The Mighty Atom | Page 2

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 cap.
"Good-bye, mother!"
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 absorbed in catching a string of seaweed, slimy and unprofitable to most people, but very beautiful in