The Treasure of Heaven Part 60

We say amiss This or that is; Thy Word is all, if we could spell!"

"If we could spell!" he murmured, half aloud. "Ay, if we could learn even a quarter of the alphabet which would help us to understand the meaning of that 'Word!'--the Word which 'was in the beginning, and the word was with G.o.d, and the word _was_ G.o.d!' Then we should be wise indeed with a wisdom that would profit us,--we should have no fears and no forebodings,--we should know that all is, all _must_ be for the best!" And he raised his eyes to the slowly brightening sky. "Yet, after all, the att.i.tude of simple faith is the right one for us, if we would call ourselves children of G.o.d--the faith which affirms--'Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him!'"

As he thus mused, a golden light began to spread around him,--the sun had risen above the horizon, and its cheerful radiance sparkled on every leaf and every blade of gra.s.s that bore a drop of dew. The morning mists rose hoveringly, paused awhile, and then lightly rolled away, disclosing one picture after another of exquisite sylvan beauty,--every living thing took up anew its burden of work and pleasure for the day, and "Now" was again declared the acceptable time. To enjoy the moment, and to make much of the moment while it lasts, is the very keynote of Nature's happiness, and David Helmsley found himself on this particular morning more or less in tune with the general sentiment. Certain sad thoughts oppressed him from time to time, but they were tempered and well-nigh overcome by the secret pleasure he felt within himself at having been given the means wherewith to ensure happiness for those whom he considered were more deserving of it than himself. And he sat patiently watching the landscape grow in glory as the sun rose higher and higher, till presently, struck by a sudden fear lest Mary Deane should get up earlier than usual, and missing him, should come out to seek for him, he left the bank by the roadside, and began to trudge slowly along in the direction of Minehead. He had not walked for a much longer time than about ten minutes, when he heard the crunching sound of heavy wheels behind him, and, looking back, saw a large mill waggon piled with sacks of flour and drawn by two st.u.r.dy horses, coming leisurely along. He waited till it drew near, and then called to the waggoner--

"Will you give me a lift to Minehead for half a crown?"

The waggoner, stout, red-faced, and jolly-looking, nodded an emphatic a.s.sent.

"I'd do it for 'arf the money!" he said. "Gi' us yer 'and, old gaffer!"

The "old gaffer" obeyed, and was soon comfortably seated between the projecting corners of two flour sacks, which in their way were as comfortable as cus.h.i.+ons.

"'Old on there," said the waggoner, "an' ye'll be as safe as though ye was in Abram's bosom. Not that I knows much about Abram anyway. Wheer abouts d'ye want in Minehead?"

"The railway station."

"Right y' are! That's my ticket too. Tired o' trampin' it, I s'pose, aint ye?"

"A bit tired--yes. I've walked since daybreak."

The waggoner cracked his whip, and the horses plodded on. Their heavy hoofs on the dusty road, and the noise made by the grind of the cart wheels, checked any attempt at prolonged conversation, for which Helmsley was thankful. He considered himself lucky in having met with a total stranger, for the name of the owner of the waggon, which was duly displayed both on the vehicle itself and the sacks of flour it contained, was unknown to him, and the place from which it had come was an inland village several miles away from Weircombe. He was therefore safe--so far--from any chance of recognition. To be driven along in a heavy mill cart was a rumblesome, drowsy way of travelling, but it was restful, and when Minehead was at last reached, he did not feel himself at all tired. The waggoner had to get his cargo of flour off by rail, so there was no lingering in the town itself, which was as yet scarcely astir. They were in time for the first train going to Exeter, and Helmsley, changing one of his five-pound notes at the railway station, took a third-cla.s.s ticket to that place. Then he paid the promised half-crown to his friendly driver, with an extra threepence for a morning "dram," whereat the waggoner chuckled.

"Thankee! I zee ye be no temp'rance man!"

Helmsley smiled.

"No. I'm a sober man, not a temperance man!"

"Ay! We'd a parzon in these 'ere parts as was temp'rance, but 'e took 'is zpirits different like! 'E zkorned 'is gla.s.s, but 'e loved 'is gel!

Har--ar--ar! Ivir 'eerd o' Parzon Arbroath as woz put out o' the Church for 'avin' a fav'rite?"

"I saw something about it in the papers," said Helmsley.

"Ay, 'twoz in the papers. Har--ar--ar! 'E woz a temp'rance man. But wot I sez is, we'se all a bit o' devil in us, an' we can't be temp'rance ivry which way. An' zo, if not the gla.s.s, then the gel! Har--ar--ar!

Good-day t' ye, an' thank ye kindly!"

He went off then, and a few minutes later the train came gliding in. The whirr and noise of the panting engine confused Helmsley's ears and dazed his brain, after his months of seclusion in such a quiet little spot as Weircombe,--and he was seized with quite a nervous terror and doubt as to whether he would be able, after all, to undertake the journey he had decided upon, alone. But an energetic porter put an end to his indecision by opening all the doors of the various compartments in the train and banging them to again, whereupon he made up his mind quickly, and managed, with some little difficulty, to clamber up the high step of a third-cla.s.s carriage and get in before the aforesaid porter had the chance to push him in head foremost. In another few minutes the engine whistle set up a deafening scream, and the train ran swiftly out of the station. He was off;--the hills, the sea, were left behind--and Weircombe--restful, simple little Weircombe, seemed not only miles of distance, but ages of time away! Had he ever lived there, he hazily wondered? Would he ever go back? Was he "old David the basket-maker," or David Helmsley the millionaire? He hardly knew. It did not seem worth while to consider the problem of his own ident.i.ty. One figure alone was real,--one face alone smiled out of the cloudy vista of thoughts and memories, with the true glory of an ineffable tenderness--the sweet, pure face of Mary, with her clear and candid eyes lighting every expression to new loveliness. On Angus Reay his mind did not dwell so much--Angus was a man--and as a man he regarded him with warm liking and sympathy--but it was as the future husband and protector of Mary that he thought of him most--as the one out of all the world who would care for her, when he, David Helmsley, was no more. Mary was the centre of his dreams--the pivot round which all his last ambitions in this world were gathered together in one focus,--without her there was, there could be nothing for him--nothing to give peace or comfort to his last days--nothing to satisfy him as to the future of all that his life had been spent to gain.

Meantime,--while the train bearing him to Exeter was rus.h.i.+ng along through wide and ever-varying stretches of fair landscape,--there was amazement and consternation in the little cottage he had left behind him. Mary, rising from a sound night's sleep, and coming down to the kitchen as usual to light the fire and prepare breakfast, saw a letter on the table addressed to her, and opening, it read as follows:--

"MY DEAR MARY,--Do not be anxious this morning when you find that I am gone. I shall not be long away. I have an idea of getting some work to do, which may be more useful to you and Angus than my poor attempts at basket-making. At any rate I feel it would be wrong if I did not try to obtain some better paying employment, of a kind which I can do at home, so that I may be of greater a.s.sistance to you both when you marry and begin your double housekeeping. Old though I am and ailing, I want to feel less of a burden and more of a help. You will not think any the worse of me for wis.h.i.+ng this. You have been so good and charitable to me in my need, that I should not die happy if I, in my turn, did not make an effort to give you some substantial proof of grat.i.tude. This is Tuesday morning, and I shall hope to be home again with you before Sunday. In the meanwhile, do not worry at all about me, for I feel quite strong enough to do what I have in my mind. I leave Charlie with you. He is safest and happiest in your care. Good-bye for a little while, dear, kind friend, and G.o.d bless you!

DAVID."

She read this with amazement and distress, the tears welling up in her eyes.

"Oh, David!" she exclaimed. "Poor, poor old man! What will he do all by himself, wandering about the country with no money! It's dreadful! How could he think of such a thing! He is so weak, too!--he can't possibly get very far!"

Here a sudden thought struck her, and picking up Charlie, who had followed her downstairs from her bedroom and was now trotting to and fro, sniffing the air in a somewhat disconsolate and dubious manner, she ran out of the house bareheaded, and hurried up to the top of the "coombe." There she paused, shading her eyes from the sun and looking all about her. It was a lovely morning, and the sea, calm and sparkling with sunbeams, shone like a blue gla.s.s flecked with gold. The sky was clear, and the landscape fresh and radiant with the tender green of the springtime verdure. But everything was quite solitary. Vainly her glance swept from left to right and from right to left again,--there was no figure in sight such as the one she sought and half-expected to discover. Putting Charlie down to follow at her heels, she walked quickly across the intervening breadth of moor to the highroad, and there paused, looking up and down its dusty length, hoping against hope that she might see David somewhere trudging slowly along on his lonely way, but there was not a human creature visible. Charlie, a.s.suming a highly vigilant att.i.tude, c.o.c.ked his tiny ears and sniffed the air suspiciously, as though he scented the trail of his lost master, but no clue presented itself as likely to serve the purpose of tracking the way in which he had gone. Moved by a sudden loneliness and despondency, Mary slowly returned to the cottage, carrying the little dog in her arms, and was affected to tears again when she entered the kitchen, because it looked so empty. The bent figure, the patient aged face, on which for her there was ever a smile of grateful tenderness--these had composed a picture by her fireside to which she had grown affectionately accustomed,--and to see it no longer there made her feel almost desolate. She lit the fire listlessly and prepared her own breakfast without interest--it was a solitary meal and lacked flavour. She was glad when, after breakfast, Angus Reay came in, as was now his custom, to say good-morning, and to "gain inspiration,"--so he told her,--for his day's work. He was no less astonished than herself at David's sudden departure.

"Poor old chap! I believe he thinks he is in our way, Mary!" he said, as he read the letter of explanation which their missing friend had left behind him. "And yet he says quite plainly here that he will be back before Sunday. Perhaps he will. But where can he have gone to?"

"Not far, surely!" and Mary looked, as she felt, perplexed. "He has no money!"

"Not a penny?"

"Not a penny! He makes me take everything he earns to help pay for his keep and as something towards the cost of his illness last year. I don't want it--but it pleases him that I should have it----"

"Of course--I understand that,"--and Angus slipped an arm round her waist, while he read the letter through again. "But if he hasn't a penny, how can he get along?"

"He must be on the tramp again," said Mary. "But he isn't strong enough to tramp. I went up the coombe this morning and right out to the highroad, for I thought I might see him and catch up with him--because I know it would take him ever so long to walk a mile. But he had gone altogether."

Reay stood thinking.

"I tell you what, Mary," he said at last, "I'll take a brisk walk down the road towards Minehead. I should think that's the only place where he'd try for work. I daresay I shall overtake him."

Her eyes brightened.

"Yes, that's quite possible,"--and she was evidently pleased at the suggestion. "He's so old and feeble, and you're so strong and quick on your feet----"

"Quick with my lips, too," said Angus, promptly kissing her. "But I shall have to be on my best behaviour now you're all alone in the cottage, Mary! David has left you defenceless!"

He laughed, but as she raised her eyes questioningly to his face, grew serious.

"Yes, my Mary! You'll have to stay by your own sweet lonesome! Otherwise all the dear, kind, meddlesome old women in the village will talk! Mrs.

Twitt will lead the chorus, with the best intentions, unless--and this is a dreadful alternative!--you can persuade her to come up and play propriety!"

The puzzled look left her face, and she smiled though a wave of colour flushed her cheeks.

"Oh! I see what you mean, Angus! But I'm too old to want looking after--I can look after myself."

"Can you?" And he took her into his arms and held her fast. "And how will you do it?"

She was silent a moment, looking into his eyes with a grave and musing tenderness. Then she said quietly--

"By trusting you, my love, now and always!"

Very gently he released her from his embrace--very reverently he kissed her.

"And you shall never regret your trust, you dear, sweet angel of a woman! Be sure of that! Now I'm off to look for David--I'll try and bring him back with me. By the way, Mary, I've told Mr. and Mrs. Twitt and good old Bunce that we are engaged--so the news is now the public property of the whole village. In fact, we might just as well have put up the banns and secured the parson!"

He laughed his bright, jovial laugh, and throwing on his cap went out, striding up the coombe with swift, easy steps, whistling joyously "My Nannie O" as he made the ascent. Twice he turned to wave his hand to Mary who stood watching him from her garden gate, and then he disappeared. She waited a moment among all the sweetly perfumed flowers in her little garden, looking at the bright glitter of the hill stream as it flowed equably by.

"How wonderful it is," she thought, "that G.o.d should have been so good to me! I have done nothing to deserve any love at all, and yet Angus loves me! It seems too beautiful to be real! I am not worthy of such happiness! Sometimes I dare not think too much of it lest it should all prove to be only a dream! For surely no one in the world could wish for a better life than we shall live--Angus and I--in this dear little cottage together,--he with his writing, which I know will some day move the world,--and I with my usual work, helping as much as I can to make his life sweet to him. For we have the great secret of all joy--we love each other!"

With her eyes full of the dreamy light of inward heart's content, she turned and went into the house. The sight of David's empty chair by the fire troubled her,--but she tried to believe that Angus would succeed in finding him on the highroad, and in persuading him to return at once.

Towards noon Mrs. Twitt came in, somewhat out of breath, on account of having climbed the village street more rapidly than was her custom on such a warm day as it had turned out to be, and straightway began conversation.

"Wonders 'ull never cease, Mis' Deane, an' that's a fact!" she said, wiping her hot face with the corner of her ap.r.o.n--"An' while there's life there's 'ope! I'd as soon 'a thought o' Weircombe Church walkin'