CHAPTER VIII 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?