The Treasure of Heaven | Page 5

of a
misanthrope."
"When I was a boy," pursued Helmsley, not heeding his legal friend's
comment, "I was happy chiefly because I believed. I never doubted any
stated truth that seemed beautiful enough to be true. I had perfect
confidence in the goodness of God and the ultimate happiness designed
by Him for every living creature. Away out in Virginia where I was
born, before the Southern States were subjected to Yankeedom, it was a
glorious thing merely to be alive. The clear, pure air, fresh with the
strong odour of pine and cedar,--the big plantations of cotton and
corn,--the colours of the autumn woods when the maple trees turned
scarlet, and the tall sumachs blazed like great fires on the sides of the
mountains,--the exhilarating climate--the sweetness of the south-west
wind,--all these influences of nature appealed to my soul and kindled a
strange restlessness in it which has never been appeased.
Never!--though I have lived my life almost to its end, and have done all
those things which most men do who seek to get the utmost satisfaction
they can out of existence. But I am not satisfied; I have never been
satisfied."
"And you never will be," declared Sir Francis firmly. "There are some
people to whom Heaven itself would prove disappointing."
"Well, if Heaven is the kind of place depicted by the clergy, the poorest
beggar might resent its offered attractions," said Helmsley, with a slight,
contemptuous shrug of his shoulders. "After a life of continuous pain
and struggle, the pleasures of singing for ever and ever to one's own
harp accompaniment are scarcely sufficient compensation."

Vesey laughed cheerfully.
"It's all symbolical," he murmured, puffing away at his cigar, "and
really very well meant! Positively now, the clergy are capital fellows!
They do their best,--they keep it up. Give them credit for that at least,
Helmsley,--they do keep it up!"
Helmsley was silent for a minute or two.
"We are rather wandering from the point," he said at last. "What I know
of the clergy generally has not taught me to rely upon them for any
advice in a difficulty, or any help out of trouble. Once--in a moment of
weakness and irresolution--I asked a celebrated preacher what
suggestion he could make to a rich man, who, having no heirs, sought a
means of disposing of his wealth to the best advantage for others after
his death. His reply----"
"Was the usual thing, of course," interposed Sir Francis blandly. "He
said, 'Let the rich man leave it all to me, and God will bless him
abundantly!'"
"Well, yes, it came to that,"--and Helmsley gave a short impatient sigh.
"He evidently guessed that the rich man implied was myself, for ever
since I asked him the question, he has kept me regularly supplied with
books and pamphlets relating to his Church and various missions. I
daresay he's a very good fellow. But I've no fancy to assist him. He
works on sectarian lines, and I am of no sect. Though I confess I should
like to believe in God--- if I could."
Sir Francis, fanning a tiny wreath of cigar smoke away with one hand,
looked at him curiously, but offered no remark.
"You said I might talk out to you," continued Helmsley--"and it is
perhaps necessary that I should do so, since you have lately so
persistently urged upon me the importance of making my will. You are
perfectly right, of course, and I alone am to blame for the apparently
stupid hesitation I show in following your advice. But, as I have
already told you, I have no one in the world who has the least claim

upon me,--no one to whom I can bequeath, to my own satisfaction, the
wealth I have earned. I married,--as you know,--and my marriage was
unhappy. It ended,--and you are aware of all the facts--in the proved
infidelity of my wife, followed by our separation (effected quietly,
thanks to you, without the vulgar publicity of the divorce court), and
then--in her premature death. Notwithstanding all this, I did my best for
my two sons,--you are a witness to this truth,--and you remember that
during their lifetime I did make my will,--in their favour. They turned
out badly; each one ran his own career of folly, vice, and riotous
dissipation, and both are dead. Thus it happens that here I am,--alone at
the age of seventy, without any soul to care for me, or any creature to
whom I can trust my business, or leave my fortune. It is not my fault
that it is so; it is sheer destiny. How, I ask you, can I make any 'Last
Will and Testament' under such conditions?"
"If you make no will at all, your property goes to the Crown," said
Vesey bluntly.
"Naturally. I