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

by Marie Corelli

  The Professor felt an odd chill as of cold water running down his back at the strange arguments of this child, whom he began to consider ‘uncanny.’ The suggestion that it would be ‘a good thing’ if the scientific Atom were discovered to be a Person, had something in it of positive terror; and the learned Cadman-Gore was disagreeably conscious that for him and his particular ‘set,’ such a discovery would be anything but pleasant. Uncomfortable thoughts occurred to him, — he knew not why, — of the time when he, dry-souled man of dogmatic theory though he now was, had been a small inquisitive boy himself, — and when he had recognised the very Person Lionel dimly imagined, — the pure, fearless, grand image of God in Christ, to whom at his mother’s knee he had daily and nightly prayed, — but against whose divine faith and noble teaching, he, led away by plausible modern sophistries, now turned with a mockery and sarcasm exceeding the bitterness of any old-world Pharisee. For he was one of that new and ‘select’ band of men and women, who, enjoying the singular liberties and privileges of the Christian creed, are nevertheless unwearying in their attempts to destroy it; and who scruple not to stone the God-Founder, and crucify Him afresh, with an ingratitude as monstrous as it is suicidal. Women especially, who, but for Christianity, would still be in the low place of bondage and humiliation formerly assigned to them in the barbaric periods, are most of all to be reproached for their wicked and wanton attacks upon their great Emancipator, who pitied and pardoned their weaknesses as they had never been pitied or pardoned before. And was not the Professor himself thinking seriously of espousing one such Christ-scorning female, with short hair and spectacles, who had taken high honours at Girton, and who was eminently fitted to become the mother of a brood of atheists, who, like human cormorants, would be prepared to swallow benefits and deny the Benefactor? Such disjointed reflections as these chased one another through the eminent pundit’s mind and ruffled his scholarly equanimity, — he almost felt as if he would like to shake the boy who stood there, calmly propounding puzzles which could never be solved.

  “You have talked quite enough on this subject,” — he said roughly— “and if you were to ask me questions for a year, I could tell you no more than science teaches. All religions are fables and impostures, — the universe is not, and could never be, the work of a Person or persons. The ignorant may build themselves up a God if they choose, — we know better. All creation, as you have already been told, is the result of a fortuitous concurrence of atoms, — but where the first atom is, or where any of the atoms came from, is beyond human ingenuity to discover. We know nothing of the reasons why we live.”

  Lionel’s face grew very pale.

  “Then life is a very cruel thing, and not worth having;” — he said,— “It is wicked indeed that people should be born at all, if no good is to come of it. If there’s no reason for anything, and no future object for anybody, I don’t see why we should take the trouble to live. It’s all a mistake and a muddle; and a very stupid business, I think.”

  The Professor rose from his chair, and stretching his long legs at ease, smiled a capacious smile.

  “What you think is of no import;” — he observed grandiloquently— “We are here, — and being here, we must make the best of our time.”

  “But what you think is of no import either;” — returned Lionel simply— “The Atom doesn’t care any more about you than it does about me. It’s all the same, you see. You are clever and I am stupid, — and you are clever I suppose, because you like to please people by your cleverness, — now I should never care about pleasing people, — I would rather please the Atom if it could be pleased, because it is Everything, people included. But it can’t be pleased, because it is blind and deaf and senseless, — it just goes on twirling, twirling, and doesn’t know anything even about itself. And whatever best we make of our time, it’s no use, because we die, and there’s an end. Will you like to die?”

  The Professor felt himself becoming impatient and irascible.

  “Certainly not! No sane man likes to die. I intend to live as long as possible.”

  “Do you, really? Just fancy!” and Lionel’s eyes grew larger with genuine astonishment— “Now how different that is to me! — I would much rather die than live to be as old and wise as you are!

  “Do you mean to be insolent, sir?” demanded the Professor, growing suddenly livid with anger.

  “Insolent? Oh dear no! — indeed no!” exclaimed the boy quickly— “Did I say anything rude? If I did, I am sorry! Please excuse me, — I meant no harm. Only I do think it seems dreadful to look forward to so many long, long years of work and trouble and worry, all for nothing, — and that is why I would not like myself to live to be very old. Are you going out in the garden? — here is your hat, — and your stick;” and he handed these articles with a pretty grace to the irritated pundit, who glowered down upon him, uncertain what to do or say— “There are lots of beautiful roses growing wild, — you will find them near the hedge that makes the boundary of the grounds, — any quantity of them. Do you know I’m very glad the Atom managed to make roses as well as human beings!”

  Professor Cadman-Gore clapped his hat well down on his bald head, and fixed his severe eye on the small philosopher.

  “Read that chapter I have marked for you in Cæsar’s Commentaries,” — he said gruffly— “It will steady your ideas. You are inclined to be flighty and fantastic, — now let me tell you once for all, I don’t like fads or fancies of any kind. Stick to facts, — master them thoroughly, — and it is possible I may make something of you. But let me hear no more nonsense about atoms and universes, — this world is your business, — and beyond this world you have no business.”

  With that, he strode out, — and Lionel, left alone, sank wearily into his vacated chair.

  “It’s very funny, — but I’ve always noticed people get angry over what they can’t understand!” he mused,— “And they won’t listen to any suggestions, or try to learn, either. The Professor knows as well as I do, that there is a Cause for everything, — only he won’t take the trouble to reason it out as to whether it’s an Atom or a Person. He’s got a theory, and nothing will alter it. Now Reuben Dale believes in a Person, — I wish I could see Reuben again, and ask him one or two questions.”

  He sighed profoundly, — and feeling the air of the room oppressive, he opened the lattice-window and looked out. It was high noon-tide; — the sun was hot on the flower-beds, — the geraniums flared scarlet fire, — the petunias drooped fainting on their slim velvety stalks, — only the great sunflowers lifted themselves proudly aloft to give their bright deity golden stare for stare, — the birds, overcome by the heat, were mute, and in hiding under cool bunches of green leaves. On a side-path shaded by elm-trees, Lionel presently caught sight of the Professor walking up and down with his father, in earnest conversation, and as he watched them he smiled, a weird little smile.

  “They are talking about me, I daresay!” he reflected— “The Professor is very likely telling my father what a curious boy I am to ask him questions about the Atom, or anything that has to do with the reasons of our being alive, — and perhaps they will get into an argument on the subject themselves. Well! — it may be curious, and no doubt it’s very troublesome of me to want to know why we live, and what’s the good of it, — but I can’t help it. I do want to know, — I don’t see how any one can help wanting to know, — and I think it would be much more interesting and useful to study and find out these things, than to learn Greek and Latin.”

  Then, being a very docile little creature, and wishful to please even the grim old tutor now placed in authority over him, he moved away from the window, seated himself at the big table-desk, and opened Cæsar’s Commentaries at the marked chapter, which he read and meditated upon with grave patience till called to dinner.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE days now went on monotonously in a dull and regular routine of study. To learn, was made the chief object of Lionel’s existence, — and the only r
elaxation and exercise he had was a solemn walk with the Professor along the dusty high-road every afternoon. That distinguished pedagogue did not care for woods and fields, — he detested the sea, — and the mere suggestion of a scramble on the shingly beach of Combmartin would have filled him with horror. Nothing could ever have induced him to enter a row-boat, or climb a hill, — and his sole idea of a walk was a silent tramping ‘constitutional’ along a straight road in the glare of the sun. He took large strides, and sometimes Lionel’s little legs had difficulty in keeping up with him, — while as to conversation, there was none. The Professor’s knowledge of things in general was derived from books, — Lionel’s ideas were the instinctive efforts of natural aspiration, — and the two did not commingle. Moreover, if his young pupil showed the slightest tendency to discuss any more difficult and vexatious problems concerning life, death or eternity, the learned Cadman-Gore invariably became abstracted and lost, in the profoundest of profound reveries, and twitched his brows and sucked his tongue, and made himself look altogether so alarmingly ugly, that he successfully warned off and kept at a distance all undue familiarity and confidence. Lionel however had by this time discovered the wisdom of holding his peace, — he shut up his thoughts within himself, though at times they seemed to be getting too much for him, and often kept him awake at night, giving him an odd burning pain and heaviness in his head. And the old lassitude and languor from which he was wont to suffer had returned upon him with redoubled intensity, while the vivacity and brightness with which he had astonished his tutor on the first morning of his examination by that eminent ‘coach,’ had completely vanished. His progress now was slow, — and the Professor declared him to be a ‘disappointment.’ As a matter of fact, the poor little lad found his tasks growing heavier and heavier each day, — each day he felt less inclined to work, — and the mass of information he was expected to master grew daily more and more of a confusion and muddle. At times too, he was conscious of a very dreadful sensation which frightened him, — a kind of wild desire to scream aloud, jump from the open window, or do something that would be wholly unlike himself, and inexplicable to reason. At such moments, he would clench his small hot hands hard, bite his lips, and apply himself more assiduously to his lessons than ever, though the nervous terror of his own feelings often became so strong as to make him tremble and turn cold from head to foot. But he never complained; — and save that to a close observer his eyes appeared heavier, and his mouth more set in the pained line of hard self-control, his looks never betrayed him.

  One fine day fortune favoured him with a brief respite from toil, and an equally brief glimpse of happiness. His father and Professor Cadman-Gore suddenly decided to go on an excursion together to Lynmouth and Lynton, called by some enthusiasts ‘the Switzerland of England,’ though this term is sadly misapplied. The snowy peaks and glittering glaciers of the Alps cannot be brought into a moment’s comparison with the up-hill and down-dale prettinesses of Lynton, which is surpassed even in its own neighbourhood by the romantic loveliness of the ideal village known as Clovelly, while its over-abundance of foliage makes it somewhat gloomy and depressing to the spirits, though it offers a beautiful picture to the eyes. The Professor however was anxious to test its claim to be a ‘Switzerland’ personally, — and Mr. Valliscourt who prided himself on having ‘read up’ the local centres of interest, resolved to accompany him as ‘guide, philosopher and friend.’ They arranged therefore to go by coach, remain the night at the ‘Castle Hotel,’ which commands the finest view of the whole valley of Lynmouth, and return to Combmartin the following morning. Lionel was left well supplied with work, and was likewise severely warned not to go further astray than the garden surrounding the house, — Mrs. Valliscourt had driven early into Ilfracombe to spend the day with some of her London friends, who were staying there, and she was not expected back till late in the evening.

  “You will have the house to yourself, — and this will be an excellent test of your obedience;” said Mr. Valliscourt, as when he was prepared to start on his pleasure trip, he stood for a moment frowning heavily down on his small pale son,— “I suppose you know what is meant by a word of honour?”

  “I suppose so,” — answered the boy, with a slight weary smile.

  “Then you will give me your word of honour not to leave these grounds” — went on his father, “This is a large garden, — quite sufficient for you to take exercise in, — and if you conscientiously study the subjects selected for you, you will not have much time to waste in rambling. No more running about Combmartin like one of the common village boys, and scraping acquaintance with sextons, — do you hear?”

  “I hear!” said Lionel.

  “And you promise not to leave the grounds?”

  “On my word of honour!” and Lionel again smiled, this time almost disdainfully.

  “He has a fairly good idea of the obligations of duty;” — put in Professor Cadman-Gore, gathering together his shaggy brows,— “I consider that to be his strongest point.”

  Lionel said nothing. He had nothing to say; if he had uttered what was in his mind, it would neither have been understood, nor attended to. Grown men have little patience with the troubles of a child, though such troubles may be as deep and acute as any that are endured by the world-worn veteran. Nay, possibly more so, — for sorrow is a strange and cruel thing to the very young, but to the old it has become a familiar comrade, whose visitations being of almost daily occurrence, are met with comparative equanimity.

  When at last his father and the Professor had fairly gone, and he had actually seen them pass the house on the top of the coach, being driven away from Combmartin, the boy was sensible of a sudden great relief, as though a burden had been lifted from his heart and brain. He leaned out of the school-room window inhaling the fresh air, and his weirdly thoughtful little visage looked for a few moments almost as young as Nature meant it to be. He was sorry his mother was not at home, — he would have liked to run down-stairs and find her, and kiss that beautiful face which had softened into such unusual tenderness for him when he had returned home from his stolen holiday. Perhaps she might come back early from Ilfracombe, — he hoped she would! If her friends did not detain her as long as she expected, it was possible he might see her and talk to her before he went to bed. A vaguely comforting idea stole into his mind that she, — his own dear, beautiful mother, — loved him after all, though it was difficult to believe it! Very difficult, — because she hardly ever spoke to him, never expressed a wish to have him with her, and truly appeared to take little or no interest in his existence. And yet, ... Lionel could not forget the sweet look of her eyes, or the sudden kiss she had given him on that memorable afternoon of his truant wanderings, now nearly a fortnight ago. He sighed; — a whole fortnight had passed! — and he had had no cessation from work, no respite from the crushing society of Professor Cadman-Gore, till to-day! To-day was a real godsend, and must be made the best of, he said to himself, as he gazed wistfully at the lovely undulations of wood and hill and meadow, all bathed in the amber haze of summer warmth which softened every feature of the landscape, and made it look more dream-like than real. The sun was so bright and the grass so green, that he presently decided to go and study his lessons in the garden, — and selecting a couple of books from the pile which the Professor had left in order on the school-room table, he put them under his arm and went out. He drew a long breath of pleasure when he found himself in the side-path running parallel to the boundary hedge where the roses grew, — their exquisite fresh faces, pink, white and red, seemed to smile at him as he approached, and the odour exhaled from their dewy centres suggested happy fancies to his mind. Strolling up and down in delightful solitude, he forgot all about his books, or rather thought of them just sufficiently to relieve himself from the burden of them, by putting the two he carried aside on a garden-seat, there to await his pleasure. And presently he threw himself down full length on a sloping bank of mossy turf warmed by the sun, and folding his a
rms behind him, let his head rest upon them while he gazed straight up into the infinite reaches of the glorious blue sky. There sailed a stray bit of fleecy cloud, — here flew a swift-winged swallow, — and immediately above him, quivering aloft among the sunbeams like a jewel suspended in mid-heaven, carolled a lark, with all that tender joyousness which has inspired one of the sweetest of our English poets to write of it thus: —

  “From out the roseate cloud, athwart the blue,

  I hear thee sound anew

  That song of thine a-shimmering down the sky,

  And daisies, touched thereby,

  Look up to thee in tears which men mistake for dew.

  I see thee clip the air, and rush and reel,

  As if excess of zeal

  Had giddied thee in thy chromatic joys; —

  And overhead dost poise

  With outstretched wings of love, that bless while they appeal.

  Thou hast within thy throat a peal of bells,

  Dear dainty fare-thee-wells! —

  And like a flame dost leap from cloud to cloud: —

  Is’t this that makes thee proud?

  Or is’t that nest of thine, deep-hidden in the dells?

  Whate’er thy meaning be, or vaunt or prayer,

  I know thy home is there;

  And when I hear thee trill, as now thou dost,

  I take the world on trust,

  And with the world thyself, thou foeman of despair!”*

  The leafy branches of the trees were delicately outlined in air as with an artist’s careful pencil, — no breeze stirred them, — and the exceeding loveliness of nature, without man’s cruelty to mar it, gave the boy’s heart a strange pang. If the jarring voice of his father had suddenly startled the silence, something dark, yet undefinable, would, he knew, have blotted out all the beauty of the scene. A thrush alighted near him, and ruffling out its speckled breast, looked at him inquisitively with its bright round black eyes, — there was no discordant element