Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  “What have you got there, Lionel?” he asked.

  The boy turned round and faced him.

  “Thousands of little people!” he answered, with a smile,— “All in pretty little houses of their own too, — look!”and he held up his dripping trophy,— “It’s quite a city, isn’t it? — and I shouldn’t wonder if the inhabitants thought almost as much of themselves as we do.” His eyes darkened, and the smile on his young face vanished. “What do you think about it, Mr. Montrose? I don’t see that we are a bit more valuable in the universe than these little shell-people.”

  Montrose made no immediate reply. He pulled out a big silver watch and glanced at it.

  “Tea-time!” he announced abruptly— “Put the shell-people back in their own native element, my boy, and don’t ask me any conundrums just now, please! Take an oar!”

  With a flush of pleasure, Lionel obeyed, — first dropping the seaweed carefully into a frothy billow that just then shouldered itself up caressingly against the boat, and watching it float away. Then he pulled at the oar manfully enough with his weak little arms, — while Montrose, controlling his own strength that it might not overbalance that of the child, noted his exertions with a grave and somewhat pitying air. The tide was flowing in, and the boat went swiftly with it, — the healthful exercise sent colour into Lionel’s pale cheeks and lustre into his deep-set eyes, so that when they finally ran their little craft ashore and sprang out of it, the boy looked as nature meant all boys to look, bright and happy-hearted, and the sad little furrow on his forehead, so indicative of painful thought and study, was scarcely perceptible. Glancing first up at the darkening skies, then at his own clothes sprinkled with salt spray, he laughed joyously as he said,

  “I’m afraid we shall catch it when we get home, Mr. Montrose!”

  “I shall, — you won’t;” returned Montrose imperturbably, “But, — as it’s my last evening, — it doesn’t matter.”

  All the mirth faded from Lionel’s face, and he uttered a faint cry of wonder and distress.

  “Your last evening? — oh no! — surely not! You don’t, — you can’t mean it!” he faltered nervously.

  Willie Montrose’s honest blue eyes softened with a great tenderness and compassion.

  “Come along, laddie, and have your tea!” he said kindly, his tongue lapsing somewhat into his own soft Highland accentuation; “Come along and I’ll tell you all about it. Life is like being out on the sea yonder, — a body must take the rough with the smooth, and just make the best of it. One mustn’t mind a few troubles now and then, — and — and — partings and the like; you’ve often heard that the best of friends must part, haven’t you? There now, don’t look so downcast! — come along to Miss Payne’s cottage, where we can get the best cream in all Devonshire, and we’ll have a jolly spread and a talk out, shall we?”

  But Lionel stood mute, — the colour left his cheeks, and his little mouth once more became set and stern.

  “I know!” he said at last slowly, “I know exactly what you have to tell me, Mr. Montrose! My father is sending you away. I am not surprised; oh no! I thought it would happen soon. You see you have been too kind, — too easy with me, — that’s what it is. No, — I’m not going to cry” — here he choked back a little rising sob bravely,— “you mustn’t think that, — I am glad you are going away for your own sake, but I’m sorry for myself, — very sorry! I’m always feeling sorry for myself, — isn’t it cowardly? Marcus Aurelius says the worst form of cowardice is self-pity.”

  “Oh, hang Marcus Aurelius!” burst out Montrose.

  Lionel smiled, — a dreary little cynical smile.

  “Shall we go and have our tea?” he suggested quietly— “I’m ready.”

  And they walked slowly up from the shore together, — the young man with a light yet leisurely tread, the child with wearily dragging feet that seemed scarcely able to support his body. Painful thoughts and forebodings kept them silent, and they exchanged not a word even when a sudden red and golden after-glow flashed across the sea as the very last salutation of the vanished sun, — indeed they scarcely saw the fiery splendour that would, at a happier moment, have been a perfect feast of beauty to their eyes. Turning away from the principal street of the village they bent their steps towards a small thatched cottage, overgrown from porch to roof with climbing roses, fuchsias and jessamine, where an unobtrusive signboard might be just discerned framed in a wreath of brilliant nasturtiums, and bearing the following device,

  CLARINDA CLEVERLY PAYNE.

  NEW LAID EGGS. DEVONSHIRE CREAM. JUNKETS.

  TEAS PROVIDED.

  Within this rustic habitation, tutor and pupil disappeared, and the pebbly shore of Combmartin was left in the possession of two ancient mariners, who, seated side by side on the overhanging wall, smoked their pipes together in solemn silence, and watched the gradual smoothing of the sea as it spread itself out in wider, longer, and more placid undulations, as though submissively preparing for the coming of its magnetic mistress, the moon.

  CHAPTER II.

  THAT same evening, John Valliscourt, Esquire, of Valliscourt, sat late over his after-dinner wine, conversing with a languid, handsome-featured person known as Sir Charles Lascelles, Baronet. Sir Charles was a notable figure in ‘swagger’ society, and he had been acquainted with the Valliscourts for some time; in fact he was almost an ‘old friend’ of theirs, as social ‘old friends’ go, that phrase nowadays merely meaning about a year’s mutual visiting, without any unpleasant strain on the feelings or the pockets of either party. Whenever the Valliscourts were in town for the season at their handsome residence in Grosvenor Place, Sir Charles was always ‘dropping in,’ and dropping out again, a constant and welcome guest, a purveyor of fashionable scandals, and a thoroughly reliable informant concerning the ins and outs of the newest approaching divorce. But his appearance at Combmartin was quite unlooked-for, he having been supposed to have gone to his ‘little place’ (an estate of several thousand acres) in Inverness-shire. And it was concerning his present change of plan and humour that Mr. Valliscourt was just now rallying him in ponderously playful fashion.

  “Ya-as!” drawled Sir Charles in answer,— “I have doosid habits of caprice. Never know what I’m going to do from one day to another! Fact, I assure you! You see a chum of mine has got Watermouth Castle for a few weeks, and he asked me to join his house-party. That’s how it is I happen to be here.”

  Mrs. Valliscourt, who had left the dinner-table and was seated in a lounge chair near the open window, looked round and smiled. Her smile was a very beautiful one, — her large flashing eyes and brilliantly white teeth gave it a sun-like dazzle that amazed and half bewitched any man who was not quite prepared to meet it.

  “I suppose you are all very select at Watermouth,” — observed Mr. Valliscourt, cracking a walnut and beginning to peel the kernel with a deliberate and fastidious nicety which showed off his long, white, well-kept fingers to admirable advantage,— “Nothing lower than a baronet, eh?”

  And he laughed softly.

  Sir Charles gave him a quick glance from under his lazily drooping eyelids that might have startled him had he perceived it. Malice, derision, and intense hatred were expressed in it, and for a second it illumined the face on which it gleamed with a wicked flash as of hell-fire. It vanished almost as quickly as it had shone, and a reply was given in such quiet, listless tones as betrayed nothing of the speaker’s feelings.

  “Well, I really don’t know! There’s a painter fellow staying with us, — one of those humbugs called ‘rising artists,’ — gives himself doosid airs too. He’s got a commission to do the castle. Of course he isn’t thought much of, — we keep him in his place as much as we can, — still he’s there, and he doesn’t dine with the servants either. The rest are the usual lot, — dowagers with marriageable but penniless daughters, — two or three ugly ‘advanced’ young women who have brought their bicycles and go tearing about the country all day, and a few stupid old peers. It’s r
ather slow. I was bored to exhaustion at the general tea-meeting this afternoon, so knowing you were here I thought I’d ride over and see you.”

  “Delighted!” said Mr. Valliscourt politely— “But may I ask how you knew we were here?”

  Sir Charles bit his lip to hide a little smile, as he answered lightly,

  “Oh, everybody knows everything in these little out-of-the-way villages. Besides, when you take the only available large house in Combmartin you can’t expect to hide your light under a bushel. It’s really a charming old place too.”

  “It’s a barrack,” said Mrs. Valliscourt, speaking now for the first time, and looking straight at her husband as she did so,— “It’s excessively damp, and very badly furnished. Of course it could be made delightful if anybody were silly enough to spend a couple of thousand pounds upon it, — but as it is, I cannot possibly imagine why John took such a horrid little hole for a summer holiday residence.”

  “You know very well why I took it,” returned Mr. Valliscourt stiffly— “It was not for my personal enjoyment, nor for yours. I am old enough, I presume, to do without what certain foolish people call ‘a necessary change,’ and so are you for that matter. I was advised to give Lionel the benefit of sea-air, — and as I was anxious to avoid the noise and racket of ordinary sea-side places, as well as the undesirable companionship of other people’s children who might endeavour to associate with my son, I chose a house at Combmartin because I considered, and still consider, Combmartin perfectly suited for my purpose. Combmartin being off the line of railway and somewhat difficult of access, is completely retired and thoroughly unfashionable, — and Lionel will be able to continue his holiday tasks under an efficient tutor without undue distraction or interruption.”

  He said all this in a dry methodical way, cracking walnuts between whiles, with a curious air, as of coldly civil protest against the vulgarity of eating them.

  Mrs. Valliscourt turned her head away, and looked out into the tangled garden, where the foliage, glistening with the day’s long rain, sparkled in the silver gleam of the rising moon. Sir Charles Lascelles said nothing for a few moments, — then he suddenly broke silence with a question. “You are giving Montrose the sack aren’t you?”

  “I am dismissing Mr. Montrose, — yes, certainly;” replied Valliscourt, his hard mouth compressing itself into harder lines,— “Mr. Mon- Montrose trose is too young for his place, and too self-opinionated. It is the fault of all Scotchmen to think too much of themselves. He is clever; I do not deny that; but he does not work Lionel sufficiently. He is fonder of athletics than classics. Now in my opinion, athletics are altogether overdone in England, — and I do not want my son to grow up with all his brains in his muscles. His intellectual faculties must be developed,—”

  “At the expense of the physical?” interposed Sir Charles,— “Why not do both together?”

  “That is my aim and intention,” — said Valliscourt somewhat pompously— “but Mr. Montrose is not fitted either by education or temperament to carry out my scheme. In fact he has refused point-blank to go through the schedule of tuition I have formulated for the holiday tasks of my son, and has taken it upon himself to say to me, — to me! — that Lionel is not capable of such a course of study, and that complete rest is what the boy requires. Of course this is an excuse to obtain a good time for himself in the way of boating and other out-of-door amusements. Moreover, I have discovered to my extreme concern, that Mr. Montrose has not yet thrown off the shackles of superstitious legend and observance, and that in spite of the advance of science, he is really not much better than a savage in his ideas of the universe. He actually believes in Mumbo-Jumbo, — that is, God, — still! — and also in the immortality of the soul!” Here Mr. Valliscourt laughed outright. “Of course, if it were not so ridiculous, I should be angry, — all the same, one cannot be too particular in the matter of a child’s training and education, and I am considerably annoyed that I was not made aware of these barbarous predilections and prejudices of his before he took up a responsible position in my house.”

  “Of course you would not have engaged him if you had known?” queried Sir Charles.

  “Certainly not.” Here Mr. Valliscourt looked at his watch. “Will you excuse me? It is nine o’clock, and I told Montrose to attend me at that hour in my study to receive the remaining portion of his salary. He leaves by the early coach to-morrow morning.”

  Mrs. Valliscourt rose, and moved with an elegant languor towards the door.

  “You had better come into the drawing-room, Sir Charles, and have a chat with me,” she said, favouring the baronet with one of her dazzling smiles as she glanced back at him over her shoulder,— “I suppose you are in no very special hurry to return to Watermouth?”

  “No, — not just immediately!” he replied with an answering smile, as he followed her out across the square oak-panelled hall and into the apartment she had named, which had the merit of being more comfortably furnished than any other part of the house, and moreover boasted four deep bay-windows, each one commanding different and equally beautiful views of the surrounding country. Mr. Valliscourt meantime went in an opposite direction, and entered a small parlour, formerly a store-room, but now transformed into a kind of study, where he found William Montrose, B.A., awaiting him.

  ‘Oor Willie’ looked pale, and his lips were hard set. His employer nodded to him carelessly in passing, and then sitting down at his office-desk, unlocked a drawer, took from thence his cheque-book, and wrote out a sum that was more than ‘oor Willie’s’ due. As he handed it over, the young man glanced at it, and coloured hotly.

  “No thank you, Mr. Valliscourt,” — he said,— “The exact sum, please, and not a farthing over.”

  “What!” exclaimed Valliscourt in a satirical tone— “A Scotchman refuse an extra fee! Is this the age of miracles?”

  Montrose grew paler, but kept himself quiet.

  “Think what you like of Scotchmen, Mr. Valliscourt,” he returned composedly— “They can get on without your good opinion I daresay, and certainly they need none of my defending. I merely refuse to accept anything I have not honestly earned, — there is no miracle in that, I fancy. It is not as if I took my dismissal badly, — on the contrary, I should have dismissed myself if you had not forestalled me. I will have no share in child-murder.”

  If a bomb had exploded in the little room, Mr. Valliscourt could not have looked more thoroughly astounded. He sprang from his chair and confronted the audacious speaker in such indignation as almost choked his utterance.

  “Ch — ch — child-murder!” he spluttered, trembling all over in the excess of his sudden rage— “D — d — did I hear you rightly, sir? Ch — child-murder!”

  “I repeat it, Mr. Valliscourt,” — said Montrose, his blue eyes now flashing dangerously and his lips quivering— “Child-murder! Take the phrase and think it over! You have only one child, — a boy of a most lovable and intelligent disposition, — quick-brained, — too quick-brained by half! — and you are killing him with your hard and fast rules, and your pernicious ‘system’ of intellectual training. You deprive him of such pastimes and exercises as are necessary to his health and growth, — you surround him with petty tyrannies which make his young life a martyrdom, — you give him no companions of his own age, and you are, as I say, murdering him, — slowly perhaps, but none the less surely. Any physician with the merest superficial knowledge of his business, would tell you what I tell you, — that is, any physician who preferred truth to fees.”

  White with passion, Mr. Valliscourt snatched up the cheque he had just written and tore it into fragments, — then opening another drawer in his desk, he took out a handful of notes and gold, and counting them rapidly, flung them upon the table.

  “Hold your insolent tongue, sir!” he said in hoarse accents of ill-suppressed fury,— “There is your money, — exact to a farthing; take it and go! And before you presume to apply for another situation as tutor to the son of a gentleman, you had
better learn to know your place and put a check on your Scotch conceit and impertinence! Not another word! — go!”

  With a sudden proud lifting of his head, Montrose eyed his late employer from heel to brow and from brow to heel again, in the disdainful “measuring” manner known to fighting men, — his eyes sparkled with anger, — and his hands involuntarily clenched. Then, all at once, evidently moved by some thought which restrained, if it did not entirely overcome his wrath, he swept up his wage lightly in one hand, turned and left the room without either a ‘thank you’ or ‘good-evening.’ When he had gone, John Valliscourt burst into an angry laugh.

  “Insolent young cub!” he muttered— “How such fellows get University honours and recommendations is more than I can imagine! Favouritism and jobbery I suppose, — like everything else. An inefficient, boastful, lazy Scotchman if ever there was one, — and the worst companion in the world for Lionel. The boy has done nothing but idle away his time ever since he came. I’m very glad Professor Cadman-Gore is able to accept a few weeks of holiday tuition, — he is expensive certainly, — but he will remedy all the mischief Montrose has done, and get Lionel on; — he is a thoroughly reliable man too, on the religious question.”