The Treasure of Heaven | Page 4

allowed the light

from the interior room to play more fully on his features, and showed
him to be well advanced in age, with a worn, yet strong face and
deep-set eyes, over which the shelving brows stooped benevolently as
though to guard the sinking vital fire in the wells of vision below. The
mouth was concealed by an ashen-grey moustache, while on the
forehead and at the sides of the temples the hair was perfectly white,
though still abundant. A certain military precision of manner was
attached to the whole bearing of the man,--his thin figure was well-built
and upright, showing no tendency to feebleness,--his shoulders were set
square, and his head was poised in a manner that might have been
called uncompromising, if not obstinate. Even the hand that rested on
the balcony, attenuated and deeply wrinkled as it was, suggested
strength in its shape and character, and a passing thought of this flitted
across the mind of his companion who, after a pause, said slowly:--
"I really see no reason why you should brood on such things. What's
the use? Your health is excellent for your time of life. Your end is not
imminent. You are voluntarily undergoing a system of self-torture
which is quite unnecessary. We've known each other for years, yet I
hardly recognise you in your present humour. I thought you were
perfectly happy. Surely you ought to be,--you, David Helmsley,--'King'
David, as you are sometimes called--one of the richest men in the
world!"
Helmsley smiled, but with a suspicion of sadness.
"Neither kings nor rich men hold special grants of happiness," he
answered, quietly: "Your own experience of humanity must have taught
you that. Personally speaking, I have never been happy since my
boyhood. This surprises you? I daresay it does. But, my dear Vesey, old
friend as you are, it sometimes happens that our closest intimates know
us least! And even the famous firm of Vesey and Symonds, or
Symonds and Vesey,--for your partner is one with you and you are one
with your partner,--may, in spite of all their legal wisdom, fail to pierce
the thick disguises worn by the souls of their clients. The Man in the
Iron Mask is a familiar figure in the office of his confidential solicitor. I
repeat, I have never been happy since my boyhood----"

"Your happiness then was a mere matter of youth and animal spirits,"
interposed Vesey.
"I thought you would say that!"--and again a faint smile illumined
Helmsley's features. "It is just what every one would say. Yet the
young are often much more miserable than the old; and while I grant
that youth may have had something to do with my past joy in life, it
was not all. No, it certainly was not all. It was simply that I had then
what I have never had since."
He broke off abruptly. Then stepping back to his chair he resumed his
former reclining position, leaning his head against the cushions and
fixing his eyes on the solitary bright star that shone above the mist and
the trembling trees.
"May I talk out to you?" he inquired suddenly, with a touch of
whimsicality. "Or are you resolved to preach copybook moralities at
me, such as 'Be good and you will be happy?'"
Vesey, more ceremoniously known as Sir Francis Vesey, one of the
most renowned of London's great leading solicitors, looked at him and
laughed.
"Talk out, my dear fellow, by all means!" he replied. "Especially if it
will do you any good. But don't ask me to sympathise very deeply with
the imaginary sorrows of so enormously wealthy a man as you are!"
"I don't expect any sympathy," said Helmsley. "Sympathy is the one
thing I have never sought, because I know it is not to be obtained, even
from one's nearest and dearest. Sympathy! Why, no man in the world
ever really gets it, even from his wife. And no man possessing a spark
of manliness ever wants it, except--sometimes----"
He hesitated, looking steadily at the star above him,--then went on.
"Except sometimes,--when the power of resistance is weakened--when
the consciousness is strongly borne in upon us of the unanswerable
wisdom of Solomon, who wrote--'I hated all my labour which I had

taken under the sun, because I should leave it to the man that should be
after me. And who knows whether he shall be a wise man or a fool?'"
Sir Francis Vesey, dimly regretting the half-smoked cigar he had
thrown away in a moment of impatience, took out a fresh one from his
pocket-case and lit it.
"Solomon has expressed every disagreeable situation in life with
remarkable accuracy," he murmured placidly, as he began to puff rings
of pale smoke into the surrounding yellow haze, "but he was a bit