Delphi collected works o.., p.452
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 452
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
“BOY.
“I have brought this letter myself, but I do not come in as I could not bear to see your kind face just now.”
He put this epistle in with the bank-notes and sealed the envelope; then, anxious to be rid of the now hateful money and put temptation from him away as far as possible, he took a hansom and drove to Hans Place. The servant who opened the door looked pale and flurried, and her eyes were red, as if she had been crying.
“Give this to Miss Leslie, please,” he said, holding out the packel.
“Miss Leslie is very ill, sir,” said the girl. “I do not think she will be able to read any letters to-day.”
Boy’s heart almost stood still.
“Very ill? Since when?”
“Since this morning, sir. She was taken quite sudden-like.”
Boy uttered a little cry. His fault! his fault! If his old friend died, it would be his fault!
“Give her that,” he repeated, sternly, between his set teeth. “If she is not able to receive it, give it to Major Desmond. He will understand. And when Miss Letty gets better, if she can hear a message, will you say that Boy left his love?”
The servant stared at the pale, eager young face and the pained, sorrowful eyes.
“‘Boy left his love,’” she repeated. “Oh, well, sir, wouldn’t you like to come in a minute, sir?”
“No!” said Boy, almost fiercely; “I’m not fit to come in! I am a thief and a scoundrel. But all the same — say to her that Boy left his love!”
He rushed away, leaving the servant panic-stricken, gazing after him with the sealed packet for Miss Letty in her hands.
Hurrying back again to his lodgings, with grief and fury raging in his soul, Boy sat down for a moment to think. The force of his trouble and the mental victory he had gained over himself in the restoration of Miss Letty’s money had cleared his brain, and he was able to consider his position more calmly than he had considered it before. A sense of freedom came over him. He had shaken himself out of a net of crime before it was too late, and it was the beautiful, merciful, angelic spirit of his childhood’s friend, Miss Letty, that had saved him! When she had the power to ruin him she had rescued him, and for this he resolved to prove himself worthy of her clemency! After a little meditation he wrote a long letter of explanation to Major Desmond, telling him the whole history of his adventure at the theatre and his visit to the house of the “Marquis” de Gramont, and begging him to say the best he could for him to Miss Letty.
“Tell her,” he wrote, “that the horror she has saved me from, shall bring out whatever good stuff there is in me, if any. Please do not come to see me, for I could not bear it. And do not send me any money, because I could not bear that either. If you will just let me have a wire saying how dear Miss Letty is sometime to-morrow, that is all I ask of you. And after that, both of you forget me till you hear of me again.
“Yours, “‘BOY.’
“R. D’ARCY-MUIR.”
This done, he wrote a note to the “Marquis” de Gramont, who had carefully reminded him of his address that very morning. The note was as follows:
“SIR: — I have placed my affair with you in the hands of my old friend, Major Desmond, who will enquire into the exact justice of my debts of honour.
“Yours faithfully,
“R. D’ARCY-MUIR.”
Full of nervous hurry and excitement, he posted these letters, and could hardly sleep all night for wondering what the answers would be. The next day brought him first of all a wire.
“Keep up your courage. Miss Letty much better.
“DESMOND.”
Later on came a letter.
“DEAR BOY: —
Yours is a sad and very common story, and this isn’t the time for reproaches. Miss Letty, who is an angel, never told me what had happened, and I shall never mention to her how you were trapped into De Gramont’s little den. Don’t trouble yourself about this ‘marquis;’ he is no more a marquis than I am, and he is particularly wanted to attend a little party given by the police. You will hear no more of your ‘honourable’ debts in that quarter. I wish you would be reasonable and let me come and see you. A little talk would do us both good, and I might be able to help you out of present difficulties. Keep on the square and everything will come right.
“Yours heartily,
“ DESMOND.”
Boy gave a great sigh of relief. Miss Letty was better — thank God! The money was restored, — and the spectre of the “Marquis” de Gramont was dwindling and dissolving gradually into thin air like a black dream following on a bad digestion. And now — what should he do? One step more, and all was plain sailing. He made that step by writing to his employer and setting himself free of his daily business as a clerk. Then, without pausing to think any more about it, he walked rapidly down to a certain office in a certain quarter, where there were certain showy bills put up outside, the chief lettering on which seemed to be “Her Majesty” in very large capitals. There, stepping in, he addressed himself at once to a neat and well-setup man, in smart uniform, who was at that moment taking his “rest” in rather a novel way by standing very bolt upright against a wall and smoking.
“Are you the recruiting sergeant?” said Boy.
“I am, young feller. What can I do for you?”
“Oh, nothing in particular,” said Boy, shyly, with a sudden smile which made his face very captivating. “I want to enlist, that’s all!”
The sergeant looked him up and down.
“H’m! You’re a gentleman, aren’t you?”
“Well, I’m not so sure of that,” said Boy, with a forced laugh. “I’ll try to be one when I’m a soldier.”
Upon which the sergeant gave him such a heavy blow of approval on his shoulder that he almost fell down under it.
“I like that!” he said. “That’ll do for me! Sound in wind and limb, aren’t you?”
“I think so.” And Boy, warmed and encouraged at heart by the kindly twinkle of the sergeant’s keen eyes, began to feel almost happy.
“Right you are! Come along, then! Here’s your shilling,” and he pressed that silver coin, which Boy at the moment desired more than a nugget of gold, into the young man’s hand. “Done! Come along — name, age, and all the etceteras — and then a drink — and God save the Queen!”
“Amen!” said Boy, as he followed his new commander.
CHAPTER XII.
Two years had fully elapsed since the incidents narrated in the last chapters, and Miss Letty, in spite of the doctor’s ominous predictions, was still alive, and, as she expressed it, “in fairly good health for a woman of her age.” Major Desmond, however, was a prey to constant alarms, and, in spite of gout and rheumatism, which nowadays afflicted him, used to visit her constantly, being always more or less in terror lest she should be snatched away suddenly from him and no time for a last “Goodbye.” And Miss Letty, with her always swift perception, saw his anxiety, and considered him very tenderly, — for he, though he did not seem to recognize it, was also suffering from the inevitable aches and pains of age, though he held himself as bravely as ever. He wasn’t going to stoop and crawl about with a stick, — no, not he! And he bravely demonstrated his force of will by walking from his club in Piccadilly to Hans Place whenever his gouty foot was causing him the most acute suffering. Other men in his plight would have taken a cab, or at least availed themselves of a crutch, but he did neither. And there was so much practical good sense in the resistance he offered to the attempted siege of illness, that he cured himself of threatened attack many a time and saved the doctor’s bill.
Both he and Miss Letty had lost sight of Boy. Since the morning on which he had restored the bank-notes, and had, as he said, “left his love,” he had disappeared mysteriously and unaccountably. The major had inquired in vain for him at his old lodgings, and finally, in desperation, had essayed the disagreeable task of interviewing his parents on the subject of his whereabouts. But he could get no news from them. The “Honourable” Jim, bolstered up in his chair, with drawn countenance and hollow eyes, was scarcely recognisable, save when his son’s name was mentioned, and then he straightway woke up from his semilethargy to swear. The major was therefore reduced to the necessity of endeavouring to get what information he could out of Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, who, breathing hard and heavily, like a porpoise, wept profusely at his first question, and allowed her tears to trickle down and mix with the various food stains on the dirty front of the ample dressing gown in which she now enveloped her elephantine proportions.
“Oh, don’t talk to me about Boy!” she said. “Think of my sufferings as a mother! The disappointment I have had to endure is too terrible for words! The sacrifices I have made for him! The trouble I have had!”
“What trouble?” demanded the major, sharply. “You have done about as little for him as anyone could, I fancy.”
Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir stopped producing her tears, and stared at him with the air of an injured Roman matron.
“Little!” she echoed. “I have done everything for him — everything! Through my efforts, when his father grudged me any money for his education, he went to school in France—”
“And he’d better have stayed at home,” interpolated the major.
“Then I never rested day or night till I could get him to college; and then — and then—”
“Then he was ‘crammed,’ and forgot that he was anything but a machine to take in facts and grind them to powder, and then he went to Sandhurst, and then he got expelled for being drunk, having seen his father drunk before him all his life. Yes, ma’am, we know all that. But what I’m asking you now is, what’s become of him?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, beginning to be snappish. “I have not seen or heard anything of him for ages. He has deserted his mother! He is ungrateful, unnatural, and cruel! Sometimes I think he cannot be my son. I’m sure” — here she put her handkerchief to her eyes—” the stories one hears of changelings might really be true, for Boy was never the same to me after he had stayed with Miss Letty.”
As she spoke she almost screamed, for the major, with one big stride, came close up to her and glared down upon her like a figure of fury.
“Why — why, you miserable woman!” he suddenly burst out. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You dare to hint anything against one of the finest creatures God ever made, and the best friend your son ever had, and I’ll — I’ll shake you! I will! If that wretched creature inside, Jim, whom I used to know when he was younger, had shaken you long ago it would have done you and him a world of good! You don’t know any news of Boy, don’t you? Well, I do. I know this much, that if Miss Letty had been a woman like you, that unfortunate young fellow you have brought into the world would be serving his time in prison for — well, never mind for what. But, with all his faults and follies, he is better than his mother. If I had my way, his mother should hear a thing or two. Yes, ma’am, you may stare at me as much as ever you like — I’ve often wanted to speak my mind to you, and now I’ve done it. You were never fit to have a son. You never knew what to do with him when you got him. Your carelessness, your selfishness, your slovenliness, your downright d — d idleness, are at the bottom of a good deal of the mischief he stumbled into. There, ma’am! I’ve said what I think, and I feel better for it. Good-morning.”
And before Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir could say another word he abruptly left her, and she heard the street-door shut after him with a loud bang. Her husband yelled to her from the adjoining room, —
“What’s that?”
She went to him, her heavy tread shaking the flooring as she moved.
“It’s that horrible old Major Desmond just gone,” she said, viciously. “He has been most insulting! He actually says I am to blame for Boy’s turning out so badly!”
The Honourable Jim began to laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh, and the nature of his illness did not conduce to agreeable facial expression. But what latent sense of humour remained in him was decidedly awakened by his wife’s indignation.
“You’re to blame, eh! He said that? Well, he’s right — so you are! So you are!”
“Jim!”
And over her fat cheeks her little eyes peered at him with a look of amazement and wrath.
“I mean it,” he persisted, thickly, trying to twist his poor paralysed tongue to distinct utterance. “You haven’t been fair with me or Boy,” and he began to whimper feebly. “The house has always been at sixes and sevens; never knew when one was going to have one’s bit or drop; no one in their senses would ever have called it a home — and you never tried to do me any good. If you had, I might not be lying here now. Desmond’s right enough. Old Dick Desmond was always a good sort of thoroughgoing chap. He knows what’s what. He’s right — it is your fault. God knows it is!”
His head fell back wearily on his pillow, and his lack-lustre eyes rolled restlessly in his head, as if in search for something unattainable. There was something really pitiable in the wretched man’s helplessness and in the neglected state of his room, where medicine-bottles, cups, and glasses were littered about in confusion, and where everything showed carelessness and utter disregard of the commonest cleanliness and comfort. But no touch of compunction moved his wife to any consciousness of regret or compassion. On the contrary, she assumed an almost sublime air of majestic tolerance and injured innocence.
“Oh, of course!” she said, resignedly, “of course it’s my fault! I ought to have known you would say that. It’s the way of a man. He always blames the woman who has been good to him — who has waited upon him hand and foot — who has worked for him night and day — who has” — here she began to grow hysterical—” who has loved him — who has been the mother of his son — who has sacrificed herself entirely to her home! Yes, it is always the way — nothing but ingratitude! But you are ill, and I will not blame you. Oh, no, Jim, I’ll not blame you, poor man! You will be sorry — sorry for being so cruel to your poor, good wife, who has been so kind to you.”
With a sort of fat, chuckling sob the estimable woman retired — not to weep, oh, no! but merely to eat some eggs and macaroni, a dish to which she was particularly partial, and which had consoled her often before for the wrongs inflicted on her as the chief martyr of her sex.
And the major returned to Miss Letty with the account of his embassy, whereat the gentle soul laughed, though there was a little sadness in her laughter. All her old affection for Boy as a child had come back in full force for Boy as a young man, now that she knew all the story of his griefs and temptations. For after the affair of the banknotes the major had judged it best to tell her of the lad’s expulsion from Sandhurst, and when she knew everything, her pity and tenderness for him knew no bounds. Her whole heart went out to him, and she had but one wish — to see him again and lay her hands in a farewell blessing on his head. “Just once before I die,” she thought, for she knew in her own self that death could not be far off—” just to kiss him and say I understand how he was tempted, poor fellow, and how heartily I forgive him and pray for him.”
The major knew of this secret longing of hers, though she seldom spoke of it, and it was in his great desire to gratify her that he sought everywhere for some clue to Boy’s whereabouts, but in vain. A police raid on the “Marquis” de Gramont’s gambling-den had effectually cleared that rats’ nest out of London, so there were no difficulties left there by means of which Boy might have been traceable. Anxious and disturbed in mind, the good major rambled up and down the Strand, and all the bye-streets appertaining thereto, under the vague impression that he should perhaps find Boy reduced to selling matches or boot-laces at a corner, or coming out of a cheap eating-house, “ for,” said the major feelingly, “he will have to get a dinner somehow or somewhere. One of the chief disadvantages of life on this earth is that none of us can do without feeding. If a world were invented where the creatures in it could exist simply by breathing in the air and drinking in the light, it would be perfection — there would be no cause for quarrelling, strife, or envyings of one another, though I expect some of the fashionable ladies would even then keep things pretty lively by quarrelling over their lovers and their gowns.”
Violet Morrison was away from London just at this time. Her course of study in surgical nursing, followed with the most intense and painstaking care, had made her an invaluable assistant to two or three of the greatest surgeons in London, and “Nurse Morrison,” as she was called, was always in demand. She was no fancy follower of her profession. She had not taken it up for the express purpose of flirting with the doctors, and inveigling one of them into marrying her. She had, however, grown into a very beautiful woman, and many a clever and brilliant “rising man” cast longing eyes of admiration at her fair face and graceful form as she moved with noiseless step and soft, pitying eyes through a hospital ward, soothing pain by her touch and inspiring courage by her smile. But she set herself steadfastly against every hint of love or marriage, and never swerved for an hour or a moment from the lines of work and duty she had elected to walk in. Her only personal anxiety was for Miss Letty, and willingly would she have stayed with her beloved old friend, had not Miss Letty herself refused to be “coddled,” as she expressed it.
“If you don’t go and do your work, child, I shall fancy I am in immediate danger,” she said, with a smile, “and I shall die right off before you have time to look round. Go where your duty calls you, — I shall ever be so much better and happier for knowing that you are where you ought to be.”
