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

by Marie Corelli

  “Wouldn’t it be nice if Miss Letty lived over here while I am at school? I could always go to her for my holidays, then.”

  The major pinched her soft round cheek and kissed her and called her a “little baggage,” — did she suppose, he asked, that Miss Letty was going to absent herself from England all that while just to make holidays for a chit of a girl? But he thought about the matter a good deal, not from any selfish point of view, but solely on account of the happiness of the dear woman he had secretly loved so long, and whom he meant to love to the end. Sitting meditatively in one of the luxurious New York clubs, of which, with the ready courtesy Americans show to their stranger-visitors, he had been made an honorary member, the major turned Miss Letty’s position over in his mind. She was all alone in the world, and though she was rich, he knew her nature well enough to be sure that in her case riches did not compensate for solitude. She had certain friends in England, — but none of them were half as sympathetic, warm-hearted, or kindly as those she had made so quickly in America. She had been disappointed in her love for Boy; and if she tried to intervene in the further disposition of his fate, she would probably be disappointed again. Now here, in America, was Violet, studying hard to become a bright, clever, sweet woman, to learn to talk well and to know thoroughly what she was talking about, — not to be a mere figure-head of femininity, just capable of wearing a gown and having a baby. Something more than that was demanded for Violet; the major wanted her to be brought up to understand the beauty and satisfaction of an impersonal life, — a life that should widen not narrow with experience, — and who could be a more faithful home instructress of unselfishness and virtue than Miss Letty? Yes; it would certainly mean a great and lasting benefit to Violet if she could have the blessing of Miss Letty’s influence and affectionate guidance in the opening out of her young life. And what of Miss Letty herself?

  “Give that dear woman something to do for somebody else,” mused the major, “and she’s perfectly happy. It’s only for herself she doesn’t care to do anything. Now I shall make her life best worth living, if I can fill it with duties, — that is, if I can only persuade her to accept the duties.”

  And after some further cogitation he went to Miss Letty and explained himself thoroughly, with, as he thought, a most artful and painstaking elaboration of his young niece’s position, — how hard it was for her to be without someone of her own sex to look after her, deprived as she was of a mother’s influence and example, and so on and so on, till Miss Letty suddenly stopped him in his eloquent harangue by a little shake of her head and an uplifted finger of protest.

  “Dick!” she said, with a sparkle in her eyes suggestive of a dewdrop and sunbeam in one, “you are a dear old humbug!”

  The major started and blushed, — yes, actually blushed. He had considered himself a wonderful diplomatist, able to prepare a scheme of so deep and wily a nature that the most astute person would never be able to fathom it, and, after all his crafty preparations, his plan turned out to be so transparent that a simple woman could see through it at once. He wriggled on his chair uneasily, coughed, and looked distinctly taken aback, while Miss Letty went on, —

  “Yes, you are a dear old humbug, Dick!” she said, “and a good, kind friend as well. It is not for Violet’s sake that you want me to stay over this side of ocean for a while, — for there are hundreds of nice women here who would be only too pleased to have the child pass her holidays with them and their daughters. No, Dick! it isn’t for Violet’s sake half so much as it is for mine. I see that, and I understand your good heart. You think I am a lonely old body, — getting older quickly every day, — and that the more friends I have, and the greater the interest I can take in other lives than my own, the better it will be for me. And you’re right, Dick. I’m not a fool, and I hope I am neither obstinate nor selfish. I see what you mean! You are very clear, my dear friend, — clear as crystal! I have not known you all these years for nothing. I honour and admire you, Dick, and if I didn’t go by your advice pretty often, I should be the most ungrateful creature under the sun. The only interest I have — or had — in England, apart from my natural love of home, is Boy; but it is quite evident his mother doesn’t wish me to interfere with him, so I’m better out of the way. And the long and the short of it is, Dick, I’ll do just what you wish me to do!”

  “Hooray, hooray!” cried the major, ecstatically. “Oh, Letty, Letty, what a wife you would have made. And it’s not too late even now. Won’t you have me? We’re too old to play Romeo and Juliet, but we can play Darby and Joan!”

  In his excitement, Desmond had risen, and, leaning behind Miss Letty’s chair, had slipped an arm round her, and now with one hand he turned up the dear face, so delicate, so little wrinkled, so tenderly shaped by approving Time into the sweetest of sweet expressions. The faintest pink coloured the pale cheeks at this impulsive caress of her old and faithful adorer.

  “Dick, if I did not believe, as I do, that God always brings true lovers together again after death, I should say ‘Yes’ to you, and do my best, old woman as I am, to be a companion to you for the rest of your life, and make your home cosy and comfortable; but you see I gave my promise to Harry before he went to India that I would never marry anyone but himself. He died true — and so must I!”

  Never was the poor major more bitterly and sorely tempted than at that moment. With all his heart he longed to tell the trusting, gentle creature how utterly unworthy this same “Harry” had always been of such pure devotion; he wanted to say that the person likely to “die true” was himself, and that the dead man she idolized did not merit a day’s regret; but the strong sense of honour in the gallant old man held him silent, though he bit his lips hard to check the outburst of truth which threatened to rise and overcome his self-control. If he told her all, he would be doing two things that were in his estimation villanous, — first, he would be taking away a dead man’s character; and, secondly, he would be destroying a good woman’s life-long faith. No, — it was impossible, — he could not, would not do it. He gave a deep sigh, then patted Miss Letty’s white forehead gently and smoothed the silver hair.

  “Have your own way, my dear!” he said, resignedly, “have your own way! I ought to be contented to have you as my friend, without hankering after you as a wife. I am a selfish old rascal, — that’s what’s the matter with me. Forget and forgive!”

  “There’s nothing to either forget or forgive, Dick,” she said quickly, and with a sense of compunction, giving him her hand, which he kissed tenderly though “Harry’s” engagement-ring still sparkled on it, “I don’t deserve all your affection; but I don’t mind telling you I should be very much unhappier than I am, without it!”

  “Well, that’s something!” said the major, beginning to smile again, and walking up and down the room. “That’s what we may call a bit of heart’s-ease. And now, if you are going to do exactly what I want you to do, I suggest that you should take a pretty house on Long Island, — one of those charming and luxurious villas with big gardens, where you can roam about and enjoy yourself, — and let me cross the herring-pond for you and see to the letting of your place in England. You can do something advantageous with it for a year or two, and till that time you might tour through America and see everything worth seeing. And when I have transacted your business I will attend to my own, come out here again, and enjoy myself, too!”

  And so, after more discussion, it was finally decided, and so, much to the pleasure of Miss Letty’s numerous friends in America, it was finally arranged. And “our English Miss Letty” established herself in a beautiful house elegantly furnished, whose windows commanded a fine view of the sea, and which was surrounded by gardens full of wonderful flowers, such as are never seen in England, and a conservatory still more gorgeously supplied; and though she missed the songs of the sweet English birds, the skylark, the blackbird, the thrush, and the familiar robin, she still had sufficient natural beauty about her to be in her own quiet way thankful for life a
nd its privileges. She began to have serious thoughts of making her home for good in America, for Violet gathered about her such an assemblage of bright young people, and she herself was so much in demand, that she often wondered how it would ever be possible for her to escape from so many pleasant ties and go back to England again. She had written to Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, giving her address and stating something of her future intentions, but had received no reply. And Boy never wrote to her at all. But she was not very much surprised at that, as it was most likely his mother would not tell him where she was. And so time flew on insensibly, one year after another, and Violet Morrison, from a little girl, grew up into a pretty maiden of seventeen summers, — graceful and gentle, clever, good, true, and devoted to Miss Letty, who loved her as a daughter, though her old affection for Boy never grew cold. Boy as she knew him, — Boy with all his little droll, pretty ways as a child, — Boy with his sad, wistful old-fashioned manner, the result of home drawbacks, when he came to see her in Scotland, after which she had lost him for good, — Boy was still the secret idol of her heart next to “Harry,” whose image remained the centre of that inmost shrine. She could not picture Boy at all as a lad of fifteen, — to her he was always a child; and on a little bracket, near the chair where she was accustomed to sit every day with her needle-work, there always stood the only two mementoes she had of him, — the toy cow “Dunny,” unchanged in aspect, which he had viewed with such indifference in Scotland, and had left behind him there, and the little pair of shabby shoes, the souvenirs of the first time he ever stayed with her.

  One day Violet Morrison asked her uncle about these mysterious relics.

  “Why does Miss Letty keep that funny cow and those little shoes always beside her?”

  Major Desmond puffed at his cigar, and surveyed his niece’s pretty rounded figure, bright face, and sweet expression with much inward satisfaction. He met her question with another.

  “Have you ever asked her?”

  Violet blushed.

  “No. I don’t think it’s good taste to ask people about their little fancies. One may hurt them quite unintentionally. And I wouldn’t hurt darling Miss Letty for the world!”

  “That’s right, child!” said the major; “you have the true feeling. But there is not much mystery about that toy cow or those shoes. Miss Letty, bless her heart, has no deep secrets in her life. The cow and the shoes belonged to a little chap named Robert D’Arcy-Muir, but generally called ‘Boy.’ She loved him very much and wanted to adopt him; but his mother would not let her, — and so — and so — she has got the cow and the shoes, and that’s all that’s left of him!”

  “I see,” murmured Violet, and her pretty eyes grew moist. After a pause she said, “I suppose she could not love me as she loved Boy?”

  “She loves you very much,” answered the major, discreetly.

  “Yes, but not as she loved Boy. I was never quite a little child with her. I think,” and the girl’s fair face grew very serious, “if you once love a little child, you must always love it.”

  “What, even if the child disappears altogether into a boy, and then into a man, and perhaps an unpleasant man?” queried the major, with some amusement. But Violet did not smile.

  “Yes, I think so,” she replied. “You see, you can never forget — if you ever knew — that though he may be grown into a man — perhaps a bad man — still he was a dear little child once. That’s what makes mothers so patient, I’m sure!”

  She turned away, not trusting herself to say any more, for she had loved her own mother dearly, and had never quite got over her loss.

  The major took his cigar out of his mouth and looked at its end meditatively.

  “How these young creatures think nowadays!” he said. “Dear me! I never used to think about anything when I was Violet’s age. Life was all beer and skittles, as they say. I kicked about me like a young colt in a green pasture. Upon my word, I think that life is much too crowded with learning for the young folks in our present glorious age of progress. They become positively metaphysical before they’re twenty.”

  Meanwhile, Violet, whose heart was burdened with a secret which she was afraid to tell to her uncle, went in search of Miss Letty. It was a very warm day, though not as warm as summer days in America usually are, and the shadiest part of the house was the deep verandah, where clematis and the trumpet-vine clustered together round the light wooden pillars and made tempting festoons of blossom for the humming-birds, which, like living jewels, poised and flew, and thrust their long slender beaks into the deep cups of the flowers, with an incessant, soft, beelike murmur of delight. Violet, in her simple white gown, tied at the waist with a knot of ribbon, paused and shaded her eyes from the burning sunlight, while she looked right and left to see if Miss Letty were anywhere near. Yes, there she was, sitting just inside the verandah in a low basket-chair, protected by a pretty striped awning, busy as usual with the embroidery at which she was such a skilled adept, her white fingers moving swiftly, and her whole attitude and expression one of the greatest simplicity and content.

  “How peaceful she looks,” thought Violet, with a little nervous tremour. “I wonder if she will be vexed with me.”

  Miss Letty at that moment raised her eyes to watch the dainty caperings of two of the hummingbirds, whose exquisite blue wings glittered like large animated sapphires, and in so doing saw Violet, and smiled. The girl approached quickly, and threw herself down beside her, taking her hat off, and lifting her bright hair from her forehead with a little sigh.

  “Are you tired, my dear?” asked Miss Letty, gently.

  “Yes, I think I am. It is warm, isn’t it! Oh, dear, Miss Letty, you do look so sweet! Were you always as good as you are now?”

  Miss Letty laid down her embroidery and smiled at this question.

  “Good? My dear child, I’m not good. I am just as I always was, — a woman, — getting to be a very old one now, — full of faults and failings. What makes you ask me such a funny question?”

  “I don’t know,” and Violet bit the ribbon of her hat spasmodically. “My own Miss Letty, were you ever in love?”

  The gentle lady started, and her delicate hands trembled as she quietly took up her work and resumed her stitching.

  “Yes, Violet,” she answered, softly, “and, what you will say is more extraordinary, I am in love still!”

  “He is dead?” queried Violet, timidly.

  “Yes. He is dead, so far as this world goes; but he is alive for me in heaven. And I shall meet him — soon!”

  She raised her patient, sweet eyes for a moment, — and their expression was so heavenly, — the youth and beauty of the past were so earnestly reflected in their clear depths, that Violet almost forgot it was an old face in which those orbs of constancy were set.

  “Is that why you never married?” asked Violet, in hushed, tender tones.

  “Yes, my dear. That is why. For I am an old-fashioned body, and I believe in the maxim, ‘Once love, love always’!”

  “Ah, yes!”

  Violet turned her head away and was silent for a long time. Miss Letty, still working, glanced at her now and then with a smile, till at last she said in sweet, equable tones, —

  “Well! How long am I to wait for this little confession? Who is he?”

  A face was turned upon her, rosy as the leaves of the trumpet-vine flowers above, — a pair of bright eyes flashed like the twinkle of the humming-bird’s wings, and a muffled voice exclaimed, —

  “Miss Letty!”

  In another moment the girl was at her feet, hiding her head in the folds of her old friend’s gown, and making dreadful havoc with the silks and filoselles which were in use for the embroidery.

  “Mind! There are needles about!” said Miss Letty, laughing a little. “They will scratch your pretty face, — dear me! — you’re catching all the silks in your hair,” and she carefully took out threads of blue and red and gold from the bright, rippling curls of the bent head at her knee. “Now, what’s
the matter?”

  “Nothing is the matter,” answered Violet, still hiding her eyes, though she got hold of Miss Letty’s two hands and held them fast. “It’s only that last night — he said — he said—”

  “That he loved you?” said Miss Letty, tenderly, trying to help her out, and stroking her hair. “Well, that’s very natural on the part of any young man, I’m sure. But who is he?”

  Violet perked her head up for a minute, and then burrowed it down again.

  “Ah! That’s just it!” she said, in smothered accents. “He is not exactly young.”

  “Oh, dear me! Is he old?”

  “Oh, no!” This answer was most emphatic. “But he isn’t a boy, you know. He is — well — I suppose he is about thirty-five.”