“Hanged himself!” cried Lionel, horrified— “Why, how could he do that?”
“Easy enough, — nothin’ easier if ye’ve got a neckercher an’ a nail. An’ he had both. He made a loop wi’ ‘s neckercher an’ swung on to an iron hook in the roof. They’ve cut him down, but he’s stone dead,— ‘tain’t no use tryin’ to revive him. We don’t know who he is, anyway. But you go right home, little measter,— ‘tain’t the thing for you to be here, — now run along just like the good boy y’ are. It’s too rough to take y’ out sailin’ to-day.”
Lionel felt a strange sickness at his heart, as he turned away obediently, and began to climb the ascent towards the village. His vivid imagination pictured the dreadful, strange dead body found in the boat-house, — and involuntarily he paused and looked back over his shoulder out to sea. Great billows rolling in from the Atlantic were racing shorewards, crested with foam, — the long lines of snaky-white intermingled and wove themselves together, like a glittering net spread out to catch and drown poor helpless men. The impression of the universal Cruelty of things, weighed on the boy’s mind with renewed force, and at his evening meal he looked so pale and weary, that Professor Cadman-Gore, glowering anxiously at him through his round spectacles, asked him what was the matter? Lionel could not very well explain, — but at last, after some hesitation, said he thought it was the hanged man that made him feel miserable.
“What hanged man?” inquired the startled Professor.
Whereupon Lionel related all that he knew concerning the disagreeable incident, and the worthy Cadman-Gore was somewhat relieved. He had thought that perhaps his young pupil had been allowed to see the body, and was glad to learn that this was not the case.
“Oh well, hanging is a very easy death;” — he said placidly— “Quite painless and merciful. I daresay the man was some tramp who had no money, and didn’t know where to get any.”
“But isn’t that very very dreadful?” asked Lionel— “Isn’t it cruel that a poor man should not be able to find one friend in the whole world to save him from hanging himself?”
“It seems cruel;” — admitted the Professor gently, — he was always gentle with Lionel now— “But, after all, who knows! Death is not the worst evil, — we must all die, — and there are some people who wish to die before their time, and who would be very sorry if they were hindered in making the ‘happy dispatch.’ The Chinese and Japanese, as you have read in some of your books, attach no importance to the act of dying, and with them, suicide is often considered honourable. This particular man had the means of death at hand, — a neckerchief and a strong nail, — and that’s all he wanted I suppose. It was rather selfish of him though to use another man’s boat-house for the purpose, when he could have done it just as well by throwing himself into the sea.”
Lionel said no more on the subject, — nor did he make inquiries in the village respecting the ‘Unknown case of suicide,’ which was presently chronicled in all the Devon newspapers. But the incident had a considerable effect upon him, and remained a fixture in his memory, all the more pertinaciously that he was silent concerning it.
They returned at last to Combmartin, after having stayed at Clovelly nearly a fortnight. Lionel was looking, on the whole, much better for the rest and change, though his face was still thin and colourless. The sad expression of his eyes had not altered, nor had the inward sorrow of his heart for his mother’s loss abated, — but a kind of passive resignation, mingled with hope, now possessed and tranquillised him, and he had secretly determined to try and get on extra fast with his studies, and grow up quickly, so that as soon as he became a man, he might seek his mother out wherever she was, and persuade her to come back to him. Of her faults or her shame he never thought, — she was his mother, — and that was enough for him. He said something about his intention of studying hard to the Professor, as they drove along the lovely Devonshire lanes on their homeward way, — but that gentleman did not seem to take up the matter very enthusiastically.
“Certainly,” he said, “you can continue a few of your studies if you like, — but you must not resume the whole course at once. To-morrow morning for instance, you can go for a ramble just as you have been doing at Clovelly, and if you feel inclined to take a book with you, why do so by all means. But as you have been ill, we must not commence work in too much of a hurry, or we shall have the doctor coming round again.”
He produced his new smile, — the smile he had been cultivating with such success during the past twelve days, — and Lionel smiled gratefully in response. A happy thought flashed across the boy’s mind, — as he was to enjoy the freedom of a ‘ramble’ all to himself the next morning, he would go and see Jessamine Dale! How pleased she would be! — how surprised! — how her beautiful little face would dimple all over with mischievous and winsome smiles! — how her sweet blue eyes would shine and sparkle! A quiver of delight and expectancy ran through him and sent colour to his cheeks, and as the carriage rattled up the Combmartin street and turned into the familiar avenue leading up to the house he at present called home, he felt almost happy. His father had returned from London, and received him with chilly dignity.
“I am glad to see you looking so robust, Lionel,” — he said, as he touched his son’s tremblingly-offered little hand, — then turning to Professor Cadman-Gore, he added— “I trust, Professor, your patience has not been too severely tried?”
The Professor looked at him with quite a whimsical air.
“Well, to tell you the truth, Valliscourt, it hasn’t been tried at all!” he answered— “I’ve enjoyed myself very much, and that’s a fact. Clovelly’s a charming place, and the people are interesting, as being just in the transition-stage between primitive simplicity and modern cupidity. There are rather too many tourists and amateur photographers, — but one can’t have everything one’s own way in this world, — even you must have found that out occasionally.”
Mr. Valliscourt’ s smooth brow reddened slightly. He had indeed ‘found that out’ to his cost; but he had yet to discover that even so far as the Theory of Atoms went, the human atom was bound to follow the course of the Divine one, or else get into a strangely contrary path of its own, ending in darkness and disaster. For the universe is composed as a perfect harmony, — and if one note sounds a discord, it is sooner or later invariably silenced. Every instrument must be in tune to play the great Symphony well, — otherwise there is a clashing of elements, a casting out of unworthy performers, and a new beginning.
CHAPTER XIII.
NEXT day the weather was warm and sunny, — and when Lionel formally applied to his tutor for permission to go and enjoy the already promised ‘ramble,’ it was at once granted. Being a conscientious little fellow, he voluntarily suggested taking his Latin grammar with him, but the Professor did not encourage him in this idea.
“No,” he said— “As I told you yesterday, you can amuse yourself as you like this morning, — to-morrow, perhaps we will resume the lessons.”
With a bright smile and flashing eye, Lionel thanked him, and quickly putting on his cap, he hastened out of the schoolroom, down the stairs, and into the garden. He was quite light-hearted, — indeed he felt almost ashamed to be so glad. Life had not changed for him just because the sun was shining and the birds were singing, and he was going to see little Jessamine Dale! Things remained exactly as they were, — he was nothing but a lonely boy whose mother had wilfully deserted him, — had he forgotten that misery and her disgrace so soon? No, — he had not forgotten; his was a nature that could never forget; but youth is youth, and will, in its own season, have its way despite all sorrow and restraint, — and somehow on this beautiful bright morning he could not feel sad. There was something radiant and hopeful in the aspect of the very landscape, green with leafage and golden with ripe corn, — and as he swung open his father’s carriage-gate and went out along the high road towards the grey and ancient church of Combmartin, where he thought it was most likely he should find Reuben Dale,
and Jessamine also, he was quietly happy. All sorts of plans were forming in his little head, — he was beginning to like Professor Cadman-Gore, and he meant to ask him if he might not go on studying under him, at his (the Professor’s) own house for a time, before entering a public school, — that is, if he were indeed intended to enter a public school, — of which he was always doubtful. True, his father had once said ‘Winchester,’ — but whether he meant Winchester, was quite another matter. Mr. Montrose had urged sending him to a public school, and Mr. Valliscourt had curtly negatived the proposal entirely. Lionel’s own opinion was that his education would always be carried on under a series of selected tutors, in order to avoid the conventional ‘church-going’ on Sundays common to all schools, and to which his father had such a rooted and obstinate objection. And as, according to all accounts, no wiser man than Professor Cadman-Gore existed, why should he not remain with that head and front of all available knowledge? He thought his father could not possibly raise any obstacle to such a scheme;— “and then,” he reflected,— “though even the Professor can’t tell me what I want to know about the Atom, he might put me gradually in the way of finding that out for myself. I believe he really likes me a little now, — I suppose we got to know each other better at Clovelly. At any rate, for all his queer looks, he understands me more than my father does. It is very difficult for a boy to be understood by old people, I think. I’m sure a great many boys never get understood at all, and yet they have their ideas about things quite as much as grown-up persons do. How pretty the church looks with all that sunshine streaming on the old tower! — and there’s Mr. Dale! — digging a grave as usual!”
With a smile he quickened his pace to a run, and, opening the churchyard gate, went in quickly but noiselessly, meaning to take Jessamine by surprise if she were anywhere near. Treading lightly and almost on tiptoe, he came to within about an arm’s length of Reuben Dale without the latter perceiving him, and then stopped short, — struck by a sudden alarm. For Reuben’s silvery head was bent low and heavily over his work, — and from Reuben’s broad breast came great choking sobs, terrible to hear, as one by one the spadefuls of red-brown earth were thrown up on the green turf, and the significant hollow in the ground was shaped slowly in a small dark square, to the length of a little child. A mist rose before Lionel’s eyes, — a strange contraction caught his throat with a sense of suffocation, — he advanced tremblingly, his hands outstretched.
“Mr. Dale!” — he faltered, “Oh — Mr. Dale...”
Reuben looked up, — great tears were rolling down his face, — and for a moment he said nothing. The dreadful, inarticulate despair expressed in his features and attitude was harrowing to behold; — and Lionel felt as though an icy hand had suddenly clutched his heart and stilled its beating. Fear held him speechless, — he could only wait in breathless terror for something to be told, — something he could not guess at, but which instinctively he dreaded to hear. And all at once Reuben spoke, in hoarse tremulous accents —
“She sent her love t’ye my dear, — she sent her love,— ‘twos the last thing,— ‘my love to Lylie,’ — I wosn’t to forgit it, — the blessed little angel-smile she had too in sayin’ it, my Jess’mine flower!— ‘my love to Lylie’ they wos her last words, a minit ‘fore she died.”
“Died!” gasped Lionel, a horrible tremor shaking his limbs— “Died! — Jessamine?... Jessamine dead? No, no, no! It’s not possible, — it can’t be! — you know it can’t, — you’re dreaming ... it can’t be true!...”
A loud noise was in his ears like the rushing of waters, — the haze that hung before his eyes turned a dull red, — and with a sudden wild scream he sprang to Reuben like some poor little hunted, frantic animal, clinging to him, hiding his head against him, and gripping his arms convulsively.
“No — no! — not dead! Don’t say it! — not little Jessamine! Oh, you’re not — you’re not going to put her down there in the cold earth! — not little Jessamine! Oh, hold me! — I’m fright- frightened ened — I am indeed! I can’t bear it, — I can’t, I can’t! — oh Jessamine! ... she isn’t dead, — not really! — oh, do say she isn’t, — it would be too wicked — too cruel!...”
Reuben Dale, startled out of his own grief by the boy’s terrible frenzy, let his spade fall, and held the little fellow tenderly in his arms, close to his breast, and with a strong effort, strove himself to be calm, in order to soothe the younger sufferer.
“Didn’t ye hear of it, my dear?” he murmured in low, broken tones— “But no, — I forgot — ye wouldn’t hear, — ye’ve bin away a goodish bit; — I heerd as how ye’d bin ill an’ taken to Clovelly, — an’ ‘twosn’t likely any folks would tell ye of just a poor man’s trouble. I went down yon to your feyther’s house to tell ye, — for Jess’mine wos iver talkin’ of ye, whensoever the fever in her little throat would let her speak, — an’ that’s how I heerd ye were gone. ‘Twos the diphtheria the darlin’ caught, — it’s bin bad about the village, — an’ ‘twos onny a matter o’ fower days that she suffered. An’ we did all we could for the lamb, — an’ Dr. Hartley, God bless ’im, wos wi’ her day an’ night, an’ scarcely breakin’ fast, the good man that he is, — an’ I do b’lieve he’d ‘a’ laid down his own life to save ‘er, as I’d ‘a’ laid down mine. But ‘twos all no use, — she was just too sweet a blossom to be spared to the likes of us, my lad, — an’ — an’ so God took ‘er, as it’s right an’ just He should do what He wills wi’ ‘s own, — but oh, my lad, it’s powerful ‘ard on me, who am a weak an’ a selfish sinner at best, — it’s powerful ‘ard! First the mother, — then the child! — Lord, give me strength to say ‘Thy will be done,’ for my own force as a man is gone out o’ me, an’ I’m but a broken reed in a rough wind!”
His head drooped forlornly over the boy he held clasped in his arms, and who still clung nervously to him, shaking like an aspen leaf and moaning querulously, as though in physical pain. The blue sky above them was clear of all clouds, and the sun shone royally, pouring down its golden beams into the little unfinished grave, like a ray of light from some left-open gate of Paradise. Suddenly, and with a pale horror imprinted on his countenance that made it look older by a dozen years, Lionel lifted himself and turned slowly round, — his eyes were dry and feverishly bright, — his forehead puckered like that of some aged man.
“You are going to put her down there?” he whispered fearfully, pointing to the grave,— “Little Jessamine? You are going to cover up her beautiful curls and blue eyes in all that red-brown earth? How can you have the heart to do it! — oh, how can you! She used to laugh and play, — she will never laugh or play any more — you will hide her down there for ever — for ever!” and his voice rose to a wail of agony— “We shall never see her again, — never! — oh, Jessamine! — Jessamine!”
The stricken Reuben, pierced to the very soul by this wild grief in which he had the greatest share, knew of no other consolation save that which he derived from his simple and steadfast faith in God; but this supported him when otherwise he would have altogether broken down. Gently stroking the boy’s curls with one big, work-worn hand, he murmured pityingly —
“Poor lad, poor lad! She wos fond of ye, — she sent ye her love at the last, — ye must think o’ that, my dear. An’ once when the pain was better, an’ she could speak clear, she said ‘Tell Lylie I’ll see ’im soon, — long ‘fore he grows up to be a big man.’ Them wos her very words, the darlin’, but she wos a-ramblin’ like, an’ didn’t know wot she wos a-talkin’ of. She died easy, — bless the Lord for all His mercies! — night afore last she put her arms out to me an’ said ‘Dada!’ quite bright like, — that wos how she called me when she wos a babby, — then, smilin’,— ‘My love to Lylie,’ an’ just went off quiet. An’ there she lies in her little coffin, wi’ a wreath o’ jess’mine round her hair, an’ a posy o’ jess’mine in her wee hands, — ay, we ha’ pulled all the jess’mine flowers off the tree at our door to put wi’ her; — we want none o’ the
m for our sad selves, — now!”
A rising sob choked his brave utterance, — but Lionel was still dry-eyed, and now moving restlessly, withdrew from the kind embrace which had supported him. Stumbling giddily forward a step or two, he fell on his knees beside the dark little square in the ground.
“Down there!” he whispered hoarsely, peering into the very depths of the grave— “Down there! — Jessamine!”
He gave a convulsive gesture with his hands, clasping and unclasping them nervously, and prying still with an intense, passionate searching horror into the dank mould. Reuben’s touch, light and caressing as a woman’s, fell gently on his shoulder.
“Nay, my little lad!” he said, the tears in his voice shaking its deep tone to tenderest pathos— “Not down there! — don’t ye think it! Up there, my dear, up there!” and he raised his steadfast eyes to the perfect blue of the radiant heaven,— “Up there, beyond all that summer light an’ shinin’ glory, — in the lands o’ God an’ His holy angels, — that’s where Jess’mine is now! ‘With Christ, which is far better!’ Ay, my dear, far better! For it’s onny my selfish heart which grudges her to God, — it’s just me, a weak, ignorant man, wot can’t see the Lord’s meanin’ in takin’ her from me; but surely He knows best, — He must know best. An’ mebbe He has seen the darlin’ wosn’t fitted for the hard an’ thorny ways o’ life, — an’ so in very kindness has took her to Himself, an’ made of her an angel ‘fore her time. For angel she is now ye may be sure, — as innocent as ever stood afore the Great White Throne, — an’ it’s not Jess’mine I’m layin’ down here among the daisies, my lad, but just the little earthly shape of her, wot wos s’ pretty an’ light an’ gamesome like, — we couldn’t choose but love it, all of us, — but Jess’mine herself is livin’ yet, — yes, my dear, livin’ an’ lovin’ o’ me as much an’ more than ever she did, — an’ there’s naught shall come atween us now. Mother an’ child are wi’ the Lord, — an’ in a matter o’ short years I’ll meet them both again an’ know as how ‘twos for the best; though now it seems a mystery, an’ partin’s hard!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 389