CHAPTER XXVIIIN VINO VERITAS
Atthe time of her second marriage, the friendship between the two women was still unimpaired. They had not, of course, seen so much of each other since Lettice had entered that new world into which Alma Buckley refused to intrude, as muchfrom disinclination as from motives of policy. But there had never been a week in which they had not met, at out-of-the way restaurants or in Alma’s flat when they were quite certain of privacy.
The son was now a pretty little fellow of about eight, still living with the same people with whom he had been placed soon after his birth. His mother paid him visits from time to time under an assumed name. The kindly couple who looked after him were childless themselves, and were as fond of him as if they had been his real parents. Naturally they did not fail to realize the situation, but they were not curious people, and they never sought to penetrate the identity of the mother who paid these periodical visits.
Had conditions been normal it is only reasonable to suppose that Mrs. Morrice would have proved a fond and affectionate mother, and her maternal feelings were often called into being by the gay prattle and pretty ways of the charming little fellow who had been born in such tragic circumstances. But she always came away sad from the visits, for they brought the past so vividly before her. What would this innocent child turn out when he grew to manhood? Would he inherit the criminal instincts of his father? Well, although she could never acknowledge him, she would do her duty by him—have him decently educated and when the time came give him a fair start in life.
There could be no doubt that Miss Buckley was very devoted to her friend, and always thinking of how she could best advance her interests; it was one of those strong friendships that are rare amongst men, still rarer amongst women. She had changed her, with advice and stimulating counsel, from a despairing girl ready to sink under the burden of her tragic misfortunes, into a resolute woman who faced the future with some measure of hopefulness.
When she heard of the engagement to Morrice, a culmination far exceeding her most sanguine hopes, her delight was unbounded. And as she was above all things eminently practical, she set herself to take a fresh survey of the situation as regarded her friend. She came to the conclusion that the safest thing for her to do was to cut herself away as far as it was humanly possible from every link with the past. When she became Mrs. Morrice, the wife of the well-known financier, she must run no risks. Those visits to the son of her former husband would be discontinued, it would be best that there should be a complete severance between mother and child.
Mrs. Morrice agreed that it would be the wisest policy, although perhaps her heart smote her just a little at the prospect of never seeing her child again. But how was it to be carried out? Alma was ready with her plans, and the boldness of them almost took away her friend’s breath.
“I will take him myself,” she said, “and pass him off as an orphan, the child of a distant relative. My friends are not a particular lot; they won’t ask too many questions, and they are at liberty to think what they like; if they think the worst it won’t hurt me.”
“But, Alma, surely you don’t want to be bothered with a child? You are the same age as I am; some day you yourself will want to marry.”
Miss Buckley shook her head. “Marriage has no attractions for me, my dear Lettice. It doesn’t suit a professional life. I’ve seen so many failures amongst the people I mix with; and besides, I’ve been my own mistress for so many years I couldn’t take orders from a man now. But I will tell you frankly there are times when I feel my loneliness, with nothing to look after and care for. This little chap would give me a new interest in life, and I’m very fond of children, old maid as I am. He wouldn’t be a burden to me,if I hadn’t a penny with him; but you can make me an allowance, and I’ll put that by to give him a start in life.”
Was there ever such a kind and generous friend? The future Mrs. Morrice thanked her with tears in her eyes.
“And now the best thing for you to do is to wipe the past clean off the slate. For you he has ceased to exist, and I have adopted him; he’ll be happy enough with me, I’ll warrant. And when he grows up I’ll make a decent man of him, I hope, if—if——” She paused out of respect for the feelings of her listener.
That pause was eloquent; it meant he should be made a decent man if the criminal taint in the father should not reappear in the son.
“Of course, I shall never come near you, but there are plenty of quiet places where we can meet now and again to exchange confidences. I shall so love to know how you are getting on in this new sphere—I never dreamed, my dear, you would get such a chance as this. Of course, we are bound to drift apart a bit; you will be taken up with the duties of your altered position, but I know you will let me have a peep at you sometimes, that the wealthy Mrs. Morrice will not forget her humble friend. And just one last word; you must not come to me. The child is young; in a year or two he will forget you. If he meets you by chance in after life he will not recognize the mysterious lady who used to visit him in that little country cottage.”
And so it was arranged in a very short space after the marriage. Little John Graham—for that was the name by which the unfortunate little creature was known, that of Darcy provoking too many painful reminiscences—was transferred from the kindly couple to the care of Alma Buckley, who petted and spoiled him to her heart’s content.
And the years glided by very happily for Mrs. Morrice. Her youth had been hard, her young womanhood overshadowed by poignant tragedy; but she had a happy and facile temperament, and the scars of the past soon healed in this atmosphere of luxury and refinement. The two women saw each other from time to time, for Mrs. Morrice, unlike a great many people who have advanced in the world, did not develop the hateful quality of ingratitude. She felt she owed the woman whose acquaintance she had first made in the little old-world village of Brinkstone, a debt she could never repay. But for her stimulating advice, her staunch friendship, she would never have attained her present enviable position.
And then, a few years before the opening of this story, came the first intimation of the second tragedy that was to wreck this unhappy woman’s life.
She and Alma Buckley had met for lunch one day at an obscure restaurant, far off the beaten track, where they were never likely to meet anybody who would recognize the wealthy and fashionable Mrs. Morrice.
As they were settling themselves for a long chat—for they could not meet very often and they always had plenty to tell each other—after the conclusion of the meal, Alma suddenly exclaimed:
“Oh, Lettice, I had almost forgotten to tell you; such a strange thing happened last night. I was supping with a big party at Daisy Deldine’s—you wouldn’t have heard of her, I daresay, but she’s quite a ‘big pot’ in the music-hall world—and who do you think I met? But, of course, you will never guess. Our old friend George Clayton-Brookes, the second of the three sons. You remember the Brookes family at Brinkstone?”
Of course, Mrs. Morrice remembered them well. Her cheek even now tingled at the recollection of theimpudent conduct of young Archibald, whom her furious father had so soundly thrashed in the bar of the Brinkstone Arms.
“I was sure he remembered me, for he kept eyeing me all the time at the supper-table, where he was seated a few places below. I heard his name, but I think I should have remembered him without, for he has altered wonderfully little, in spite of the fact that he must be getting on. After supper was over I went up to him and took the initiative by asking him after all the good folks at Brinkstone. He was awfully nice and affable; he asked especially after you, but I kept very mum, said I had lost sight of you for years. We got on famously together. It seems he goes about a good deal amongst the profession. He’s coming to lunch at my flat next week. I think he was quite taken with me. Daisy Deldine chaffed me awfully about him after he left.”
The middle-aged woman, who certainly looked ten years younger than her years, bridled like a girl as she added: “Fancy me, at my time of life, attracting a real gentleman, for there’s no doubt abouthim.”
Mrs. Morrice smiled. It struck her that if Sir George had been taken by her friend, she fully reciprocated the baronet’s admiration. Presently the conversation turned to young John Graham, who had been put into a City office a short time before by his guardian to teach him business habits. Alma had grown very fond of her charge but there were things about him that worried her. He was of a reckless temperament, far from industrious and wickedly extravagant. He was always asking for money, and sulky and bad-tempered when she refused him.
In subsequent meetings with her friend, Mrs. Morrice learned that Sir George had lunched with Alma, and that the acquaintance had ripened considerably. It was hardly possible to think that this well-born mancontemplated marrying out of his own class, but there could be no doubt that he was considerably attracted by Miss Buckley. On her part, when closely questioned, she did not attempt to deny that she, the middle-aged woman who had scoffed at men and marriage for so many years, was as much in love with him as a woman could expect to be at her time of life. If Sir George asked her to be his wife, she would gladly say Yes, and if he could not make up his mind to take the fatal step she was quite ready to remain his very good friend and companion.
It has been remarked before that this good-hearted, level-headed woman had one particular weakness, a tendency to indulge in stimulants. This habit, much to her friend’s regret, had tended to increase as she grew older. She did not allow it to interfere with her business, she was too sensible for that, she could always pull herself up in time. But sometimes when she was “resting” or had a night off, she would give way to her fatal propensity and talk and gabble very foolishly. Once or twice Mrs. Morrice had seen her slightly overcome in the day-time, and the sorry spectacle had very much upset and disgusted her. Little did she think, as she saw her old friend so unlike herself, that this degrading habit would one day be a cause of misfortune to herself.
One morning she received an urgent note from Alma to meet her at a certain out-of-the-way restaurant which they patronized. When Mrs. Morrice arrived there she found her friend in a state of great agitation, almost hysterical, in fact she could hardly get her words out, and she spoke very incoherently in her emotion.
“Oh, Lettice, I wish my tongue had been cut out before I let out what I did last night. I hope to heaven it will do you no harm. I had been dining out with Sir George, and then we came back to my flat. Wehad had quite enough to drink at dinner, but of course we had some more there. I had one of my silly fits on and I didn’t know at the time what I did or said. But I remembered it all distinctly this morning, and I rushed off to tell you.”
Mrs. Morrice turned pale; from the extreme agitation of her friend she had a presentiment of disaster which was not lessened by the recital of the story which the unhappy Alma had to unfold.