Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “What will ‘ee do when ‘ee gits ‘ome?” inquired Jessamine presently,— “Will ‘ee ky?”

  Lionel smiled rather bitterly. “No Jessamine, it would never do for me to cry,” — he said— “I’m too big.”

  “Too big!” she echoed— “You’se onny a weeny bit bigger ‘n me! An’ I’se little.”

  “Yes, but you’re a girl,” — said Lionel,— “Girls can cry if they like, — but boys mustn’t. I do cry sometimes though, when I’m all by myself.”

  “I seed ‘ee ky to-day;” observed Jessamine gravely— “I’ th’ church, — jest ‘fore we came ‘ome to dinner. What did ‘ee ky then for?”

  “It was the music I think,” — answered Lionel with a far-away look in his deep-set eyes— “I’m very fond of music, but it always seems sad to me. My mother sings beautifully, but somehow I can never bear to hear her sing, — it makes me feel so lonely.”

  Jessamine gazed at him sympathetically. He was surely a very strange and funny boy to feel ‘lonely’ because his mother sang. Presently she essayed another topic.

  “I knows th’ big ‘ouse where ‘ee lives,” — she announced— “There’s a ‘ole in th’ ‘edge, an’ I can creep froo, — into th’ big garden! I’ll coom an’ see ‘oor muzzer!”

  This statement of her intentions rather startled Lionel. He looked earnestly into her sweet blue eyes.

  “You mustn’t do that, Jessamine dear!” he said sadly— “You would get scolded I’m afraid. My mother would not scold you, — but I expect my father would.”

  Jessamine put a finger into her mouth and sucked it solemnly for a minute, — then spoke with slightly offended dignity.

  “‘Oor feyther’s a bad ole man!” she said calmly— “Onny a bad ole man would scold me, ‘cos I allus tries to be good. My feyther never scolds me, nor my ole ‘oss neither.”

  Lionel was silent. She cuddled closer to him.

  “I muss see ‘ee ‘gain, Lylie!” she crooned plaintively— “Doesn’t ‘ee want to see me no more?”

  Her baby voice was inexpressibly sweet as she pathetically asked this question, and Lionel, unaccustomed as he was to any kind of affectionate demonstration, felt a strange beating of his young heart as he looked down at the small child-face that was turned so wistfully towards him.

  “Yes, dear dear little Jessamine, I do want to see you again, and I will see you, — I’ll come as often as ever I can!” and daring thoughts of shirking his tasks and eluding Professor Cadman-Gore’s eye, flitted through his brain, in the same way as the scaling of walls and the ascending of fortified towers have suggested themselves to more mature adventurers as worthy deeds to be accomplished in the pursuit of the fair. “I’ll come and play with you whenever I can get away from my lessons, — I promise!”

  “‘Iss, — do!” said Jessamine coaxingly—”’Cos I likes ‘ee, Lylie, — I doesn’t like any other boys ere, — they’se all oogly. You’se prutty, — an’ — an’ I fink I’se prutty too! — sometimes!”

  Oh small witch! That ‘sometimes’ was the very essence of delicate coquetry, and accompanied, as it was, by a little smile and arch upward twinkle of the blue eyes, was irresistibly fascinating. Lionel felt, though he knew not why, that this little damsel must be kissed, — kissing seemed imperative, — yet how was it to be done?

  “You are very pretty, Jessamine dear,” he said, with a winsome mingling of boldness and timidity, “You are just as pretty as a flower!” Jessamine nodded in serene self-complacency, while her youthful admirer peered at her close-curved red lips much as a bird might look at a ripe cherry, and was silent so long that at last she gazed straight up into his eyes, the heavenly blue of her own shining with a beautiful wonder.

  “What’s ‘ee thinkin’ ‘bout, Lylie?” she asked.

  “You, Jessamine!” the boy answered tenderly, “I was thinking about you, — and the flowers.”

  And bending down his curly head he kissed her, — and the little maiden, nestling closer, kissed him innocently back again. Overhead the fragrant apple-branches swung their sweet burden of ruddy fruit and green leaf to and fro with a soft rustle in the summer breeze, and the linnet who lived in the topmost bough carolled his unpretentious little song, and the fairness of the world as God made it, seemed to surround with an enchanted atmosphere the two children who, drawn thus together by the bond of a summer-day’s comradeship and affection, were happy as they never would be again. For the world as God made it, is one thing, — but the world as Man mars it, is another, — and life for all the little feet that are to trudge wearily after us in the hard paths which we in our arrogant egoist-generation, have strewn for them so thick with stones and thorns, offers such a bitter and cruel prospect, that it is almost a matter of thanksgiving when the great Angel of Death, moved perchance by a vast pity, gently releases some of the fairest and tenderest of our children from our merciless clutches, and restores them to that Divine Master and Lover of pure souls, who said— “Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones, for I say unto you that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of My Father.”

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE sun was well-nigh upon sinking, when Lionel, walking slowly and with reluctant steps, returned to his home. As he approached the house he saw his mother at the entrance gate, apparently waiting for him. Looking at her from a little distance he thought how very beautiful she was, — more beautiful than ever he had quite realised her to be. Her rich hair shone in the brilliant sun-glow with wonderful golden glints and ripples, and her eyes were lustrous with a dreamy tenderness, which softened and grew deeper as he came up to where she stood. She stretched out her hand to him, — a delicate little hand, white as a white rose-petal, and sparkling with the rare diamond rings that adorned the taper fingers.

  “Why Lylie, where have you been all day?” she asked gently— “Your father’s very angry; he has been searching for you everywhere and making all sorts of inquiries in the village. Some one has told him that you were at the inn this morning, seeing Mr. Montrose off by the early coach, and that afterwards you ran away with some common boys to play hide-and-seek; is that true?”

  “No, mother, it isn’t true,” — the boy answered quietly— “Not altogether. I did go to see Mr. Montrose off by coach, — that’s correct enough; but I never ran away to play hide-and-seek with any common boys, — if I had wanted to, they wouldn’t have had me, I daresay. I don’t play games; you know that; there’s no one to play them with me. I fancied I would like to stroll about all by myself, — I was tired of books, — so I went into the old churchyard and found the sexton there at work digging a grave, and he is such a nice old man that I stayed there and talked to him. Then his little girl came to bring him his coffee, and I went with her inside the church, and Mr. Dale, — that’s the sexton, — showed me all over it and explained all the old historical bits, — and then he asked me to his house to dinner. I thought it very kind of him, and I was pleased to go. I’ve just come from there, and that’s the truth, mother, exactly as it happened.”

  Mrs. Valliscourt slipped her arm round his neck. She was smiling to herself rather oddly.

  “Poor Lylie!” she said caressingly— “So you were really tired, were you, and determined to have a real good time for once in your own way? Well, I don’t blame you! I should do the same if I were in your place. But your father’s in a great rage, — he wanted you to be here to receive Professor Cadman-Gore—”

  “But mother, he’s not expected till ten o’clock to-night!” exclaimed Lionel.

  “I know, — that’s the time we thought he was coming. But he’s got rheumatism or lumbago or something of that sort, and decided at the last minute that it would be best for him to arrive in daytime, and avoid the night air. So he took an earlier train from London and caught the afternoon coach from Ilfracombe, and he’s here, — in fact he has been here nearly two hours shut up with your father in his room.”

  Lionel was silent for a minute or two, — then he aske
d,

  “What’s he like, mother? Have you seen him?”

  Mrs. Valliscourt laughed a little.

  “Oh yes, I’ve seen him. He was formally introduced to me on arrival. What’s he like? — well, I really don’t know what he’s like, — he’s a cross between a very old baboon and a camel, — rather a difficult animal to define!”

  Her flashing smile irradiated her whole countenance with a gleam of scorn as well as amusement, — Lionel however looked pained and puzzled. She gave him a little side-glance of infinite compassion, and suddenly drawing his head against her breast, kissed him. Any caress or sign of affection from her was so rare a thing that the sensitive little lad actually trembled and grew pale with the emotion it excited in him — it left him almost breathless, and too astonished to speak.

  “I mean, dear,” she continued, still keeping her arm about him,— “that he is just like all those wonderfully learned old men who have ceased to care about anything but themselves and books, — they are never by any chance handsome, you know. He’s very clever though, — your father thinks him a prodigy, and so, I believe, do all the Oxford and Cambridge dons, — and now he’s here you’ll have to make the best of him, Lylie!”

  “Yes, mother.” The answer came faintly, and with a smothered sigh. Then, — after a brief pause, — Lionel took the white hand that rested against his neck, kissed it, and gently put it aside.

  “I think I’d better go straight in to father at once and tell him where I’ve been,” — he said bravely— “Then it’s over and done with. No matter how angry he is, he can’t kill me, — and if he could, it would be worse for him than for me!”

  With this unanswerable piece of cynical logic and a wistful parting smile, he quickened his steps almost to a run, and went into the house. Mrs. Valliscourt stood still on the garden-path, idly ruffling the petals of a rose in her waistband, and watching the thin, delicate figure of her little son till he disappeared; — then she turned away across the lawn, moving vaguely, and unseeing where she went, for her eyes were heavy and blind with a sudden rush of tears.

  Meanwhile Lionel reached his father’s room and boldly knocked at the door.

  “Come in!” cried the harsh voice he knew so well, whereupon he entered.

  “Father— “he began.

  Mr. Valliscourt rose in his chair, a stiff bristling-haired spectre of wrath.

  “So, sir!” he said. “You have come home at last! Where have you been since the early hours of the morning? And what business had you to leave this house at all without my permission?”

  Lionel looked at him full in the eyes with a curious coldness. He was conscious of a strange feeling of contempt for this red-faced man, spluttering with excitement, whose age, experience, education and muscular strength could help him to no better thing than the bullying of a small boy. It might be a wicked feeling, — considering that the red-faced man was his own father, — but wicked or no, it existed. And so without any soft or weak emotion of regret or penitence, he replied indifferently,

  “I was tired. I wanted to be in the open air and rest.”

  “Rest!” Mr. Valliscourt’s eyes protruded, and he put his hand to his shirt-collar in evident doubt as to whether his throatful of bubbling rage might not burst that carefully-starched halter— “Rest! Good heavens, what should a lazy young animal like you want with rest! You talk as if you were an over-worked bank clerk, begging for all out-of-time holiday! You are always resting; — while Mr. Montrose was here you never did anything, — your idleness was a positive disgrace. Do you think I am going to waste my money on giving you the best tuition that can possibly be procured, to be rewarded in this ungrateful manner, — this shameful, abominable manner—”

  “Is he the best tuition?” demanded Lionel suddenly, pointing to a second personage in the room whom he had noted at once on entering, and whom he recognised to be the ‘cross between a baboon and camel’ his mother had described, — a forbidding-looking old man with a singularly long pallid face and sharply angular shoulders, who sat stiffly upright in a chair, regarding him through a pair of very round spectacles. Mr. Valliscourt stared, rendered almost speechless by the levity of the question.

  “How dare you sir! — How dare you make such an unbecoming observation!” he gasped, “What — what do you mean, sir?”

  “I only asked;” returned Lionel composedly; “You said you were throwing your money away on the best tuition, and I asked if he was the best tuition” — again pointing to the round spectacles opposite— “I didn’t say he wasn’t, — I suppose he is. But I’m afraid he’ll find me rather a trouble.”

  “I’m afraid he will indeed!” said Mr. Valliscourt with cutting severity; — then, — turning to the gaunt individual in the chair beside him, he continued— “I much regret, Professor, that you should have such an unpromising introduction to your pupil. My son, — this is my son, — has been sadly demoralised by the influence of the young man Montrose, but I trust not so completely as to be beyond your remedy.”

  Professor Cadman-Gore, the dark-lantern of learning and obscure glory of University poseurs, slowly raised his bony shoulders up to his long ears, and as slowly settled them in their place again, this being his own peculiar adaptation of the easy foreign shrug, — then, smiling a wide and joyless smile, he replied in measured monotonous accents —

  “I trust not, — I trust not.” And he readjusted his spectacles. “But I will not disguise from you, — or from myself, — that this is a bad beginning, — very bad!”

  “Why?” asked Lionel quickly,— “Why is it a bad beginning to rest when you are very tired and want it? Some people believe that even God rested on the seventh day of creation, and that’s why we keep Sunday still, in spite of its being only an idea and a fable. I’ve taken a holiday to-day, and I’m sure I shall do my lessons all the better for it. I’ve been talking to the sexton of Combmartin Church, and I’ve had dinner with him, — he’s a very nice old man, and very clever too.”

  “Clever! The sexton of Combmartin!” echoed Mr. Valliscourt with a loud fierce laugh— “Dear me! What next shall we be told, I wonder! Nice associates you pick up for yourself, sir, after all the labour and expense of your training! I might as well have kept my money!”

  “Why not begin to keep it now, father?” suggested Lionel rather wistfully, the pallor deepening on his delicate small face— “It’s no use spending it on me, — I know it isn’t. I’m tired out, — perhaps I’m ill too, — I don’t know quite what’s the matter with me, but I’m sure I’m not like other boys. I can see that for myself, and it worries me. If you’d let me rest a little, I might get better.”

  “Desire for rest,” remarked Professor Cadman-Gore with a sardonic grin, “appears to be the leading characteristic of this young gentleman’s disposition.”

  “Incorrigible idleness, you mean!” snapped out Mr. Valliscourt, “United, as I now discover, to my amazement and regret, with an insolence of temper which is new to me. I must apologise to you Professor, for my son’s extraordinary conduct on this occasion. Starvation and solitude will probably bring him to his senses in time for the morning’s studies. I may as well explain to you that I never use corporal punishment in the training of my son, — I employ the mortification of appetite as the more natural means of discipline. That, and solitary confinement seem to me the best modes of procedure for the coercion of a refractory and obstinate nature.” The Professor bowed, and linking his leathery hands together caused the knuckles to emit a sharp sound like the cracking of bad walnuts. “Lionel,” continued Mr. Valliscourt— “Come with me!”

  Lionel paused a moment, looking at his new tutor with an odd fascination.

  “Good-night, Professor!” he said at last— “To-morrow I shall ask you a great many questions.”

  “Indeed!” returned the Professor grimly— “I have no doubt I shall be able to answer them!”

  “Will you come, sir!” roared Mr. Valliscourt.

  Lionel obeyed, and foll
owed his father passively upstairs to his own little bedroom, where Mr. Valliscourt took the matches carefully away, and shut down and fastened the window. This done, he turned to the boy and said —

  “Now here you stay till to-morrow morning, — you understand? You will have time to think over your wicked disobedience of to-day, — the anxiety you have caused me, and the trouble, — the disgraceful exhibition you have made of yourself to the Professor — and I hope you will have the grace to feel sorry. And if you cry or make a row up here—”

  “Why do you talk like that, father?” queried Lionel simply— “You know well enough that I never make a row.”

  Mr. Valliscourt stopped, looking at him. For a moment he was embarrassed by the direct truth of the remark, — for he did know, — Lionel never showed any sign of petulance or fury. The boy meanwhile put a chair at the window facing the sunset, and sat down.

  “What made you run away to-day?” asked his father, after a brief pause.

  “I have told you already” — responded Lionel, somewhat wearily— “I was tired.”