The Treasure of Heaven Part 51

"Sometimes I do, and sometimes I don't"--she answered--"When I begin to like a person very much I often pull myself back and say 'Take care!

Perhaps he doesn't like _you!_'"

"Oh! The person must be a 'he' then!" said Helmsley, smiling a little.

She coloured.

"Oh no--not exactly!--but I mean,--now, for instance,"--and she spoke rapidly as though to cover some deeper feeling--"I like _you_ very much--indeed I'm fond of you, David!--I've got to know you so well, and to understand all your ways--but I can't be sure that you like _me_ as much as I like _you_, can I?"

He looked at her kind and n.o.ble face with eyes full of tenderness and grat.i.tude.

"If you can be sure of anything, you can be sure of that!"--he said--"To say I 'like' you would be a poor way of expressing myself. I owe my very life to you--and though I am only an old poor man, I would say I loved you if I dared!"

She smiled--and her whole face shone with the reflected suns.h.i.+ne of her soul.

"Say it, David dear! Do say it! I should like to hear it!"

He drew the hand he held to his lips, and gently kissed it.

"I love you, Mary!" he said--"As a father loves a daughter I love you, and bless you! You have been a good angel to me--and I only wish I were not so old and weak and dependent on your care. I can do nothing to show my affection for you--I'm only a burden upon your hands----"

She laid her fingers lightly across his lips.

"Sh-s.h.!.+" she said--"That's foolish talk, and I won't listen to it! I'm glad you're fond of me--it makes life so much pleasanter. Do you know, I sometimes think G.o.d must have sent you to me?"

"Do you? Why?"

"Well, I used to fret a little at being so much alone,--the days seemed so long, and it was hard to have to work only for one's wretched self, and see nothing in the future but just the same old round--and I missed my father always. I never could get accustomed to his empty chair. Then when I found you on the hills, lost and solitary, and ill, and brought you home to nurse and take care of, all the vacancy seemed filled--and I was quite glad to have some one to work for. I've been ever so much happier since you've been with me. We'll be like father and daughter to the end, won't we?"

She put one arm about him coaxingly. He did not answer.

"You won't go away from me now,--will you, David?" she urged--"Even when you've paid me back all you owe me as you wish by your own earnings, you won't go away?"

He lifted his head and looked at her as she bent over him.

"You mustn't ask me to promise anything,"--he said, "I will stay with you--as long as I can!"

She withdrew her arm from about him, and stood for a moment irresolute.

"Well--I shall be very miserable if you do go,"--she said--"And I'm sure no one will take more care of you than I will!"

"I'm sure of that, too, Mary!" and a smile that was almost youthful in its tenderness brightened his worn features--"I've never been so well taken care of in all my life before! Mr. Reay thinks I am a very lucky old fellow."

"Mr. Reay!" She echoed the name--and then, stooping abruptly towards the fire, began to make it up afresh. Helmsley watched her intently.

"Don't you like Mr. Reay?" he asked.

She turned a smiling face round upon him.

"Why, of course I like him!" she answered--"I think everyone in Weircombe likes him."

"I wonder if he'll ever marry?" pursued Helmsley, with a meditative air.

"Ah, I wonder! I hope if he does, he'll find some dear sweet little girl who will really love him and be proud of him! For he's going to be a great man, David!--a great and famous man some day!"

"You think so?"

"I'm sure of it!"

And she lifted her head proudly, while her blue eyes shone with enthusiastic fervour. Helmsley made a mental note of her expression, and wondered how he could proceed.

"And you'd like him to marry some 'dear sweet little girl'"--he went on, reflectively--"I'll tell him that you said so!"

She was silent, carefully piling one or two small logs on the fire.

"Dear sweet little girls are generally uncommonly vain of themselves,"

resumed Helmsley--"And in the strength of their dearness and sweetness they sometimes fail to appreciate love when they get it. Now Mr. Reay would love very deeply, I should imagine--and I don't think he could bear to be played with or slighted."

"But who would play with or slight such love as his?" asked Mary, with a warm flush on her face--"No woman that knew anything of his heart would wilfully throw it away!"

Helmsley stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"That story of his about a girl named Lucy Sorrel,"--he began.

"Oh, she was wicked--downright wicked!" declared Mary, with some pa.s.sion--"Any girl who would plan and scheme to marry an old man for his money must be a worthless creature. I wish I had been in that Lucy Sorrel's place!"

"Ah! And what would you have done?" enquired Helmsley.

"Well, if I had been a pretty girl, in my teens, and I had been fortunate enough to win the heart of a splendid fellow like Angus Reay,"--said Mary, "I would have thanked G.o.d, as Shakespeare tells us to do, for a good man's love! And I would have waited for him years, if he had wished me to! I would have helped him all I could, and cheered him and encouraged him in every way I could think of--and when he had won his fame, I should have been prouder than a queen! Yes, I should!--I think any girl would have been lucky indeed to get such a man to care for her as Angus Reay!"

Thus spake Mary, with sparkling eyes and heaving bosom--and Helmsley heard her, showing no sign of any especial interest, the while he went on meditatively stroking his beard.

"It is a pity,"--he said, after a discreet pause--"that you are not a few years younger, Mary! You might have loved him yourself."

Her face grew suddenly scarlet, and she seemed about to utter an exclamation, but she repressed it. The colour faded from her cheeks as rapidly as it had flushed them, leaving her very pale.

"So I might!" she answered quietly,--and she smiled; "Indeed I think it would have been very likely! But that sort of thing is all over for me."

She turned away, and began busying herself with some of her household duties. Helmsley judged that he had said enough--and quietly exulted in his own mind at the discovery which he was confident he had made. All seemed clear and open sailing for Angus Reay--if--if she could be persuaded that it was for herself and herself alone that he loved her.

"Now if she were a rich woman, she would never believe in his love!" he thought--"There again comes in the curse of money! Suppose she were wealthy as women in her rank of life would consider it--suppose that she had a prosperous farm, and a reliable income of so much per annum, she would never flatter herself that a man loved her for her own good and beautiful self--especially a man in the situation of Reay, with only twenty pounds in the world to last him a year, and nothing beyond it save the dream of fame! She would think--and naturally too--that he sought to strengthen and improve his prospects by marrying a woman of some 'substance' as they call it. And even as it is the whole business requires careful handling. I myself must be on my guard. But I think I may give hope to Reay!--indeed I shall try and urge him to speak to her as soon as possible--before fortune comes to either of them! Love in its purest and most unselfish form, is such a rare blessing--such a glorious Angel of the kingdom of Heaven, that we should not hesitate to give it welcome, or delay in offering it reverence! It is all that makes life worth living--G.o.d knows how fully I have proved it!"

And that night in the quiet darkness of his own little room, he folded his worn hands and prayed--

"Oh G.o.d, before whom I appear as a wasted life, spent with toil in getting what is not worth the gaining, and that only seems as dross in Thy sight!--Give me sufficient time and strength to show my gratefulness to Thee for Thy mercy in permitting me to know the sweetness of Love at last, and in teaching me to understand, through Thy guidance, that those who may seem to us the unconsidered and lowly in this world, are often to be counted among Thy dearest creatures! Grant me but this, O G.o.d, and death when it comes, shall find me ready and resigned to Thy Will!"

Thus he murmured half aloud,--and in the wonderful restfulness which he obtained by the mere utterance of his thoughts to the Divine Source of all good, closed his eyes with a sense of abiding joy, and slept peacefully.