“You think too much altogether,” — said Montrose, almost crossly, — it vexed him to realise that this boy of barely eleven years was actually older and more reflective in mind than himself, a man of seven-and-twenty!— “You are always thinking!”
“Yes,” — agreed Lionel gravely, “But then there’s so much to think about in this world, isn’t there!”
To this Montrose volunteered no answer. He sat, gazing at the dish of rosy apples in front of him with a brooding frown, — and presently, Lionel laid one little cold trembling hand on his arm.
“But I shall never forget you, — Willie!” he said, pausing before the name— “You know you said I might call you Willie sometimes. You have been very good to me, — you are the youngest tutor I have ever had — and the kindest; — and though I can’t keep all the lessons in my head, I can keep the kindness. I can indeed!”
He looked so small and fragile as he spoke, his sensitive little face a-quiver with emotion, and his soft eyes full of wistful affection and appeal, that Montrose was much inclined to give him a hearty kiss, just as he would have kissed a pretty baby. But he remembered in time all the dry morsels of so-called wisdom that had been packed into that little curly head, — all the profound meditations of dead-and-gone philosophers that were stored in the recesses of that young mind, — and he reflected, with an odd sense of humorous pity, that it would never do to kiss such a learned little man. So he gave him a couple of pleasant pats on the shoulder instead, and answered— “All right laddie! I know! Only just think now and again of what I’ve said to you, and when you’re getting puzzled and dazed-like over your books, go into the fresh air and never mind the lessons, — and if you get a thrashing for it, well, — all I can say is, a thrashing is better than a sickness. Health’s the grandest thing going, — a far sight better than wealth.” At that moment the ‘too-too-tootle’ of the coach-horn came ringing towards them in a gay sonorous echo, and he started up. “By Jove! I must be off! Miss Payne! Clarinda!”
“Now, if it isn’t like your impudence, Mr. Montrose,” — said Miss Payne, appearing at the doorway with her strong bare arms dusty with the flour of the scones she had just been making, “to be calling me Clarinda! Upon my word I don’t know what the gentlemen are coming to,” — here she giggled and simpered in spite of her fifty-two years, as Montrose, nothing daunted, dropped more than the money due for the breakfast into her hand, and audaciously kissed her on the cheek, — (he had no scruples about kissing her, oh no! not at all! — though he had about kissing Lionel, — ) “Really they seem to be quite reckless nowadays, — it was very different, I dew assure you, when I was a gel—”
“Oh no, it wasn’t, Clarinda, I dew assure you!” laughed Montrose, with a playful mimicking of her voice and manner— “It was just the same, and always will be the same to the crack of doom! Men will always be devils, — and women — angels! Good-bye, Clarinda!”
“Good-bye, sir! A pleasant journey to you!” and Miss Payne bobbed up and down under her rose-covered porch, after precisely the same fashion in which the greatest ladies of the land make their ‘dip’ salutation to Royalty— “Hope to see you here again some day, sir!”
“I hope so too!” he answered cheerily, waving one hand, while he grasped his portmanteau with the other, and walked with a swinging stride down the village street, followed by Lionel, to the ‘Pack o’ Cards’ inn, where the coach had just arrived. It was a picturesque ‘turn-out,’ with its four strong, sleek horses, its passengers, all rendered more or less bright-faced by the freshness of the morning air, its white-hatted coachman, and its jolly guard, who blew the horn more for the pleasure of blowing it than anything else, — and Lionel surveyed it in a kind of sober rapture.
“You are glad to go, Mr. Montrose,” — he said— “You must be glad to go!”
“Yes, I am glad in one way” — replied Montrose, “But I’m sorry in another. I’m sorry to leave you, laddie, — I should like to be living here for awhile just to keep you out of harm’s way.”
“Would you?” Lionel looked at him surprisedly. “But I am never in the way of harm, — nothing ever happens to me of any particular sort, you know. One day is just like another.”
“Well, good-bye!” and Montrose, having given over his portmanteau to the coach-guard, laid both his hands on the boy’s fragile shoulders, “When you get home, tell your father it was I who took you out with me this morning to see me off, and that if he wants to question me about it, he knows where a letter will find me. I take all the blame, remember! Good-bye, my dear wee laddie! — and — and — God bless you!”
Lionel’s lip quivered, and the smile he managed to force was very suggestive of tears.
“Good-bye!” he said faintly.
“Too-too-too-tootle-too!” carolled the guard on his shining horn, — and Montrose climbed nimbly up to his place on the top of the coach. The red-faced driver bent a severe eye on certain village children that were standing about, agape with admiration at himself and his equipage. “Now then! Out of the way, youngsters!” There followed a general scrimmage, and the horses started. “Too-too-tootle-too!” Up the village street they galloped merrily in the cheerful sunlight, their manes blown back by the dancing breeze.
“Good-bye! Good-bye!” shouted Montrose once more, waving his straw hat energetically to the solitary small figure left standing in the road.
But Lionel’s voice could not now ‘carry’ far enough to echo the farewell, so he only lifted his little red cap once in response, the parting smile soon fading from his young face, and the worn pucker on his brow deepening in intensity. He stood motionless, — watching till the last glimpse of the coach had vanished, — then he started, as it were from a waking dream, and found that he still held the Homer volume, — Montrose had forgotten it. Some of the village children were standing apart, staring at him, and he heard them saying something about the ‘little gemmun livin’ up at the big ‘ouse.’ He looked at them in his turn; — there were two nice red-cheeked boys with red-cheeked apples in their hands, — their faces were almost the counterpart of the apples in roundness and shininess. He would have liked to talk to them, but he felt instinctively that if he made any advances in this direction, they would probably be either timid or resentful, — so he dismissed the idea from his mind, and went on his own solitary way. He was not going home, — no, — he was quite resolved to have a real holiday all to himself, before his new teacher arrived. And as he knew the ancient church of Combmartin was considered one of the chief objects of interest in the neighbourhood, and as, owing to his father’s ‘system’ of education and ideas concerning religion or rather non-religion, he had been forbidden to visit it, he very naturally decided to go thither. And the tears he had resolutely kept back as long as Willie Montrose had been with him, now filled his eyes and dropped slowly, one by one, as he thought sorrowfully that now there would be no more pleasant tossings in an open boat on the sea, — no more excursions into the woods for ‘botany lessons’ which had served as an excuse for many do-nothing but health-giving rambles, and the reading or reciting of stirring ballads such as ‘The Battle of the Baltic,’ and ‘Henry of Navarre,’ under the refreshing shade of the beautiful green trees, — nothing of all this in future, — nothing to look forward to but the dreaded society of Professor Cadman-Gore. Professor Cadman-Gore had a terrible reputation for learning, — all the world was as one mighty jackass, viewed in the light of his prodigious and portentous intellect, — and the young boy’s heart ached under the oppression of his thoughts as he walked, with the lagging step and bent head of an old man, towards the wooden churchyard gate, lifted the latch softly, and went in, Homer in hand, to stroll about and meditate, Hamlet-wise, among the graves of the forgotten dead.
CHAPTER IV.
HUSHING his little footsteps instinctively as he went up the moss-grown path between the grassy graves that rose in suggestive hillocks on either side of him, he paused presently in front of an ancient tombstone standing as
lant, on the top of which sat a robin redbreast contentedly twittering, and now and then calling ‘Sweet!’ to its unseen mate. It was a fearless bird, and made no movement to fly away as Lionel approached. Just beneath its brown wings and scarlet bosom, the grey headstone had blossomed into green, — tiny ferns and tufts of moss had managed to find root-hold there, and spread themselves out in pretty sprays of delicate foliage over the worn and blackened epitaph below —
HEERE LYETH
YE EARTHLIE BODIE OF SIMON YEDDIE
Saddler in Combmartin
WHO DYED
FULLE OF JOYE AND HOPE TO SEE
HIS DEARE MASTER
CHRISTE
ON THE 17TH DAYE OF JUNE 1671. AGED 102.
‘And He lodged in ye House of one Simon, a Tanner.’
With much difficulty Lionel made out this quaint inscription, standing, as he did, at some little distance off, in order not to frighten away the robin. He had to spell each word over carefully before he could understand it, and even when he had finally got it clear, it was still somewhat incomprehensible to his mind. And while he stood thinking about it, and wondering at the oddly chosen text which completed it, the robin redbreast suddenly flew away with an alarmed chirp, and a man’s head, covered with a luxuriant crop of roughly curling white hair, rose, as it seemed, out of the very ground, goblin-wise, and looked at him inquisitively. Startled, yet by no means afraid, Lionel stepped back a few paces.
“Hulloa!” said the head. “Doan’t be skeer’d, little zur! I be only a-diggin’ fur Mother Twiley.”
The accent in which these words were spoken was extremely gentle, even musical, despite its provincial intonation, — and Lionel’s momentary misgiving was instantly dispelled. Full of curiosity, he advanced and discovered the speaker to be a big, broad-shouldered, and exceedingly handsome man, the bulk of whose figure was partially hidden in a dark, squarely-cut pit of earth, which the boy’s instinct told him was a grave.
“I’m not scared at all, thank you” — he said, lifting his little red cap with the politeness which was habitual to him— “It was only because your head came up so suddenly that I started; I did not know anybody was here at all except the robin that flew away just now. What a big hole you are making!”
“Aye!” And the man smiled, his clear blue eyes sparkling with a cheery light as he turned over and broke a black clod of earth with his spade,— “Mother Twiley allus liked plenty o’ room! Lor’ bless ‘er! When she was at her best, she ‘minded me of a haystack, — a comfortable, soft sort o’ haystack for the chillern to play an’ jump about on, — an’ there was allus chillern round her for the matter o’ that. Well! Now she’s gone there’s not a body as has got a word agin her, an’ that’s more than can be said for either kings or queens.”
“Is she dead?” asked Lionel softly.
“Why, yes, s’fur as this world’s consarned, she’s dead,” was the reply— “But, Lord! what’s this world! Nuthin’! Just a breath, an’ we’re done wi’t. It’s the next world we’ve got to look to, little zur, — the next world is what we should all he a-workin’ fur day an’ night. “‘There’s a glory o’ the moon An’ a glory o’ the stars But the glory o’ the angels shines Beyond our prison bars!’”
He sang this verse melodiously in a rich sweet baritone, digging the while and patting the sides of the grave smooth as he worked.
Lionel sat down on one of the grassy mounds and stared at him thoughtfully.
“How can you believe all that nonsense?” he asked with reproachful solemnity— “Such a big man as you are too!”
The grave-digger stopped abruptly in his toil, and turning round, surveyed the little lad with undisguised astonishment.
“How can I believe all that nonsense!” he repeated at last slowly,— “Nonsense? Is a wee mousie like you a-talkin’ o’ the blessed sure an’ certain hope o’ heaven as nonsense? God ha’ mercy on ye, ye poor little thing! Who has had the bringin’ of ye up, anyway?”
Lionel flushed deeply and his eyes smarted with repressed tears. He was very lonely; and he wanted to talk to this cheery-looking man who had such a soft musical voice and such a kindly smile, but now he feared he had offended him.
“My name is Lionel, — Lionel Valliscourt,” he said in low, rather tremulous tones,— “I am the only son of Mr. Valliscourt who has taken the big house over there for the summer, — that one, — you can just see the chimneys through the trees” — and he indicated the direction by a little wave of his hand— “And I have always had very clever men for tutors ever since I was six years old, — I shall be eleven next birthday, — and they have taught me lots of things. And why I said the next world was nonsense, was because I have always been told so. One would be very glad, of course, if it were true, but then, it isn’t true. It is only an idea, — a sort of legend. My father says nobody with any sense nowadays believes it. Scientific books prove to you, you know, that when you go into a grave like that,” and he pointed to the hole in which the white-haired sexton stood, listening and inwardly marvelling— “you are quite dead for ever, — you never see the sun any more, or hear the birds sing, and you never find out why you were made at all, which I think is very curious, and very cruel; — and you are eaten up by the worms. Now it surely is nonsense, isn’t it, to think you can come to life again after you are eaten by the worms? — and that is what I meant, when I asked how you could believe such a thing. I hope you will excuse me, — I didn’t wish to offend you.”
The grave-digger still stood silent. His fine resolute features expressed various emotions, — wonder, pain, pity and something of indignation, — then, all at once these flitting shadows of thought melted into a sunny smile of tenderness.
“Offend me? No indeed! — ye couldn’t do that, my little zur, if ye tried, — ye’re too much of a babby. An’ so ye’re Mr. Valliscourt’s son, eh? — well, I’m Reuben Dale, the verger o’ th’ church here, an’ sexton, an’ road-mender, an’ carpenter, an’ anything else wotsoever my hand finds to do, I does it with my might, purvided it harrums nobody an’ gits me a livin’. Now ye see these arms o’ mine” — and he raised one of the brown muscular limbs alluded to— “They ha’ served me well, — they ha’ earned bread an’ clothing, an’ kep’ wife an’ child, an’ please God they’ll serve me yet many a long day, an’ I’m grateful to have ’em for use an’ hard labour, — but I know the time’ll come when they’ll be laid down in a grave like this ’ere, stark an’ stiff an’ decayin’ away to the bone, a-makin’ soil fur vi’lets an’ daisies to grow over me. But what o’ that? I’ll not be a-wantin’ of ’em then, — no more than I’m a-wantin’ now the long clothes I wore when our passon baptised me at t’ old font yonder. I, who am, at present, owner o’ these arms, will be zumwheres else, — livin’ an’ thinkin’, an’ please the Lord, workin’ too, for work’s divine an’ wholesome, — I’ll ‘ave better limbs mebbe, an’ stronger, — but whatsever body I get into, ye may depend on’t, little zur, it’ll be as right an’ fittin’ for the ways o’ the next world, as the body I’ve got now is right an’ fittin’ fur this one. An’ my soul will be the same as keeps me up at this moment, bad or good, — onny I pray it may get a bit wiser an’ better, an’ not go down like.” He raised his clear blue eyes to the bright expanse above him, and murmured half inaudibly,— “Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall,” — and seemed for a moment lost in meditation.
“Please, Mr. — Mr. Dale, what do you mean by your soul?” asked Lionel gravely.
Reuben Dale brought his rapt gaze down from the shining sky to the quaint and solemn little figure before him.
“What do I mean, my dear?” he echoed, with a note of compassion vibrating in his rich voice— “I mean the onny livin’ part o’ me, — the ‘vital spark o’ heavenly flame’ in all of us, that our dear Lord died to save. That’s what I mean, — an’ that’s what you’ll mean too, ye poor pale little chap, when ye’se growed up and begins to unnerstand all the marvels o’ God’
s goodness to us ungrateful sinners. Onny to think o’ the blessed sunshine should be enough fur the givin’ o’ thanks, — but Lord pity us! — we’re sore forgetful of all our daily mercies!”
“And — your friend, — Mother Twiley,” — hinted Lionel almost deferentially,— “Had she what you call a soul?”
“Aye, that she had! — an’ a great one, an’ a true one, an’ an angel one, — fur all that she wor old, an’ not so well-looking in her body as she must ha’ been in her mind,” — replied the sexton, “But ye may be sure God found her right beautiful in His sight when He tuk her to Himself t’other evening just as the stars were risin.’”
“But how do you know,” — persisted Lionel, who was getting deeply, almost painfully interested in the conversation— “Do tell me please! — how do you know she had a soul?”
“My dear, when you see a very poor old woman, with nothing of world’s comfort or world’s goods about her, bearing a humble an’ hard lot in peace an’ contentment, wi’ a cheerful face an’ bright eye, a smile fur every one, a heart fur the childer, forgiveness fur the wrongdoers, an’ charity fur all, who can look back on eighty years o’ life with a ‘Praise God’ for every breath of it, you may be sure that somethin’ better an’ higher than the mere poor, worn, tired body o’ her, keeps ‘er firm to ‘er work an’ true to her friends, — an’ so ‘twos with Mother Twiley. So fur as her body went ‘twos just a trouble to her, — twitched wi’ rheumatiz, an’ difficult to manage in the matter o’ mere breathing, — but her soul was straight enough, an’ strong enough. Lord!— ’ere in Combmartin we knew her soul so well that we forgot all about the poor old case it lived in, — I hardly think we saw it! Our bodies are weak bothersome things, my dear, — an’ without a soul to help ’em along we should never keep ’em going.”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 376
