Part 64 (2/2)

There was quite a little rejoicing in the village of Weircombe when it was known he had returned from his brief wanderings, and there was also a good deal of commiseration expressed for him when it was known that he was somewhat weakened in physical health by his efforts to find more paying work. Many of the children with whom he was a favourite came up to see him, bringing little knots of flowers, or curious trophies of weed and sh.e.l.ls from the seash.o.r.e--and now that the weather was settled fine and warm, he became accustomed to sit in his chair outside the cottage door in the garden, with the old sweetbriar bush shedding perfume around him, and a clambering rose breaking into voluptuous creamy pink blossom above his head. Here he would pursue his occupation of basket-making, and most of the villagers made it their habit to pa.s.s up and down at least once or twice a day in their turns, to see how he fared, or, as they themselves expressed it, ”to keep old David going.”

His frail bent figure, his thin, intellectual face, with its composed expression of peace and resignation, his soft white hair, and his slow yet ever patiently working hands, made up a picture which, set in the delicate framework of leaf and blossom, was one to impress the imagination and haunt the memory. Mr. and Mrs. Twitt were constant visitors, and many were the would-be jocose remarks of the old stonemason on David's temporary truancy.

”Wanted more work, did ye?” And thrusting his hands deep in the pockets of his corduroys, Twitt looked at him with a whimsical complacency.

”Well, why didn't ye come down to the stoneyard an' learn 'ow to cut a hepitaph? Nice chippy, easy work in its way, an' no 'arm in yer sittin'

down to it. Why didn't ye, eh?”

”I've never had enough education for such work as that, Mr. Twitt,”

answered David mildly, with something of a humorous sparkle in his eyes.

”I'm afraid I should spoil more than I could pay for. You want an artist--not an untrained clumsy old fellow like me.”

”Oh, blow artists!” said Mr. Twitt irreverently. ”They talks a lot--they talks yer 'ed off--but they doos onny 'arf the labour as they spends in waggin' their tongues. An' for a hepitaph, they none of 'em aint got an idee. It's allus Scripter texes with 'em,--they aint got no 'riginality.

Now I'm a reg'lar Scripter reader, an' nowheres do I find it writ as we're to use the words o' G.o.d Himself to carve on tombstones for our speshul convenience, cos we aint no notions o' feelin' an' respect of our own. But artists can't think o' nothin', an' I never cares to employ 'em. Yet for all that there's not a sweeter, pruttier place than our little cemetery nowheres in all the world. There aint no tyranny in it, an' no pettifoggin' interference. Why, there's places in England where ye can't put what ye likes over the grave o' yer dead friends!--ye've got to 'submit' yer idee to the parzon, or wot's worse, the Corporation, if ser be yer last go-to-bed place is near a town. There's a town I know of,” and here Mr. Twitt began to laugh,--”wheer ye can't 'ave a moniment put up to your dead folk without 'subjectin'' the design to the Town Council--an' we all knows the fine taste o' Town Councils! They'se 'artists,' an' no mistake! I've got the rules of the cemetery of that town for my own eddification. They runs like this--” And drawing a paper from his pocket, he read as follows:--

”'All gravestones, monuments, tombs, tablets, memorials, palisades, curbs, and inscriptions shall be subject to the approval of the Town Council; and a drawing, showing the form, materials, and dimensions of every gravestone, monument, tomb, tablet, memorial, palisades, or curb proposed to be erected or fixed, together with a copy of the inscription intended to be cut thereon (if any), on the form provided by the Town Council, must be left at the office of the Clerk at least ten days before the first Tuesday in any month. The Town Council reserve to themselves the right to remove or prevent the erection of any monument, tomb, tablet, memorial, etc., which shall not have previously received their sanction.' There! What d' ye think of that?”

Helmsley had listened in astonishment.

”Think? I think it is monstrous!” he said, with some indignation. ”Such a Town Council as that is a sort of many-headed tyrant, resolved to persecute the unhappy townspeople into their very graves!”

”Right y' are!” said Twitt. ”But there's a many on 'em! An' ye may thank yer stars ye're not anywheres under 'em. Now when _you_ goes the way o'

all flesh----”

He paused, suddenly embarra.s.sed, and conscious that he had perhaps touched on a sore subject. But Helmsley rea.s.sured him.

”Yes, Twitt? Don't stop!--what then?”

”Why, then,” said Twitt, almost tenderly, ”ye'll 'ave our good old parzon to see ye properly tucked under a daisy quilt, an' wotever ye wants put on yer tomb, or wotever's writ on it, can be yer own desire, if ye'll think about it afore ye goes. An' there'll be no expense at all--for I tell ye just the truth--I've grown to like ye that well that I'll carve ye the pruttiest little tombstone ye ever seed for nothin'!”

Helmsley smiled.

”Well, I shan't be able to thank you then, Mr. Twitt, so I thank you now,” he said. ”You know a good deed is always rewarded, if not in this world, then in the next.”

”I b'leeve that,” rejoined Twitt; ”I b'leeve it true. And though I know Mis' Deane is that straight an' 'onest, she'd see ye properly mementoed an' paid for, I wouldn't take a penny from 'er--not on account of a kindly old gaffer like yerself. I'd do it all friendly.”

”Of course you would!” and Helmsley shook his hand heartily; ”And of course you _will_!”

This, and many other conversations he had with Twitt and a certain few of the villagers, showed him that the little community of Weircombe evidently thought of him as being not long for this world. He accepted the position quietly, and pa.s.sed day after day peacefully enough, without feeling any particular illness, save a great weakness in his limbs. He was in himself particularly happy, for Mary was always with him, and Angus pa.s.sed every evening with them both. Another great pleasure, too, he found in the occasional and entirely un.o.btrusive visits of the parson of the little parish--a weak and ailing man physically, but in soul and intellect exceptionally strong. As different from the Reverend Mr. Arbroath as an old-time Crusader would be from a modern jockey, he recognised the sacred character of his mission as an ordained minister of Christ, and performed that mission simply and faithfully. He would sit by Helmsley's chair of a summer afternoon and talk with him as friend to friend--it made no difference to him that to all appearances the old man was poor and dependent on Mary Deane's bounty, and that his former life was, to him, the clergyman, a sealed book; he was there to cheer and to comfort, not to inquire, reproach, or condemn. He was the cheeriest of companions, and the most hopeful of believers.

”If all clergymen were like you, sir,” said Helmsley to him one day, ”there would be no atheists!”

The good man reddened at the compliment, as though he had been accused of a crime.

”You think too kindly of my efforts,” he said gently. ”I only speak to you as I would wish others to speak to me.”

”'For this is the Law and the Prophets!'” murmured Helmsley. ”Sir, will you tell me one thing--are there many poor people in Weircombe?”

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