CHAPTER XV
He watched her working for a few minutes before he spoke again. And shading his eyes with one hand from the red glow of the fire, David Helmsley watched them both.
"Well, it's rather cool of me to take up your time talking about my own affairs,"—began Reay, at last—"But I've been pretty much by myself for a good while, and it's pleasant to have a chat with friendly people—man wasn't made to live alone, you know! In fact, neither man nor beast nor bird can stand it. Even a sea cormorant croaks to the wind!"
Mary laughed.
"But not for company's sake,"—she said—"It croaks when it's hungry."
"Oh, I've often croaked for that reason!" and Reay pushed from his forehead a wayward tuft of hair which threatened to drop over his eye in a thick silvery brown curl—"But it's wonderful how little a fellow can live upon in the way of what is called food. I know all sorts of dodges wherewith to satisfy the greedy cravings of the vulgar part of me."
Helmsley took his hand from his eyes, and fixed a keenly observant look upon the speaker. Mary said nothing, but her crochet needle moved more slowly.
"You see," went on Reay, "I've always been rather fortunate in having had very little to eat."
"You call it 'fortunate'?" queried Helmsley, abruptly.
"Why, of course! I've never had what the doctors call an 'overloaded system'—therefore I've no lading bill to pay. The million or so of cells of which I am composed are not at all anxious to throw any extra nourishment off,—sometimes they intimate a strong desire to take some extra nourishment in—but that is an uneducated tendency in them which I sternly repress. I tell all those small grovelling cells that extra nourishment would not be good for them. And they shrink back from my moral reproof ashamed of themselves—and become wiry instead of fatty. Which is as it should be."
"You're a queer chap!" said Helmsley, with a laugh.
"Think so? Well, I daresay I am—all Scotsmen are. There's always the buzzing of the bee in our bonnets. I come of an ancient Highland stock who were certainly 'queer' as modern ways go,—for they were famous for their pride, and still more famous for their poverty all the way through. As far back as I can go in the history of my family, and that's a pretty long way, we were always at our wit's end to live. From the days of the founder of our house, a glorious old chieftain who used to pillage his neighbour chieftain in the usual style of those glorious old times, we never had more than just enough for the bare necessities of life. My father, as I told you, was a shepherd—a strong, fine-looking man over six feet in height, and as broad-chested as a Hercules—he herded sheep on the mountains for a Glasgow dealer, as low-down a rascal as ever lived, a man who, so far as race and lineage went, wasn't fit to scrape mud off my father's boots. But we often see gentlemen of birth obliged to work for knaves of cash. That was the way it was with my father. As soon as I was old enough—about ten,—I helped him in his work—I used to tramp backwards and forwards to school in the nearest village, but after school hours I got an evening job of a shilling a week for bringing home eight Highland bull-heifers from pasture. The man who owned them valued them highly, but was afraid of them—wouldn't go near them for his life—and before I'd been with them a fortnight they all knew me. I was only a wee laddie, but they answered to my call like friendly dogs rather than the great powerful splendid beasts they were, with their rough coats shining like floss silk in the sunset, when I went to drive them home, singing as I came. And my father said to me one night—'Laddie, tell me the truth—are ye ever scared at the bulls!' 'No, father!' said I—'It's a bonnie boy I am to the bulls!' And he laughed—by Jove!—how he laughed! 'Ye're a wee raskell!' he said—'An' as full o' conceit as an egg's full o' meat!' I expect that was true too, for I always thought well of myself. You see, if I hadn't thought well of myself, no one would ever have thought well ofme!"
"There's something in that!" said Helmsley, the smile still lingering in his eyes—"Courage and self-reliance have often conquered more than eight bulls!"
"Oh, I don't call it either courage or self-reliance—it wasjust that I thought myself of too much importance to be hurt by bulls or anything else,"—and Angus laughed,—then with a sudden knitting of his brows as though his thoughts were making hard knots in his brain, he added—"Even as a laddie I had an idea—and I have it now—that there was something in me which God had put there for a purpose of His own,—something that he would not andcouldnot destroy till His purpose had been fulfilled!"
Mary stopped working and looked at him earnestly. Her breath came and went quickly—her eyes shone dewily like stars in a summer haze,—she was deeply interested.
"That was—andis—a conceited notion, of course,"—went on Angus, reflectively—"And I don't excuse it. But I'm not one of the 'meek who shall inherit the earth.' I'm a robustious combustious sort of chap—if a fellow knocks me down, I jump up and give it him back with as jolly good interest as I can—and if anyone plays me a dirty trick I'll move all the mental and elemental forces of the universe to expose him. That's my way—unfortunately——"
"Why 'unfortunately'?" asked Helmsley.
Reay threw back his head and indulged in one of his mellow peals of laughter.
"Can you ask why? Oh David, good old David!—it's easy to see you don't know much of the world! If you did, you'd realise that the best way to 'get on' in the usual way of worldly progress, is to make up to all sorts of social villains and double-dyed millionaire-scoundrels, find out all their tricks and their miserable little vices and pamper them, David!—pamper them and flatter them up to the top of their bent till you've got them in your power—and then—thenusethem—use them for everything you want. For once you know what blackguards they are, they'll give you anything not to tell!"
"I should be sorry to think that's true,"—murmured Mary.
"Don't think it, then,"—said Angus—"You needn't,—because millionaires are not likely to come in your way. Nor in mine—now. I've cut myself adrift from all chance of ever meeting them. But only a year ago I was on the road to making a good thing out of one or two of the so-called 'kings of finance'—then I suddenly took a 'scunner' as we Scots say, at the whole lot, and hated and despised myself for ever so much as thinking that it might serve my ownends to become their tool. So I just cast off ropes like a ship, and steamed out of harbour."
"Into the wide sea!" said Mary, looking at him with a smile that was lovely in its radiance and sympathy.
"Into the wide sea—yes!" he answered—"And sea that was pretty rough at first. But one can get accustomed to anything—even to the high rock-a-bye tossing of great billows that really don't want to put you to sleep so much as to knock you to pieces. But I'm galloping along too fast. From the time I made friends with young bulls to the time I began to scrape acquaintance with newspaper editors is a far cry—and in the interim my father died. I should have told you that I lost my mother when I was born—and I don't think that the great wound her death left in my father's heart ever really healed. He never seemed quite at one with the things of life—and his 'bogle tales' of which I was so fond, all turned on the spirits of the dead coming again to visit those whom they had loved, and from whom they had been taken—and he used to tell them with such passionate conviction that sometimes I trembled and wondered if any spirit were standing near us in the light of the peat fire, or if the shriek of the wind over our sheiling were the cry of some unhappy soul in torment. Well! When his time came, he was not allowed to suffer—one day in a great storm he was struck by lightning on the side of the mountain where he was herding in his flocks—and there he was found lying as though he were peacefully asleep. Death must have been swift and painless—and I always thank God for that!" He paused a moment—then went on—"When I found myself quite alone in the world, I hired myself out to a farmer for five years—and worked faithfully for him—worked so well that he raised my wages and would willingly have kept me on—but I had the 'bogle tales' in my head and could not rest. It was in the days before Andrew Carnegie started trying to rub out the memory of his 'Homestead' cruelty by planting 'free' libraries, (for which taxpayers are rated) all over the country—and pauperising Scottish University education by grants of money—I suppose he is a sort of little Pontiff unto himself, and thinks that money can pacify Heaven, and silence the cry of brothers' blood rising from the Homestead ground. In my boyhood a Scottish University education had to be earned by the would-be student himself—earned by hard work, hard living, patience, perseveranceandgrit. That's the one quality I had—grit—and it served me well in all I wanted. I entered at St. Andrews—graduated, and came out an M.A. That helped to give me my first chance with the press. But I'm sure I'm boring you by all this chatter about myself! David,youstop me when you think Miss Deane has had enough!"
Helmsley looked at Mary's figure in its pale lilac gown touched here and there by the red sparkle of the fire, and noted the attentive poise of her head, and the passive quietude of her generally busy hands which now lay in her lap loosely folded over her lace work.
"Have we had enough, Mary, do you think?" he asked, with the glimmering of a tender little smile under his white moustache.
She glanced at him quickly in a startled way, as though she had been suddenly wakened from a reverie.
"Oh no!" she answered—"I love to hear of a brave man's fight with the world—it's the finest story anyone can listen to."
Reay coloured like a boy.
"I'm not a brave man,"—he said—"I hope I haven't given you that idea. I'm an awful funk at times."
"When are those times?" and Mary smiled demurely, as she put the question.
Again the warm blood rushed up to his brows.
"Well,—please don't laugh! I'm afraid—horribly afraid—of women!"
Helmsley's old eyes sparkled.
"Upon my word!" he exclaimed—"That's a funny thing for you to say!"
"It is, rather,"—and Angus looked meditatively into the fire—"It's not that I'm bashful, at all—no—I'm quite the other way, really,—only—only—ever since I was a lad I've made such an ideal of woman that I'm afraid of her when I meet her,—afraid lest she shouldn't come up to my ideal, and equally afraid lest I shouldn't come up to hers! It's all conceit again! Fear of anything or anybody is always born of self-consciousness. But I've been disappointed once——"
"In your ideal?" questioned Mary, raising her eyes and letting them rest observantly upon his face.
"Yes. I'll come to that presently. I was telling you how I graduated at St. Andrews, and came out with M.A. tacked to my name, but with no other fortune than those two letters.I had made a few friends, however, and one of them, a worthy old professor, gave me a letter of recommendation to a man in Glasgow, who was the proprietor of one of the newspapers there. He was a warm-hearted, kindly fellow, and gave me a berth at once. It was hard work for little pay, but I got into thorough harness, and learnt all the ins and outs of journalism. I can't say that I ever admired the general mechanism set up for gulling the public, but I had to learn how it was done, and I set myself to master the whole business. I had rather a happy time of it in Glasgow, for though it's the dirtiest, dingiest and most depressing city in the world, with its innumerable drunkards and low Scoto-Irish ne'er-do-weels loafing about the streets on Saturday nights, it has one great charm—you can get away from it into some of the loveliest scenery in the world. All my spare time was spent in taking the steamer up the Clyde, and sometimes going as far as Crinan and beyond it—or what I loved best of all, taking a trip to Arran, and there roaming about the hills to my heart's content. Glorious Arran! It was there I first began to feel my wings growing!"
"Was it a pleasant feeling?" enquired Helmsley, jocosely.
"Yes—itwas!" replied Angus, clenching his right hand and bringing it down on his knee with emphasis; "whether they were goose wings or eagle wings didn't matter—the pricking of the budding quills was analivesensation! The mountains, the burns, the glens, all had something to say to me—or I thought they had—something new, vital and urgent. God Himself seemed to have some great command to impose upon me—and I was ready to hear and obey. I began to write—first verse—then prose—and by and by I got one or two things accepted here and there—not very much, but still enough to fire me to further endeavours. Then one summer, when I was taking a holiday at a little village near Loch Lomond, I got the final dig of the spur of fate—I fell in love."
Mary raised her eyes again and looked at him. A slow smile parted her lips.
"And did the girl fall in love with you?" she asked.
"For a time I believe she did,"—said Reay, and there was an under-tone of whimsical amusement in his voice as he spoke—"She was spending the summer in Scotland with her mother and father, and there wasn't anything for her to do. She didn't care for scenery very much—and I just came inas a sort of handy man to amuse her. She was a lovely creature in her teens,—I thought she was an angel—till—till I found her out."
"And then?" queried Helmsley.
"Oh well, then of course I was disillusioned. When I told her that I loved her more than anything else in the world, she laughed ever so sweetly, and said, 'I'm sure you do!' But when I asked her if she lovedme, she laughed again, and said she didn't know what I was talking about—she didn't believe in love. 'What do you believe in?' I asked her. And she looked at me in the prettiest and most innocent way possible, and said quite calmly and slowly—'A rich marriage.' And my heart gave a great dunt in my side, for I knew it was all over. 'Then you won't marryme?'—I said—'for I'm only a poor journalist. But I mean to be famous some day!' 'Do you?' she said, and again that little laugh of hers rippled out like the tinkle of cold water—'Don't you think famous men are very tiresome? And they're always dreadfully poor!' Then I took hold of her hands, like the desperate fool I was, and kissed them, and said, 'Lucy, wait for me just a few years! Wait for me! You're so young'—for she was only seventeen, and still at school in Brighton somewhere—'You can afford to wait,—give me a chance!' And she looked down at the water—we were 'on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond,' as the song says—in quite a picturesque little attitude of reflection, and sighed ever so prettily, and said—'I can't, Angus! You're very nice and kind!—and I like you very much!—but I am going to marry a millionaire!' Now you know why I hate millionaires."
"Did you say her name was Lucy?" asked Helmsley.
"Yes. Lucy Sorrel."
A bright flame leaped up in the fire and showed all three faces to one another—Mary's face, with its quietly absorbed expression of attentive interest—Reay's strongly moulded features, just now somewhat sternly shadowed by bitter memories—and Helmsley's thin, worn, delicately intellectual countenance, which in the brilliant rosy light flung upon it by the fire-glow, was like a fine waxen mask, impenetrable in its unmoved austerity and calm. Not so much as the faintest flicker of emotion crossed it at the mention of the name of the woman he knew so well,—the surprise he felt inwardly was not apparent outwardly, and he heard the remainderof Reay's narration with the most perfectly controlled imperturbability of demeanour.
"She told me then," proceeded Reay—"that her parents had spent nearly all they had upon her education, in order to fit her for a position as the wife of a rich man—and that she would have to do her best to 'catch'—that's the way she put it—to 'catch' this rich man as soon as she got a good opportunity. He was quite an old man, she said—old enough to be her grandfather. And when I asked her how she could reconcile it to her conscience to marry such a hoary-headed rascal——"
Here Helmsley interrupted him.
"Was he a hoary-headed rascal?"
"He must have been," replied Angus, warmly—"Don't you see he must?"
Helmsley smiled.
"Well—not exactly!" he submitted, with a gentle air of deference—"I think—perhaps—he might deserve a little pity for having to be 'caught' as you say just for his money's sake."
"Not a bit of it!" declared Reay—"Any old man who would marry a young girl like that condemns himself as a villain. An out-an-out, golden-dusted villain!"
"Buthashe married her?" asked Mary.
Angus was rather taken aback at this question,—and rubbed his forehead perplexedly.
"Well, no, he hasn't—not yet—not that I know of, and I've watched the papers carefully too. Such a marriage couldn't take place without columns and columns of twaddle about it—all the dressmakers who made gowns for the bride would want a mention—and if they paid for it of course they'd get it. No—it hasn't come off yet—but it will. The venerable bridegroom that is to be has just gone abroad somewhere—so I see by one of the 'Society' rags,—probably to the States to make some more 'deals' in cash before his wedding."
"You know his name, then?"
"Oh yes! Everybody knows it, and knows him too! David Helmsley's too rich to hide his light under a bushel! They call him 'King David' in the city. Now your name's David—but, by Jove, what a difference in Davids!" And he laughed, adding quickly—"I prefer the David I see before me now, to the David I never saw!"
"Oh! You never saw the old rascal then?" murmured Helmsley, putting up one hand to stroke his moustache slowly down over the smile which he could not repress.
"Never—and don't want to! If I become famous—which Iwilldo,"—and here Angus set his teeth hard—"I'll make my bow at one of Mrs. Millionaire Helmsley's receptions one day! And how will she look then!"
"I should say she would look much the same as usual,"—said Helmsley, drily—"If she is the kind of young woman you describe, she is not likely to be overcome by the sight of a merely 'famous' man. You would have to be twice or three times as wealthy as herself to move her to any sense of respect for you. That is, if we are to judge by what our newspapers tell us of 'society' people. The newspapers are all we poor folk have got to go by."
"Yes—I've often thought of that!" and Angus rubbed his forehead again in a vigorous way as though he were trying to rub ideas out of it—"And I've pitied the poor folks from the bottom of my heart! They get pretty often misled—and on serious matters too."
"Oh, we're not all such fools as we seem,"—said Helmsley—"We can read between the lines as well as anyone—and we understand pretty clearly that it's only money which 'makes' the news. We read of 'society ladies' doing this, that and t' other thing, and we laugh at their doings—and when we read of a great lady conducting herself like an outcast, we feel a contempt for her such as we never visit on her poor sister of the streets. The newspapers may praise these women, but we 'common people' estimate them at their true worth—and that is—nothing! Now the girl you made an ideal of——"
"She was to be bought and sold,"—interrupted Reay; "I know that now. But I didn't know it then. She looked a sweet innocent angel,—with a pretty face and beautiful eyes—just the kind of creature we men fall in love with at first sight——"
"The kind of creature who, if you had married her, would have made you wretched for life,"—said Helmsley. "Be thankful you escaped her!"
"Oh, I'm thankful enough now!" and Reay pushed back his rebellious lock of hair again—"For when one has a great ambition in view, freedom is better than love——"
Helmsley raised his wrinkled, trembling hand.
"No, don't say that!" he murmured, gently—"Nothing—nothing in all the world is better than love!"
Involuntarily his eyes turned towards Mary with a strange wistfulness. There was an unspoken yearning in his face that was almost pain. Her quick instinctive sympathy responded to his thought, and rising, she went to him on the pretext of re-arranging the cushion in his chair, so that he might lean back more comfortably. Then she took his hand and patted it kindly.
"You're a sentimental old boy, aren't you, David!" she said, playfully—"You like being taken care of and fussed over! Of course you do! Was there ever a man that didn't!"
He was silent, but he pressed her caressing hand gratefully.
"No one has ever taken care of or fussed overme," said Reay—"I should rather like to try the experiment!"
Mary laughed good-humouredly.
"You must find yourself a wife,"—she said—"And then you'll see how you like it."
"But wives don't make any fuss over their husbands it seems to me," replied Reay—"At any rate in London, where I have lived for the past five years—husbands seem to be the last persons in the world whom their wives consider. I don't think I shall ever marry."
"I'm sureIshan't,"—said Mary, smiling—and as she spoke, she bent over the fire, and threw a fresh log of wood on to keep up the bright glow which was all that illuminated the room, from which almost every pale glimmer of the twilight had now departed—"I'm an old maid. But I was an engaged girl once!"
Helmsley lifted up his head with sudden and animated interest.
"Were you, Mary?"
"Oh, yes!" And the smile deepened round her expressive mouth and played softly in her eyes—"Yes, David, really! I was engaged to a very good-looking young man in the electrical engineering business. And I was very fond of him. But when my father lost every penny, my good-looking young man went too. He said he couldn't possibly marry a girl with nothing but the clothes on her back. I cried very much at the time, and thought my heart was broken. But—it wasn't!"
"I should hope it wouldn't break for such a selfish rascal!" said Reay, warmly.
"Do you think he was more selfish than most?" queried Mary, thoughtfully—"There's a good many who would do as he did."
A silence followed. She sat down and resumed her work.
"Have you finished your story?" she asked Reay—"It has interested me so much that I'm hoping there's some more to tell."
As she spoke to him he started as if from a dream. He had been watching her so earnestly that he had almost forgotten what he had previously been talking about. He found himself studying the beautiful outline of her figure, and wondering why he had never before seen such gracious curves of neck and shoulder, waist and bosom as gave symmetrical perfection of shape to this simple woman born of the "common" people.
"More to tell?" he echoed, hastily,—"Well, there's a little—but not much. My love affair at Loch Lomond did one thing for me,—it made me work hard. I had a sort of desperate idea that I might wrest a fortune out of journalism by dint of sheer grinding at it—but I soon found out my mistake there. I toiled away so steadily and got such a firm hold of all the affairs of the newspaper office where I was employed, that one fine morning I was dismissed. My proprietor, genial and kindly as ever, said he found 'no fault'—but that he wanted 'a change.' I quite understood that. The fact is I knew too much—that's all. I had saved a bit, and so, with a few good letters of introduction, went on from Glasgow to London. There, in that great black ant-hill full of crawling sooty human life, I knocked about for a time from one newspaper office to another, doing any sort of work that turned up, just to keep body and soul together,—and at last I got a fairly good berth in the London branch of a big press syndicate. It was composed of three or four proprietors, ever so many editors, and an army of shareholders representing almost every class in Great Britain. Ah, those shareholders! There's the whole mischief of the press nowadays!"
"I suppose it's money again!" said Helmsley.
"Of course it is. Here's how the matter stands. A newspaper syndicate is like any other trading company, composed for the sole end and object of making as muchprofit out of the public as possible. The lion's portion naturally goes to the heads of the concern—then come the shareholders' dividends. The actual workers in the business, such as the 'editors,' are paid as little as their self-respect will allow them to take, and as for the other fellowsunderthe editors—well!—you can just imagine they get much less than the little their self-respect would claim, if they were not, most of them, so desperately poor, and so anxious for a foothold somewhere as to be ready to take anything. I took the first chance I could get, and hung on to it, not for the wretched pay, but for the experience, and for the insight it gave me into men and things. I witnessed the whole business;—the 'doctoring up' of social scandals,—the tampering with the news in order that certain items might not affect certain shares on the Stock Exchange,—the way 'discussions' of the most idiotic kind were started in the office just to fill up space, such as what was best to make the hair grow; what a baby ought to weigh at six months; what food authors write best on; and whether modern girls make as good wives as their mothers did, and so on. These things were generally got up by 'the fool of the office' as we called him—a man with a perpetual grin and an undyingly good opinion of himself. He was always put into harness when for some state or financial reason the actual facts had to be euphonised or even suppressed and the public 'let down gently.' For a time I was drafted off on the 'social' business—ugh?—how I hated it?"
"What did you have to do?" asked Mary, amused.
"Oh, I had to deal with a motley crowd of court flunkeys, Jews, tailors and dressmakers, and fearful-looking women catering for 'fashion,' who came with what they called 'news,' which was generally that 'Mrs. "Bunny" Bumpkin looked sweet in grey'—or that 'Miss "Toby" Tosspot was among the loveliest of the débutantes at Court.' Sometimes a son of Israel came along, all in a mortal funk, and said he 'didn't want it mentioned' that Mrs. So-and-So had dined with him at a certain public restaurant last night. Generally, he was a shareholder, and his orders had to be obeyed. The shareholders in fact had most to do with the 'society' news,—and they bored me nearly to death. The trifles they wanted 'mentioned' were innumerable—the other trifles they didn't want mentioned,were quite as endless. One day there was a regular row—a sort of earthquake in the place. Somebody had presumed to mention that the beautiful Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup had smoked several cigarettes with infinite gusto at a certain garden party,—now what are you laughing at, Miss Deane?"
"At the beautiful Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup!" and Mary's clear laughter rippled out in a silvery peal of purest merriment—"That's not her name surely!"
"Oh no, that's not her name!" and Angus laughed too—"It wouldn't do to give her real name!—but Ketchup's quite as good and high-sounding as the one she's got. And as I tell you, the whole 'staff' was convulsed. Three shareholders came down post haste to the office—one at full speed in a motor,—and said howdareI mention Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup at all? It was like my presumption to notice that she had smoked! Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup's name must be kept out of the papers—she was a 'lady'! Oh, by Jove!—how I laughed!—I couldn't help myself! I just roared with laughter in the very faces of those shareholders! 'A lady!' said I—'Why, she's—— ' But I wasn't allowed to say what she was, for the shareholder who had arrived in the motor, fixed a deadly glance upon me and said—'If you value your po-seetion'—he was a Lowland Scot, with the Lowland accent—'if you value your po-seetion on this paper, you'll hold your tongue!' So I did hold my tongue then—but only because I meant to wag it more violently afterwards. I always devote Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup to the blue blazes, because I'm sure it was through her I lost my post. You see a shareholder in a paper has a good deal of influence, especially if he has as much as a hundred thousand shares. You'd be surprised if I told you the real names of some of the fellows who control newspaper syndicates!—you wouldn't believe it! Or at any rate, if youdidbelieve it, you'd never believe the newspapers!"
"I don't believe them now,"—said Helmsley—"They say one thing to-day and contradict it to-morrow."
"Oh, but that's like all news!" said Mary, placidly—"Even in our little village here, you never know quite what to believe. One morning you are told that Mrs. Badge's baby has fallen downstairs and broken its neck, and you've scarcely done being sorry for Mrs. Badge, when in comes Mrs. Badge herself, baby and all, quite well and smiling,and she says she 'never did hear such tales as there are in Wiercombe'!"
They all laughed.
"Well, there's the end of my story,"—said Angus—"I worked on the syndicate for two years, and then was given the sack. The cause of my dismissal was, as I told you, that I published a leading article exposing a mean and dirty financial trick on the part of a man who publicly assumed to be a world's benefactor—and he turned out to be a shareholder in the paper under an 'alias.' There was no hope for me after that—it was a worse affair than that of Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup. So I marched out of the office, and out of London—I meant to make for Exmoor, which is wild and solitary, because I thought I might find some cheap room in a cottage there, where I might live quietly on almost nothing and write my book—but I stumbled by chance on this place instead—and I rather like being so close to the sea."
"You are writing a book?" said Mary, her eyes resting upon him thoughtfully.
"Yes. I've got a room in the village for half-a-crown a week and 'board myself' as the good woman of the house says. And I'm perfectly happy!"
A long pause followed. The fire was dying down from a flame to a dull red glow, and a rush of wind against the kitchen window was accompanied by the light pattering of rain. Angus Reay rose.
"I must be going,"—he said—"I've made you quite a visitation! Old David is nearly asleep!"
Helmsley looked up.
"Not I!" and he smiled—"I'm very wide awake: I like your story, and I likeyou! Perhaps you'll come in again sometimes and have a chat with us?"
Reay glanced enquiringly at Mary, who had also risen from her chair, and was now lighting the lamp on the table.
"May I?" he asked hesitatingly.
"Why, of course!" And her eyes met his with hospitable frankness—"Come whenever you feel lonely!"
"I often do that!" he said.
"All the better!—then we shall often see you!"—she answered—"And you'll always be welcome!"
"Thank-you! I believe you mean it!"
Mary smiled.
"Why of course I do! I'm not a newspaper syndicate!"
"Nor a Mrs. Mushroom Ketchup!" put in Helmsley.
Angus threw back his head and gave one of his big joyous laughs.
"No! You're a long way off that!" he said—"Good-evening, David!"
And going up to the armchair where Helmsley sat he shook hands with him.
"Good-evening, Mr. Reay!" rejoined Helmsley, cheerily; "I'm very glad we met this afternoon!"
"So am I!" declared Angus, with energy—"I don't feel quite so much of a solitary bear as I did. I'm in a better temper altogether with the world in general!"
"That's right!" said Mary—"Whatever happens to you it's never the fault of the world, remember!—it's only the trying little ways of the people in it!"
She held out her hand in farewell, and he pressed it gently. Then he threw on his cap, and she opened her cottage door for him to pass out. A soft shower of rain blew full in their faces as they stood on the threshold.
"You'll get wet, I'm afraid!" said Mary.
"Oh, that's nothing!" And he buttoned his coat across his chest—"What's that lovely scent in the garden here, just close to the door?"
"It's the old sweetbriar bush,"—she replied—"It lasts in leaf till nearly Christmas and always smells so delicious. Shall I give you a bit of it?"
"It's too dark to find it now, surely!" said Angus.
"Oh, no! I can feel it!"
And stretching out her white hand into the raining darkness, she brought it back holding a delicate spray of odorous leaves.
"Isn't it sweet?" she said, as she gave it to him.
"It is indeed!" he placed the little sprig in his buttonhole. "Thank-you! Good-night!"
"Good-night!"
He lifted his hat and smiled into her eyes—then walked quickly through the tiny garden, opened the gate, shut it carefully behind him, and disappeared. Mary listened for a moment to the swish of the falling rain among the leaves, and the noise of the tumbling hill-torrent over its stony bed. Then she closed and barred the door.
"It's going to be a wet night, David!" she said, as she came back towards the fire—"And a bit rough, too, by the sound of the sea."
He did not answer immediately, but watched her attentively as she made up the fire, and cleared the table of the tea things, packing up the cups and plates and saucers in the neat and noiseless manner which was particularly her own, preparatory to carrying them all on a tray out to the little scullery adjoining the kitchen, which with its well polished saucepans, kettles, and crockery was quite a smart feature of her small establishment. Then—
"What do you think of him, Mary?" he asked suddenly.
"Of Mr. Reay?"
"Yes."
She hesitated a moment, looking intently at a small crack in one of the plates she was putting by.
"Well, I don't know, David!—it's rather difficult to say on such a short acquaintance—but he seems to me quite a good fellow."
"Quite a good fellow, yes!" repeated Helmsley, nodding gravely—"That's how he seems to me, too."
"I think,"—went on Mary, slowly—"that he's a thoroughly manly man,—don't you?" He nodded gravely again, and echoed her words——
"A thoroughly manly man!"
"And perhaps," she continued—"it would be pleasant for you, David, to have a chat with him now and then especially in the long winter evenings—wouldn't it?"
She had moved to his side, and now stood looking down upon him with such a wistful sweetness of expression, that he was content to merely watch her, without answering her question.
"Because those long winter evenings are sometimes very dull, you know!" she went on—"And I'm afraid I'm not very good company when I'm at work mending the lace—I have to take all my stitches so carefully that I dare not talk much lest I make a false knot."
He smiled.
"Youmake a false knot!" he said—"You couldn't do it, if you tried! You'll never make a false knot—never!"—and his voice sank to an almost inaudible murmur—"Neither in your lace nor in your life!"
She looked at him a little anxiously.
"Are you tired, David?"
"No, my dear! Not tired—only thinking!"
"Well, you mustn't think too much,"—she said—"Thinking is weary work, sometimes!"
He raised his eyes and looked at her steadily.
"Mr. Reay was very frank and open in telling us all about himself, wasn't he, Mary?"
"Oh yes!" and she laughed—"But I think he is one of those men who couldn't possibly be anything else but frank and open."
"Oh, you do?"
"Yes."
"Don't you sometimes wonder,"—went on Helmsley slowly, keeping his gaze fixed on the fire—"whyIhaven't told you all about myself?"
She met his eyes with a candid smile.
"No—I haven't thought about it!" she said.
"Why haven't you thought about it?" he persisted.
She laughed outright.
"Simply because I haven't! That's all!"
"Mary,"—he said, seriously—"You know I was not your 'father's friend'! You know I never saw your father!"
The smile still lingered in her eyes.
"Yes—I know that!"
"And yet you never ask me to give an account of myself!"
She thought he was worrying his mind needlessly, and bending over him took his hand in hers.
"No, David, I never ask impertinent questions!" she said—"I don't want to know anything more about you than you choose to tell. You seem to me like my dear father—not quite so strong as he was, perhaps—but I have taken care of you for so many weeks, that I almost feel as if you belonged to me! And I want to take care of you still, because I know youmustbe taken care of. And I'm so well accustomed to you now that I shouldn't like to lose you, David—I shouldn't really! Because you've been so patient and gentle and grateful for the little I have been able to do for you, that I've got fond of you, David! Yes!—actually fond of you! What do you say to that?"
"Say to it!" he murmured, pressing the hand he held."I don't know what to say to it, Mary!—except—God bless you!"
She was silent a minute—then she went on in a cheerfully rallying tone—
"So I don't want to know anything about you, you see! Now, as to Mr. Reay——"
"Ah, yes!" and Helmsley gave her a quick observant glance which she herself did not notice—"What about Mr. Reay?"
"Well it would be nice if we could cheer him up a little and make him bear his poor and lonely life more easily. Wouldn't it?"
"Cheer him up a little and make him bear his poor and lonely life more easily!" repeated Helmsley, slowly, "Yes. And do you think we can do that, Mary?"
"We can try!" she said, smiling—"At any rate, while he's living in Wiercombe, we can be friendly to him, and give him a bit of dinner now and then!"
"So we can!" agreed Helmsley—"Or rather, soyoucan!"
"We!" corrected Mary—"You'rehelping me to keep house now, David,—remember that!"
"Why I haven't paid half or a quarter of my debt to you yet!" he exclaimed.
"But you're paying it off every day,"—she answered; "Don't you fear! I mean to have every penny out of you that I can!"
She laughed gaily, and taking up the tray upon which she had packed all the tea-things, carried it out of the kitchen. Helmsley heard her singing softly to herself in the scullery, as she set to work to wash the cups and saucers. And bending his old eyes on the fire, he smiled,—and an indomitable expression of energetic resolve strengthened every line of his features.
"You mean to have every penny out of me that you can, my dear, do you!" he said, softly—"And so—if Love can find out the way—you will!"
CHAPTER XVI
The winter now closed in apace,—and though the foliage all about Weircombe was reluctant to fall, and kept its green, russet and gold tints well on into December, the high gales which blew in from the sea played havoc with the trembling leaves at last and brought them to the ground like the painted fragments of Summer's ruined temple. All the fishermen's boats were hauled up high and dry, and great stretches of coarse net like black webs, were spread out on the beach for drying and mending,—while through the tunnels scooped out of the tall castellated rocks which guarded either side of the little port, or "weir," the great billows dashed with a thunderous roar of melody, oftentimes throwing aloft fountains of spray well-nigh a hundred feet in height—spray which the wild wind caught and blew in pellets of salty foam far up the little village street. Helmsley was now kept a prisoner indoors,—he had not sufficient strength to buffet with a gale, or to stand any unusually sharp nip of cold,—so he remained very comfortably by the side of the fire, making baskets, which he was now able to turn out quickly with quite an admirable finish, owing to the zeal and earnestness with which he set himself to the work. Mary's business in the winter months was entirely confined to the lace-mending—she had no fine laundry work to do, and her time was passed in such household duties as kept her little cottage sweet and clean, in attentive guardianship and care of her "father's friend"—and in the delicate weaving of threads whereby the fine fabric which had once perchance been damaged and spoilt by flaunting pride, was made whole and beautiful again by simple patience. Helmsley was never tired of watching her. Whether she knelt down with a pail of suds, and scrubbed her cottage doorstep—or whether she sat quietly opposite to him, with the small "Charlie" snuggled on a rug between them, while she mended her lace, his eyes always rested upon her with deepening interest and tenderness. And he grew daily more conscious of a great peace and happiness—peace and happiness such as he hadnever known since his boyhood's days. He, who had found the ways of modern society dull to the last point of excruciating boredom, was not aware of any monotony in the daily round of the hours, which, laden with simple duties and pleasures, came and went softly and slowly like angel messengers stepping gently from one heaven to another. The world—or that which is called the world,—had receded from him altogether. Here, where he had found a shelter, there was no talk of finance—the claims of the perpetual "bridge" party had vanished like the misty confusion of a bad dream from the brain—the unutterably vulgar intrigues common to the so-called "better" class of twentieth century humanity could not intrude any claim on his attention or his time—the perpetual lending of money to perpetually dishonest borrowers was, for the present, a finished task—and he felt himself to be a free man—far freer than he had been for many years. And, to add to the interest of his days, he became engrossed in a scheme—a strange scheme which built itself up in his head like a fairy palace, wherein everything beautiful, graceful, noble, helpful and precious, found place and position, and grew from promise to fulfilment as easily as a perfect rosebud ripens to a perfect rose. But he said nothing of his thoughts. He hugged them, as it were, to himself, and toyed with them as though they were jewels,—precious jewels selected specially to be set in a crown of inestimable worth. Meanwhile his health kept fairly equable, though he was well aware within his own consciousness that he did not get stronger. But he was strong enough to be merry at times—and his kindly temper and cheery conversation made him a great favourite with the Weircombe folk, who were never tired of "looking in" as they termed it, on Mary, and "'avin' a bit of a jaw with old David."
Sociable evenings they had too, during that winter—evenings when Angus Reay came in to tea and stayed to supper, and after supper entertained them by singing in a deep baritone voice as soft as honey, the old Scotch songs now so hopelessly "out of fashion"—such as "My Nannie O"—"Ae fond kiss"—and "Highland Mary," in which last exquisite ballad he was always at his best. And Mary sang also, accompanying herself on a quaint old Hungarian zither, which she said had been left with her father as guarantee for ten shillings which he had lentto a street musician wandering about Barnstaple. The street musician disappeared and the ten shillings were never returned, so Mary took possession of the zither, and with the aid of a cheap instruction book, managed to learn enough of its somewhat puzzling technique to accompany her own voice with a few full, rich, plaintive chords. And it was in this fashion that Angus heard her first sing what she called "A song of the sea," running thus:
I heard the sea cry out in the nightLike a fretful child—Moaning under the pale moonlightIn a passion wild—And my heart cried out with the sea, in tears,For the sweet lost joys of my vanished years!I heard the sea laugh out in the noonLike a girl at play—All forgot was the mournful moonIn the dawn of day!And my heart laughed out with the sea, in gladness,And I thought no more of bygone sadness.I think the sea is a part of meWith its gloom and glory—What Has Been, and what yet Shall BeIs all its story;Rise up, O Heart, with the tidal flow,And drown the sorrows of Long Ago!
Something eerie and mystical there was in these words, sung as she sang them in a low, soft, contralto, sustained by the pathetic quiver of the zither strings throbbing under the pressure of her white fingers, and Angus asked her where she had learned the song.
"I found it,"—she answered, somewhat evasively.
"Did you compose it yourself?"
She flushed a little.
"How can you imagine such a thing?"
He was silent, but "imagined" the more. And after this he began to show her certain scenes and passages in the book he was writing, sometimes reading them aloud to her with all that eager eloquence which an author who loves and feels his work is bound to convey into the pronounced expression of it. And she listened, absorbed and often entranced, for there was no gain-saying the fact that Angus Reay was a man of genius. He was inclined to underraterather than overestimate his own abilities, and often showed quite a pathetic mistrust of himself in his very best and most original conceptions.
"When I read to you,"—he said to her, one day—"You must tell me the instant you feel bored. That's a great point! Because ifyoufeel bored, other people who read the book will feel bored exactly as you do and at the very same passage. And you must criticise me mercilessly! Rend me to pieces—tear my sentences to rags, and pick holes in every detail, if you like! That will do me a world of good!"
Mary laughed.
"But why?" she asked, "Why do you want me to be so unkind to you?"
"It won't be unkind,"—he declared—"It will be very helpful. And I'll tell you why. There's no longer any real 'criticism' of literary work in the papers nowadays. There's only extravagant eulogium written up by an author's personal friends and wormed somehow into the press—or equally extravagant abuse, written and insinuated in similar fashion by an author's personal enemies. Well now, you can't live without having both friends and enemies—you generally have more of the latter than the former, particularly if you are successful. There's nothing a lazy man won't do to 'down' an industrious one,—nothing an unknown scrub won't attempt in the way of trying to injure a great fame. It's a delightful world for that sort of thing!—so truly 'Christian,' pleasant and charitable! But the consequence of all these mean and petty 'personal' views of life is, that sound, unbiased, honest literary criticism is a dead art. You can't get it anywhere. And yet if you could, there's nothing that would be so helpful, or so strengthening to a man's work. It would make him put his best foot foremost. I should like to think that my book when it comes out, would be 'reviewed' by a man who had no prejudices, no 'party' politics, no personal feeling for or against me,—but who simply and solely considered it from an impartial, thoughtful, just and generous point of view—taking it as a piece of work done honestly and from a deep sense of conviction. Criticism from fellows who just turn over the pages of a book to find fault casually wherever they can—(I've seen them at it in newspaper offices!) or to quote unfairly mere scraps of sentenceswithout context,—or to fly off into a whirlwind of personal and scurrilous calumnies against an author whom they don't know, and perhaps never will know,—that sort of thing is quite useless to me. It neither encourages nor angers me. It is a mere flabby exhibition of incompetency—much as if a jelly-fish should try to fight a sea-gull! Now you,—if you criticise me,—your criticism will be valuable, because it will be quite honest—there will be no 'personal' feeling in it——"
She raised her eyes to his and smiled.
"No?"
Something warm and radiant in her glance flashed into his soul and thrilled it strangely. Vaguely startled by an impression which he did not try to analyse, he went on hastily—"No—because you see you are neither my friend nor my enemy, are you?"
She was quite silent.
"I mean,"—he continued, blundering along somewhat lamely,—"You don't hate me very much, and you don't like me very much. I'm just an ordinary man to you. Therefore you're bound to be perfectly impartial, because what I do is a matter of 'personal' indifference to you. That's why your criticism will be so helpful and valuable."
She bent her head closely over the lace she was mending for a minute or two, as though she were making a very intricate knot. Then she looked up again.
"Well, if you wish it, I'll tell you just what I think," she said, quietly—"But you mustn't call it criticism. I'm not clever enough to judge a book. I only know what pleasesme,—and what pleases me may not please the world. I know very little about authors, and I've taught myself all that I do know. I love Shakespeare,—but I could not explain to you why I love him, because I'm not clever enough. I only feel his work,—I feel that it's all right and beautiful and wonderful—but I couldn't criticise it."
"No one can,—no one should!" said Reay, warmly—"Shakespeare is above all criticism!"
"But is he not always being criticised?" she asked.
"Yes. By little men who cannot understand greatness,"—he answered—"It gives a kind of 'scholarly importance' to the little men, but it leaves the great one unscathed."
This talk led to many others of a similar nature betweenthem, and Reay's visits to Mary's cottage became more and more frequent. David Helmsley, weaving his baskets day by day, began to weave something more delicate and uncommon than the withes of willow,—a weaving which went on in his mind far more actively than the twisting and plaiting of the osiers in his hands. Sometimes in the evenings, when work was done, and he sat in his comfortable easy chair by the fire watching Mary at her sewing and Angus talking earnestly to her, he became so absorbed in his own thoughts that he scarcely heard their voices, and often when they spoke to him, he started from a profound reverie, unconscious of their words. But it was not the feebleness or weariness of age that made him seem at times indifferent to what was going on around him—it was the intensity and fervour of a great and growing idea of happiness in his soul,—an idea which he cherished so fondly and in such close secrecy, as to be almost afraid to whisper it to himself lest by some unhappy chance it should elude his grasp and vanish into nothingness.
And so the time went on to Christmas and New Year. Weircombe kept these festivals very quietly, yet not without cheerfulness. There was plenty of holly about, and the children, plunging into the thick of the woods at the summit of the "coombe" found mistletoe enough for the common need. The tiny Church was prettily decorated by the rector's wife and daughters, assisted by some of the girls of the village, and everybody attended service on Christmas morning, not only because it was Christmas, but because it was the last time their own parson would preach to them, before he went away for three months or more to a warm climate for the benefit of his health. But Helmsley did not join the little crowd of affectionate parishioners—he stayed at home while Mary went, as she said "to pray for him." He watched her from the open cottage door, as she ascended the higher part of the "coombe," dressed in a simple stuff gown of darkest blue, with a prim little "old maid's" bonnet, as she called it, tied neatly under her rounded white chin—and carrying in her hand a much worn "Book of Common Prayer" which she held with a certain delicate reverence not often shown to holy things by the church-going women of the time. Weircombe Church had a small but musical chime of bells, presented to it by a former rector—and the silvery sweetness of thepeal just now ringing was intensified by the close proximity of the mountain stream, which, rendered somewhat turbulent by recent rains, swept along in a deep swift current, carrying the melody of the chimes along with it down to the sea and across the waves in broken pulsation, till they touched with a faint mysterious echo the masts of home-returning ships, and brought a smile to the faces of sailors on board who, recognising the sound, said "Weircombe bells, sure-ly!"
Helmsley stood listening, lost in meditation. To anyone who could have seen him then, a bent frail figure just within the cottage door, with his white hair, white beard, and general appearance of gentle and resigned old age, he would have seemed nothing more than a venerable peasant, quietly satisfied with his simple surroundings, and as far apart from every association of wealth, as the daisy in the grass is from the star in the sky. Yet, in actual fact, his brain was busy weighing millions of money,—the fate of an accumulated mass of wealth hung on the balance of his decision,—and he was mentally arranging his plans with all the clearness, precision and practicality which had distinguished him in his biggest financial schemes,—schemes which had from time to time amazed and convulsed the speculating world. A certain wistful sadness touched him as he looked on the quiet country landscape in the wintry sunlight of this Christmas morn,—some secret instinctive foreboding told him that it might be the last Christmas he should ever see. And a sudden wave of regret swept over his soul,—regret that he had not appreciated the sweet things of life more keenly when he had been able to enjoy their worth. So many simple joys missed!—so many gracious and helpful sentiments discarded!—all the best of his years given over to eager pursuit of gold,—not because he cared for gold really, but because, owing to a false social system which perverted the moral sense, it seemed necessary to happiness. Yet he had proved it to be the very last thing that could make a man happy. The more money, the less enjoyment of it—the greater the wealth, the less the content. Was this according to law?—the spiritual law of compensation, which works steadily behind every incident which we may elect to call good or evil? He thought it must be so. This very festival—Christmas—how thoroughly he had been accustomed by an effeteand degenerate "social set" to regard it as a "bore,"—an exploded superstition—a saturnalia of beef and pudding—a something which merely served as an excuse for throwing away good money on mere stupid sentiment. "Stupid" sentiment? Had he ever thought true, tender, homely sentiment "stupid"? Yes,—perhaps he had, when in the bold carelessness of full manhood he had assumed that the race was to the swift and the battle to the strong—but now, when the shadows were falling—when, perhaps, he would never hear the Christmas bells again, or be troubled by the "silly superstitions" of loving, praying, hoping, believing humanity, he would have given much could he have gone back in fancy to every Christmas of his life and seen each one spent cheerily amid the warm associations of such "sentiments" as make friendship valuable and lasting. He looked up half vaguely at the sky, clear blue on this still frosty morning, and was conscious of tears that crept smartingly behind his eyes and for a moment dimmed his sight. And he murmured dreamily—
"Behold we know not anything;I can but trust that good shall fallAt last—far off—at last, to all—And every winter change to spring!"
A tall, athletic figure came between him and the light, and Angus Reay's voice addressed him—
"Hullo, David! A merry Christmas to you! Do you know you are standing out in the cold? What would Miss Mary say?"
"Miss Mary" was the compromise Angus hit upon between "Miss Deane" and "Mary,"—considering the first term too formal, and the last too familiar.
Helmsley smiled.
"Miss Mary has gone to church,"—he replied—"I thought you had gone too."
Reay gave a slight gesture of mingled regret and annoyance.
"No—I never go to church,"—he said—"But don't you think I despise the going. Not I. I wish I could go to church! I'd give anything to go as I used to do with my father every Sunday."
"And why can't you?"
"Because the church is not what it used to be,"—declaredReay—"Don't get me on that argument, David, or I shall never cease talking! Now, see here!—if you stand any longer at that open door you'll get a chill! You go inside the house and imitate Charlie's example—look at him!" And he pointed to the tiny toy terrier snuggled up as usual in a ball of silky comfort on the warm hearth—"Small epicure! Come back to your chair, David, and sit by the fire—your hands are quite cold."
Helmsley yielded to the persuasion, not because he felt cold, but because he was rather inclined to be alone with Reay for a little. They entered the house and shut the door.
"Doesn't it look a different place without her!" said Angus, glancing round the trim little kitchen—"As neat as a pin, of course, but all the life gone from it."
Helmsley smiled, but did not answer. Seating himself in his armchair, he spread out his thin old hands to the bright fire, and watched Reay as he stood near the hearth, leaning one arm easily against a rough beam which ran across the chimney piece.
"She is a wonderful woman!" went on Reay, musingly; "She has a power of which she is scarcely conscious."
"And what is that?" asked Helmsley, slowly rubbing his hands with quite an abstracted air.
Angus laughed lightly, though a touch of colour reddened his bronzed cheeks.
"The power that the old alchemists sought and never could find!" he answered—"The touch that transmutes common metals to fine gold, and changes the every-day prose of life to poetry."
Helmsley went on rubbing his hands slowly.
"It's so extraordinary, don't you think, David,"—he continued—"that there should be such a woman as Miss Mary alive at all?"
Helmsley looked up at him questioningly, but said nothing.
"I mean,"—and Angus threw out his hand with an impetuous gesture—"that considering all the abominable, farcical tricks women play nowadays, it is simply amazing to find one who is contented with a simple life like this, and who manages to make that simple life so gracious and beautiful!"
Still Helmsley was silent.
"Now, just think of that girl I've told you about—Lucy Sorrel,"—proceeded Angus—"Nothing would have contented her in all this world!"
"Not even her old millionaire?" suggested Helmsley, placidly.
"No, certainly not! Poor old devil! He'll soon find himself put on the shelf if he marries her. He won't be able to call his soul his own! If he gives her diamonds, she'll want more diamonds—if he covers her and stuffs her with money, she'll never have enough! She'll want all she can get out of him while he lives and everything he has ever possessed when he's dead."
Helmsley rubbed his hands more vigorously together.
"A very nice young lady," he murmured. "Very nice indeed! But if you judge her in this way now, why did you ever fall in love with her?"
"She was pretty, David!" and Reay smiled—"That's all! My passion for her was skin-deep! And hers for me didn't even touch the cuticle! She was pretty—as pretty as a wax-doll,—perfect eyes, perfect hair, perfect figure, perfect complexion—ugh! how I hate perfection!"
And taking up the poker, he gave a vigorous blow to a hard lump of coal in the grate, and split it into a blaze.
"I hate perfection!" he resumed—"Or rather, I hate what passes for perfection, for, as a matter of fact, there's nothing perfect. And I specially and emphatically hate the woman that considers herself a 'beauty,' that gets herself photographed as a 'beauty,' that the press reporter speaks of as a 'beauty,'—and that affronts you with her 'beauty' whenever you look at her, as though she were some sort of first-class goods for sale. Now Miss Mary is a beautiful woman—and she doesn't seem to know it."
"Her time for vanity is past,"—said Helmsley, sententiously—"She is an old maid."
"Old maid be shot!" exclaimed Angus, impetuously—"By Jove! Any man might be proud to marry her!"
A keen, sharp glance, as incisive as any that ever flashed up and down the lines of a business ledger, gleamed from under Helmsley's fuzzy brows.
"Would you?" he asked.
"Would I marry her?" And Angus reddened suddenly like a boy—"Dear old David, bless you! That's just what I want you to help me to do!"
For a moment such a great wave of triumph swept over Helmsley's soul that he could not speak. But he mastered his emotion by an effort.
"I'm afraid,"—he said—"I'm afraid I should be no use to you in such a business,—you'd much better speak to her yourself—"
"Why, of course I mean to speak to her myself,"—interrupted Reay, warmly—"Don't be dense, David! You don't suppose I wantyouto speak for me, do you? Not a bit of it! Only before I speak, I do wish you could find out whether she likes me a little—because—because—I'm afraid she doesn't look upon me at all inthatlight——"
"In what light?" queried Helmsley, gently.
"As a lover,"—replied Angus—"She's given up thinking of lovers."
Helmsley leaned back in his chair, and clasping his hands together so that the tips of his fingers met, looked over them in almost the same meditative businesslike way as he had looked at Lucy Sorrel when he had questioned her as to her ideas of her future.
"Well, naturally she has,"—he answered—"Lovers have given up thinking ofher!"
"I hope they have!" said Angus, fervently—"I hope I have no rivals! For my love for her is a jealous love, David! I must be all in all to her, or nothing! I must be the very breath of her breath, the life of her life! I must!—or I am no use to her. And I want to be of use. I want to work for her, to look upon her as the central point of all my actions—the very core of ambition and endeavour,—so that everything I do may be well done enough to meet with her praise. If she does not like it, it will be worthless. For her soul is as pure as the sunlight and as full of great depths as the sea! Simplest and sweetest of women as she is, she has enough of God in her to make a man live up to the best that is in him!"
His voice thrilled with passion as he spoke—and Helmsley felt a strange contraction at his heart—a pang of sharp memory, desire and regret all in one, which moved him to a sense of yearning for this love which he had never known—this divine and wonderful emotion whose power could so transform a man as to make him seem a very king among men. For so Angus Reay looked just now, with his eyes flashing unutterable tenderness, and his whole aspectexpressive of a great hope born of a great ideal. But he restrained the feeling that threatened to over-master him, and merely said very quietly, and with a smile—
"I see you are very much in love with her, Mr. Reay!"
"In love?" Angus laughed—"No, my dear old David! I'm not a bit 'in love.' I love her! That's love with a difference. But you know how it is with me. I haven't a penny in the world but just what I told you must last me for a year—and I don't know when I shall make any more. So that I wouldn't be such a cad as to speak to her about it yet. But—if I could only get a little hope,—if I could just find out whether she liked me a little, that would give me more energy in my work, don't you see? And that's where you could help me, David!"
Helmsley smiled ever so slightly.
"Tell me how,"—he said.
"Well, you might talk to her sometimes and ask her if she ever thinks of getting married—"
"I have done that,"—interrupted Helmsley—"and she has always said 'No.'"
"Never mind what shehassaid—ask her again, David,"—persisted Angus—"And then lead her on little by little to talk about me—"
"Lead her on to talk about you—yes!" and Helmsley nodded his head sagaciously.
"David, my dear old man, youwillinterrupt me,"—and Angus laughed like a boy—"Lead her on, I say,—and find out whether she likes me ever so little—and then——"
"And then?" queried Helmsley, his old eyes beginning to sparkle—"Must I sing your praises to her?"
"Sing my praises! No, by Jove!—there's nothing to praise in me. I don't want you to say a word, David. Letherspeak—hear whatshesays—and then—and then tellme!"
"Then tellyou—yes—yes, I see!" And Helmsley nodded again in a fashion that was somewhat trying to Reay's patience. "But, suppose she finds fault with you, and says you are not at all the style of man she likes—what then?"
"Then,"—said Reay, gloomily—"my book will never be finished!"
"Dear, dear!" Helmsley raised his hands with a very well acted gesture of timid concern—"So bad as all that!"
"So bad as all that!" echoed Reay, with a quick sigh; "Or rather so good as all that. I don't know how it has happened, David, but she has quite suddenly become the very life of my work. I don't think I could get on with a single page of it, if I didn't feel that I could go to her and ask her what she thinks of it."
"But,"—said Helmsley, in a gentle, argumentative way—"all this is very strange! She is not an educated woman."
Reay laughed lightly.
"No? What do you call an educated woman, David?"
Helmsley thought a moment. The situation was a little difficult, for he had to be careful not to say too much.
"Well, I mean,"—he said, at last—"She is not a lady."
Reay's eyes flashed sudden indignation.