IN VINO VERITAS
At the 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 much from 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 the impudent 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 about _him_.”
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
man contemplated 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. We had
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.