The Treasure of Heaven Part 70

"Hornets' nests?"

"Yes. Where a good many lawyers live, or used to live."

"Oh, I see!" And she smiled responsively to what he evidently intended as a brilliant satirical joke. "But is it easy to get there?"

"Quite easy. Take a 'bus."

"From the station?"

"Of course!"

And he subsided into silence.

She asked no more questions, and on her arrival at Paddington confided her anxieties to a friendly porter, who, announcing that he was "from Somerset born himself and would see her through," gave her concise directions which she attentively followed; with the result that despite much bewilderment in getting in and getting out of omnibuses, and jostling against more people than she had ever seen in the course of her whole life, she found herself at last at the entrance of a rather obscure-looking s.m.u.tty little pa.s.sage, guarded by a couple of round columns, on which were painted in black letters a considerable number of names, among which were those of "Vesey and Symonds." The numeral inscribed above the entrance to this pa.s.sage corresponded to the number on the address of the packet which she carried for "Mr. Bulteel"--but though she read all the names on the two columns, "Bulteel" was not among them. Nevertheless, she made her way perseveringly into what seemed nothing but a little blind alley leading nowhere, and as she did so, a small boy came running briskly down a flight of dark stairs, which were scarcely visible from the street, and nearly knocked her over.

"'Ullo! Beg pardon 'm! Which office d' ye want?"

"Is there," began Mary, in her gentle voice--"is there a Mr.

Bulteel----?"

"Bulteel? Yes--straight up--second floor--third door--Vesey and Symonds!"

With these words jerked out of himself at lightning speed, the boy rushed past her and disappeared.

With a beating heart Mary cautiously climbed the dark staircase which he had just descended. When she reached the second floor, she paused. There were three doors all facing her,--on the first one was painted the name of "Sir Francis Vesey"--on the second "Mr. John Symonds"--and on the third "Mr. Bulteel." As soon as she saw this last, she heaved a little sigh of relief, and going straight up to it knocked timidly. It was opened at once by a young clerk who looked at her questioningly.

"Mr. Bulteel?" she asked, hesitatingly.

"Yes. Have you an appointment?"

"No. I am quite a stranger," she said. "I only wish to tell Mr. Bulteel of the death of some one he knows."

The clerk glanced at her and seemed dubious.

"Mr. Bulteel is very busy," he began--"and unless you have an appointment----"

"Oh, please let me see him!" And Mary's eyes almost filled with tears.

"See!"--and she held up before him the packet she carried. "I've travelled all the way from Weircombe, in Somerset, to bring him this from his dead friend, and I promised to give it to him myself. Please, please do not turn me away!"

The clerk stared hard at the superscription on the packet, as he well might. For he had at once recognised the handwriting of David Helmsley.

But he suppressed every outward sign of surprise, save such as might appear in a glance of unconcealed wonder at Mary herself. Then he said briefly--

"Come in!"

She obeyed, and was at once shut in a stuffy cupboard-like room which had no other furniture than an office desk and high stool.

"Name, please!" said the clerk.

She looked startled--then smiled.

"My name? Mary Deane."

"Miss or Mrs.?"

"'Miss,' if you please, sir," she answered, the colour flus.h.i.+ng her cheeks with confusion at the sharpness of his manner.

The clerk gave her another up-and-down look, and opening a door behind his office desk vanished like a conjuror tricking himself through a hole.

She waited patiently for a couple of minutes--and then the clerk came back, with traces of excitement in his manner.

"Yes--Mr. Bulteel will see you. This way!"

She followed him with her usual quiet step and composed demeanour, and bent her head with a pretty air of respect as she found herself in the presence of an elderly man with iron-grey whiskers and a severely preoccupied air of business hardening his otherwise rather benevolent features. He adjusted his spectacles and looked keenly at her as she entered. She spoke at once.

"You are Mr. Bulteel?"

"Yes."

"Then this is for you," she said, approaching him, and handing him the packet she had brought. "They are some papers belonging to a poor old tramp named David, who lodged in my house for nearly a year--it will be a year come July. He was very weak and feeble and got lost in a storm on the hills above Weircombe--that's where I live--and I found him lying quite unconscious in the wet and cold, and took him home and nursed him.

He got better and stayed on with me, making baskets for a living--he was too feeble to tramp any more--but he gave me no trouble, he was such a kind, good old man. I was very fond of him. And--and--last week he died"--here her sweet voice trembled. "He suffered great pain--but at the end he pa.s.sed away quite peacefully--in my arms. He was very anxious that I should bring his papers to you myself--and I promised I would so----"

She paused, a little troubled by his silence. Surely he looked very strangely at her.

"I am sorry," she faltered, nervously--"if I have brought you any bad news;--poor David seemed to have no friends, but perhaps you were a friend to him once and may have a kind recollection of him----"

He was still quite silent. Slowly he broke the seals of the packet, and drawing out a slip of paper which came first to his hand, read what was written upon it. Then he rose from his chair.

"Kindly wait one moment," he said. "These--these papers and letters are not for me, but--but for--for another gentleman."

He hurried out of the room, taking the packet with him, and Mary remained alone for nearly a quarter of an hour, vaguely perplexed, and wondering how any "other gentleman" could possibly be concerned in the matter. Presently Mr. Bulteel returned, in an evident state of suppressed agitation.

"Will you please follow me, Miss Deane?" he said, with a singular air of deference. "Sir Francis is quite alone and will see you at once."

Mary's blue eyes opened in amazement.

"Sir Francis----!" she stammered. "I don't quite understand----"

"This way," said Mr. Bulteel, escorting her out of his own room along the pa.s.sage to the door which she had before seen labelled with the name of "Sir Francis Vesey"--then catching the startled and appealing glance of her eyes, he added kindly: "Don't be alarmed! It's all right!"

Thereupon he opened the door and announced--

"Miss Deane, Sir Francis."

Mary looked up, and then curtsied with quite an "out-of-date" air of exquisite grace, as she found herself in the presence of a dignified white-haired old gentleman, who, standing near a large office desk on which the papers she had brought lay open, was wiping his spectacles, and looking very much as if he had been guilty of the womanish weakness of tears. He advanced to meet her.

"How do you do!" he said, uttering this commonplace with remarkable earnestness, and taking her hand kindly in his own. "You bring me sad news--very sad news! I had not expected the death of my old friend so suddenly--I had hoped to see him again--yes, I had hoped very much to see him again quite soon! And so you were with him at the last?"

Mary looked, as she felt, utterly bewildered.