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Updated: June 8, 2025
"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!"
"And you'd like him to marry some 'dear sweet little girl'" he went on, reflectively "I'll tell him that you said so!" She was silent, carefully piling one or two small logs on the fire. "Dear sweet little girls are generally uncommonly vain of themselves," resumed Helmsley "And in the strength of their dearness and sweetness they sometimes fail to appreciate love when they get it. Now Mr.
I haven't spent a penny in other locomotion than my own legs since I left Fleet Street." Helmsley listened with eager interest. Here was a man who had done the very thing which he himself had started to do; "tramped" the road. But with what a difference! Full manhood, physical strength, and activity on the one side, decaying power, feebleness of limb and weariness on the other.
"Really!" she ejaculated, with a poor attempt at flippancy; and, in her turn, she asked the question, "Why?" "Because I should have known you were honest," answered Helmsley, with emphasis. "Honest to your womanly instincts, and to the simplest and purest part of your nature.
Gregory's Minster when it was all broken and fallen, and he caused it to be made anew from the ground, for Christ and St. A pleasant road leads through Nawton to the beautiful little town of Helmsley. A bend of the broad, swift-flowing Rye forms one boundary of the place, and is fed by a gushing brook that finds its way from Rievaulx Moor, and forms a pretty feature of the main street.
The Empire would soon became a mere football for general kicking! However, there's one thing in this Helmsley business that I'm glad of" and his eyes twinkled "I believe the Sorrels have lost their game! Positively, I think Miss Lucy has broken her line, and that the fish has gone without her hook in its mouth! Old as he is, David is not too old to outwit a woman!
If it is ever sold with its contents 'to defray expenses, nothing will be found in it but some unmarked clothes. And so far as all those who know me are concerned, every trace of me ends at Southampton. Beyond Southampton there is a blank, into which David Helmsley, the millionaire, has vanished. And David Helmsley, the tramp, sits here in his place!"
On our return from Helmsley, we noticed a byway leading across the moorland with a sign-board pointing the way "to Coxwold." We were reminded that in this out-of-the-way village Laurence Sterne, "the father of the English novel," had lived many years and that his cottage and church might still be seen.
During his slow ramblings about the little sequestered place, Helmsley talked to many of the cottagers, who all treated him with that good-humour and tolerance which they considered due to his age and feebleness.
"Well, don't get too close," said Twitt, kindly "We'll be havin' ye washed away if ye don't take care! There's onny an hour to tea-time, an' Mary Deane's a punctooal 'ooman!" "I shall not keep her waiting never fear!" and Helmsley smiled as he said good-day, and jogged slowly along his favourite accustomed path to the beach.
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