The Treasure of Heaven Part 63

"That is true!" he said--"And being 'quite, quite sure' beyond all doubt, that I have found 'one to love me' whose love is of the truest, holiest and purest, what more can I ask of Divine goodness!"

And his face was full of the light of a heart's content and peace, as the dimpled hill coast of Somerset came into view, and the warm spring suns.h.i.+ne danced upon the sea.

CHAPTER XXI

Arriving at Minehead, Helmsley pa.s.sed out of the station unnoticed by any one, and made his way easily through the sunny little town. He was soon able to secure a "lift" towards Weircombe in a baker's cart going half the way; the rest of the distance he judged he could very well manage to walk, albeit slowly. A fluttering sense of happiness, like the scarcely suppressed excitement of a boy going home from school for the holidays, made him feel almost agile on his feet,--if he had only had a trifle more strength he thought he could have run the length of every mile stretching between him and the dear cottage in the coombe, which had now become the central interest of his life. The air was so pure, the sun so bright--the spring foliage was so fresh and green, the birds sang so joyously--all nature seemed to be in such perfect tune with the deep ease and satisfaction of his own soul, that every breath he took was more or less of a thanksgiving to G.o.d for having been spared to enjoy the beauty of such halcyon hours. By the willing away of all his millions to one whom he knew to be of a pure, n.o.ble, and incorruptible nature, a great load had been lifted from his mind,--he had done with world's work for ever; and by some inexplicable yet divine compensation it seemed as though the true meaning of the life to come had been suddenly disclosed to him, and that he was allowed to realise for the first time not only the possibility, but the certainty, that Death is not an End, but a new Beginning. And he felt himself to be a free man,--free of all earthly confusion and worry--free to recommence another cycle of n.o.bler work in a higher and wider sphere of action, And he argued with himself thus:--

"A man is born into this world without his own knowledge or consent. Yet he finds himself--also without his own knowledge or consent--surrounded by natural beauty and perfect order--he finds nothing in the planet which can be accounted valueless--he learns that even a grain of dust has its appointed use, and that not a sparrow shall fall to the ground without 'Our Father.' Everything is ready to his hand to minister to his reasonable wants--and it is only when he misinterprets the mystic meaning of life, and puts G.o.d aside as an 'unknown quant.i.ty,' that things go wrong. His mission is that of progress and advancement--but not progress and advancement in base material needs and pleasures,--the progress and advancement required of him is primarily spiritual. For the spiritual, or Mind, is the only Real. Matter is merely the husk in which the seed of Spirit is enclosed--and Man's mistake is always that he attaches himself to the perishable husk instead of the ever germinating seed. He advances, but advances wrongly, and therefore has to go back upon his steps. He progresses in what he calls civilisation, which so long as it is purely self-aggrandis.e.m.e.nt, is but a common circle, bringing him back in due course to primitive savagery. Now I, for example, started in life to make money--I made it, and it brought me power, which I thought progress; but now, at the end of my tether, I see plainly that I have done no good in my career save such good as will come from my having placed all my foolish gainings under the control of a nature simpler and therefore stronger than my own. And I, leaving my dross behind me, must go forward and begin again--spiritually the wiser for my experience of this world, which may help me better to understand the next."

Thus he mused, as he slowly trudged along under the bright and burning sun--happy enough in his thoughts except that now and then a curious touch of foreboding fear came over him as to whether anything ill had happened to Mary in his absence.

"For one never knows!"--and a faint shudder came over him as he remembered Tom o' the Gleam, and the cruel, uncalled-for death of his child, the only human creature left to him in the world to care for.

"One can never tell, whether in the scheme of creation there is such a being as a devil, who takes joy in running counter to the beneficent intentions of the Creator! Light exists--and Darkness. Good seems co-equal with Evil. It is all mystery! Now, suppose Mary were to die?

Suppose she were, at this very moment, dead?"

Such a horror came over him as this idea presented itself to his mind that he trembled from head to foot, and his brain grew dizzy. He had walked for a longer time than he knew since the cart in which he had ridden part of the way had left him at about four miles away from Weircombe, and he felt that he must sit down on the roadside and rest for a bit before going further. How cruel, how fiendish it would be, he continued to imagine, if Mary were dead! It would be devil's work!--and he would have no more faith in G.o.d! He would have lost his last hope,--and he would fall into the grave a despairing atheist and blasphemer! Why, if Mary were dead, then the world was a snare, and heaven a delusion!--truth a trick, and goodness a lie! Then--was all the past, the present, and future hanging for him like a jewel on the finger of one woman? He was bound to admit that it was so. He was also bound to admit that all the past, present, and future had, for poor Tom o' the Gleam, been centred in one little child. And--G.o.d?--no, not G.o.d--but a devil, using as his tools devilish men,--had killed that child! Then, might not that devil kill Mary? His head swam, and a sickening sense of bafflement and incompetency came over him. He had made his will,--that was true!--but who could guarantee that she whom he had chosen as his heiress would live to inherit his wealth?

"I wish I did not think of such horrible things!" he said wearily--"Or I wish I could walk faster, and get home--home to the little cottage quickly, and see for myself that she is safe and well!"

Sitting among the long gra.s.s and field flowers by the roadside, he grasped his stick in one hand and leaned his head upon that support, closing his eyes in sheer fatigue and despondency. Suddenly a sound startled him, and he struggled to his feet, his eyes s.h.i.+ning with an intent and eager look. That clear, tender voice!--that quick, sweet cry!

"David!"

He listened with a vague and dreamy sense of pleasure. The soft patter of feet across the gra.s.s--the swish of a dress against the leaves, and then--then--why, here was Mary herself, one tress of her lovely hair tumbling loose in the sun, her eyes bright and her cheeks crimson with running.

"Oh, David, dear old David! Here you are at last! Why _did_ you go away!

We have missed you dreadfully! David, you look _so_ tired!--where have you been? Angus and I have been waiting for you ever so long,--you said in your letter you would be back by Sunday, and we thought you would likely choose to-day to come--oh, David?--you are quite worn out!

Don't--don't give way!"

For with the longed-for sight of her, the world's multi-millionaire had become only a weak, over-wrought old man, and his tired heart had leaped in his breast with quite a poor and common human joy which brought the tears falling from his eyes despite himself. She was beside him in a moment, her arm thrown affectionately about his shoulders, and her sweet face turned up close to his, all aglow with sympathy and tenderness.

"Why did you leave us?" she went on with a gentle playfulness, though the tears were in her own eyes. "Whatever made you think of getting work out of Weircombe? Oh, you dissatisfied old boy! I thought you were quite happy with me!"

He took her hand and held it a moment, then pressed it to his lips.

"Happy!" he murmured. "My dear, I was _too_ happy!--and I felt that I owed you too much! I went away for a bit just to see if I could do something for you more profitable than basket-making----"

Mary nodded her head at him in wise-like fas.h.i.+on, just as if he were a spoilt child.

"I daresay you did!" she said, smiling. "And what's the end of it all, eh?"

He looked at her, and in the brightness of her smile, smiled also.

"Well, the end of it all is that I've come back to you in exactly the same condition in which I went away," he said. "No richer,--no poorer!

I've got nothing to do. n.o.body wants old people on their hands nowadays.

It's a rough time of the world!"

"You'll always find the world rough on you if you turn your back on those that love you!" she said.

He lifted his head and gazed at her with such a pained and piteous appeal, that her heart smote her. He looked so very ill, and his worn face with the snow-white hair ruffled about it, was so pallid and thin.

"G.o.d forbid that I should do that!" he murmured tremulously. "G.o.d forbid! Mary, you don't think I would ever do that?"

"No--of course not!" she answered soothingly. "Because you see, you've come back again. But if you had gone away altogether----"

"You'd have thought me an ungrateful, worthless old rascal, wouldn't you?" And the smile again sparkled in his dim eyes. "And you and Angus Reay would have said--'Well, never mind him! He served one useful purpose at any rate--he brought us together!'"

"Now, David!" said Mary, holding up a warning finger, "You know we shouldn't have talked in such a way of you at all! Even if you had never come back, we should always have thought of you kindly--and I should have always loved you and prayed for you!"

He was silent, mentally pulling himself together. Then he put his arm gently through hers.

"Let us go home," he said. "I can walk now. Are we far from the coombe?"

"Not ten minutes off," she answered, glad to see him more cheerful and alert. "By the short cut it's just over the brow of the hill. Will you come that way?"

"Any way you like to take me," and leaning on her arm he walked bravely on. "Where is Angus?"

"I left him sitting under a tree at the top of the coombe near the Church," she replied. "He was busy with his writing, and I told him I would just run across the hill and see if you were coming. I had a sort of fancy you would be tramping home this morning! And where have you been all these days?"

"A good way," he answered evasively. "I'm rather a slow walker."

"I should think you were!" and she laughed good-humouredly. "You must have been pretty near us all the while!"

He made no answer, and together they paced slowly across the gra.s.s, sweet with the mixed perfume of thousands of tiny close-growing herbs and flowers which clung in unseen clumps to the soil. All at once the quaint little tower of Weircombe Church thrust its ivy-covered summit above the edge of the green slope which they were ascending, and another few steps showed the glittering reaches of the sunlit sea. Helmsley paused, and drew a deep breath.

"I am thankful to see it all again!" he said.

She waited, while leaning heavily on her arm he scanned the whole fair landscape with a look of eager love and longing. She saw that he was very tired and exhausted, and wondered what he had been doing with himself in his days of absence from her care, but she had too much delicacy and feeling for him to ask him any questions. And she was glad when a cheery "Hillo!" echoed over the hill and Angus appeared, striding across the gra.s.s and waving his cap in quite a jubilant fas.h.i.+on. As soon as he saw them plainly he exchanged his stride for a run and came up to them in a couple of minutes.

"Why, David!" he exclaimed. "How are you, old boy? Welcome back! So Mary is right as usual! She said she was sure you would be home to-day!"

Helmsley could not speak. He merely returned the pressure of Reay's warm, strong hand with all the friendly fervour of which he was capable.

A glance from Mary's eyes warned Angus that the old man was sorely tired--and he at once offered him his arm.

"Lean on me, David," he said. "Strong as bonnie Mary is, I'm just a bit stronger. We'll be across the brae in no time! Charlie's at home keeping house!"

He laughed, and Helmsley smiled.

"Poor wee Charlie!" he said. "Did he miss me?"

"That he did!" answered Mary. "He's been quite lonesome, and not contented at all with only me. Every morning and every night he went into your room looking for you, and whined so pitifully at not finding you that I had quite a trouble to comfort him."

"More tender-hearted than many a human so-called 'friend'!" murmured Helmsley.