MRS. MORRICE’S GIRLHOOD
This was the history of a part of the lives of Lettice Larchester and
her father as set forth by old Dobbs, the head-waiter and general
utility man of the Brinkstone Arms, extending over a period of some
four years.
The daughter he had already described as a bonnie, handsome girl. When
she arrived at Vine Cottage, a very modest residence the rental of
which was only a few pounds a year, she was about eighteen, a tall,
slender girl with a wealth of beautiful brown hair, soft grey eyes and
a charming figure.
The father was a fine, good-looking man with the long hair and
the rather dreamy expression of the artist, and his profession
was emphasized by the regulation velvet coat. There was a look of
dissipation about the pleasant features which told of late hours and
heavy drinking both at home and abroad.
He arrived at Vine Cottage about midday, and The Brinkstone Arms made
his acquaintance a few hours later. He seemed a very genial, affable
sort of person, hail-fellow-well-met at once with the proprietor and
his factotum, Dobbs, and ready to be friendly with everybody, no
matter what his station—the farmer himself, the farmer’s labourer,
the carrier, the postman, the village blacksmith. Very soon it was
discovered that when he took a drop too much, a not infrequent
occurrence, his geniality disappeared and he developed an ugly and
aggressive temper, and was inclined sometimes to resort to personal
violence against those who happened to offend him at the particular
moment.
In his normal mood there was no pride about the man. Five minutes
after he had ordered his first drink in the place he had told them
all about himself. By profession he was an artist, a painter of
landscapes. He hardly ever exhibited at the public galleries, working
almost exclusively for dealers, who gave him what he described—in his
loud, breezy voice, more like that of a robust mariner than a man
practising a refined art—as a “cut-throat price.” But they always
paid on delivery, sometimes a bit on account, and that was a great
consideration to a poor devil who was always hard-up. These statements
he made without any false shame or shrinking modesty.
An artist, but evidently not a very successful one! The reasons for
this were not far to seek. Drink had been the ruin of the man’s life;
if he had possessed twice the talent he had, the fatal impulse to
alcohol would have set his feet travelling swiftly on the downward
path. He drank steadily at all times, but several times a year his
propensities assumed alarming proportions. When one of these fits took
him, his brushes were laid aside, he shut himself up in the house and
devoted himself to his favourite vice till it passed. Then he would
pull himself together and work with feverish energy to make up for the
time he had lost.
On that first evening of his acquaintance with the little village
hostelry, he explained to those who cared to listen to his intimate
revelations, that he came to this part of the world because of the
suitability of the scenery to his particular kind of work, but more
especially because he wanted to escape from late hours and the
numberless temptations of great cities.
This hope was, as a matter of course, never destined to be realized.
During the four years of his sojourn in the picturesque little village
the man slowly but steadily deteriorated, and he was not much to begin
with. The bouts of drinking became more frequent and more sustained.
And no doubt his hand lost much of its cunning, for their fortunes,
never very bright, seemed to grow more clouded. His own appearance grew
shabbier every year, and the bright, handsome girl was hard put to it
to maintain her early smartness.
No doubt the major portion of what he earned went to defray the cost
of his most expensive vice. From the very beginning they lived in the
most frugal manner; they kept no resident servant, a woman of the
village coming for a few hours in the morning to do the rough work.
This elegant, refined-looking girl who seemed born to grace a palace,
prepared and cooked their simple and inexpensive food, and performed
other distasteful and incongruous domestic tasks. Yet withal she always
carried herself like a young queen, had always a cheerful word and
smile for the few people with whom she grew to exchange greetings.
However much her life with this impossible and selfish father disgusted
her, however deeply the iron entered her soul, she never spoke of her
private sorrows and disappointments, or showed them in her demeanour.
“You see, sir, to my way of thinking,” explained the honest
head-waiter, and there was a suspicion of moisture in his little,
bright old eyes as he spoke, “to my way of thinking it was a cruel
piece of work, knowing the kind of man he was, as he must have known,
to bring a young girl like that to a peddling place like this; she just
eat her heart out in that poor little cottage. You see, sir, they were
neither fish, flesh nor fowl, in a homely way of speaking. They were
too good for the ordinary folk about here, and of course the gentry
wouldn’t look at them.”
Sellars agreed, well knowing the aloofness of country society. He could
not help contrasting the two pictures, Lettice Larchester preparing and
serving her father’s cheap meals in that cramped cottage, Mrs. Morrice
doing the honours of her luxurious home in Deanery Street with the calm
and gracious dignity of one to the manner born. The girl must have had
grit in her, despite the terrible handicap of that callous and selfish
father.
Mr. Dobbs proceeded with his vivid narrative. The county young ladies,
if they met her in their walks, looked over her head. Some of the
county young men ogled her rudely and tried to scrape acquaintance
with her, but the girl kept herself to herself and gave them no
encouragement, although her heart must have ached for companionship.
There was, however, an exception which ultimately led to a most
thrilling episode. Archibald Brookes, it has been said, often
frequented the Brinkstone Arms, unlike his brothers and the other
young men of good family. Here, of course, he soon became acquainted
with such an habitual attendant as the artist, and the men fraternized
quickly.
Of course, the young man was cultivating the artist for his own ends.
He had already gained the reputation of a rather tawdry sort of
village Don Juan, much to the grief of his parents, and in justice it
must be said to the disgust of his brothers, whose vices were of a
different pattern. Lettice had attracted him very much when he met her
accidentally in the village or when she took her solitary walks. No
doubt he thought a lonely girl like her would prove an easy conquest to
a man of his attractions. He wanted to get at the daughter through the
father.
Larchester, who was very simple in some things, fell into the trap set
for him. He took the young man home one afternoon and formally made
the two acquainted. Lettice was dressed very simply, as she usually
was, but her beauty did not require the aid of dress, and she looked
very charming. Young Archibald was very much smitten, he soon found
frequent pretexts for unceremonious visits, bringing her baskets of
fruits and flowers, and paying her compliments that embarrassed more
than delighted her. For she very soon saw through him and guessed that
his artificial politeness concealed a base and unscrupulous nature.
Then one day a catastrophe occurred. He called one morning when her
father was out. The village woman had finished her work and left, the
girl was alone in the house, preparing to engage in her usual daily
duties. In spite of her attempts to keep him out young Brookes, fired
by her attractiveness, managed to edge his way in. The coast was clear,
he had nobody to deal with but a weak woman. He lost his head, and was
guilty of abominable rudeness.
He seized her roughly in his arms, and in spite of her struggles,
managed to snatch a kiss from her reluctant and outraged lips. Then,
finding she was not the easy conquest he had anticipated, and perhaps a
little fearful of the consequences of his unmanly act, he beat a hasty
retreat. When the father returned he was told of what happened, and
burst into a paroxysm of wild fury, venting imprecations on the young
dastard who had dared to offer such an insult to a virtuous girl like
his daughter.
Selfish, soddened and callous as the man had become from long habits of
intemperance, if there was one being in the world that he respected,
it was this unhappy girl whom he had condemned to such a sordid and
degrading existence. He knew well enough that, in his position, the
young cub had no serious intentions, but merely wished to play with her
as he had done with many of his village light-o’-loves.
Shabby, down-at-heel, familiar as he was with his inferiors, there were
times when he remembered that he had once been a gentleman, descended
from a long line of decent people; that his daughter had ever been and
was still a lady—that a kiss from a man in the position of Archibald
Brookes was an insult to a girl in hers.
What ensued may best be described in the words of good old Dobbs, who
waxed dramatic and at times sadly ungrammatical in his narration.
“I shall never forget that day as long as I live. He comes into the
Arms about five o’clock, the usual time for young Brookes to make a
call, looking terribly mad and waving a thick stick. There was me and
Mr. Simpson, the landlord, in the bar, an old farmer named Coates
and three other men. ‘Has that dirty dog, Archie Brookes, been in?’
he roared out in a voice of thunder. We all looked up, of course,
wondering what was the matter, what had turned Larchester against him.
We told him he hadn’t, and he roared out again in that big voice, ‘When
he does I’m going to half thrash the life out of him. He came to my
house this morning and insulted my daughter.’
“At that moment young Brookes comes in, and when he sees the other
man’s furious face he turns a bit white about the gills. ‘Good-day, Mr.
Larchester,’ he says in a very small voice, trying to carry it off easy
like. Larchester was a powerful man, and young Archie was on the small
side; he could have broken him across his knee. He made one long stride
to him, seized him by the collar, and beat him with that big stick till
I thought he would have broken every bone in his body, roaring out,
‘You dirty young swine, I’ll give you a lesson you won’t forget in a
hurry. In future, stick to your village trolls, and don’t dare to lay
your filthy hands on a respectable girl.’
“We got him away at length, while one of the men fetched young Brookes
a cab. But at the last moment Larchester, with his great strength,
broke away from us, and gave him a kick that sent him flying into the
roadway.”
“The best thing I have heard of Mr. Larchester yet, Dobbs,” said
Sellars, whose blood had warmed during this recital. “Well, what become
of all the actors in the drama?”
“Well, sir, young Archie got mended of his bruises, and a few months
later he was shipped off to Australia, where he died. The Larchesters
stayed here for just four years, and then went, but we never rightly
knew where they went to. He got worse in his habits, and shabbier and
shabbier, and the poor girl began to show the strain in her looks. They
were very poor at the end, and the woman who used to do the charing
for them only went once a week instead of every morning. It was a real
tragedy, sir, for that poor young thing; the man had brought it on
himself, he didn’t deserve overmuch pity. And yet, when he was sober,
he was delightful company, and could be a gentleman when he liked.”
The polite Dobbs gave the usual little preliminary cough which heralded
farewell. “I hope I haven’t bored you, sir, but I got that excited,
although it all happened so many years ago, that I was a bit carried
away.”
“Not at all, Dobbs. Knowing the lady just a little, I have been most
interested. Now tell me, was Miss Larchester an only daughter?”
“The only child, sir.”
“You are quite sure of that, Dobbs. There was no elder or younger
sister knocking about somewhere on her own?”
Dobbs did not seem surprised at the question; he was not by any means a
suspicious man.
“Quite sure, Mr. Sellars. I have heard her father say a dozen times,
that he only had one child, and that his wife died in giving it birth.”
Dobbs retired after another dose of whisky, and Sellars ruminated over
the latest information.
Both Sir George’s brothers had died unmarried, and there had been no
sisters. Therefore it was impossible for him to have a nephew.
Mrs. Morrice, _née_ Lettice Larchester, was an only child, therefore it
was equally impossible for her to have a nephew.
And yet young Archibald Brookes was accepted as the nephew of both, the
son of her sister and his brother.
What was the mystery that lay behind this obvious lie?