Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  His first thought when he stood in the open street again was suicide, — his next, Miss Letty. He walked along swiftly, scarcely heeding where he went, his head burning, his heart throbbing, his whole being possessed by the exceeding wrong done to him by Fate in endowing him with the mere fact of life. He was unconscious of making any protest, yet a protest there was in his own soul which would not and could not have found its way into words, because he did not himself recognize the nature of it. God alone was able to read that protest and understand it, — the terrible indictment brought against those who had been given this young life to guard and train to noblest results, — an indictment involuntarily and invisibly set before a cloud of witnesses every day by young men and women who owe their mistakes and miseries to the blind tyranny and selfishness of the parents who brought them into existence. If Boy had made an end of his troubles then and there, he would not, strictly speaking, have murdered himself so much as his parents would have murdered him. From the earliest beginnings of childhood all the seeds of his present misery had been sown, — by neglect, by carelessness, by bad example, by uncomfortable home surroundings, by domestic quarrellings, by the want of all the grace, repose, freedom, courtesy, kindliness, and sympathy which should give every man’s house the hall-mark of Home. His childhood had been sad and solitary, his boyhood embittered by disappointment, followed by the excessive strain of competitive cram which had tired and tortured every little cell in his brain to utter exhaustion, — he was old before he had had time to be young. Miss Letty! The thought of her just now in all his wretchedness brought a sudden mist of tears to his eyes. He had forgotten her so long — so long! And when he had seen her last he had scarcely been conscious of her, because so stupefied by the weight of the things he had to remember for his exam. She had seemed a dream to him, and so had the major. Now, when the mass of undigested learning had all rolled off and been absolutely forgotten, as though it had never been learned, the remembrance of her love for him as a child came freshly back like a breath from the sea or the perfume of flowers. He slackened his hurried pace and grew calmer. The stars were shining brightly above his head, though London was enswathed in a kind of low fog which crept dismally up from the ground to the tops of the ugly brick houses, and there hung like a veil; beyond this, the deep heavens arched high and clear, and Venus shone steadfastly, like a lamp to guide lost travellers on their way.

  “I will try Miss Letty,” he said to himself. “I won’t tell her just yet how I have been caught in a gambler’s snare. I will just simply ask her if she will lend me a little money. Then if she says ‘Yes,’ I will go to her and explain. I don’t think she will refuse.”

  He carried this plan into action the next day, and wrote to his old friend as follows:

  “DEAR MISS LETTY: — I am afraid you will have thought me very careless in not writing to you all these years, and very selfish now to write when I have only a favour to ask of you, but I hope you will not mind, and try still to keep as good an opinion of me as you can. I have got into rather a difficulty, and am in urgent need of a little money. Can you lend me some? I do not know when I shall be able to pay you back, but I do not think you will be a very hard creditor to

  “Yours affectionately,

  “BOY.”

  He posted this in the morning about ten o’clock. At eight the same evening he got his answer, enclosing a cheque for fifty pounds and the following letter:

  “MY DEAR BOY: —

  I am so very glad to hear from you again. Please accept the enclosed as a little present, and change it at my bank, and if you like to come and talk over any of your difficulties with me I shall be only too happy to help you. I am nearly always to be found at home, as I am rather an invalid.

  “Your old friend

  “LETITIA LESLIE.”

  The letter dropped from his hand, and he looked at the cheque with a kind of despair. Fifty pounds! In his extremity it was useless. How foolish he had been not to ask Miss Letty for the whole sum at once! He took up the letter and read it again; again and again he looked at the cheque.

  “Had I better go and see her?” he meditated. “But if I do I shall have to tell her all about the row at Sandhurst, and now this gambling business, and she will think me a regular villain. She must be quite an old lady now, and I should worry her to death. She would be so disappointed in He looked at the cheque again, — and then — like a black cloud crossing the horizon — a Thought began to creep over his mind, darkening it steadily into gloom. He sat quiet, fingering the cheque and Miss Letty’s letter together, his face growing paler and paler, his eyes harder and colder, his form rigid.

  “People should always write the amount they are drawing in plain letters on their cheques,” he half whispered with dry lips “Miss Letty should have written the word ‘fifty,’ not the figure ‘50.’”

  He put away letter and cheque and went to bed early, — not to sleep, but to toss about restlessly all night long. What a horrible time he passed! what fretting dreams tortured him! what strange and evil faces haunted him, chief among which were those of the “Marquis” de Gramont and his fascinating daughter Lenore, and the smooth, cold, handsome face of the officer who had first tempted him to drink at Sandhurst. Of his mother and father he never thought; they had never shown him the slightest sympathy. Once during this wretched night of fleeting visions he saw the bent, crooked figure and wrinkled countenance of the old sailor, “Rattling Jack,” whose last words had been, “I’ll just think o’ ye as if ye were dead.” Death was better than disgrace, — and yet — Miss Letty was so good a woman — she had loved him so much — she would be sure to forgive him — if —

  With the daylight he rose and sat at his writing-table, vaguely turning over bits of paper and scribbling figures on them without any apparent intention; then, after a hurried breakfast, he went out. At about half-past ten he made his way to Miss Letty’s bank, and drawing her cheque out of his pocket passed it across the counter. The cashier glanced at it with a little uplifting of his eyebrows.

  “All in notes, or would you like any gold?” he demanded.

  Boy was staring fixedly in front of him and did not hear. The cashier was busy, and spoke again impatiently and with a suspicious glance.

  “Notes or gold? Will you have all notes or any gold?”

  “Notes, please,” answered Boy, in a low voice.

  The cashier turned over the cheque.

  “You have forgotten to endorse it,” he said, passing it back and handing him a pen ready dipped in ink.

  Boy took the pen, but his hand shook. Again the cashier looked at him suspiciously. When he had endorsed the cheque the cashier vanished into the manager’s room and was absent some minutes. Then he came back and said, with great civility, —

  “Would you kindly call back in an hour? There is a little formality to go through with before paying out so large an amount from Miss Leslie’s current account—”

  “Is there?” stammered Boy, turning deathly white.

  “Oh, only a mere matter of form,” said the cashier, watching him narrowly, “and our manager is rather busy just now. If you will call back at twelve he will explain everything to you and hand you over the money.”

  Boy bent his head mechanically and went out, sick with terror. Meanwhile, one of the bank’s confidential clerks, acting on instructions received, went out of the building by a side door, and jumping into a hansom was driven straight to Miss Betty’s house. Could he see Miss Leslie? The servant who opened the door was not quite sure, — Miss Leslie was not very well.

  “Please say to her that the business is urgent, and that I come from the bank,” said the clerk.

  Upon this the servant showed him into the hall, where he waited for a few minutes impatiently.

  Then he was shown into Miss Letty’s morning room, where, near a sparkling fire, and surrounded by many flowers, sat Miss Letty herself, a picture of fair and tranquil old age, quietly knitting.

  “Excuse me troubli
ng you, madam,” began the clerk, stumbling awkwardly into the dainty little sanctum, and standing abashed in the presence of this gracious, sweet old lady, who, as he afterwards said when speaking of her, looked like a queen.

  “Pray do not mention it, sir,” said Miss Letty, with her old-fashioned courtesy. “I am quite ready to attend business at any time. Excuse me rising to receive you, — I am not very strong today.”

  The clerk hesitated.

  “Our cashier was not quite certain about this cheque,” he at last went on. “As it is not usual for you to draw such a large sum at once out of your current account, we thought it might be as well to make an enquiry before paying it —— —”

  He paused, alarmed at the white face Miss Letty turned upon him.

  “What cheque are you speaking of?” she asked. “For a large sum? Pray, let me see it.”

  He took out his pocket-book and handed her the cheque, — carefully folded in two, — then awaited her response. With trembling fingers she opened it and read, “Pay to Robert D’Arcy-Muir the sum of £500.”

  A dark mist swam before her eyes; she turned faint and giddy; the room whirled round her in a circle of firelight and flowers, with the conventional figure of the bank clerk standing out angularly in the centre; then, with a strong mental effort, she recovered herself and quietly re-folded the cheque.

  “Yes,” she said, faintly; then, clearing her voice, she forced herself to speak more distinctly and to smile, “ yes, it is quite right — quite — correct!”

  And she rose from her chair, her soft grey cashmeres falling about her, and the old lace kerchief knotted on her bosom, heaving a little with her quickened breath. “It is quite correct,” she went on. “The young man — Mr. D’Arcy-Muir — presented it himself, no doubt?”

  “Yes, madam,” said the clerk, humbly, “he did, but — we thought it best to ask. Very sorry, I am sure, to have had any doubt! But you see the last ‘ nought’ is not precisely in your usual way of finishing a figure, and — er — the sum being large—”

  “Yes, yes, I see,” said Miss Letty, bravely smiling. “My writing is not so good as it was, — I am getting old. Thank you for your trouble in coming, and thank the manager, please. Tell him it is quite correct!”

  She gave him back the cheque, and he accepted it with a bow.

  “Sorry to have troubled you, madam, I am sure.”

  “Not at all,” said Miss Letty, “ not at all. Good-morning!”

  “Good-morning, madam!”

  He left her, and she stood like a creature turned into stone.

  “Boy! Oh, Boy!” The name escaped her lips in a half-whisper.

  She looked around her; her eyes were dim, and she was still troubled by a sickening giddiness. She moved to her chair, and laid one hand on the arm of it to steady herself.

  “You should have died when you were a child, poor Boy!” she said, still whisperingly. “Poor little Boy! You should have died when you were a child!”

  Still she stood rigid and tearless, unconscious of all around her, her blue eyes fixed on vacancy. The door opened — she did not hear it. Violet Morrison, very fair to see in the neat grey gown and spotless white cap of her calling, entered — she did not notice her.

  “Miss Letty!”

  She started a little, turned her head, and strove to smile and speak, but could not. Violet, alarmed, sprang to her side.

  “Darling Miss Letty! What has happened? — What is the matter?”

  A deep sigh broke from Miss Letty’s lips. She trembled a little.

  “Nothing, dear, — nothing! — I was only just thinking — of Boy!”

  “Were you?” And Violet’s face grew more serious. Something was surely wrong with Miss Letty! — she had not mentioned Boy for years. “What made you think of him just now, dearest?”

  And she slipped her strong young arm about the old lady’s trembling figure.

  “A little circumstance reminded me,” replied Miss Letty, dreamily, “of the days when he was a child. Do you see up there, Violet?” — and she pointed to a small shelf above the mantelpiece, “ those quaint little shoes? He used to wear them — and rub them out at the toes; you will notice they are quite worn. And that toy there — that cow; it moves its head; he used to call it ‘Dunny,’ and he loved it so much that he took it everywhere about with him. Such a funny little fellow! — such a dear, innocent little man! — such an innocent, sweet little man!”

  The last words were almost inaudible, for as she spoke them her face suddenly changed and grew ashen grey; she reeled and would have fallen, had not Violet caught her just in time and laid her gently back in her arm-chair in a dead faint. The house was soon in confusion; one servant flew for the doctor, another for Major Desmond, who arrived on the scene just as his old friend was beginning to recover consciousness under the careful tending of Violet, whose trained medical knowledge now stood her in good stead.

  “What has upset her like this?” he asked, his kind face growing drawn and haggard as he saw the deathlike pallor of his beloved Letty’s features. “How did it happen?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Violet, in a low tone. “I found her standing by her chair and talking to herself about Boy!”

  The doctor soon came, and after careful examination pronounced it to be shock.

  “A nervous shock,” he said, cheerfully. “She’ll get all right presently — won’t you?” And he patted his patient’s pretty old hand soothingly. “You’ll get all right presently.”

  Miss Letty looked round upon them all with her sweetly patient air and smiled.

  “Oh, yes! I shall soon be quite well. You must not worry about me.”

  “But what’s the matter, Letty?” asked the major, tenderly bending over her chair, “ What is troubling you?”

  “Nothing, Dick. It was only a little faintness. I am almost well now — almost well! — only weak — very weak—”

  She closed her eyes and lay back again in her chair, while Violet still bathed her forehead and chafed her hands. She was reviving gradually, and after a few minutes the doctor took his leave. Out in the hall, however, he beckoned mysteriously to Major Desmond.

  “She may last a couple of years or so longer,” he said, “but she will require the greatest care; it is the beginning of the end.”

  And with a hurried bow, after these ominous words, he got into his brougham and was driven away. Major Desmond stood where the doctor had left him, stupefied.

  “The beginning of the end!” Letty! He shuddered. Letty had got her deathblow! She was going away to be an angel with Harry Raikes, and sit on a golden throne —

  “No! By G — ! She shan’t!” said the major, desperately. “If she goes, I’ll go with her!”

  Meanwhile the confidential clerk from the bank, whose visit was the unguessed cause of all this trouble, went back to his chief and reported the result of his mission.

  “Well, I’m glad it’s all right,” said the manager, after hearing him out. “I confess I had my suspicions, for Miss Leslie has never drawn five hundred all at once from her current account before. I am sorry I doubted the young man. Tell the cashier to attend to him at once when he calls.”

  At the appointed hour Boy came into the bank, walking slowly and feebly and looking very ill. The cashier greeted him smilingly and with effusive civility.

  “Just ready, sir!” and he began counting out crisp bank-notes rapidly.

  Boy leaned on the counter, looking at him.

  I thought you said there was some formality?” he began.

  “Quite right, sir! Yes, so there was, but we hurried the matter by sending the cheque to Miss Leslie and asking her if it was all right—”

  Boy took a deep, sharp breath.

  “And she — ?” he began.

  “She said it was quite correct. You see we were a little uncertain, — we have to be very cautious in banking matters, — sorry to have caused any de lay, I’m sure. Now let me see, — three hundred — two fifties — fou
r hundred — fifty — twenty-five — another twenty-five. Kindly look through the notes before leaving the counter.”

  Boy did as he was told with shaking fingers. Then he folded them all together and put them in his pocket, and looked at the cashier very strangely indeed.

  “Good-morning,” he said.

  “Good-morning.”

  Boy walked to the heavy swing door and pulled it open, then passed through and was gone, the cashier watching him till he had disappeared.

  “Curious — very curious!” he soliloquised. “That young chap looked as if had got poison instead of bank-notes. I wonder what’s up?” Often did that wonder affect the worthy cashier. The people who came and went in the bank, with money and without it, were strange enough in their various expressions of countenance and mannerisms to provide many a student with subject-matter for thought, — still, it was not often that so young a lad as Boy was seen there with such a whole history of despair and shame written on his face. And that despair and shame had not lightened with his possession of the much-needed and sorely coveted money, — it had, on the contrary, deepened and become far heavier to bear. But he had now made up his mind as to his immediate course of action. He had resolved upon it in the very moment that the cashier had handed him the bank-notes, and he was only anxious to go through with his intention while it was fresh and newly formed in his mind, lest anything should make him hesitate or falter. He went back straight to his lodgings, and there, putting all the bank-notes into one large envelope, wrote the following letter:

  “DEAR GENEROUS MISS LETTY: —

  I don’t know what to say to you for your kindness and your mercy to me, which is so much more than I deserve; but I know what I ought to do, and I am doing it as well as I can. I send you back here all the money I tried to get by the wicked fraud of adding another figure to the one in your cheque, and I hope you will try and forgive me for my attempted and intended theft. I don’t understand how it is you can be so good to me as to shield me in this way, but your great mercy has made me bitterly ashamed of myself, and I do beg your pardon with all my heart. I will try to make amends somehow, so that you shall not hear any bad of me again. God bless you always, dear Miss Letty, for your unexpected and most heavenly kindness to your wretched