THE STORY CONTINUED
After a prolonged honeymoon, in which they visited Rome, Naples,
Venice and other places of interest, the young couple returned to
London, where they took a small suite of rooms at the Metropole. The
bride was very happy: Darcy proved an ideal husband, a man of equable
temper and sunny disposition, and the luxury with which she had been
surrounded since her marriage was a delightful contrast to the drab
life at Brinkstone and Fulham, and the comfortable but rather unrefined
atmosphere of her friend’s flat.
With regard to Miss Buckley, Darcy had hinted very delicately that
while she would always be a welcome guest wherever they were, he would
prefer that his wife should see as little as possible of her music-hall
acquaintances, which was no longer quite the right sort of society for
a woman in her position. In other words, her friend could come to her
as often as she liked, but she was not to go to Alma.
Lettice at once fell in with his wishes, which she did not consider
unreasonable in the circumstances. Alma’s friends were good-hearted
and pleasant enough in their way, but they were certainly boisterous
and lacking in refinement, and a man like the elegant Darcy could have
nothing in common with them.
Miss Buckley, who had a strong fund of common-sense, did not resent
this arrangement in any way. “I don’t blame him a little bit, my dear,”
she said with absolute sincerity. “Of course he’s a different class
altogether from my crowd. He wants to make a lady of you—I don’t mean
to say you haven’t always been a lady, but you were under a cloud, in
a manner of speaking—you know what I mean. If you came, he would have
to come too, which would be awkward for him. He’ll be taking you into
Society soon, and introducing you to his swell friends. Never mind, old
dear, we can still be pals under the rose.”
But that day to which Lettice had also been looking forward in her
inmost thoughts never came. She was sure that a man of Darcy’s wealth
and upbringing—for he had spoken of Eton and Oxford several times to
his unsophisticated young wife—would introduce her into some very
agreeable society.
When she spoke to him rather timidly on the subject, for in spite of
his general amiability she stood just a little bit in awe of him, he
explained that he disliked general society, that he had not seen any of
his relatives for years, that since his father died, he had spent the
greater part of his time abroad, and had lost touch with most of the
few people he used to know.
“I never cultivated women’s society to any extent,” he told her. “You
are the only girl I ever came across who made me think seriously of
settling down. I’ve just a few men pals, and speaking for myself, you
and they are all I want. Now, I don’t know about you, whether you would
like to have a large acquaintance amongst your own sex. I’ve always
heard that women, in their hearts, are not very fond of each other.
Well, you’ve got Miss Buckley, who’s a real good sort, a little lacking
in refinement perhaps, who can come here as often as you want her. And
if you wish to go farther afield, you are sure to find a decent woman
or two in the hotel you can chat to.”
She accepted this plausible explanation, although she was just a bit
puzzled by it, in spite of her inexperience of the world, on which, no
doubt, this elegant-mannered young man who spoke so glibly of Eton and
Oxford was relying. It seemed a little strange to her that he had no
relatives, but then, she was in the same position. He might think the
same with regard to her, if he ever thought on the subject.
He had spoken of a few men pals. In time these all paid visits to the
cosy little suite at the Metropole, consisting of bedroom, sitting-room
and bathroom—about half a dozen in all. The young couple sometimes took
their meals out at various restaurants, but more often in the grill
room and restaurant of the hotel.
As the first glamour of married life wore off, she began to use her
critical faculties more extensively with regard to things and persons.
Particularly she began to exercise them on these men friends whose
society, he averred, was quite sufficient for him in conjunction with
her own.
Two out of the six were in manners, appearance and conversation quite
of his own class. She did not think the other four came up to the same
standard, in fact they did not display much more polish than the men
she had met at her friend’s flat. She commented on the fact one day to
Darcy, who was immediately ready with an explanation.
“They’re regular ‘horsey’ men, bet and go to nearly every race-meeting,
little girl. I’ve generally noticed that men who are wrapt up in these
pursuits seem to lose their refinement and polish, however well-brought
up they may have been, and grow a bit rough and coarse.”
She was not quite so satisfied with this explanation as she would
have been a few months earlier; she was gaining experience every day.
It struck her that these four particular men had never possessed the
advantages of good early training which her husband claimed for them.
One little fact struck her as rather curious. Whenever any one of these
men called, Darcy was sure to take him away into the bedroom, sometimes
the bathroom, for a long private talk. If was evident there were things
they did not want to discuss before her. In spite of his undoubted
affection, his unremitting attention to and consideration for her, this
young man had certain secrets from his wife. She felt hurt and annoyed,
but said nothing of her feelings to him. She did confide in Alma, and
that shrewd young woman was rather angry and suspicious about it.
They had now been married over twelve months. During that period Darcy
had left her on about half a dozen occasions for a few days at a time.
He was a little mysterious about these absences, avoiding any very full
details of his destination, and saying very little about what he had
been doing when he returned. His wife grew more and more annoyed at his
reticence, and Alma Buckley more and more suspicious. There seemed a
certain air of mystery about Mr. Darcy, in spite of his prepossessing
appearance and frank manners.
How well she remembered that day on which she was expecting him back
from the last of these somewhat furtive expeditions.
Late in the afternoon, a Mr. Granger was shown up to the sitting-room,
a tall, good-looking gentlemanly young fellow of about Darcy’s age. Out
of the half-dozen men who were their regular visitors, she knew him to
be her husband’s most intimate friend of all. Darcy had often declared
to her, with an emphasis he seldom used, that Tom Granger was the
staunchest pal a man could ever hope to find.
This young man, always immaculately dressed like his friend, appeared
very agitated when he greeted the young wife.
“I have bad news for you, Mrs. Darcy,” he said, speaking in a very low
voice.
Lettice went as pale as a sheet. What had happened? Had her husband met
with a terrible accident—with death itself?
In disjointed sentences, the dreadful story came out; it was evident
that this young man Granger did not relish his task and had only
undertaken it out of loyalty to his friend and compassion for his wife.
Graham Darcy, the elegant-mannered, immaculately dressed young man who
threw money about like water, who lived at the most expensive hotels
and posed as a man of fortune, was in reality a member, a prominent
member, of a gang of high-class “crooks,” who preyed upon society,
carrying out their nefarious schemes here and on the Continent. Darcy
was his real name, professionally he was known by several aliases.
The police had tracked him down, and two days ago he had been arrested
in Edinburgh on a charge of forgery. Funds would be at his disposal
for the purpose of obtaining the most skilful counsel for his defence,
but Granger was very hopeless as to the result. The evidence was
too strong, conviction was almost a certainty. The sentence he was
likely to receive depended upon the attitude of the judge: it might
be anything from five to ten years’ penal servitude. Granger himself
admitted that he was a member of the same confederacy, but not involved
in this particular transaction, and therefore for the moment had
nothing to fear.
Having delivered himself of these terrible tidings, he proceeded to
give what he hoped would bring considerable comfort to the crushed and
broken-hearted young woman. Darcy had been a prudent fellow, he had
not, like so many criminals, spent his ill-gotten gains as fast as he
had acquired them. He had a very nice little nest-egg put by in case of
accidents. This nest-egg, amounting to the sum of over five thousand
pounds, was in the custody of Granger, who was prepared to hand it over
to the unhappy woman and advise her as to the best means of investing
it. Dishonest as they were to the rest of the world, these “crooks”
were evidently capable of fair dealing with each other.
As soon as she had recovered from the first effects of this stunning
shock, Lettice sent for her faithful friend Alma Buckley, who
had entertained grave suspicions for some time, without however
anticipating such a tragic _dénouement_ as this. The situation, bad as
it was in any circumstances, was further aggravated by the fact that
the unfortunate young woman was an expectant mother; her baby, the
child of a felon, would be born in about three months from then.
The shrewd and resourceful Alma took a firm grasp of the situation,
and mapped out her plans for the future. The miserable victim was at
present too dazed to think, and left everything in the capable hands of
her friend.
“We were a couple of idiots to be taken in by his flashiness. We knew
nothing about the man except what he told us himself, and that absence
of relatives and friends, except those half-dozen men who came here,
seemed to me to look more and more ‘fishy’ every time I thought it
over. Well, it’s no use bewailing the past, we’ve got to make the best
of the future. If I can help it, you’re not going under because of one
hideous mistake.”
Thus the encouraging Alma, who proceeded to unfold her plans for the
future.
“You must get out of here as soon as you can. I’ll find you a little
furnished flat where you can hide yourself for a bit; when the time
comes, you’ll go into a nursing home. Later on we’ll find a good home
for the child, under an assumed name, where you can go and see it at
regular intervals, and satisfy yourself that it is being well looked
after. You’re young and have all your life before you. You must drop
the name of Darcy, forget you were ever married, and start again as
Lettice Larchester. It’s lucky that you know hardly anybody, except
those pals of his who are never likely to see you again, and wouldn’t
round on you if they did. Keep clear of my crowd, in six months they’ll
forget there was ever such a person. As a matter of fact, guessing
you’d want to drop them, I haven’t even mentioned your married name,
just said you had married a ‘swell.’ Oh Lord, what a couple of raw
fools we were!”
And a grim smile overspread the young woman’s comely features, she was
only a girl then, as she recalled the days in Paris and the impression
made upon them by the elegant Darcy.
Of that dishonest person, it may be narrated that he came before a
severe judge, who did not believe in leniency, was tried and found
guilty, and received a sentence of ten years. At the end of two he died
of pneumonia—he had always been a delicate man—and Lettice was a free
woman.
Save for that hateful shadow of the past which naturally grew fainter
with the passing of every year, her lot was not altogether an unhappy
one. The five thousand pounds which she had not scrupled to take from
the tainted hands of Tom Granger, added to her own small capital,
brought her in quite a respectable little income and removed her for
ever from the intrusion of sordid anxieties. The child, a winsome
little fellow, was quite happy with his foster-parents. She took up
her art again, more from a desire for occupation than necessity. She
did not go to Alma Buckley, but her friend came frequently to her, and
every day the past seemed to recede further into oblivion.
And as she grew better in health and spirits, her old ambitions began
to revive. Had life really closed for her because of that one hideous
mistake? She talked it over with her faithful friend.
Alma Buckley was a strange mixture. She was very honest in money
matters, she had no inclination to dishonest acts, but she thought
nothing of telling a lie; she was not over scrupulous in the general
conduct of life. Was it possible that Lettice could marry again, in
face of that terrible episode in her past?
Alma laughed her scruples to scorn. “Of course you will marry again,
and equally there is no necessity to tell your husband a word of the
past. Up to the time you marry him, your life belongs to yourself, not
to him. He won’t be likely to have a clean sheet himself, any more than
you.”
The advice so frequently and emphatically tendered, fell upon very
willing ears. But, at the moment, there were no prospects of a second
marriage. Lettice went nowhere and knew nobody but Alma Buckley. That
astute young woman, after much cogitation, evolved a plan to remedy
this state of things.
“Of course, you can come to me as you used to do, and resume
acquaintance with my old lot, but they’re no good to you, I wouldn’t
marry one of them myself. You’ve got to fly at higher game.”
Lettice sighed. She quite agreed with her friend, but how was it to be
done?
“Now, this is my idea. Go and live in a nice respectable neighbourhood,
go regularly to church, and get in with the parson and his wife. Play
your cards well, and they’ll hand you on to their friends. In time
you’ll get a nice little circle round you, and in a couple of years’
time you’ll have more acquaintances than you know what to do with.
You’ve nothing to hide except that one little episode; you’re a lady on
your father’s side, at any rate, and you act and speak like one; you’ll
go down all right when you’ve once got a start.”
It was sound, worldly advice, if it did not err on the side of
scrupulousness, and as it has been remarked before, it fell upon very
willing ears.
Alma Buckley gave further proof of the sincerity of her friendship by
announcing her readiness to efface herself to any necessary extent.
“I don’t think it will do for me to appear upon the scene, I, Alma
Buckley, a third-rate music-hall artist. I should give the show away at
once. Besides, I couldn’t play the lady for five minutes. We can meet
‘under the rose,’ or you can come to me, and I’ll give orders that none
of my lot are to be admitted while you’re there.”
This scheme was put into execution, and worked out splendidly. In
five years’ time Miss Larchester had troops of acquaintances; she had
received half a dozen offers of marriage from fairly eligible men. But
she was in no hurry to choose till she met the man who absolutely came
up to her standard.
She was about thirty when chance threw her in the way of Rupert
Morrice. They were both staying at the same hotel in Venice. He had
confided to her that he had experienced a bitter disappointment in his
youth, she was very kind and sympathetic. Something in her strongly
attracted him, she was not in love with him, but she admired and
respected him. He was not really in love with her, but they were on
equal terms in that respect.
There was a very brief courtship, in which Morrice learned as much of
her life story as she chose to tell him: it was embroidered here and
there with some unveracious details, for reasons which appeared good to
her at the time. And Lettice Larchester, otherwise Lettice Darcy, the
widow of the felon who had died in prison, became the wife of Rupert
Morrice the wealthy financier.