Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  His half-whispered words thrilled the silence with strange passion; — then they seemed to be carried away, as it were, out and up into the lofty vastness of the heavens, — and when he ceased, the great hush of the night deepened. Still on his knees, with hands upraised and clasped, and eyes fixed on the glittering stars, he thought and smiled, and smiled and thought, another minute’s space.

  “Shall I say anything else?” he mused— “Yes! — I will say just what little Jessamine would say, if she were here.”

  And the dawning angel-smile rested on his lips and transfigured his small, pale features, as he repeated clearly, steadily and sweetly,— “Gentle Jesus, meek and mild Look upon a little child, Pity my simplicitie And suffer me to come to Thee.”

  Then, — with one more look at the starlit sky and the solemn beauty of the sleeping world, — he rose quickly from his kneeling attitude, and crept stealthily across the room to the spot where the ‘baby sash’ hung from the firm iron hook in the oak rafter, dangling its smooth silky length over the chair in position below. Pausing here, he stared fixedly upward, and hesitated a moment, — then went to the door which was slightly ajar, and with careful noiselessness, shut it fast, locked and bolted it. Safe now from any chance of interruption, and all alone except for the unseen ‘cloud of witnesses’ encompassing us all, this mere child, nerved to sternest resolution, calmly confronted the vast Infinite, and went forth on his voyage of discovery to find the God denied him by the cruelty and arrogance of man! And not another sound disturbed the quietude of the house, save the quick, dull ‘thud’ of a chair overturned and thrown down. After that came a heavy stillness, ... and a sudden sense of cold in the air, as of the swift passing of the Shadow of Death.

  CHAPTER XV.

  A GOLDEN morning dawned, — one of those mornings peculiar to late August and early September, when something of the colour of ripe harvest seems transfused into the light, imparting a deeper warmth and mellowness to the atmosphere and a richer bloom to the landscape. The sweep of the gardener’s scythe mowing the dewy grass, hissed through the air, every stroke sending aloft whiffs of delicate fragrance, — the hum of bees and the twittering of birds mingled with faint echoes of laughter from the men and women who, in the neighbouring fields, were busy tossing the hay, — and a sweet light wind blew in from the sea bringing health and freshness on its wings. And when Mr. Valliscourt went down to breakfast, he was so far sensible of the invigorating influences of such a morning, that he set the hall-door wide open in order that the house should obtain the full advantage of the tonic contained in the revivifying breeze, which he himself inhaled approvingly as though he were for once tolerably satisfied with the general arrangements of nature. Refreshed, he turned towards the breakfast-room, where, on the threshold, he was confronted by housemaid Lucy, who, trembling, and with tears in her eyes, nervously faltered out that “Master Lionel’s bedroom was empty, — that his bed had not been slept in,” — and “that the school-room door was locked.” And— “Oh sir!” she continued, beginning to sob outright,— “I’m afraid something has happened to the dear, — I am really sir! — you see he hasn’t been well—”

  “Who hasn’t been well? What’s the matter?” demanded Professor Cadman-Gore, suddenly appearing on the scene.

  Mr. Valliscourt turned to him.

  “It appears that Lionel is not in his bedroom,” — he said, his hard features growing livid, and his mouth contracting at the corners,— “and the housemaid here, says he has not slept in his bed at all. I suppose,” — and his eyes narrowed like those of a snake, and flashed with a furtive gleam of rage— “I suppose he has followed his mother’s example and run away.”

  And the words of his wife’s parting letter,— “My spirit is in the boy’s blood, — already he rebels, — sooner or later he will escape you!” — recurred to him as he spoke, working within his mind a paroxysm of silent fury that for the moment gave him the expression of a fiend.

  “Nonsense!” retorted the Professor sharply. “He’s not the kind of boy to run away, — he’s too sensible and tractable. Perhaps he was restless and couldn’t sleep, — perhaps he’s gone out, — it’s a fine day, and there’s nothing astonishing in his taking a ramble before breakfast.”

  “The school-room door is locked, this girl tells me,” — continued Mr. Valliscourt, knitting his dark brows into a frown, — then abruptly addressing the frightened Lucy, he asked,— “On the inside or outside? Is the key gone?”

  “No sir, the key’s in the lock, and the door’s fastened on the inside. That’s what’s so strange, sir! I’ve knocked and called, but it’s no use, — and suppose Master Lionel should have had a bad faint in there all by himself! — oh dear, it would be dreadful!” and her tears flowed unrestrainedly.

  “Here, get out of the way!” growled the Professor with sudden irritation— “Let me go and see what’s the meaning of all this. I know that door, — the lock is ricketty and the bolt is loose, — give me a hammer or anything weighty, — I’ll soon force it open.”

  He strode along the corridor, Mr. Valliscourt following him. Lucy ran for the garden hammer, and soon returned with it, accompanied by the gardener bringing other useful forcing tools.

  “Lionel!” called the Professor.

  There was no answer, — only a bird’s sweet song that came floating upwards from the garden through the open hall-door. Smitten with a sudden vague sense of horror which he could not define, Professor Cadman-Gore looked round at Mr. Valliscourt.

  “Hadn’t you better go away, Valliscourt?” he said in a low tone,— “In case anything has happened to the boy—”

  Mr. Valliscourt stood immovable. His face was pale, but he forced a smile.

  “There’s no occasion for any alarm,” — he answered— “It’s a mere trick, — a runaway plot. He is the son of his mother, and I daresay is not deficient in cunning. He has no doubt locked the door on the inside to mislead us, and has escaped through the window. Nothing more likely!”

  The Professor made no reply, but with the aid of the gardener, set to work forcing the lock. It was, as he had said, an old lock, and was soon pushed back, while with the strong impetus applied, the bolt likewise gave way, and the door burst open. Then ... a loud scream from Lucy ... and ...

  “My God! My God!” cried the Professor, wildly invoking the Deity whose existence he denied— “Valliscourt — go — go! Don’t look, — don’t look! The boy has killed himself!”

  But Mr. Valliscourt pushed past him into the room, and there stood, ... rigid and dumb, ... staring, ... staring upward, at a strange and awful thing, — a piteous sight to make God’s angels weep, ... a child-suicide! A child’s dead body swinging heavily from the oaken rafters, — a child, hung by a length of soft blue sash-ribbon, which though shining with tender hues in the morning sunlight, and daintily patterned with an innocent daisy-chain, yet held the little throat fast in an inexorable death-grip! Was that child his son? His son? — for whose future he had planned many a proud scheme of worldly ambition? — and on whose behalf he had resolved to exert all the tyrannical and petty despotism of which an arrogant father is capable, in order to force his intellect on in advance of his age, and make of him a prodigy, not for the boy’s sake, but for his own self-glorification? His son? That small dead thing hanging there! ... And his wife’s voice seemed to whisper in his ears— “My spirit is in the boy’s blood, — sooner or later he will escape you!” ... It was true, — he had escaped!

  As in a dull dream he heard Lucy’s hysterical sobbing, — unmoved himself, he watched the Professor and the gardener between them unloose the silken sash of self-execution, take tender hold of the little corpse, and lay it gently down on the ground, — then, with great blinding tears in his old eyes, the Professor felt the young heart that had long ceased to beat, and held a small mirror to the cold, closed lips to see if the faintest breath clouded its surface. In vain, — in vain! Lionel’s ‘happy dispatch’ had been made with a sureness and a resolut
ion worthy of the most antique Roman, — he had plunged into the Great Mystery, and for him there was no recall!

  “My God!” groaned the Professor again in utter despair,— “That it should have come to this! Poor little fellow! Poor little fellow!”

  Then Mr. Valliscourt spoke, — stiffly, and enunciating his words with difficulty.

  “Is he — quite — dead?”

  “Quite! It’s horrible! — it’s sickening! Lucy, don’t cry so much, there’s a good young woman, — you unnerve me, — just help me to lay him here, — yes — on this sofa, — there, that will do. God! what an appalling tragedy! A mere child! — to think of it! It is hideous — monstrous! ... Valliscourt, I am grieved to the heart for you, — he was a noble little fellow...”

  Here the Professor was fain to turn away and hide his face, — while Lucy, weeping bitterly, bent over the little corpse, smoothed the fair curls, and folded the small hands cross-wise on the breast, sobbing more than ever as she noticed the grave peace of the closed eyelids, the sweet smile on the lips, and the solemn air of infinite knowledge that hallowed and tranquillised the fine, waxen-white features of the dead boy.

  “Temporary insanity, of course,” — said Mr. Valliscourt presently, speaking in a strange dull monotone,— “It occasionally breaks out, — even in children.”

  He paused. All this time he had not moved a step nearer to the corpse, — he had an instinctive horror of it. He found himself wishing that it could be carried out of the house at once and covered up, so that he might never see it again, for then he thought it would be easier to summon up the principles of his materialistic philosophy and discuss this — this unfortunate incident — calmly. But with that small, frozen, patient image of death confronting him, he felt cold, and at the same time wrathful, — why was it, how was it, that his will was always thwarted, and his plans interfered with? His will! God’s will concerned him not at all!

  “There are two letters here,” — he said suddenly, calling Professor Cadman-Gore’s attention to the carefully folded and neatly addressed papers on the desk,— “One for you, — and — and one for me.”

  He hesitated, — and stole a furtive glance at his dead son, as he opened the missive addressed to himself. Would the boy accuse him of having driven him to suicide by overwork and worry? ... There were no reproaches of the kind contained in the letter, — it was very simple, and ran thus —

  MY DEAR FATHER,

  I have often heard you say that when one is dead and done for, it doesn’t matter what becomes of one’s body, whether it is buried, or burnt, or thrown into the sea, — so now that I am dead, I hope you will please have my body buried in Combmartin churchyard. The sexton there, Mr. Reuben Dale, digs graves very well, and I want him to dig mine by the side of the one he has made for his little girl, Jessamine. I played with Jessamine one day, and liked her very much. Now she is dead, and so am I, — and it can’t make any difference to you that I am buried beside her, because dead people are of no account anyway. They are soon forgotten, and you’ll soon forget me. I couldn’t go on living, — I was so tired. I should like the ribbon you will find round my neck buried with me, please, — and if you could ever possibly do it, I should be glad if you would give my mother my love.

  Your son

  LIONEL VALLISCOURT.

  Meanwhile the Professor, with much coughing and wiping of his spectacles, perused his own letter, which was a good deal longer than the above, and which was written by the little dead lad in such a strain of gentle and appealing confidence as touched the book-worn scholar to the quick, and made havoc of all his learned and logical equanimity.

  DEAR PROFESSOR,

  I am very much obliged to you for getting to be so kind to me, because I know you didn’t like me at first, — and I hope you won’t think very badly of me because I have given up the idea of trying to live. You see I should have to study very hard for years and years, before I could be at all as clever as you would want me to be, — and I feel it wouldn’t be any use to go on learning and learning, unless I knew what it was all for. It would seem to me only a waste of time. Because of course the principal thing one wants to know is about the Atom, — or God, — and even you can’t explain this. If it were explained, then there would be some reason for trying to be wise and good, but without an explanation, I don’t see that anything matters really, — one may just as well be stupid as clever. All this has been very much on my mind, — and when I found my mother had gone away, and then that little Jessamine Dale whom I left quite well, had died while we were at Clovelly, everything seemed so strange and cruel, that I made up my mind to find out for myself what reason God, — or the Atom, — has to give for makirig people so miserable. I believe, you know, that it’s not an Atom really, but God, — and I shall ask Him all about things as soon as I find Him. I shouldn’t be surprised if I found Him to-night, — He seems quite near to me even now. You will always remember our pleasant days at Clovelly, won’t you? — and how you told me about Psyche and Eros. I think that was a very beautiful story. I’ve been trying, as Psyche did, to see with my little light, — but I’ve got it into my head that if I put out my lamp altogether I shall see much better. God must be far too splendid to need any lamps to look at Him. You know, dear Professor, in all the learned books I have been studying with you, how each person contradicts the other, and how difficult it is to make out what they all mean. One says one thing, — and then another man declares the first man to be all wrong. So it is just like what you once said about the waste of time it was to read the newspapers, because on one morning you get a piece of news by telegram and you think it is true, and the next day it is contradicted and proved to be a false report. One might go on for ever bothering one’s self, and getting puzzled in this silly way, and never be any nearer to the real Cause of it all, — the God I am going to. I do indeed think it is God, — and I hope you will consider everything carefully over again before you quite make up your mind it is an Atom. You see, you are not quite sure; — and you know, if it is God, and He lives in a great and splendid world of His own, and we have souls which all fly to Him like angels when we die, I might meet you again, and I should be very glad of that. I didn’t like you at first, any more than you liked me, but I grew quite fond of you at Clovelly, and I was going to ask my father to let me go and live with you while I went on studying, — but when I found poor little Jessamine dead, somehow everything changed. I told you she was quite a baby-girl, and I only saw her twice, — but I liked her very much, and I couldn’t understand why such a dear little thing should have to die. And so I determined I would find out, — and I shall find it out, I’m sure. Good-bye, now. I think it would be better for boys like me if you could teach them that the First Cause was God, and that He loved everybody, and meant to explain the universe to us some day, — things would be so much easier for us, and life would be so much happier. Of course you will have to think it out again, before you decide, you being so clever, — but please, for my sake, do consider it whenever you have another boy to teach.

  Thanking you for all your kindness, I am,

  Your grateful pupil

  LIONEL VALLISCOURT.

  This, — and the slip which confided Montrose’s copy of Homer and the letter accompanying it to his care, was the Professor’s ‘legacy,’ — and to his honour be it said, that he was not ashamed of the tears that fell down his furrowed cheeks, as he read the quaint confession of a thinking child’s mind — bewilderment so plaintively expressed. Wiping his eyes undisguisedly with his large yellow silk handkerchief, he turned and looked at Mr. Valliscourt, who during the past few minutes had stood stiffly erect with folded arms, staring hard at his dead son. Becoming conscious now of the Professor’s compassionate gaze, he moved restlessly, — then spoke in slowly measured tones —

  “It is very curious, is it not, how resemblances come out in death!” he said— “This boy has nothing of me in his looks, — he is the image of his mother. She was always erratic, —
he, by natural sequence, has proved himself insane. She revelled in common things, — music-hall songs and dances and the like, — he, in his last words can find nothing better to ask of me than to be buried by a common village child, with whom it appears he associated during one day’s truancy from home, — the daughter of the sexton here. Of course I shall pay no attention to such a foolish request; he must be buried at Valliscourt, as is customary with all the members of my family.”

  Whereupon Professor Cadman-Gore suddenly gave way to an unexpected outburst of passionate indignation.

  “By Heaven, Valliscourt, you have no more heart than a stone!” he cried— “Can you, in the very presence of your dead child, self-slain, refuse, or think of refusing his poor little last wish? What matter is it to you where or how he is buried? In life he has never asked a single favour at your hands, — he has obeyed you in your most trifling caprices, — he has worked himself to death to please you, and even I, — I who have promoted, more than any one in England, the severe training and discipline of boys, have hesitated to carry out all your injunctions with regard to his education, considering them too despotic for a lad so sensitively organised. The doctor here, — Dr. Hartley, — privately assured me before we went to Clovelly, that the boy was being killed by over-work, and warned me to be careful of him. I was careful of him, — and he was better for complete change and rest, — but he was still in a doubtful condition of health, and the sudden shock of hearing of the death of a little child whom he had left alive and well, was evidently too much for the delicate balance of his brain. His end, — his horrible and unnatural end, — is due to over-pressure, — of that I am convinced. But his last wishes shall be fulfilled, or else,” — here the Professor advanced a step or two, looking singularly ugly and impressive at the same moment, while he managed to impart to his voice a very disagreeable hissing quality,— “or else, — well, you know me! — and you know I can write with some eloquence, when I choose! Moreover people are in the habit of listening to what I say. And I will tell the whole story of this distinctly murdered boy, — murdered by over-cramming, — to the newspapers; for it is a case of over-cramming in which you have had by far the greatest and the cruellest share. There’s not a tutor alive who would not have pitied such a child as he was! — left to his own thoughts, without sympathy from either father or mother, and deprived of youthful companionship, — I pitied him from my soul, and meant to give him all the relaxation possible. Mind! — when I say I will make the whole story public, I mean it! — I will cloud your name with reproach and opprobrium, and furnish an excellent reason to society for your wife’s desertion of you!”