Part 29 (1/2)
”Only sixpence?”
”That's all. It's a s.h.i.+lling with ham and eggs.”
Helmsley paid the humble coin demanded, and wondered where the ”starving poor” came in, at any rate in Somersets.h.i.+re. Any beggar on the road, making sixpence a day, might consider himself well fed with such a meal.
Just as he drew up his chair to the table, a sudden gust of wind swept round the house, shaking the whole building, and apparently hurling the weight of its fury on the roof, for it sounded as if a whole stack of chimney-pots had fallen.
”It's a squall,”--said the girl--”Father said there was a storm coming.
It often blows pretty hard up this way.”
She went out, and left Helmsley to himself. He ate his meal, and fed Charlie with as much bread and milk as that canine epicure could consume,--and then sat for a while, listening to the curious hissing of the wind, which was like a suppressed angry whisper in his ears.
”It will be rough weather,”--he thought--”Now shall I stay in Minehead, or go on?”
Somehow, his experience of vagabondage had bred in him a certain restlessness, and he did not care to linger in any one place. An inexplicable force urged him on. He was conscious that he entertained a most foolish, most forlorn secret hope,--that of finding some yet unknown consolation,--of receiving some yet un.o.btained heavenly benediction. And he repeated again the lines:--
”Let the sweet heavens endure, Not close and darken above me, Before I am quite, quite sure That there is one to love me!”
Surely a Divine Providence there was who could read his heart's desire, and who could see how sincerely in earnest he was to find some channel wherein the current of his acc.u.mulated wealth might flow after his own death, to fruitfulness and blessing for those who truly deserved it.
”Is it so much to ask of destiny--just one honest heart?” he inwardly demanded--”Is it so large a return to want from the world in which I have toiled so long--just one unselfish love? People would tell me I am too old to expect such a thing,--but I am not seeking the love of a lover,--that I know is impossible. But Love,--that most G.o.d-like of all emotions, has many phases, and a merely s.e.xual attraction is the least and worst part of the divine pa.s.sion. There is a higher form,--one far more lasting and perfect, in which Self has very little part,--and though I cannot give it a name, I am certain of its existence!”
Another gust of wind, more furious than the last, whistled overhead and through the crannies of the door. He rose, and tucking Charlie warmly under his coat as before, he went out, pausing on his way to thank the mistress of the little bakery for the excellent meal he had enjoyed.
”Well, you won't hurt on it,” she said, smilingly; ”it's plain, but it's wholesome. That's all we claim for it. Are you going on far?”
”Yes, I'm bound for a pretty long tramp,”--he replied. ”I'm walking to find friends in Cornwall.”
She opened her eyes in unfeigned wonder and compa.s.sion.
”Deary me!” she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed--”You've a stiff road before you. And to-day I'm afraid you'll be in for a storm.”
He glanced out through the shop-window.
”It's not raining,”--he said.
”Not yet,--but it's blowing hard,”--she replied--”And it's like to blow harder.”
”Never mind, I must risk it!” And he lifted his cap; ”Good-day!”
”Good-day! A safe journey to you!”
”Thank you!”
And, gratefully acknowledging the kindly woman's parting nod and smile, he stepped out of the shop into the street. There he found the wind had risen indeed. Showers of blinding dust were circling in the air, blotting out the view,--the sky was covered with ma.s.ses of murky cloud drifting against each other in threatening confusion--and there was a das.h.i.+ng sound of the sea on the beach which seemed to be steadily increasing in volume and intensity. He paused for a moment under the shelter of an arched doorway, to place Charlie more comfortably under his arm and b.u.t.ton his coat more securely, the while he watched the people in the princ.i.p.al thoroughfare struggling with the capricious attacks of the blast, which tore their hats off and sent them spinning across the road, and played mischievous havoc with women's skirts, blowing them up to the knees, and making a great exhibition of feet, few of which were worth looking at from any point of beauty or fitness. And then, all at once, amid the whirling of the gale, he heard a hoa.r.s.e stentorian shouting--”Awful Murder! Local Crime! Murder of a n.o.bleman!
Murder at Blue Anchor! Latest details!” and he started precipitately forward, walking hurriedly along with as much nervous horror as though he had been guiltily concerned in the deed with which the town was ringing. Two or three boys ran past him, with printed placards in their hands, which they waved in front of them, and on which in thick black letters could be seen:--”Murder of Lord Wrotham! Death of the Murderer!
Appalling Tragedy at Blue Anchor!” And, for a few seconds, amid the confusion caused by the wind, and the wild clamour of the news-vendors, he felt as if every one were reeling pell-mell around him like persons on a s.h.i.+p at sea,--men with hats blown off,--women and children running aslant against the gale with hair streaming,--all eager to purchase the first papers which contained the account of a tragedy, enacted, as it were, at their very doors. Outside a little gla.s.s and china shop at the top of a rather hilly street a group of workingmen were standing, with the papers they had just bought in their hands, and Helmsley, as he trudged by, with stooping figure and bent head set against the wind, lingered near them a moment to hear them discuss the news.
”Ah, poor Tom!” exclaimed one--”Gone at last! I mind me well how he used to say he'd die a bad death!”
”What's a bad death?” queried another, gruffly--”And what's the truth about this here business anyhow? Newspapers is allus full o' lies.