• ^^-PU-lh 
 
 MIGHTY ATOM 
 
 MARIE CORELLI 
 
 Author of " The Sorrows of Satan" " Barabbas' 
 "Th^lma," etc. 
 
 London 
 
 HUTCHINSON AND CO 
 
 34, Paternoster Row 
 
 mdcccxcvi 
 
Ptititeil i'V Httzell, U <>tboii,c I'lmj; Id., l.<>nti,>ii and ^\ylc^bi<ry'. 
 
fv 
 
 ^A 
 
 .> < 
 
 THOSE SELF-STYLED 'PR OGRESSI VISTS' 
 
 WHO BY PRECEPT AND EXAMPLE 
 ASSIST 
 
 THE INFA^IOUS CAUSE 
 
 OF 
 
 EDUCATION WITHOUT RELIGION 
 
 AND WHO, BY PROMOTING THE IDEA, BORROWED FROM 
 
 FRENCH ATHEISM, OF DENYING TO THE 
 
 CHILDREN IN BOARD-SCHOOLS 
 
 AND ELSEWHERE, 
 
 THE KNOWLEDGE AND LOVE OF GOD, 
 
 AS THE TRUE FOUNDATION OF NOBLE LIVING, 
 
 ARE GUILTY 
 
 OF A WORSE CRIME THAN MURDER. 
 
 w^^3imy7 
 
THE MIGHTY ATOM 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A HEAVY Storm had raged all day on the north 
 coast of Devon. Summer had worn the garb of 
 winter in a freakish fit of mockery and masque- 
 rade ; and even among the sheltered orchards 
 of the deeply-embowered valley of Ccmbmartin, 
 many a tough and gnarled branch of many a 
 sturdy apple-tree laden v/ith reddening fruit, had 
 been beaten to the ground by the fury of the 
 blast and the sweeping gusts of rain. Only now, 
 towards late afternoon, were the sullen skies be- 
 ginning to clear. The sea still lashed the rocks 
 with angry thuds of passion, but the strength of 
 the wind was gradually sinking iiito a mere breeze, 
 and a warm saffron light in the west showed 
 where the sun, obscured for so many hours, was 
 
8 XTbe /UMabt^ Htom 
 
 about to hide his glowing face altogether for the 
 night, behind the black vizor of our upward- 
 moving earth. The hush of the gloaming began 
 to permeate nature ; flowers, draggled with rain, 
 essayed to lift their delicate stems from the mould 
 where they had been bowed prone and almost 
 broken, — and a little brown bird fluttering joy- 
 ously out of a bush where it had taken shelter 
 from the tempest, alighted on a window-sill of 
 one of the nearest human habitations it could 
 perceive, and there piped a gentle roundelay for 
 the cheering and encouragement of those Vv'ithin 
 before so much as preening a feather. The 
 windov/ was open, and in the room beyond it a 
 small boy sat at a school-desk reading, and every 
 now and then making pencil notes on a large 
 folio sheet of paper beside him. He was intent 
 upon his work, — yet he turned quickly at the 
 sound of the bird's song and listened, his deep 
 thoughtful eyes darkening and softening with a 
 liquid look as of unshed tears. It was only for 
 a moment that he thus interrupted his studies, — 
 anon, he again bent over the book before him 
 with an air of methodical patience and resignation 
 strange to see in one so young. He might have 
 been a bank clerk, or an experienced accountant in 
 
TLDC /IDtObtp BtOin 9 
 
 a London merchant's office, from his serious eld- 
 fashioned manner, instead of a child barely eleven 
 years of age ; indeed, as a matter of fact, there 
 was an almost appalling expression of premature 
 wisdom on his pale wistful features ; — the ' think- 
 ing furrow ' already marked his forehead, — and 
 what should still have been the babyish upper 
 curve of his sensitive little mouth, was almost 
 though not quite obliterated by a severe line of 
 constantly practised self-restraint. Stooping his 
 fair curly head over the printed page more closely 
 as the day darkened, he continued reading, pon- 
 dering, and writing ; and the bird, which had 
 come to assure him as well as it could, that fine 
 bright weather, — such weather as boys love, — 
 might be expected to-morrow, seemed disap- 
 pointed that its gay carol was not more appre- 
 ciated. At any rate it ceased singing, and began 
 to plume itself with fastidious grace and prettiness, 
 peering round at the youthful student from time 
 to time inquisitively, as much as to say, — ''What 
 wonder is this ? The rain is over, — the air is 
 fresh, — the flowers are fragrant, — there is light in 
 the sky, — all the world of nature is glad, and re- 
 joices, — yet here is a living creature shut up with 
 a book v/hich surely God never had the making 
 
lo Ubc /BMobty mom 
 
 of! — and his face is wan, and his eyes are sad, 
 and he seems not to know the meaning of joy ! " 
 
 The burning bars of saffron widened in the 
 western heavens, — shafts of turquoise-blue, pale 
 rose, and chrysoprase flashed down towards the 
 sea like reflections from the glory of some un- 
 barred gate of Paradise, — and the sun, flaming 
 with August flres, suddenly burst forth in all his 
 splendour. Full on Combmartin, with its grey 
 old church, stone cottages, and thatched roofs 
 overgrown with flowers, the cheerful radiance fell, 
 bathing it from end to end in a shower of gold, 
 — the waves running into the quiet harbour 
 caught the lustrous glamour and shone v/ith deep 
 translucent glitterings of amber melting into 
 green, — and through the shadows of the room 
 where the solitary little student sat at work, a 
 bright ray came dancing, and glistened on his 
 bent head like the touch of some passing angel's 
 benediction. Just then the door opened, and a 
 young man entered, clad in white boating flannels. 
 
 " Still at it, Lionel ! " he said kindly. " Look 
 here, drop it all for to-day ! The storm is quite 
 over ; — come with me, and I'll take you for a pull 
 on the water." 
 
 Lionel looked up, half surprised, half afraid. 
 
Ube mQht^ Btom n 
 
 *^ Does /le say I may go, Mr. Montrose ? " 
 
 "I haven't asked him," repUed Montrose curtly, 
 " / say you may, — and not only that you may, 
 but that you must! I'm your tutor, — at least 
 for the present, — and you know youVe got to 
 obey me, or else ! '* 
 
 Here he squared himself, and made playfully 
 threatening gestures after the most approved 
 methods of boxing. 
 
 The boy smiled, and rose from his chair. 
 
 " I don't think I get on very fast," he said 
 apologetically, with a doubtful glance at the 
 volume over which he had been poring — '' It's 
 all my stupidity I suppose, but sometimes it seems 
 a muddle to me, and more often still it seems 
 useless. How, for instance, can I feel any real 
 interest in the amount of the tithes that were 
 paid to certain bishops in England in the year 
 1054.^ I don't care v/hat was paid, and I'm 
 sure I never shall care. It has nothing to do 
 with the way people live nowadays, has it .^ " 
 
 " No,—- but it goes under the head of general 
 information," — answered Montrose laughing, — 
 " Anyhow, you can leave the tithes alone for the 
 present, — forget them, — and forget all the bishops 
 and kings too if you like ! You looked fagged 
 
12 Ubc jfiDtobt^ Htom 
 
 out, — what do you say to a first-class Devonshire 
 tea at Miss Payne's? " 
 
 "Jolly ! " and a flash of something like merri- 
 ment lit up Lionel's small pale face — '' But we'll 
 go on the water first, please ! It will soon be 
 sunset, and I love to watch a sunset from the 
 sea. 
 
 Montrose was silent. Standing at the open 
 door he waited, attentively observing meanwhile 
 the quiet and precise movements of his -young 
 pupil who was now busy putting away his books 
 and writing materials. He did this with an 
 almost painful care ; wiping his pen, re-sharpening 
 his pencil to be ready for use when he came back 
 to work again, folding a scattered sheet or two 
 of paper neatly, dusting the desk, setting up the 
 volume concerning ^ tithes ' and what not, on a 
 particular shelf, and looking about him in evident 
 anxiety lest he should have forgotten some trifle. 
 His tutor, though a man of neat taste and ex- 
 emplary tidiness himself, v/ould have preferred 
 to see this mere child leaving everything in a 
 disorderly heap, and rushing out into the fresh 
 air with a wild whoop and bellow. But he gave 
 his thoughts no speech, and studied the me- 
 thodical goings to and fro of the patient little 
 
lad from under his half-drooped eyelids with an 
 expression of mingled kindness and concern, till 
 at last, the room being set in as prim an order 
 as that of some fastidious old spinster, Lionel 
 took down his red jersey-cap from its own par- 
 ticular peg in the wall, put it on, and smiled up 
 confidingly at his stalwart companion. 
 
 " Now, Mr. Montrose ! " he said. 
 
 Montrose started as from a reverie. 
 
 *^Ah! That's it! Now's the word ! " 
 
 Flinging on his own straw hat, and softly 
 whistling a lively tune as he went, he led the 
 way downstairs and out of the house, the little 
 Lionel following in his footsteps closely and some- 
 v/hat timidly. Their two figures could soon be 
 discerned among the flowers and shrubs of the 
 garden as they passed across it towards the 
 carriage gate, which opened directly on to the high 
 road, — and a woman watching them from an 
 upper window pushed her fair face through a 
 tangle of fuchsias and called, 
 
 " Playing truant, Mr. Montrose ? That's 
 right ! Always do what you're told not to do ! 
 Good-bye, Lylie ! " 
 
 Lionel looked up and waved his cap. 
 
 ^' Good-bye, mother ! " 
 
14 Ube /lIM^bti? Btom 
 
 The beautiful face framed in red fuchsia 
 flowers softened at the sound of the child's clear 
 voice, — anon, it drew back into the shadow and 
 disappeared. 
 
 The woods and hills around Combmartin were 
 now all aglow with the warm luminance of the 
 descending sun, and presently, out on the sea 
 which was still rough and sparkling with a 
 million diamond-like points of spray, a small boat 
 was seen, tossing lightly over the crested billows. 
 William Montrose, B.A., ^ oor Willie ' as some 
 of his affectionate Highland relatives called him, 
 pulled at the oars with dash and spirit, and Lionel 
 Valliscourt, only son and heir of John Valliscourt 
 of Valliscourt in the county of Somerset, sat 
 curled up, not in the stern, but almost at the 
 end of the prow, his dreamy eyes watching with 
 keen delight every wave that advanced to meet 
 the little skiff and break against it in an opaline 
 shower. 
 
 " I say, Mr. Montrose ! " he shouted — '' This 
 is glorious ! " 
 
 " Aye, aye ! " responded Montrose, B.A. with 
 a deep breath and an extra pull — " Life's a fine 
 thing when you get it in big doses ! " 
 
 Lionel did not hear this observation, — he was 
 
Zbc /liMObt^^ Htom 15 
 
 absorbed in catching a string of seaweed, slimy 
 and unprofitable to most people, but very 
 beautiful in his eyes. There were hundreds of 
 delicate little shells knitted into it, as fragile and 
 fine as pearls, and every such tiny casket held a 
 life as frail. Ample material for meditation was 
 there in this tangle of mysterious organisms 
 marvellously perfect, and while he minutely 
 studied the dainty net-work of ocean's weaving, 
 across the young boy's mind there flitted the 
 dark shadow of the inscrutable and unseen. He 
 asked within himself, just as the oldest and wisest 
 scholars have asked to their dying day, the ^ why ' 
 of things, — the cause for the prolific creation of 
 so many apparently unnecessary objects, such as 
 a separate universe of shells for example, — what 
 was the ultimate intention of it all .? He thought 
 earnestly, — and thinking, grew sorrowful, child 
 though he was, with the hopeless sorrow of 
 Ecclesiastes the Preacher and his incessant cry of 
 * Vanitas vanitatem ! ' Meantime the heavens 
 were ablaze with glory, — the two rims of the 
 friendly planets, earth and the sun, seemed to 
 touch one another on the edge of the sea, — then, 
 the bright circle was covered by the dark, and 
 the soft haze of a purple twilight began to creep 
 
1 6 Ube /IDiobt^ Htom 
 
 over the * Hangman's Hills ' as they are curiously 
 styled, — the Great and the Little Hangman. 
 There is nothing about these grassy slopes at all 
 suggestive of capital punishment, and they appear 
 to have derived their names from a legend of the 
 country which tells how a thief, running away 
 with a stolen sheep tied across his back, was 
 summarily and unexpectedly punished for his 
 misdeed by the sheep itself, who struggled so 
 violently, as to pull the cord which fastened it 
 close round its captor's throat in a thoroughly 
 ' hangman ' like manner, thus killing him on the 
 spot. The two promontories form a bold and 
 picturesque headland as seen from the sea, and 
 Willie Montrose, resting for a moment on his 
 oars, looked up at them admiringly, and almost 
 with love in his eyes, just because they reminded 
 him of a favourite little bit of coast scenery in his 
 own more romantic and beautiful Scottish land. 
 Then he brought his gaze down to the curled-up 
 small figure of his pupil, who was still absorbed 
 in the contemplation of his treasure-trove of 
 sea-weed and shells. 
 
 *' What have you got there, Lionel? " he asked. 
 
 The boy turned round and faced him. 
 
 ** Thousands of little people ! " he answered, 
 
Uhc /lIMobt^ mom 17 
 
 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 ? 
 / 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 v/atching 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 
 
 2 
 
1 8 XTbe /IIMabt^ Htom 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 " / 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 Hke being 
 out on the sea yonder, — a body must take the 
 
^be /DM^bt^ Btom 19 
 
 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 down- 
 cast ! — 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 sur- 
 prised ; 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. 
 
20 XTbe /liMgbtp Htom 
 
 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. 
 
 HEW LAID EGGS. DEVONSHIRE CREAM. JUNKETS. 
 TEA5 PROVIDED. 
 
TLbc /HMgbt^ Htom 21 
 
 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 IL 
 
 That same evening, John ValHscourt, Esquire, 
 of ValHscourt, sat Jate 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 appear- 
 ance at Combmartin was quite unlooked-for, he 
 
having been supposed to have gone to his * Httle 
 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 Water- 
 mouth," — observed Mr. Valliscourt, cracking a 
 walnut and beginning to peel the kernel with a 
 deliberate and fastidious nicety which shov/ed off 
 his long, white, well-kept fingers to admirable 
 advantage, — ^' Nothing lower than a baronet, eh? " 
 
24 Zbc /iibtObt^ Htom 
 
 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 
 v/ith 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 rather slov/. 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 — 
 
XTbe l^iQbt^ Htom 25 
 
 " But may I ask how you knew we were 
 here ? " 
 
 Sir Charles bit his lip to hide a Httle 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 v/hy 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 per- 
 sonal 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 
 
26 Ubc /IlMobty Htom 
 
 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 con- 
 sider, 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 v/ill 
 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 Lascclles 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- 
 
Ube /iDlabtp Htom 27 
 
 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 alto- 
 gether 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 de- 
 veloped, " 
 
 '*' At the expense of the physical ^ " interposed 
 Sir Charles, — " Why not do both together ? " 
 
 '' That is my aim and intention," — said Vallis- 
 court 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 1 — 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 
 
28 'cTbe /lIMgbt'3? Htoin 
 
 off the shackles of superstitious legend and ob- 
 servance, 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 preju- 
 dices 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 v/atch. ^' 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 ele- 
 gant languor towards the door. 
 
 " You had better come into the drawing-room, 
 Sir Charles, and have a chat with me,'' she said, 
 
XTbe /HMobt^ Htom 29 
 
 favouring the baronet with one of her dazzhng 
 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 apart- 
 ment 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-v/indows, 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." 
 
30 Ube /lIMgbty Htom 
 
 " 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. 
 ValHscourt," 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 in- 
 dignation 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 
 m.ake 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 an- 
 other situation as tutor to the son of a gentleman, 
 
32 Zbc f^iQht)) Hiom 
 
 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, Mon- 
 trose 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 involun- 
 tarily 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 recom- 
 mendations is more than I can imagine ! Favour- 
 itism 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 
 
XTbe /iDt^bti^ Htom 33 
 
 Montrose has done, and get Lionel on ; — he is 
 a thoroughly reliable man too, on the religious 
 question." 
 
 Soothed by the prospect of the coming of 
 Professor Cadman-Gore, Mr. Valliscourt cooled 
 down, and presently went to join his wife and Sir 
 Charles Lascelles in the drawing-room. He found 
 that apartment empty however, and on inquiry 
 of one of the servants, learnt that Sir Charles had 
 been gone some minutes, and that Mrs. Valliscourt 
 was walking by herself in the garden Mr. Vallis- 
 court thereupon went to one of the deep bay- 
 windows which stood open, and sniffed the scented 
 summer air. The day's rain had certainly left the 
 ground wet, and he was not fond of strolling about 
 under damp trees. The moon was high, and very 
 beautiful in her clear fullness, but Mr. Valliscourt 
 did not admire moonlight effects, — he thought all 
 that kind of thing ^ stagey.* The grave and 
 devotional silence of the night hallowed the land- 
 scape, — Mr. Valliscourt disliked silence, and he 
 therefore coughed loudly and with much unpleasant 
 throat-scraping, to disturb it. Throat-scraping 
 gave just the necessary suggestion of prose to a 
 picture which would otherwise have been purely 
 romantic, — a picture of shadowed woodland and 
 
 3 
 
34 XTbe /iDtgbt^ Htom 
 
 hill and silver cloud and purple sky, in all of 
 which beauteous presentments, mere humanity 
 seemed blotted out and forgotten. Mr. Valliscourt 
 coughed his ugly cough in order to get humanity 
 into it, — and as he finished the last little hawking 
 note of irritating noise, he wondered where his 
 wife was. The garden was a large and rambling 
 one, and had been long and greatly neglected, 
 though the owners of the place had shrewdly 
 arranged with Mr. Valliscourt, when he had taken 
 the house for three months, that he should pay a 
 gardener weekly wages to attend to it. A decent 
 but dull native of Combmartin had been elected 
 to this post, and his exertions had certainly effected 
 something in the way of clearing the paths and 
 keeping them clean, — but he was apparently in- 
 capable of dealing with the wild growth of sweet- 
 briar, myrtle, fuchsia and bog-oak that had sprung 
 up everywhere in the erratic yet always artistic 
 fashion of mother Nature, when she is left to 
 design her own woodland ways, — so that the 
 entire pleasaunce was more a wilderness than any- 
 thing else. Yet it had its attractions, or seemed 
 to have, at least for Mrs. Valliscourt, for she 
 passed nearly all her time in it. Now, however, 
 owing to the long shadows, her husband could not 
 
XTbe /IDt^bt^ Htom 35 
 
 perceive her anywhere, though presently, as he 
 stood at the window, he heard her voice carolling 
 an absurd ditty, of which he caught a distinct 
 fragment concerning 
 
 " Gay Bo-hem-i-^/^ / 
 We're not particular what we do 
 In gay Bo-hem-i-ak,*' — 
 
 whereat, his face, cold and heavy-featured as it 
 was, grew downright ugly in its expression of 
 malign contempt. 
 
 " She ought to have been a music-hall singer ! " 
 he said to himself witt a kind of inward snarl — 
 '^ She has all the taste and talent required for it. 
 And to think she is actually well born and well 
 educated ! What an atrocious anomaly ! " 
 
 He banged the window to violently, and went 
 within. There was a smoking-room at the back 
 of the house, and thither he retired with his cigar- 
 case, and one of the dullest of all the various dull 
 evening papers. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 Early the next morning between six and seven 
 o'clock, little Lionel Valliscourt was up and 
 dressed and sitting by his bedroom window, cap 
 in hand, waiting eagerly for Montrose to appear. 
 He was going to see his friendly tutor off by the 
 coach, and the idea was not without a certain 
 charm and excitement. It was a perfect day, 
 bright with unclouded sunshine, and all the birds 
 were singing ecstatically. The boy's sensitive soul 
 was divided between sadness and pleasure, — sadness 
 at losing the companionship of the blithe, kindly, 
 good-natured young fellow who alone, out of all 
 his various teachers, had seemed to understand and 
 sympathise with him, — pleasure at the novelty of 
 getting up ' on the sly ' and slipping out and away 
 without his father's knowledge, and seeing the 
 coach, with its prancing four horses, its jolly driver^ 
 and its still jollier red-faced guard, all at a halt 
 outside the funny old inn, called by various wags 
 
 36 
 
Zbc /IDtabt^ atom 37 
 
 the * Pack o' Cards ' on account of its peculiar 
 structure, — and watching Mr. Montrose climb up 
 thereon to the too-tootle-tooing of the horn, and 
 then finally, beholding the whole glorious equipage 
 dash away at break-neck speed to Barnstaple ! 
 This was something for a boy, as mere boy, to 
 look forward to with a thrill of expectation ; — 
 but deep down in his heart of hearts he was 
 thinking of another delight as well, — a plan he 
 had formed in secret, and of which he had not 
 breathed a word, even to Willie Montrose. The 
 scheme was a bold and dreadful one ; and it was 
 this, — to run away for the day. He did not wish 
 to shirk his studies, — but he knew there were to 
 be no lessons till his new tutor. Professor 
 Cadman-Gore arrived, and Professor Cadman- 
 Gore was not due till that evening at ten o'clock. 
 The whole day therefore was before him, — the 
 long, beautifial, sunshiny day, — and he, in his own 
 mind, resolved that he would for once make the 
 best of it. He had no wish to deceive his father, — 
 his desire for an ' escapade ' arose out of an in- 
 stinctive longing which he himself had not the 
 skill to analyse, — a longing not only for freedom, 
 but for rest. Turning it over and over in his 
 thoughts now, as he had turned it over and over 
 
38 Ubc /ibtabt^ Btom 
 
 all night, poor child, he could not see that there 
 was any particular harm or mischief in his intention. 
 Neither his father nor mother ever wanted him or 
 sent for him except at luncheon, which was his 
 dinner, — all the rest of the time he was supposed 
 to be with his tutor^ always engaged in learning 
 something useful. But now, it so happened that 
 he was to be left for several hours without any 
 tutor, and why should he not take the chance of 
 liberty while it was offered him.^ He was still 
 mentally debating this question, when Montrose 
 entered softly, portmanteau in hand. 
 
 " Come along, laddie ! " he said with a kind 
 smile — " Step gently ! Nobody's astir, — and I'll 
 aid and abet you in this morning's outing. We're 
 going to breakfast together at Miss Payne's, — 
 the coach won't be here for a long time yet." 
 
 Lionel gave a noiseless jump of delight on the 
 floor, and then did as he was told, creeping after 
 his tutor down the stairs like a velvet-footed 
 kitten, and reddening with excess of timidity 
 and pleasure when the big hall-door was opened 
 cautiously and closed again with equal care behind 
 them, and they stood together among the honey- 
 suckle and wild rose-tangles of the sweetly-scented 
 garden. 
 
Uhc /IDtgbt^ Htom . 39 
 
 " Let me help you carry your portmanteau, 
 Mr. Montrose " — he said sturdily — ^^ I'm sure I 
 can ! 
 
 " Tm sure you can't ! " returned Montrose 
 with a laugh, " Leave it alone, my boy, — it's too 
 heavy for you. Here, you can carry my Homer 
 instead ! " 
 
 Lionel took the well-worn leather-bound 
 volume, and bore it along in both hands reve- 
 rently as though it were a sacred relic. 
 
 '^ Where are you going, Mr. Montrose ? " he 
 asked presently, — " Have you got another boy 
 like me to teach ? " 
 
 " No, — not yet. I wonder if I shall manage 
 to find another boy like you, eh .? Do you 
 think I shall .? " 
 
 Lionel considered seriously for a moment be- 
 fore replying. 
 
 "Well, I don't know," he said at last,— " I 
 suppose there must be some. You see when 
 you're an only boy, you get different to other 
 boys. You've got to try and be more clever, 
 you know. If I had two or three brothers 
 now, my father would want to make every one 
 of them clever, and he wouldn't have to get it 
 all out of me. That's how I look at it," 
 
40 Ube /BMgbt^ Htom 
 
 "Oh, that's how you look at it," echoed 
 Montrose, studying with some compassion the 
 delicate little figure trotting at his side, — " You 
 think your father wants to get the brain-produce 
 of a whole family out of you ? Well, — I believe 
 he does ! " 
 
 ^' Of course he does ! " averred Lionel solemnly, 
 " And it is very natural if you think of it. If 
 you've only got one boy, you expect a good deal 
 from him ! " 
 
 "Too much by half! " growled Montrose, sotto- 
 voce, — then aloud he added — " Well, laddie, you 
 needn't fret yourself, — you are learning quite fast 
 enough, and you know a good deal more now 
 than ever I did at your age. I was at school at 
 Inverness when I was a little chap, and passed 
 nearly all my time fighting, — that's how I learned 
 my lessons ! " 
 
 He laughed, — a joyous ringing laugh which 
 was quite infectious, and Lionel laughed too. It 
 seemed so droll for a boy to pass his time in 
 fighting ! — so very exceptional and extraordinary ! 
 
 " Why, Mr. Montrose," — he exclaimed — "what 
 did you fight so much for ? " 
 
 *' Oh, any excuse was good enough for me ! " 
 returned Montrose gleefully, " If I thought a boy 
 
Ube {^iQbt's Htom 41 
 
 had too long a nose, I pulled it for him, and 
 then we fought the question out together. They 
 were just grand times! — grand!" 
 
 *'I have never fought a boy," — murmured 
 Lionel regretfully, "I never had any boy to 
 fight with ! " 
 
 Montrose looked down at him, and a sudden 
 gravity clouded his previous mirth. 
 
 '' Listen to me, laddie," he said earnestly — 
 " When you have a chance, ask your father to 
 send you to school. You've a tongue in your 
 head, — ask him, — say it's the thing you're longing 
 for, — beg for it as though it were your life. 
 You're quite ready for it ; you'll take a high 
 place at once with what you know, and you'll 
 be as happy as the day is long. You'll find 
 plenty of boys to fight with, — and to conquer ! — 
 fighting is the rule of this world, my boy, and 
 to those who fight well, so is conquering. And 
 it's a good thing to begin practising the business 
 early, — practice makes perfect. Tell your father, 
 — and tell this professor who is coming to take 
 my place, that it is your own wish to go to a 
 public school, — Eton, Harrow, Winchester, — any 
 of them can turn out men." 
 
 Lionel looked pained and puzzled. 
 
42 Hbe llbiQbt^ Htom 
 
 "Yes, — I will ask," — he said — "But Tm sure 
 I shall be refused. Father will never hear of it. 
 The boys in public schools all go to church on 
 Sundays, don't they .? Well, you know I should 
 never be allowed to do (hat ! " 
 
 Montrose made no reply, and they walked on 
 in unbroken silence till they reached the abode 
 of Miss Clarinda Cleverly Payne, where on the 
 threshold stood a bright-eyed, pleasant-faced 
 active personage in a lilac cotton gown and 
 snow-white mob-cap of the fashion of half a 
 century ago. 
 
 " Good-morning sir ! Nice morning ! Good- 
 morning Master Lionel ! Well now, toe be sure, 
 I dew believe the eggs is just laid for you ! I 
 heerd the hens a-clucking the very minute you 
 came in sight ! Ah dearie me ! if we all did our 
 duty when it was expected of us, like my hens, 
 the world would get on a deal better than it dew ! 
 Walk in, sir ! — walk in Master Lionel ! — the 
 table's spread and everything's ready ; the win- 
 dow's open too, for there's a sight o' honeysuckle 
 outside and it dew smell sweet, I can assure you ! 
 Nothing like Devonshire honeysuckle except 
 Devonshire cream ! Ah, and you'll find plenty 
 o* that for breakfast! And I'm sure this little 
 
Ube /DM^bt^ Htom 43 
 
 gentleman's sorry his kind master's going away, 
 eh ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am very sorry, ma'am," said Lionel 
 earnestly, taking off his little cap politely as he 
 looked up at the worthy Clarinda's sunbrowned, 
 honest countenance — " But it isn't much use being 
 sorry, is it ? He must go, and I must stay, — 
 and if I were to fret for a whole year about it, 
 it wouldn't make any difference, would it ? " 
 
 " No, that it wouldn't," — returned Miss Payne, 
 staring hard into the pathetic young eyes that so 
 wistfully regarded her, — " But you see some of us 
 can't take things so sensibly as you do, my dear! 
 — we're not all so clever ! " 
 
 " Clever ! " echoed Lionel, with an accent of 
 such bitterness as might have befitted a cynic 
 of many years' worldly experience — *' I am not 
 clever. I am only crammed." 
 
 "Lord bless us!" exclaimed Clarinda, gazing 
 helplessly about her, — " What does the child 
 mean ? " 
 
 " He means just what he says " — answered 
 Montrose with a slight, rather sad smile, — '* If 
 you had to learn all the things Lionel is supposed 
 to know " 
 
 " Larn ? " interrupted Miss Clarinda with a 
 
44 the /DM^bt^ atom 
 
 sharp sniff — '' Thank the Lord I ain't had no 
 larnin' ! I know how to do my work and live 
 honestly without runnin' into debt^ — and that's 
 enough for me. To see the young gels nowa- 
 days with their books an' their penny papers, all 
 a-gabblin' of a parcel o' rubbish as doesn't consarn 
 'em, — it dew drive me wild, I can tell you ! My 
 niece Susie got one o' them there cheap novels 
 one day, and down she sat, a-readin' an' a-readin', 
 an' she let the cream boil and spoilt it, an' later 
 on in the day, she slipt and fell on the doorstep 
 with a dozen new-laid eggs in her apron and 
 broke eight o' them, — then in a week or two she 
 took to doin' her hair in all sorts o' queer towzley 
 ways, and pinched her waist in, till she couldn't 
 fancy her dinner and her nose got as red as a 
 carrot. I said nothing, — for the more you say 
 to they young things the worse they get, — but 
 at last I got hold o' the book that had done the 
 mischief and took to readin' it myself. Lor ! — 
 I laughed till I nearly spUt ! — a parcel o' nonsense 
 all about a fool of a country wench as couldn't 
 do nothing but make butter, and yet she married 
 a lord an' was took to Court with di'monds an' 
 fal-lals ! — such a muck o' lies was printed in that 
 there bock as was enough to bring the judgment 
 
Ube m^bt^ Htom 45 
 
 of the Almighty on the jackass as wrote it ! I 
 went to my niece and I sez to her, sez I — ' Susie 
 my gel, you're a decent, strong, well-favoured 
 sort o' lass, taken just as God made ye, and if 
 you behave yourself, you may likely marry an 
 honest farmer lad in time, — but if ye get such 
 notions o' lords and ladies as are in this silly lyin* 
 book, an' go doin' o' your hair like crazy Jane, 
 there's not a man in Combmartin as won't despise 
 ye. An' ye'll go to the bad, my gel, as sure as 
 a die ! ' She was a decent lass, Susie, an' she 
 knew I meant well by her, so she just dropped 
 the book down our old dry well in the back yard, 
 seventy feet deep, and took to the cream agin. 
 She's married well now, and lives over at Woola- 
 combe, very comfortably off. She's got a good 
 husband, a poultry-farm and three babies, an' 
 she's no time for novel-readin' now, thanks to 
 the Lord!" 
 
 This narrative, delivered volubly with much 
 oratorical gesture and scarcely any pauses, left 
 Miss Clarinda well-nigh out of breath, and as she 
 and her visitors were now in the one *best parlour' 
 of the cottage, she ceased talking, and bustled 
 about to get them their breakfast. Montrose 
 leaned out of the open lattice-window where the 
 
46 XLbc /iDtgbts Btom 
 
 ^ sight o' honeysuckle ' hung in fragrant garlands, 
 and inhaled the delicious perfume with a deep 
 breath of delight. 
 
 *' It's a bonnie place, this Devonshire," — he 
 said, half to himself and half to Lionel — " But 
 it's not so bonnie as Scotland." 
 
 Lionel had sat down in the window-nook with 
 rather a weary air, the Homer volume still clasped 
 in his hands. 
 
 " Are you going to Scotland soon ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes. I shall go straight home there for a few 
 days and see my mother." Here the young man 
 turned and surveyed his small pupil with involun- 
 tary tenderness. " I wish I could take you with 
 me," he added softly — " My mother would love 
 you, I know." 
 
 Lionel was mute. He was thinking to himself 
 how strange it would seem to be loved by Mr. 
 Montrose's mother, as he was not loved by his 
 own. At that moment, Clarinda Cleverly Payne 
 brought in the breakfast in her usual smart, 
 bustling way ; — excellent tea, new milk, eggs, 
 honey, cream, jam, home-made bread, and scones 
 smoking hot, were all set forth in tempting pro- 
 fusion, and to crown the feast, an antique china 
 basket filled with the rosiest apples and juiciest 
 
TOe MqU^s Htom 47 
 
 pears, was placed in the centre of the table. 
 William Montrose, B.A. and his little friend sat 
 down to their good cheer, each with very different 
 feelings, — ' oor Willie ' with a hearty and appre- 
 ciative appetite, — the boy with only a faint sense 
 of hunger, which was over-weighted by mental 
 fatigue and consequent physical indifference. 
 However he tried to eat well to please the kindly 
 companion from whom he was so soon to be 
 parted, — and it was not till he had quite finished, 
 that Montrose, pushing aside his cup and plate, 
 addressed the following remarks to his late pupil, — 
 *' Look here, Lionel," he said, " I don't want 
 you to forget me. If ever you should take it into 
 your head to run away," — here a deep blush crim- 
 soned Lionel's face, for was he not going to run 
 away that very day.? — "or — or anything of [that 
 sort, just write and tell me all about it first. A 
 letter will always find me at my mother's house, 
 The Nest, Kilmun. I don't, of course, wish to 
 persuade you to run away " — (he looked as if he 
 did though !) " because that would be a very 
 desperate thing to do, — still, if you feel you can't 
 hold up under your lessons, or that Professor 
 Cadman-Gore is too much for you, why, rather 
 than break down altogether, you'd better show 
 
48 Ube /BMgbt^ Htom 
 
 a clean pair of heels. I expect Fm giving you 
 advice which a good many people would think 
 very wrong on my part, — all the same, boys do 
 run away at times^ — it has been done ! " Here 
 his merry blue eyes twinkled. " And if you have 
 any more of that giddiness you complained of the 
 other day, — or if you go ofF in a dead faint as 
 you did last week, — you really mustn't conceal 
 these sensations any longer, — you must tell your 
 father, and let him take you to see a doctor." 
 
 Lionel listened with an air of rather wearied 
 patience. 
 
 *' What's the good of it!" he sighed — "I'm 
 not ill, you know. Besides I've had the doctor 
 before, and he said there was nothing the matter 
 with me. Doctors don't seem to be very clever, — 
 my mother was ill two years ago, and they couldn't 
 cure her. When they gave her up and left her 
 alone, she got well. Things always appear to go 
 that way, — the more you do, the worse you get." 
 
 Montrose was quite accustomed to such a hope- 
 less tone of reasoning from the boy, — yet somehow, 
 on this bright summer morning when he, in the 
 full enjoyment of health and Hberty, was going 
 home to those who loved him, the absolute lone- 
 liness of this child's life and his pathetic resignation 
 
Ube /llM^bt^ Btom 49 
 
 to it, smote him with a keener sense of pain than 
 usual. 
 
 **And as for running away " — continued Lionel, 
 flushing as he spoke — " I might do that perhaps 
 for a few hours, . . . but if I tried to run away 
 for good and go for a sailor, which is what I 
 should like, I should only be brought back, — you 
 know I should. And if I wrote to you about it, 
 I should get you into dreadful trouble. You 
 don't seem to think of all that, Mr. Montrose, 
 but /think of it." 
 
 "You think too much altogether," — said Mon- 
 trose, 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 
 
 4 
 
50 TLbc /IlMabt^ Htoni 
 
 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 youVe 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 
 
Zbc /iBtgbt^ Htom SI 
 
 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 ! CJarinda ! '' 
 
 " Now, if it isn't Hke 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 break- 
 fast into her hand, and audaciously kissed her on 
 the cheek, — (he had no scruples about kissing ker, 
 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 playfial mimick- 
 ing 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 ! " 
 
52 Ubc /IDtobt^ Htom 
 
 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, v/aving 
 one hand, while he grasped his portmanteau with 
 the other, and walked v/ith 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 blev/ 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 
 
Z\)C fllMgbt^ Htom 53 
 
 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. / 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. 
 
54 XTbe /HMgbt^ atom 
 
 " Good-bye ! Good-bye ! " shouted Montrose 
 once morCj 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 dis- 
 missed the idea from his mind, and went on his 
 own solitary way. He was not going home, — no, 
 
XTbe MQbt^ Htom S5 
 
 — 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 Pro- 
 fessor 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 
 
56 XTbe mght>s Htom 
 
 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 aslant, 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 move- 
 ment 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 v/orn and 
 blackened epitaph below — 
 
 HEERE LYETH 
 
 YE EARTHLIE BODIE OF SIMON YEDDIE 
 
 Saddler in Contbtnariin 
 
 WHO DYED 
 
 FULLE OF JOYE AND HOPE TO SEE 
 
 HIS DEARE MASTER 
 
 CHRISTE 
 
 ON THE I7TH DAYE OF JUNE 167I. AGED 102. 
 ' And He lodged in ye House of one Simon, a Tanner.' 
 
58 xibe /nbtgbt^ Htom 
 
 With much difficuhy Lionel made out this 
 quaint inscription, standing, as he did, at some 
 Httle 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 curio- 
 sity, he advanced and discovered the speaker to 
 be a big, broad-shouldered, and exceedingly hand- 
 some 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. 
 
Ube /IDtgbt^ Htom 59 
 
 "Fm 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 alius liked plenty o' 
 room ! Lor' bless 'er ! When she was at her 
 best, she 'minded me of a haystack, — a comfort- 
 able, soft sort o' haystack for the chillern to play 
 an' jump about on, — an' there was alius 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 be a-workin' fur day an' night. 
 
6o ube /IDtgbt^ Htom 
 
 " * 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 beheve 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. 
 
Ubc /Ubiobtp Htom 6i 
 
 " 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 
 isnt 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 mar- 
 velling — " 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 
 
62 Zhc /Iftt^bt^ atom 
 
 worms? — and that is what I meant, when I asked 
 how you could beheve 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 '11 come when they '11 be laid 
 down in a grave like this 'ere, stark an' stiff an' 
 dccayin' away to the bone, a-makin' soil fur 
 vi'lets an' daisies to grow over me. But what o' 
 
Zbc /llbtabt^ Htom 63 
 
 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 '11 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, — " Lef 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 — 
 
64 Zbc /IDiabt^ Htom 
 
 " 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 for- 
 getful 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." 
 
 " I believe that," — said Lionel, heaving a little 
 sigh, — " I can't help believing it, though it's not 
 what I've been taught. My body is weak ; it 
 aches all over often. Still, I think, Mr. Dale, 
 that souls, such as you talk about, must be excep- 
 tions, you know. Like blue eyes, for instance, — 
 
 5 
 
66 ube /HM^bti^ Htom 
 
 everybody hasn't got blue eyes ; well, perhaps 
 everybody hasn't got a soul. You see that might 
 be how it is. My father would be very angry if 
 you told him he had a soul. And I know he will 
 never let me have one, not even if I could grow 
 it somehow." 
 
 Reuben Dale was speechless. He gazed at the 
 boy's small sad face in wonder too great for 
 words. Himself a simple-hearted God-fearing 
 man who had lived all his life at Combmartin, 
 v/orking hard for his daily bread, and entirely 
 contented with his humble lot, he had never 
 heard of the feverish and foolish discussions held 
 in over-populated cities, v/here deluded men and 
 women shut out God from their consciences, as 
 they shut out the blue sky by the toppling height 
 and close crowding together of their hideous 
 houses, — where the very press teaches blasphemy 
 and atheism, and permits to pass into the hands 
 of the public, with praise and recommendation, 
 such lewd books as might move even a Rabelais 
 to sick abhorrence. And he certainly had never 
 deemed it possible that any form of government 
 could exist in the world, which favoured the 
 bringing-up and education of children without 
 religion. He had heard of France, — but he was 
 
Zhc /IIMQbty Htom 67 
 
 not aware that it had eschewed reJlgion from its 
 public schools,, and was rapidly becoming a mere 
 forcing-bed for the production of child-thieves, 
 child-murderers, and child-parricides. He be- 
 lieved in England as he believed in God, with 
 that complete and glorious faith in mother-country 
 which makes the nation great, — and it would have 
 been a shock to his steadfast, deeply religious 
 nature, had he been told that even this beloved 
 England of ours, misled by those who should 
 have been her best guardians, was accepting 
 lessons from France in open atheism, ' Simianism,' 
 and general * free ' morality. Thus, the child that 
 sat before him was a kind of unnatural prodigy 
 to his sight, — the little pale face, framed in an 
 aureole of fair curling hair, might have aptly fitted 
 an angel, — but the elderly manner, the methodical, 
 precise fashion in which this young thing spoke, 
 seemed to honest Reuben * uncanny,' and he 
 ruffled his beard with one hand in dire perplexity, 
 quite taken aback, and at a loss how to continue 
 the conversation. For how could he give any 
 instruction in the art of ^ growing ' a soul ? 
 Happily however, a diversion here occurred in 
 the sudden, almost noiseless approach of a tiny 
 girl, with the prettiest little face imaginable, that 
 
68 TL\)c ifbiQht^s Htom 
 
 peered out like a pink rose from under a white 
 ' poke ' sun-bonnet and a tangle of nut-brown 
 curls, — a little girl who appeared to Lionel's eyes 
 like a vision of Helen of Troy in miniature, so 
 lovely and dainty was her aspect. He had never 
 been allowed to read any fairy-tales, so he could 
 not liken her to a fairy, which would have been 
 more natural, — but he had done a lot of heavy 
 translation-work in Homer, and he knew that all 
 the heroes in the ' Iliad ' quarrelled about this 
 Helen, and that she was very beautiful. There- 
 fore he immediately decided that Helen of Troy 
 when she was a little girl (she must have been 
 a little girl once !) was exactly like the charming 
 small person who now came towards him, carrying 
 a wicker basket on her arm, and tripping across 
 graves as delicately as though she were nothing 
 but a blossom blown over them by the summer 
 breeze. 
 
 '' Halloa ! " exclaimed Reuben Dale, throwing 
 down his spade, " Here's my little 'un ! Well, 
 my Jas'min flower ! Bringin' a snack for th' 
 old feyther?" 
 
 At this query the little girl smiled, creating 
 a luminous effect beneath her poke-bonnet as 
 though a sunbeam were caught within it, — then 
 
TLbc /IDlgbt^ Btom 69 
 
 she made a small round O of her tiny red mouth, 
 with the evident intention to thereby convey a 
 hint of something delicious. And finally she 
 opened her basket, and took out a brown jug, 
 full of hot fragrant coffee, lavishly frothed at the 
 top with cream, and two big slices of home-made 
 bread and butter. 
 
 " Is that right, feyther ? " she inquired, as she 
 carefully set these delicacies on the edge of the 
 grave within her father's reach. 
 
 " That's right, my bird ! " — responded Reuben, 
 lifting her in his arms high above his head, and 
 giving her a sounding kiss on both her rosy 
 cheeks as he put her down again — " An' look 
 'ere Jessamine, there's a little gemmun for ye to 
 talk to. Go an' say how-d'y-do to 'im." 
 
 Thus commanded, Jessamine obeyed, strictly to 
 the letter. She went to where Lionel sat admir- 
 ingly watching her, and put out her dumpy mite 
 of a hand. 
 
 " How-d'y-do ! " said she. And before Lionel 
 could utter a word in reply she had shaken her 
 curls defiantly, and run away ! The boy sprang 
 up, pained and perplexed ; — Reuben Dale laughed. 
 
 " After her, my lad ! Run ! — the run'll do 
 ye good! She's just like that at first, — fur all 
 
70 trbe /BMgbt^ Htom 
 
 the world like a kitten, fond o' fun ! Ye'll find 
 'er a-hidin' round the corner ! " 
 
 Thus encouraged, Lionel ran, — actually ran, — 
 a thing he very seldom did. He became almost 
 a hero, like the big men of the * Iliad ' ! His 
 ' Helen ' was ' a-hidin' round the corner,' — he 
 was valiantly determined to find her, — and after 
 dodging the little white sun-bonnet round trees 
 and over tombs till he was well-nigh breathless, 
 she, like all feminine things, condescended to be 
 caught at last, and to look shyly in the face of 
 her youthful captor. 
 
 " What boy be you ? " she asked, biting the 
 string of her sun-bonnet with an air of demure 
 coquetry — " You be prutty, — all th' boys roond 
 'ere be oogly." 
 
 Oh, what an accent for a baby ' Helen of 
 Troy ' ! — and yet how charming it was to hear 
 her say ' oogly,' because she made another of 
 those little round O's of her mouth that suggested 
 deliciousness ; — even the deliciousness of kissing. 
 Lionel thought he would like to kiss her, and 
 coloured hotly at the very idea. Meanwhile his 
 ' Helen of Troy ' continued her observation of 
 him. 
 
 " Would 'ee like an aaple ^ " she demanded. 
 
Ubc /IDtcibty Htom 71 
 
 producing a small, very rosy one from the depths 
 of a miniature pocket, — " I'll gi' ye this, if s'be 
 ye'se let me bite th' red bit oot." 
 
 If ever a young lady looked * fetching,' as the 
 slang phrase expresses it, Miss Jessamine Dale did 
 so at that moment. What with the mischievous 
 light in her dark blue eyes, and the smile on her 
 little mouth as she suggested that she should 
 * bite the red bit,' and the altogether winsome, 
 provocative, innocent allurement of her manner, 
 Lionel quite lost his head for the moment, and 
 forgot everything but the natural facts that he 
 was a little boy, and she v/as a little girl. He 
 laughed merrily, — such a laugh as he had not 
 enjoyed for many a weary day, — and taking the 
 apple from her hand, held it to her lips while 
 she carefully closed her tiny teeth on the ' red 
 bit' and secured it, the juice dropping all over 
 her dimpled chin. 
 
 "I'm to have the rest, am I.?" said Lionel 
 then, venturing to hold her by the arm and assist 
 her over a very large and very ancient grave, 
 wherein reposed, as the half-broken tombstone 
 said, "Ye Bodie of Martha Dumphy, Aged 
 Ninety-seven Yeeres." Long, long ago lived 
 Martha Dumphy, — long, long ago she died, — but 
 
72 TLbc /IDigbty Htom 
 
 could anything of her have still been conscious, 
 she would have felt no offence or sacrilege in 
 the tread of those innocent young feet that sprang 
 so lightly over her last resting-place. 
 
 " Yes, you're to 'ave the rest/' — replied Jessa- 
 mine benevolently, — then with an infinite slyness 
 and humour she added — *' I've got 'nuther i' my 
 poacket ! " 
 
 How they laughed, to be sure ! Forgetful of 
 'Ye Bodie of Martha Dumphy,' they sat down 
 on the grass that covered her old bones, and 
 enjoyed their apples to the full. Miss Jessamine 
 generously bestowing the ' red bit ' of the second 
 apple on Lionel, who, though he was not really 
 hungry, found something curiously appetising in 
 these stray morsels of juicy fruit lately plucked 
 from the tree. 
 
 " Coom into th' church," — then said Jessamine, 
 " Feyther's left the door open. Coom an' see 
 th' big lilies on th' Lord's table." 
 
 Lionel looked into her lovely little face, feeling 
 singularly embarrassed by this invitation. He 
 knew what she meant of course, — he had been 
 duly instructed in the form of the Christian 
 * myth,' as a myth only, in company with all 
 the other creeds known to history. They had 
 
Uhc /nMQbt^ Htom 73 
 
 been bracketed together for his study and con- 
 sideration in a group of twelve, thus : — 
 
 1. Of Phta, and the Egyptian mythology. 
 
 2. Of Brahma, Vishnu and the Hindoo Cults. 
 
 3. Of the Chaldean and Phoenician creeds. 
 
 4. Of the Greek and Roman gods. 
 
 5. Of Buddha and Buddhism. 
 
 6. Of Confucius and the Chinese sects. 
 
 7. Of the Mexican mythology. 
 
 8. Of Odin and the Norse beliefs. 
 
 9. Of Mohammedanism and the Koran. 
 
 10. Of the Talmud, and Jewish tradition. 
 
 1 1 . Of Christ, and the gradual founding of 
 the Christian myth on the relics of Greek and 
 Roman Paganism. 
 
 12. Of the Advance of Positivism and Pure 
 Reason, in which all these creeds are proved to 
 be without foundation, and merely serving as 
 obstacles to the Intellectual Progress of Man. 
 
 The above ^ schedule ' had formed a very special 
 and particular part of Lionel's education, and he 
 had been carefully taught that only semi-barbarians 
 believed nowadays in anything divine or super- 
 natural. The intellectual classes fully understood, 
 so he was told, that there was no God, and that 
 the First Cause of the universe was merely an 
 
74 XTbe /IDtgbt^ Htom 
 
 Atom, productive of other atoms which moved in 
 circles of fortuitous regularity, shaping worlds in- 
 differently, and without any Mind-force whatever 
 behind the visible Matter. Thus had the intel- 
 lectual classes fathomed the Eternal, entirely to 
 their own satisfaction, — and of course he, poor 
 little Lionel, was being brought up to take his 
 place among the intellectual classes, where his 
 father was already a shining hght of dogmatic 
 pedantry. He was assured that only the poor, 
 the ignorant, and the feeble-minded still appealed 
 to God as " Our Father," and believed in the 
 socialist workman, Jesus of Nazareth, as a Divine 
 Personage whose way of life and death had shown 
 all men the road to Heaven. One of the chief 
 faults found with Willie Montrose as a tutor, had 
 been his impHcit faith in these supernatural things, 
 and his point-blank refusal to teach his young 
 pupil otherwise. Hence the subject, Religion, 
 had been removed altogether from Lionel's * course 
 of study,' and the unswerving firmness Montrose 
 had shown on the matter had led, among other 
 more trifling drawbacks, to his dismissal. All 
 this was fresh in the boy's mind, — and now Jessa- 
 mine said " Coom an' see th' big lilies on th' 
 Lord's table ! " She, then, was one of the ' semi- 
 
Zbc /Ifttobt^ Htom 75 
 
 barbarians/ this pretty little girl, — and yet how 
 happy she seemed ! — what an innocent, dove-like 
 expression of tenderness and trust shone in her 
 eyes as she spoke ! How very young she was ! — 
 and alas, how very old he felt as he looked at her ! 
 She knew so little, — he had learned so much, and 
 though he was but four years her senior, he 
 seemed in his own pained consciousness to be an 
 elderly man studying the merry pranks of a child. 
 
 " Coom ! " repeated Jessamine, — her * coom ' 
 sounding very like the soft note of a ring-dove, 
 as she got up from the grassy bed of ' Martha 
 Dumphy's ' everlasting sleep — " It be cool i' th' 
 church, — we'll sit i' th' poopit an' y' shall tell me 
 a story 'bout Heaven. Y' know all 'bout angels 
 don't 'ee ? How they cooms down all in white 
 an' kisses us when we'se in bed asleep ? Did ever 
 any of 'em kiss 'ee ? " 
 
 Lionel's lonely little heart beat strangely. An 
 angel kiss him ! — what a sweet fancy, — but how 
 foolish ! Yet with Jessamine's face so near his 
 own he could not tell her that he did not believe 
 in angels, she looked so like a little one herself. 
 So he answered her quaint question with a simple 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " I would ha' thowt they did," — continued 
 
76 Ubc /IDtobt^ Htom 
 
 Jessamine encouragingly — " Ye bain't a bad boy, 
 be ye ? " 
 
 Lionel smiled rather plaintively. 
 
 *' Perhaps I am " — he said, — " and perhaps 
 that's why the angels don't come." 
 
 " My mother's an angel," went on Jessamine, 
 " She couldn't abear bein' away from God no 
 longer, an' so she flew to Heaven one night quite 
 suddint, with big white wings an' a star on her 
 head. Feyther says she often flies doon jes' 
 for a minute like, an' kisses 'im, an' me too, 
 when we'se asleep. Auntie Kate takes care of 
 us since she went." 
 
 " Then she is dead ^ " queried Lionel. 
 
 " Nowt o' that," — replied Jessamine peacefully, 
 "Hasn't I told 'ee she's an angel?" 
 
 " But have you ever seen her since she went 
 away ? " persisted the boy. 
 
 " No. I bain't good enough," — and a small 
 sigh of pathetic self-reproach heaved the baby 
 breast — " I'se very little yet, an' bad offen. But 
 I'll see her some day for sure." 
 
 Lionel could find nothing to say to this, and 
 in another minute they had entered the church 
 together. The subtle sweet fragrance of the 
 ' big lilies on th' Lord's table ' came floating 
 
XTbe /IIMGbt^ Htom 77 
 
 towards them on a cool breath of air as the 
 heavy old oaken door swung open and closed 
 again, and they paused in the aisle, hand in 
 hand, looking gravely up and down, — first at the 
 tall white flowers that filled the gilt vases on 
 either side of the altar, mystically suggesting in 
 their snowy stateliness, the words ' Blessed are 
 the pure in heart, for they shall see God ' ; — 
 then, at the patterns of blue, red and amber cast 
 on the stone pavement by the reflections of the 
 sun through the stained-glass windows. The 
 ancient roof, with its crookedly planned oak 
 mouldings of the very earliest English style of 
 architecture, had a grave and darkening efl^ect 
 on the sunshine, and the solemn hush of the 
 place, expressive of past prayer, impressed Lionel 
 with a sweet yet unfamiliar sense of rest. Jessa- 
 mine grasped his hand closer. 
 
 " Coom into th' poopit," — she whispered — 
 " There be soft cushions there an' a big big 
 Bible, — I'll show 'ee a pictur," — here she opened 
 her eyes very wide — " 7vy pictur ! — my own very 
 best pictur ! " 
 
 Somewhat curious to see this treasure, Lionel 
 climbed with her up the pulpit-stairs, feehng 
 that he was really having what might be called 
 
78 XTbe /HMobt^ Htom 
 
 an adventure on this his stolen holiday. Jessa- 
 mine was evidently quite familiar with the pulpit 
 as a coign of vantage, for she hauled the big 
 Bible she had spoken of out of its recess with 
 much care and much breathless labour, and placed 
 it on a velvet cushion on the floor. Then she 
 curled herself down beside it and, turning over 
 a few pages, beckoned Lionel to kneel and look 
 also. 
 
 " Here 'tis ! " she said with a soft chuckle of 
 rapture — " See ! See this prutty boy ! — you's 
 somethin' a bit like, aint'y.^ An' see all these 
 oogly ole men ! They'se wise people, so they 
 thinks. An' th' prutty boy's tellin' 'em how 
 silly they be, an' aw' in a muddle wi' their books 
 an' larnin,' — an' how good God is, an' all 'bout 
 Heaven, — see ! An' they'se very angry wi'm an' 
 'stonished, 'cos He's onny a boy, an' they'se all 
 ole men as cross as sticks. An' there He is y'sec, 
 an' He knows all about what they oogly men 
 doan't know, 'cos He's the little Jesus." 
 
 The subject of the picture was Christ expound- 
 ing the Law to the doctors of the Temple, and 
 Lionel studied it with an almost passionate interest. 
 Only a boy ! — and yet in His boyhood He was 
 able to teach the would-be wise men of His day ! 
 
" Though," thought Lionel, with his usual melan- 
 choly cynicism, " perhaps they were not really 
 wise, and that is why He found it easy." 
 
 Meanwhile Jessamine having gloated over her 
 ' own best pictur ' sufficiently, shut the book, 
 put it religiously back in its place, and sat herself 
 down beside her companion on the top step of 
 the pulpit-stair. 
 
 " Wot's y' name ^ " she demanded. 
 
 " Lionel," he answered. 
 
 "Li'nel.? How funny ! Wot'sLi'nel.f^ 'Taint 
 a flower.^ " 
 
 "Nc. Tour name is a flower." 
 
 " 'Iss ! Our jess'mine tree was all over bloom 
 the mornin' I was born, an' that's why I'm called 
 Jessamine. 1 likes my name better'n your'n." 
 
 *' So do I," said Lionel smiling — " Mine is not 
 nearly such a pretty name. My mother calls me 
 Lylie." 
 
 " I hkes that, — that's prutty, — Fse call'y Lylie 
 too," declared Miss Jessamine promptly, and as 
 she spoke she slipped an arm confidingly round 
 his neck — " You be a nice boy Lylie ! Now tell 
 me a story ! " 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Lionel gazed at her in deeper perplexity than 
 ever. What story could he tell her ? He knew 
 none that were likely to charm or interest a 
 creature so extremely young. It was very de- 
 lightful to feel her warm chubby arm round his 
 neck, and to see her dear little face so close to his 
 own, and he thought, as he looked, that he had 
 never seen such beautiful blue eyes before, not 
 even his mother's, which he had, till now, considered 
 beautiful enough. But Jessamine's eyes had such 
 heavenly sweetness in their liquid depths, and 
 something moreover beyond mere sweetness, — 
 the untroubled light of a spotless innocence such 
 as sometimes makes the softly-tinted cup of a 
 woodland flower remind one involuntarily of a 
 child's eyes. Only a very few flowers convey 
 this impression, — the delicate azure circle of the 
 hepatica, — the dark purple centre of the pansy, — 
 the pensive blue of the harebell, — the frank smiling 
 
 So 
 
XTbe /llMgbt^ Btom si 
 
 sky-tint of the forget-me-not, or the iris-veined 
 heart of the Egyptian lotus. But the child-look 
 is in such blossoms, and we often recognise it 
 when we come suddenly upon them peering 
 heavenwards out of the green tangles of grass and 
 fern. Jessamine's eyes were a mixture of grave 
 pansy-hues and laughing forget-me-nots^ and when 
 she smiled both these flowers appeared to meet 
 with a pretty rivalry in her shining glances. And 
 once again Lionel thought of Helen of Troy. 
 
 '' Ain't 'ee got no story ? " quoth she presently, 
 after waiting a patient two minutes — " What book 
 be that there ? " 
 
 And she put a dumpy little red finger on the 
 copy of Homer left behind by Willie Montrose 
 and still carried under Lionel's arm. 
 
 " It's Homer," replied the boy promptly — '' My 
 tutor went away by the first coach this morning 
 and he forgot to take it with him. It's his book, 
 and a favourite copy, — I must send it to him by 
 post." 
 
 " 'Iss, — 'ee must send it to him," echoed Jes- 
 samine approvingly — "What be 'Omer?" 
 
 " He was a great poet, — the first great poet that 
 ever lived, so far as history knows, and he was an 
 ancient Greek,'" — explained Lionel — ** He lived 
 
 6 
 
82 Uhc /IlMobtp Htom 
 
 — oh, ages ago. He tells all about the Trojan 
 wars in this book ; it's an epic." 
 
 " What's epik ^ " inquired Jessamine — ^^ An 
 what's Droj unwors .^ " 
 
 Lionel laughed softly. The gravity of the old 
 church roof hung over him, otherwise his laughter 
 would have been less restrained. 
 
 " You wouldn't understand it, if I told you, 
 dear," he said, becoming suddenly protective and 
 manful as he realised her delightful ignorance and 
 weakness — ^' Homer was a poet, — do you know 
 what poetry is ? " 
 
 ^' 'Iss, — 'deed I do ! " declared Jessamine, allow- 
 ing her head to droop caressingly on his shoulder, 
 "I've 'eerd a lot o't. I'll tell you some, — it be 
 like this — 
 
 ** ' Gentle Jesus meek an' mild, 
 Look upon a little child, 
 Pity my simplicitie 
 An' suffer me to come to Thee ! ' " 
 
 She looked up as she finished the familiar stanza 
 with one of her radiant baby smiles. 
 
 " Didn't I say that nice ? " she demanded. 
 
 "Very nice ! " murmured Lionel, while thoughts 
 were flying round and round in his brain con- 
 cerning the ' semi-barbarians who still believed in 
 
the Christian myth/ which was one of his father's 
 constantly repeated and favourite phrases. 
 
 *'Now tell me some more 'Omer an' Drojun- 
 wors," — she said, nestling against him like a soft 
 kitten — " Is it 'bout angels ? " 
 
 " No," replied Lionel, — " It is all about great 
 big men, — very big men " 
 
 " Too big to get into this church ? " queried 
 Jessamine in awe-struck tones. 
 
 " Yes — I believe they would have been too big 
 to get into this church " — said Lionel, smiling 
 involuntarily — " And they all fought about a lady 
 called Helen, who was the m.ost beautiful woman 
 in the world." 
 
 "Why did she let 'em fight .^ " asked Jessamine 
 gravely — " She was not a good lady to let the 
 poor big men fight an' 'urt theirselves for 'er. She 
 should 'ave made 'em all friends." 
 
 " She couldn't," — said Lionel — " You see they 
 wouldn't be friends." 
 
 "They must ha' been funny big men !" mur- 
 mured Jessamine — "Where be they all now.^ " 
 
 " Oh, dead ever so long ago ! " laughed the 
 boy — " Some people say they never lived at all ! " 
 
 "Oh then it's all fairy-tale like Puss-in-Boots," 
 said Jessamine — "Your Drojunwors is a fairy- 
 
84 Ube /llMgbt^ Htom 
 
 book like mine. Only I like Puss-in-Boots better. 
 Do 'ee know my fairy-book } " 
 
 Lionel had never had what is called a ' fairy- 
 book ' in his life, fairy-books having been 
 considered by his father in the same light as 
 that with which Mr. H. Holman, one of Her 
 Majesty's Inspectors of Schools recently regarded 
 them, publicly denouncing them as *' dangerous 
 to morality and mischievous as to knowledge, con- 
 tradicting the most obvious and elementary facts 
 of experience/' (Alas, good Dry-as-Dust Holman! 
 How much thou art to be pitied for never having 
 been in the least young ! And dost thou not 
 realise that Religion itself in all its forms of creed, 
 ^contradicts the most obvious and elementary 
 facts of experience ' .?) The little Lionel was 
 unacquainted with Mr. Holman, but he knew his 
 own father's stern contempt for fairy-tales, even 
 for those which have, in many cases, strangely 
 foretold some of the most brilliant recent dis- 
 coveries in science, so he replied to Jessamine's 
 question by a negative shake of his head, the 
 while he gazed admiringly at the nut-brown 
 curls that rippled in charming disarray on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 '' I'll tell 'ee somcthin' in it," — she continued. 
 
Ube /IDigbt^ Htom 85 
 
 with the thinking dreamy air of a child-angel 
 rapt in some sublime reverie — ** There wos once 
 a little girl an' a httle boy, — 'bout s' big as we 
 be, — they wos good an' prutty, an' they'd got a 
 bad, bad ole uncle. He couldn't abide 'em 'cos 
 they wos s' good an' 'e wos s' bad ; so one day 
 'e took 'em out in a great big dark wood where 
 no sun couldn't shine, an' there 'e lost 'em both. 
 An' when they wos lost, they walked 'bout, up 
 an' down, an' couldn't get out nohow, an' they 
 got tired an' 'ungry, an' so they laid down an' 
 said their prayers, an' put their arms round each 
 other's necks, — so — " and here Jessamine cuddled 
 closer — " an' died jest right off, an' God took 
 'em straight to Heaven. An' then all the robin 
 redbreasts i' th' wood were sorry 'bout it, an' 
 they came an' covered 'em all over wi' beautiful 
 red an' green leaves, 'cos God told the robins to 
 bury 'em jest so, 'cos they wos good an' their ole 
 uncle wos bad, an' the robins did jest what God 
 told 'em. ' Her voice died away in a soft crood- 
 ling whisper, and her eyelids drooped. ^' Was 
 that a nice story ? " she asked. 
 
 " Very ! " responded Lionel almost paternally, 
 feeling quite old and wise, as he ventured now 
 to put his own arm round her. 
 
86 Ube /lIMgbt^ Htom 
 
 *' I fink," murmured Jessamine then — ^^ tnat 'oor 
 bad ole Drojunwors 'as made me sleepy." 
 
 And as a matter of fact, in a couple of minutes, 
 the little maiden was fast asleep, her pretty mouth 
 half open like a tiny rosebud, and the light rise 
 and fall of her breathing suggesting the delicate 
 palpitations of a dove's breast. Lionel sat very 
 quiet, still encircling her with his arm, and looked 
 dreamily about him. He studied the altar-screen 
 immediately in front of him, regarding with some- 
 what of a gravely inquiring air the ancient, roughly 
 carved oaken figures of the twelve apostles that 
 partly formed it. He knew all about them of 
 course, — -that they were originally common fisher- 
 men picked up on the shores of Galilee by Jesus 
 the son of Joseph the carpenter, and that they 
 went about with Him everywhere, while He 
 preached the new strange Gospel of Love which 
 seemed like madness to a world of contention, 
 envy and malice. They were just poor ordinary 
 men ; — not kings, — not warriors, — not nobly 
 born, — not distinguished for either learning or 
 courage, — and yet they had become far greater 
 in history than any monarch that ever lived, — 
 they were evangelists, saints, nay almost secondary 
 gods in the opinion of a section of ^ semi-barbaric ' 
 
Ube fSbiQbt^ Htom 87 
 
 mankind. It was very strange ! — very strange 
 indeed, thought Lionel as he gazed earnestly at 
 their quaint wooden faces, — and stranger still that 
 a mere man who was a carpenter's son, should have 
 made the larger and more civilised portion of 
 humanity believe in Him as God, for more than 
 eighteen hundred years ! What had He done ? 
 Why nothing, — but good. What had He taught? 
 Nothing — but purity and unselfishness. What 
 was He ? A determined reformer, who strove to 
 upset the hard and fast laws of Jewish tradition, 
 and unite all classes in one broad and holy creed 
 of love to God and Brotherhood, — a union of 
 the Divine and Human which should ultimately 
 lead to perfection. Even the various tutors who 
 had taken their several turns at setting poor 
 Lionel's little mind like a knife to the grindstone 
 of learning, had been unable to say otherwise than 
 that this Nazarene carpenter's son was good and 
 wise and brave. In goodness none ever surpassed 
 Him, — that was certain. Socrates was wise and 
 brave, — but he was not actually good ; — many 
 sins could be laid to his charge, and the same 
 could be asserted of all the other famous moralists 
 and philosophers who had essayed to teach the 
 various successive generations of men. But against 
 
88 Uhc /IIM^bt^ Htom 
 
 Christ, nothing could be said. True, He denounced 
 the Jewish priesthood on the score that they were 
 hypocrites ; " and surely," — thought Lionel with a 
 prescience beyond his years, "He would have to 
 denounce the Christian priesthood too, if it is true, 
 as my father says, that they all preach what they 
 don't believe, simply to gain a living." He 
 sighed, — and his eyes wandered to the ' big lilies 
 on th' Lord's table ' with a wistful yearning. 
 Those great white cups of fragrance ! — with what 
 sweet pride they stood up, each on its green 
 stem, and silently breathed out praise to the 
 Creator of their loveliness ! " Behold the hlles of 
 the field ! — they toil not, neither do they spin, 
 and yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his 
 glory was not arrayed hke one of these." How 
 true that was ! Put ' Solomon in all his glory ' 
 or any monarch that ever existed beside ' one of 
 these ' tall fair flowers, and he in his coronation- 
 robes and crown, would seem but a mere doll- 
 puppet decked out in tawdry tinsel. Lionel drew 
 the little Jessamine closer to him as she slept, and 
 sighed again, — the unconscious sigh of a tired 
 young thing overweighted with thought, and long- 
 ing for rest and tenderness. The summer sunlight 
 streamed down upon the two children with a broad 
 
Ube /BMGbt^ Htom 89 
 
 beneficence, ^s though the love of Christ for the 
 weak and helpless were mixed with the golden 
 rays, — as though the very silence and purity of 
 the light expressed the Divine meaning, — "These 
 ' little ones ' are Mine as the lilies are Mine ! 
 Suffer them to com.e to Me and forbid them not, 
 for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven." And as 
 Lionel mused and dreamed, becoming gradually 
 drowsy himself, the church-door swung softly 
 open, and Reuben Dale the verger entered, with 
 another and younger man, who carried a roll ot 
 music under his arm, and who immediately ascended 
 alone to the organ-loft. Dale meanwhile paused, 
 lifting his cap reverently, and looking about him 
 in evident search for his little girl. Lionel beck- 
 oned to him from the pulpit-stairs, at the same 
 time laying a finger on his lips to intimate that 
 Jessamine was asleep. Honest Reuben advanced 
 on tip-toe, and surveyed the two small creatures 
 encircled in one another's arms, with undisguised 
 and good-natured admiration. 
 
 " Now that's jest prutty ! " he murmured in- 
 audibly to himself — "An as nat'ral as two young 
 burrds ! An' yon poor pale little lad looks a'most 
 as if he was 'appy for once in's life ! " 
 
 At that moment a solemn chord of sound stirred 
 
90 xrbe jfllM^bt^ Htom 
 
 the air, — the organist had commenced his daily 
 practice, and was deftly unweaving the melodious 
 intricacies of a stately fugue of Bach's, made doubly 
 rich in tone by the grave pedal-bass with which it 
 was sustained and accompanied. Lionel started, — 
 and Jessamine awoke. Rubbing her chubby little 
 fists into her eyes, she sat up, yawned and stared, — 
 then smiled bewitchingly as she saw her father. 
 
 '' We wos babes i' th' wood " — she explained 
 sweetly — *'An' we wos waitin' fur the robins to 
 come an' cover us up. Onny I 'specs they couldn't 
 git froo th' windows to bring th' leaves." 
 
 " I 'specs not indeed ! " said Dale, the kind smile 
 broadening on his mouth and lighting up his fine 
 eyes — "Now ye jest coom out o' that there 
 poopit, ye little pixie — it's dinner-time, an' we'se 
 goin' 'ome." 
 
 Jessamine rose promptly and skipped down the 
 pulpit-stairs, Lionel following her. 
 
 " Coom along wi' us," — she said taking him 
 affectionately by the arm — " Ain't 'e a'-coomin' 
 feyther ? — 'e be a rare nice boy ! " 
 
 " If s' be as 'e likes to coom, why sartinly an' 
 welcome!" responded Reuben, — *' But he's a 
 httle gemmun as 'as got a feyther an' mother o's 
 own, an' mebbe they wants 'im." 
 
XTbe /IDtgbt^ Htom 91 
 
 Lionel stood silent and inert. They were going 
 away ' home/ — this cheery verger and his pretty 
 child, — and the old creeping sense of oppression 
 and loneliness stole over the boy's mind and 
 chilled his heart. The music surging out from 
 the organ-loft moved him strangely to thoughts 
 hitherto unfamiliar, — and he thought he would 
 stay alone in the church and listen, and try to 
 understand the subtle meaning of such glorious, 
 yet wordless eloquence. It seemed like angels 
 singing, — only there were no angels ! — it made 
 one fancy the gates of Heaven were open, — only 
 there was no Heaven ! — it suggested God's great 
 voice speaking tenderly, — only there was no God ! 
 A deep sigh broke from him, — and all uncon- 
 sciously two big tears rose in his eyes, and splashed 
 down wet and glistening on his little blue woollen 
 vest. In a second the impulsive Jessamine had 
 thrown her arms about him. 
 
 " O don't 'ee ky ! " she crooned fondly in his 
 ear — " We'se both goin' 'ome wi' feyther, an' 'e'll 
 be kind t' ye ! An' when we've 'ad our dinner 
 I'll show 'ee my dee ole 'oss ! — such a nice ole 
 'oss 'e be ! " 
 
 Despite himself Lionel laughed, though his lips 
 still trembled. Poor boy, he could hardly himself 
 
92 XLbc /IIMabty Htom 
 
 understand the cause of his own emotion, — why 
 his heart had given that sudden heave of pain, 
 — why the tears had come, — or why he had felt 
 so desolately, sorrowfully alone in a huge, cold, 
 pitiless world, — but he was grateful to Jessamine 
 all the same for her sympathy. Reuben Dale 
 meanwhile had been studying him gravely and 
 curiously. 
 
 *' Would 'ee reely like to coom an' take a snack 
 wi' us, little zur?" he asked gently and with a 
 certain deference — " Ours is onny a poor cottage, 
 ye know, an sadly out o' repair, — we'se 'ad no 
 lord o' th' manor coom nigh us for many a year 
 to look arter us an' see how we be a-farin', — none 
 o' them fine folks cares for either our souls or 
 bodies, purvidin' they gits their money out o' our 
 labour an' worrit. All we 'as by way o' remem- 
 brance from 'em is a ' love-letter ' twice a year 
 a-claimin' o' their rent, — they never fails to send us 
 that 'ffectionate message " — and his eyes twinkled 
 humorously — " but as fur puttin' a new fence or 
 a new roof or makin' of us comfortabler like for 
 our money. Lor' bless 'ee, they never thinks o't. 
 But if ye'll take us as ye find us, ye'll be right 
 welcome to coom on an' play wi' Jessamine a bit 
 longer." 
 
Ubc /nMGbt^ Htom 93 
 
 " Thank you very much, — I should dearly like 
 to come," — said Lionel wistfully — "You see I am 
 all alone just now, — my tutor went away this 
 morning, and another tutor is coming to-night 
 to take his place, — but in the meantime there is 
 nothing for me to do, as the plan of my studies 
 is going to be changed, — it is always being 
 changed, — and so I may as well be here as at 
 home. I am giving myself a holiday to-day " — 
 here he raised his eyes and looked Reuben Dale 
 straight in the face — " and I wish to tell you 
 Mr. Dale, that I am doing it without my father's 
 knowledge or permission. I am so tired of books ! 
 — and I love to be out in the fresh air. Of 
 course now you know this, you mayn't wish to 
 have me, but then if you will please say so, I 
 will go into the woods for the rest of the day, 
 or stay by myself in the church. I should like 
 to see more of the church, — it interests me." 
 
 Dale regarded the little fellow steadfastly, first in 
 doubt and perplexity — then with a broadening smile 
 
 " Tired o' books, be 'ee ? " he queried — "Well ! 
 — yeVe young enough, sure-Zy ! An' books can 
 wait awhile for ye. Reyther than go wanderin' 
 i' th' woods by y'self, ye'd better coom along wi' 
 me an' Jessamine, — onny mind, ye must tell yer 
 
94 Ube /iDlobty Htom 
 
 feyther where ye ha' been, — ye must be sartin 
 zure o' that I " 
 
 ^'Of course I'll tell him/' — responded Lionel 
 manfully — " I always tell him everything, no 
 matter how angry he is. You see he is very often 
 angry, whatever I do or say, — though he means 
 it all for my good. He is a very good man, — he 
 has never done anything wrong in all his life." 
 
 *'Ay, ay! Then he's jest a miracle:" said 
 Reuben drily, — " Well now, little zur, 'fore we 
 goe§, I'll take ye round th' church, — there ain't 
 much to see, but what there is I know more 
 about than any one else in Combmartin. Coom ! 
 — look at these 'ere altar-gates." 
 
 He spoke in soft tones, and trod softly as 
 befitted the sanctity of the place, — and the two 
 children followed him, hand in hand, as he 
 approached the oaken screen and pointed out the 
 twelve apostles carved upon it. 
 
 " Now do 'ee know, little zur," said he, " why 
 this 'ere carvin' is at least two hunner' years old — 
 an' likely more'n that ? " 
 
 " No," answered Lionel, squeezing Jessamine's 
 little warm hand in his own, out of sheer comfort 
 at feeling that he was not to be separated from 
 her yet. 
 
xrbe /lIMb^tp Htom 95 
 
 *^Jest watch these 'ere gates as I pull 'em to 
 an' fro/'* — continued Reuben, — *' Do what ye will 
 wi' 'em, they won't shut, — see!" and he proved 
 the fact beyond dispute, — " That shows they wos 
 made 'fore the days o' Cromwell. For in they 
 times all the gates o' th' altars was copied arter 
 the pattern o' Scripture which sez — 'An' the 
 gates o' Heaven shall never be shut, either by 
 day or by night.' Then when Cromwell came 
 an' broke up the statues, an' tore down the picters 
 or whited them out wheresever they wos on th' 
 walls, the altars was made different, wi' gates 
 that shut an' locked, — I s'pose 'e was that sing'ler 
 afraid of idolatry that 'e thought the folks might 
 go an' worship th' Communion cup on th' Lord's 
 table. So now ye'll be able to tell when ye sees the 
 inside of a church, whether the altar-gates is old or 
 new, by this one thing, — if they can't shut, they're 
 'fore Cromwell's day, — if they can, they're wot's 
 called modern gimcrackery. Now, see the roof ! " 
 
 Lionel looked up, much impressed by the 
 verger's learning. 
 
 * The description of Combmartin Church in these pages is 
 given as nearly as possible in the words of the verger, one 
 James Norman, (may he long enjoy his cheerful, manly and 
 contented life!) who, all unconsciously, "sat" to the author 
 last summer for the portrait of " Reuben Dale." 
 
96 Ubc /IIMobt^ atom 
 
 " Folks 'as bin 'ere an' said quite wise-like — 
 'O that roof's quite modern/ — -but 'tain't nuthin' 
 o' th' sort. See them oak mouldings? — not one 
 o' them's straight, — not a line ! They couldn't 
 get 'em exact in them days, — they wosn't clever 
 enough. So they're all crooked an' 'bout as old 
 as th' altar-screen, — mebbe older, for if ye stand 
 'ere jest where I be, ye'll see they all bend more 
 one way than t'other, makin' the whole roof 
 look lop-sided like, an' why's that d'ye think ? 
 Ye can't tell ? Well, they'd a reason for what 
 they did in them there old times, an' a senti- 
 ment too, — an' they made the churches lean a 
 bit to the side on which our Lord's head bent 
 on the Cross when He said * It is finished ! ' Ye'll 
 find nearly all th' old churches lean a bit that 
 way, — it's a sign of age, as well as a sign o' faith. 
 Now look at these 'ere figures on the pews, — ain't 
 they all got their 'eds cut off? " 
 
 Lionel admitted that they had, with a grave 
 little nod, — Jessamine, who copied his every 
 gesture for the moment, nodded too. 
 
 " That wos Cromwell's doin'," — went on 
 Reuben, — " 'E an' 'is men wos consumed-like wi' 
 what they called the fury o' holiness, an' they 
 thought all these figures wos false gods and sym- 
 
Ubc /nMgbt^ Htom 97 
 
 bols of idolatry, an' they jest cut their 'eds ofF, — 
 executed 'em as 'twere, like King Charles hisself. 
 Now look up there," — and he pointed to a 
 narrow window on the left-hand side of the 
 chancel — '^ There's a prutty colour comin' through 
 that bit o' glass ! It's the only mossel o' real 
 old stained glass i' th' church, — an' it's a rare 
 sight older than the church itself. D'ye know 
 how to tell old stained glass from new ? No ? 
 Well, I'll tell ye. When it's old it's very thick, 
 — an' if ye put your hand on its wrong side it's 
 rough, — very rough, jest as if 'twere covered 
 wi' baked cinders, — that's alius a sure an' sartin 
 proof o' great age. Modern stained glass ye'll find 
 a'most as smooth an' polished on its wrong side 
 as on its right. Now, if ye coom into th' vestry 
 I'll show ye the real old chest what wos used for 
 Peter's pence when we wos under Papist rule." 
 
 He led the way across the central aisle, — Lionel 
 followed, interested and curious, thinking mean- 
 while that this handsome white-haired verger 
 could not exactly be called a stupid man, or even 
 a 'semi-barbarian,' — he was decidedly intelligent, 
 and seemed to know something about the facts of 
 history. 
 
 " There's an old door fur ye ! " he said with 
 
 7 
 
98 Ube /IIMabty Htom 
 
 almost an air of triumph as he paused on the 
 vestry threshold and rapped his fingers lightly 
 on the thick oak panels of the ancient portal — 
 " That's older than anything in the church — I 
 shouldn't a bit wonder if it came out o' some 
 sacred place o' Norman worship, — it looks like 
 it. An' here's th' old key " — and he held up a 
 quaint and heavy iron implement that looked more 
 like a screw-driver v/ith a cross handle than any- 
 thing else, — "An here's Peter's little money- 
 box," — showing a ponderous oak chest some five 
 feet long and three feet high — *' That 'ud 'old a 
 rare sight o' pennies, wouldn't it ! Now don't 
 you two chillern go a-tryin' to lift the lid, for 
 it's mortal 'eavy, an' it 'ud crush your little 'an's 
 to pulp in a minnit. I'll let ye see the inside 
 o't, — there y'are ! " 
 
 And with a powerful effort of his sinewy arms 
 he threw it open, disclosing its black worm-eaten 
 interior, with a few old bits of tarnished silver 
 lying at the bottom, the fragments of a long 
 disused Communion-service. Lionel and Jessa- 
 mine peered down at these with immense in- 
 quisitiveness. 
 
 " Lor' bless me ! " said Reuben then, laughing 
 a little, — '' There's a deal o' wot I calls silly 
 
Zhc /nMgbt^ Htom 99 
 
 faith left in some o' they good Papist folk still. 
 There wos a nice ole leddy cam' 'ere last summer, 
 an' she believed that Peter hisself cam' down 
 from Heaven o' nights, an' tuk all the money 
 offered 'im, specially pennies, fur they'se the 
 coins chiefly mentioned i' th' Testament, an' she 
 axed me to let 'er put a penny in, — I s'pose she 
 thought the saint might be in want o't. ^ For, 
 my good man,' sez she to m^e, ' 'ave you never 
 'eerd that St. Peter still visits th' world, an' when 
 he cooms down 'ere, it m.ay be he might need 
 this penny o' mine to buy bread.' *■ Do as ye 
 like marm,' sez I, — ' it don't make no difference 
 to me I'm sure !' Well, she put the penny in, 
 bless 'er 'art ! — an' this Christmas past I wos 
 a-cleanin' an' rubbin' up everything i' th' church, 
 an' in dustin' out this 'ere box, there I saw that 
 penny, — St. Peter 'adn't come arter it ! So /just 
 tuk it I " and he chuckled softly — ^^ I tuk it an' 
 giv' it to a poor old beggar-man outside the 
 church-gate, so I played Peter fur once i' my 
 life, an' not s' badly I 'ope, but wot I shall be 
 flirgiven ! " 
 
 The smile deepened at the corners of his mouth 
 and sparkled in his fine eyes as he shut the great 
 coffer, and stood up in all his manly height and 
 
loo Ubc /nMgbt^ Htoin 
 
 breadth, surveying the two small creatures beside 
 him. 
 
 "Well, do 'ee like th' old church, little zur ? " 
 he asked of Lionel, whose face expressed an 
 intense and melancholy gravity. 
 
 " Indeed I do ! " answered the boy — " But I 
 think I like the music even better, — listen ! What 
 is that ? '* And he held up one hand with a 
 gesture of rapt attention. 
 
 '* That's the hymn we alius sings on Harvest 
 Thanksgiving Sunday, — ' Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord 
 God Almighty, Early in the morning our song 
 shall rise to Thee,' " — replied Reuben — " It's a 
 rare fine tune, an' fills th' heart as well as th' 
 voice. Now little 'uns, coom 'ome to dinner ! " 
 
 They passed out of the church into the warm 
 sunlit air, fragrant with the scent of roses, sweet- 
 briar and wild thyme, and drowsy with the 
 hum. of honey-seeking bees, Reuben Dale calling 
 Lionel's attention as he went, to a great iron 
 ring which was attached to the ancient door of 
 entrance. 
 
 " Could 'ee tell me wot that ring's there for ^ " 
 he demanded. 
 
 Lionel shook his head. 
 
 '' Well, ye must ha' read in yer hist'ry books 
 
Ube /IIMobt^ Htom loi 
 
 'bout sanctuary privilege," — said Reuben — '^When 
 any poor wretched thief or mis'rable sinner wos 
 bein' a-hunted through the country by all the 
 townspeople an' officers o' justice 'e 'ad but to 
 make straight for th' church-door an' ketch 'old 
 of a ring like this an' 'e wos safe. It wos 
 ^ sanctuary ' — an' no one dussn't lay a finger on 
 'im. 'Twos a rare Christian custom, — it wos 
 a' most as if 'e 'ad laid 'old of our dear Saviour's 
 garment, an' found the mercy as wos never denied 
 by Him to the weakest and wretchedest among 
 us," — concluded Reuben piously, raising his cap 
 as he spoke and looking up at the bright sky 
 with a rapt expression, as though he saw an angel 
 of protection there — " An' that's the meaning o' 
 th' iron ring." 
 
 Lionel said nothing, but his thoughts were very 
 busy. He was only a small boy, but his store of 
 purely scientific information was great, and yet he 
 knew not whether to pity or envy this ' semi- 
 barbarian ' for his simple beliefs. ^' I should not 
 like to tell him that all the clever men nowadays 
 say that Christ is a myth " — he considered seriously, 
 " I am sure it would vex him.'' 
 
 So he walked on soberly silent, holding the 
 hand of the little Jessamine who was equally mute. 
 
102 Zbc /IIMgbt^ Htom 
 
 and Reuben led the way out of the churchyard, 
 across the high road, and up a narrow street full 
 of old-fashioned, gable-windowed, crookedly-built 
 houses, which at first sight appeared to lean over 
 one another in a curiously lop-sided helpless way, 
 as though lacking proper foundation and support. 
 At one of these, standing by itself in a little patch of 
 neatly trimmed garden, and covered with clusters of 
 full-flowering jessamine and wistaria. Dale stopped, 
 and rapped on the door with his knuckles. It 
 was opened at once by a clean, mild-featured 
 elderly dame in a particularly large white apron, 
 who opened her lack-lustre yet kindly eyes in 
 great astonishment at the sight of Lionel. 
 
 '' Auntie Kate ! Auntie Kate ! " exclaimed Jes- 
 samine eagerly — ^' This be a little gemmun boy, 
 — nice an' prutty 'e be ! — we'se been playin' babes 
 i' th' wood an' Drojunwors all th' morning an' 
 we'se goin' to 'ave our dinner an' see my ole 'oss 
 arterwards ! " 
 
 Auntie Kate did her best to understand this 
 brilliant explanation on the part of her small niece, 
 but failing to entirely grasp its meaning, looked to 
 Reuben for further enlightenment. 
 
 " This is Master Valliscourt," — said the verger 
 then, — " The little son o' the gemmun wot 'as 
 
Ubc /nMobti^ Htom 103 
 
 took the big 'ouse yonder for summer. He's bin 
 fagged-like wi's lessons, an' 'e's just out on the 
 truant as boys will be at times when they've got 
 any boyhood in 'em ; — giv' 'im a bit an' a sup wi' 
 us Kitty^ an' 'e'll play a while longer wi' Jessamine 
 'fore 'e goes 'ome." 
 
 Auntie Kate nodded and smiled, — then in 
 deference to ' Master Valliscourt/ curtseyed. 
 
 " Coom in, sir ! — coom in, an' right welcome ! " 
 said she — " Sit 'ee down, an' make 'eeself comfort- 
 able. Dinner's ready, an' there's naught to wait 
 for but jest to let Reuben wash 'is 'ands an' ask 
 a blessin.' Now my Jessamine girl, take off your 
 bonnit an' sit down prutty ! " 
 
 Jessamine obeyed, dragging off the becoming 
 white sun-bonnet in such haste that she nearly tore 
 one of her own brown curls away with it. Lionel 
 uttered an exclamation of pain at the sight, and 
 went to detach the rebellious tress from the string 
 with which it had become knotted. He succeeded 
 in his effort, and when the bonnet was fairly taken 
 off, he thought the little maid looked prettier than 
 ever, with her rough tumbled locks falling about 
 her and her rosy face like a blossom in the midst 
 of the chestnut tangle. Throwing off his own cap 
 he sat down beside her at the table, which was 
 
104 Zhc /IIM^bt^ Htom 
 
 covered with a coarse but clean cloth, and garnished 
 with black-handled steel forks and spoons, and so 
 waited patiently till Reuben came in from the 
 washing of his hands, which he did very speedily. 
 Auntie Kate then lifted oiF the fire a black pot, 
 steaming with savoury odours, and poured out 
 into a capacious blue dish a mixture of meat and 
 vegetables, — (more vegetables than meat) and set 
 round plates to match the dish. Reuben stood up 
 and bowed his head reverently ; '' For what we 
 are going to receive, may the Lord make us truly 
 thankful ! " said he, and Jessamine's sweet little 
 cooing voice answered " Amen ! " Whereupon 
 they began the meal, which though so poor and 
 plain, was good and wholesome. Auntie Kate 
 was no mean cook, and she was famous in the 
 village for a certain make of ' pear cordial,' a glass 
 of which she poured out for Lionel, curtseying as 
 she did so, and requesting him to taste it. He 
 found it delicious ; and he likewise discovered, to 
 his own surprise, that he had an appetite. It was 
 very remarkable,, he thought, that Reuben Dale's 
 frugal fare should have a better flavour than any- 
 thing he had ever had at his own father's luxuri- 
 ously appointed table. He did not realise that the 
 respite from study, the temporary liberty he was 
 
XTfoe /HMobt^ Htom 105 
 
 enjoying, and the romp with Jessamine, had all 
 given room for his physical nature to breathe and 
 expand ; and a sense of the actual pleasure of life 
 when lived healthily, had roused his exhausted 
 faculties to new and delightful vigour. With this 
 momentary development of natural youthful energy 
 had come the appetite he wondered at, when the 
 simplest food seemed exquisite, and Auntie Kate's 
 ' pear cordial ' suggested the ambrosial nectar 
 quaffed by the gods of Olympus. The dinner 
 over, Reuben Dale again stood up, and said " For 
 what we have received, may the Lord make us 
 truly thankful ! " and once more his little girl 
 responded demurely " Amen ! " Then he pro- 
 ceeded to fill and smoke a pipe, before returning 
 to the churchyard to complete the digging of 
 ^ Mother Twiley's ' last resting-place, and Jes- 
 samine, still wearing the ^ pinny ' her aunt had 
 tied round her while she ate her dinner, seized 
 Lionel by the hand and dragged him off to the 
 *back yard' which was half garden, half shed, 
 where Reuben kept his tools, and where a couple 
 of smart bantams v/ith their clucking little harem 
 of prettily-feathered wives and favourites, strutted 
 about behind a wire netting and imagined them- 
 selves the rulers of the planet. 
 
io6 TOe /IDtgbt^ Htom 
 
 '' Coom an' see my ole 'oss ! " said Jessamine 
 excitedly — ^^ Such a good ole 'oss 'e be ! 'Ere 
 'e is ! — a-hidin' behin' th' wall ! See 'im ? O my 
 bee — oo — ful ole 'oss ! " 
 
 And she threw her arms round the neck of 
 the quadruped in question, which was nothing- 
 else but a battered wooden toy that had evidently 
 once been a gallant steed on * rockers/ but which 
 now, without either mane, tail, or eyes, and with 
 only three shaky legs and a stump of wood to 
 support it, presented a very sorry spectacle indeed. 
 But to Jessamine this ' ole 'oss ' was apparently 
 the flower of all creation, for she hugged it and 
 kissed its pale nose, from which the paint had 
 long since been washed off by wind and weather, 
 with quite a passionate ardour. 
 
 " Oh my dee 'ole 'oss ! " she murmured ten- 
 derly, patting its hairless neck, — *' Do 'ee know 
 why I loves 'ee? 'Cos 'ee's poor an' ole, an' 
 no one wants to ride 'ee now but Jessamine i 
 Jessamine can git on 'ee's poor ole back wizout 
 'urtin' of 'ee, good ole 'oss ! Kiss 'im, won't 'ee ? " 
 she added, turning to Lionel, '^ Do 'ee kiss 'im ! — 
 it makes 'im feel comfortabler now 'e's poor an' 
 ole!" 
 
 Who could resist such an appeal ! Who would 
 
Ube /HMgbt^ Htom 107 
 
 refuse to embrace a superannuated wooden rock- 
 ing-horse, described with so much sweetly pitiful 
 fervour as ' poor an' ole,' and therefore in need 
 of affectionate consolement ! Not Lionel, — de- 
 spite the many learned books he had studied, he 
 fully entered into the spirit of all this childish 
 nonsense, and bending over the dilapidated toy, 
 he kissed its v/an nose with ardour in his turn. 
 
 " That's right 1 '* cried Jessamine, clapping her 
 hands delightedly — "Now 'e feels 'appy ! Now 
 'e'll give us a ride ! " 
 
 And forthwith she clambered up on the gaunt, 
 worn 'back of her beloved steed, showing a pair 
 of little innocent looking white legs as she did 
 so, and jerked herself up and down to imitate a 
 gallop. 
 
 " Ain't 'e goin' well ! " she exclaimed breath- 
 lessly, — her hair blowing in a golden-brown 
 tangle behind her, and her cheeks becoming rosier 
 than the rosiest apples with her exertions, while 
 the laughter in her pretty eyes rivalled the bright- 
 ness of the sunlight playing round her — " Oh 'e 
 be a rare nice ole 'oss ! Now, Lylie, 'ee must 
 git up an' 'ave a ride ! " 
 
 Lionel started at the sound of his mother's 
 pet name for him, — then he remembered he had 
 
io8 Ube /HMgM^ Htom 
 
 told it to Jessamine, and smiled as he thought 
 how sweet it sounded from her hps. And he 
 answered gently, 
 
 " I'm afraid I'm too big, dear ! Your horse 
 couldn't carry me, — I might hurt him." 
 
 "O no, 'ee won't 'urt 'im! " declared Jessamine, 
 springing lightly to the ground — '^ Try an' git 
 on 'im ! — I'se sure 'ee'll be good t'ye ! " 
 
 Thus adjured, Lionel threw a leg across the 
 passive toy, and pretended to ride at full gallop 
 as Jessamine had done, much to the little maiden's 
 delight. She danced about and shrieked with 
 ecstasy, till the bantams behind the wire netting 
 evidently thought the end of the world had come, 
 for they ran to and fro, clucking in the wildest 
 excitement, no doubt imploring their special deities 
 to protect them from the terrible human thing 
 that showed its white legs and danced in the sun 
 almost as if it had as good a right to live as a 
 well-bred fowl. Reuben Dale, hearing the uproar 
 and having finished his pipe, came out to see what 
 was going on, and laughed almost as much as 
 the children did, now and then playfully urging 
 the wooden steed to a wilder exhibition of its 
 ' mettle ' by a stentorian *^ Gee-up Dobbin ! " 
 which rather added to the general hilarity of the 
 
trbe /libtobt^ Htom 109 
 
 scene. When the game was quite over, and 
 Lionel, flushed and full of merriment, resigned 
 the ' ole 'oss ' to Jessamine, who at once offered 
 it a handful of hay and whispered tender nothings 
 in its broken ear, the verger said — 
 
 " Now, my little zur, I'm a-goin' back to my 
 work i' th' churchyard, for I must finish Mother 
 Twiley's bed 'fore nightfall. Ye'U And me there 
 if ye'se want me. If s'be ye care to stay on wi' 
 Jessamine a bit, ye can, — she's a lonesome little 
 un' since 'er mother went to God, — and mebbe 
 you're lonesome too, — a little play '11 do neither 
 o' ye 'arm, an' Auntie Kate's i' th' 'ouse all day, 
 an' she'll look arter ye. But ye mustn't be away 
 too long from yer feyther an' mother, — ye must 
 git 'ome 'fore the sun sets, my lad, — promise me 
 that ! " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Dale, I promise : — and thank you ! " 
 responded Lionel eagerly — "I've had such a 
 happy time ! — you don't know how happy ! I 
 may come again some day and see you and 
 Jessamine, mayn't I ? " 
 
 " Why sartin zure ye may ! " said Reuben 
 heartily, " Purvidin' they m.akes no objections at 
 your own 'ome, little zur, — ye must make that 
 clear an' straight fust." 
 
lie Ubc /llM(}bt^ Htom 
 
 " Oh yes ! — Of course ! " murmured the boy, — 
 but a shadow clouded his hitherto bright face. 
 He knew well enough that if his father were 
 asked about it, not only the acquaintance, but also 
 the very sight of the kindly verger and his pretty 
 child would be altogether forbidden him. How- 
 ever he said nothing of this, and Reuben after a 
 few more cheery v/ords, strode Oif to the resump- 
 tion of his labours. With his departure a silence 
 fell on the two little creatures left alone to- 
 gether ; the excitement engendered by the ^ ole 
 'oss ' had its reaction, and Jessamine grew serious, 
 even sad. 
 
 " I Jink I wants my sun-bonnet," — she remarked 
 in an injured tone — " My facey burns." 
 
 Lionel ran into the house at once, and obtained 
 the desired head-gear from Auntie Kate, where- 
 upon Miss Jessamine adjusted it sideways, and 
 peered at him in a sudden fit of shyness. 
 
 *' 'Specs 'eed better go 'ome now," — she said 
 severely — " You'se tired of me an' my ole 'oss, — 
 I sees you'se tired ! " 
 
 '' Tired, Jessamine ! Indeed I'm not tired, — I'll 
 play with you ever so long ! — as long as you like. 
 What shall we do now ^ " 
 
 " Nuffink ! " replied the little lady, putting the 
 
string of her bonnet in her mouth, which was a 
 favourite habit of hers, and still regarding him 
 with an odd mixture of coyness and affection ; — 
 then, with sudden and almost defiant energy she 
 added — ''I knows you'se tired of me, Lylie ! " 
 
 " Now Jessamine, dear ! " expostulated Lionel, 
 with quite a lover-like ardour, as he saw that the 
 tiny maiden was inclined to be petulant — " Come 
 and sit under that beautiful big apple-tree ! " 
 
 '^ My big apple-tree!" put in Jessamine, with 
 an air of grave correction — '' That's my tree, 
 Lylie ! " 
 
 " That's why it's such a nice one," — declared 
 Lionel gallantly, taking her little hand in his 
 own, — "Come along and let us sit there, and 
 you'll tell me another story, or I'll tell you one. 
 You know I'm going away very soon, and perhaps 
 I shall never see you again." 
 
 He sighed quite unconsciously as he said this, 
 and Jessamine looked up at him v/ith eyes that 
 were angelically lovely in their momentary 
 gravity. 
 
 " Will 'ee be sorry ? " she asked. 
 
 " Very sorry ! " he answered — '' Dreadfully 
 sorry ! " 
 
 Jessamine's doubtful humour passed at this 
 
112 Zbc /llMgbt\? Htom 
 
 assurance, and she allowed him to lead her un- 
 resistingly to the big apple-tree which was the 
 chief ornament of Reuben Dale's back garden,^ — 
 her tree, against whose gnarled trunk a rough 
 wooden seat was set for shelter and repose. 
 
 " I'll be sorry too ! " she confessed — " 'Specs 
 I'll ky when you'se gone, Lylie ! " 
 
 There was something touching in this remark, 
 or they found it so, — and a deep silence followed. 
 They sat down side by side, under the spreading 
 apple-boughs laden with ruddy fruit that shone 
 with a bright polish in the hot glow of the after- 
 noon sun, and holding each other's hands, were 
 very quiet, while round and round them flew 
 butterflies and bees, all intent on business or 
 love-making ; and a linnet who had just cooled 
 his throat at the bantams' water-trough, alighted 
 on an opposite twig and essayed a soft cadenza. 
 There were a thousand sweet suggestions in the 
 warm air, — too subtle for the young things who 
 sat so demurely together hand in hand, to per- 
 ceive or comprehend ; — the beautiful things of 
 God and Nature, which wordlessly teach the 
 eternal though unheeded lesson, that happiness 
 and good are the chief designs and ultimate ends 
 of all creation, — and that only Man's perverted 
 
Zbc /nMgbt^ Btom us 
 
 will, working for solely selfish purposes, makes 
 havoc of all that should be pure and fair. Yet 
 even children have certain meditative moments, 
 when they are vaguely conscious of some great 
 Beneficence ruling their destinies, — and some of 
 them have been known at a very early age to 
 express the wonder as to why God should be so 
 good, and their own parents so bad ! 
 
 " What will 'ee do when 'ee gits 'ome ? " 
 inquired Jessamine presently, — *' Will 'ee ky ? " 
 
 Lionel smiled rather bitterly. " No Jessamine, 
 it would never do for me to cry," — he said — '* I'm 
 too big." 
 
 " Too big ! " she echoed — '^ You'se onny a 
 weeny bit bigger 'n me ! An' I'se little." 
 
 " Yes, but you're a girl," — said Lionel, — 
 ^' Girls can cry if they like, — but boys mustn't. 
 I do cry sometimes though, when I'm all by 
 myself." 
 
 " I seed 'ee ky to-day ; " observed Jessamine 
 gravely — " I' th' church, — ^jest 'fore we came 'ome 
 to dinner. What did 'ee ky then for ? " 
 
 *' It was the music I think," — answered Lionel 
 with a far-away look in his deep-set eyes — "I'm 
 very fond of music, but it always seems sad to 
 me. My mother sings beautifully, but somehow 
 
 8 
 
114 TOe fVbiQht^ Htom 
 
 I can never bear to hear her sing, — it makes me 
 feel so lonely." 
 
 Jessamine gazed at him sympathetically. He 
 was surely a very strange and funny boy to feel 
 ^ lonely ' because his mother sang. Presently she 
 essayed another topic. 
 
 *^I knows th' big 'ouse where 'ee lives," — she 
 announced — " There's a 'ole in th' 'edge, an' I can 
 creep froo, — into th' big garden ! I'll coom an' 
 see 'oor muzzer ! " 
 
 This statement of her intentions rather startled 
 Lionel. He looked earnestly into her sweet blue 
 eyes. 
 
 " You mustn't do that, Jessamine dear ! " he 
 said sadly — '^ You would get scolded I'm afraid. 
 My mother would not scold you, — but I expect 
 my father would." 
 
 Jessamine put a finger into her mouth and 
 sucked it solemnly for a minute, — then spoke 
 with slightly offended dignity. 
 
 " 'Oor feyther's a bad ole man ! " she said 
 calmly — '' Onny a bad ole man would scold me, 
 'cos I alius tries to be good. My feyther never 
 scolds me, nor my ole 'oss neither." 
 
 Lionel was silent. She cuddled closer to him. 
 
 '* I muss see 'ee 'gain, Lylie ! " she crooned 
 
Ube /BMgbty Htom ns 
 
 plaintively — '' Doesn't 'ee want to see me no 
 more ? " 
 
 Her baby voice was inexpressibly sweet as she 
 pathetically asked this question^ and Lionel, un- 
 accustomed as he was to any kind of affectionate 
 demonstration, felt a strange beating of his young 
 heart as he looked down at the small child-face 
 that was turned so wistfully towards him. 
 
 " Yes, dear dear little Jessamine, I do want to 
 see you again, and I will see you, — I'll come as 
 often as ever I can ! " and daring thoughts of 
 shirking his tasks and eluding Professor Cadman- 
 Gore's eye, flitted through his brain, in the same 
 way as the scaling of walls and the ascending of 
 fortified towers have suggested themselves to 
 more mature adventurers as worthy deeds to be 
 accomplished in the pursuit of the fair. "I'll 
 come and play with you whenever I can get away 
 from my lessons, — I promise ! " 
 
 " 'Iss, — do ! " said Jessamine coaxingly — " 'Cos 
 I likes 'ee, Lylie, — I doesn't like any other boys 
 'ere, — they'se all oogly. You'se prutty, — an' — 
 an' IfinJ^ I'se prutty too ! — sometimes ! " 
 
 Oh small witch ! That ' sometimes ' was the 
 very essence of delicate coquetry, and accom- 
 panied, as it was, by a little smile and arch 
 
ii6 Ube jfflMgbt^ Htom 
 
 upward twinkle of the blue eyes, was irresistibly 
 fascinating. Lionel felt, though he knew not 
 why, that this little damsel must be kissed, — 
 kissing seemed imperative, — yet how was it to 
 be done ? 
 
 "You are very pretty, Jessamine dear," he said, 
 with a winsome mingling of boldness and timidity, 
 " You are just as pretty as a flower ! " Jessamine 
 nodded in serene self-complacency, while her 
 youthful admirer peered at her close-curved red 
 lips much as a bird might look at a ripe cherry, 
 and was silent so long that at last she gazed 
 straight up into his eyes, the heavenly blue of 
 her own shining with a beautiful wonder. 
 
 " What's 'ee thinkin' 'bout, Lylie ? " she asked. 
 
 "You, Jessamine! " the boy answered tenderly, 
 " I was thinking about you, — and the flowers." 
 
 And bending down his curly head he kissed 
 her, — and the little maiden, nestling closer, kissed 
 him innocently back again. Overhead the fra- 
 grant apple-branches swung their sweet burden of 
 ruddy fruit and green leaf to and fro with a soft 
 rustle in the summer breeze, and the linnet who 
 lived in the topmost bough carolled his unpre- 
 tentious little song, and the fairness of the world 
 as God made it, seemed to surround with an 
 
Ubc /IDtGbt^ Htom n? 
 
 enchanted atmosphere the two children who, 
 drawn thus together by the bond of a summer- 
 day's comradeship and affection, were happy as 
 they never would be again. For the world as 
 God made it, is one thing, — but the world as 
 Man mars it, is another, — and life for all the little 
 feet that are to trudge wearily after us in the hard 
 paths which we in our arrogant egoist-generation, 
 have strewn for them so thick with stones and 
 thorns, offers such a bitter and cruel prospect, 
 that it is almost a matter of thanksgiving when 
 the great Angel of Death, moved perchance by a 
 vast pity, gently releases some of the fairest and 
 tenderest of our children from our merciless 
 clutches, and restores them to that Divine Master 
 and Lover of pure souls, who said — '' Take heed 
 that ye despise not one of these little ones, for I 
 say unto you that in heaven their angels do always 
 behold the face of My Father." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The sun was well-nigh upon sinking, when 
 Lionel, walking slowly and with reluctant steps, 
 returned to his home. As he approached the 
 house he saw his mother at the entrance gate, 
 apparently waiting for him. Looking at her 
 from a little distance he thought how very 
 beautiful she was, — more beautiful than ever 
 he had quite realised her to be. Her rich hair 
 shone in the brilliant sun-glow with wonderful 
 golden glints and ripples, and her eyes were 
 lustrous with a dreamy tenderness, which softened 
 and grew deeper as he cam.e up to where she 
 stood. She stretched out her hand to him, — 
 a delicate little hand, white as a white rose-petal, 
 and sparkling with the rare diamond rings that 
 adorned the taper fingers. 
 
 " Why Lylie, where have you been all day ? " 
 she asked gently — " Your father's very angry ; 
 he has been searching for you everywhere and 
 
Ubc /IDiGbt^ Htom 119 
 
 making all sorts of inquiries in the village. Some 
 one has told him that you were at the inn this 
 morning, seeing Mr. Montrose off by the early 
 coach, and that afterwards you ran away with some 
 common boys to play hide-and-seek; is that true.?" 
 " No, mother, it isn't true," — the boy answered 
 quietly — ^' Not altogether. I did go to see Mr. 
 Montrose off by coach, — that's correct enough ; 
 but I never ran away to play hide-and-seek with 
 any common boys, — if I had wanted to, they 
 wouldn't have had me, I daresay. I don't play 
 games; you know that; there's no one to play 
 them with me. I fancied I would like to srroll 
 about all by myself, — 1 v/as tired of books, — 
 so I went into the old churchyard and found 
 the sexton there at work digging a grave, and 
 he is such a nice old man that 1 stayed there 
 and talked to him. Then his little girl came 
 to bring him his coffee, and I went with her 
 inside the church, and Mr. Dale, — that's the 
 sexton, — showed me all over it and explained 
 all the old historical bits, — and then he asked 
 me to his house to dinner. I thought it very 
 kind of him, and I was pleased to go. I've 
 just come from there, and that's the truth, mother, 
 exactly as it happened." 
 
I20 u\^c /IDigbt^ Htom 
 
 Mrs. Valliscourt slipped her arm round his 
 neck. She was smiHng to herself rather oddly. 
 
 "Poor Lylie ! " she said caressingly — "So 
 you were really tired, were you, and determined 
 to have a real good time for once in your own 
 way ? Well, I don't blame you ! I should do 
 the same if I were in your place. But your 
 father's in a great rage, — he wanted you to be 
 here to receive Professor Cadman-Gore " 
 
 "But mother, he's not expected till ten o'clock 
 to-night ! " exclaimed Lionel. 
 
 "■ I know, — that's the time we thought he 
 was coming. But he's got rheumatism or lum- 
 bago or something of that sort, and decided at 
 the last minute that it would be best for him 
 to arrive in daytime, and avoid the night air. 
 So he took an earlier train from London and 
 caught the afternoon coach from Ilfracombe, and 
 he's here, — in fact he has been here nearly two 
 hours shut up with your father in his room." 
 
 Lionel was silent for a minute or two, — then 
 he asked, 
 
 " What's he like, mother ? Have you seen 
 him ? " 
 
 Mrs. Valliscourt laughed a little. 
 
 ''Oh yes, I've seen him. He was formally 
 
Zbc /iDi^bt^ Htom 121 
 
 introduced to me on arrival. What's he like ? — 
 well, I really don't know what he's like, — he's 
 a cross between a very old baboon and a camel, 
 — rather a difficult animal to define ! " 
 
 Her flashing smile irradiated her whole coun- 
 tenance with a gleam of scorn as well as amuse- 
 ment, — Lionel however looked pained and 
 puzzled. She gave him a little side-glance of 
 infinite compassion, and suddenly drawing his 
 head against her breast, kissed him. Any caress 
 or sign of affection from her was so rare a thing 
 that the sensitive little lad actually trembled and 
 grew pale with the emotion it excited in him — 
 it left him almost breathless, and too astonished 
 to speak. 
 
 " I mean, dear," she continued, still keeping 
 her arm about him, — " that he is just like all 
 those wonderfully learned old men who have 
 ceased to care about anything but themselves 
 and books, — they are never by any chance 
 handsome, you know. He's very clever though, 
 — your father thinks him a prodigy, and so, I 
 believe, do all the Oxford and Cambridge dons, 
 — and now he's here youMl have to make the 
 best of him, Lylie ! " 
 
 " Yes, mother." The answer came faintly, and 
 
122 Ubc /IDtabt^ Htom 
 
 with a smothered sigh. Then, — after a brief 
 pause, — Lionel took the white hand that rested 
 against his neck, kissed it, and gently put it aside. 
 
 "I think I'd better go straight in to father 
 at once and tell him where I've been," — he said 
 bravely — *' Then it's over and done with. No 
 matter how angry he is, he can't kill me, — and 
 if he could, it would be worse for him than for 
 me!" 
 
 With this unanswerable piece of cynical logic 
 and a wistful parting smile, he quickened his 
 steps almost to a run, and went into the house. 
 Mrs. ValliscoLirt stood still on the garden-path, 
 idly ruffling the petals of a rose in her waistband, 
 and watching the thin, delicate figure of her 
 little son till he disappeared ; — then she turned 
 away across the lawn, moving vaguely, and un- 
 seeing where she went, for her eyes were heavy 
 and blind with a sudden rush of tears. 
 
 Meanwhile Lionel reached his father's room 
 and boldly knocked at the door. 
 
 *' Come in ! " cried the harsh voice he knew so 
 well, whereupon he entered. 
 
 *' Father " he began. 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt rose in his chair, a stiff bristling- 
 haired spectre of wrath. 
 
Zbc /IDigbt^ Htom 123 
 
 '* So, sir ! " he said. " You have come home 
 at last ! Where have you been since the early 
 hours of the morning ? And what business had 
 you to leave this house at all without my per- 
 mission ? " 
 
 Lionel looked at him full in the eyes with a 
 curious coldness. He was conscious of a strange 
 feehng of contempt for this red-faced man, 
 spluttering with excitement, whose age, experience, 
 education and muscular strength could help him 
 to no better thing than the bullying of a small 
 boy. It might be a wicked feeling, — considering 
 that the red-faced man was his own father, — but 
 wicked or no, it existed. And so without any 
 soft or weak emotion of regret or penitence, he 
 replied indifferently, 
 
 '^ I was tired. I wanted to be in the open air 
 and rest." 
 
 " Rest ! " Mr. Valliscourt's eyes protruded, and 
 he put his hand to his shirt-collar in evident 
 doubt as to whether his throatful of bubbling 
 rage might not burst that carefully-starched 
 halter — " Rest ! Good heavens, what should a 
 lazy young animal like you want with rest ! You 
 talk as if you were an over-worked bank clerk, 
 begging for an out-of-time holiday ! You are 
 
124 XTbe /nMobty Htom 
 
 always resting ; — while Mr. Montrose was here 
 you never did anything, — your idleness was a posi- 
 tive disgrace. Do you think I am going to waste 
 my money on giving you the best tuition that 
 can possibly be procured, to be rewarded in this 
 ungrateful manner, — this shameful, abominable 
 manner " 
 
 " Is he the best tuition ? " demanded Lionel 
 suddenly, pointing to a second personage in the 
 room whom he had noted at once on entering, 
 and whom he recognised to be the ' cross between 
 a baboon and camel ' his mother had described, — 
 a forbidding-looking old man with a singularly 
 long pallid face and sharply angular shoulders, 
 who sat stiffly upright in a chair, regarding him 
 through a pair of very round spectacles. Mr. 
 Valliscourt stared, rendered almost speechless by 
 the levity of the question. 
 
 " How dare you sir ! — How dare you make 
 such an unbecoming observation ! " he gasped, 
 '' What — what do you mean, sir ? " 
 
 '' I only asked ; " returned Lionel composedly; 
 " You said you were throwing your money 
 away on the best tuition, and I asked if he was 
 the best tuition " — again pointing to the round 
 spectacles opposite — " I didn't say he wasn't, — 
 
Ube f^ight^ Btom 125 
 
 I suppose he is. But I'm afraid he'll find me 
 rather a trouble." 
 
 " I'm afraid he will indeed ! " said Mr. 
 Valliscourt with cutting severity ; — then, — turn- 
 ing to the gaunt individual in the chair beside 
 him, he continued — " I much regret, Professor, 
 that you should have such an unpromising in- 
 troduction to your pupil. My son, — this is 
 my son, — has been sadly demoralised by the 
 influence of the young man Montrose, but I 
 trust not so completely as to be beyond your 
 remedy." 
 
 Professor Cadman-Gore, the dark-lantern of 
 learning and obscure glory of University poseurs, 
 slowly raised his bony shoulders up to his long 
 ears, and as slowly settled them in their place 
 again, this being his own peculiar adaptation of 
 the easy foreign shrug, — then, smiling a wide and 
 joyless smile, he replied in measured monotonous 
 accents — 
 
 *'I trust not, — I trust not." And he re- 
 adjusted his spectacles. "But I will not disguise 
 from you, — or from myself, — that this is a bad 
 beginning, — very bad ! " 
 
 " Why ? " asked Lionel quickly, — '' Why is 
 it a bad beginning to rest when you are very 
 
126 Ubc /IIM^bty Htom 
 
 tired and want it? Some people believe that 
 even God rested on the seventh day of creation, 
 and that's why we keep Sunday still, in spite of 
 its being only an idea and a fable. I've taken 
 a holiday to-day, and I'm sure I shall do my 
 lessons all the better for it. I've been talking 
 to the sexton of Combmartin Church, and I've 
 had dinner with him, — he's a very nice old man, 
 and very clever too." 
 
 "Clever! The sexton of Combmartin ! " echoed 
 Mr. Valliscourt with a loud fierce laugh — " Dear 
 me ! What next shall we be told, I wonder ! 
 Nice associates you pick up for yourself, sir, after 
 all the labour and expense of your training ! I 
 might as well have kept my money ! " 
 
 "Why not begin to keep it now, father.^" 
 suggested Lionel rather wistfully, the pallor 
 deepening on his delicate small face — " It's no 
 use spending it on me, — I know it isn't. I'm 
 tired out, — perhaps I'm ill too, — I don't know 
 quite what's the matter with me, but I'm sure 
 I'm not like other boys. I can see that for 
 myself, and it worries me. If you'd let me 
 rest a little, I might get better." 
 
 " Desire for rest," remarked Professor Cadman- 
 Gore with a sardonic grin, " appears to be the 
 
Ube /llMgbt^ Htom 127 
 
 leading characteristic of this young gentleman's 
 disposition." 
 
 " Incorrigible idleness, you mean ! " snapped 
 out Mr. Valliscourt, " United, as I now discover, 
 to my amazement and regret, with an insolence 
 of temper which is new to me. I must apologise 
 to you Professor, for my son's extraordinary 
 conduct on this occasion. Starvation and solitude 
 will probably bring him to his senses in time for 
 the morning's studies. I may as well explain to 
 you that I never use corporal punishment in the 
 training of my son, — I employ the mortification of 
 appetite as the more natural means of discipline. 
 That, and solitary confinement seem to me the 
 best modes of procedure for the coercion of a 
 refractory and obstinate nature." The Professor 
 bowed, and linking his leathery hands together 
 caused the knuckles to emit a sharp sound like 
 the cracking of bad walnuts. ** Lionel," con- 
 tinued Mr. Valliscourt — " Come with me ! " 
 
 Lionel paused a moment, looking at his new 
 tutor with an odd fascination. 
 
 " Gcod-night, Professor ! " he said at last — 
 " To-morrow I shall ask you a great many 
 questions." 
 
 " Indeed ! " returned the Professor grimly — 
 
128 ube /llMgbt^ Htom 
 
 '' I have no doubt I shall be able to answer 
 them ! " 
 
 " Will you come, sir ! " roared Mr. Vallis- 
 court. 
 
 Lionel obeyed, and followed his father passively 
 upstairs to his own little bedroom, where Mr. 
 Valliscourt took the matches carefully away, and 
 shut down and fastened the window. This done, 
 he turned to the boy and said — 
 
 " Now here you stay till to-morrow morning, — 
 you understand.'' You will have time to think 
 over your wicked disobedience of to-day, — the 
 anxiety you have caused me, and the trouble, — 
 the disgraceful exhibition you have made of your- 
 self to the Professor — and I hope you will have 
 the grace to feel sorry. And if you cry or make 
 a row up here " 
 
 " Why do you talk like that, father ^ " queried 
 Lionel simply — " You know well enough that I 
 never make a row." 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt stopped, looking at him. For 
 a moment he was embarrassed by the direct truth 
 of the remark, — for he did know, — Lionel never 
 showed any sign of petulance or fury. The boy 
 meanwhile put a chair at the window facing the 
 sunset, and sat down. 
 
XTbe /IDtgbt^ Htom 129 
 
 " What made you run away to-day ? " asked 
 his father, after a brief pause. 
 
 *' I have told you already" — responded Lionel, 
 somewhat wearily — "I was tired." 
 
 "Tired of what?" 
 
 "Of books and everything in them. They 
 are very puzzling, you know, — no two writers 
 agree on any one point — no two histories are 
 alike — it is all quarrel, quarrel, muddle, muddle. 
 And what's the good of it all ^ You die, and 
 you forget everything you ever knew. So your 
 trouble's wasted and your knowledge useless." 
 
 " Little fool ! You have to live first before 
 you die, and knowledge of books is necessary to 
 life," — said Valliscourt, harshly. 
 
 " You think so ^ Ah ! — well, I haven't quite 
 made up my mind about that," — answered the boy 
 with a quaintly reflective air — " I must consider 
 it carefully before I decide. Good-night father." 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt gave no reply. Striding out 
 of the room he banged the door angrily, and 
 locked it behind him. Lionel remained by the 
 window, looking straight into the golden glare 
 of the west. He was not at all unhappy, — he 
 had had one day of joyous and ever-memorable 
 freedom, — and that this lonely room should be 
 
 9 
 
I30 Ube /IlMgbt^ Htom 
 
 the end of it did not seem to him much of a 
 hardship. He was not afraid of either solitude 
 or darkness, — it was better to be alone thus, than 
 to have to endure the presence of the gaunt and 
 unwholesome looking object downstairs, who was 
 reputed by a certain ' set ' to be one of the wisest 
 men in the world. A pity that wisdom made a 
 person so ugly ! — thought Lionel, as he recalled 
 one by one the Professor's unattractive lineaments. 
 What lantern-jaws he had ! — what cold, cruel little 
 ferret eyes ! — what an unkind slit for a mouth ! — 
 and how very different was his crafty, artificially- 
 composed demeanour to the open and sincere 
 bearing of Reuben Dale ! 
 
 '' Reuben Dale could teach me a lot, I know ; " — 
 mused the boy — '' He doesn't read Greek or Latin 
 I suppose, — but I'm sure he could help me to find 
 out something about life, and that's what I want. 
 I want to understand what it means, — Ufe, — and 
 death." 
 
 He lifted his eyes to the radiant sky, and saw 
 two long shafts of luminous amber spring outward 
 and upward from the sinking sun like great golden 
 leaves, between which the orb of light blossomed 
 red like a fiery rose in heaven. 
 
 *^ I wish there were angels, really^' — he said 
 
TL\)C /HMobt^ Htom 131 
 
 half aloud — "One would almost think there must 
 be, and that all that splendid colour was put 
 into the sky just to show us what their beautiful 
 wings are like. Little Jessamine Dale believes 
 in angels, — I should like to believe in them too, — 
 if I could." 
 
 His gaze wandered slowly down from the 
 sunset, to the shrubs and trees of the garden 
 below him, and presently he saw among the 
 darkening shadows two figures moving leisurely 
 up and down. One was his mother, — he recog- 
 nised her by the white serge dress she wore, — 
 the other was a man whose personality he was 
 not at first quite sure of, but whom he afterwards 
 made out to be Sir Charles LasceJles. 
 
 "I suppose he's come to dinner;" — thought 
 Lionel — *' I remember now, — Mr. Montrose men- 
 tioned that he was staying quite near here at 
 Watermouth Castle. I wonder why I don't like 
 him ? " 
 
 He considered this for some time without 
 clearing up the point satisfactorily, — then, before 
 it grew quite dark, he took out Montrose's copy 
 of Homer from under his blue jersey vest where 
 he had secreted it, out of his father's sight, and 
 put it carefully by in readiness to post to its 
 
132 Ube /iDtgbt^ Btom 
 
 rightful owner next day, smiling a little to himselr' 
 as he thought of Jessamine's odd pronunciation of 
 the ' Drojunwors.' This done, he resumed his 
 scat by the window, and watched the skies and the 
 landscape till both grew dark, and the stars began 
 to twinkle out dimly in the hazy purple distance. 
 His little mind was always restless, and actively 
 evolving ideas, — and though his immediate re- 
 flections dwelt for the most part on the pretty 
 face and winsome ways of Jessamine Dale, they 
 now and then took a more serious turn and 
 strove to make something out of what appeared 
 to him an ever-deepening problem and puzzle, — 
 namely, — why should some people believe in a 
 God, and others not ? And why should so many 
 of those who professed belief, live their lives in 
 direct opposition to the very creed they assumed 
 to follow ? There must be adequate cause for 
 all these phases of human nature. Did the world 
 make itself.? — or did it owe its origin to a 
 reasoning and reasonable Creator ? — and not only 
 the world, but all the vast universe, — the thousands 
 of millions of glorious and perfect star-systems 
 which like flowers in a garden, bloomed in the 
 pure ether, — what was the object of their existence, 
 if any, and why was it decided that they should 
 
Zhc /IIM^bt^ Htom 133 
 
 exist, and who so decided it ? Deep in the 
 child's brain the eternal question burned, — the 
 eternal defiance which always asserts itself when 
 there is neither faith nor hope, — the suicidal 
 scorn which disdains and upbraids a Force that 
 can give no reason for its actions, and which 
 refuses to act in blind obedience to the cross- 
 currents of a fate that leads to Nothingness. 
 " If you can offer me no worthy explanation of 
 my existence, and I can supply none for myself," 
 — says the tortured and suffering soul, — ''then 
 not all the elements shall hinder me from putting 
 an end to that existence if I please. This much 
 I can do, — if you give me no satisfactory 
 motive for my hold on life I can cease to 
 live, and thus are your arguments confuted and 
 your surface-knowledge made vain." 
 
 The seed of this spiritual rebellion was in 
 Lionel's mind though he knew it not, — it had 
 been sown there by others, and was not of his 
 own planting, nor the natural out-put of his 
 being. His unceasing query as to the ' why ' 
 of things, had never been answered by the 
 majestic reason known to those whose faith is 
 raised upon high pinnacles of thought and 
 aspiration, — and who hold it as a truth that 
 
134 Ube /lIMgbt^ Htom 
 
 their lives are lived by God's will and ordinance 
 in the school of temporal beginnings as a pre- 
 paration for eternal fulfilment. This supreme 
 support and hope had not been given to the 
 boy's frail life to raise it like a drooping flower 
 from the dust of material forms and facts, — he 
 had been carefully instructed in all the necessary 
 sciences for becoming a man of hard calculation 
 and cool business-aptitude, — but his imagination 
 had been promptly checked, — he had never even 
 been taught a prayer, although he had been 
 told that there were people who prayed, — in 
 churches and elsewhere. When he propounded 
 the usual ' why ? ' he was informed that the 
 fashion of praying was the remains of old super- 
 stition, followed nov/ out of mere ordinary usage, 
 because the ' masses ' of the people were not yet 
 sufficiently educated to do entirely without the 
 observances to which they had for so many 
 centuries been accustomed, — but that it was only 
 a matter of foolish habit. And then his teachers 
 pointed out to him that the laws of the universe 
 being inflexible, it was ridiculous to suppose that 
 prayer could alter them, or that the deaf, blind, 
 dumb forces of nature could possibly note a 
 human being's trouble, or listen to a human 
 
Zbc /BM^bt^ Htom 135 
 
 being's complaint, much less accede to a human 
 being's request, — for human beings, compared 
 with the extent of Creation generally, were no 
 more than motes in a sunbeam, or ants on an 
 ant-hill. Hearing this, and quickly grasping the 
 idea of man's infinite littleness, Lionel at once 
 set about asking the cause of man's evident 
 arrogance. If he was indeed so minute a portion 
 of the creative plan, and so valueless to its pro- 
 gress, why was he so concerned about himself.^ 
 If he were but a mote or an ant, what did it 
 matter whether he were learned or ignorant ^ — 
 and did it not seem somewhat of a cruel jest 
 to fill him with such pride, aspiration and en- 
 deavour, when according to scientific fact, he 
 was but a grain of worthless and perishable 
 dust ? To all these serious questions, the small 
 searcher after truth never get any satisfactory 
 replies. Montrose indeed had told him with 
 much emphasis, that man possessed an immortal 
 Soul, — a conscious, individual, progressive Self 
 which could not die, — which took part in all 
 the designs of God, and which, filled with the 
 divine breath of inspiration and desire of holiness, 
 was borne on through infinite phases of wisdom, 
 love and glory for ever and ever, always in- 
 
136 Zhc /llbt^bt^ Htom 
 
 creasing in beauty, strength, love, and purity. 
 Such a destiny, thought Lionel, would have made 
 one's present life worth living, if true. But then, 
 according to modern scientists, it wasn't true, 
 and Montrose was a poor * semi-barbarian * who 
 still believed in God, and who had got his dis- 
 missal from his post as tutor, chiefly on that 
 account. 
 
 " I wonder," mused Lionel, " what it is that 
 makes him believe ? It can't be stupidity, for he 
 is very clever and kind and good. I wish I knew 
 exactly why he thinks there is a God, — and 
 Reuben Dale too, — he has just the same idea, — 
 only when I ask, no one seems able to give me 
 any clear explanation of what they fed." 
 
 Darker and darker grew the evening shadows, 
 — but still he sat at the window, solemnly con- 
 sidering the deep problems of life and time, and 
 never thought of going to bed. Soon a misty 
 white glory arose out of the gathering blackness, 
 — the moon, pallid yet brilliant, lifted her strangely 
 sorrowful face over the plumy tree-tops and cast a 
 silvery reflection on the grass below. It was a 
 mournful, almost spectral night, — a faint bluish 
 haze of heat hung in the stirless air, — dew 
 sparkled thickly in patches upon the distant fields 
 
Zbc /IIMabty Htom 137 
 
 with a smooth sheen as of shining swamps, or 
 suddenly risen pools, — and in the furthest thickets 
 of the garden, a belated nightingale who ought by 
 laws ornithological, to have hushed his voice more 
 than a month since, sang drowsily and as if in a 
 dream, without passion, yet with something of pain. 
 Lionel heard the faint, throbbing fluty notes afar 
 off, and would have liked to open the window to 
 listen more attentively, but as his father had shut 
 and fastened it, he decided to leave it so ; — and 
 presently, what with watching the moon and the 
 lengthening ghostly shadows, and thinking and 
 wondering, he fell fast asleep in his chair, his head 
 leaning against the wall. For a long time he re- 
 mained thus, dreaming odd disjointed dreams, in 
 which the various facts he had learned of history 
 got mixed up with little Jessamine Dale and 
 the ^ ole 'oss,' the latter object becoming in his 
 visions suddenly endowed with life, and worthy to 
 bear a Coeur de Lion to the field of battle. All 
 at once he was startled into broad wakefulness by 
 a voice calling softly, yet clearly, — 
 
 " Lionel ! Lionel ! " 
 
 He jumped up, and to his amazement saw the 
 stalwart figure of Sir Charles Lascelles comfortably 
 perched on a branch of the big elm -tree that grew 
 
138 • Uhc /IIMobt^ Htom 
 
 just outside his window. The baronet had a 
 package in his hand, and with it made signs of 
 peremptory yet mysterious meaning. Not know- 
 ing what to think of this strange proceeding, 
 the boy noiselessly unfastened and raised the 
 window. 
 
 " Oh, there you are, little chappie ! " said Sir 
 Charles, showing his white teeth in a pleasant smile, 
 and swinging himself further along the branch in 
 order to approach the window more nearly — 
 *' Look here, — your mother sends you this — 
 catch ! " and he dexterously threw the packet he 
 held straight into the room, where it fell on the 
 i]oor, — '^ Sandwiches, cake and pears, my boy ! — 
 eat 'em all and go to bed. The old man's been 
 boasting of his cleverness in starving you, — he's 
 shut himself up now v/ith that blessed ass of a 
 Professor, so he won't know anything about it, — 
 and your mother says you're to eat every morsel, 
 to please her. Ta-ta ! " 
 
 Lionel thrust his little pale eager face out of the 
 window. 
 
 *'Oh, please. Sir Charles!" he called faintly 
 after the retreating baronet. Lascelles looked 
 back. 
 
 '^ Well ? " 
 
Ubc /libtabt^ Htom 139 
 
 '*Give mother my love, — my dear love ! — and 
 thank her for me." 
 
 Sir Charles turned his face upward in the silver 
 shimmer of the moon. There was a curious ex- 
 pression upon it, of shame, mingled with tender- 
 ness and remorse. 
 
 " All right, my boy, — I v/ill ! Good-night ! " 
 
 " Good-night ! " responded Lionel. And he 
 stood at the open window for a minute or two, 
 inhaling the night air, fragrant with the odour of 
 flowers and the breath of the sea, — and marvel- 
 ling at the athletic adroitness with which Sir 
 Charles, who generally ' posed ' as a languid and 
 lazy man of fashion, slipped along the elm-branch, 
 swung himself downward by both hands, dropped 
 stealthily to the ground, and disappeared. No 
 burglar could have been more secret or swift in 
 his actions, or more sudden in his coming and 
 going. Alone once more, the boy shut and 
 fastened the window again with soft precaution, — • 
 then he felt along the floor for his mother's 
 package. He soon found and opened it, — there 
 were plenty of good things inside, — and, spreading 
 his repast on the window-sill with the moonbeams 
 for light, he was surprised to find himself really 
 hungry. He very seldom felt any decided relish 
 
I40 Zhc /llM^bt^ Htom 
 
 for food, — and he did not realise that his one 
 day's free ^ outing ' in the Devonshire air, was 
 the cause of his healthy appetite. To-morrow, 
 and the next day, and the next, when he should 
 resume his poring over books, and his patient if 
 weary researches into * works of reference,' he 
 would find the old indifference, lassitude and 
 nausea upon him again, — the lack of energy 
 which deprived him not only of appetite, but 
 even of joy in exercise, — which made a walk 
 fatiguing, and a run impossible. But now his 
 little moonlit feast seemed delightful, — and he 
 was quite happy when, having finished the surrep- 
 titious meal, he undressed and slipped into bed. 
 He was soon asleep, and the white moonrays 
 streaming in at the uncurtained window fell slant- 
 wise on his small classic face and ruffled curly 
 hair. Some pleasing vision sweetened his rest, 
 for he smiled, — that divine half-wondering, half- 
 solemn smile which is never seen save on the lips 
 of sleeping children, and the newly dead. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The next morning Professor Cadman-Gore sat 
 awaiting his pupil in what was called the ' school- 
 room/ — the bare, uncurtained apartment in which 
 Lionel had been puzzling over his books, when 
 Willie Montrose had called him out from study- 
 to the fresh air and the salty scent of the sea. 
 It was an old-fashioned room, with a very low 
 ceiling which was crossed and recrossed by stout 
 oak rafters, after the style common to Henry the 
 Eighth's period, and had evidently been formerly 
 used as a storeroom both for linen and provisions, 
 for all round the walls there were large oaken 
 cupboards holding many broad shelves, and here 
 and there among the rafters were yet to be seen 
 great iron hooks, strong enough to support a 
 pendant dried haunch of venison, or possibly a 
 whole stag, antlers included. The Professor, being 
 tall, found some of these hooks considerably in 
 his way, — he had already knocked his bald pate 
 
142 tibe /UMabt^ Btom 
 
 rather smartly against one of them, which he had 
 instantly turned upon, as though it were a sentient 
 enemy, and endeavoured to wrench out of position. 
 But the tough rusted iron resisted all his efforts, 
 and he had only scratched his hands and wasted 
 his time without gaining his object. Somewhat 
 irritated at this trifling annoyance, — trifles always 
 irritated him, — he seated himself in the most 
 comfortable chair available, and looked out of the 
 window which was a quaint and pretty lattice- 
 work casement opening on two sides, in the 
 French fashion. The lovely scent of sweet-briar 
 assailed his nose and ofl'ended it, — the gardener 
 was cutting the grass, and the dewy smell suggested 
 hay-fever at once to his mind. 
 
 " What a fool I was to consent to come to this 
 out-of-the-way place ! " he muttered ill-temperedly; 
 '' Considering the distance from town, and the 
 discomfort of the surroundings, I ought to ask 
 double fees. The man Valliscourt is a prig — 
 thinks he knov/s something, and doesn't know 
 anything, — his wife is good-looking and has all 
 the impudent self-assurance common to women 
 of her type, — and the boy seems to be a little 
 puny-faced ass. Talk of the quiet of the country ! 
 — ugh ! — I was wakened up this morning by the 
 
Ube /ilblGbt^ Htom 143 
 
 incessant crowing of a cock, — what people buy 
 such brutes of birds for, I don't know, — then a 
 wretched cow began lowing, — and as for the 
 twittering of the birds, why it's a positive pande- 
 monium, — worse than a dozen knife-grinders at 
 work. I'll have all those creepers cut away that 
 are climbing round my bedroom window, — they 
 harbour insects as well as birds, and the sooner 
 I get rid of both nuisances the better." 
 
 He blew his long nose violently, with a 
 startlingly-tinted silk handkerchief of mingled red 
 and yellow hues, — and the idea of hay- fever again 
 recurring to him^ he shut the window with a bang. 
 Then he unfolded a large sheet of paper which 
 Mr. Valliscourt had given him the previous night, 
 and on which Vv^as written out in neatest copper- 
 plate the ' schedule ' or plan of study Lionel had 
 been following for the past six months. Over 
 this document he knitted his yellow forehead, 
 grinned and frowned, — as he read on, he blinked, 
 sucked his tongue, and smacked his lips, and 
 twisted himself about in so many fidgety ways 
 that he became a perfectly appalling spectacle of 
 ugliness, and in his absorbed condition of mind 
 was not aware that the door of the room had 
 quietly opened, and as quietly closed again, and 
 
144 TOe /IDt^bt^ Btom 
 
 that Lionel stood confronting him, with a calmly 
 speculative and critical stare. Two or three 
 minutes passed silently in this way, — then Lionel 
 spoke. 
 
 " Good-morning, Professor ! " 
 
 The Professor started, and rapidly disentangled 
 his long legs from the uncouth knot in which 
 he had gathered them over the rung of the chair 
 he occupied, — put down the ' plan,' — adjusted his 
 round spectacles, and surveyed his pupil. 
 
 " Good-morning, sir ! " he responded drily — 
 " I trust you have slept off your temper, and are 
 prepared for work ^ " 
 
 '* I haven't slept off my temper," — said Lionel 
 quietly, '* because I had no temper to sleep off. 
 Father knew that as well as I did. It's always 
 silly, I think, to accuse somebody else of being 
 in a temper when you're in one yourself. But 
 that's all over now, — that was yesterday, — this 
 is to-day, and I am quite prepared for work." 
 
 '* Glad to hear it ! " and Professor Cadman- 
 Gore smiled his usual pallid smile — "Have you 
 had your breakfast ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And have you ' rested ' sufficiently ? " 
 demanded the Professor with sarcastic emphasis. 
 
Ubc /iDi^bt^ Htom 145 
 
 "I don't know, — I don't think so," — the boy 
 answered slowly — "I often feel I should like to 
 go to sleep for days and days." 
 
 *' Really ! " and a prolonged snifF indicated the 
 learned tutor's deep disdain — " Possibly you are 
 of the hybernating species ? " 
 
 " Possibly ! " responded Lionel, with cynical 
 calm — "A hybernating animal is a creature that 
 goes to sleep all the winter. I shouldn't mind 
 that at all, — it would take off a lot of trouble 
 from one's life. Don't you ever feel tired ? " 
 
 " Physically speaking I am occasionally 
 fatigued ; " — said the Professor, eyeing him 
 severely — "Particularly when I have to train 
 and instruct foolish and refractory natures. 
 Mentally, I am never weary. And now, if you 
 have no further observations of immediate im- 
 portance to make, perhaps you will condescend 
 to commence the morning's work." 
 
 Lionel smiled, and tossed back his curly hair 
 with a pretty, half-proud half-careless gesture. 
 
 " Oh I see what you are like now ! " he said — 
 "You are what they call of a satirical turn of 
 mind, — and it is part of your particular kind 
 of fun to ask me if I will ' condescend ' to work, 
 when you know a boy like me can't have his 
 
 10 
 
146 XTbc f^iQbt'Q Htom 
 
 own way in anything, and has to do what he's 
 told. I know what is meant by satire, — Juvenal 
 was a satirist. I made an essay on him once, — 
 he began as a poet, but he got tired of writing 
 beautiful things for people w^ho wouldn't or 
 couldn't understand them, — so he turned round 
 and ridiculed everybody. He got exiled to 
 Egypt for making fun of one of the Emperor 
 Hadrian's favourites, — and they say he died out 
 there of vexation and weariness, but I think it 
 was more from old age than anything else, be- 
 cause he lived till he was eighty, and that made 
 him older, I daresay, than even you are now." 
 
 The Professor's nose reddened visibly with 
 irritation. 
 
 " Older ? — I should think so indeed ! — very 
 much older ! " he snapped out — " It will be a 
 very long time before / am eighty." 
 
 " Will it ? " queried Lionel simply — " Well, 
 one can only go by looks, you knov/, and you 
 look old, and I'm not at all clever at guessing 
 people's ages. Will you ask me some questions 
 now, or will you teach me something I am very 
 anxious to know, first ^ " 
 
 The Professor glanced him over from head to 
 foot with grim disparagement. 
 
Ubc /BM^btp Htom 147 
 
 *' I think," he said, " it is my turn to examine 
 you, if you have quite done examining me. It 
 is necessary for me to know how far you have 
 actually progressed in your studies, before I set 
 you fresh tasks. Referring to the plan so ad- 
 mirably drawn up by your father, it seems you 
 should know something of Greek and Latin, — 
 you should also be considerably advanced in 
 mathematics, and you should be fairly strong 
 in history. Stand where you are, please, — put 
 your hands behind your back, in case you should 
 be inclined to twiddle your fingers, — I hate all 
 nervous movements, — " the learned gentleman was 
 apparently unaware of his own capacity for the 
 ' fidgets,' — " and when you give an answer, look 
 me straight in the face. I have my own special 
 method of examination, which you will have to 
 accustom yourself to." 
 
 " Oh yes ! " replied Lionel cheerfully — " Every 
 tutor has his own special method, and no two 
 methods are alike. It is difficult at first to under- 
 stand them all, — but I always try to do my 
 best." 
 
 The Professor made no response, but set to 
 his work of catechising in terrible earnest, and 
 before an hour had passed, was fairly astonished 
 
148 Zbc /IIM^bt^ Htom 
 
 at the precocity, intelligence, and acute perception 
 of his pupil. The child of ten had learnt more 
 facts of science and history, than he, in his time, 
 had known when he was twenty. He concealed 
 his surprise however, under the cover of inflexible 
 austerity, and the more apt of comprehension 
 Lionel proved himself to be, the more the eminent 
 pedagogue's professional interest became excited, 
 and the more he determined to work such 
 promising material hard. This is often the fate of 
 brilliant and intelligent children, — the more quickly 
 they learn, the more cruelly they are * crammed,' 
 till both heart and brain give way under the 
 unnatural effort and forced impetus, and disaster 
 follows disaster, ending in the wreck of the whole 
 intellectual and physical organisation. Happy, in 
 these days of vaunted progress, is the dull heavy 
 boy who cannot learn, — who tumbles asleep over 
 his books, and gets a caning, which is far better 
 than a ' cramming ; ' — who is ' plucked ' in his 
 exams, and dubbed ' dunce ' for his pains ; — the 
 chances are ten to one, that though he be put to 
 scorn by the showy college pupil loaded with 
 honours, he will, in the long run, prove the better, 
 aye, and the cleverer man of the two. The 
 young truant whom Mother Nature coaxes out 
 
Zbc mght^ Btom 149 
 
 into the woods and fields when he should be at 
 his books, — who laughs with a naughty reckless- 
 ness at the gods of Greece, and has an innate 
 comic sense of the uselessness of learning dead 
 languages which he is never to speak, is probably 
 the very destined man who, in time of battle, will 
 prove himself a hero of the first rank, or who, 
 planted solitary in an unexplored country, will 
 become one of the leading pioneers of modern 
 progress and discovery. Over-study is fatal to 
 originality of character; and both clearness of 
 brain and strength of physique are denied to the 
 victims of ^ cram/ Professor Cadman-Gore was 
 an advocate of * cramming ; ' — he was esteemed in 
 many quarters as the best ^ coach ' of the day, 
 and he apparently considered a young human 
 brain as a sort of expanding bag or hold- 
 all, to be filled with various bulky articles of 
 knowledge, useful or otherwise, till it showed 
 signs of bursting, — then it was to be promptly 
 strapped together, locked and labelled — ' Regis- 
 tered Through Passenger for Life.' If the lock 
 broke and the whole bag gave way, why then 
 so much the worse for the bag, — it was proved to 
 be of bad material, and its bursting was not the 
 Professor's fault. His filmy eyes began to sparkle 
 
I50 Xlbe /IDigbt^ Htom 
 
 with a dull glitter, and his yellow cheeks reddened 
 at their jaw-bone summits, as he took note of the 
 methodical precision and swiftness with which the 
 young Lionel assorted his ' facts ' in sequence and 
 order, — of the instantaneous, hawk-like fashion in 
 which the boy's bright brain pounced, as it were, 
 on a difficult proposition in Euclid and solved it 
 without difficulty, — and a lurking sense of the 
 unnaturalness of such over-rapid perception and 
 analysis in a child of ten, intruded itself now and 
 then on his consciousness, — for among other 
 matters, the Professor had studied medicine. 
 Yet his knowledge of the science was so slight 
 that he was not without fears of instant death 
 whenever he had a mild attack of dyspepsia, and 
 he considered himself seriously wounded if he 
 managed to run a pin into his finger. Neverthe- 
 less, a few trite medical statements did occur to 
 his memory as he put Lionel through his paces, — 
 recognised axioms concerning over-precocity of 
 brain, and acute cerebral excitement of nerve- 
 centres, — but he did not permit himself to dwell 
 upon them. On the contrary, he worked the boy 
 as he would have worked a muscular young fellow 
 of eighteen or twenty, and Lionel himself showed 
 no signs of weariness, owing to the complete rest 
 
Ube /iDtgbty Btom isi 
 
 and release from tension he had enjoyed the 
 previous day. Things that often presented them- 
 selves to him as a useless * muddle,' now suddenly 
 seemed quite simple and clear; and he was sensible 
 of a curious, almost feverish desire to astonish his 
 new tutor by his quickness. An inward precipi- 
 tate volition hurried him on, causing him to 
 spring at difficulties and overcome them, — and 
 he gave all his answers with a fluency and rapidity 
 that was bewildering, even to himself. At the 
 conclusion of the morning's work, Professor Cad- 
 man-Gore reluctantly stated that he was ' fairly 
 well satisfied ' with the results of his preliminary 
 interrogations. 
 
 " You will, however," he continued — ''need to 
 apply yourself more closely to study than you 
 have hitherto done, if you are to be at all a credit 
 to me. I must tell you I very seldom undertake 
 the tuition of a boy of your age, — it is too much 
 trouble, and too little honour, — but as you have 
 gone on so far, and your father seems anxious 
 about you, I shall do my best to put you well 
 ahead. I am now going to write down the course 
 of reading you will undertake this afternoon, and 
 the dozen ' subjects ' you will prepare for to- 
 morrow, — I shall expect you not only to be word- 
 
152 XTbe /IlMaM^ Htom 
 
 perfect, but sense-perfect. I want absolute and 
 distinct comprehension, — not parrot-like repetition 
 merely." 
 
 "I am only having holiday tasks;" — put in 
 Lionel with a wistful air — ^^ Do you know 
 that?" 
 
 ^'Of course I know it. Such work as you are 
 given now is comparatively light, to what you will 
 be able to perform when the regular term 
 begins. You are preparing for a public school, — 
 Winchester } " 
 
 '' No, — I don't think so, — I should like to, — 
 but " 
 
 "H'm — h'm ! — Now let me think!" And 
 twitching his forehead and mouth in his usual 
 nervous fashion, the Professor began to scribble 
 his list of ' themes,' while Lionel stood quietly 
 beside him, watching the great bony fingers that 
 guided the pen. 
 
 *' When you have done that, may I ask you the 
 thing I want so much to know .^ " he inquired. 
 
 The Professor looked up with some curiosity. 
 He was inclined to negative the proposition, but 
 the boy's aptitude and intelligence, combined with 
 his obedience and gentleness, had, to a very great 
 degree, mollified the chronic state of irritation in 
 
XTbe /nMgbt^ Btom 153 
 
 which he, as a sort of modern Diogenes, was wont 
 to exist, — so after a pause, during which he went 
 on writing, he rephed, — 
 
 ^' You may, certainly. Is it a matter of im- 
 portance ? " 
 
 " I think so ! " and the boy's eyes darkened and 
 grew dreamy — " It seems so to me, at any rate. 
 I am very anxious about it." 
 
 Professor Cadman-Gore laid down his pen, and 
 leaning back in his chair, widened his thin lips 
 into what he meant to be an encouraging smile. 
 
 " Well, speak out ! " he said, — '' What is it ^ " 
 
 Lionel came closer to him, and looked earnestly 
 in his face. 
 
 " You see you are very clever ; " — he observed 
 with deferential gentleness, — '' Cleverer than any- 
 body in all England, some people say. Well, 
 then, you must have found out all about it, and 
 you can explain what has been puzzling me for a 
 long long time. What I want to know is this, — 
 Where is the Atom ? " 
 
 The Professor gave a violent start, — almost a 
 jump, — and stared. 
 
 " Where is the Atom ^ " he repeated — "What 
 nonsense are you talking ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 " It's not nonsense," — declared Lionel with 
 
T54 tTbe /IIMgM^ Htom 
 
 patient firmness, — " It can't be nonsense, — be- 
 cause it is the cause of everything we know. 
 We are ahve, aren't we ? — you and I and 
 millions of people, and we're all in this world 
 together. But books tell you that this world 
 is only a very little planet, one of the smallest 
 in the sky, — and there are thousands and 
 thousands, and millions and millions of other 
 planets ever so much larger, some of which we 
 cannot see, even with the longest and strongest 
 telescope. Then, look at our sun ! — we should 
 not be able to live without it, — but there are 
 millions of other suns and systems, — all separate 
 universes. Now if all these things are atoms, 
 and are designed by an Atom, — where is it ? — 
 that wonderful little First Atom which, without 
 knowing in the least what it was about, and 
 with nobody to guide it, and having no reason, 
 judgment, sight or sense of its own, produced 
 such beautiful creations ^ And then, if you are 
 able to tell me where it is, will you also tell me 
 where it came from ? " 
 
 The Professor's eyes rolled wildly in his 
 head, and he glared at the composed little figure 
 and wistful earnest face of his pupil with some- 
 thing of dismay as well as annoyance. 
 
Zhc /HM^M^ Htom 155 
 
 " You see," continued the boy anxiously — 
 *' I should not have mentioned it to you, unless 
 I had heard that you were so wise. I've been 
 waiting for a very wise man to talk to about 
 it, because it's been on my mind a long time. 
 The tutor I had who is just gone, Mr. 
 Montrose, had quite different ideas to those of 
 all the scientists, — he believed in a God, like 
 all the uneducated, ignorant people. But before 
 Mr. Montrose came I had a very clever tutor, 
 a Mr. Skeet, — he was a Positivist, he said, and 
 a great friend of a person named Frederic 
 Harrison, and he told me all about the Atom. 
 He even showed me the enlarged drawing of 
 an Atom, as seen through the microscope, — a 
 curious twisty thing with a sort of spinal cord 
 running through it, — something like the picture 
 of a man's ribs in my anatomy book, — and he 
 explained to me that it was a fortuitous com- 
 bination of such things that made universes. 
 And it puzzled me very much, because I thought 
 there must be a beginning even to these atoms, 
 and I could not imagine how such a twisty 
 little object as a First Atom could think out 
 a plan by itself, and create worlds with people 
 bigger than itself on them. But he was a very 
 
156 Ube /llMgbt^ Htom 
 
 funny man, — Mr. Skeet I mean, — he used to say 
 that nothing was everything, and everything was 
 nothing. He said this so often, and Jaughed so 
 much over it, that I was afraid he was going 
 quite mad, so I used to avoid the subject 
 altogether. Now you have come, I am sure 
 you can make it clear to me so that I shall 
 understand properly, because it is very interest- 
 ing don't you think, to know exactly where 
 the Atom is, and what it's doing ^ " 
 
 Slowly, and with an uncomfortable sense of 
 bafflement. Professor Cadman-Gore rallied his 
 scattered forces. 
 
 " You ask to know what no one knows ; " — 
 he said harshly — " That there is a First Cause 
 of things is evident, — but where it is, and where 
 it came from, is an unfathomable mystery. It 
 is, in all probability, now absorbed in its own 
 extended forces, — all we know is, that it works, 
 or has worked; and that we see its results in 
 the universe around us." 
 
 Lionel's face darkened with disappointment. 
 
 " You call it a First Cause ; " — he said — " And 
 are you really quite sure the First Cause is an 
 Atom .? " 
 
 " No one can be sure of anything in such 
 
Zbc /IlMaf3tp Htom 157 
 
 matters ; " — answered the Professor, wrinkling his 
 brows — ^' We can only form a guess, from what 
 we are enabled to discover in natural science." 
 
 A strange smile, half disdainful, half sorrowflil 
 flashed in the boy's eyes. 
 
 '* Oh then, you only ^ guess' at the Atom, as 
 other people * guess ' at a God ! " he said — " No 
 one is sure about anything ! Well, I think it is 
 very silly to settle upon an Atom as the cause of 
 anything. It seems to me much more natural 
 and likely that it should be a Person. A Person 
 with brain and thought, and feeling and memory. 
 You see, an Atom under the microscope has no 
 head, or any place where it could grow a brain, — 
 it is just a thing like two cords knotted together, 
 and in the works of nature there is nothing of 
 that description which thinks out a universe for 
 itself, — if there were, it would rule us all " 
 
 But here the Professor rose up in all his strength, 
 and swung a heavy battering-ram of explicit fact 
 against the child's argument. 
 
 *' And as a matter of positive truth and certain- 
 ty, atoms do rule us ! " — he interrupted with some 
 excitement — *' The atoms of disease which breed 
 death, — the atmospheric atoms which work storm 
 and earthquake, — the atoms which penetrate the 
 
I5S Ubc /BM^bt^ Htom 
 
 brain-cells, and produce thought, — the atoms moving 
 in a state of transition which cause change, both in 
 the development of v/orlds and the progress of 
 man, — good heavens ! — I could go on quoting 
 hundreds of instances which prove beyond a doubt 
 that we are entirely governed by the movement 
 and conglomeration of atoms, — but you are too 
 young to understand, — you could never grasp the 
 advanced scientific doctrines of the day, — it is 
 ridiculous to discuss them with a boy like you ! " 
 
 " I don't think it is ridiculous," — said Lionel 
 placidly, — " because you see, I am rather an 
 unhappy sort of boy. I think a good deal. If I 
 were happy, I might not think ; Mr. Montrose says 
 there are lots of boys who never think at all, and 
 that they get on much better than I do. But 
 when one can't help thinking, what is one to do ? 
 Oh dear ! " and he heaved a profound sigh — " I 
 did hope you would be able to clear up all my 
 difficulties for me ! " 
 
 The Professor rubbed his great hands together, 
 cracked his knuckles and coughed awkwardly, but 
 was otherwise silent. 
 
 " You know,'* went on Lionel pathetically — ^* it 
 doesn't make you care very much about living, if 
 you feel there's no good in it, and that you are 
 
XTbe /IDiabtp Htom 159 
 
 only the smallest possible fraction of the results of 
 an Atom, which didn't care and didn't know 
 what it w^as about, when it started making things. 
 I should be ever so much happier if I thought it 
 was a Person who knew what He was doing. We 
 are supposed to know what we are doing, even in 
 very small trifles, and if we dont know, we are 
 considered quite silly and useless. So it does seem 
 rather funny to me, that we should decide that all 
 the beautiful work of the universe is done by a 
 twisty thing that hasn't any notion what it is about. 
 It would be much easier to understand, I think, if 
 the scientific people could agree that the First 
 Cause was a Person, who knew." 
 
 Still the Professor was silent. 
 
 " A Person who knew," continued the boy 
 thoughtfully — ^' would have ideas ; and if He were 
 a good Person, they would all be grand and beau- 
 tiful ideas. And if He were an eternal Person, He 
 would be eternally designing new and still more 
 wonderful things, so we should not be surprised at 
 knowing He had made millions and millions of 
 stars and universes. And if He were good Him- 
 self, He would never quite destroy anything that 
 had good in it, — He would be kind too, and He 
 would always be improving and helping on every- 
 
i6o Ube fJlbiQbt^ Htom 
 
 thing He had made. Because as a Person, He 
 would have feeling ; — and when people got into 
 trouble, or sickness or poverty, He would comfort 
 them somehow. IVe might not see how He did it, 
 but He would be sure to manage it. He could 
 not help being sorry for sorrow, if He were a good 
 Person. Yes, — the more I think of it the more 
 likely it seems to me ; — beautiful flowers and 
 beautiful colours in the sky, and music, — these 
 things make the idea of a Person much pleasanter 
 and more natural to me than an Atom." 
 
 '' An Atom may be a Person, or a Person an 
 Atom," — said the Professor, beguiled involuntarily 
 into argument, by the weird sagaciousness and 
 old-mannish air of the little lad who still stood 
 confidently close to his knee, looking frankly up 
 into his hard furrowed face, and who at this 
 observation, laughed softly. 
 
 " That sounds like Mr. Skeet, who said every- 
 thing was nothing and nothing was everything ! " 
 he remarked ; — " But I don't think it could be 
 so, you know. You can't make anything of an 
 Atom but the twisty object the microscope shows 
 you, — you couldn't say it thinks, or sees. It 
 would have to think and see, to arrange colours 
 perfectly, and it would have to hear, in order to 
 
Zbc jfllMgbt^ Btom i6i 
 
 make harmonies. I've gone over all this ever so 
 many times in my own mind, and this is how 
 it seems to me. I believe, — I do really believe, 
 with all the wonderful discoveries we are making 
 we shall find out the Atom to be a Person after 
 all ! And that He knows exactly what He's 
 doing, and what we're doing ! What a good 
 thing that will be, won't it P Because then we 
 can some day ask Him to explain all that we 
 don't understand. Of course we might ask the 
 Atom, but I don't see how it could be expected 
 to answer, as it is only supposed to be just twist- 
 ing about with no object in particular." 
 
 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 con- 
 sider * 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 any- 
 thing 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 
 
 II 
 
i62 ube /lIM^bt^ Htom 
 
 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 sophi- 
 stries, 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 
 
Ube /IIM^bt^ Htom 163 
 
 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 rufiled his scholarly equani- 
 mity, — 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 
 
1 64 XTbe /IDt^bt^ Htom 
 
 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. 
 
 ^'Wh^t you think is of no import ; " — he observed 
 grandiloquently — " We are here, — and being here, 
 we must make the best of our time." 
 
 " But whB.t 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. 
 
Zbc /HM^bt^ Btom 165 
 
 *' 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 ! " ex- 
 claimed 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 ! " 
 
i66 XLhc /IIMgbt^ Htom 
 
 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 
 Cassar'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 under- 
 stand ! " 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." 
 
XTbe /IIM^bt^ Htom 167 
 
 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 conver- 
 sation, 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 hve, 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 
 
1 68 Ubc mQbt'g mom 
 
 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 
 wishfial 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 Cassar's Commentaries at the marked 
 chapter, which he read and meditated upon with 
 grave patience till called to dinner. 
 
CHAPTER VIIJ 
 
 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 relaxation 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 * consti- 
 tutional ' along a straight road in the glare of the 
 sun. He took large strides, and sometimes Lionel's 
 litr'^ 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 in- 
 stinctive efforts of natural aspiration, — and the two 
 
 169 
 
i*7o TOe /IIM^bt^ Htom 
 
 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 invari- 
 ably 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 dis- 
 covered 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 ' dis- 
 appointment.' 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 
 
ZDc /IIM^bt^ Htom 17 i 
 
 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 Hne 
 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 enthusi- 
 asts ' the Switzerland of England,' though this term 
 is sadly misapplied. The snowy peaks and glitter- 
 ing 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 
 
172 XTbe /iDtgbt^ Btom 
 
 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 Pro- 
 fessor 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, — 
 
TLbc /llMabti^ Htom 173 
 
 *'I suppose you know what is meant by a word of 
 honour ? " 
 
 "I suppose so," — answered the boy, with a 
 sHght 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, gather- 
 ing 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 
 
174 Ube jfflMgbt^ Htom 
 
 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 
 
XTbe /OMobt^ Htom 175 
 
 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 after- 
 noon 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 
 
176 Uhc /IDtgbt^ Htom 
 
 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 arms 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. 
 
Zbc /IDlGbt^ Btom 177 
 
 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 unde- 
 finable, 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 
 
 * From 'A Song of the Sea and Other Poems: By 
 Eric Mackay. 
 
1 78 XTbe /IDtgbt^ Btom 
 
 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 every- 
 where, 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 Devon- 
 shire. 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 ! " 
 
TLbc /HMgbt^ mom 179 
 
 '* 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 P 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 detec- 
 tion, — of the gardener who might be acting as a 
 spy on him by his father's orders, — of the other 
 servant^ 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.^ " 
 
i8o ubc /Hbtobt^ Htom 
 
 " My feyther's quite well/' — responded Jessa- 
 mine, 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. Tou 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 
 
Xlbe /IDtabt^ Htom iSi 
 
 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 unassum- 
 ing 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 arrange- 
 ment, 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 
 1 could creep froo ! " she said triumphantly — ^^ ^his 
 is the 'ole ! It's alius 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 
 
1 82 u\)c /DM^bt^ Htom 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 Sh^ 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 
 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 
 
XTbe /lIMgbt^ Htom 183 
 
 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 
 
1 84 Ube /IDtgbt^ Htom 
 
 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 " 
 
 " / 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 alius tryin' to be good." Then, with a 
 
Xlbe /iDtgbt^ Htom 185 
 
 sudden change of tone, she added " Poor LyUe ! 
 I'se so sorry for 'ee ! " 
 
 There was somethnig strangely movhig in her 
 voice, and Lionel, always sensitive, felt the tears 
 rising very near his eyes. 
 
 " Why, dear ? " he asked rather tremulously, — 
 \vhile, 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 mur- 
 mured 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. 
 
1 86 Ube /iDtobt^ Htom 
 
 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 under- 
 stand 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 souFs career. Thoughts 
 such as these flitted vaguely through his brain 
 while he knelt in front of Jessamine, holding her 
 
Zhc /IIM^bt^ Htom 187 
 
 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 im- 
 pressive 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 
 
i88 Ube /HMobtig Htom 
 
 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. 
 
 " Fse '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 after- 
 noon ? " 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 
 
Z\)C /HM^bt^ Htom 189 
 
 Vm 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 Hke to kiss me 'gain, Lylie ^ " 
 she demanded with ineffable sweetness. 
 
 For answer he put his arms round her neck, 
 all am.ong 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. 
 
190 Ube /IlMgbt^ Htom 
 
 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 de- 
 parture 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 
 
XTbe /BM^bti^ Htom 191 
 
 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 1 " 
 
 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 un- 
 couth signs to him with the other. He advanced 
 quickly, — then as quickly stopped, as he more 
 plainly perceived the hideous aspect of the un- 
 happy 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 con- 
 tinuously and incoherently. The head of the 
 
192 Ube /iDlgbty Htom 
 
 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 pro- 
 ducts 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 every- 
 thing ! — 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 ! " 
 
Ube ^igbtp Htom 193 
 
 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 en- 
 dured 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 ? " 
 
 13 
 
IQ4 Ubc /IDtGbt^ Htom 
 
 He stopped in his uneasy rambling, and struck 
 by a sudden thought, went downstairs in search of 
 a particular book. He looked in the drawing-room, 
 and in his father*s study, and everywhere where 
 books were kept, but vainly, — then, still possessed 
 by the one idea he went along the stone passage 
 that led to the back of the house and the servants' 
 offices, and called one of the housemaids who had 
 always been rather kind to him. 
 
 " Lucy ! are you there ? " 
 
 '' Yes, Master Lionel ! What is it ? " 
 
 " Have you got a Testament you can lend me ? 
 I want to look at it just for a few minutes." 
 
 ^* Why certainly ! " And Lucy, a bright whole- 
 some-faced girl of about twenty came out of the 
 kitchen, smiling — ^' I'll lend you my school-prize 
 one. Master Lionel, — I know you'll take great care 
 of it." 
 
 " That I will ! " the boy assured her, whereupon 
 she tripped away, and soon returned with a book 
 carefully wrapped up in white tissue-paper. She 
 unfolded this, and showed a handsome morocco- 
 bound square volume, bearing its title in letters of 
 gold — ^' New Testament." 
 
 " Don't you ink it, there's a dear ! " she said — 
 " And give it to me back when you've done with it," 
 
Ube /HMgbt^ Htom 195 
 
 Lionel nodded, and returning to the school-room, 
 shut the door. Then, with a fluttering heart, he 
 opened the book. What he looked for he soon 
 found, — the story of Christ healing the lepers. 
 Leprosy, he had been taught, was the most fright- 
 ful disease known, — both hereditary and infectious, 
 it was a deadly scourge that tortured the Hmbs, dis- 
 torted the countenance and made of the human 
 frame a thing inhuman and ghastly, — yet Christ 
 never turned away in loathing from any miserable 
 creature so afflicted. On the contrary He healed 
 all who came to Him, and sent them on their way 
 rejoicing, — yet on one such occasion, when ten 
 lepers were cleansed, only one returned to give 
 thanks to his great Benefactor. Lionel felt that 
 there was something more in this narrative than 
 was quite apparent in the mere reading of it, — 
 something subtle and significant, which he could not 
 quite grasp, though he began to reason with him- 
 self — " Is it because we are ungrateful that life is 
 made cruel for us, — or what is it ? " 
 
 His head ached and his eyes smarted, — he closed 
 the Testament sorrowfully, and with a deep sigh. 
 "It's no use to me" — he said — "Because though 
 it's all very beautiful, my father says it isn't true. 
 And in one of the books I have, the writer who is 
 
196 ^be /lIMGbty Btom 
 
 a very clever man, says it isn't at all certain that 
 Christ ever existed, and that it was Peter and Paul 
 who invented Him. Oh dear me ! I wish I knew 
 what to believe, — because even in the scientific 
 arguments no one man agrees with the other. It's 
 all a muddle, whichever way you turn !" 
 
 He went downstairs again, and returned the 
 Testament to its owner with a gentle, 
 
 " Thank you, Lucy." 
 
 " Did you find what you wanted, Master 
 Lionel } " asked the good-natured girl. 
 
 " Not exactly ! " he answered — " But it's all 
 right, Lucy — " here he hesitated — " Lucy, did you 
 see a beggar-man selling roses and apples just now 
 outside the carriage-gate ^ — he was all twisted on 
 one side, and had such a dreadful face ! " 
 
 " Poor fellow ! " said Lucy pityingly — " Yes, 
 Master Lionel, — I often see him. He's the ^ silly 
 man ' of the village, — the children call him 
 ' Hoddy-Doddy.' But he's not a beggar, though 
 he's more than half-witted, — he's a rare good 
 heart of his own, and an idea of what's right and 
 honest, for he manages to make his own living and 
 is a burden to nobody. It's wonderful how he 
 manages it, — I suppose God looks after him, for 
 no one else does." 
 
Ube /HM^bt^ Htom 197 
 
 "God looks after him!" This gave Lionel 
 new subject-matter for reflection, and he returned 
 to the school-room, slowly and thoughtfully. 
 His dinner was brought up to him there, and 
 afterwards he set himself to work at his lessons 
 assiduously. Hot head and trembling hands did 
 not deter him from application, — and he worked 
 on so steadily that he never knew how time 
 went, till a sudden sick giddiness seized him, and 
 he was obliged to get up and go out in the 
 garden for fresh air lest he should faint. He 
 found then that it was four o'clock, and re- 
 membering that he had asked Jessamine to come 
 back to the * 'ole in th' 'edge ' at that hour, he 
 went to the appointed spot, and waited there 
 patiently till nearly Rvc. But the little maiden 
 did not appear, — and he was quite down-hearted 
 and weary with disappointment, as well as with 
 overwork, when at last he went in to his tea. 
 Lucy had prepared that meal for him, and she 
 stood looking at him somewhat compassionately 
 as he listlessly threw off his cap and approached 
 the table. 
 
 '' I should get to bed early if I were you, 
 Master Lionel ; " — she said kindly — " You look 
 quite tired and wore out, that you do." 
 
1 98 ^be /IDiobt^ Htom 
 
 " I want to wait up till mother comes home ; " — 
 he answered. 
 
 Lucy fidgeted about, and seemed uneasy in her 
 mind at this. 
 
 " Oh, I think you'd better not," she observed : 
 " Your pa'd be very angry if you did. You 
 know you're always to be in bed by nine, and 
 your ma said she couldn't possibly get back 
 before eleven. You go to bed like a good boy, 
 or you'll get us all into trouble." 
 
 " Very well ! " he said, with an indifferent air — 
 " I don't mind ! after all, it isn't as if she cared, 
 
 you know. If she cared " here quite suddenly 
 
 his lip began to tremble, and to his own amaze- 
 ment and indignation, he burst out crying. 
 
 The warm-hearted Lucy had her arms round 
 him in a minute. 
 
 " Why, what's the matter, dear ? " she asked 
 caressingly, drawing the sobbing boy to her good 
 womanly breast — *^ Lor' sakes ! — how you're 
 trembling ! There, there ! don't cry, don't cry ! 
 you're tired ; — that's what it is. Poor little 
 fellow ! — you've got too many lessons to learn, 
 and too little play. I'm real sorry, that I am, that 
 Mr. Montrose has gone away." 
 
 *' So am I : " — murmured Lionel, very much 
 
Ubc /IDtobt^ Htoin 199 
 
 ashamed of his own emotion, though he was child 
 enough to feel a certain pleasure and comfort in 
 having Lucy's kind arm round him — '* I liked 
 Mr. Montrose." Here he choked back his tears, 
 and fingered Lucy's brooch, which was a brilliant 
 masterpiece of the village silversmith's skill, being 
 a heart with a long dagger run through it, the said 
 dagger having the name * Lucy ' engraved on its 
 harmless point. *' Who gave you that, Lucy ^ " 
 
 " My young man," — replied Lucy with a giggle : 
 *' I'm the dagger, and I'm supposed to have 
 run right through his heart, — don't you see ? 
 Isn't it funny ? 
 
 '* Very funny ! " agreed Lionel, beginning to 
 smile faintly. 
 
 Lucy giggled afresh. 
 
 " That's what I said when he gave it to me, — 
 but he was very cross and told me it wasn't funny 
 at all, — it was poetry. You're feeling better now, 
 aren't you dear ? " 
 
 " Oh yes ! " and Lionel dried his eyes on her 
 apron — '* Don't you mind me, Lucy. I'm only a 
 little tired, as you say. I'll have my tea now." 
 
 He sat down to table and made such a brave 
 show of being hungry, that Lucy soon withdrew, 
 quite satisfied. But when she had gone he ceased 
 
200 XTbe /llMobti^ Htom 
 
 eating, and went to his old seat in the window, 
 there to dream and muse. He tried conscientiously, 
 before the evening closed in, to study some more 
 of the ^ subjects ' Professor Cadman-Gore had 
 left for his consideration, but he could not, — his 
 head swam directly he bent over a printed page, 
 so he gave up the attempt in despair. He watched 
 the sun sink, and the stars come out, and then 
 went willingly enough to bed. Before he shut 
 his little bed room- window he heard an owl hoot 
 among the neighbouring woods, and thought what 
 a pitiful cry it uttered. 
 
 ** Perhaps it is like me, wondering why it was 
 ever made ! " he said to himself — " And perhaps 
 it thinks the Atom as cruel as I do ! " 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Tired out as he was, sleep came reluctantly to 
 Lionel's eyes that night. There was an odd quick 
 palpitation behind his brows, which teased him 
 for a long time and would not let him rest, — it 
 seemed to him like a little mill for ever turning 
 and grinding out portions of facts which he had 
 recently committed to memory, — bits of history, 
 bits of grammar, bits of Euclid, bits of Latin, bits 
 of Greek, — till he began to wonder how all the 
 bits would piece themselves together and make a 
 comprehensive ground-work for further instruction. 
 By-and-by he found himself considering how very 
 stupid it was of Richard Coeur de Lion to make so 
 much fuss over the Holy Sepulchre, when now there 
 were so many clever men alive who were all agreed 
 that Christ was a myth, and that there never was 
 any Holy Sepulchre at all ! What a very dense 
 king was Richard ! — what a brave dunce ! — 
 with his perpetual oath " Par le Splendeur de 
 
202 Zbc /IIMgbtp Htom 
 
 Dieu ! '* While all the time, if he had only known 
 it, the Atom was just a mechanical twisty thing 
 with no ' Splendeur de Dieu ' about it ! And oh, 
 what a wicked waste of life there had been ! — what 
 terrific martyrdoms for the ' Faith ' ! — merely to 
 end in an age which was scientifically prepared to 
 deny and utterly condemn all spiritual and super- 
 natural beliefs whatsoever ! Gradually and by 
 gentle degrees, Coeur de Lion and the ' Splendeur 
 de Dieu/ and the Atom, and Jessamine Dale, with 
 bits of facts, and bits of Professor Cadman-Gore's 
 unhandsome features curiously joined on to the 
 dreadful physiognomy of the * silly man ' of the 
 village, got jumbled all together in inextricable con- 
 fusion, and the little tiresome mill in his head 
 turned slower and slower, and presently ceased to 
 grind, — and he fell into a profound - slumber, — the 
 deep, stirless trance of utter exhaustion. So dead 
 asleep was he that a voice calling " Lylie ! Lylie ! " 
 only reached his consciousness at last as though it 
 were a faint far-off sound in a dream, — and not 
 till the call had been repeated many times did he 
 start up, rubbing his heavy eyelids, and gazing in 
 speechless alarm at a mysterious cloaked figure 
 bending over his bed. The room was dark save 
 for the moonlight that struck one wide slanting 
 
Xlbe /IIMGbty Htom 203 
 
 beam across the floor, and he could not for a 
 moment imagine what strange and spectral visitant 
 thus roused him from his rest. But before he had 
 time to think, the figure's arms were round him., 
 and its voice murmured tenderly, 
 
 " Lylie ? Have I frightened you ? Poor boy ! 
 — poor baby ! Don't you know me ? " 
 
 " Mother ! " And in his sudden surprise and 
 joy he sprang up half out of bed to return her 
 embrace. " How good of you to come and see 
 me ! — and you haven't even taken your hat and 
 cloak off ! Did Lucy tell you I wanted to wait up 
 for you ? " 
 
 " No, — Lucy didn't tell me, — " answered Mrs. 
 Valliscourt, drawing him more closely to her breast : 
 " Poor child, how thin you are ! Such a little 
 bag o' bones ! You mustn't catch cold, — curl 
 yourself under my cloak, so ! There ! Now 
 Lylie, I want you to be very quiet, and listen to 
 me attentively, will you ? " 
 
 " Yes, mother ! " 
 
 Cuddled under the warm cloak, with her arms 
 round him, Lionel was in a state of perfect 
 happiness, — this unexpected nocturnal visit seemed 
 too good to be true. He was secretly astonished, 
 but entirely glad, — he had never dreamed of 
 
204 Xi:bc /IDiQbti? Htom 
 
 the possibility of so much consolation and de- 
 light. 
 
 " You feel so small ! " said his mother then with 
 a tremulous laugh — " In your little nightgown you 
 seem just a mere bundle of a baby, — the very 
 same sort of bundle I used to carry about and be 
 so proud of. You were a baby once, you know ! " 
 
 Lionel nestled closer and kissed her soft hand. 
 
 " Yes mother, I suppose I was ! " 
 
 " Well, now Lylie," she went on, speaking 
 rapidly and in low tones, — *^ You must try and 
 understand all I say to you. I am going away 
 dear, — for a time ... on a visit .... with 
 a friend who wishes to make me happy. I'm not 
 very happy just at present, . . neither are you I 
 daresay, . . you see your father is exceptionally 
 clever and good" — and her voice here rang with 
 a delicate inflection of mockery — " and — very 
 naturally, — he does not care much for people who 
 are not equally clever and good, — so it makes it 
 difficult to get on with him sometimes. He does 
 not like me to sing and dance and amuse myself 
 any more than he likes you to play games with 
 other boys. You are too young to go about by 
 yourself and have a good time, yet, — but by-and- 
 by you will grow up, and you will know what a good 
 
XTbe /nMgbt^ Btoin 205 
 
 time means. You will find out that when people 
 get very very dull, and are almost ready to kill 
 themselves for dulness, their doctors advise them 
 to have a change of scenery, and a change of 
 society. That's what I want. Good people like 
 your father, never want a change, — I'm not good, 
 and I do ! " 
 
 Lionel began to feel pained and perplexed. 
 
 *'You are good, mother!" he said with 
 emphasis. 
 
 "No, darling I'm not;" — she answered 
 quickly — " And that is just what I want to impress 
 upon you. I'm not good ; — I'm a bad, selfish, 
 cold-hearted woman. I don't love anybody — not 
 even you ! " 
 
 " Oh, mother ! " The little cry was piteous, 
 like that of a wounded bird. 
 
 She stooped and gathered him up suddenly in 
 her arms, lifting him completely out of bed, — and 
 holding him thus with an almost passionate 
 tenderness, rocked him to and fro as if he were 
 the merest infant. 
 
 " No ! " she said, a mingled scorn and sweet- 
 ness thrilling in her voice — '^ No, — I don't love 
 my baby at all, — I never did ! I never had any 
 heart, Lylie, — never ! I never rocked you in my 
 
2o6 XTbe m^ht^ Htom 
 
 arms like this all day, and kissed your dear little 
 rosy feet and hands, and sang you to sleep with 
 all the funny little nonsense songs I knew ! No, 
 my pet ! I never loved you, — I never did, — I 
 never shall ! " 
 
 And bending down, she kissed him again and 
 again with a burning force and fervour that 
 frightened him. He dared not move, she clasped 
 him so convulsively, — and he dared not speak, 
 for as the moonbeams glittered on her face he 
 saw that she was deadly pale, and that her eyes 
 looked wild : — he feared she was ill, — an instinctive 
 feeling that something terrible was about to 
 happen made his heart beat fast, and he trembled 
 violently. 
 
 " Are you cold, dear ? " she murmured, sitting 
 down in a chair by the bed, and still holding him 
 jealously in her embrace, — " There ! " and she 
 drew the ample folds of her fur-lined cloak more 
 snugly around him with all the cosseting fond- 
 ness of an adoring mother — " That's cosier, isn't 
 it, little one ? Now, let me finish my talk. You 
 know, Lylle dear, when you were a baby, I used to 
 have you all to myself, and that made a great 
 difference to me — I was quite happy then. I 
 used to plan such pretty things for you, — I had 
 
Ubc /KMGbt^ Htom 207 
 
 so many hopes too — oh, so many ! I was only 
 a girl when you came to me, and girls often have 
 pretty fancies. And you were such a darling 
 baby, — so plump, and round, and rosy — and 
 merry ! — oh, so merry ! And I was very proud 
 of you, and very jealous too, — I used to nurse you 
 and dress you all myself, because I could not bear 
 the idea of any common paid woman taking care 
 of you. And when you began to speak, I did not 
 want you to be taught lessons, — I wanted you to 
 play all day and grow big and strong, — just as I 
 often wanted to dance and sing myself But 
 your father made up his mind that you were to be 
 a very clever man, ard he had you taught all 
 sorts of things as soon as you could spell. And 
 so gradually I lost my baby. And I never cared — 
 afterwards. I cared a good deal at first, because I 
 saw you were getting thin and pale and tired- 
 looking : — but it was no use — so I gave up caring. 
 I don't care now, — because you see you are 
 growing quite a man, Lylie, though you are not 
 eleven yet, — poor little man ! — and you won't 
 want me at all. I am only in your way, and I am 
 always vexing your father and making trouble by 
 giving my opinions about you and your studies. 
 That is one of the reasons why I am going on 
 
2o8 Zbc /Iftigbty Btom 
 
 this — this visit, — -just to enjoy myself a little. 
 If it hadn't been for you, I shouldn't have come 
 back here to-night, — but I couldn't go without 
 bidding my boy good-bye, — I couldn't ! " 
 
 She said this wildly, — great tears filled her eyes 
 and dropped heavily one by one among Lionel's 
 curls. He sat up in her arms, his little bare feet 
 dangling down from her knee, and put one hand 
 coaxingly against her cheek. 
 
 " Are you really going to-night, mother ? So 
 late ? " he asked plaintively — " Must you go ? " 
 
 She looked straight at him and smiled through 
 her tears. 
 
 '* Yes, I must ! I want a good time for once in 
 my life, Lylie, — and I'm going to have it ! I'm 
 like you, — I want a long holiday — no lessons, and 
 no tutors ! " 
 
 A sense of impending desolation filled his 
 soul. 
 
 " Oh mother, I wish you'd take me with 
 you ! " he said — " I do love you so much ! " 
 
 What strange expression was that which 
 darkened her beautiful face ? Was it guilt, shame 
 or despair? — or all three in one foreboding 
 shadow ? 
 
 " You love me so much ? Poor boy, do you ? 
 
Ube /libi^btp Htom 209 
 
 It is strange, — for I've given you little cause to 
 love me. You mustn't do it, Lylie ! — it's a 
 mistake ! — and — to-morrow your father will tell 
 you why." 
 
 She was silent a minute, — then, glancing at the 
 little feet that gleamed in the moonbeams, frail and 
 white against her dark draperies, she took them 
 both in her hand and kissed them. 
 
 " Poor, cold little tootsies ! " she said laughing 
 nervously, though the tears still glistened on her 
 cheeks — " I mustn't keep you too long out of bed. 
 See here, Lylie," — and she drew a small soft 
 parcel from her pocket — " I want you to keep this 
 in some safe place for me — till — till I come back ; 
 — it is the only remembrance I have of my baby — 
 when you were a baby. I was a very proud little 
 mamm_a, as I have told you, — and no sash in any 
 of the London shops seemed good enough, or 
 pretty enough for my boy. So I had this one 
 specially woven on one of the French looms after 
 my own design, for you to wear with your little 
 white frocks. It is blue silk, and the pattern on 
 it is a daisy chain. Don't let your father see it, 
 but keep it for me till I return and ask you for it. 
 I don't feel like taking it with me — where I am 
 going. See, — I'll put it under your pillow, and 
 
2IO XTbe /KM^bt^ Htom 
 
 you must hide it somewhere in the morning — will 
 you ? " 
 
 "Yes, mother. But — but will you be long 
 away ? " 
 
 He asked this timidly, bewildered and frightened 
 by he knew not what. 
 
 " I don't know, darling ; " — she answered 
 evasively — " It all depends ! Your father will give 
 you all the news of me ! And he will be sure to 
 tell you that you mustn't love me, Lylie ! — do 
 you hear that ? You mustn't love me ! " 
 
 " But I shall," — he said gently — " Nobody can 
 prevent it. I shall always love you." 
 
 She sat very still a moment, — the brooding 
 shadow heavy on her face. 
 
 " You think so now," — she murmured more to 
 herself than to him, — " Poor boy — you think so 
 now — but when you know " 
 
 Then she caught him close to her breast, and 
 kissed him. 
 
 '^ Now for the downy nest ! " she said, lifting 
 him up, and laying him tendeily back into bed 
 again, her eyes resting upon him with a miserable 
 yearning, though she forced a strange distraught 
 smile — "All the moonlight shines on your pale 
 face, Lylie, and you look — oh, you look like a 
 
Ube /Ifti^bt^ Htom 211 
 
 little dead child, my darling ! — like a little dead 
 child ! '* 
 
 And suddenly falling on her knees, she threw 
 her arms across the bed and dropping her head 
 upon them, sobbed as though her heart were 
 breaking. 
 
 Poor Lionel shivered in every limb with alarm 
 and distress, — his sensitive soul was racked by his 
 mother's anguish, though it was incomprehensible 
 to him, — and he felt as if indeed it would be better 
 to die than to see her thus. 
 
 "Don't cry, mother 1 " he faltered at last faintly ; 
 " Oh don't cry ! " 
 
 She raised herself, and dried her eyes with a 
 handkerchief from which the delicate odour of 
 violets came floating, sweet as the breath of the 
 living flowers. 
 
 "No, — I won't cry, darling!" she answered, 
 beginning to laugh hysterically, " I don't know 
 really why I should, because I am quite happy — 
 quite ! " And rising to her feet, she fastened 
 her cloak about her with hands that trembled 
 greatly — Lionel saw the diamonds on her white 
 fingers shake like drops of dew about to fall, — 
 '' I'm going to have a splendid time and enjoy 
 myself, thoroughly ! " — this she said with a 
 
212 Ube /HMQbtp Htom 
 
 curiously defiant air — " and whatever happens 
 afterwards may happen as it likes^ — I don't 
 care ! " She repeated the words with hard 
 emphasis. '* / dorit care ! Years ago I should 
 have cared — dreadfully, — but I've been taught 
 not to care, and now I don't. ' Don't Care ' was 
 hung they say, — but as far as I'm concerned, it 
 really doesn't matter whether one's hung, or 
 drowned, or dies of a fever or a surfeit, — it's all 
 the same a hundred years hence ! " She lifted 
 her hands to her head, and with a coquettish 
 touch settled the small velvet hat she wore, more 
 becomingly on her clustering hair, — while Lionel 
 looking up at her from his pillow, saw all her 
 wonderful beauty transfigured, as it were, in the 
 ethereal radiance of the moon, and as he looked 
 he felt, by some strange instinct, that he must 
 try to hold her back from some unknown yet 
 menacing peril. 
 
 " Mother, don't go ! " he pleaded—" Stay to- 
 night, at any rate ! Wait till to-morrow, — oh, 
 do, mother ! Don't leave me ! " 
 
 He stretched out his emaciated little arms, — 
 and his eyes, full of child-yearning and student 
 thought commingled, appealed to her with a 
 speechless eloquence. She bent over him again, 
 
Ube /IDt^bty Htom 213 
 
 and taking his hands, pressed them close to her 
 bosom. 
 
 " Dear, if I had any heart I shouldn't leave 
 you;" — she said — '^ I know that. But I have 
 none, — not a scrap. I want you to remember 
 this, and then you will not feel at all sad about 
 me. People without hearts always get on best 
 in this world. Your mother used to have a 
 heart, — full of romance, and nonsense, and senti- 
 ment, and faith, Lylie !■ — yes, dear, even faith. 
 Your mother was a very ignorant woman once, 
 so ignorant as to actually believe in a God ! You 
 know how angry your father is with silly folks 
 who believe in a God ^ Well, he soon got me 
 out of all those foolish ways, and taught me that 
 the only necessary rule of life was Respectability. 
 Oh, you don't know how dull Respectability can 
 be ! — how insufferably hopelessly dull ! You 
 don't know, — you can't understand, that when 
 the only object in life is to be respectable and 
 nothing more, — no other ambition, no other 
 future, no other end, — it becomes deadly ! — even 
 desperate ! You can't understand — you are too 
 young, — poor Lylie ! — you are only a child, — 
 and I'm talking to you as if you were a man. 
 Good-bye, dear ! Love me for to-night — you may 
 
214 Ube ffbigU^ Htom 
 
 love me a little, just till morning comes, — I like 
 to think you are loving me ; — Good-bye ! " 
 
 He clung round her neck. 
 
 '* Don't go, mother ! " he whispered. 
 
 She kissed him passionately. 
 
 " I must, Lylie ! I should die or go mad if I 
 didn't. I am tired to death, — I want a change ! " 
 
 ^' But you won't be long away ? " he murmured, 
 still holding her fast. 
 
 ** Not long,'' — she replied mechanically ; '^ Not 
 long ! See, Til make you a promise, Lylie ! — I'll 
 come back directly your father sends for me ! " — 
 and she laughed, — a little cold, mirthless laugh 
 which somehow chilled Lionel's blood, — " My 
 little boy, — my pet, — you must not cling to me 
 so ! — you hurt me ! — I cannot bear it — oh, I cannot 
 bear it ! " 
 
 A faint cry that was half a sob, escaped her, and 
 she almost roughly unloosened his arms from about 
 her neck, and put him back on his pillow. He was 
 pained and bewildered. 
 
 " Did I really hurt you, mother ? " he asked 
 wistfully. 
 
 " Yes, — you really hurt me. You — you pulled 
 my hair ;" — and she smiled, her beautiful eyes 
 shining down upon him like stars in the semi-dark- 
 
XTbe /IDtabt^ Htom 215 
 
 ness — '^ And I felt as though your little fingers were 
 pulling at my heart too ! Only I have no heart ! — 
 I forgot that, — but you mustn't forget it." She 
 paused, — for at that moment the crunching noise 
 of wheels was heard outside on the gravel of the 
 carriage- drive, — and she listened, with a strange 
 wild look of expectation on her face. 
 
 " You've read all about the French Revolution, 
 Lylie, haven't you ? Oh yes, poor little mannikin, 
 I know you have ! — I daresay you've got all the 
 troubles of Louis Seize by heart. You remember 
 when the tumbrils or death-carts used to come 
 rattling along the streets, to fetch the people for 
 execution? Well, I heard the wheels o^ my death- 
 cart just now, — it has come for me^ — and /';;/ going 
 to execution, by choice, not by compulsion ! " 
 
 Roused to sudden energy, Lionel sprang up in 
 his bed. 
 
 '' Mother, mother, you sha'n't go ! " he ex- 
 claimed, quite desperately — " I'll come with you if 
 you do ! — you mustn't leave me behind ! " 
 
 Her fair features hardened, as with a determined 
 grasp she caught hold of him and laid him down 
 again. 
 
 "Naughty boy!" she said sharply— " You'll 
 make me very angry, and I shall be sorry I came 
 
^1^1 XTbe /lIMobt^ Htom 
 
 to see you and say good-night. Lie still, and go 
 to sleep. If you love me, you must obey me ! " 
 
 Shivering a little, he turned from her, and hid 
 his face in the pillow,- shrinking from the imperious 
 regard of those wonderful eyes of hers, which could 
 flash with wrath as well as deepen with tenderness, 
 — and the old dull sense that he was nothing to her, 
 and less than nothing, stole upon him almost un- 
 awares. Presently, moved by quick penitence, she 
 stooped towards him, and ran her fingers caress- 
 ingly through his curls. 
 
 '' There ! I did not mean to be cross, Lylie ! 
 Forgive me ! And kiss me good-bye, darling ! " 
 
 Silently he put his arms round her, — the moon- 
 light fell pallidly across the bed, spectrally illumin- 
 ing the faces of both child and mother, — on the 
 one was written with touching pathos, the last hope- 
 less, helpless appeal of innocence and grief, — on 
 the other a reckless resolve, and a callous, despair- 
 ing self-contempt. Life gone to waste and ruin 
 through lovelessness and neglect ; — such was the 
 history declared in every line of Helen Valliscourt's 
 countenance, as she clasped her boy once more to 
 her breast, kissing him on lips, cheeks and brow, 
 and ruffling the thick soft clusters of his hair with 
 loving lingering fingers. 
 
Zhc /Iftigbty Btom 217 
 
 ^^ Good-bye ! — good-bye ! '' she whispered — 
 " 1 have no heart — or it would break, Lyiie ! 
 Good-bye, my pet, — my baby ! Love me till 
 to-morrow — good-bye ! " 
 
 With this last ' good-bye ' — she tore herself 
 resolutely away from him, — and before he could 
 quite realise it, she had gone. He lay still for a 
 moment trembling, — then on a sudden impulse 
 left his bed, and ran bare-footed out on the landing, 
 where he paused at the top of the stairs, frightened 
 and irresolute. All was dark and silent. 
 
 "Mother! ' he called faintly. A door swung 
 to with a creaking groan and rattle, — a rising wind 
 sighed through the crevices. 
 
 ''Mother!" 
 
 The plaintive cry was swallowed up and lost in 
 the darkness, — but as he listened, with every 
 nerve strained and every sense on the alert, he 
 heard the noise of trotting horses' hoofs and 
 carriage-wheels, apparently retreating at a rapid 
 rate up the Combmartin road. He rushed back 
 to his room, and hastily opening the window, 
 looked out. It was full moonlight, — every object 
 in the landscape was as clearly defined as in broad 
 day, — but not a trace of any human creature was 
 visible. The night air was chilly, and his teeth 
 
2i8 Ube /llMgbt^ Htom 
 
 chattered with cold, — but he was hardly aware of 
 this, so great was the burden of sorrow and 
 desolation that had fallen on his heart. He raised 
 his eyes to the clear sky, — one splendid star, whose 
 glowing lustre was scarcely lessened by the rays 
 of the moon, shone immediately opposite to him 
 like a silver sanctuary-lamp in heaven. Owls 
 hooted, answering each other with dismal per- 
 sistence, and scared bats fluttered in and out 
 among the trees, which were now beginning to 
 sway languidly to and fro in a light breeze coming 
 up from the sea. And the impression of disaster 
 and gloom deepened in the boy's soul, — and once 
 again from his trembling lips came the piteous 
 wailing cry, 
 
 '' Mother ! Oh, mother ! " 
 
 Then a great rush of tears blinded his sight, — 
 and feeUng his way back to bed through the salt 
 haze of that bitter falling rain, he shiveringly 
 huddled himself into a forlorn little heap of 
 misery, and sobbed himself to sleep. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 Next morning he showed few signs of the grief 
 he had suffered during the night. True, he was 
 much paler than usual^ and very silent, — but being 
 well accustomed to hide his emotions and keep 
 his troubles to himself, he complained of nothing, 
 not even to Lucy when, as she brought him his 
 breakfast she said, in rather a flurried manner, 
 
 " Your ma came home last night, Master 
 Lionel, and went away again, — what do you think 
 of that ? " 
 
 "I don't think anything" — he replied wearily; 
 " Why should I ? It's not my business." 
 
 Lucy hesitated. Should she tell him what all 
 the servants in the house too truly suspected ? — 
 what the very villagers in Combmartin were 
 already gossiping about at their cottage doors 
 and in the common room of the inn ? 
 
 '' No, I can't do it ! " she mentally decided — 
 " He looks as white as a little ghost, he do, and 
 
2 20 Zbc /iDigbts Utom 
 
 I won't bother him. He wouldn't understand 
 maybe, and he's got all his lessons to learn, poor 
 little chap, and it'll only unsettle him. Anyhow 
 he'll hear it fast enough ! " Aloud she said, " I 
 suppose your pa and the Professor will be home 
 by the first coach from Lynton this morning ? " 
 
 '^ I suppose so," assented Lionel indifferently. 
 
 " I don't like Lynton myself," went on Lucy — 
 ^* People talk about it a lot, but it's just a nasty, 
 damp, up-and-down place without any real com- 
 fort in it. They've got a queer tram-car now 
 that slides up the hill from Lynmouth to Lynton, 
 and that doesn't make it any prettier I can tell 
 you ! " She paused; then added by way of a totally 
 irrelevant after-thought, " There's a letter addressed 
 to your pa in your ma's writing, waiting for 
 him on his study-table." 
 
 Lionel remained silent, pretending to be entirely 
 absorbed in the enjoyment of his breakfast. 
 Lucy, finding he was not inclined to talk, soon 
 left him to himself, much to his relief, for when 
 quite alone he was free to push away the food 
 that nauseated him to even look at, and to think 
 his own thoughts without interruption. His 
 mother's strange visit to his bedside during the 
 night, — her stranger words, her tears, her kisses. 
 
XEbe /IIM^bti^ Htom 221 
 
 seemed this morning more like the vague im- 
 pressions of a dream than a reality, — and unless 
 he had found the sash, — his own baby-sash, — 
 she had left with him, under his pillow, he would 
 have been inclined to doubt the whole incident. 
 As it was, he was afraid to dwell too much 
 upon it, for he had a horrible presentiment that 
 it meant something more than he dared formulate, 
 — something dreadful, — something hopeless, — 
 something that for him, would bring great misery. 
 He had carefully hidden away the ' baby-sash,' — 
 a four-yards' length of broad soft ribbon, with 
 the delicate design of a daisy-chain straying over 
 its pale blue silken ground, — he had looked at 
 it first with critical interest, wondering what he 
 had been like when as an infant he had worn 
 such a pretty thing, and noting that it was 
 scented with the same delicious odour of violets 
 that had been wafted from his mother's handker- 
 chief, when she had dried her eyes after her 
 sudden fit of weeping. Having put it by in a 
 safe place he knew of, he went to his books 
 and set himself desperately to work, in order 
 to try and forget his own disquietude. Beginning 
 by translating a passage of Virgil into English 
 blank verse, he went on to ' Cassar's Com- 
 
222 Zbc /IDtQbt^ Htoin 
 
 mentaries,* — then he did several difficult and 
 puzzling sums, and was stretching every small 
 fibre of his young brain well on the rack of 
 learning, when a coach-horn sounded, and he 
 saw the Lynton coach itself come rattling down- 
 hill into Combmartin. His father and Professor 
 Cadman-Gore were on top, — that he saw at a 
 glance, — and in another few minutes he, taking 
 cautious peeps from the school-room window, 
 perceived their two familiar figures walking up 
 the drive and entering the house. And now — 
 something seemed to stop the boy from the 
 resumption of his tasks, — a curious sensation 
 came over him as though he were imperiously 
 bidden to wait and hear the worst. What worst ? 
 He could not analyse any * worst ' satisfactorily 
 to himself — yet .... 
 
 A violent ringing of bells in the outside 
 corridor startled him and set his heart beating 
 rapidly, — he got up from his chair and stood, 
 anxiously listening and wondering what was the 
 matter. All at once his father's voice pitched 
 in a high hoarse key of utmost wrath, called 
 loudly, 
 
 " Lionel ! Lionel ! Where is the boy .'' Has 
 he turned tramp, as his mother has turned " 
 
Zbc /HMQbts Htoin 223 
 
 The sentence was left unfinished, for at that 
 moment Lionel ran down the stairs quickly and 
 faced him. 
 
 " I am here, father ! " 
 
 He trembled as he spoke, for he thought his 
 father had suddenly gone mad. Crimson with 
 fury, his eyes rolling wildly in his head, his wolfish 
 teeth clenched on his under-lip, he was a terrible 
 sight to see, — and his fiendish aspect overwhelmed 
 poor Lionel with such alarm that he scarcely 
 perceived the Professor, who stood in the back- 
 ground, cracking his great knuckles together and 
 widening his mouth into a strangely sardonic grin. 
 Directly his little son appeared, Mr. Valliscourt 
 pulled himself up as it were by a violent effort, 
 and bringing his eyebrows together so that they 
 met in a hard black line on the bridge of his nose, 
 he said in choked fierce accents — 
 
 " Oh, you are here ! Did you " he paused, 
 
 took breath, and resumed — ^'Did you see your 
 mother yesterday ? " 
 
 " Yes " — answered the boy faintly — " I saw 
 her last night. I was in bed, and she came and 
 woke me up, and said good-bye to me." 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt glared at the fragile trembling 
 little figure in frowning scorn. 
 
2 24 tTbe /iDigbt^ Htom 
 
 " Said good-bye to you ? Was that all ?— or 
 was there anything else ? Speak out ! " 
 
 Lionel's teeth began to chatter with fear. 
 
 "She said, — she said she was going on a visit 
 with — with a friend who would make her 
 happy," — here a deep and awful oath sprang from 
 Mr. Valliscourt's lips, causing the Professor to 
 cough loudly by way of remonstrance, — " and — 
 and — she said she was not very happy just now, 
 and that she wanted a change. She said she 
 would not be gone long, and she cried very much, 
 and kissed me. And she promised she would 
 come back as soon as you sent for her. Oh dear ! 
 — whatever is the matter ^ Oh father, do tell 
 me, please ! " 
 
 He staggered a little, — his head swam, — and he 
 lost breath. 
 
 " Yes, I will tell you ! " cried his father 
 furiously — " I will tell you truths, as she has told 
 you lies ! Your mother is a vile woman ! — a 
 wretch, — a drab ! — a disgrace to me and to you ! 
 Do you know what it is when a wife leaves her 
 husband, and runs away like a thief in the night 
 with another man ? If you do not know, you 
 must learn, — for this is what your mother has 
 done ! The * friend ' who is to ' make her 
 
Ubc /HMgbt^ Htom 225 
 
 happy,' " — and Mr. Valiiscourt's angry visage 
 darkened with a hideous sneer — " is Sir Charles 
 Lascelles, the fashionable pet blackguard of society, 
 — she has gone with him, — she will never come 
 back ! She has dishonoured my name, and glories 
 in her dishonour ! Never think of her again, — 
 never speak of her ! From this day, remember 
 you have no mother ! " 
 
 Lionel put up his trembling little hands to his 
 head as though he sought to shield himself from 
 a storm of blows. His heart beat wildly,— -he 
 tried to speak but could not. He stared help- 
 lessly at Professor Cadman-Gore, and half fancied 
 he saw a gleam of something like pity flicker 
 across the wrinkled and sour physiognomy of 
 that learned man, — but all was blurred and dim 
 before his sight, — and the only distinct things he 
 realised were the horror of his father's face and 
 the still greater horror of his father's words. 
 
 " You know the meaning of a shamed life ; " — 
 went on Mr. Valliscourt ruthlessly — " Young as 
 you are, you have read in history how there have 
 been men, — and women too, — who have chosen 
 to die, rather than live disgraced. Not so your 
 mother ! She delights in her wickedness, — she 
 elects to live in open immorality rather than in 
 
 15 
 
226 Ube /lIMgbty Htom 
 
 honour. In her wanton selfishness she has 
 thought nothing either of me or of you. She 
 is thoroughly bad, — in olden times she would 
 have been set in the pillory, or whipped at the 
 cart's tail ! And richly would she have deserved 
 such punishment ! " and as he spoke his right 
 hand clenched suddenly, as though in imagination 
 he held the scourge he would fain have used to 
 bruise and scarify the flesh of his erring wife — 
 "When you are a man, you will blush to 
 think she ever was your mother. She has 
 made herself a scandal to society, — she is a 
 debased and degraded example of impudence, 
 dishonesty and infamy ! — she " 
 
 But here Lionel stumbled forward giddily, and 
 laid his weak little hand appeahngly on his 
 father's arm. 
 
 ''Oh no, father, no ! I can't bear it, — I can't 
 bear it ! " he cried — " I love her ! — I love her ! — 
 I do indeed ! — I can't help it. She kissed me — 
 only last night, father ! — yes, and she took me in 
 her arms, — oh, I can't forget it, — I can't really ! — 
 I love her — I do ! — Oh mother — mother ! " 
 
 Stammering thus incoherently, he saw his 
 father's eyes flame upon him like balls of fire, — 
 his father's form seemed to dilate all at once 
 
Ubc /IDtobty Htom 227 
 
 to twice its natural dimensions, — indistinctly he 
 heard the growling voice of the Professor inter- 
 pose with the words — ^' The boy has had enough, 
 — let him be ! " . . . then, on a blind impulse 
 he ran, ran, ran headlong out of the house, not 
 knowing in the least where he was going, but 
 only bent on getting away — somewhere — anywhere 
 — only away ! Down the Combmartin road he 
 rushed panting, like a little escaped mad thing, 
 the noonday sun beating hot on his uncovered 
 head, — as in a wild vision he heard voices calling 
 him, and saw strange faces looking at him, — till 
 suddenly he became aware of a familiar figure 
 approaching him, — a figure he dimly recognised 
 as that of his old acquaintance, Clarinda Cleverly 
 Payne, whom he had never seen since his tutor 
 Montrose had left Combmartin. Running straight 
 towards her, he cried aloud — 
 
 '' Oh Miss Payne ! — it isn't true, is it? Oh do 
 tell me ! — it can't be true ! My mother hasn't 
 gone away for ever, has she ? — oh no, surely not ! 
 Oh no, no, no ! She loves me, — I know she 
 does ! She would not leave me, — she wouldn't 
 I'm sure ! O do tell me, dear Miss Payne ! — 
 you do not think she is wicked, do you ? " 
 
 Over the weather-beaten face of the kindly 
 
2 28 Ube /Ilbt^bt^ Htom 
 
 Clarinda came an expression of the deepest, aye, 
 almost divine compassion. In one moment her 
 womanly soul comprehended the child's torture, — 
 his bewilderment, his grief, his exceeding lone- 
 liness, — and without a word in answer, she opened 
 her arms. But Lionel, gazing at her in passionate 
 suspense, met the solemn and pitying look of her 
 eyes, — a look that confirmed all his worst fears, — 
 and sick to the very heart, seeing the sky, the 
 earth, and the distant sea all gather together in 
 one great avalanche of blackness that came rolling 
 down upon him, he staggered another step forward, 
 and fell senseless at her feet. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Better take him away for a few days," said Dr. 
 Hartley, a brisk bright-looking type of the country 
 physician, as he held his watch in one hand, and 
 felt Lionel's feeble pulse with the other, — '* Give 
 him a little change, — move him about a bit. He's 
 had a sort of nervous shock, — yes — yes — very 
 sad ! — I heard the news in the village, . . . shock- 
 ing — unhappily these domestic troubles are becom- 
 ing very common, . . . most distressing for you, 
 m sure ! 
 
 These disjointed remarks were addressed to Mr. 
 Valliscourt, who, alternately flushing and paling, 
 under the influence of his mingled sensations of 
 indignation at the dishonour wrought upon him by 
 his wife, and vexation at the sudden illness of his 
 son, presented a somewhat singular spectacle. 
 Lionel had been brought into the house in a dead 
 faint in the arms of a — a person, — a 
 
 per 
 
 common 
 
 person, who sold eggs and butter and milk in the 
 
230 xrbe flbiQht^ Htom 
 
 village and called herself Clarinda Cleverly Payne, 
 — what ridiculous names these Devonshire people 
 gave themselves^ to be sure ! — and the — the person 
 had presumed to express sympathy for him, — for 
 himy John Valliscourt of Valliscourt ! — in his 
 * great misfortune,' — and had also dared to com- 
 passionate his son — yes, — had actually, before 
 certain of the servants, said " May God help the 
 poor dear little motherless lamb ! " It was most 
 offensive and intrusive on the part of the person 
 who called herself Clarinda, — and Mr. Valliscourt 
 as soon as she departed, had given strict injunctions 
 that she was never again to be admitted inside the 
 premises on any pretext whatever. This done, he 
 had sent for the principal doctor in Combmartin, 
 who had attended the summons promptly, trotting 
 rapidly to the house on a stout cob, which, when 
 he alighted from its broad back, was handed over 
 to the care of an equally stout boy, who turned up 
 mysteriously from somewhere in the village, and 
 appearing simultaneously with the doctor, seemed 
 to have been groom-in-ordinary to the cob all his 
 life. The stout boy had, by some unknown pro- 
 cess, transferred the roundness and ruddiness of 
 two prize Devonshire apples into his cheeks, and 
 he had another Devonshire apple in his pocket 
 
Ubc /ilMgbt^ Htom 231 
 
 which he presently took out, cut with a clasp-knife, 
 and divided into equal proportions between the cob 
 and himself, to occupy the time spent by them 
 both, in waiting for the doctor outside Mr. Vallis- 
 court's hall-door. The doctor meanwhile had 
 successfully roused Lionel from the death-like 
 swoon that had lasted till he came, — and Lionel 
 himself, breathing faintly and irregularly, had 
 half opened his eyes, and was vaguely trying 
 to think where he was, and what had happened 
 to him. 
 
 *^'Yes," — continued Dr. Hartley musingly, now 
 lifting with delicate finger one of the boy's eyelids, 
 and peering at the ball of the soft eye beneath it — 
 *' I should certainly take him away as quickly as 
 convenient to yourself " 
 
 " It's not convenient to me at all," — said Mr. 
 Valliscourt irritably — '^ / can't go anywhere with 
 him, — my time is fully occupied, — and his lessons 
 will be materially interfered with '*' 
 
 '^ Humph ! " and the doctor glanced him over 
 from head to foot with considerable disfavour — 
 " Well — you must decide for yourself of course, — 
 but it is my duty as a medical man to inform you 
 that if the boy is not moved at once, and given 
 some change from his present surroundings, there 
 
232 Uhc /IIMgbt^ Htom 
 
 is a danger of meningitis setting in. And his con- 
 stitution does not appear to me sufficiently robust 
 to withstand it. Lessons, just now, are entirely out 
 of the question." 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt frowned. He took a sudden 
 and violent aversion to Dr. Hartley. He disliked 
 and resented the expression of the shrewd blue eye 
 that gave him such a straight look of criticism and 
 censure, — and he felt that here was another ' semi- 
 barbaric fool ' like Willie Montrose, who had 
 beliefs and sentiments. He coughed in a stately 
 manner, and said stiffly — 
 
 *' Perhaps I can persuade Professor Cadman- 
 Gore " 
 
 " Who is he .^ " asked the doctor abruptly, 
 laying his big gentle hand on Lionel's brow, and 
 smoothing back the curls that clustered there with 
 the suave soft touch of a woman. Mr. Vallis- 
 court stared, — then smiled a superior smile at the 
 ignorance of this village Galen. 
 
 " Professor Cadman-Gore," he announced with 
 laboured politeness — " is one of our greatest 
 thinkers and logicians. His fame is almost 
 universal, — I should have thought it had pene- 
 trated even to this part of the country, — that is, 
 among the more cultured inhabitants " — and he 
 
Ube /nM^bt^ Btom 233 
 
 laid a slight emphasis on the word * cultured ' — 
 " He is the author of many valuable scientific 
 works, and is an admirable trainer and cultivator 
 of youth. As a rule he never undertakes the 
 instruction of a boy so young as my son, — but 
 out of consideration for me, hearing that I had 
 been compelled to dismiss, rather suddenly, an 
 incompetent tutor, he very kindly accepted the 
 task of my son's holiday tuition. It is possible 
 he might be willing to accompany the boy for 
 the change you advise, — if indeed you consider 
 
 such a change absolutely necessary " 
 
 " I do, most decidedly ; " — said Dr. Hartley, 
 fining a teaspoon with some reviving cordial, and 
 gently placing it to Lionel's lips, while Lionel in 
 his turn, feeling all the time as if he were in a 
 dream, swallowed the mixture obediently — " I 
 don't say take him far, — for he must on no account 
 be over- fatigued. Clovelly would be a good 
 place. Let him go there with his tutor, and 
 scramble about as he likes. The sooner the 
 better. Here he will only think and fret about 
 his mother. In fact you'd better order a carriage 
 and have him taken on as far as Ilfracombe this 
 very afternoon — then, the rest of the way can be 
 done by easy stages. The coach would be too 
 
234 Ubc /IIMabt^ Btom 
 
 jolty for him. You can't go with him yourself, 
 you say ? " 
 
 " Impossible ! " and Mr. Valliscourt's mouth 
 hardened into a thin tight line, indicative of inward 
 and closely repressed rage — '' I must go to town 
 at once for a few days — I have to consult my — 
 my lawyers." 
 
 " Oh — ah ! Yes — I see — I understand ! " and 
 the doctor gave a little nod of comprehension — 
 " Well, can I have a talk to the boy's tutor .? I 
 should like to explain a few points to him." 
 
 *' Certainly. He is in the schoolroom, — permit 
 me to show you the way there." 
 
 '' One moment ! " and Dr. Hartley gave a keen 
 glance round the small apartment in which they 
 were. It was Lionel's bedroom, whither he had 
 been carried in his swoon by the warm-hearted 
 Clarinda Cleverly Payne. The window was shut, 
 • — but the doctor threw it wide open. '* Plenty of 
 fresh air, nourishing food, and rest ; " — he said — 
 " That's what the boy wants. And he must be 
 amused, — he mustn't be left alone. Send one of 
 the servants up here to sit with him, till he's ready 
 to start this afternoon." 
 
 "Send Lucy ! " murmured Lionel's faint voice 
 trom the bed. 
 
Zbc /llM^bt^ Htom 235 
 
 *' What's that, my little man ? " inquired the 
 doctor, bending over him — '^ Send whom ? " 
 
 ^' Lucy," — and Lionel looked up fearlessly in 
 his physician's round, shiny face — ^'She is a house- 
 maid, and a very nice girl. I like her." 
 
 Dr. Hartley smiled. *' Very good ! You shall 
 have Lucy. The desirable young woman shall come 
 up to you at once. Now, how do you feel ? " 
 
 *' Much better, thank you ! " and the boy's 
 eyes softened gratefully — " But — you know . . . 
 I can't, — I can't forget things, . . . not very 
 easily ! " 
 
 The doctor made no answer to this remark, but 
 merely settled the pillows more comfortably under 
 his small patient's head. Then he went away 
 v/ith Mr. Valliscourt to make the acquaintance of 
 Professor Cadman-Gore. And when Lucy came 
 creeping softly up, as commanded, to watch by 
 Lionel's bedside, she found the little fellow 
 sleeping, with traces of tears glistening on his pale 
 cheeks ; and his aspect was so touching and solemn 
 in its innocence and sorrow and helplessness, that 
 being nothing but a woman, and a warm-hearted 
 woman too, she took out her handkerchief and 
 had a good quiet cry all to herself. " How could 
 she — how could she leave the little dear ! " she 
 
236 Zbc /llMgbt^ Htom 
 
 wondered dolefully, as she thought of the reckless 
 and shameful flight of her recent mistress — " To 
 leave kirn " — meaning Mr. Valliscourt, — " isn't so 
 surprising, howsumever it's wicked, for he's a 
 handful to live with and no mistake ! — but to 
 leave her own boy, — that's real downright bad of 
 her !— that it is ! " 
 
 Poor Lucy ! She had never read the works 
 of Ibsen, and was entirely ignorant of the *New 
 Morality,' as inculcated by Mr. Grant Allen. Had 
 she been taught these modern ethics, she would 
 have recognised in Mrs. Valliscourt's conduct 
 merely a * noble ' outbreak of * white purity' 
 and virtue. But she had ' barbaric ' notions of 
 motherhood, — she believed in its sacredness in 
 quite an obstinate, prejudiced and old-fashioned 
 way. She was nothing but a ' child of nature,' 
 poor, simple Ibsen-less housemaid Lucy ! — and 
 throughout all creation, nature makes mother-love 
 a law, and mother's duty paramount. 
 
 Meanwhile Dr. Hartley had the stupendous 
 honour of shaking hands with Professor Cadman- 
 Gore, — and not only did he seem totally unim- 
 pressed by the occurrence, but he had actually the 
 sublime impudence to ask for a private interview 
 with the great man, — that is, an interview without 
 
Xlbe /nMgbtp Btom 237 
 
 the presence of Mr. Valliscourt. The latter person- 
 age, surprised and somewhat offended, reluctantly 
 left the two gentlemen together for the space of 
 about fifteen minutes, — at the end of which time the 
 Professor looked more ponderously thoughtful than 
 usual, and Dr. Hartley took his leave, trotting off^ 
 on his stout cob amid many respectful salutations 
 from the stout boy, who straightway disappeared 
 also, to those unknown regions of Combmartin 
 whence he had emerged, as if by magic, directly 
 his services were required. 
 
 And Lionel slept on and on, till, at a little after 
 three o'clock in the afternoon, Lucy roused him 
 and gave him a cup of soup, which seemed to him 
 particularly strong and well-flavoured. 
 
 *' There's wine in it, isn't there ? " he asked, 
 with a surprised glance, whereat Lucy nodded 
 smiling — " Fancy giving me wine in my soup ! 
 Oh, I say ! It's too good for me ! " 
 
 Lucy gave a slight sniffs, and stated she had a 
 cold. 
 
 *' It's my belief that this old house is damp ; " — 
 she said — " And the whole village is crazy-built 
 and green-mouldy in my opinion ! And what do 
 you think, Master Lionel ^ If that blessed old 
 * Hoddy-Doddy,' the silly man you saw the other 
 
238 Ube /iM^bt^ Htom 
 
 morning, ain't been here shaking his wobbly head 
 over the gate and giving all his roses in for you, 
 for nothing ! And here they are ! " and she raised 
 a beautiful cluster of deep red, pale pink, and 
 white half-open buds, fragrant and dewy — "We 
 couldn't make out what he wanted at first, he was 
 so wobbly and couldn't speak plain, — but at last 
 we got at it — it was ' For the little boy — the little 
 boy,' — over and over again. So we took the flowers 
 just to please the poor creature, — he wouldn't 
 have any money for them. He saw you being 
 carried home in your faint by Miss Payne, and he 
 thought you were dead." 
 
 " Did he ? * murmured Lionel wistfully — • 
 ^* And that is why he brought the flowers I 
 suppose,— thinking me dead ! Poor man ! He's 
 very dreadful to look at, — but he's very kind I 
 daresay — and he can't help his looks, can he ? " 
 
 "No, that he cant," — agreed Lucy simply — 
 '* And after all, it's what we are that God cares 
 about, not what we seem to be." 
 
 At these words a deep sadness clouded the boy's 
 eyes, and he thought of his mother. Was there a 
 God to care what became of her ? Or was there 
 only the Atom, to whom nothing mattered, neither 
 sin, nor sorrow, nor death ? Oh, if he could only 
 
XTbe /lIM^bt^ Htom 239 
 
 be sure that it was really a God who was the 
 Supreme Cause and Mover of all things, — a wise, 
 loving, pitiful, forgiving. Eternal and Divine Being, 
 how he would pray to Him for his lost, unhappy, 
 beautiful mother, and ask Him to bring her back ! 
 But he had no time to ponder on such questions, 
 for Lucy was now busy putting on his overcoat 
 and finding his hat, and packing his little valise, 
 and doing all sorts of things, — and while he was 
 yet wondering at these arrangements, and trying to 
 stand firmly on his legs, which were curiously weak 
 and shaky, who should come striding largely across 
 the threshold of his bedroom, but Professor 
 Cadman-Gore ! Professor Cadman-Gore, with 
 broad soft wide-awake on, and extensive flap- 
 ping over-all, — his habitual costume when 
 travelling, even in the hottest weather, — and 
 more wonderful than the wide-awake or the 
 over-all, was the smile that wrinkled the Pro- 
 fessor^s grim features in several new places, 
 making little unaccustomed lines of agreeable 
 suggestiveness among the deeper furrows of 
 thought, and even turning up the stiff corners of 
 his mouth in quite a strange manner, inasmuch 
 as his usual sort of smile always turned those 
 corners down. 
 
240 Zbc /nMgbt^ Htom 
 
 *' Hullo ! " said the learned man, with a 
 sprightly air — ^' How are you now ? " 
 
 " Better, thank you ! " answered Lionel gently — 
 "My head is a little swimmy, that's all." 
 
 "Oh, that's all, is it? Well, that isn't 
 much ! " and the Professor stood alternately 
 glowering and grinning, with a distinctly evident 
 desire to make himself agreeable — " Can you ride 
 pick-a-back ? " 
 
 Lionel stared wonderingly, — then smiled. 
 
 " Why, yes ! I haven't often done it, — but I 
 know how ! " 
 
 " Come along then ! " and the Professor 
 squatted down and bent his bony shoulders to 
 the necessary level — " I'll take you to the carriage 
 that way. Hold on tight ! " 
 
 Lionel was stricken quite speechless with sheer 
 amazement. What ! — Professor Cadman-Gore, the 
 great scholar, the not-to-be-contradicted logician, 
 condescending to carry a boy pick-a-back ! Such 
 a thing was astounding, — unheard-of! Surely it 
 ought to be chronicled in the newspapers under 
 a bold head-line thus, — 
 
 Gracious Conduct of an Oxford 
 Professor. 
 
Zbc /IDiabt^ Htom 241 
 
 "Do you mean it? Really?" he asked 
 timidly, flushing with surprise. 
 
 "Certainly I do ! Only don't keep me waiting 
 long in this — this absurd attitude ! " And ferocity 
 and kindness together played at such cross- 
 purposes on his lantern-jawed visage, that Liortel 
 lost no time in getting his little legs astride round 
 the sinewy neck of the distinguished man, trem- 
 bling as he did so at the very idea of taking 
 such a liberty with a walking encyclopaedia of 
 wisdom. And downstairs they went, master and 
 pupil, in this wondrous fashion, to the hall-door, 
 outside which there was a big landau and pair of 
 sleek brown horses waiting, and where Lionel 
 was slipped easily off the Professor's back into 
 a pile of soft cushions and covered up with warm 
 rugs. Then Lucy bustled about, packing all 
 manner of odds and ends into the carriage, and 
 openly flirting with the coachman in the very 
 presence of the great Cad man- Gore, — one or two 
 of the other servants cams out to look and wave 
 their hands, — then the horses started, — Lucy 
 called, " Good-bye, Master Lionel ! Come back 
 quite well ! " and away they drove through the 
 beautiful sunshiny air, down the one principal 
 street of Combmartin, past the quiet little harbour, 
 
 16 
 
242 Zbc /liMgbt^ Htom 
 
 and up the picturesque road leading to Ilfracombe. 
 Mr. Valliscourt had not appeared to bid his little 
 son good-bye, — and Lionel, though he noticed the 
 fact, did not regret it. Resting comfortably among 
 his pillows he was very silent, though now and 
 then he stole a furtive glance at the Professor, 
 who sat bolt upright, surveying the landscape 
 through his spectacles with the severely critical 
 air of a man who knows just how scenery is 
 made, and won*t stand any nonsense about it,- — 
 and it was not till they had left Combmartin some 
 distance behind them that he ventured to ask 
 gently— 
 
 ** Where are we going ? " 
 
 '* To Clovelly," replied the Professor, bringing 
 his owl-like glasses to bear on the little wistful face 
 upturned to him — ^' But not to-night. We only 
 get as far as Ilfracombe this afternoon." 
 
 " Is my father coming ? " 
 
 " No. He's going to London on business. 
 He'll be away a week or ten days, and so shall we. 
 Then we shall return to Combmartin, and stay 
 there till your father's summer tenancy of the 
 house expires." 
 
 '' I see ! " murmured Lionel — '* I understand ! " 
 And two great tears filled his eyes. He was 
 
Zhc /nMabt^ Htom 243 
 
 thinking of his mother. But her name never 
 passed his Jips. He turned his face a httle away, 
 and thought he had hidden his emotion from his 
 tutor, — but he thought wrongly, for the Professor 
 had seen the gleam of those unfailing tears, and, 
 strange to say, was moved thereby to what was 
 for him a most unusual sentiment of pity. 
 He, who had frequently witnessed the ruth- 
 less vivisection of innocent animals, — he, who 
 had tranquilly watched a poor butterfly writhe 
 itself to death on his scientific pin, was at last 
 touched in the innermost recesses of his heart by 
 the troubles of a child. And so perchance, he 
 established a claim for himself in the heaven he so 
 strenuously denied, — a claim that might possibly 
 be of more avail to him in the Great Hereafter 
 than all his book-lore and world-logic. 
 
 Meanwhile, John Valliscourt of Valliscourt, 
 shut up in his own room in the now lonely house 
 at Combmartin, wrote to his lawyers preparing 
 them for his visit to their office next day, and 
 instructed them at once to sue for his divorce from 
 Helen Valliscourt, the co-respondent in the case 
 being Charles Lascelles, Baronet. There would 
 be no defence, he added, — and then, turning from 
 his own methodical statement of the facts, he took 
 
244 Ube /iftiQbt^ Htom 
 
 up and re-read the letter his recreant wife had 
 written him by way of farewell. It ran thus 
 
 '* I leave you without shame, and without re- 
 morse. While I was faithful to you, you made 
 my life a m.isery. Your pride and egotism need 
 humbling, — I am glad to be at least the means of 
 dragging you down in the dust of dishonour. 
 You have killed every womanly sentiment in me, 
 — you have even separated me from my child. 
 You have robbed me of God, of hope, of every 
 sense of duty. I have gone with Charles Lascelles 
 whose chief merit in my eyes is, that he hates you 
 as much as I do ! In other respects you know his 
 character, and so do I. When you divorce me, he 
 will not marry me, — I would not have him if he 
 offered. I have consented to be his mistress in 
 exchange for a year's amusement, attention and 
 liberty — and for the rest of my life what shall I 
 do ? I neither know, nor care ! Perhaps I shall 
 repent — perhaps I shall die. To me nothing 
 matters, — your creed, — the creed of Self, — suffices. 
 Your Self is content with dull respectability, — my 
 Self craves indulgence. If anything could have 
 kept me straight, and given me patience to bear 
 with your arrogance and pedantry, it would have 
 
Ubc /IDt^bty Htom 245 
 
 been my boy's love, but that you are deliberately 
 bent on depriving me of. Every day you set up 
 new barriers between him and me. And yet I 
 loved you once — you ! — I laugh now to think of 
 my folly ! You did everything you could to 
 crush that love out of me, — you have succeeded ! 
 What remnant of a heart I have, is left with Lionel, 
 — my spirit is in the boy's blood, and already he 
 rebels against your petty tyranny. Sooner or 
 later he will escape you, — may it be soon for the 
 poor child's own sake ! — and then, — whether there 
 be a God or no God, you will reap the curses you 
 have so lavishly sown ! May they amply reward 
 you for your * generosity ' to 
 
 '' Your wife no longer 
 ''Helen." 
 
 Over and over again Mr. Valliscourt read these 
 words, till they seemed burned into his brain, — far 
 into the night he mused upon their purport, — and 
 the phrases '^ My spirit is in the boy's blood," 
 " already he rebels," — '^ sooner or later he will 
 escape you," sounded loudly in his ears, like threats 
 from some unseen enemy. 
 
 " No ! " he muttered, rising from his chair at 
 last, and thrusting the letter into a secret drawer 
 
246 Zbc /llMgbt^ Htom 
 
 of his desk — " Let her go, the jade ! — the way 
 of all such trash ! — let her mix herself with the 
 mud of the street and be forgotten, — but the 
 boy is mine ! — he shall obey me, — and I will 
 crush her spirit out of him, and make of him 
 what I choose ! " 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Poor Clovelly, — beautiful Clovelly ! Once an 
 ideal village for poets to sing of, and artists to 
 dream of, to what ' base uses ' hast thou come ! 
 Now no longer a secluded bower for the 
 ' melancholy mild-eyed lotus-eaters ' of thought, — 
 no longer a blessed haven of rest for weary souls 
 seeking cessation from care and toil, thou art 
 branded as a * place of interest ' for cheap trippers, 
 who with loud noise of scrambling feet, and 
 goose-Uke gigglings, crowd thy one lovely upward- 
 winding street, — which is like nothing so much 
 as a careless garland of flowers left by chance 
 on the side of a hill, — and thrust their unromantic 
 figures and vulgarly inquisitive faces through thy 
 picturesque doorways and quaint fuchsia- wreathed 
 lattice-windows. It is as though a herd of swine 
 should suddenly infest a fairy's garden, nosing 
 the fine elfin air, and rooting up the magic 
 blossoms. Demoralised Clovelly ! Even thy 
 
248 Ube /iDtgbt^ Htom 
 
 inhabitants, originally simple-hearted, gentle, and 
 hospitable with all the unaffected primitive 
 sweetness of oldest English hospitality, are 
 tainted by the metropolitan disease of money- 
 grubbing, — love of * the chinks ' is fast superseding 
 the love of nature, and this to such an extent 
 that even a damsel in waiting at the New Inn, 
 a native of the place, hath had no scruple in 
 dyeing her hair an outrageous straw-tint with 
 some ' sunbeam * or ' aurora ' mixture. Dyed 
 hair in the village of Clovelly ! — it is a curious 
 anomaly, and gives one a kind of shock. Dyed 
 hair, painted cheeks, and blackened eyebrows 
 are the ordinary tawdry defacements wherewith 
 the women of our large and over-crowded cities 
 foolishly strive to make themselves look as much 
 like their * fallen * sisters as possible, and as it 
 were, voluntarily label themselves prominently 
 as * under surveillance,' — but in a tiny village 
 tenderly nestling between two flowery hills, itself 
 in a flowery chine, and crowned at the summit 
 by a flowery knoll, — a village apparently born 
 of nature, cherished by nature, and meant for 
 nature, what stranger sight can there be than an 
 ' artless * native maiden with dyed hair ! As 
 strange as though one should find a clown in 
 
XTbe /IIMobt^ Htom 249 
 
 full theatrical paint and costume, seated among 
 the primroses and bluebells of the ' Hobby Drive ! ' 
 Yet the girl's dyed hair serve«^ somewhat as a sign 
 and symbol of the gradual spoiling of Clovelly, 
 — though Dame Nature with many fond tears 
 of appealing love, still twines the jessamine and 
 pushes the may-blossom over the roofs and against 
 the walls of the cherished spot, and pleads in all 
 her tenderest ways for its preservation. *' Leave 
 Clovelly to me ! " she cries — '^ Let the tramping 
 herd wander over the face of foreign lands if 
 they must and will, — let them break their soda- 
 water bottles against the ruins of the Coliseum 
 in Rome, — let them write their worthless names 
 on the topmost statue adorning Milan Cathedral, — 
 let them paint their glaring advertisements across 
 the rocks and glaciers of Switzerland, — let them 
 chip at the features of the Sphinx, and scrawl vile 
 phrases on the Pyramids, — but spare me Clovelly ! 
 Let me still keep the guardianship of my own 
 sea-paradise, — let me twist the crimson fuchsia 
 round the doors, and bunch the purple blossoms 
 of wistaria above the windows, — let me grow my 
 daisies and bright pimpernels in the crannies of 
 the climbing street, — let me trail the golden 
 ^ creeping- Jenny ' down the stone steps of side- 
 
250 Ubc /DMGbt^ Htom 
 
 dwellings and in quaint hole-and-corner alleys, — 
 let me wreathe the honeysuckle in fragrant tufts 
 about the balconies and chimneys, and let me 
 put all the sweetness of my flowers, my sea-foam, 
 my bright air, and my fresh foliage into the 
 hearts of the people ! I would fain keep them a 
 race apart, — the women simple, noble, maternal, — 
 the men strong, brave, God-fearing and manly, 
 with eyes grown blue in the fronting of the sea, 
 and hearts kept young by the companionship 
 of flowers and children, — so that even when 
 storm rushes in from the Atlantic, and makes of 
 my Clovelly nothing but a shining gleam of light 
 in a haze of rain, and the thunder of the billows 
 on the shore is as God's voice arguing with His 
 creation, these village-folk may be unafraid and 
 calm, with faith in their souls and love in their 
 hearts, a contrast to the dwellers in cities, who, 
 pampered and spoilt in their fancied security of 
 wealth and ease, cower and scurry away from 
 the slightest touch of misfortune as rats fly from 
 a falling house ! Release me from the scourge 
 of savages and pilferers who have thrust them- 
 selves in upon this my deeply-hidden nook and 
 favourite bower ! — let me keep Clovelly ' unspotted 
 from the world ' ! " 
 
Zbc /lIMgbt^ Htom 251 
 
 Thus Dame Nature; — but her appeal is vain. 
 She could not save Foyers, — she will not save 
 Clovelly. The spoiler's hand has fallen, — the 
 work of destruction has already begun, not out- 
 wardly, but inwardly. What though the present 
 owners of the land have vowed to keep Clovelly 
 as it is, — what though they rightly and justly 
 refuse to have hotels built, and lodging-houses 
 set up, to deface one of the most unique and 
 exquisite spots in all creation ? The taint is in 
 the hearts of the people, — the love of gain, — 
 the greed of cash ; discontent and ambition, like 
 two evil genii, have crept into Fairyland, and 
 their promptings and suggestions will in time 
 prevail more strongly than all the earnest voices 
 of good angels ! 
 
 Lionel led a curious sort of life at Clovelly. 
 He and the Professor occupied the quaintest and 
 funniest little rooms that ever were designed, — 
 rooms with floors that sloped and ceilings that 
 slanted, and that altogether suggested the remains 
 of some earthquake, by reason of numerous wide 
 cracks in the walls and gaps in the chimney-nooks, 
 and that yet were pretty with an odd, old-world 
 prettiness not found everywhere. The landlady 
 of these ^ desirable apartments ' was a bakeress by 
 
252 ZTbe /IIMGbt^ Htom 
 
 profession, though she did many other useful 
 things besides baking bread and letting lodgings. 
 She was a clean, buxom-looking woman, and 
 had excellent notions concerning the wholesome- 
 ness of fresh air and sweet linen, — so that all her 
 beds were lavender-scented, and her entire abode 
 neatly ordered, and redolent of the honeysuckle 
 and the rose that clambered round her windows. 
 She was unceasing in her care for her lodgers, — 
 her anxious deference towards the grim-featured 
 long-legged Professor knew no bounds, while her 
 warm heart was quite taken captive by the plain- 
 tive gentleness and pretty ways of Lionel, whom 
 she always called " the dear little boy," — a term 
 which set Lionel himself thinking. Was he so 
 very little P He was nearly eleven, — surely that 
 was almost a man ! True, his mother had called 
 him her * baby' — and his inwardly-grieving soul 
 suffered an additional pang at this recollection of 
 her tenderness. He dared not dwell upon the 
 image of her face as it had looked in the white 
 moonlight, when she kissed him for the last time, — 
 was it indeed the last time, he wondered sadly ? — 
 should he ever see her again ? He had full 
 leisure now for thought, — the Professor let him 
 wander about just as he liked, and was altogether 
 
Ubc /ilM^bt^ Htom 253 
 
 extraordinarily kind to him. He could not quite 
 make it out^ — but he -svas grateful. And he used 
 to show his gratitude in odd little ways of his 
 own, which had a curious and softening effect on 
 the mind of the learned Cadman-Gore. He would 
 carefully brush the ugly hat of the great man and 
 bring it to him, — he would pull out and smooth 
 the large sticky fingers of his loose leather gloves, 
 and lay them side by side on a table ready for him 
 to wear, — he would energetically polish the top 
 of his big silver-knobbed stick, — and he would 
 invariably make a ' button-hole ' of the prettiest 
 flowers he could find, for him to put in his coat at 
 dinner. The astonishment with which the 
 distinguished disciplinarian first received these 
 attentions, and afterwards grew to expect them 
 every day as a matter of course, was somewhat 
 remarkable. And it is to be noted that the 
 worthy Cadman-Gore was so far moved from his 
 usual self during these sunshiny days at Clovelly, 
 as to go rummaging down, down, into the far 
 recesses of his own past youth, and search there 
 for fragments of fairy-tales, which fragments, laid 
 hold of after much difficulty, he would piece to- 
 gether laboriously for Lionel's benefit and amuse- 
 ment. One day it occurred to him that he would 
 
254 Xlbe /IIM^bt^ Htom 
 
 relate in ' fairy ' style, the beautiful old classic 
 legend of Cupid and Psyche, and see what the boy 
 made of it. They had gone for a walk that 
 afternoon along the 'Hobby Drive/ and had 
 paused to sit down and rest on a grassy knoll 
 from which the sea gleamed distantly, like a 
 turquoise set in diamonds, between the tremulous 
 foliage of the bending trees. And in his harsh 
 hoarse voice which he vainly strove to soften, the 
 Professor told the tender and poetic story, — of 
 the happiness of Psyche with her divine lover, 
 till that fatal night, when she held her little lamp 
 aloft that she might satisfy her curiosity, and see 
 for herself the actual shape and lineaments of the 
 god, — then came the thunder and the darkness, — 
 the breaking and extinguishing of the lamp, — the 
 rush or great wings through the midnight — and 
 lo, Love had fled, — and poor Psyche was left 
 alone weeping. And ever since, has she not been 
 solitary ? — searching for the vanished Glory which 
 she knows of, yet cannot find ? Lionel listened 
 in rapt silence, his earnest eyes every now and 
 then raised to his tutor's furrowed visage, which 
 under the influence of the beauty of Clovelly, and 
 the wistful presence of the child, had taken upon 
 itself a certain expression of benevolence that 
 
Zbc mght^ Htom 255 
 
 struggled to overcome and banish the old long 
 lines of practised austerity. 
 
 " I like that story ; " — he said when it was 
 finished — *'And I see a lot of meaning in it, — 
 quite serious meaning you know ! May I tell 
 you what I think about it ? " 
 
 Professor Cadman-Gore nodded. Lionel, taking 
 up the large wide-awake hat that lay on the grass, 
 proceeded delicately to remove without injury, 
 a tiny grasshopper that had boldly presumed to 
 settle on that misshapen covering of one of the 
 wisest heads in Christendom. 
 
 " You see Psyche didn't know, and she wanted 
 to find out ; " — he went on musingly — "That's 
 just like me, and you, and everybody, isn't it ? 
 And then we light our little lamps, and begin 
 to try and discover things, — and perhaps we 
 think we have found the Atom, — when all at 
 once the thunder comes and the darkness, — and 
 we die ! — our lamps go out ! But we don't hear 
 the rush of wings, do we ? If we only heard 
 that, — just the rush of wings — we should feel 
 that Someone had gone — Somewhere ! — and we 
 should try to follow — I'm sure we should try. 
 Perhaps we shall hear it when we die — that rush 
 of wings, — and we shall know what we can't 
 
256 ^be /IDigbt^ Htom 
 
 know now, because our lamps go out so 
 quickly." 
 
 The Professor was silent. He could find 
 nothing to say, inasmuch as there was no con- 
 tradiction to offer to the boy*s logic. Lionel 
 meanwhile doubled one leg loosely under him on 
 the grass, and throwing off his cap, let the light 
 flower-scented wind play with his fair curly locks. 
 
 ^' Now for people who believe in Christ/' — he 
 continued — *' There it is — that rush of wings ! — 
 because they say *He rose from the dead and 
 ascended into Heaven.' And they have just 
 that feeling I suppose — that Someone has gone 
 Somewhere, and they try to follow as best they 
 can. That's how it is I am sure, and it must be 
 a great help to them. I should dearly Hke to 
 believe some of the beautiful things in the Bible. 
 In old Genesis for instance, you know if there 
 were a God, it would be quite natural that when 
 He made a place like Clovelly, He should be 
 pleased. And then those words would be 
 exactly right — * And God saw all that He had 
 made, and behold, it was very good ! ' " 
 
 Professor Cadman-Gore's love of argument 
 stirred rebelliously in him, but he gave it no speech. 
 He would have liked to say that there were a great 
 
XTbe fUbigbt'g Htom 257 
 
 many learned persons who, thinking that they saw 
 all that God had made, said " behold, it was very 
 bad ! " Humane persons too, who, unable to look 
 behind the veil, could not understand the reason of 
 the stress and worry, and torture of life ; — but to 
 this little, frail, sorrow-stricken lad, but lately 
 tottering on the verge of a dangerous illness, he 
 could not propound any problems, so he was merci- 
 fully silent. Once a thought leaped across his 
 brain- like a blinding flash of light, startling him 
 with its acute shock, — and it was this ; — '' JVhat a 
 monstrous crime it is to bring up this child without a 
 faith I " Amazed at his own involuntary and un- 
 usual feeling, he resolutely crushed it back into the 
 innermost depths of his consciousness, — yet every 
 now and then it would persistently recur to him, 
 accompanied by other thoughts of a like nature 
 which worried him, and which he had never dwelt 
 upon with so much pertinacity before. A teasing 
 inward voice asked him questions, such as — " Was 
 it right to attack, and endeavour to pull down 
 Faith, when nothing could be offered in place of 
 it ? " For Faith, substitute Reason, argued the 
 Professor. " But," went on the voice, " Reason is 
 apt to totter on its throne. Grief will subdue it, 
 — Passion overcome it. The ecstasy of love will 
 
 17 
 
258 Ubc l^iQht^ Htom 
 
 hurl its votaries beyond all the bounds of sense or 
 argument, — into folly, sin, desperation, death ! 
 The madness and abandonment of grief will make 
 of the miserable human thing a mere despairing 
 clamour, — a figure of frenzy with wild hair and 
 piteous eyes, — what can Reason do with such ? 
 Only Faith can save, — faith in a God of Love ; 
 and the words — ' JVhoso shall offend one of these 
 little ones which believe in Me^ it were better for him 
 that a millstone were hanged about his neck^ and that 
 he were drowned in the depths of the sea ' ; must 
 rest for ever as a curse upon every man or woman 
 who by word, deed or example, strives to tear 
 down the one divine support of struggling souls, — 
 the one great prop of a world contending with 
 ceaseless storm." So murmured the inward voice ; 
 and hearing it discourse thus plainly, the Pro- 
 fessor thought his intellectual faculties must be 
 decaying. Something strange was at work within 
 him, — something to which he could not give a 
 name, — something v/hich perchance would make 
 of him in time a wiser man than he had yet 
 assumed himself to be. 
 
 During this peaceful and absolutely idle holi- 
 day at Clovelly, Lionel used often to go down 
 the winding way from the village to the rough 
 
Ubc /lIM^bti^ Htom 259 
 
 cobbly beach, and sit and talk to the boatmen 
 gathered there. They liked the little lad, and 
 would frequently take him out in their fishing- 
 smacks for a toss on the sea, though from these 
 excursions he did not return much the brighter, 
 but rather the sadder. The Clovelly men have 
 many a harrowing tale to tell of shipwreck, and 
 of poor drowned creatures washed ashore with 
 eyes staring open to the pitiless sky, and hands 
 clinging convulsively to a bit of rope or spar, — 
 and such narratives as these they would relate 
 to the boy in their own roughly eloquent, re- 
 alistic way, till his heart grew cold within him, 
 and he almost learned to hate the sea. The 
 old weary wonder came back to his brain and 
 tortured him, — what was the good of it all ? 
 What was the use of living or loving, hoping 
 or working ? None, that he could see ! 
 
 On one rather stormy afternoon towards sunset, 
 he was strolling as usual down to the beach, v/hen 
 he was attracted by a little crowd of micn that 
 stood closely grouped round the door of an open 
 boat-house. They were all peering in with an 
 expression of mingled horror and morbid fascina- 
 tion in their faces, and as he came near, one of 
 them motioned him to stand back. 
 
26o ube /IDiabty Btom 
 
 " What's the matter ? " he asked anxiously — 
 " Is some one drowned ? " 
 
 " No, no little measter/' — answered a tough old 
 seaman standing by. ^* The sea's not to blame 
 this time. But it's no sight for you, — it's a 
 stranger to us, a sort o' queer tourist-like chap — 
 he's bin an' hanged hisself in Davey Loame's boat- 
 house." 
 
 "Hanged himself!" cried Lionel, horrified — 
 '' Why, how could he do that ? " 
 
 " Easy enough, — nothin' easier if yeVe got a 
 ncckercher an' a nail. An* he had both. He 
 made a loop wi' 's neckercher an' swung on to an 
 iron hook in the roof. They've cut him down, 
 but he's stone dead, — 'tain't no use tryin' to revive 
 him. We don't know who he is, anyway. But 
 you go right home, little measter, — 'tain't the 
 thing for you to be here, — now run along just like 
 the good boy y' are. It's too rough to take y' out 
 sailin' to-day." 
 
 Lionel felt a strange sickness at his heart, as he 
 turned away obediently, and began to cHmb the 
 ascent towards the village. His vivid imagination 
 pictured the dreadful, strange dead body found in 
 the boat-house, — and involuntarily he paused and 
 looked back over his shoulder out to sea. Great 
 
Ubc flblQbt^ Htom 261 
 
 billows rolling in from the Atlantic were racing 
 shorewards, crested with foam, — the long lines of 
 snaky-white intermingled and wove themselves 
 together, like a glittering net spread out to catch 
 and drown poor helpless men. The impression of 
 the universal Cruelty of things, weighed on the 
 boy's mind with renewed force, and at his evening 
 meal he looked so pale and weary, that Professor 
 Cadman-Gore, glowering anxiously at him through 
 his round spectacles, asked him what was the 
 matter ? Lionel could not very well explain, — 
 but at last, after some hesitation, said he thought 
 it was the hanged man that made him feel miser- 
 able. 
 
 ^' What hanged man ? " inquired the startled 
 professor. 
 
 Whereupon Lionel related all that he knew con- 
 cerning the disagreeable incident, and the worthy 
 Cadman-Gore was somewhat relieved. He had 
 thought that perhaps his young pupil had been 
 allowed to see the body, and was glad to learn that 
 this was not the case. 
 
 '' Oh well, hanging is a very easy death ; " — he 
 said placidly — " Quite painless and merciful. I 
 daresay the man was some tramp who had no 
 money, and didn't know where to get any." 
 
262 zbc /IIMgbt^ Btom 
 
 '^ But isn't that very very dreadful ? " asked 
 Lionel — " Isn't it cruel that a poor man should 
 not be able to find one friend in the whole world 
 to save him from hanging himself? " 
 
 '^ It seems cruel ; " — admitted the Professor 
 gently, — he was always gentle with Lionel now — 
 " But, after all, who knows ! Death is not the 
 worst evil, — we must all die, — and there are some 
 people who wish to die before their time, and who 
 would be very sorry if they were hindered in 
 making the * happy dispatch.' The Chinese and 
 Japanese, as you have read in some of your 
 books, attach no importance to the act of dying, 
 and v/ith them, suicide is often considered 
 honourable. This particular man had the means 
 of death at hand, — a neckerchief and a strong 
 nail, — and that's all he wanted I suppose. It 
 was rather selfish of him though to use another 
 man's boat-house for the purpose, when he could 
 have done it just as well by throv/ing himself 
 into the sea." 
 
 Lionel said no more on the subject, — nor did 
 he make inquiries in the village respecting the 
 * Unknown case of suicide,' which was presently 
 chronicled in all the Devon newspapers. But 
 the incident had a considerable effect upon him. 
 
Zbc /HMgbt^ Htom 263 
 
 and remained a fixture in his memor)^, all the 
 more pertinaciously that he was silent concerning 
 it. 
 
 They returned at last to Combmartin, after 
 having stayed at Clovelly nearly a fortnight. 
 Lionel was looking, on the whole, much better 
 for the rest and change, though his face was still 
 thin and colourless. The sad expression of his 
 eyes had not altered, nor had the inward sorrow 
 of his heart for his mother's loss abated, — but 
 a kind of passive resignation, mingled with hope, 
 now possessed and tranquillised him, and he had 
 secretly determined to try and get on extra fast 
 with his studies, and grow up quickly, so that 
 as soon as he became a man, he might seek his 
 mother out wherever she was, and persuade her 
 to come back to him. Of her faults or her 
 shame he never thought, — she was his mother, — ■ 
 and that was enough for him. He said some- 
 thing about his intention of studying hard to the 
 Professor, as they drove along the lovely Devon- 
 shire lanes on their homeward way, — but that 
 gentleman did not seem to take up the matter 
 very enthusiastically. 
 
 " Certainly," he said, '^ you can continue a few 
 of your studies if you like, — but you must not 
 
264 Ube /iDtgbt^ Btom 
 
 resume the whole course at once. To-morrow 
 morning for instance, you can go for a ramble 
 just as you have been doing at Clovelly, and if 
 you feel inclined to take a book with you, why 
 do so by all means. But as you have been ill, 
 we must not commence work in too much of a 
 hurry, or we shall have the doctor coming round 
 again." 
 
 He produced his new smile, — the smile he had 
 been cultivating with such success during the 
 past twelve days, — and Lionel smiled gratefully 
 in response. A happy thought flashed across the 
 boy's mind,— -as he was to enjoy the freedom of 
 a * ramble ' all to himself the next morning, he 
 would go and see Jessamine Dale ! How pleased 
 she would be! — how surprised! — how her beautiful 
 little face would dimple all over with mischievous 
 and winsome smiles ! — how her sweet blue eyes 
 would shine and sparkle ! A quiver of delight 
 and expectancy ran through him and sent colour 
 to his cheeks, and as the carriage rattled up the 
 Combmartin street and turned into the familiar 
 avenue leading up to the house he at present 
 called home, he felt almost happy. His father 
 had returned from London, and received him with 
 chilly dignity. 
 
XTbe /IDlgbt^ Htom 265 
 
 " I am glad to see you looking so robust, 
 Lionel," — he said, as he touched his son's 
 tremblingly-offered little hand, — then turning to 
 Professor Cadman-Gore, he added — '* I trust. 
 Professor, your patience has not been too severely 
 tried ? " 
 
 The Professor looked at him with quite a 
 whimsical air. 
 
 "Well, to tell you the truth, Valliscourt, it 
 hasn't been tried at all ! " he answered — '^ I've 
 enjoyed myself very much, and that's a fact. 
 Clovelly's a charming place, and the people are 
 interesting, as being just in the transition-stage 
 between primitive simplicity and modern cupidity. 
 There are rather too many tourists and amateur 
 photographers, — but one can't have everything 
 one's own way in this world, — even you must 
 have found that out occasionally." 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt' s smooth brow reddened slightly. 
 He had indeed ' found that out ' to his cost ; but 
 he had yet to discover that even so far as the 
 Theory of Atoms went, the human atom was 
 bound to follow the course of the Divine one, 
 or else get into a strangely contrary path of its 
 own, ending in darkness and disaster. For the 
 universe is composed as a perfect harmony, — 
 
266 Zbc /iDtgbt^ Etom 
 
 and if one note sounds a discord, it is sooner 
 or later invariably silenced. Every instrument 
 must be in tune to play the great Symphony 
 well, — otherwise there is a clashing of elements, 
 a casting out of unworthy performers, and a 
 new. beginning. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Next day the weather was v/arm and sunny, — and 
 when Lionel formally applied to his tutor for 
 permission to go and enjoy the already promised 
 ' ramble,' it was at once granted. Being a con- 
 scientious little fellow, he voluntarily suggested 
 taking his Latin grammar with him, but the 
 Professor did not encourage him in this idea. 
 
 " No,*' he said — " As I told you yesterday, you 
 can amuse yourself as you like this morning, — 
 to-morrow, perhaps we will resume the lessons.*' 
 
 With a bright smile and flashing eye, Lionel 
 
 thanked him, and quickly putting on his cap, he 
 
 hastened out of the schoolroom, down the stairs, 
 
 and into the garden. He was quite light-hearted, 
 
 — indeed he felt almost ashamed to be so glad. 
 
 Life had not changed for him just because the 
 
 sun was shining and the birds were singing, and 
 
 he was going to see Uttle Jessamine Dale ! Things 
 
 remained exactly as they were, — he was nothing 
 
 267 
 
268 XTbe /Iftt^bt^ Htom 
 
 but a lonely boy whose mother had wilfully de- 
 serted him, — had he forgotten that misery and her 
 disgrace so soon? No, — he had not forgotten; his 
 was a nature that could never forget; but youth 
 is youth, and will, in its own season, have its way 
 despite all sorrow and restraint, — and somehow on 
 this beautiful bright morning he could not feel 
 sad. There was something radiant and hopeful in 
 the aspect of the very landscape, green with leafage 
 and golden with ripe corn, — and as he swung open 
 his father's carriage-gate and went out along the 
 high road towards the grey and ancient church of 
 Combmartin, where he thought it was most likely 
 he should find Reuben Dale, and Jessamine also, 
 he was quietly happy. All sorts of plans were 
 forming in his little head, — he was beginning to 
 like Professor Cadman-Gore, and he meant to 
 ask him if he might not go on studying under 
 him, at his (the Professor's) own house for a time, 
 before entering a public school, — that is, if he 
 were indeed intended to enter a public school, — 
 of which he was always doubtful. True, his 
 father had once said * Winchester,' — but whether 
 he meant Winchester, was quite another matter. 
 Mr. Montrose had urged sending him to a 
 public school, and Mr. Valliscourt had curtly 
 
ITbe ffbiQbt^ Htom 269 
 
 negatived the proposal entirely. Lionel's own 
 opinion was that his education would always be 
 carried on under a series of selected tutors, in order 
 to avoid the conventional * church-going ' on 
 Sundays common to all schools, and to which his 
 father had such a rooted and obstinate objection. 
 And as, according to all accounts, no wiser man 
 than Professor Cadman-Gore existed, why should 
 he not remain with that head and front of all 
 available knowledge ? He thought his father could 
 not possibly raise any obstacle to such a scheme ; — 
 " and then," he reflected, — " though even the 
 Professor can*t tell me what I want to know about 
 the Atom, he might put me gradually in the way 
 of finding that out for myself. I believe he really 
 likes me a little now, — I suppose we got to know 
 each other better at Clovelly. At any rate, for all 
 his queer looks, he understands me more than my 
 father does. It is very difficult for a boy to be 
 understood by old people, I think. I'm sure a 
 great many boys never get understood at all, and 
 yet they have their ideas about things quite as 
 much as grown-up persons do. How pretty the 
 church looks with all that sunshine streaming on 
 the old tower ! — and there's Mr. Dale ! — digging 
 a grave as usual ! " 
 
21 o xibe /ilM^bt^ Htom 
 
 With a smile he quickened his pace to a run, 
 and, opening the churchyard gate, went in quickly 
 but noiselessly, meaning to take Jessamine by 
 surprise if she were anywhere near. Treading 
 lightly and almost on tiptoe, he came to within 
 about an arm's length of Reuben Dale without 
 the latter perceiving him, and then stopped 
 short, — struck by a sudden alarm. For Reuben's 
 silvery head was bent low and heavily over his 
 work, — and from Reuben's broad breast came 
 great choking sobs, terrible to hear, as orte by 
 one the spadefuls of red-brown earth were thrown 
 up on the green turf, and the significant hollow 
 in the ground was shaped slowly in a small dark 
 square, to the length of a little child. A mist 
 rose before Lionel's eyes, — a strange contraction 
 caught his throat with a sense of suffocation, — 
 he advanced tremblingly, his hands outstretched. 
 
 " Mr. Dale ! " — he faltered, '' Oh — Mr. 
 Dale . . ." 
 
 Reuben looked up, — great tears were rolling 
 down his face, — and for a moment he said nothing. 
 The dreadful, inarticulate despair expressed in his 
 features and attitude was harrowing to behold ; — 
 and Lionel felt as though an icy hand had suddenly 
 clutched his heart and stilled its beating. Fear 
 
tTbe fJS^ight^ Htom 271 
 
 held him speechless, — he could only wait in breath- 
 less terror for something to be told, — something he 
 could not guess at, but which instinctively he 
 dreaded to hear. And all at once Reuben spoke, 
 in hoarse tremulous accents — 
 
 *' She sent her love t'ye my dear, — she sent 
 her love, — 'twos the last thing, — * my love to 
 Lylie,' — I wosn't to forgit it, — the blessed little 
 angel-smile she had too in sayin' it, my Jess'mine 
 flower ! — ' my love to Lylie ! ' they wos her last 
 words, a minit Yore she died." 
 
 *' Died ! " gasped Lionel, a horrible tremor 
 shaking his limbs — " Died ! — Jessamine ? . . . 
 Jessamine dead ? No, no, no ! It's not possible, — 
 it can't be ! — you knov/ it can't, — you're dream.- 
 ing ... it can't be true ! . . ." 
 
 A loud noise was in his ears like the rushing of 
 waters, — the haze that hung before his eyes turned 
 a dull red, — and with a sudden wild scream he 
 sprang to Reuben like some poor little hunted, 
 frantic animal, clinging to him, hiding his head 
 against him, and gripping his arms convulsively. 
 
 " No — no ! — not dead ! Don't say it ! — not 
 little Jessamine ! Oh, you're not — you're not 
 going to put her down there in the cold earth ! — 
 not little Jessamine ! Oh, hold me ! — Fm fright- 
 
272 Zbc /Ibiabti^ Htom 
 
 ened — I am indeed ! I can't bear it, — I can't, I 
 can't ! — oh Jessamine ! . . . she isn't dead, — not 
 really ! — oh, do say she isn't, — it v/ould be too 
 wicked — too cruel ! . . ." 
 
 Reuben Dale, startled out of his own grief by the 
 boy's terrible frenzy, let his spade fall, and held the 
 little fellow tenderly in his arms, close to his breast, 
 and with a strong effort, strove himself to be calm, 
 in order to soothe the younger sufferer. 
 
 *' Didn't ye hear of it, my dear ? " he murmured 
 in low, broken tones — " But no, — I forgot — ye 
 wouldn't hear, — ye've bin away a goodish bit ; — I 
 heerd as how ye'd bin ill an' taken to Clovelly, — 
 an' 'twosn't likely any folks would tell ye of just 
 a poor man's trouble. I went down yon to your 
 feyther's house to tell ye, — for Jess'mine wos ivcr 
 talkin' of ye, whensoever the fever in her little 
 throat would let her speak, — an' that's how I 
 heerd ye were gone. 'Twos the diphtheria the 
 darlin' caught, — it's bin bad about the village, — 
 an' 'twos onny a matter o' fower days that she 
 suffered. An' we did all we could for the lamb, — 
 an' Dr. Hartley, God bless 'im, wos wi' her day an' 
 night, an' scarcely breakin' fast, the good man 
 that he is, — an' I do b'lieve he'd 'a' laid down his 
 own life to save 'er, as I'd 'a' laid down mine. 
 
Xlbe fVbiQht^g Htom 273 
 
 But 'twos all no use, — she was just too sweet a 
 blossom to be spared to the likes of us, my lad, — 
 an' — an' so God took 'er, as it's right an' just He 
 should do what He wills wi' 's own, — but oh, my 
 lad, it's powerful 'ard on me, who am a weak an' a 
 selfish sinner at best, — it's powerful 'ard ! First 
 the mother, — then the child ! — Lord, give me 
 strength to say ' Thy will be done,' for my own 
 force as a man is gone out o' me, an' I'm but a 
 broken reed in a rough wind ! " 
 
 His head drooped forlornly over the boy he held 
 clasped in his arms, and who still clung nervously 
 to him, shaking like an aspen leaf and moaning 
 querulously, as though in physical pain. The blue 
 sky above them was clear of all clouds, and the sun 
 shone royally, pouring down its golden beams into 
 the little unfinished grave, like a ray of light from 
 some left-open gate of Paradise. Suddenly, and 
 with a pale horror imprinted on his countenance 
 that made it look older by a dozen years, Lionel 
 lifted himself and turned slowly round, — his eyes 
 were dry and feverishly bright, — his forehead 
 puckered like that of some aged man. 
 
 *' You are going to put her down there ? " he 
 whispered fearfully, pointing to the grave, — 
 '' Little Jessamine ? You are going to cover up 
 
 18 
 
2 74 ^be /iDtgbtp Htom 
 
 her beautiful curls and blue eyes in all that red- 
 brown earth ? How can you have the heart to do 
 it ! — oh, how can you ! She used to laugh and 
 play, — she will never laugh or play any more — 
 you will hide her down there for ever — for ever ! " 
 and his voice rose to a wail of agony — " We shall 
 never see her again, — never ! — oh, Jessamine ! — 
 Jessamine ! " 
 
 The stricken Reuben, pierced to the very soul 
 by this wild grief in which he had the greatest 
 share, knew of no other consolation save that which 
 he derived from his simple and steadfast faith in 
 God ; but this supported him when otherwise he 
 would have altogether broken down. Gently 
 stroking the boy's curls with one big, work-worn 
 hand, he murmured pityingly — 
 
 '* Poor lad, poor lad ! She wos fond of ye, — 
 she sent ye her love at the last, — ye must think o' 
 that, my dear. An* once when the pain was better, 
 an' she could speak clear, she said * Tell Lylie I'll 
 see 'im soon, — long 'fore he grows up to be a big 
 man.' Them wos her very words, the darlin', but 
 she wos a-ramblin' like, an' didn't know wot she 
 wos a-talkin' of. She died easy, — bless the Lord 
 for all His mercies ! — night afore last she put her 
 arms out to me an' said ' Dada ! ' quite bright like. 
 
tlbe /IDlgbt^ Htom 275 
 
 — that wos how she called me when she wos a 
 babby, — then, smilin\ — * My love to Lylie,' an* 
 just went ofF quiet. An' there she lies in her little 
 coffin, wi' a wreath o' jessamine round her hair, an' 
 a posy o* jessamine in her wee hands, — ay, we ha 
 pulled all the jess' mine flowers off the tree at our 
 door to put wi' her ; — we want none o' them for 
 our sad selves, — now ! " 
 
 A rising sob choked his brave utterance, — but 
 Lionel was still dry-eyed, and now moving rest- 
 lessly, withdrew from the kind embrace which had 
 supported him. Stumbling giddily forward a step 
 or two, he fell on his knees beside the dark little 
 square in the ground. 
 
 *' Down there ! " he whispered hoarsely, peering 
 into the very depths of the grave — '' Down there ! 
 — Jessamine ! " 
 
 He gave a convulsive gesture with his hands, 
 clasping and unclasping them nervously, and 
 prying still with an intense, passionate searching 
 horror into the dank mould. Reuben's touch, 
 light and caressing as a woman's, fdl gently on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 ** Nay, my little lad ! " he said, the tears in his 
 voice shaking its deep tone to tenderest pathos — 
 " Not down there ! — don't ye think it ! Up 
 
276 Zbc /IDigbt^ Htom 
 
 there, my dear, up there ! " and he raised his 
 steadfast eyes to the perfect blue of the radiant 
 heaven, — " Up there, beyond all that summer 
 light an' shinin' glory, — in the lands o' God an' 
 His holy angels, — that's where Jess'mine is now ! 
 ' With Christ, which is far better ! ' Ay, my dear, 
 far better ! For it's onny my selfish heart which 
 grudges her to God, — it's just me, a weak, ignorant 
 man, wot can't see the Lord's meanin' in takin' 
 her from me ; but surely He knows best, — He 
 must know best. An' mebbe He has seen the 
 darlin' wosn't fitted for the hard an' thorny ways 
 o' life, — an' so in very kindness has took her to 
 Himself, an' made of her an angel 'fore her time. 
 For angel she is now ye may be sure, — as innocent 
 as ever stood afore the Great White Throne, — 
 an' it's not Jess'mine I'm layin' down here 
 among the daisies, my lad, but just the little 
 earthly shape of her, wot wos s' pretty an' light 
 an' gamesome like, — we couldn't choose but love 
 it, all of us, — but Jess'mine herself is livin' yet, 
 — yes, my dear, livin' an' lovin' o' me as much 
 an' more than ever she did,— an' there's naught 
 shall come atween us now. Mother an' child 
 are wi' the Lord, — an' in a matter o' short years 
 I'll meet them both again an' know as how 'twos 
 
Ubc /IIMabt^ Htom 277 
 
 for the best ; though now it seems a mystery, 
 an' partin's hard ! " 
 
 Lionel looked up, — his face was ashen pale, — 
 his lips were set in a thin vindictive line. 
 
 " You believe all that ! " he said, wildly — '' But 
 you are wrong, — quite wrong ! It isn't true, — it's 
 all silly superstition ! There is no God, — no 
 heaven ! — there are no such creatures as angels ! 
 Oh, you poor poor man ! — you do not know — 
 you have never learnt ! There is nothing more 
 for us after death — nothing ! — you will never see 
 little Jessamine again, — never — never ! " He 
 rose slowly from his kneeling position on the turf, 
 looking so old, and weirdy and desperate, that 
 Reuben recoiled from him as from something un- 
 natural and monstrous. " You will put her down 
 there," — he went on, — " in her coffin, with all 
 the jessamine flowers about her, and you will 
 shovel the earth over her, and very soon the worms 
 will crawl over her poor little face, and in and out 
 her curls, and make of her what you would not 
 look at, — what you would not louck .'" — and he 
 trembled violently as with an ague fit — "And 
 yet you loved her ! And you can talk of a God ! 
 Why, a God who would wilfully take Jessamine 
 away from you, would be the cruellest, wickedest 
 
2 78 Ube /ilM^bt^ Htom 
 
 monster imaginable ! What reason could He give 
 — what object could there be, in first giving her to 
 you, and then killing her and making you miserable ? 
 No, no ! — there is no God ; you have not read, 
 — you have not studied things, and you do not 
 know, — but you are all wrong ! There is no God, 
 — there is only the Atom which does not care ! " 
 
 Reuben, filled with alarm as well as grief, 
 thought the boy raved, and endeavoured to take 
 him again into his arms, but Lionel shrank back, 
 and shudderingly repulsed him. 
 
 " Poor little fellow, he's just crazed wi' the 
 shock, an' doesn't for the moment know wot he's 
 sayin'," thought the simple-hearted man, as he 
 compassionately watched the childish figure of 
 despair, frozen, as it seemed, into a statuesque 
 immobility on the edge of Jessamine's grave — 
 *' If he could onny cry a bit, 'twould do him good, 
 surely." And struck by a sudden idea, he said 
 aloud — *' Will ye come wi' me, my dear, an' see 
 Jessamine now, as she lies asleep among her flowers ? 
 — 'twouldn't frighten ye, — she's just a little smilin' 
 angel, wi' God's love written on her face. Will 
 ye come ^ " 
 
 *' No ! " answered Lionel loudly, and almost 
 fiercely — " I cannot ! You forget — I came out 
 
Zbc /HM^bt^ Htom 279 
 
 this morning to see her alive, — with all her curls 
 dancing about, and her eyes shining, — oh, I was 
 so happy ! And all the time she was dead ! No, 
 I couldn't look at her, — I couldn't ! — I should be 
 thinking of this grave, . . . and the worms, . . . there 
 is one down there just now, . . . crawling — crawling, 
 — see ! " and he suddenly began to laugh deliri- 
 ously, dry sobs intermingling with his laughter — 
 " Oh ! — and you — you can actually believe it 
 is a good God that has killed Jessamine ! " 
 
 Flinging his hands up above his head, he 
 suddenly turned away and ran, — ran furiously, out 
 of the churchyard, and away up the road, not in 
 the direction of his home, but up towards the deep 
 green woods that hang like a glorious pavilion 
 over the nestling village, giving it shade even in 
 the most scorching heats of the summer sun. 
 Reuben looked after him, wondering and half 
 afraid. 
 
 " God help the child ! " he murmured — " He 
 seems gone clean mad like, in 's grief! An' it's 
 something more than my Jess'mine's death that's 
 working in 's mind, poor lad, — it's a trouble out 
 o' reach somewhere. An' now I mind me he's 
 lost his mother by a far worse partin' than death, 
 — disgrace ! Ah, well ! " and taking up his spade 
 
28o Zbc /Iftigbt^ Htom 
 
 he went resolutely to the resumption of his sad 
 task, carefully smoothing and patting the earth 
 round the interior of his little child's grave with 
 his own tender hands^ and removing the poor worm 
 Lionel had perceived, gently and without loathing, 
 in the manner of one for whom all God's creation, 
 even the lowest portion of it, had a certain sacred- 
 ness, because of the Divine Spirit moving in all, 
 and through all. " It's hard for a grown man 
 like me to bear a sorrow, — an' it's double hard 
 for a little lad like him. He sees nowt o' God in 
 'is trouble, — onny the trouble itself. Lord help us 
 all for the poor sinful creatures that we be ! Ah 
 Jess'mine, Jess'mine ! — my little lass, — my little 
 flower ! — who'd ha' thought God would ha*" wanted 
 ye s' soon*! " Tears rushed to his eyes and blotted 
 out the landscape, falling one by one into the small 
 grave, as he dug it deeper — " But He's a God o' 
 Love, an' He winnut mind my grievin' a bit, — 
 He knows it's just human-like, an' comes from the 
 poor broken heart o' me that's weak an' ignorant, 
 — an' by-an'-by, when my mind clears. He'll gi' 
 me grace to see 'twas for the best, — aye, for the 
 best ! Mother an' child in heaven, an' I alone on 
 earth, — all the joy for them, an' all the sorrow for 
 me ! — well, that's right enough, — an' surely God'll 
 
XTbe {flight's Htom 281 
 
 send down both my angels to fetch me when my 
 time comes to go. An' that's onny a httle while 
 to wait, my Jess'mine flower ! — onny a little 
 while ! " 
 
 He dashed away his tears with one hand, and 
 continued digging patiently, till his melancholy 
 work was done, — then, untying a bundle of sweet 
 myrtle he had beside him, he completely lined the 
 little grave with the fragrant sprays, making it 
 look like a nest of tender green, — and placing two 
 boards above it to protect it from the night-dews 
 and the chance of rain, he shouldered his spade and 
 went slowly homeward, pondering sadly on the 
 heavy trial awaiting him next day, when all that 
 was mortal of his darling child would be com- 
 mitted, with prayer and holy blessing, to the dust. 
 
 Meanwhile, Lionel had passed a strange time of 
 torture alone in the woods. When he ran away 
 from the churchyard, he was hardly conscious of 
 what he was doing, — and it was not till he found 
 himself in a bosky grove, among thickly planted 
 oaks and pine-trees, that he became aware of his 
 own sentient existence once more. There was a 
 heavy burning pain in his head, and his eyes were 
 aching and dim. He flung himself down on the 
 mossy turf and tried to think. Jessamine was 
 
282 ube /llM^bt^ Htom 
 
 dead ! The little laughing thing with the divine 
 blue eyes and the sweet baby smile, was lying cold 
 and stiff in her coffin. It seemed incredible ! He 
 remembered her as he had last seen her, peeping 
 through the tangle of her own namesake flowers, 
 and saying in her pretty, soft plaintive voice, '' Poor 
 Lylie ! I'se 'fraid you won't see me never no 
 more ! " And then that final farewell, — " Good- 
 bye, Lylie ! Not for long ! " 
 
 Not for long ! — and now — it was good-bye for 
 ever ! A faint cry broke from the boy's lips — 
 *' Oh, little Jessamine ! Poor little Jessamine ! " 
 But no tears fell, — the fountain of those drops of 
 healing seemed dried up beneath the scorching 
 weight that pressed upon his brain. Jessamine ! — 
 could it be possible that there was nothing left of 
 her, — nothing but senseless clay? -All that trust- 
 ful tenderness, that lovely innocence, that quaint 
 and solemn faith of hers in Christ, and in the 
 angels, — what was it all for ? Why should such a 
 sweet and delicate little spirit be created, only to 
 perish ? 
 
 " It is cruel ! " he said aloud, turning his pale, 
 small, agonised face up to the network of leafy 
 branches crossing the blue of the sky — " It is cruel 
 to have made her^ — it is cruel to have made me, — 
 
Ubc /Hbtobt^ Htom 283 
 
 if death is the only end. It is senseless, — even 
 wicked ! If death were not all, then I could 
 understand." He paused, and his eyes rested 
 on a tuft of meadow-sweet growing close beside 
 him — '' Where do you go to when you die ? " he 
 asked, addressing the flower — " Have you what 
 some people call a soul^ — a soul that takes wings 
 and flies away, to bloom again in a more beautiful 
 shape elsewhere ? You might do this, — of course 
 you might — and we should never know ! " 
 
 He rose to his feet and stood, musing darkly, with 
 small hands clenched and lips set hard. ** Perhaps 
 the learned men are not so wise as they think, — it 
 is possible they may be mistaken. The Atom 
 they argue about, may be a God after all, — and 
 even Christ, whom some say is a myth, and others 
 describe as merely a good man who wished to 
 reform the Jews, may be the Divine Being 
 the Testament tells us of. And there may be 
 another life after this one, and another world, where 
 Jessamine is now. The question is, how to be 
 quite, quite sure of it .'^ " He walked one or two 
 paces, — then a sudden thought flashed across 
 him, — a thought which lit his eyes with strange 
 brilliancy and flushed his cheeks to a feverish red. 
 " I know ! " he whispered, — " I know the best way 
 
284 XTbe /lIMobt^ Htom 
 
 to discover the real secret, — I must find it out ! — 
 and I will ! " 
 
 And all at once invested with a curious tran- 
 quillity of movement and demeanour, he went slowly 
 out of the woods, and down the hill up which he 
 had scrambled in such frenzied haste, — and looking 
 at the ground steadfastly as he walked, he passed 
 the church and churchyard gate, without once 
 raising his eyes. In a few minutes he had entered 
 his father's domain, where he met Professor 
 Cadman-Gore marching briskly up and down the 
 carriage-drive. 
 
 " Hullo ! " said that gentleman — " Had a good 
 scramble ^ " 
 
 Lionel made no answer. 
 
 The Professor eyed him narrowly. 
 
 ** Feeling ill again ^ " he demanded. 
 
 Lionel forced a pale smile. 
 
 *' Not exactly ill," — he answered — " I've been 
 to the churchyard, — and — and the sexton there is 
 digging a grave for his little girl, — his only child, 
 who died suddenly of diphtheria while we were 
 away at Clovelly. She was quite a baby — only 
 six, — and — and I knew her — her name was 
 Jessamine." 
 
 Professor Cadma«i-Gore was a little bewildered. 
 
xrbe /Ifttgbty Htom 285 
 
 The dull precise manner in which the boy spoke, 
 — the way he kept his eyes fixed on the ground, 
 and the odd frowning contraction of his brows, 
 struck the worthy preceptor as somewhat singular. 
 But being quite in the dark as to the Jessamine 
 Dale episode, he took refuge in generalities. 
 
 '* You shouldn't wander about in church- 
 yards," — he said testily, — *' Nasty damp places . . ." 
 
 *' Yes, — where we must all go at last," — said 
 Lionel, still smiling his stiff difficult little smile — 
 " Down among the worms — all of us — and nothing 
 more ! " 
 
 '' Dear, dear me ! " growled the Professor, 
 beginning to feel almost angry — " I wish you 
 wouldn't talk such nonsense, Lionel, — I've told 
 you of it before — it's absolutely provoking ! " 
 
 " Why ? " asked the boy— ^' We do die,— all of 
 us, — don't we ^ " 
 
 '^ Of course we do, — but we needn't talk about 
 it or think about it," — snapped out the Professor — 
 '* While we live, let us live, — that was a favourite 
 maxim with the ancient Greeks, who enjoyed 
 both life and learning, — and it's a very sensible one 
 too. 
 
 " Do you really think so ? — really ? " and 
 Lionel looked at him with such an aged and worn 
 
286 ubc mgbt^s Htom 
 
 puckering of his features that his tutor was quite 
 startled — '' But they were only fools after all, — 
 they died — and their cities and wonderful colleges 
 perished, — and v/hat was the good of all their 
 learning ? " 
 
 " It has come down to us ! " replied the 
 Professor, drawing himself up, and expanding his 
 meagre chest in a sudden glow of intellectual 
 pride — '^It has formed the foundation of all 
 literature. Isn't that something ? " 
 
 Lionel sighed. *' I suppose it is, — it all depends 
 on how you look at it," — he said—" But you see 
 one would like to know where even such a thing 
 as Literature leads to, — and where it is to end. 
 I don't think we can trace its actual beginning, 
 because there have been so many civilisations 
 which are all forgotten and buried now. For 
 instance, the ancient Mexicans believed that the 
 existence of the world was made up of five 
 successive ages, and five successive suns, — there 
 have been four suns lit and burnt out, accord- 
 ing to them, and ours now shining is the fifth, — 
 and last ! Of course that was only their myth and 
 idea, — but I do think everything ever discovered 
 is in time forgotten, and has to begin all over 
 again. It seems very stupid and useless to me, — 
 
Ube /iDtobt^ Htom 287 
 
 — the constant repetition of everything for 
 nothing ! " 
 
 The Professor glowered severely at him. 
 
 " I think you're tired/' — he said with affected 
 gruifness — '' You'd better go and sit quietly in the 
 schoolroom, or lie down. It's no use over-fatigu- 
 ing yourself. And what you wanted to go to the 
 churchyard and see a grave dug for, I can't imagine. 
 It's rather a morbid taste ! " 
 
 " I didn't go to see a grave dug," — answered 
 Lionel steadily, — " I went to see the little girl — 
 who is dead. I thought she was alive, — I didn't 
 know — I didn't expect . . ." there was a painful 
 throbbing in his throat, — he bit his lips hard, — 
 anon he resumed slowly — ** You know — for I've 
 often told you — that I can't see any sensible reason 
 why there should be life, or death. Everything 
 seems explainable but that. I am very interested in 
 it, — but even you can't tell me what I want to 
 know, — and so I must try to find it out as well as 
 I can, — by myself." 
 
 He lifted his cap with the usual gentle salute he 
 always gave his tutor, and went indoors. The 
 Professor looked after him with an uncomfortable 
 sense of foreboding. 
 
 "An odd boy 1 " he mused — " A very odd boy. 
 
288 Ubc /nbigbtp Htom 
 
 — yet a thinking boy, and clever and docile. If 
 his strength will only hold out he will be a 
 brilliant man and a magnificent scholar, — but his 
 health is capricious." He walked with long 
 strides a few paces, and suddenly stopped, a grim 
 smile playing across his features. '^' It's a singular 
 thing, — a very singular thing, — I should never 
 have thought it possible, — but I certainly find him 
 a lovable boy. Positively lovable ! It is ridicu- 
 lous, quite ridiculous of course, that I should find 
 him so, — but I do ! Yes, — positively lovable ! ' ' 
 
 And he laughed ; — his laugh never by any 
 means added to the beauty of his appearance, but 
 on this occasion there was an affectionate twinkle 
 in his filmy eye which might almost be called 
 handsome. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Night came, calm and dewy. There was no 
 moon, — and in the depths of the purple ether the 
 great stars ruled suprem.e. Jupiter rose in all his 
 full effulgence, a golden-helmeted leader among the 
 planet-gods of the sky, and over the unruffled 
 breast of the dark sea Venus hung low like a 
 pendant jewel. Afar off, the outline of the land- 
 scape was blurred and indistinct, softening into a 
 fine haze that presented the delicate suggestion of 
 some possible fairyland hidden behind the last dim 
 range of the wood-crowned hills. Through the 
 still air floated a wandering scent of newly-stacked 
 hay and crushed sweet-briar ; an almost impercep- 
 tible touch of autumn sobered the heavy green 
 foliage of the trees to a deeper sombreness of hue, — 
 while over all things reigned a curious and im- 
 pressive silence, as though the million whispering 
 tongues of Nature had suddenly been checked by 
 the command of that greater Voice which in olden 
 
 289 ig 
 
290 Zhc /HbiGbt^ Htom 
 
 time had hushed the storm with its calm ' Peace ! 
 Be still ! ' In the ' big house/ — for so the residence 
 temporarily occupied by Mr. Valliscourt was styled 
 by the villagers of Combmartin, — there was an 
 equally solemn silence. Every one was asleep, — 
 save Lionel. He, broad awake, sat on the edge of 
 his little bed, with bright eyes a-stare, and brain 
 busily at work, and every pulse and nerve in his 
 body thrilling with excitement. Never had he 
 looked so young as now, — a flush of colour was in 
 his cheeks and lips, and the little smile that played 
 across his features from time to time was, if some- 
 what vague, still singularly sweet, and expressive of 
 pleasure. He had gone to bed at the usual hour, — 
 he had said ' Good-night ' to his father, who had 
 been reading the evening paper, and who had 
 merely looked over the edge of it and nodded by 
 way of response, — he had then gone to Professor 
 Cadman-Gore who was poring over an enormous 
 quarto volume printed in black-letter, and who 
 answered absently — " Good-night ? Yes — er — ah ! 
 Of course ! Certainly, — very good indeed ! You 
 are going to bed, — exactly ! — that's right ! " and 
 so murmuring, had pressed his little hand kindly, 
 and then had resumed his book-worm borrowings. 
 And he had called downstairs to housemaid Lucy 
 
Zbc /hmoM^ Htom 291 
 
 ** Good-night ! " a thing he rarely ever did ; and 
 she had replied from the kitchen depths, " Good- 
 night, Master Lionel ! " in a bright tone of surprise 
 and pleasure agreeable to hear. And then he had 
 reached his bedroom, — but he had not undressed, 
 or prepared for bed at all, or laid his head down 
 on the pillov/ for a moment. Clad in the navy- 
 blue jersey suit he had worn all day, he only slipped 
 off his shoes in order not to make any noise, and 
 then he paced softly up and down his room 
 thinking, thinking all the while. Such a whirl of 
 thoughts too ! Thick as snowflakes, and as dizzying 
 to the brain, thoughts seemed to rain upon him, 
 fire-red and flame-white, — for they took strange 
 burning colours, and ran in strange grooves. He 
 had put out his candle, — he liked the sensation of 
 moving to and fro in the darkness, as then he could 
 imagine things. For instance he could imagine 
 his mother was with him, sitting just in the very 
 chair where she had sat when she rocked him in 
 her arms and called him her * baby,' — and so strong 
 was the delusion he excited in himself that he 
 actually went and knelt dov/n beside her visionary 
 figure, and said 
 
 " Mother ! Mother darling, I love you ! I shall 
 always love you ! " and then had laughed a little 
 
292 Ube /Ifttgbty Htom 
 
 and shuddered, as he realised that after all it was 
 only his fancy, — that she was gone, — gone for 
 ever ! — and that he was quite alone. 
 
 And presently, retreating to the window, and 
 looking out into the starlit night, he thought he 
 could see Jessamine standing in the garden below, 
 with a wreath of her own flowers round her hair, 
 and her blue eyes upturned to him where he 
 watched her, — yes ! he could even hear her calling, 
 
 . "Lylie ! Lylie ! Come an' play ! " And he 
 almost felt inclined to open the window and jump 
 down to that little shadow-figure on the dark turf, 
 — till he suddenly bethought him that it was a 
 mistake, — Jessamine was dead, — her grave was 
 ready, — she was going to be put down into the 
 earth and hidden away from the sunshine, — she 
 would never call him any more, — never ! Hurry- 
 ing away from the corner whence he could see her 
 so plainly, and where it frightened him to look out 
 at her lonely Httle ghost in the garden, he cUmbed 
 up on his bed and sat there, swaying his feet to 
 and fro and thinking, — still thinking. He heard 
 his father come up the stairs with a firm and heavy 
 tread, enter his bedroom, and shut and lock the 
 door, — then the Professor followed, coughing loudly 
 and shuffling his slippered feet along the landing to 
 
Zbc /Ibt^bt^ Htom 293 
 
 the apartment he occupied at the very end of the 
 corridor, — and presently the old ^ grandfather's 
 clock' in the hall below, chimed eleven. After 
 this the great silence fell, — the silence that was so 
 mystically suggestive of undiscoverable things. 
 
 And Lionel listened, as it were, to that silence, 
 till he grew restless under its spell. Springing off 
 his bed, he lit his candle in haste, and looked 
 nervously round him as though he half expected 
 to see some one in the room, — then, rallying his 
 forces, he softly opened a large cupboard that was 
 made to appear like a part of the wall, and setting 
 a chair within it, stood thereon, and reached his 
 hand up to the corner of a particular shelf, where, 
 snugly secreted in the pocket of one of his little 
 overcoats, he kept the ' baby sash ' his mother had 
 given him as a parting souvenir. Taking posses- 
 sion of this, he got dov/n from the chair, put it 
 back in its place, and shut the cupboard carefully 
 again, — then he stood still for a moment, thinking. 
 After a little while, he unfolded and shook out 
 the sash to its full length, and dreamily admired 
 its pretty blue colour and the graceful design of 
 the daisy-chain so deftly woven upon it. Re-fold- 
 ing it once more, he slipped it inside his vest,— 
 then putting on his shoes by mere force of habit, 
 
294 tTbe /nbt^bt^ Htom 
 
 he took his candlestick, — the candle in it burning 
 steadily, — and opening his bedroom door Ustened 
 breathlessly. There was not a sound in the house, 
 — not so much as a crack of wood in the old Chip- 
 pendale press that stood up, gaunt and shadowy, 
 on the outer landing. Swiftly and noiselessly, 
 holding the light well above his head that he might 
 see clearly and not stumble, he sped downstairs to 
 the school-room. The door was wide open, and as he 
 went in and pushed it to after him, he gave a sigh 
 of relief and satisfaction, as though he had attained 
 at last some long-desired goal of ambition. 
 
 There was more light in this apartment than in 
 his bedroom ; — there were no trees to shadow the 
 window, and through its crossed lattice-panes the 
 stars twinkled with a white brilliance not unworthy 
 of the moon herself. Setting his candle on the table- 
 desk at which he had worked so many weary hours 
 and days, pondering on things that never would, 
 and never could be of any use to any one's practical 
 after-life, Lionel took out paper, pen and ink, and 
 seating himself, proceeded to write certain words 
 with careful slowness and most business-like pre- 
 cision. Shaping his letters roundly and neatly, he 
 took a great deal of pains to make his meaning 
 unmistakably clear, and having covered one sheet 
 
trbe /iDfgbtp Htom ^95 
 
 of paper, he folded it in four with mathematical 
 exactitude, addressed it, and commenced another. 
 When this was also done, he folded it in the same 
 way as the first, and addressed it likewise, — then 
 he put the two missives together on the table, one 
 beside the other, and looked at them with a kind 
 of naive interest and admiration. Their super- 
 scriptions were turned uppermost, and one read 
 thus : 
 
 * To my Father. 
 
 John Valliscourt Esq. Of Valliscourt.' 
 
 The other was more simply inscribed, — 
 
 * 'To Professor Cadman-Qore' 
 
 For some minutes he studied these addresses 
 minutely, and with something of a smile on his 
 face. 
 
 "It is just as if I were going to run away ! " 
 he said half aloud, " And so I am ! That is exactly 
 what I am going to do. I am going to run away ! " 
 And the smile deepened. " I remember what 
 Willie Montrose told me — ' rather than break 
 down altogether you'd better show a clean pair of 
 heels.' And that's just what I'm going to do. 
 By the bye, I never sent poor Willie his Homer." 
 
296 Zhc /IDigbti^ atom 
 
 He rose, and turning towards the book-shelves, 
 two of which were ranged along the opposite wall, 
 soon found the volume and packed it neatly up in 
 readiness for posting, addressing it in a large clear 
 hand to * W. Montrose Esq. B. A. The Nest. 
 Kilmun. Scotland.' Then after considering awhile, 
 he sat down again and wrote another letter, which 
 ran as follows — 
 
 Dear Willie, 
 
 You left your favourite copy of Homer 
 behind when you said good-bye to me. I meant 
 to have sent it to you before, but somehow it 
 slipped my memory. Now, as I am going away, 
 it might get mislaid among my father's books, so 
 I have left it with Professor Cadman-Gore (who is 
 a very nice old man) all ready for him to post to 
 you. Thank you for all your kindness to me, — I 
 have never forgotten it, and I'm almost sure I shall 
 never forget. You needn't be anxious about me 
 any more, — I'm all right. 
 
 Your affectionate and grateful 
 Lionel. 
 
 He put this letter in an envelope which he 
 addressed, but left open, and wrote a slip of 
 paper which he laid above it and the Homer 
 
Ubc /iDtgbty Htom 297 
 
 volume together, giving the following in- 
 struction, — 
 
 Dear Professor — Will you please post this 
 letter and also the book, to Mr. Montrose for me. 
 It is his copy of Homer which he left with me 
 by mistake, and he is sure to want it. 
 
 Lionel. 
 
 " That's done ! " he said, as he wiped his pen 
 and put by the ink and paper in their respective 
 places with his usual methodical neatness, — " It's 
 no use writing to mother, — if I did, she v/ould 
 never get the letter." 
 
 He went to the window, and opened it. It was 
 a glorious night, — and as he threw back the lattice, 
 the sweet air flowed in, laden with a thousand 
 delicious odours from the forest and ocean. So 
 deep was the stillness that he could barely hear the 
 vague murmur of small waves lapping the shore 
 now and again, though the sea was not half a mile 
 distant. It was such a night as v/hen the trustful 
 and believing heart is filled like a holy chalice with 
 the rich wine of joy and gratitude, — when the 
 soul rises to an angel's stature within its fleshly 
 tenement, and sings ' Magnificat ! ' — when nature 
 wears her most serene and noble aspect, — when it 
 
298 XTbe /IDi^btp atom 
 
 seems good to live, good to work, good to hope, 
 good to love^ — good to be even the smallest 
 portion of the divine and splendid order of the 
 Universe. But to the young boy who stood 
 gazing out on the infinite majesty of the moving 
 earth and heavens, there was no order, but mere 
 chaos, — a black conflicting contradiction of forces, 
 — a non-reasoning production of things that neither 
 sought nor desired existence, and that have no 
 sooner learned to love life than they are plunged 
 into death and eternal nothingness. In the * Free- 
 Thinker's Catechism ' (Catechisme du Libre- 
 Penseur), by one Edgar Monteil, — a code of ethics 
 which has been circulated assiduously among 
 children's schools in France for the past ten years, 
 — the unhappy little beings whose ideas of morality 
 are engrafted upon this atheistical doctrine, are 
 taught that " the passions of man are his surest and 
 most faithful guides," and that " God is a spectre 
 invented by priests to frighten timid minds ; " — 
 this too, in utter and wicked oblivion of the grand 
 truth proclaimed with such a grand simplicity — 
 " God is Love ! " "As the soul," writes the self- 
 deluded compiler of the ' Free-Thinker's Cate- 
 chism,' " no longer constitutes for us an indepen- 
 dent and imperishable individuality, there is no 
 
ttbe /iDi^bt^ Btom 299 
 
 future life." And what are the results of this 
 ' new ' confession of faith ? Too terrible and 
 devastating to be easily gauged, though something 
 of their danger may be gathered from the dis- 
 cussions of the Conseil d' Arrondissement de Nantes^ 
 the members of which declare that — " Considering 
 that the suicides of young children and persons of 
 tender age, (formerly almost unknown among us) 
 have multiplied recently to such a degree as to 
 reach the alarming extent of 443 cases in one year," 
 — and furthermore — " considering the deplorable 
 increase of vice and crime among children and 
 youths, — we take the vow," — says the Council with 
 almost passionate solemnity — *^ that in the schools 
 of this Arrondissement^ morality shall not be separ- 
 ated from religion, and that the teaching of duty 
 towards God shall be the fundamental and necessary 
 base of all duties which are incumbent upon man." 
 Such is the wise decision of Nantes, — but un- 
 happily the good example is not followed through- 
 out France in general. In almost every educational 
 department the principles of the ' Libre-Penseur * 
 are sowing the seeds of ruin to the nation, and 
 making of the average human being a creature 
 worse than the lowest and most untamable of 
 ferocious beasts. And these principles, largely 
 
300 zhc /HM^bt^ Htom 
 
 adopted by the Free-Thinking societies in England, 
 are being gradually disseminated among the 
 children of our own secular schools, — for the agents 
 or ' missionaries ' of Free-Thought are to the full 
 as active in distributing their tracts and pamphlets 
 as the most fervid Salvationist that ever tossed the 
 ' War- Cry ' in the faces of the public ; — more 
 stealthy in their movements, they are none the 
 less cunning ; and in our once God-fearing country, 
 many can now be found who passively accept as 
 truth the deadening and blasphemous lie uttered in 
 the words — " As the soul no longer constitutes an 
 independent and imperishable individuality^ there 
 is no future life ! " 
 
 And yet, in sober earnest this ' independent 
 and imperishable individuality ' is more self- 
 assertive than ever it was, — it passionately claims 
 to be heard and acknowledged, — it clamours 
 with all its immortal strength at the barriers of 
 the Unknown, crying " Open ! — Open ! Unveil 
 the hidden Glory which / know and feel, yet 
 cannot speak of ! Open ! — that Doubt may see, 
 and seeing, die ! " For the Soul in each one of 
 us is instinctively aware that the hidden Glory 
 exists^ — though it cannot explain in mortal speech 
 whv, whence, or how. Nevertheless the Psyche 
 
feels her lover ; and through the darkness of earth's 
 perplexities stretches out yearning hands to grasp 
 the actual Divine which Is, and which reveals 
 itself to mortals in a thousand subtle tender ways 
 of promise, warning, knowledge or sweet comfort. 
 But our lamps of learning, ill -trimmed and dull, 
 cannot shed light on such Eternal Splendour, — 
 they needs must be extinguished in the greater 
 radiance, even as sparks in a blaze of sunshine. 
 
 Little Lionel, dimly conscious of * the imperish- 
 able and independent individuality ' in his own 
 slight frame, though he could not analyse what he 
 felt, gazed straight out on the shining planets, which, 
 like great golden eyes, regarded him as straightly, 
 and thought what a strange thing it was that there 
 should be millions and millions of worlds in the 
 sky, all created by an Atom, for Nothing ! If he 
 had been a man, grown callous and cold-hearted 
 through the sameness of life as generally lived, he 
 might possibly have found with Edgar Monteil, 
 some satisfaction in the terrific satire — ' The passions 
 of man are his surest and most faithful guides,' — 
 but being only a child, he had no passions save an 
 endless desire to know, — a desire that nothing ever 
 written by all the atheists in the world will satisfy 
 or restrain. A child's first inquiries concerning 
 
302 Zbc /iDtgbt^ Htom 
 
 spiritual and transcendent things, need noble 
 answers evolved from purest thought, — for, as the 
 Italian proverb has it — " The ' why ' of a child is 
 the key of philosophy." Woe betide those who 
 crush the high aspirations of innocent and hopeful 
 youth by the deadening blow of Materialism ! 
 Worse than murderers are they, and as a greater 
 crime than murder shall they answer for it ! For 
 truly has it been said — " Fear not them which kill 
 the body, but fear them which kill the soul." 
 Kilhng the soul is the favourite occupation of 
 the so-called ' wise men ' of to-day ; — spread- 
 ing their pernicious influence through the 
 press, and through current literature, they con- 
 gratulate themselves when they have dragged their 
 readers down into a slough of pessimism and 
 atheism, and caused them to think of God as the 
 supreme Evil, instead of the supreme Good. Yet 
 every anti-Christian author nowadays has his or 
 her commendatory clique, and salvo of applause 
 from the press, and the more blasphemous, vulgar 
 and obscene the work, the louder the huzzas. In 
 this way, things are tending fast towards the 
 attitude of the * Libre-Penseur,' so that soon when 
 the children ask us *' Who made heaven and 
 earth ? " we shall answer flippantly according to 
 
XTbe /nMobt^ Htom 303 
 
 that Catechism — " Neither the heaven, nor in- 
 finity, nor the earth has been created." 
 
 Question. " There is no First Cause then ? " 
 
 Answer. " No, — for all that we cannot prove 
 scientifically has no existence." 
 
 And here was the boy Lionel's difficulty. He 
 was actively conscious of something he could not 
 " prove scientifically," and it was impossible for 
 him to believe that that something * had no exist- 
 ence.' For IT, — that undefinable vague Something, 
 — to him meant Everything. As he stood at the 
 open window looking at the stars, the impression 
 of a sudden vastness, an all-sufficing Goodness and 
 Perfection, swept over his mind, like a wave roll- 
 ing in upon him from the Infinite, giving him a 
 vague yet soothing sense of peace. 
 
 " It is beautiful ! " he murmured — " Beautiful 
 to think that in a very little while I shall know 
 all, — why, I may even meet Jessamine the very 
 first thing ! — who can tell ! It is wrong I daresay, 
 to want to find out so quickly, — but I couldn't 
 bear to go on and on every day, learning a lot of 
 useless things, and always missing the one thing." 
 
 He turned suddenly and looked about him. 
 The wan star-beams illumined one side of the 
 room more than the other, and as he glanced up 
 
304 Uhc /IDtgbty Htom 
 
 at the rough oak rafters that crossed the ceiling, 
 he easily perceived by the mingled rays of star- 
 light and flickering candle, one of the large iron 
 hooks, so many of which were embedded in the 
 old wood, and apparently struck by its position, he 
 went and looked at it curiously. Then he got up 
 on a chair and felt it, — it was as firm as the beam 
 itself He smiled dreamily, — and his thoughts 
 flew back to beautiful Clovelly, and to the strange 
 tourist who had been found hanged in the boat- 
 house there. He remembered the words of the 
 old boatman who had explained the deed as, 
 " nothin' easier when yeVe got a neckercher an' a 
 nail." And then, — slowly and with extreme 
 tenderness, — he drew from under his vest his 
 mother's gift, the soft glistening ' baby sash ' of 
 daisy-sprinkled ribbon, and shaking it out, slipped 
 one end dexterously and firmly over the nail, and 
 arranged the other in a * running noose,' — the art 
 of making which, together with other knots of a 
 like kind, had been taught him by Montrose in 
 many a boating and sailing expedition. When it 
 was fixed to his satisfaction he got off the chair, 
 which, however, he left just where it was, immedi- 
 ately under the nail and dangUng ribbon, and 
 looking round once more, blew out the candle. 
 
Alone in the semi-darkness he now stood, his wist- 
 ful gaze turned towards the window, through which 
 the soft air shed fragrance and the stars flashed 
 their luminant splendours, — and with a faint 
 sensation of giddiness and fear upon him, he ad- 
 vanced a few steps towards that open square of 
 sky, and suddenly fell on his knees. Clasping his 
 hands he raised his pale, eager, wondering little 
 face to the great planets that rolled in their mystic 
 orbits far above him, — their silver rays gleamed 
 fitfully on his fair curls and glittered in his eyes, 
 as from an over-burdened brain and breaking heart 
 he prayed aloud, — 
 
 " Almighty Atom ! I am going to pray to you, 
 though I have never said any prayers, and don't 
 know how to pray rightly. Perhaps you can't 
 hear me, and wouldn't listen if you could, — yet 
 I can't help thinking there is Something or 
 Somebody somewhere, to whom I must tell just 
 what I feel. Oh, dear Atom ! — if you really 
 know or care anything about all the worlds you 
 have made, and the poor people living on them, 
 you must be much more than I have been taught 
 to believe you are, and perhaps you will be able 
 to understand what I mean. I am coming to try 
 and find you ; — and if you should be after all 
 
 20 
 
3o6 Ube jfUMgbt^ Htom 
 
 not an Atom, but a God, — a good, loving God, — 
 you will understand me still better, and I'm sure 
 you will be sorry for me ! Yes ; because you will 
 see it is not all my fault that I am so puzzled and 
 unhappy, and that I can't help wishing to know 
 truly if there is not something better than this 
 world, where we can never keep anything we love, 
 and where everybody dies and is forgotten. Oh, 
 if you are a God, you will pity me, — and I shall 
 not be afraid of you ! I have always wanted to 
 believe in you as God, and if they would have let 
 me I would have loved you ! But if you are an 
 Atom only, I cannot see why you exist at all, and 
 I think Someone must have made even you, I 
 must find out that Someone, — and if I have a 
 soul, as I feel I have, and as Reuben Dale says 
 vv^e all have, then I shall soon discover everything 
 I want to know. And if you are a God, — an 
 eternal, beautiful, thinking, i^tXvag^ Spirit-Person, 
 whose ways are all wise and loving, how glad I 
 shall be ! For then you will not let me lose 
 myself, — you could not possibly be cruel to me, — 
 and you will take me, like little Jessamine, straight 
 to the world you live in, and show me where the 
 angels are ! I shall see things quite clearly, and 
 understand what they all mean, — and if I have 
 
done any wrong in my life, I think you will 
 forgive me, — I hope you will, — because you will 
 know I was always taught not to believe in you." 
 
 His voice trembled, — he paused a moment, — 
 then went on again softly, — 
 
 "Just now, — though I can't tell why, — I feel 
 that you must be a God, really and truly, — and 
 that the men who write books to try and prove 
 you have no existence, except as a figure of speech, 
 are all wrong. Poor men ! — I wonder how they 
 will feel when they come to die ! Will you 
 forgive them for all the misery they make.? 
 Because of course there must be many others who 
 are quite as unhappy as I am, and who when they 
 are in trouble about anybody as I am about my 
 mother, or when they lose their little children as 
 poor Reuben has lost Jessamine, must think it very 
 hard to have to suffer so much, without any reason 
 for it, or any hope of comfort. But if they felt 
 you were God, they would not be so miserable, — 
 they would be like Reuben, who though he is very 
 sad, believes you know what is best, and that you 
 will give Jessamine back to him in a better world. 
 So I shall pray to you now for the last time as God, 
 • — and not as Atom, — and I do ask you/ dear God, 
 to be kind to my darling mother. Perhaps when 
 
3os trbe /HMabt^ Htom 
 
 I come to you, you will show me some way of 
 taking care of her. If I deserved, like Jessamine, 
 to be an angel, I could always be near her and 
 watch over her. Will you think of this, if you 
 are a loving God, as many people say you are, and 
 try to arrange it for me ? I could never do it by 
 myself. I don't think one can do anything by 
 one's self, except die. Out there in the heavens I 
 am looking at, there are a number of worlds ever 
 so much larger than ours, with people on them 
 most likely, — perhaps they are all asking you about 
 themselves, just as I am doing. But if you are 
 God, you can read every one's thoughts, and you 
 will know that it isn't so much of myself that I'm 
 thinking, as of everything ever made. There is 
 such a great deal of pain and suffering everywhere, 
 — and I couldn't bear to see it going on always, — 
 always, — without feeling sure of some good cause 
 for it, and some good end of it. And these things 
 are never explained clearly to me by my father or 
 my tutors, — perhaps nobody r^;/ explain them; and 
 so I think, before I make any more serious mistakes 
 myself, it's better to come straight to you, and 
 ask you to clear up all the trouble for me. I am 
 only a boy, — but I should never like to grow up a 
 man if I could give no reason for being one. If I 
 
Tbe /IIMgbt^ Htoin 309 
 
 thought, in truest truth, that You were God, I 
 could easily understand it all, — but I have studied 
 so much and am so puzzled, that though I feel you 
 are, I am not sure ! So I must find out, — and 
 there's no other way. Oh, You, whoever You are 
 that made all the stars and suns, and all the moun- 
 tains and seas, and all the forests and birds and 
 flowers, I am coming to You ! If nothing You 
 have created is ever lost, then You will not lose 
 me, nor shall I lose You ! I shall find You, where- 
 ever You are ! This world frightens me, — but 
 of You I am not afraid ! " 
 
 His half-whispered v/ords 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, — 
 
310 Ubc /IDtobt^ Htom 
 
 '' 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 v/ent to the door which was slightly ajar, 
 and with careful noiselessness, shut it fast, locked 
 and bolted it. Safe now from any chance of in- 
 terruption, 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 still- 
 ness, . . . 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 
 
312 Ube /IDtgbt^ Htom 
 
 revivifying breeze, which he himself inhaled ap- 
 provingly 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 con- 
 tinued, 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 ap- 
 pearing 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, — 
 
Ube /llM^bt^ Htom 313 
 
 '' 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 ! Tve 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 un- 
 restrainedly. 
 
 " 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 
 
314 XTbe {fbigbt^ Htom 
 
 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 P — and on whose behalf he had resolved 
 to exert all the tyrannical and petty despotism of 
 
3i6 Zbc /IDigbt^ Htom 
 
 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 resolution 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 ! " 
 
tibe /nMobti^ Htom 317 
 
 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 
 
3i8 XTbe /BM^bt^ atom 
 
 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 con- 
 fidence as touched the book-worn scholar to the 
 
320 Ubc /llM^bt^ Htom 
 
 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 
 
Zbc /llM^bty Htom 321 
 
 for myself what reason God, — or the Atom, — has 
 to give for making 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 
 
 21 
 
322 Ubc /IDtabty Htom 
 
 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 
 
XTbe /IDlgbt^ Htom 323 
 
 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. Vallis- 
 court, 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 rest- 
 lessly, — 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 
 
324 Uhc /lIMabt^ Htom 
 
 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 educa- 
 tion, considering them too despotic for a lad so 
 
Zbc /IIMobt^ Htom 325 
 
 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 s/iail 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 1 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 ! — 
 
326 XTbe /HMgbt^ Htom 
 
 left to his own thoughts, without sympathy from 
 either father or mother, and deprived of youthful 
 companionship, — / 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 ! " 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt grew white to the lips, — he 
 breathed quickly as though he had been running a 
 race, and for the moment he seemed to shrink and 
 cower beneath the angry glance and fierce attitude 
 of the irate Professor ; — then, with a slight shrug 
 of his shoulders, he said composedly, 
 
 " I am surprised, — really surprised, — to hear 
 such violent language from you. Professor ! Pray 
 do not excite yourself ! You have been very kind 
 and patient with . . . with my son, — and if it is at all 
 a matter of importance and obligation to you that 
 his last wishes should be complied with, I really 
 have no very serious objection to carrying them 
 out,— the more especially as they help to prove his 
 utterly unsound state of mind. No well-born boy 
 in such a station of life as that occupied by my 
 son, would wish to be buried beside a common 
 
Ubc /BMgbt^ Etom 327 
 
 peasant, if he were not insane. Your accusation of 
 * over-cramming ' is quite ridiculous, — excuse me 
 for saying so ! — it is impossible to over-cram a 
 really strong brain, — and the younger the brain, 
 the more vivid and lasting the impressions of 
 knowledge. I naturally supposed my son's brain 
 was of a healthy and vigorous quality, and it 
 is a decided shock to me to find I was mistaken. 
 This affair will cause a great deal of talk and 
 trouble, — I think I had better call on Dr. 
 Hartley, and place matters in his hands for 
 speedy arrangement. There will have to be an 
 inquest, of course, — and these things are excessively 
 tiresome." 
 
 The Professor gazed at him reproachfully. 
 
 *' Valliscourt," he said, ''you never loved your 
 son ! You could not have loved him, or you 
 would not speak as you do now, in his dead 
 presence ! " 
 
 And he pointed to the couch where lay the 
 passive little form, lulled into that perfect rest 
 which no clash of tongues in wordy argument 
 should ever again disturb. 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt's glance followed his gesture, 
 but not a quiver of emotion moved the composed 
 coldness of his features. 
 
328 Ube /IDtafot^ Btom 
 
 " Love is a mere figure of speech," — he said — 
 " And it only applies to the temporary attraction 
 we feel for a woman, or women. No reasonable 
 father ' loves ' his children, — his sole business is to 
 look upon them as the results of the natural law of 
 the reproduction of species, and as future citizens 
 of the world, whom he is bound to train befittingly 
 for their calling. Sentiment should have no share 
 in their education, — that I believe, is your principle, 
 or used to be, — it is certainly, mine. I expected 
 great things of my son, — but I see now how much 
 I should have been disappointed in him. His 
 brain was weak, possibly diseased, — and as a con- 
 sequence of weakness or disease he has killed 
 himself. It is very distressing of course, — but no 
 doubt, as time wears on, I shall realise that it was 
 the very best thing he could have done. I think 
 I had better go at once to Dr. Hartley." 
 
 He left the room with a firm, easy step and 
 unruffled demeanour, — the materialistic * Positivist ' 
 asserting itself in every line of his stiff figure 
 as he went. And Professor Cadman-Gore, the 
 ' oracle ' of Universities, left alone with the dead 
 Lionel, reverently approached the piteous little 
 corpse, and there lost sight of himself and his 
 various * theories ' in sorrowful contemplation. 
 
Ubc /Ibigbty Htom 329 
 
 Studying the quiet, fair child-face intently, he 
 murmured, 
 
 " The best thing you could have done ! Well ! 
 — perhaps it is, poor boy ! — perhaps it is ! With 
 such a father, — and such a mother, — aye, and such 
 a teacher too ! — for who knows whether I may not 
 have done him harm ? Who can tell whether I 
 am right or wrong in my ideas of Deity ? Can 
 there be nothing higher than humanity ? — the 
 Valliscourt humanity, for instance ? Heaven help 
 us if that is all ! " 
 
 And then, — considering that he was a learned 
 pundit, supposed to be altogether devoid of senti- 
 ment, — he did a strange thing. Raising the dead 
 boy in his arms, he kissed the cold brow just 
 beneath the clustering curls, and said, 
 
 " Yes ! — I will consider it, Lionel ! I promise, 
 for your sake, that when I have another boy to 
 teach, I will consider whether it is not best and 
 wisest to lead him up as far as a God of Love, — 
 and leave him there ! " 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 All the little world of Combmartin turned out 
 to attend Lionel's funeral. His brief but tragic 
 life-history, — his sorrow for his mother, — his 
 despair at the death of his one day's playmate, 
 little Jessamine Dale, — and his determined suicide, 
 were quickly rumoured through the village ; and 
 the sympathetic * touch of nature which makes the 
 whole world kin,' communicated itself from house 
 to house, and from heart to heart, till every man, 
 woman, and child in the place was moved by genuine 
 pity and grief for the little fellow's untimely end. 
 The verdict on his death was the usual one, 
 * Suicide during temporary insanity,' — this judgment 
 being always passed out of purest Christian charity, 
 in order to allov/ the so desperately departed the 
 rites of Christian burial. Dr. Hartley, who was 
 present at the inquest, had no hesitation in assert- 
 ing that he considered the boy had been driven to 
 
 his rash act by over-study, which had caused 
 
 330 
 
tibe ifbiQbt^ Htom 331 
 
 extreme pressure on the brain, — and Professor 
 Cadman-Gore manfully supported the statement, 
 thus voluntarily taking a certain share of the 
 blame on his own shoulders. Though, had the 
 old scholar spoken all his mind, he would have 
 added, that in his opinion, it was the nature of 
 the education insisted upon, — namely, scientific 
 positivism, and lack of all religious training, — 
 which was the real cause of the wreckage of the 
 boy's young life. But he said nothing of this, 
 though it may be he thought the more. And the 
 morning came at last, when Reuben Dale, looking 
 older by ten years, leaned on his spade by the 
 little grave he had newly dug, next to that of his 
 own beloved child, and watched the reverent 
 crowd of his fellow-villagers as they gathered with 
 hushed footsteps in the quiet old churchyard, and 
 listened with tearful attention to the aged, white- 
 haired parson who had known most of them all 
 their lives, and whose clear voice, now and then 
 faltering with emotion, pronounced the beautiful, 
 triumphant words, — 
 
 " So also is the resurrection of the dead. It is 
 sown in corruption ; it is raised in incorruption, — 
 it is sown in dishonour, it is raised in glory, — it 
 is sown in weakness, it is raised in power, — it is 
 
332 Zbc ^t^bty Htom 
 
 sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body. 
 .... So when this corruptible shall have put 
 on incorruption and this mortal shall have put on 
 immortality, then shall be brought to pass the 
 saying that is written, — O Death, where is thy 
 sting ? O Grave, where is thy victory ^ " 
 
 With bent head and softened features. Professor 
 Cadman-Gore listened, looking down into the 
 square of earth wherein Lionel's little coffin had 
 been lowered, covered with flowers, the free-will 
 offerings of the tender-hearted village women. A 
 large wreath of honeysuckle from good Miss 
 Payne was one of the most conspicuous and 
 beautiful of the various garlands, she having 
 stripped her entire cottage-porch of blossom for 
 this purpose, — but even the poor afflicted ' Hoddy- 
 Doddy ' had brought a funeral token in the shape 
 of a long branch of rare white roses fit for the 
 adornment of a queen's bower, — and Reuben Dale 
 had dropped into the grave a single knot of 
 jessamine, the smallest tribute of all, yet perhaps 
 the sweetest and most significant. And the Pro- 
 fessor was troubled by a rising lump in his throat, 
 and a great mist before his eyes, as he heard, amid 
 suppressed sobs from the little crowd, the parson's 
 tremulous accents, saying, 
 
Zhc /IIMgbt^ Htom 333 
 
 " Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God 
 to take unto Himself the soul of our dear young 
 brother departed," — and the compassionate speaker 
 hesitated as he put in with soft emphasis the word 
 * young,' — " we therefore commit his body to 
 the ground, — earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust 
 to dust, — in sure and certain hope of the resurrec- 
 tion to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, 
 who shall change our vile body that it may be like 
 unto His glorious body, according to the mighty 
 working, whereby He is able to subdue all things 
 to Himself." 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt listened with a frown of con- 
 tempt on his features and anger in his heart. 
 ' The mighty working, whereby He is able to 
 subdue all things to Himself ! ' He resented this 
 phrase, — it affronted him singularly. And he 
 hated the situation in which he found himself, 
 namely that of being compelled to give over the 
 dead body of his son at last, to the rites of the 
 Creed he abhorred. When at the ' Our Father ' 
 every one knelt down on the warm, daisy-sprinkled 
 turf, he stood proudly erect, glancing disdainfully 
 at the Professor, who though too stiff in the 
 joints to kneel, nevertheless bowed his head 
 out of respect for the sacredness of the ceremony. 
 
334 Ube /BMgbt^ Htom 
 
 The service ended, the venerable clergyman dis- 
 missed all present with the usual blessing, pro- 
 nounced with more than the usual fervency, and 
 went his gentle tottering way with his assistants, 
 leaving Reuben Dale to his appointed work, of 
 filling in the newly-made grave. The villagers 
 moved away noiselessly, some crying, in company 
 with Clarinda Payne, others endeavouring to com- 
 fort the girl Lucy, who wept as though her 
 heart would break, and others again whispering 
 strangely about Mr. Valliscourt's cold and cruel 
 looks, — while, huddled up in a corner at the 
 churchyard gate sat the forlorn ' Hoddy-Doddy,' 
 blubbering to himself and refusing to be comforted. 
 " No — no ! " he muttered vacantly in answer to 
 one of the women who endeavoured to persuade 
 him to accompany them, — "I'll stay 'ere. Wi' 
 the children an' the roses. All the roses, . . . all 
 the children, . . . dead! — dead! I'll stay 'ere, — 
 summer's over ! " 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt remained in the churchyard 
 till the Httle crowd had quite dispersed. Standing 
 by his son's grave he gazed fixedly down into it, 
 saying nothing. Reuben Dale watched him in deep 
 compassion for a moment, — then he murmured 
 gently. 
 
ZbC m^M^ HtOm 335 
 
 " God comfort ye sir, on this sad day ! He 
 alone can help ye to bear sich a sore an' bitter 
 trouble ! " 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt started irritably, — and turned to 
 Professor Cadman-Gore. 
 
 " Does this fellow want an extra fee, beyond the 
 ordinary charges ? " 
 
 " Good God, no ! " answered the Professor 
 hastily, for he had taken the measure of Reuben's 
 proud and independent character, and hoped the 
 tactless question had not been overheard. 
 
 Reuben, however, had caught its purport, — and 
 he now looked steadily at Mr. Valliscourt, with a 
 slight flush on his brown cheeks. 
 
 "Ye mistake me, sir, altogether, I'm thinkin'," 
 he said, with a simple dignity which well became 
 him, — " 'Tis a matter o' barely five days since I 
 buried my own little 'un here, wi' my own hands, 
 an' my fool tears a-flowin' on her coffin ; an' though 
 you're a gentleman born, an' I'm onny a poor 
 workin' man, there's summat of a tie atween us in 
 the sorrow o' our broken 'arts. For our two 
 childer played together just one summer's day, 
 an' the last words that iver my Jess'mine said, wos 
 ' Give my love to Lylie.' An' the poor boy's askin' 
 to be buried beside of her here in Combmartin, 
 
336 Ube ifX^iQU^ Htom 
 
 showed plain enough that he thought of her too, 
 when he took to his death so willing like. The 
 ways o' God are not as our ways, sir, an* there wos 
 a heavenly link 'tween they two little angel lives as 
 we're not able to see. That they be gone, an' we 
 be here, is better for them though worse fur us, — 
 an' knowin' all the ache an' trouble o' the time, I 
 made bold to say God comfort ye, without meanin' 
 no liberty nor offence, nor aught save just a word 
 o' sympathy from man to man." 
 
 * Sympathy from man to man ! ' Mr. Vallis- 
 court stared, in haughty wonder at the amazing 
 impudence of this coarsely clad peasant, — this 
 verger, sexton, road-mender and what not, — who 
 dared to claim a brotherhood with him in sorrow ! 
 
 " Thank you ! " he said stiffly, — " You mean 
 well, no doubt. Personally, I look upon the day 
 that my unfortunate son played truant from his 
 home, as the most ill-fated of his life. It is 
 probable that had he not met your child, and 
 afterwards taken her loss to heart, he might not 
 have met with such an unnatural death. And I 
 cannot admit of there being any ' ways of God,' 
 in the matter, — I have no belief in a God at all." 
 
 A shadow darkened Reuben's fine face, but he 
 answered quietly. 
 
Zbc /IDlgbt^ Htom 337 
 
 " Ay sir ! is that so ? Then I'm sorrier fur ye 
 than iver ! There's no poor soul I pity more than 
 a man as feels no God near 'im. Fur a grief 
 strikes ye to the very core o' the heart then, an' 
 there's naught can heal the wound. God or no 
 God, ye can't do away wi' trouble, — ye've lost a 
 child ! " 
 
 Mr. Valliscourt looked once more into the little 
 open grave, — then at the sexton, — and a very 
 slight ironical smile lifted the corners of his mouth 
 and gleamed in his hard eyes. 
 
 " Losses can always be remedied," he said 
 coldly, — " And I shall marry again." 
 
 With that he turned away, and walked steadily 
 down the path leading to the churchyard gate, 
 never once looking back. 
 
 But Professor Cadman-Gore lingered, — and 
 after a little pause, impulsively lifted his old wide- 
 awake hat from his bald pate with one hand, and 
 silently held out the other to Reuben. Reuben, 
 astonished at the action, hesitated a moment out of 
 deference, — but looking at the Professor's face and 
 seeing tears in his old eyes, he understood, — and 
 warmly grasped the scholar's thin fingers in his 
 own rough palm. 
 
 " I loved the little lad," — said the Professor 
 
 22 
 
33^ XTbe /IIM^btp Htom 
 
 then, tremulously, — " I, who love nobody, learned 
 to love him ! You are a good man, and you have 
 a heart, — I need not ask you to keep his grave 
 as, — as it should be. His father will dismiss all 
 memory of him from his mind, — it is his nature 
 to forget the dead. But I should not like the 
 poor child's last resting-place to be neglected, — 
 and if there is any cost I will gladly defray it " 
 
 But here Reuben interrupted him. 
 
 ^' Cost, sir ? Nay, there'll be no cost but a few 
 tears o' mine, as rnebbe will help the flowers grow ! 
 For he lies next to my Jess'mine ye see, sir, — 
 there's barely a two-inch distance 'tween their 
 little coffins ; an' as long as I live, an' have hands 
 to work wi', so long will they two little graves be 
 the sweetest an' prettiest i' the churchyard. All 
 covered wi' the blessed green turf, sir, an' planted 
 thick wi' vi'lets an' daisies, — an' the cost o' 
 they things is onny just a little love an' thought- 
 fulness." 
 
 The Professor looked up, — then down ; — 
 finally he again offered his hand, and again Reuben 
 shook it. 
 
 " Good-bye ! God bless you ! " he said. 
 
 " God bless you, sir ! " responded Reuben. 
 
 And with another lingering glance of farewell 
 
Ubc /IIMgbt^ Htom 339 
 
 down into Lionel's grave where nothing could be 
 seen but a pile of flowers, the learned Professor 
 once more raised his hat to the untutored villager, 
 and, reluctantly departing, went his lonely and 
 reflective way. 
 
 Long before the shadov/s darkened, the church- 
 yard was deserted and solitary, though in the 
 church itself the organist was practising for the 
 coming Sunday, and the sweet appealing notes of 
 the beautiful hymn ' Nearer, my God, to Thee,' 
 floated out through the ancient doorway, and 
 soared, high up, into the calm air. Lionel's grave 
 was closed in, and a full- flowering stem of the 
 white lilies of St. John lay upon it, like an angel's 
 sceptre. Another similar stem adorned the grave 
 
340 TLbc /IIM^bt^ Htom 
 
 of Jessamine ; and between the two little mounds 
 of earth, beneath which two little innocent hearts 
 were at rest for ever, a robin-redbreast sang its 
 plaintive evening carol, while the sun flamed down 
 into the west and the night fell. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury. 
 
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