"But how did all this happen?" asked Helmsley, amused.
"Why, this way, David—quite 'appy an' innocent like, Missis Arbroath, she opens a letter from 'ome, which 'avin' glanced at the envelope casual-like she thinks was beggin' or mothers' meetin', an' there she finds it all out. Vicar's fav'rite gel writin' for money or clothes or summat, an' endin' up 'Yer own darlin'!' Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he! Oh Lord! There was an earthquake up at the rect'ry this marnin'—the cook there sez she never 'eerd sich a row in all 'er life—an' Missis Arbroath she was a-shriekin' for a divorce at the top of 'er voice! It's a small place, Weircombe Rect'ry, an' a woman can't shriek an' 'owl in it without bein' 'eerd. So both the cook an' 'ousemaid worn't by no manner o' means surprised when Mister Arbroath packed 'is bag an' went off in a trap to Minehead—an' we'll be left with a cheap curate in charge of our pore souls! Ha-ha-ha! But 'e's a decent little chap,—an' there'll be no 'igh falutin' services with 'im, so we can all go to Church next Sunday comfortable. An' as for old Arbroath, we'll be seein' big 'edlines in the papers by and by about 'Scandalous Conduck of a Clergyman with 'is Fav'rite Gel!'" Here he made an effort to pull a grave face, but it was no use,—his broad smile beamed out once more despite himself. "Arter all," he said, chuckling, "the two things does fit in nicely together an' nat'ral like—'Igh Jinks an' a fav'rite gel!"
It was impossible not to derive a sense of fun from his shining eyes and beaming countenance, and Angus Reay gave himself up to the enjoyment of the moment, and laughed again and again.
"So you think he's gone altogether, eh?" he said, when he could speak.
"Oh, 'e's gone all right!" rejoined Twitt placidly. "A man may do lots o' queer things in this world, an' so long as 'is old 'ooman don't find 'im out, it's pretty fair sailin'; but once a parson's wife gets 'er nose on to the parson's fav'rite, then all the fat's bound to be in the fire! An' quite right as it should be! I wouldn't bet on the fav'rite when it come to a neck-an'-neck race atween the two!"
He laughed again, and they all talked awhile longer on this unexpected event, which, to such a village as Weircombe, was one of startling importance and excitement, and then, as the afternoon was drawing in and Mary did not reappear, Angus Reay took his departure with Twitt, leaving Helmsley sitting alone in his chair by the fire. But he did not go without a parting word—a word which was only a whisper.
"You think you are sure, David!" he said—"Sure that she loves me! I wish you would make doubly, trebly sure!—for it seems much too good to be true!"
Helmsley smiled, but made no answer.
When he was left alone in the little kitchen to which he was now so accustomed, he sat for a space gazing into the red embers of the fire, and thinking deeply. He had attained what he never thought it would be possible to attain—a love which had been bestowed upon him for himself alone. He had found what he had judged would be impossible to find—two hearts which, so far as he personally was concerned, were utterly uninfluenced by considerations of self-interest. Both Mary Deane and Angus Reay looked upon him as a poor, frail old man, entirely defenceless and dependent on the kindness and care of such strangers as sympathised with his condition. Could they now be suddenly told that he was the millionaire, David Helmsley, they would certainly never believe it. And even if they were with difficulty brought to believe it, they would possibly resent the deception he had practised on them. Sometimes he asked himself whether it was quite fair or right to so deceive them? But then,—reviewing his whole life, and seeing how at every step of his career men, and women too, had flattered him and fawned upon him as well as fooled him for mere money's sake,—he decided that surely he had the right at the approaching end of that career to make a fair and free trial of the world as to whether any thing or any one purely honest could be found in it.
"For it makes me feel more at peace with God," he said—"to know and to realise that there are unselfish loving hearts to be found, if only in the very lowliest walks of life! I,—who have seen Society,—the modern Juggernaut,—rolling its great wheels recklessly over the hopes and joys and confidences of thousands of human beings—I, who know that even kings, who should be above dishonesty, are tainted by their secret speculations in the money-markets of the world,—surely I may be permitted to rejoice for my few remaining days in the finding of two truthful and simple souls, who have no motive for their kindness to me,—who see nothing in me but age, feebleness and poverty,—and whom I have perhaps been the means, through God's guidance, of bringing together. For it was to me that Reay first spoke that day on the seashore—and it was at my request that he first entered Mary's home. Can this be the way in which Divine Wisdom has chosen to redeem me? I,—who have never been loved as I would have desired to be loved,—am I now instructed how,—leaving myself altogether out of the question,—I may prosper the love of others and make two noble lives happy? It may be so,—and that in the foundation of their joy, I shall win my own soul's peace! So—leaving my treasures on earth,—I shall find my treasure in heaven, 'where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal!'"