Marie Corelli
The Mighty Atom
(1896)
***********
About the print version:
THE MIGHTY ATOM
BY
MARIE CORELLI
Author of "The Sorrows of Satan," "Barabbas" "Thelma," etc. LONDON
HUTCHINSON AND CO.
34, PATERNOSTER ROW E.C
MDCCCXCVI
***********
TO THOSE SELF-STYLED 'PROGRESSIVISTS' WHO BY PRECEPT AND EXAMPLE ASSIST
THE INFAMOUS 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.
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 masquerade; and even
among the sheltered orchards of the deeply-embowered valley of Combmartin, many
a tough and gnarled branch of many a sturdy apple-tree laden with 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 beginning
to clear. The sea still lashed the rocks with angry thuds of passion, but the
strength of the wind was gradually sinking into a mere breeze, and a warm
saffron light in the west showed where the sun, obscured for so many hours, was
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 joyously 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 within before so much as preening a feather. The window 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 a London merchant's office, from his serious old-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 'thinking 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, pondering, 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
disappointed that its gay carol was not more appreciated. 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
rejoices,--yet here is a living creature shut up with a book which surely God
never had the making 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 unbarred gate of Paradise,--and the sun,
flaming with August fires, 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 with 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.
"Does he say I may go, Mr. Montrose?"
"I haven't asked him," replied Montrose curtly, "I 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 you've 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 what 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 out,--what do you say to a first-class Devonshire tea at Miss Payne's?"
"Jolly!" and a flash of something like merriment 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
exemplary tidiness himself, would 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 methodical
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
particular 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 somewhat 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 ...
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