But here Lionel stumbled forward giddily, and laid his weak little hand appealingly on his father’s arm.
“Oh no, father, no! I can’t bear it, — I can’t bear it!” he cried— “I love her! — I love her! — I do indeed! — I can’t help it. She kissed me — only last night, father! — yes, and she took me in her arms, — oh, I can’t forget it, — I can’t really! I love her — I do! — Oh mother — mother!”
Stammering thus incoherently, he saw his father’s eyes flame upon him like balls of fire, — his father’s form seemed to dilate all at once to twice its natural dimensions, — indistinctly he heard the growling voice of the Professor interpose with the words— “The boy has had enough, — let him be!” ... then, on a blind impulse he ran, ran, ran headlong out of the house, not knowing in the least where he was going, but only bent on getting away — somewhere — anywhere — only away! Down the Combmartin road he rushed panting, like a little escaped mad thing, the noonday sun beating hot on his uncovered head, — as in a wild vision he heard voices calling him, and saw strange faces looking at him, — till suddenly he became aware of a familiar figure approaching him, — a figure he dimly recognised as that of his old acquaintance, Clarinda Cleverly Payne, whom he had never seen since his tutor Montrose had left Combmartin. Running straight towards her, he cried aloud —
“Oh Miss Payne! — it isn’t true, is it? Oh do tell me! — it can’t be true! My mother hasn’t gone away for ever, has she? — oh no, surely not! Oh no, no, no! She loves me, — I know she does! She would not leave me, — she wouldn’t I’m sure! 0 do tell me, dear Miss Payne! — you do not think she is wicked, do you?”
Over the weather-beaten face of the kindly Clarinda came an expression of the deepest, aye, almost divine compassion. In one moment her womanly soul comprehended the child’s torture, — his bewilderment, his grief, his exceeding loneliness, — and without a word in answer, she opened her arms. But Lionel, gazing at her in passionate suspense, met the solemn and pitying look of her eyes, — a look that confirmed all his worst fears, — and sick to the very heart, seeing the sky, the earth, and the distant sea all gather together in one great avalanche of blackness that came rolling down upon him, he staggered another step forward, and fell senseless at her feet.
CHAPTER XI.
“BETTER take him away for a few days,” said Dr. Hartley, a brisk bright-looking type of the country physician, as he held his watch in one hand, and felt Lionel’s feeble pulse with the other,— “Give him a little change, — move him about a bit. He’s had a sort of nervous shock, — yes — yes — very sad! — I heard the news in the village, ... shocking — unhappily these domestic troubles are becoming very common, ... most distressing for you, I’m sure!
These disjointed remarks were addressed to Mr. Valliscourt, who, alternately flushing and paling, under the influence of his mingled sensations of indignation at the dishonour wrought upon him by his wife, and vexation at the sudden illness of his son, presented a somewhat singular spectacle. Lionel had been brought into the house in a dead faint in the arms of a — a person, — a common person, who sold eggs and butter and milk in the village and called herself Clarinda Cleverly Payne, — what ridiculous names these Devonshire people gave themselves, to be sure! — and the — the person had presumed to express sympathy for him, — for him, John Valliscourt of Valliscourt! — in his ‘great misfortune,’ — and had also dared to compassionate his son — yes, — had actually, before certain of the servants, said “May God help the poor dear little motherless lamb!” It was most offensive and intrusive on the part of the person who called herself Clarinda, — and Mr. Valliscourt as soon as she departed, had given strict injunctions that she was never again to be admitted inside the premises on any pretext whatever. This done, he had sent for the principal doctor in Combmartin, who had attended the summons promptly, trotting rapidly to the house on a stout cob, which, when he alighted from its broad back, was handed over to the care of an equally stout boy, who turned up mysteriously from somewhere in the village, and appearing simultaneously with the doctor, seemed to have been groom-in-ordinary to the cob all his life. The stout boy had, by some unknown process, transferred the roundness and ruddiness of two prize Devonshire apples into his cheeks, and he had another Devonshire apple in his pocket which he presently took out, cut with a clasp-knife, and divided into equal proportions between the cob and himself, to occupy the time spent by them both, in waiting for the doctor outside Mr. Valliscourt’s hall-door. The doctor meanwhile had successfully roused Lionel from the death-like swoon that had lasted till he came, — and Lionel himself, breathing faintly and irregularly, had half opened his eyes, and was vaguely trying to think where he was, and what had happened to him.
“Yes,” — continued Dr. Hartley musingly, now lifting with delicate finger one of the boy’s eyelids, and peering at the ball of the soft eye beneath it— “I should certainly take him away as quickly as convenient to yourself—”
“It’s not convenient to me at all,” — said Mr. Valliscourt irritably— “I can’t go anywhere with him, — my time is fully occupied, — and his lessons will be materially interfered with—”
“Humph!” and the doctor glanced him over from head to foot with considerable disfavour— “Well — you must decide for yourself of course, — but it is my duty as a medical man to inform you that if the boy is not moved at once, and given some change from his present surroundings, there is a danger of meningitis setting in. And his constitution does not appear to me sufficiently robust to withstand it. Lessons, just now, are entirely out of the question.”
Mr. Valliscourt frowned. He took a sudden and violent aversion to Dr. Hartley. He disliked and resented the expression of the shrewd blue eye that gave him such a straight look of criticism and censure, — and he felt that here was another ‘semi-barbaric fool’ like Willie Montrose, who had beliefs and sentiments. He coughed in a stately manner, and said stiffly —
“Perhaps I can persuade Professor Cadman-Gore—”
“Who is he?” asked the doctor abruptly, laying his big gentle hand on Lionel’s brow, and smoothing back the curls that clustered there with the suave soft touch of a woman. Mr. Valliscourt stared, — then smiled a superior smile at the ignorance of this village Galen.
“Professor Cadman-Gore,” he announced with laboured politeness— “is one of our greatest thinkers and logicians. His fame is almost universal, — I should have thought it had penetrated even to this part of the country, — that is, among the more cultured inhabitants” — and he laid a slight emphasis on the word ‘cultured’— “He is the author of many valuable scientific works, and is an admirable trainer and cultivator of youth. As a rule he never undertakes the instruction of a boy so young as my son, — but out of consideration for me, hearing that I had been compelled to dismiss, rather suddenly, an incompetent tutor, he very kindly accepted the task of my son’s holiday tuition. It is possible he might be willing to accompany the boy for the change you advise, — if indeed you consider such a change absolutely necessary—”
“I do, most decidedly;” — said Dr. Hartley, filling a teaspoon with some reviving cordial, and gently placing it to Lionel’s lips, while Lionel in his turn, feeling all the time as if he were in a dream, swallowed the mixture obediently— “I don’t say take him far, — for he must on no account be over-fatigued. Clovelly would be a good place. Let him go there with his tutor, and scramble about as he likes. The sooner the better. Here he will only think and fret about his mother. In fact you’d better order a carriage and have him taken on as far as Ilfracombe this very afternoon — then, the rest of the way can be done by easy stages. The coach would be too jolty for him. You can’t go with him yourself, you say?”
“Impossible!” and Mr. Valliscourt’s mouth hardened into a thin tight line, indicative of inward and closely repressed rage— “I must go to town at once for a few days — I have to consult my — my lawyers.”
“Oh — ah! Yes — I see �
� I understand!” and the doctor gave a little nod of comprehension— “Well, can I have a talk to the boy’s tutor? I should like to explain a few points to him.”
“Certainly. He is in the schoolroom, — permit me to show you the way there.”
“One moment!” and Dr. Hartley gave a keen glance round the small apartment in which they were. It was Lionel’s bedroom, whither he had been carried in his swoon by the warm-hearted Clarinda Cleverly Payne. The window was shut, — but the doctor threw it wide open. “Plenty of fresh air, nourishing food, and rest;” — he said— “That’s what the boy wants. And he must be amused, — he mustn’t be left alone. Send one of the servants up here to sit with him, till he’s ready to start this afternoon.”
“Send Lucy!” murmured Lionel’s faint voice from the bed.
“What’s that, my little man?” inquired the doctor, bending over him— “Send whom?”
“Lucy,” — and Lionel looked up fearlessly in his physician’s round, shiny face— “She is a housemaid, and a very nice girl. I like her.”
Dr. Hartley smiled. “Very good! You shall have Lucy. The desirable young woman shall come up to you at once. Now, how do you feel?”
“Much better, thank you!” and the boy’s eyes softened gratefully— “But — you know ... I can’t, — I can’t forget things, ... not very easily!”
The doctor made no answer to this remark, but merely settled the pillows more comfortably under his small patient’s head. Then he went away with Mr. Valliscourt to make the acquaintance of Professor Cadman-Gore. And when Lucy came creeping softly up, as commanded, to watch by Lionel’s bedside, she found the little fellow sleeping, with traces of tears glistening on his pale cheeks; and his aspect was so touching and solemn in its innocence and sorrow and helplessness, that being nothing but a woman, and a warm-hearted woman too, she took out her handkerchief and had a good quiet cry all to herself. “How could she — how could she leave the little dear!” she wondered dolefully, as she thought of the reckless and shameful flight of her recent mistress— “To leave him” — meaning Mr. Valliscourt,— “isn’t so surprising, howsumever it’s wicked, for he’s a handful to live with and no mistake! — but to leave her own boy, — that’s real downright bad of her! — that it is!”
Poor Lucy! She had never read the works of Ibsen, and was entirely ignorant of the ‘New Morality,’ as inculcated by Mr. Grant Allen. Had she been taught these modern ethics, she would have recognised in Mrs. Valliscourt’s conduct merely a ‘noble’ outbreak of ‘white purity’ and virtue. But she had ‘barbaric’ notions of motherhood, — she believed in its sacredness in quite an obstinate, prejudiced and old-fashioned way. She was nothing but a ‘child of nature,’ poor, simple Ibsen-less housemaid Lucy! — and throughout all creation, nature makes mother-love a law, and mother’s duty paramount.
Meanwhile Dr. Hartley had the stupendous honour of shaking hands with Professor Cadman-Gore, — and not only did he seem totally unimpressed by the occurrence, but he had actually the sublime impudence to ask for a private interview with the great man, — that is, an interview without the presence of Mr. Valliscourt. The latter personage, surprised and somewhat offended, reluctantly left the two gentlemen together for the space of about fifteen minutes, — at the end of which time the Professor looked more ponderously thoughtful than usual, and Dr. Hartley took his leave, trotting off on his stout cob amid many respectful salutations from the stout boy, who straightway disappeared also, to those unknown regions of Combmartin whence he had emerged, as if by magic, directly his services were required.
And Lionel slept on and on, till, at a little after three o’clock in the afternoon, Lucy roused him and gave him a cup of soup, which seemed to him particularly strong and well-flavoured.
“There’s wine in it, isn’t there?” he asked, with a surprised glance, whereat Lucy nodded smiling— “Fancy giving me wine in my soup! Oh, I say! It’s too good for me!”
Lucy gave a slight sniff, and stated she had a cold.
“It’s my belief that this old house is damp;” — she said— “And the whole village is crazy-built and green-mouldy in my opinion! And what do you think, Master Lionel? If that blessed old ‘Hoddy-Doddy,’ the silly man you saw the other morning, ain’t been here shaking his wobbly head over the gate and giving all his roses in for you, for nothing! And here they are!” and she raised a beautiful cluster of deep red, pale pink, and white half-open buds, fragrant and dewy— “We couldn’t make out what he wanted at first, he was so wobbly and couldn’t speak plain, — but at last we got at it — it was ‘For the little boy — the little boy,’ — over and over again. So we took the flowers just to please the poor creature, — he wouldn’t have any money for them. He saw you being carried home in your faint by Miss Payne, and he thought you were dead.”
“Did he?” murmured Lionel wistfully— “And that is why he brought the flowers I suppose, — thinking me dead! Poor man! He’s very dreadful to look at, — but he’s very kind I daresay — and he can’t help his looks, can he?”
“No, that he can’t,” — agreed Lucy simply— “And after all, it’s what we are that God cares about, not what we seem to be.”
At these words a deep sadness clouded the boy’s eyes, and he thought of his mother. Was there a God to care what became of her? Or was there only the Atom, to whom nothing mattered, neither sin, nor sorrow, nor death? Oh, if he could only be sure that it was really a God who was the Supreme Cause and Mover of all things, — a wise, loving, pitiful, forgiving, Eternal and Divine Being, how he would pray to Him for his lost, unhappy, beautiful mother, and ask Him to bring her back! But he had no time to ponder on such questions, for Lucy was now busy putting on his overcoat and finding his hat, and packing his little valise, and doing all sorts of things, — and while he was yet wondering at these arrangements, and trying to stand firmly on his legs, which were curiously weak and shaky, who should come striding largely across the threshold of his bedroom, but Professor Cadman-Gore! Professor Cadman-Gore, with broad soft wide-awake on, and extensive flapping over-all, — his habitual costume when travelling, even in the hottest weather, — and more wonderful than the wide-awake or the over-all, was the smile that wrinkled the Professor’s grim features in several new places, making little unaccustomed lines of agreeable suggestiveness among the deeper furrows of thought, and even turning up the stiff corners of his mouth in quite a strange manner, inasmuch as his usual sort of smile always turned those corners down.
“Hullo!” said the learned man, with a sprightly air— “How are you now?”
“Better, thank you!” answered Lionel gently— “My head is a little swimmy, that’s all.”
“Oh, that’s all, is it? Well, that isn’t much!” and the Professor stood alternately glowering and grinning, with a distinctly evident desire to make himself agreeable— “Can you ride pick-a-back?”
Lionel stared wonderingly, — then smiled.
“Why, yes! I haven’t often done it, — but I know how!”
“Come along then!” and the Professor squatted down and bent his bony shoulders to the necessary level— “I’ll take you to the carriage that way. Hold on tight!”
Lionel was stricken quite speechless with sheer amazement. What! — Professor Cadman-Gore, the great scholar, the not-to-be-contradicted logician, condescending to carry a boy pick-a-back! Such a thing was astounding, — unheard-of! Surely it ought to be chronicled in the newspapers under a bold head-line thus, —
GRACIOUS CONDUCT OF AN OXFORD PROFESSOR.
“Do you mean it? Really?” he asked timidly, flushing with surprise.
“Certainly I do! Only don’t keep me waiting long in this — this absurd attitude!” And ferocity and kindness together played at such cross-purposes on his lantern-jawed visage, that Lionel lost no time in getting his little legs astride round the sinewy neck of the distinguished man, trembling as he did so at the very idea of taking such a liberty with a walking encyclopædia of wisdom. And downstairs
they went, master and pupil, in this wondrous fashion, to the hall-door, outside which there was a big landau and pair of sleek brown horses waiting, and where Lionel was slipped easily off the Professor’s back into a pile of soft cushions and covered up with warm rugs. Then Lucy bustled about, packing all manner of odds and ends into the carriage, and openly flirting with the coachman in the very presence of the great Cadman-Gore, — one or two of the other servants came out to look and wave their hands, — then the horses started, — Lucy called, “Good-bye, Master Lionel! Come back quite well!” and away they drove through the beautiful sunshiny air, down the one principal street of Combmartin, past the quiet little harbour, and up the picturesque road leading to Ilfracombe. Mr. Valliscourt had not appeared to bid his little son good-bye, — and Lionel, though he noticed the fact, did not regret it. Resting comfortably among his pillows he was very silent, though now and then he stole a furtive glance at the Professor, who sat bolt upright, surveying the landscape through his spectacles with the severely critical air of a man who knows just how scenery is made, and won’t stand any nonsense about it, — and it was not till they had left Combmartin some distance behind them that he ventured to ask gently —
“Where are we going?”
“To Clovelly,” replied the Professor, bringing his owl-like glasses to bear on the little wistful face upturned to him— “But not to-night. We only get as far as Ilfracombe this afternoon.”
“Is my father coming?”
“No. He’s going to London on business. He’ll be away a week or ten days, and so shall we. Then we shall return to Combmartin, and stay there till your father’s summer tenancy of the house expires.”
“I see!” murmured Lionel— “I understand!” And two great tears filled his eyes. He was thinking of his mother. But her name never passed his lips. He turned his face a little away, and thought he had hidden his emotion from his tutor, — but he thought wrongly, for the Professor had seen the gleam of those unfailing tears, and, strange to say, was moved thereby to what was for him a most unusual sentiment of pity. He, who had frequently witnessed the ruthless vivisection of innocent animals, — he, who had tranquilly watched a poor butterfly writhe itself to death on his scientific pin, was at last touched in the innermost recesses of his heart by the troubles of a child. And so perchance, he established a claim for himself in the heaven he so strenuously denied, — a claim that might possibly be of more avail to him in the Great Hereafter than all his book-lore and world-logic.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 387