubt he would have paid a handsome sum down in compensation----"

"Compensation!" And Helmsley suddenly stood up, drawing his frail thin figure erect--"Compensation! Money! Money for a child's life--money for a child's love! Are you a minister of Christ, that you can talk of such a thing as possible? What is all the wealth of the world compared to the life of one beloved human creature! Reverend sir, I am an old poor man,--a tramp as you say, consorting with rogues and ruffians--but were I as rich as the richest millionaire that ever 'sweated' honest labour, I would rather shoot myself than offer money compensation to a father for the loss of a child whom my selfish pleasure had slain!"

He trembled from head to foot with the force of his own eloquence, and Arbroath stared at him dumb-foundered.