Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  He stopped in his uneasy rambling, and struck by a sudden thought, went downstairs in search of a particular book. He looked in the drawing-room, and in his father’s study, and everywhere where books were kept, but vainly, — then, still possessed by the one idea he went along the stone passage that led to the back of the house and the servants’ offices, and called one of the housemaids who had always been rather kind to him.

  “Lucy! are you there?”

  “Yes, Master Lionel! What is it?”

  “Have you got a Testament you can lend me? I want to look at it just for a few minutes.”

  “Why certainly!” And Lucy, a bright wholesome-faced girl of about twenty came out of the kitchen, smiling— “I’ll lend you my school-prize one, Master Lionel, — I know you’ll take great care of it.”

  “That I will!” the boy assured her, whereupon she tripped away, and soon returned with a book carefully wrapped up in white tissue-paper. She unfolded this, and showed a handsome morocco-bound square volume, bearing its title in letters of gold— “New Testament.”

  “Don’t you ink it, there’s a dear!” she said— “And give it to me back when you’ve done with it.”

  Lionel nodded, and returning to the school-room, shut the door. Then, with a fluttering heart, he opened the book. What he looked for he soon found, — the story of Christ healing the lepers. Leprosy, he had been taught, was the most frightful disease known, — both hereditary and infectious, it was a deadly scourge that tortured the limbs, distorted the countenance and made of the human frame a thing inhuman and ghastly, — yet Christ never turned away in loathing from any miserable creature so afflicted. On the contrary He healed all who came to Him, and sent them on their way rejoicing, — yet on one such occasion, when ten lepers were cleansed, only one returned to give thanks to his great Benefactor. Lionel felt that there was something more in this narrative than was quite apparent in the mere reading of it, — something subtle and significant, which he could not quite grasp, though he began to reason with himself— “Is it because we are ungrateful that life is made cruel for us, — or what is it?”

  His head ached and his eyes smarted, — he closed the Testament sorrowfully, and with a deep sigh. “It’s no use to me” — he said— “Because though it’s all very beautiful, my father says it isn’t true. And in one of the books I have, the writer who is a very clever man, says it isn’t at all certain that Christ ever existed, and that it was Peter and Paul who invented Him. Oh dear me! I wish I knew what to believe, — because even in the scientific arguments no one man agrees with the other. It’s all a muddle, whichever way you turn!”

  He went downstairs again, and returned the Testament to its owner with a gentle,

  “Thank you, Lucy.”

  “Did you find what you wanted, Master Lionel?” asked the good-natured girl.

  “Not exactly!” he answered— “But it’s all right, Lucy— “here he hesitated— “Lucy, did you see a beggar-man selling roses and apples just now outside the carriage-gate? — he was all twisted on one side, and had such a dreadful face!”

  “Poor fellow!” said Lucy pityingly— “Yes, Master Lionel, — I often see him. He’s the ‘silly man’ of the village, — the children call him ‘Hoddy-Doddy.’ But he’s not a beggar, though he’s more than half-witted, — he’s a rare good heart of his own, and an idea of what’s right and honest, for he manages to make his own living and is a burden to nobody. It’s wonderful how he manages it, — I suppose God looks after him, for no one else does.”

  “God looks after him!” This gave Lionel new subject-matter for reflection, and he returned to the school-room, slowly and thoughtfully. His dinner was brought up to him there, and afterwards he set himself to work at his lessons assiduously. Hot head and trembling hands did not deter him from application, — and he worked on so steadily that he never knew how time went, till a sudden sick giddiness seized him, and he was obliged to get up and go out in the garden for fresh air lest he should faint. He found then that it was four o’clock, and remembering that he had asked Jessamine to come back to the ‘‘ole in th’ ‘edge’ at that hour, he went to the appointed spot, and waited there patiently till nearly five. But the little maiden did not appear, — and he was quite down-hearted and weary with disappointment, as well as with overwork, when at last he went in to his tea. Lucy had prepared that meal for him, and she stood looking at him somewhat compassionately as he listlessly threw off his cap and approached the table.

  “I should get to bed early if I were you, Master Lionel;” — she said kindly— “You look quite tired and wore out, that you do.”

  “I want to wait up till mother comes home;” — he answered.

  Lucy fidgeted about, and seemed uneasy in her mind at this.

  “Oh, I think you’d better not,” she observed; “Your pa’d be very angry if you did. You know you’re always to be in bed by nine, and your ma said she couldn’t possibly get back before eleven. You go to bed like a good boy, or you’ll get us all into trouble.”

  “Very well!” he said, with an indifferent air— “I don’t mind! after all, it isn’t as if she cared, you know. If she cared— “here quite suddenly his lip began to tremble, and to his own amazement and indignation, he burst out crying.

  The warm-hearted Lucy had her arms round him in a minute.

  “Why, what’s the matter, dear?” she asked caressingly, drawing the sobbing boy to her good womanly breast— “Lor’ sakes! — how you’re trembling! There, there! don’t cry, don’t cry! you’re tired; — that’s what it is. Poor little fellow! — you’ve got too many lessons to learn, and too little play. I’m real sorry, that I am, that Mr. Montrose has gone away.”

  “So am I;” — murmured Lionel, very much ashamed of his own emotion, though he was chld enough to feel a certain pleasure and comfort in having Lucy’s kind arm round him— “I liked Mr. Montrose.” Here he choked back his tears, and fingered Lucy’s brooch, which was a brilliant masterpiece of the village silversmith’s skill, being a heart with a long dagger run through it, the said dagger having the name ‘Lucy’ engraved on its harmless point. “Who gave you that, Lucy?”

  “My young man,” — replied Lucy with a giggle; “I’m the dagger, and I’m supposed to have run right through his heart, — don’t you see? Isn’t it funny?”

  “Very funny!” agreed Lionel, beginning to smile faintly.

  Lucy giggled afresh.

  “That’s what I said when he gave it to me, — but he was very cross and told me it wasn’t funny at all, — it was poetry. You’re feeling better now, aren’t you, dear?”

  “Oh yes!” and Lionel dried his eyes on her apron— “Don’t you mind me, Lucy. I’m only a little tired, as you say. I’ll have my tea now.”

  He sat down to table and made such a brave show of being hungry, that Lucy soon withdrew, quite satisfied. But when she had gone he ceased eating, and went to his old seat in the window, there to dream and muse. He tried conscientiously, before the evening closed in, to study some more of the ‘subjects’ Professor Cadman-Gore had left for his consideration, but he could not, — his head swam directly he bent over a printed page, so he gave up the attempt in despair. He watched the sun sink, and the stars come out, and then went willingly enough to bed. Before he shut his little bedroom-window he heard an owl hoot among the neighbouring woods, and thought what a pitiful cry it uttered.

  “Perhaps it is like me, wondering why it was ever made!” he said to himself— “And perhaps it thinks the Atom as cruel as I do!”

  CHAPTER IX.

  TIRED out as he was, sleep came reluctantly to Lionel’s eyes that night. There was an odd quick palpitation behind his brows, which teased him for a long time and would not let him rest, — it seemed to him like a little mill for ever turning and grinding out portions of facts which he had recently committed to memory, — bits of history, bits of grammar, bits of Euclid, bits of Latin, bits of Greek, — till he began to wonder how all the bits would piece
themselves together and make a comprehensive ground-work for further instruction. By-and-by he found himself considering how very stupid it was of Richard Cœur de Lion to make so much fuss over the Holy Sepulchre, when now there were so many clever men alive who were all agreed that Christ was a myth, and that there never was any Holy Sepulchre at all! What a very dense king was Richard! — what a brave dunce! — with his perpetual oath “Par le Splendeur de Dieu!” While all the time, if he had only known it, the Atom was just a mechanical twisty thing with no ‘Splendeur de Dieu’ about it! And oh, what a wicked waste of life there had been! — what terrific martyrdoms for the ‘Faith’! — merely to end in an age which was scientifically prepared to deny and utterly condemn all spiritual and supernatural beliefs whatsoever! Gradually and by gentle degrees, Cœur de Lion and the ‘Splendeur de Dieu,’ and the Atom, and Jessamine Dale, with bits of facts, and bits of Professor Cadman-Gore’s unhandsome features curiously joined on to the dreadful physiognomy of the ‘silly man’ of the village, got jumbled all together in inextricable confusion, and the little tiresome mill in his head turned slower and slower, and presently ceased to grind, — and he fell into a profound slumber, — the deep, stirless trance of utter exhaustion. So dead asleep was he that a voice calling “Lylie! Lylie!” only reached his consciousness at last as though it were a faint far-off sound in a dream, — and not till the call had been repeated many times did he start up, rubbing his heavy eyelids, and gazing in speechless alarm at a mysterious cloaked figure bending over his bed. The room was dark save for the moonlight that struck one wide slanting beam across the floor, and he could not for a moment imagine what strange and spectral visitant thus roused him from his rest. But before he had time to think, the figure’s arms were round him, and its voice murmured tenderly,

  “Lylie? Have I frightened you? Poor boy! — poor baby! Don’t you know me?”

  “Mother!” And in his sudden surprise and joy he sprang up half out of bed to return her embrace. “How good of you to come and see me! — and you haven’t even taken your hat and cloak off! Did Lucy tell you I wanted to wait up for you?”

  “No, — Lucy didn’t tell me,” answered Mrs. Valliscourt, drawing him more closely to her breast; “Poor child, how thin you are! Such a little bag o’ bones! You mustn’t catch cold, — curl yourself under my cloak, so! There! Now Lylie, I want you to be very quiet, and listen to me attentively, will you?”

  “Yes, mother!”

  Cuddled under the warm cloak, with her arms round him, Lionel was in a state of perfect happiness, — this unexpected nocturnal visit seemed too good to be true. He was secretly astonished, but entirely glad, — he had never dreamed of the possibility of so much consolation and delight.

  “You feel so small!” said his mother then with a tremulous laugh— “In your little nightgown you seem just a mere bundle of a baby, — the very same sort of bundle I used to carry about and be so proud of. You were a baby once, you know!”

  Lionel nestled closer and kissed her soft hand.

  “Yes mother, I suppose I was!”

  “Well, now Lylie,” she went on, speaking rapidly and in low tones,— “You must try and understand all I say to you. I am going away dear, — for a time ... on a visit .... with a friend who wishes to make me happy. I’m not very happy just at present, .. neither are you I daresay, .. you see your father is exceptionally clever and good” — and her voice here rang with a delicate inflection of mockery— “and — very naturally, — he does not care much for people who are not equally clever and good, — so it makes it difficult to get on with him sometimes. He does not like me to sing and dance and amuse myself any more than he likes you to play games with other boys. You are too young to go about by yourself and have a good time, yet, — but by-and-by you will grow up, and you will know what a good time means. You will find out that when people get very very dull, and are almost ready to kill themselves for dulness, their doctors advise them to have a change of scenery, and a change of society. That’s what I want. Good people like your father, never want a change, — I’m not good, and I do!”

  Lionel began to feel pained and perplexed.

  “You are good, mother!” he said with emphasis.

  “No, darling I’m not;” — she answered quickly— “And that is just what I want to impress upon you. I’m not good; — I’m a bad, selfish, cold-hearted woman. I don’t love anybody — not even you!”

  “Oh, mother!” The little cry was piteous, like that of a wounded bird.

  She stooped and gathered him up suddenly in her arms, lifting him completely out of bed, — and holding him thus with an almost passionate tenderness, rocked him to and fro as if he were the merest infant.

  “No!” she said, a mingled scorn and sweetness thrilling in her voice— “No, — I don’t love my baby at all, — I never did! I never had any heart, Lylie, — never! I never rocked you in my arms like this all day, and kissed your dear little rosy feet and hands, and sang you to sleep with all the funny little nonsense songs I knew! No, my pet! I never loved you, — I never did, — I never shall!”

  And bending down, she kissed him again and again with a burning force and fervour that frightened him. He dared not move, she clasped him so convulsively, — and he dared not speak, for as the moonbeams glittered on her face he saw that she was deadly pale, and that her eyes looked wild; — he feared she was ill, — an instinctive feeling that something terrible was about to happen made his heart beat fast, and he trembled violently.

  “Are you cold, dear?” she murmured, sitting down in a chair by the bed, and still holding him jealously in her embrace,— “There!” and she drew the ample folds of her fur-lined cloak more snugly around him with all the cosseting fondness of an adoring mother— “That’s cosier, isn’t it, little one? Now, let me finish my talk. You know, Lylie dear, when you were a baby, I used to have you all to myself, and that made a great difference to me — I was quite happy then. I used to plan such pretty things for you, — I had so many hopes too — oh, so many! I was only a girl when you came to me, and girls often have pretty fancies. And you were such a darling baby, — so plump, and round, and rosy — and merry! — oh, so merry! And I was very proud of you, and very jealous too, — I used to nurse you and dress you all myself, because I could not bear the idea of any common paid woman taking care of you. And when you began to speak, I did not want you to be taught lessons, — I wanted you to play all day and grow big and strong, — just as I often wanted to dance and sing myself. But your father made up his mind that you were to be a very clever man, and he had you taught all sorts of things as soon as you could spell. And so gradually I lost my baby. And I never cared — afterwards. I cared a good deal at first, because I saw you were getting thin and pale and tired-looking; — but it was no use — so I gave up caring. I don’t care now, — because you see you are growing quite a man, Lylie, though you are not eleven yet, — poor little man! — and you won’t want me at all. I am only in your way, and I am always vexing your father and making trouble by giving my opinions about you and your studies. That is one of the reasons why I am going on this — this visit, — just to enjoy myself a little. If it hadn’t been for you, I shouldn’t have come back here to-night, — but I couldn’t go without bidding my boy good-bye, — I couldn’t!”

  She said this wildly, — great tears filled her eyes and dropped heavily one by one among Lionel’s curls. He sat up in her arms, his little bare feet dangling down from her knee, and put one hand coaxingly against her cheek.

  “Are you really going to-night, mother? So late?” he asked plaintively— “Must you go?”

  She looked straight at him and smiled through her tears.

  “Yes, I must! I want a good time for once in my life, Lylie, — and I’m going to have it! I’m like you, — I want a long holiday — no lessons, and no tutors!”

  A sense of impending desolation filled his soul.

  “Oh mother, I wish you’d take me with you!” he said— “I do love
you so much!”

  What strange expression was that which darkened her beautiful face? Was it guilt, shame or despair? — or all three in one foreboding shadow?

  “You love me so much? Poor boy, do you? It is strange, — for I’ve given you little cause to love me. You mustn’t do it, Lylie! — it’s a mistake! — and — to-morrow your father will tell you why.”

  She was silent a minute, — then, glancing at the little feet that gleamed in the moonbeams, frail and white against her dark draperies, she took them both in her hand and kissed them.

  “Poor, cold little tootsies!” she said laughing nervously, though the tears still glistened on her cheeks— “I mustn’t keep you too long out of bed. See here, Lylie,” — and she drew a small soft parcel from her pocket— “I want you to keep this in some safe place for me — till — till I come back — it is the only remembrance I have of my baby — when you were a baby. I was a very proud little mamma, as I have told you, — and no sash in any of the London shops seemed good enough, or pretty enough for my boy. So I had this one specially woven on one of the French looms after my own design, for you to wear with your little white frocks. It is blue silk, and the pattern on it is a daisy chain. Don’t let your father see it, but keep it for me till I return and ask you for it. I don’t feel like taking it with me — where I am going. See, — I’ll put it under your pillow, and you must hide it somewhere in the morning — will you?”

  “Yes, mother. But — but will you be long away?”

  He asked this timidly, bewildered and frightened by he knew not what.

  “I don’t know, darling;” — she answered evasively— “It all depends! Your father will give you all the news of me! And he will be sure to tell you that you mustn’t love me, Lylie! — do you hear that? You mustn’t love me!”