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

by Marie Corelli

  And she was right enough. Poor Miss Leslie was indeed unhappy. When she received Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir’s letter, her astonishment and regret knew no bounds.

  “Boy gone to school in France!” she exclaimed. “In France!”

  And the tears sprang to her eyes. She read the news again and yet again.

  “Oh, poor Boy!” she murmured. “Why didn’t you write to me? And yet — if his mother was obstinately resolved upon such a scheme I could have done nothing. But — to send him to France!”

  She thought over it and worried about it all the morning, and finally sent a brief telegram to Major Desmond at his club, asking him to call and see her that afternoon about tea-time if he had nothing more important to do. And the major, thinking Letty must be ill or she never would have wired for him, took a hansom straight away, and arrived to luncheon instead of to tea.

  “Oh, Dick!” said Miss Letty at once, as she gave him her hand in greeting, “I have such bad news about Boy! They have sent him away to school in France!”

  The major stared.

  “France!” he echoed, blankly.

  “Yes, France! To a place called Noirville, in Brittany. Poor child! Here is his mother’s letter.” And she gave him Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir’s communication.

  He read it with visible impatience, then he threw it down upon the table angrily.

  “That woman is a fiend, Letty!” he said. “A devil encased in fat! That’s what she is! If she had been thin, she would have been a murderess — as it is, she’s a muddler! A criminal muddler!” He walked up and down the room wrathfully, then stopped in front of Miss Leslie, whose gentle face was pale, and her eyes were suspiciously moist.

  “Now, Letty, listen to me. Be a man — I mean, be a brave woman, and look this thing in the face. You must say good-bye to Boy for ever!”

  “Say good-bye to Boy for ever!” repeated Miss Leslie, mechanically; “must I?”

  “Yes, you must,” said the major, with an attempt at sternness. “Don’t you see? The child has gone — and he’ll never come back. A boy will come back, but not the boy you know. The boy you know is practically dead. Try to realize that, Letty. It’s very hard, I know, but it’s a fact. The poor little chap had enough against him in his home surroundings, God knows! but a cheap foreign school is the last straw on the camel’s back. Whatever is good in his nature will go to waste, — whatever is bad will grow and flourish!”

  Miss Letty said nothing. She sat down and clasped her hands together to control their nervous trembling.

  “An English school,” went on Desmond, “might have been the saving of Boy. He would have been taught there that death is preferable to dishonour. But at a foreign school he’ll learn that to tell lies prettily, and to cheat with elegance, are cardinal points in a gentleman’s conduct. And there are other things besides, — no, Letty! no, — it’s no good your fretting yourself. Say good-bye to Boy — and say it for ever!”

  He came and bent over her, and took one of the delicate trembling hands in his own.

  “You have said good-bye to so many hopes and joys, Letty,” he said, with deep tenderness in his kind voice, “and said it so bravely and unrepiningly, that you must not lose courage now. It’s just one more disappointment, that’s all. Think of Boy as a child — the coaxing little rascal who used to call you ‘Kiss-Letty.’” He paused a moment, then went on, “ and you will get accustomed after a bit to believe he has gone to heaven. You know you’ll never see that winsome little child again. There was hardly anything of him left in the boy who came to visit you in Scotland. But you had the last of his childhood there, Letty, — be satisfied. Say good-bye.”

  Miss Letty looked up at the honest, sympathising face of her staunch old friend, and tried to smile.

  “No, Dick, I don’t think I’ll do that,” she said, gently, “ I don’t think I can. You see, I may, perhaps, be able to help Boy in some way later on—”

  “There’s no doubt you will if you’re inclined to, and that he’ll need help,” said the major, somewhat grimly, “but what I mean, Letty, is that you must put away all your fancies about him. Don’t idealise him any more. Don’t think that he will be an exceptional sort of fellow, or turn out brilliantly as a noble example to the world in general, — because he won’t. There’s no hope in that quarter. And, — if you take my advice, you’ll stop thinking about him for the present, and make up your mind to join me and a few friends who are going out to the States. Come to America, Letty, — come along. And I’ll try and find another Boy for you.”

  Miss Leslie shook her head.

  “That’s impossible,” she said, sorrowfully, “ I’m very conservative in my affections.”

  “I know that,” said the major, dolefully. “By Jove! I know that.”

  He was silent, looking at her wistfully, and tugging at his white moustache.

  “Letty, I say!” he broke out, presently, “I’m getting an old man, you know, — I shall soon be turning up my toes to the daisies, — will you not do me a kindness?”

  “Why, of course I will, if I can, Dick,” she answered, readily, “what is it?”

  “Come to America! There’s a little orphan niece of mine, — Violet Morrison — only child of my old pal Jack Morrison of the Guards — he married my youngest sister — both of ’em dead — and only this little girl left. She’s just twelve, and I want her to finish her education in America, where they honour bright women instead of despising them. But I don’t want to leave you behind. Come and play auntie to her, will you?”

  “Do you really want me?” Miss Leslie asked, anxiously. “Should I be useful?”

  “Useful? You would be worth more than your weight in gold — as you always are. Come and chaperone Violet, — she hasn’t got a soul in the world except me to care a button for her. Fitz has an idea of coming out too. You’ll do no good brooding here by yourself in London, and wondering how Boy is getting on in France. You had much better come and be happy in giving happiness to others.”

  “Do you think Boy might write to me?” she asked, hesitatingly.

  “He might, — but it’s more than possible his letter would never reach you. And if you wrote to him, it’s ten to one whether your letter would ever reach him. They spy on boys in foreign schools, and report everything to their parents. Anyhow, if he did write to you here at this address, the letter would be forwarded. Don’t hesitate, Letty. Come to America and help me take care of Violet! Say yes.”

  “When do you start?”

  “In a week.”

  Miss Letty thought a moment.

  “Very well, Dick. I certainly have no ties to keep me in England. I know you mean it kindly. I’ll come and look after your niece. It will give me something to do.”

  “Of course it will,” said the major, delighted, “ Letty, you’re a brick!”

  She laughed a little, but her eyes were sad.

  “Dick,” she said.

  “Letty.”

  “Don’t ask me to forget Boy; I can’t!”

  The major raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  “All right, I won’t. But I didn’t ask you to forget the child. No. He was a charming child. But — he’s gone.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Letty, with a sigh, “he’s gone.”

  And she did not answer Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir’s letter, nor did she write to Boy.

  The following week she started for New York with the major and his niece, a pretty, bright little girl, who was completely fascinated by Miss Letty’s charm and gentleness, and who obeyed her implicitly with devotion and tenderness at once; and the only intimation Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir received of her departure was through a letter to her husband from Major Desmond, which, of course, she opened. It ran as follows:

  “DEAR D’ARCY, —

  “I’m off to America with a party of two or three friends, including Miss Leslie, who is kindly looking after my young niece, Violet Morrison, whom I am going to place at a finishing school in New Jersey. I daresay you remember Jac
k Morrison of the Guards, — this is his only child, — and I prefer an American education for girls to an English one. I hear your little chap has been sent to school in France, — it’s a d — d shame to try and turn an upright-standing Briton into a French frog. Better by far have sent him to one of the first-class educational establishments in Canada. However, I suppose your wife has different ideas to anyone else respecting the education of boys. Take my advice and don’t drink yourself into the lower regions; look after your own affairs, and attend to the education of the little chap whose appearance and conduct in this world you are answerable for. If he ever goes to the bad, it won’t be half as much his fault as yours. I always speak my mind, as you know, — and I’m doing it now.

  “Yours truly, “DICK DESMOND.”

  Mrs. D.’Arcy-Muir bridled with offence as she read these lines, but she put them calmly into her usual posting-place for other people’s letters — the fire, and for once was exceedingly annoyed. Her ordinary bland state of complacent self-satisfaction was seriously disturbed. Miss Leslie, instead of writing to express her grief and distress at Boy’s departure — instead of doing anything that she was expected to do — had actually packed up her things and gone to America. Did anyone ever hear of such a thing! And who could tell! — she might take a fancy to Major Desmond’s niece and leave her all her money! And Boy would be done out of it! For this flabby-minded, inconsistent woman had convinced herself that Boy must inevitably be Miss Leslie’s heir in the long run. And now here was a most unexpected turn to affairs.

  That night she wrote to Boy a letter in which the following passage occurred:

  “I do not think Miss Leslie is as fond of you as she professed to be, for she has never said one word about your going to school, or sent you any message. I hear she has gone to America with Major Desmond’s little niece, who is being taken out there to finish her education. It seems a funny place to send an English girl to school, but I suppose the major thinks he knows best.”

  Boy read this with the weary scorn that was becoming habitual with him. If America was a funny place to send an English girl to school at, he thought, France was a still funnier place for an English boy. And Miss Letty “was not so fond of him as she professed to be,” wasn’t she? Boy thought he knew better. But if he was mistaken, it did not matter much. Nothing mattered now. He didn’t care. Not he. It was foolish to care about anything or anybody. So one of his schoolmates told him, — a wiry boy from Paris with dark eyes, curly black hair, and a trick of smiling at nothing, and shrugging his shoulders.

  “Qu’est que c’est la vie!” this youthful satirist would say, “C’est vieux jeu! — bagatelle! Ouf! Une farce! Une comédie! Tout passe — tout casse! — et Dieu s’amuse!”

  And Boy shrugged his shoulders likewise, and smiled at nothing, and said, —

  “Qu’est que c’est la vie! Une comédie! Et Dieu s’amuse!”

  CHAPTER VIII.

  THE steady pulse of time, which goes on mercilessly beating with calm inflexibility, regardless of all the lesser human pulses that hurriedly beat with it for a little while and then cease for ever, had measured out six whole years since Boy went to “skool” in France, and he was now sixteen, and also one of the foremost scholars at a well-known English military school. He had stayed in France for over a year, his mother having gone there to spend his holidays with him, rather than allow him to return to England and “spoil his French accent,” as she said. Poor Boy! He never had much of an accent, and what he learned of French was very soon forgotten when he came home. But what he learned of morals in France was not forgotten, and took deep root in his character. When he came back to England he found his father settled in London again, and bent on a sudden new scheme of education for him. The Honourable Jim was beginning to suffer severely from his constant unlimited potations; he was looking very bloated and heavy, and his eyes had an unpleasant fixed glare in them occasionally, which to a medical observer boded no good. He had almost died in one bad fit of delirium tremens, and it was during the gradual process of his recovery from this attack, when in a condition of maudlin sentiment and general shakiness, that he decided on a public military training-school as the next element in Boy’s education.

  “Poor little chap!” he whimpered to the physician who had just blandly told him that he would be dead on whiskey in two years, “poor little chap! I’ve been a bad father to him, doctor, — yes, I have, d — n it! I’ve left his bringing up to my wife, — and she’s a d — d fool, — always was, — married her for her looks, — ain’t much of ’em now, eh? ha-ha! all gone to seed! Well, well! — we’re here to-day and gone to-morrow!” and he rolled his confused head to and fro on his pillows, smiling feebly, “ That’s what the old-fashioned clowns used to say in the old-fashioned pantomimes. But, by Jove! I’ll turn over a new leaf — Boy shall be properly educated, d — n it! He shall!”

  So he swore — and so he resolved, and for once carried his way over the stout expostulations of his wife, who had some other “scheme” in view for “my son’s advancement,” but what scheme it was she was unable to state clearly. No such idea crossed either of their minds as the fact that Boy was already educated, so far as character and susceptibility of temperament were concerned. Both father and mother were too ignorant to realize that whatever good or bad there was in his disposition was already too fully developed to be either checked or diverted from its course. And when the lad went to the school decided upon, it was with exactly the same weariness, indifference, and cynicism with which he had gone to France. He had a bright brain, and soon became fully conscious of his powers. He mastered his lessons easily, — and as he had a sort of dogged determination to stand high in his classes, he succeeded. But his success gave him no joy. His vague fancies about the great possibility of life had all vanished. In the French school, among the boys of all ages and dispositions he met there, he had learned that the chief object of living was to please one’s Self. To do all that seemed agreeable to one’s Self — and never mind the rest. For example, one could believe in God as long as one wished to, — but when this same God did not arrange things as suited one’s Self, then let God go. And Boy took this lesson well to heart, — it coloured and emphasised all the other “subjects” for which he “crammed” steadily, filling up his exam papers and gaining thousands of marks for the parrot-like proficiency in such classical forms of study as were bound to be of no use whatever to him in the practical business of life. He was training to be an officer, — and in consequence of this was learning precisely everything an officer need not know. But as this is too frequently the system of national education nowadays in all professions, particularly the military, the least said about it the better. Boy, like other boys, did just what he was ordered to do, learned just what he was required to learn, with steady, dogged persistence but no enthusiasm, and spared no pains to grind himself down into the approved ordinary pattern of an English college boy, and for this he made a complete sacrifice of all his originality. His studies fagged him, but he showed nothing of his weariness, and equally said nothing. He grew thin and tall and weak and nervous-looking, — and one of the chief troubles of his life was his mother. Always dutiful to her, he did his best to be affectionate, — for he was old enough now to feel very sorry for her, — sorry and ashamed as well. Truth to tell, the most casual stranger looking at Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir could not but feel a timid reluctance to be seen in her company. Always inclined to fat, she had grown fatter than ever, — always loving slothful ease, she had grown lazier; her clothes were a mere bundle hooked loosely round her large form, and with ill-cut, non-fitting garments, she affected a “fashionable” hat, which created a wild and almost alarming effect whenever she put it on. Boy blushed deeply each time he saw her thus arrayed. In fact, he often became painfully agitated when passers-by would stare at his mother with a derisive smile, — always over-sensitive, he could scarcely keep the tears out of his eyes. He lived in terror lest she should fulfil her frequently expressed inte
ntion of visiting his college to see the cricket matches or sham fights which often took place in the grounds, — for then, if she did come, he would have to walk about with her and introduce her perhaps to some of his school-fellows. He dreaded this possibility, for he could not but compare her with the neat, and even elegantly-dressed, ladies who came at stated times to the school, and were proudly presented by various boys to their masters as “my mother.” How dreadful it would be if he had to own that the large, lolling bundle of clothes, wispy hair, and foolish face was “my mother!” It was not as if she had not the means to be tidy, — she had, — and, as Boy often noticed, even some of the poorest women kept themselves clean and sweet. Why could not his mother look as tidy, for instance, as their own servant-maid when she went out on Sunday? He could not imagine. And he dared not ask her to be more careful of her personal appearance in order to save him shame; she would, of course, take the suggestion as a piece of gross impertinence.

  And did he ever think of Miss Letty? Yes, — often and often he thought of her, but in a dull, hopeless, far-away fashion, as of one who had passed out of his life, never to be seen again. Ages seemed to have rolled by since his childhood, and the face and figure of his old friend were pretty nearly as dimly indistinct in his memory as the shape and look of his once adored cow “Dunny.” He heard of her now and then, — for her course of life and action had considerably astonished and irritated Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, who frequently found occasion to make unkind remarks on the “fads” of that “silly old maid.” However, Miss Letty had no “fads”; she merely made it a rule to be useful wherever she could, and if she thought she saw a line of work and duty laid down for her to follow, she invariably followed it. When she had gone out to the States with Major Desmond as temporary chaperone to his niece, she met with so much kindness and hospitality from the Americans, so much instant appreciation of her good breeding, grace, and fine qualities, that she was quite affected by it; and she had only been two or three months in New York, when she found, to her amazement and gratitude, that she had hosts of friends. Young girls adored her, — young men came to her with their confidences, — and all the elder women, married and unmarried, came round her, attracted by her sweetness, tactfulness, simplicity of manner and absolute sincerity. “Our English Miss Letty” was her new sobriquet, and Major Desmond’s young niece, Violet Morrison, always called her “my own Miss Letty.” Violet was a very sweet, engaging child, and when she went to the school in New Jersey selected for her, she said to her uncle coaxingly on the day he left her there, —