Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 384
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
* From ‘A Song of the Sea and Other Poems.’ By Eric Mackay.
in the bird’s intrusion, but there would have been in his father’s presence. He tried in his own odd way to analyse this feeling, and started on his usual themes of troubled thought; — did his father really love him? — did his mother? — was there any good in his loving them? — and what was to come of it all? All at once as he lay musing, some one called him by his pet-name, —
“Lylie! Lylie!”
He jumped to his feet, and looked about everywhere, but could see nobody.
“Ly-lee-e!”
This time the prolonged sound seemed to come from the boundary hedge against which the roses grew, and where there was a mixture of many other blossoms, such as are found growing in wild and varied beauty all along the lanes in Devonshire. He went close up to it, and glancing eagerly hither and thither, suddenly perceived a little rosy face in an aureole of gold-brown curls, cautiously peeping through a tangle of white jessamine and green briony, and smiling at him with a half-bold, half-frightened glee.
“‘Ullo, Lylie! I sees ‘ee!” and the face pushed itself further through the veiling screen of foliage and flowers—”’Ullo, Lylie!”
“Why, Jessamine dear!” exclaimed Lionel, flushing with pleasure at the sight of the winsome little maid he had hardly ever expected to meet again— “How did you manage to come? How did you find your way?”
Little Miss Dale did not reply immediately. Looking round in every direction, she demanded —
“Can’t I git right froo? — an’ see ‘oor muzzer?”
Lionel thought rapidly of the chances of detection, — of the gardener who might be acting as a spy on him by his father’s orders, — of the other servants who might also be on the watch, — and though not at all afraid for himself, he had no desire to get Reuben Dale and his little girl into trouble. So he went down on his knees in front of the jessamine flowers and Jessamine herself, and drawing her little baby face to his own, kissed it with a simple boyish tenderness that was very sweet and commendable.
“My mother isn’t here to-day— “he said, softly for fear of being overheard,— “She’s gone to Ilfracombe to see some friends, and won’t be back till evening. My father and my tutor are away too, and I’m all alone. I’ve promised not to leave this garden, or I should have come to see you, Jessamine. How’s Mr. Dale?”
“My feyther’s quite well,” — responded Jessamine, with some solemnity; “He’s diggin’ another grave, — a weeny weeny grave, — for a little tiny baby. Oh, such a prutty grave it be!”
She sighed, — put her finger in her mouth, and raised her blue eyes pensively, like a dreaming angel.
“How’s ‘ee feelin’, Lylie?” she asked presently with sudden concern—”’Ee looks white, — very white, Lylie, ‘ee looks, — like my muzzer when she went to Heaven.”
Lionel smiled.
“I’ve been doing a lot of lessons, Jessamine,” he replied— “That’s how it is, I suppose. Books make you get pale, I think. You never read books, do you?”
Jessamine shook her head.
“I can’t read” — she confessed— “I can spell, — an’ I know my fairy-book. Auntie Kate tells me my fairy-book, an’ God’s Book. That’s all.”
Fairy-book and God’s Book! Here began and ended Jessamine’s literary knowledge. Lionel smiled, as the grim picture of Professor Cadman-Gore involuntarily presented itself, and he thought of the disdain in which that erudite individual held both fairy-books, God’s Book, and the very idea of God, that wished-for ‘Person’ whom Lionel would have preferred to recognise rather than the scientific Atom. And kneeling on the warm grass that was filled with the small unassuming blossoms of pimpernel and eye-bright, he playfully drew a handful of Jessamine’s brown curls through the green hedge, and tied them with a knot of her own namesake-flowers.
“Now you can’t go away!” he said merrily— “I have fastened you up, and you are my little prisoner!”
She peered sideways over her shoulder at what he had done, and chuckled, — then laughed till her pretty cheeks were dented all over with dancing dimples, — and, perfectly satisfied with the arrangement, she settled herself down more comfortably among the leaves with a dove-like croon of pleasure.
“I told ‘ee there wos a ‘ole in the ‘edge where I could creep froo!” she said triumphantly— “This is the ‘ole! It’s allus bin ’ere. I’ve often coom’d when nobody’s by, an’ got roses for my own self. There be lots o’ roses, bain’t there?”
This with an inquiring glance, and suggestive pout.
Lionel took the hint, and springing up, ran to gather for her a posy of the prettiest half-open buds he could find, — then, tying them up with a bit of string he had in his pocket, he knelt down again, and gave them gently into her hands. She buried her tiny nose deep among the scented petals.
“O how bee-oo-ful!” she sighed—”’Ee’se a rare nice boy, Lylie! — I likes ‘ee! Where’s your Drojunwors now?”
He laughed joyously —
“Just where they always were, dear, I expect!” he answered,— “I don’t suppose anything will ever move them out of Homer’s epic! It’s always the same old story, you know!”
Jessamine nodded demurely.
“Always the same ole story!” she echoed with a comical plaintiveness— “I ‘member!— ‘bout a bad lady, an’ big men. Oh Lylie! there’s a bee!”
She huddled herself and her roses up into a heap, her pretty little face expressive of the direst dismay as a big, boozy bumble-bee circled round ound and round her in apparent doubt as to whether she might not be some new specimen of floral growth, full of delicious honey, — and Lionel, arming himself with a long fern-leaf, did manful battle with the winged epicurean till it became thoroughly convinced that these small pretty creatures were human beings, not flowers, and boomed lazily off on another quest for dainty novelties.
“He wor a bad bee!” said Jessamine, looking after the offending insect, and slowly relaxing her close-cuddled attitude— “He’s got all the flowers i’ th’ garden, — an’ they oughter be ‘nuff for him wizout mine, oughtn’t they?”
“Of course they ought!” agreed Lionel, feeling quite happy in the companionship of his little village friend, as he parted the dividing screen of flowers and leaves, and drew closer to her— “Tell me Jessamine, did you come all by yourself across that big field over there?”
“‘Iss!” she replied proudly— “The field’s just ‘tween th’ church an’ this big ‘ouse where ‘ee lives, — Auntie Kate calls it ‘short cut.’ Sometimes it’s full o’ cows, an’ I’se ‘fraid of ’em, — an’ I can’t coom, — but to-day there’s no cows, so I runned all th’ way to see ‘ee, Lylie!” and she looked at him affectionately— “When’s ‘ee coomin’ to see me?”
Lionel’s bright face clouded. “I don’t know, Jessamine!” he said sadly— “I wish I could come, — you don’t think I wouldn’t come if I could! — fast enough! But I have such a lot of lessons to do just now — they take up all my time, — besides I’m not allowed to go anywhere except with the Professor.”
“The ‘fessor? Wot’s ‘ee?” inquired Jessamine.
“He’s my tutor, — a very clever man, who teaches me.”
Jessamine looked puzzled.
“Well, can’t the ‘fessor coom with ‘ee? — an’ see me an’ my feyther?”
“I’m afraid he wouldn’t care to, — he’s a very old man—”
“I know!” interrupted Jessamine with a nod of her head— “He’s a bad ole man, — he doesn’t want to see me. He’s like the bad man i’ th’ fairy-book wot lost the babes i’ th’ wood, — an’ he’s like ‘oor feyther, Lylie! didn’t ‘ee say ‘oor feyther would scold me if I came froo this ‘edge, eh?”
“Yes, — and I expect he would!” said Lionel.
“Then he’s bad!” declared the small lady with emphasis. “Nobody oughtn’t to scold me, ‘cos I’se allus tryin’ to be good.” Then, with a sudden change of tone, she added “Poor Lylie! I’se so sorry for ‘ee!”
There was something strangely moving in her voice, and Lionel, always sensitive, felt the tears rising very near his eyes.
“Why, dear?” he asked rather tremulously, — while, to hide his feelings he busied himself in untying the twist he had made of her hair and the jessamine blossoms.
“‘Cos I fink you’se lonely, — an’ I’se ‘fraid you won’t see me never no more!”
And again she raised her blue eyes to the blue heavens, and looked as if she saw some dawning splendour there.
Lionel took both her little hands in his own and fondled them. There was a sadness at his heart, but not the kind of sadness she seemed to suggest.
“You mustn’t say that, Jessamine,” — he murmured gently— “I’ll be sure to see you again often. Even when we go away from Combmartin, I sha’n’t forget you. I shall come back and see you when I’m a big man.”
She peeped wistfully up at him.
“You’se be a long long time ‘fore you’se a big man, Lylie!” she said.
He was silent. What she suggested was very true. It would indeed be a ‘long long time’ before the ‘big man’ stage of existence came to him, if it ever came to him at all. He was perfectly conscious within himself that he did not want to be a ‘big man,’ — and that it was quite enough sadness for him to be a small boy. He could not realise the possibility of his living through years and years of work and worry, to attain this end of mere manhood, — and then to go on through more years of worse work and worry, just to become old, wrinkled and toothless, and drop into the grave, forgetful of all that he had ever known, and senseless to the fact that he had ever existed. He was entirely aware that most people went through this kind of thing and didn’t seem to mind it, — but somehow it did not commend itself to him as his own particular destiny. If there were another life to be taken up after death, then he could understand the necessity there might be for living this one nobly, — but the scientists had done away with that hope, and had declared death to be the only end of every soul’s career. Thoughts such as these flitted vaguely through his brain while he knelt in front of Jessamine, holding her wee warm hands in his, — she in her turn regarding him seriously with her large, soft, angelic eyes. Over the two children a silence and a shadow hung, inexplicable to themselves. Or was it not so much a shadow as a brightness? — made impressive by the very stillness of its approach and the mystic glory of its presence? It seemed incredible that the thorny and cruel ways of the world should be waiting to pierce and torture these innocent young lives, — it was monstrous to imagine the dreamy-eyed, tender-hearted boy growing up into the usual type of modern man, — the orthodox pattern demanded by the customs and conventionalities of his kind, — and still more repellent was the idea that the sweet baby-girl with her pure look and heavenly smile, should be destined for the rough lot of a mere peasant drudge, so to pass her days and end them, without a touch of the finer essences which should nourish and expand all the delicate susceptibilities of her nature. Was there nothing better in store for these children than what we call life? Who could tell! If the deep charm which held them both mute, could have dissolved itself in music some answer might have been given; but God’s meanings cannot be construed into the language of mortals; hence the reason of many expressive silences often encompassing us, — silences more eloquent than speech. Presently Jessamine stirred uneasily in her nest of leaves.
“I’se goin’ now, Lylie,” she announced.
“Oh, must you go so soon?” exclaimed Lionel— “Can’t you stay a little longer?”
Jessamine pursed up her rosy lips with a gravely important air.
“I’se ‘fraid not!” she said— “I’se promised to fetch my feyther ‘ome to dinner, an’ ee’l be waitin’ for me.”
“Well, will you come back again, this afternoon?” urged the boy— “Come back about four o’clock, and I’ll be here to see you.”
The little maid looked coquettishly doubtful.
“I doesn’t know ‘bout that!” she murmured coyly— “My ole ‘oss ‘spects me this arternoon.”
“But you might leave the old horse for once to come to me!” pleaded Lionel— “You know I may have to go away altogether from Combmartin soon!”
“‘Iss!” sighed Jessamine, her eyes drooping demurely, — then with a quick brightening of her face she added— “Well, I’ll try, Lylie. P’r’aps I’ll come an’ p’r’aps I won’t be able to come. But I’m sure I’ll see ‘ee soon again; I won’t ‘ave to wait till you’se a big man. I’ll see ‘ee long ‘fore then. ‘Ee mustn’t forgit me, Lylie!”
“Forget you! Certainly not!” responded the boy almost ardently, as he set the little white sun-bonnet straight on her head, and tied the strings of it under her pretty chin— “I shall never, never forget you, dear little Jessamine!”
She pushed herself further through the hedge on her hands and knees, and smiled up at him.
“Wouldn’t ‘ee like to kiss me ‘gain, Lylie?” she demanded with ineffable sweetness.
For answer he put his arms round her neck, all among the blossoms, and tenderly pressed the little cherry of a mouth so frankly uplifted to his own.
“Good-bye, Lylie!” she said then, beginning to scramble out from among the leaves.
“Good-bye, Jessamine! But not for long!” he answered.
“Not for long!” she echoed— “You’se sure not to forgit me, Lylie!”
“Sure!” declared the boy, smiling at her somewhat sadly, as she now stood upright behind the hedge, and her little figure could only be dimly seen through the close network of leaves. She turned to go, — then on a sudden impulse ran back, and with her two hands made a round peep-hole through the trailing sprays of jessamine, so that her winsome baby face looked literally framed in her own blossoms.
“Good-bye, Lylie! Not for long!” she said.
And with that she disappeared.
Left alone once more, Lionel did not feel quite so happy as he had done before his little visitor came. Somehow the pretty child’s quick departure grieved him, — he longed to break through the boundary hedge and run after her, and have another long and happy day of rest and freedom, — but he had given ‘his word of honour’ to his father not to leave the grounds, and he manfully resisted the sore temptation that beset him. Yet certain it was that with Jessamine the light of the landscape seemed to have fled; — a sense of desolation oppressed him; and to distract his thoughts he took up the two books he had left on the garden-seat, and set himself to study them. But in vain, — his mind wandered, — he could not fix his attention, — and he began watching the graceful movements of two butterflies that flew in and out among the roses, — pale-blue pretty creatures, like cornflowers on wings. And all at once the terrible callousness of nature forced itself upon his attention as it had never done before, and filled him with gloom.
“Nothing cares!” he thought— “If the best and wisest person that ever lived were in trouble, or were to die, everything would go on just the same; — the birds would sing and the butterflies dance, and the flowers grow, and the sun shine. I suppose that is really why they have fixed upon an Atom as the first cause of it all, — you can’t expect an Atom to care!”
He moved slowly down the path, and went towards the carriage-drive, where plenty of deep shade was cast by a double row of broad and full-foliaged elms. Outside the closed carriage-gate he saw, through the bars, a man standing, holding a basket in one hand, and making uncouth signs to him with the other. He advanced quickly, — then as quickly stopped, as he more plainly perceived the hideous aspect of the unhappy creature who confronted him, — a miserable human deformity, with twisted tottering limbs, protruding lack-lustre eyes and a deathly grin upon the wide mouth, which through illness, idiotcy, or both, slobbered and mumbled continuously and incoherently. The head of the wretched man jerked to and fro with an incessant convulsive motion, — in the basket he carried were a number of exquisite white roses, together with several large, beautifully polished rosy apples, the fresh loveliness of these natural products forming a strange and cruel contrast to the appearance of their ragged and miserable vendor, who continued to beckon Lionel with his twitching hand, smiling that fixed and ghastly smile of his which, no doubt, he meant, poor fellow, as an expression of deference and good-will. But the boy, chilled to the marrow by the sight of such an unexpected image of horror in human shape, stood stock still for a minute, staring, — then turning, he ran with all his might into the house, and up to the school-room, every pulse in his body throbbing with nervous shock and repulsion.
“Oh, it is quite right, — it must be right!” he gasped, as he flung himself down in a chair and tried to forget the gruesome figure he had just seen— “It is an Atom that created everything! — it couldn’t be a Person! No Person with pity or kindness, could allow such a poor dreadful man as that to live on, and suffer! A good God would have killed him!”
He shuddered, hiding his face in his hands. His forehead throbbed and burned, — the burden of the horror of merely human things suddenly came down upon him, and seemed greater than he could bear. Human toil, human torture, human weakness, human helplessness, all endured for nothing! — and only to end in death! Life then was a mere rack, in which poor humanity was bound, tormented and slain — uselessly! — for so indeed must Life appear to all who leave God out of it, or set Him aside as an unknown quantity. He got up, and walked to and fro restlessly.
“How wicked it is!” he mused, his young soul fired with strange and feverish indignation— “How vile! — to make us live against our wills! We didn’t ask to come into the world, — it is shameful we should be sent here. Unless there were some reason for it, — but there’s none; if there were one, it would surely be explained. A reasonable Person would explain it. Reuben Dale believes there’s a reason and thinks it’s all right, — but then’s he’s quite ignorant — he doesn’t know any better. I wonder what he would say about that beggar-man? — could he tell why his God made such a dreadful creature?”
