Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Lionel looked up, — his face was ashen pale, — his lips were set in a thin vindictive line.

  “You believe all that!” he said, wildly— “But you are wrong, — quite wrong! It isn’t true, — it’s all silly superstition! There is no God, — no heaven! — there are no such creatures as angels! Oh, you poor poor man! — you do not know — you have never learnt! There is nothing more for us after death — nothing! — you will never see little Jessamine again, — never — never!” He rose slowly from his kneeling position on the turf, looking so old, and weird, and desperate, that Reuben recoiled from him as from something unnatural and monstrous. “You will put her down there,” — he went on,— “in her coffin, with all the jessamine flowers about her, and you will shovel the earth over her, and very soon the worms will crawl over her poor little face, and in and out her curls, and make of her what you would not look at, — what you would not touch!” — and he trembled violently as with an ague fit— “And yet you loved her! And you can talk of a God! Why, a God who would wilfully take Jessamine away from you, would be the cruellest, wickedest monster imaginable! What reason could He give — what object could there be, in first giving her to you, and then killing her and making you miserable? No, no! — there is no God; you have not read, — you have not studied things, and you do not know, — but you are all wrong! There is no God, — there is only the Atom which does not care!”

  Reuben, filled with alarm as well as grief, thought the boy raved, and endeavoured to take him again into his arms, but Lionel shrank back, and shudderingly repulsed him.

  “Poor little fellow, he’s just crazed wi’ the shock, an’ doesn’t for the moment know wot he’s sayin’,” thought the simple-hearted man, as he compassionately watched the childish figure of despair, frozen, as it seemed, into a statuesque immobility on the edge of Jessamine’s grave— “If he could onny cry a bit, ’twould do him good, surely.” And struck by a sudden idea, he said aloud— “Will ye come wi’ me, my dear, an’ see Jessamine now, as she lies asleep among her flowers?— ’twouldn’t frighten ye, — she’s just a little smilin’ angel, wi’ God’s love written on her face. Will ye come?”

  “No!” answered Lionel loudly, and almost fiercely— “I cannot! You forget — I came out this morning to see her alive, — with all her curls dancing about, and her eyes shining, — oh, I was so happy! And all the time she was dead! No, I couldn’t look at her, — I couldn’t — I should be thinking of this grave, ... and the worms, ... there is one down there just now, ... crawling — crawling, — see!” and he suddenly began to laugh deliriously, dry sobs intermingling with his laughter— “Oh! — and you — you can actually believe it is a good God that has killed Jessamine!”

  Flinging his hands up above his head, he suddenly turned away and ran, — ran furiously, out of the churchyard, and away up the road, not in the direction of his home, but up towards the deep green woods that hang like a glorious pavilion over the nestling village, giving it shade even in the most scorching heats of the summer sun. Reuben looked after him, wondering and half afraid.

  “God help the child!” he murmured— “He seems gone clean mad like, in ‘s grief! An’ it’s something more than my Jess’mine’s death that’s working in ‘s mind, poor lad, — it’s a trouble out o’ reach somewhere. An’ now I mind me he’s lost his mother by a far worse partin’ than death, — disgrace! Ah, well!” and taking up his spade he went resolutely to the resumption of his sad task, carefully smoothing and patting the earth round the interior of his little child’s grave with his own tender hands, and removing the poor worm Lionel had perceived, gently and without loathing, in the manner of one for whom all God’s creation, even the lowest portion of it, had a certain sacredness, because of the Divine Spirit moving in all, and through all. “It’s hard for a grown man like me to bear a sorrow, — an’ it’s double hard for a little lad like him. He sees nowt o’ God in ’is trouble, — onny the trouble itself. Lord help us all for the poor sinful creatures that we be! Ah Jess’mine, Jess’mine! — my little lass, — my little flower! — who’d ha’ thought God would ha’ wanted ye s’ soon!” Tears rushed to his eyes and blotted out the landscape, falling one by one into the small grave, as he dug it deeper— “But He’s a God o’ Love, an’ He winnut mind my grievin’ a bit, — He knows it’s just human-like, an’ comes from the poor broken heart o’ me that’s weak an’ ignorant, — an’ by-an’-by, when my mind clears, He’ll gi’ me grace to see ’twas for the best, — aye, for the best! Mother an’ child in heaven, an’ I alone on earth, — all the joy for them, an’ all the sorrow for me! — well, that’s right enough, — an’ surely God’ll send down both my angels to fetch me when my time comes to go. An’ that’s onny a little while to wait, my Jess’mine flower! — onny a little while!”

  He dashed away his tears with one hand, and continued digging patiently, till his melancholy work was done, — then, untying a bundle of sweet myrtle he had beside him, he completely lined the little grave with the fragrant sprays, making it look like a nest of tender green, — and placing two boards above it to protect it from the night-dews and the chance of rain, he shouldered his spade and went slowly homeward, pondering sadly on the heavy trial awaiting him next day, when all that was mortal of his darling child would be committed, with prayer and holy blessing, to the dust.

  Meanwhile, Lionel had passed a strange time of torture alone in the woods. When he ran away from the churchyard, he was hardly conscious of what he was doing, — and it was not till he found himself in a bosky grove, among thickly planted oaks and pine-trees, that he became aware of his own sentient existence once more. There was a heavy burning pain in his head, and his eyes were aching and dim. He flung himself down on the mossy turf and tried to think. Jessamine was dead! The little laughing thing with the divine blue eyes and the sweet baby smile, was lying cold and stiff in her coffin. It seemed incredible! He remembered her as he had last seen her, peeping through the tangle of her own namesake flowers, and saying in her pretty, soft plaintive voice, “Poor Lylie! I’se ‘fraid you won’t see me never no more!” And then that final farewell,— “Good-bye, Lylie! Not for long!”

  Not for long! — and now — it was good-bye for ever! A faint cry broke from the boy’s lips— “Oh, little Jessamine! Poor little Jessamine!” But no tears fell, — the fountain of those drops of healing seemed dried up beneath the scorching weight that pressed upon his brain. Jessamine! — could it be possible that there was nothing left of her, — nothing but senseless clay? All that trustful tenderness, that lovely innocence, that quaint and solemn faith of hers in Christ, and in the angels, — what was it all for? Why should such a sweet and delicate little spirit be created, only to perish?

  “It is cruel!” he said aloud, turning his pale, small, agonised face up to the network of leafy branches crossing the blue of the sky— “It is cruel to have made her, — it is cruel to have made me, — if death is the only end. It is senseless, — even wicked! If death were not all, then I could understand.” He paused, and his eyes rested on a tuft of meadow-sweet growing close beside him— “Where do you go to when you die?” he asked, addressing the flower— “Have you what some people call a soul, — a soul that takes wings and flies away, to bloom again in a more beautiful shape elsewhere? You might do this, — of course you might — and we should never know!”

  He rose to his feet and stood, musing darkly, with small hands clenched and lips set hard. “Perhaps the learned men are not so wise as they think, — it is possible they may be mistaken. The Atom they argue about, may be a God after all, — and even Christ, whom some say is a myth, and others describe as merely a good man who wished to reform the Jews, may be the Divine Being the Testament tells us of. And there may be another life after this one, and another world, where Jessamine is now. The question is, how to be quite, quite sure of it?” He walked one or two paces, — then a sudden thought flashed across him, — a thought which lit his eyes with strange brilliancy and flushed his
cheeks to a feverish red. “I know!” he whispered,— “I know the best way to discover the real secret, — I must find it out! and I will!”

  And all at once invested with a curious tranquillity of movement and demeanour, he went slowly out of the woods, and down the hill up which he had scrambled in such frenzied haste, — and looking at the ground steadfastly as he walked, he passed the church and churchyard gate, without once raising his eyes. In a few minutes he had entered his father’s domain, where he met Professor Cadman-Gore marching briskly up and down the carriage-drive.

  “Hullo!” said that gentleman— “Had a good scramble?”

  Lionel made no answer.

  The Professor eyed him narrowly.

  “Feeling ill again?” he demanded.

  Lionel forced a pale smile.

  “Not exactly ill,” — he answered— “I’ve been to the churchyard, — and — and the sexton there is digging a grave for his little girl, — his only child, who died suddenly of diphtheria while we were away at Clovelly. She was quite a baby — only six, — and — and I knew her — her name was Jessamine.”

  Professor Cadman-Gore was a little bewildered. The dull precise manner in which the boy spoke, — the way he kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and the odd frowning contraction of his brows, struck the worthy preceptor as somewhat singular. But being quite in the dark as to the Jessamine Dale episode, he took refuge in generalities.

  “You shouldn’t wander about in church-yards,” — he said testily,— “Nasty damp places ...”

  “Yes, — where we must all go at last,” — said Lionel, still smiling his stiff difficult little smile— “Down among the worms — all of us — and nothing more!”

  “Dear, dear me!” growled the Professor, beginning to feel almost angry— “I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense, Lionel, — I’ve told you of it before — it’s absolutely provoking!”

  “Why?” asked the boy— “We do die, — all of us, — don’t we?”

  “Of course we do, — but we needn’t talk about it or think about it,” — snapped out the Professor— “While we live, let us live, — that was a favourite maxim with the ancient Greeks, who enjoyed both life and learning, — and it’s a very sensible one too.”

  “Do you really think so? — really?” and Lionel looked at him with such an aged and worn puckering of his features that his tutor was quite startled— “But they were only fools after all, — they died — and their cities and wonderful colleges perished, — and what was the good of all their learning?”

  “It has come down to us!” replied the Professor, drawing himself up, and expanding his meagre chest in a sudden glow of intellectual pride— “It has formed the foundation of all literature. Isn’t that something?”

  Lionel sighed. “I suppose it is, — it all depends on how you look at it,” — he said— “But you see one would like to know where even such a thing as Literature leads to, — and where it is to end. I don’t think we can trace its actual beginning, because there have been so many civilisations which are all forgotten and buried now. For instance, the ancient Mexicans believed that the existence of the world was made up of five successive ages, and five successive suns, — there have been four suns lit and burnt out, according to them, and ours now shining is the fifth, — and last! Of course that was only their myth and idea, — but I do think everything ever discovered is in time forgotten, and has to begin all over again. It seems very stupid and useless to me, —— the constant repetition of everything for nothing!”

  The Professor glowered severely at him.

  “I think you’re tired,” — he said with affected gruffness— “You’d better go and sit quietly in the schoolroom, or lie down. It’s no use over-fatiguing yourself. And what you wanted to go to the churchyard and see a grave dug for, I can’t imagine. It’s rather a morbid taste!”

  “I didn’t go to see a grave dug,” — answered Lionel steadily,— “I went to see the little girl — who is dead. I thought she was alive, — I didn’t know — I didn’t expect ...” there was a painful throbbing in his throat, — he bit his lips hard, — anon he resumed slowly— “You know — for I’ve often told you — that I can’t see any sensible reason why there should be life, or death. Everything seems explainable but that. I am very interested in it, — but even you can’t tell me what I want to know, — and so I must try to find it out as well as I can, — by myself.”

  He lifted his cap with the usual gentle salute he always gave his tutor, and went indoors. The Professor looked after him with an uncomfortable sense of foreboding.

  “An odd boy!” he mused— “A very odd boy, — yet a thinking boy, and clever and docile. If his strength will only hold out he will be a brilliant man and a magnificent scholar, — but his health is capricious.” He walked with long strides a few paces, and suddenly stopped, a grim smile playing across his features. “It’s a singular thing, — a very singular thing, — I should never have thought it possible, — but I certainly find him a lovable boy. Positively lovable! It is ridiculous, quite ridiculous of course, that I should find him so, — but I do! Yes, — positively lovable!”

  And he laughed; — his laugh never by any means added to the beauty of his appearance, but on this occasion there was an affectionate twinkle in his filmy eye which might almost be called handsome.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  NIGHT came, calm and dewy. There was no moon, — and in the depths of the purple ether the great stars ruled supreme. Jupiter rose in all his full effulgence, a golden-helmeted leader among the planet-gods of the sky, and over the unruffled breast of the dark sea Venus hung low like a pendant jewel. Afar off, the outline of the landscape was blurred and indistinct, softening into a fine haze that presented the delicate suggestion of some possible fairyland hidden behind the last dim range of the wood-crowned hills. Through the still air floated a wandering scent of newly-stacked hay and crushed sweet-briar; an almost imperceptible touch of autumn sobered the heavy green foliage of the trees to a deeper sombreness of hue, — while over all things reigned a curious and impressive silence, as though the million whispering tongues of Nature had suddenly been checked by the command of that greater Voice which in olden time had hushed the storm with its calm ‘Peace! Be still!’ In the ‘big house,’ — for so the residence temporarily occupied by Mr. Valliscourt was styled by the villagers of Combmartin, — there was an equally solemn silence. Every one was asleep, — save Lionel. He, broad awake, sat on the edge of his little bed, with bright eyes a-stare, and brain busily at work, and every pulse and nerve in his body thrilling with excitement. Never had he looked so young as now, — a flush of colour was in his cheeks and lips, and the little smile that played across his features from time to time was, if somewhat vague, still singularly sweet, and expressive of pleasure. He had gone to bed at the usual hour, he had said ‘Good-night’ to his father, who had been reading the evening paper, and who had merely looked over the edge of it and nodded by way of response, — he had then gone to Professor Cadman-Gore who was poring over an enormous quarto volume printed in black-letter, and who answered absently— “Good-night? Yes — er — ah! Of course! Certainly, — very good indeed! You are going to bed, — exactly! — that’s right!” and so murmuring, had pressed his little hand kindly, and then had resumed his book-worm burrowings. And he had called downstairs to housemaid Lucy “Good-night!” a thing he rarely ever did; and she had replied from the kitchen depths, “Good-night, Master Lionel!” in a bright tone of surprise and pleasure agreeable to hear. And then he had reached his bedroom, — but he had not undressed, or prepared for bed at all, or laid his head down on the pillow for a moment. Clad in the navy-blue jersey suit he had worn all day, he only slipped off his shoes in order not to make any noise, and then he paced softly up and down his room thinking, thinking all the while. Such a whirl of thoughts too! Thick as snowflakes, and as dizzying to the brain, thoughts seemed to rain upon him, fire-red and flame-white, — for they took strange burning col
ours, and ran in strange grooves. He had put out his candle, — he liked the sensation of moving to and fro in the darkness, as then he could imagine things. For instance he could imagine his mother was with him, sitting just in the very chair where she had sat when she rocked him in her arms and called him her ‘baby,’ — and so strong was the delusion he excited in himself that he actually went and knelt down beside her visionary figure, and said

  “Mother! Mother darling, I love you! I shall always love you!” and then had laughed a little and shuddered, as he realised that after all it was only his fancy, — that she was gone, — gone for ever! — and that he was quite alone.

  And presently, retreating to the window, and looking out into the starlit night, he thought he could see Jessamine standing in the garden below, with a wreath of her own flowers round her hair, and her blue eyes upturned to him where he watched her, — yes! he could even hear her calling,

  “Lylie! Lylie! Come an’ play!” And he almost felt inclined to open the window and jump down to that little shadow-figure on the dark turf, — till he suddenly bethought him that it was a mistake, — Jessamine was dead, — her grave was ready, — she was going to be put down into the earth and hidden away from the sunshine, — she would never call him any more, — never! Hurrying away from the corner whence he could see her so plainly, and where it frightened him to look out at her lonely little ghost in the garden, he climbed up on his bed and sat there, swaying his feet to and fro and thinking, — still thinking. He heard his father come up the stairs with a firm and heavy tread, enter his bedroom, and shut and lock the door, — then the Professor followed, coughing loudly and shuffling his slippered feet along the landing to the apartment he occupied at the very end of the corridor, — and presently the old ‘grandfather’s clock’ in the hall below, chimed eleven. After this the great silence fell, — the silence that was so mystically suggestive of undiscoverable things.