Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  And Lionel listened, as it were, to that silence, till he grew restless under its spell. Springing off his bed, he lit his candle in haste, and looked nervously round him as though he half expected to see some one in the room, — then, rallying his forces, he softly opened a large cupboard that was made to appear like a part of the wall, and setting a chair within it, stood thereon, and reached his hand up to the corner of a particular shelf, where, snugly secreted in the pocket of one of his little overcoats, he kept the ‘baby sash’ his mother had given him as a parting souvenir. Taking possession of this, he got down from the chair, put it back in its place, and shut the cupboard carefully again, — then he stood still for a moment, thinking. After a little while, he unfolded and shook out the sash to its full length, and dreamily admired its pretty blue colour and the graceful design of the daisy-chain so deftly woven upon it. Re-folding it once more, he slipped it inside his vest, — then putting on his shoes by mere force of habit, he took his candlestick, — the candle in it burning steadily, — and opening his bedroom door listened breathlessly. There was not a sound in the house, — not so much as a crack of wood in the old Chippendale press that stood up, gaunt and shadowy, on the outer landing. Swiftly and noiselessly, holding the light well above his head that he might see clearly and not stumble, he sped downstairs to the school-room. The door was wide open, and as he went in and pushed it to after him, he gave a sigh of relief and satisfaction, as though he had attained at last some long-desired goal of ambition.

  There was more light in this apartment than in his bedroom; — there were no trees to shadow the window, and through its crossed lattice-panes the stars twinkled with a white brilliance not unworthy of the moon herself. Setting his candle on the table-desk at which he had worked so many weary hours and days, pondering on things that never would, and never could be of any use to any one’s practical after-life, Lionel took out paper, pen and ink, and seating himself, proceeded to write certain words with careful slowness and most business-like precision. Shaping his letters roundly and neatly, he took a great deal of pains to make his meaning unmistakably clear, and having covered one sheet of paper, he folded it in four with mathematical exactitude, addressed it, and commenced another. When this was also done, he folded it in the same way as the first, and addressed it likewise, — then he put the two missives together on the table, one beside the other, and looked at them with a kind of naïve interest and admiration. Their superscriptions were turned uppermost, and one read thus:

  ‘To my Father.

  John Valliscourt Esq. Of Valliscourt.’

  The other was more simply inscribed, —

  ‘To Professor Cadman-Gore.’

  For some minutes he studied these addresses minutely, and with something of a smile on his face.

  “It is just as if I were going to run away!” he said half aloud, “And so I am! That is exactly what I am going to do. I am going to run away!” And the smile deepened. “I remember what Willie Montrose told me— ‘rather than break down altogether you’d better show a clean pair of heels.’ And that’s just what I’m going to do. By the bye, I never sent poor Willie his Homer.”

  He rose, and turning towards the book-shelves, two of which were ranged along the opposite wall, soon found the volume and packed it neatly up in readiness for posting, addressing it in a large clear hand to ‘W. Montrose Esq. B.A. The Nest. Kilmun. Scotland.’ Then after considering awhile, he sat down again and wrote another letter, which ran as follows —

  DEAR WILLIE,

  You left your favourite copy of Homer behind when you said good-bye to me. I meant to have sent it to you before, but somehow it slipped my memory. Now, as I am going away, it might get mislaid among my father’s books, so I have left it with Professor Cadman-Gore (who is a very nice old man) all ready for him to post to you. Thank you for all your kindness to me, — I have never forgotten it, and I’m almost sure I shall never forget. You needn’t be anxious about me any more, — I’m all right.

  Your affectionate and grateful

  LIONEL.

  He put this letter in an envelope which he addressed, but left open, and wrote a slip of paper which he laid above it and the Homer volume together, giving the following in- struction, —

  DEAR PROFESSOR — Will you please post this letter and also the book, to Mr. Montrose for me. It is his copy of Homer which he left with me by mistake, and he is sure to want it.

  LIONEL.

  “That’s done!” he said, as he wiped his pen and put by the ink and paper in their respective places with his usual methodical neatness,— “It’s no use writing to mother, — if I did, she would never get the letter.”

  He went to the window, and opened it. It was a glorious night, — and as he threw back the lattice, the sweet air flowed in, laden with a thousand delicious odours from the forest and ocean. So deep was the stillness that he could barely hear the vague murmur of small waves lapping the shore now and again, though the sea was not half a mile distant. It was such a night as when the trustful and believing heart is filled like a holy chalice with the rich wine of joy and gratitude, — when the soul rises to an angel’s stature within its fleshly tenement, and sings ‘Magnificat!’ — when nature wears her most serene and noble aspect, — when it seems good to live, good to work, good to hope, good to love, — good to be even the smallest portion of the divine and splendid order of the Universe. But to the young boy who stood gazing out on the infinite majesty of the moving earth and heavens, there was no order, but mere chaos, — a black conflicting contradiction of forces, — a non-reasoning production of things that neither sought nor desired existence, and that have no sooner learned to love life than they are plunged into death and eternal nothingness. In the ‘Free-Thinker’s Catechism’ (Catechisme du Libre-Penseur), by one Edgar Monteil, — a code of ethics which has been circulated assiduously among children’s schools in France for the past ten years, — the unhappy little beings whose ideas of morality are engrafted upon this atheistical doctrine, are taught that “the passions of man are his surest and most faithful guides,” and that “God is a spectre invented by priests to frighten timid minds;” — this too, in utter and wicked oblivion of the grand truth proclaimed with such a grand simplicity— “God is Love!” “As the soul,” writes the self-deluded compiler of the ‘Free-Thinker’s Catechism,’ “no longer constitutes for us an independent and imperishable individuality, there is no future life.” And what are the results of this ‘new’ confession of faith? Too terrible and devastating to be easily gauged, though something of their danger may be gathered from the discussions of the Conseil d’Arrondissement de Nantes, the members of which declare that— “Considering that the suicides of young children and persons of tender age, (formerly almost unknown among us) have multiplied recently to such a degree as to reach the alarming extent of 443 cases in one year,” — and furthermore— “considering the deplorable increase of vice and crime among children and youths, — we take the vow,” — says the Council with almost passionate solemnity— “that in the schools of this Arronidissement, morality shall not be separated from religion, and that the teaching of duty towards GOD shall be the fundamental and necessary base of all duties which are incumbent upon man.”

  Such is the wise decision of Nantes, — but unhappily the good example is not followed throughout France in general. In almost every educational department the principles of the ‘Libre-Penseur’ are sowing the seeds of ruin to the nation, and making of the average human being a creature worse than the lowest and most untamable of ferocious beasts. And these principles, largely adopted by the Free-Thinking societies in England, are being gradually disseminated among the children of our own secular schools, — for the agents or ‘missionaries’ of Free-Thought are to the full as active in distributing their tracts and pamphlets as the most fervid Salvationist that ever tossed the ‘War-Cry’ in the faces of the public; — more stealthy in their movements, they are none the less cunning; and in our once God-fearing count
ry, many can now be found who passively accept as truth the deadening and blasphemous lie uttered in the words— “As the soul no longer constitutes an independent and imperishable individuality, there is no future life!”

  And yet, in sober earnest this ‘independent and imperishable individuality’ is more self-assertive than ever it was, — it passionately claims to be heard and acknowledged, — it clamours with all its immortal strength at the barriers of the Unknown, crying “Open! — Open! Unveil the hidden Glory which I know and feel, yet cannot speak of! Open! — that Doubt may see, and seeing, die!” For the Soul in each one of us is instinctively aware that the hidden Glory exists, — though it cannot explain in mortal speech why, whence, or how. Nevertheless the Psyche feels her lover; and through the darkness of earth’s perplexities stretches out yearning hands to grasp the actual Divine which Is, and which reveals itself to mortals in a thousand subtle tender ways of promise, warning, knowledge or sweet comfort. But our lamps of learning, ill-trimmed and dull, cannot shed light on such Eternal Splendour, — they needs must be extinguished in the greater radiance, even as sparks in a blaze of sunshine.

  Little Lionel, dimly conscious of ‘the imperishable and independent individuality’ in his own slight frame, though he could not analyse what he felt, gazed straight out on the shining planets, which, like great golden eyes, regarded him as straightly, and thought what a strange thing it was that there should be millions and millions of worlds in the sky, all created by an Atom, for Nothing! If he had been a man, grown callous and cold-hearted through the sameness of life as generally lived, he might possibly have found with Edgar Monteil, some satisfaction in the terrific satire— ‘The passions of man are his surest and most faithful guides,’ — but being only a child, he had no passions save an endless desire to know, — a desire that nothing ever written by all the atheists in the world will satisfy or restrain. A child’s first inquiries concerning spiritual and transcendent things, need noble answers evolved from purest thought, — for, as the Italian proverb has it— “The ‘why’ of a child is the key of philosophy.” Woe betide those who crush the high aspirations of innocent and hopeful youth by the deadening blow of Materialism! Worse than murderers are they, and as a greater crime than murder shall they answer for it! For truly has it been said— “Fear not them which kill the body, but fear them which kill the soul.” Killing the soul is the favourite occupation of the so-called ‘wise men’ of to-day; — spreading their pernicious influence through the press, and through current literature, they congratulate themselves when they have dragged their readers down into a slough of pessimism and atheism, and caused them to think of God as the supreme Evil, instead of the supreme Good. Yet every anti-Christian author nowadays has his or her commendatory clique, and salvo of applause from the press, and the more blasphemous, vulgar and obscene the work, the louder the huzzas. In this way, things are tending fast towards the attitude of the ‘Libre-Penseur,’ so that soon when the children ask us “Who made heaven and earth?” we shall answer flippantly according to that Catechism— “Neither the heaven, nor infinity, nor the earth has been created.”

  Question. “There is no First Cause then?”

  Answer. “No, — for all that we cannot prove scientifically has no existence.”

  And here was the boy Lionel’s difficulty. He was actively conscious of something he could not “prove scientifically,” and it was impossible for him to believe that that something ‘had no existence.’ For IT, — that undefinable vague Something, — to him meant Everything. As he stood at the open window looking at the stars, the impression of a sudden vastness, an all-sufficing Goodness and Perfection, swept over his mind, like a wave rolling in upon him from the Infinite, giving him a vague yet soothing sense of peace.

  “It is beautiful!” he murmured— “Beautiful to think that in a very little while I shall know all, — why, I may even meet Jessamine the very first thing! — who can tell! It is wrong I daresay, to want to find out so quickly, — but I couldn’t bear to go on and on every day, learning a lot of useless things, and always missing the one thing.”

  He turned suddenly and looked about him. The wan star-beams illumined one side of the room more than the other, and as he glanced up at the rough oak rafters that crossed the ceiling, he easily perceived by the mingled rays of star-light and flickering candle, one of the large iron hooks, so many of which were embedded in the old wood, and apparently struck by its position, he went and looked at it curiously. Then he got up on a chair and felt it, — it was as firm as the beam itself. He smiled dreamily, — and his thoughts flew back to beautiful Clovelly, and to the strange tourist who had been found hanged in the boat-house there. He remembered the words of the old boatman who had explained the deed as, “nothin’ easier when ye’ve got a neckercher an’ a nail.” And then, — slowly and with extreme tenderness, — he drew from under his vest his mother’s gift, the soft glistening ‘baby sash’ of daisy-sprinkled ribbon, and shaking it out, slipped one end dexterously and firmly over the nail, and arranged the other in a ‘running noose,’ — the art of making which, together with other knots of a like kind, had been taught him by Montrose in many a boating and sailing expedition. When it was fixed to his satisfaction he got off the chair, which, however, he left just where it was, immediately under the nail and dangling ribbon, and looking round once more, blew out the candle. Alone in the semi-darkness he now stood, his wistful gaze turned towards the window, through which the soft air shed fragrance and the stars flashed their luminant splendours, — and with a faint sensation of giddiness and fear upon him, he advanced a few steps towards that open square of sky, and suddenly fell on his knees. Clasping his hands he raised his pale, eager, wondering little face to the great planets that rolled in their mystic orbits far above him, — their silver rays gleamed fitfully on his fair curls and glittered in his eyes, as from an over-burdened brain and breaking heart he prayed aloud, —

  “Almighty Atom! I am going to pray to you, though I have never said any prayers, and don’t know how to pray rightly. Perhaps you can’t hear me, and wouldn’t listen if you could, — yet I can’t help thinking there is Something or Somebody somewhere, to whom I must tell just what I feel. Oh, dear Atom! — if you really know or care anything about all the worlds you have made, and the poor people living on them, you must be much more than I have been taught to believe you are, and perhaps you will be able to understand what I mean. I am coming to try and find you; — and if you should be after all not an Atom, but a God, — a good, loving God, — you will understand me still better, and I’m sure you will be sorry for me! Yes; because you will see it is not all my fault that I am so puzzled and unhappy, and that I can’t help wishing to know truly if there is not something better than this world, where we can never keep anything we love, and where everybody dies and is forgotten. Oh, if you are a God, you will pity me, — and I shall not be afraid of you! I have always wanted to believe in you as God, and if they would have let me I would have loved you! But if you are an Atom only, I cannot see why you exist at all, and I think Someone must have made even you. I must find out that Someone, — and if I have a soul, as I feel I have, and as Reuben Dale says we all have, then I shall soon discover everything I want to know. And if you are a God, — an eternal, beautiful, thinking, feeling, Spirit-Person, whose ways are all wise and loving, how glad I shall be! For then you will not let me lose myself, — you could not possibly be cruel to me, — and you will take me, like little Jessamine, straight to the world you live in, and show me where the angels are! I shall see things quite clearly, and understand what they all mean, — and if I have done any wrong in my life, I think you will forgive me, — I hope you will, — because you will know I was always taught not to believe in you.”

  His voice trembled, — he paused a moment, — then went on again softly, —

  “Just now, — though I can’t tell why, — I feel that you must be a God, really and truly, — and that the men who write books to try and prove
you have no existence, except as a figure of speech, are all wrong. Poor men! — I wonder how they will feel when they come to die! Will you forgive them for all the misery they make? Because of course there must be many others who are quite as unhappy as I am, and who when they are in trouble about anybody as I am about my mother, or when they lose their little children as poor Reuben has lost Jessamine, must think it very hard to have to suffer so much, without any reason for it, or any hope of comfort. But if they felt you were God, they would not be so miserable, — they would be like Reuben, who though he is very sad, believes you know what is best, and that you will give Jessamine back to him in a better world. So I shall pray to you now for the last time as God, — and not as Atom, — and I do ask you, dear God, to be kind to my darling mother. Perhaps when I come to you, you will show me some way of taking care of her. If I deserved, like Jessamine, to be an angel, I could always be near her and watch over her. Will you think of this, if you are a loving God, as many people say you are, and try to arrange it for me? I could never do it by myself. I don’t think one can do anything by one’s self, except die. Out there in the heavens I am looking at, there are a number of worlds ever so much larger than ours, with people on them most likely, — perhaps they are all asking you about themselves, just as I am doing. But if you are God, you can read every one’s thoughts, and you will know that it isn’t so much of myself that I’m thinking, as of everything ever made. There is such a great deal of pain and suffering everywhere, — and I couldn’t bear to see it going on always, — always, — without feeling sure of some good cause for it, and some good end of it. And these things are never explained clearly to me by my father or my tutors, — perhaps nobody can explain them; and so I think, before I make any more serious mistakes myself, it’s better to come straight to you, and ask you to clear up all the trouble for me. I am only a boy, — but I should never like to grow up a man if I could give no reason for being one. If I thought, in truest truth, that You were God, I could easily understand it all, — but I have studied so much and am so puzzled, that though I feel you are, I am not sure! So I must find out, — and there’s no other way. Oh, You, whoever You are that made all the stars and suns, and all the mountains and seas, and all the forests and birds and flowers, I am coming to You! If nothing You have created is ever lost, then You will not lose me, nor shall I lose You! I shall find You, whereever You are! This world frightens me, — but of You I am not afraid!”