“Good Lord!” half shouted Brock, leaping to his feet, wide-eyed. “You don’t mean to say that she is—is—is to go to Vienna with me?”
“Emphatically, yes. She’s also invited. Of course, she’s going.”
“You mean that she’s going just as you are going—by proxy?” murmured Brock helplessly.
“Proxy, the devil! ‘Pon my soul, Brock, you’re downright stupid. She can’t have a proxy. They know her. The Rodneys are in some way connections of hers, and all that—third cousins. If she isn’t there to vouch for you, how the deuce can you expect to—”
“Medcroft, you are crazy! No one but an insane man would submit his wife to—Why, good Lord, man, think of the scandal! She won’t have a shred left—”
“At the proper time the matter will be explained to the Rodneys,—not at first, you know,—and I’ll be in a position to step into your shoes before the party returns to Paris. Afterwards the whole trick will be exposed to the world, and she’ll be a heroine.”
“I’m absolutely paralysed!” mumbled Brock.
“Brace up, old chap. I’m going to take you around to the Ritz at once to introduce you to my wife—to your wife, I might say. She’ll be waiting for us, and, take my word for it, she’s in for the game. She appreciates its importance. Come now, Brock, it means so little to you, and it means everything to me. You will do this for me? For us?”
For ten minutes Brock protested, his argument growing weaker and weaker as the true humour of the project developed in his mind. He came at last to realise that Medcroft was in earnest, and that the situation was as serious as he pictured it. The Englishman’s plea was unusual, but it was not as rattle-brained as it had seemed at the outset. Brock was beginning to see the possibilities that the ruse contained; to say the least, he would be running little or no risk in the event of its miscarriage. In spite of possible unpleasant consequences, there were the elements of a rare lark in the enterprise; he felt himself being skilfully guided past the pitfalls and dangers.
“I shall insist upon talking it over thoroughly with Mrs. Medcroft before consenting,” he said in the end. “If she’s being bluffed into the game, I’ll revoke like a flash. If she’s keen for the adventure, I’ll go, Rox. But I’ve got to see her first and talk it all over—”
“’Pon my word, old chap, she’s ripping, awfully good sort, even though I say it myself. She’s true blue, and she’ll do anything for me. You see, Brock,” and his voice grew very tender, “she loves me. I’m sure of her. There isn’t a nobler wife in the world than mine. Nor a prettier one, either,” he concluded, with fine pride in his eyes. “You won’t be ashamed of her. You will be proud of the chance to point her out as your wife, take my word for it.” Then they set out for the Ritz.
“Roxbury,” said Brock soberly, when they were in the Rue de la Paix, after walking two blocks in contemplative silence, “my peace of mind is poised at the brink of an abyss. I have a feeling that I am about to chuck it over.”
“Nonsense. You’ll buck up when Edith has had a fling at you.”
“I suppose I’m to call her Edith.”
“Certainly, and I won’t mind a ‘dear’ or two when it seems propitious. It’s rather customary, you know, even among the unhappily married. Of course, I’ve always been opposed to kissing or caressing in public; it’s so middle-class.”
“And I daresay Mrs. Medcroft will object to it in private,” lamented Brock good-naturedly.
“I daresay,” said her husband cheerfully. “She’s your wife in public only. By the way, you’ll have to get used to the name of Roxbury. Don’t look around as if you expected to find me standing behind your back when she says, ‘Roxbury, dear!’ I shan’t be there, you know. She’ll mean you. Don’t forget that.”
“Oh, I say,” exclaimed Brock, halting abruptly, and staring in dismay at the confident conspirator, “will I have to wear a suit of clothes like that, and an eyeglass, and—and—good Lord! spats?”
“By Jove, you shall wear this very suit!” cried Medcroft, inspired. “We’re of a size, and it won’t fit you any better than it does me. Our clothes never fit us in London. Clever idea of yours, Brock, to think of it. And, here! We’ll stop at this shop and pick up a glass. You can have all day for practice with it. And, I say, Brock, don’t you think you can cultivate a—er—little more of an English style of speech? That twang of yours won’t—”
“Heavens, man, I’m to be a low comedian, too,” gasped Brock, as he was fairly pushed onto the shop. Three minutes later they were on the sidewalk, and Brock was in possession of an object he had scorned most of all things in the world,—a monocle.
Arm in arm, they sauntered into the Ritz. Medcroft retained his clasp on his friend’s elbow as they went up in the lift, after the fashion of one who fears that his victim is contemplating flight. As they entered the comfortable little sitting-room of the suite, a young woman rose gracefully from the desk at which she had been writing. With perfect composure she smiled and extended her slim hand to the American as he crossed the room with Medcroft’s jerky introduction dinging in his ears.
“My old friend Brock, dear. He has consented to be your husband. You’ve never met your wife, have you, old man?” A blush spread over her exquisite face.
“Oh, Roxbury, how embarrassing! He hasn’t even proposed to me. So glad to meet you, Mr. Brock. I’ve been trying to picture what you would look like, ever since Roxbury went out to find you. Sit here, please, near me. Roxbury, has Mr. Brock really fallen into your terrible trap? Isn’t it the most ridiculous proceeding, Mr. Brock—”
“Call him Roxbury, my dear. He’s fully prepared for it. And now let’s get down to business. He insists upon talking it over with you. You don’t mind me being present, do you, Brock? I daresay I can help you out a bit. I’ve been married four years.”
For an hour the trio discussed the situation from all sides and in all its phases. When Brock arose to take his departure, he was irrevocably committed to the enterprise; he was, moreover, completely enchanted by the vista of harmless fun and sweet adventure that stretched before him. He went away with his head full of the brilliant, quick-witted, loyal young American who was entering so heartily into the plot to deceive her own friends for the time being in order that her husband might profit in high places.
“She is ripping,” he said to Medcroft in the hallway. All of the plans had been made and all of them had been approved by the young wife. She had shown wonderful perspicacity and foresight in the matter of details; her capacity for selection and disposal was even more comprehensive than that of the two men, both of whom were somewhat staggered by the boldness of more than one suggestion which came from her fruitful storehouse of romantic ideas. She had grasped the full humour of the situation, from inception to dénouement, and, to all appearance, was heart and soul deep in the venture, despising the risks because she knew that succour was always at her elbow in the shape of her husband’s loyal support. There was no condition involved which could not be explained to her credit; adequate compensation for the merry sacrifice was to be had in the brief detachment from rigid English conventionality, in the hazardous injection of quixotism into an otherwise overly healthful life of platitudes. Society had become the sepulchre of youthful inspirations; she welcomed the resurrection. The exquisite delicacy with which she analysed the cost and computed the interest won for her thewarmest regard of her husband’s friend, fellow conspirator in a plot which involved the subtlest test of loyalty and honour.
“Yes,” said Medcroft simply. “You won’t have reason to change your opinion, Brock.” He hesitated for a moment and then burst out, rather plaintively: “She’s an awfully good sort, demme, she is. And so are you, Brock,—it’s mighty decent of you. You’re the only man in all the world that I could or would have asked to do this for me. You are my best friend, Brock,—you always have been.” He seized the American’s hand and wrung it fervently. Their eyes met in a long look of understanding and confidence.
&nb
sp; “I’ll take good care of her,” said Brock quietly.
“I know you will. Good-by, then. I’ll see you late this afternoon. You leave this evening at seven-twenty by the Orient Express. I’ve had the reservations booked and—and—” He hesitated, a wry smile on his lips, “I daresay you won’t mind making a pretence of looking after the luggage a bit, will you?”
“I shall take this opportunity to put myself in training against the day when I may be travelling away with a happy bride of my own. By the way, how long am I expected to remain in this state of matrimonial bliss? That’s no small detail, you know, even though it escaped for the moment.”
“Three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” He almost reeled.
“That’s a long time in these days of speedy divorces,” said Medcroft blandly.
CHAPTER II
THE SISTER-IN-LAW.
The Gare de l‘Est was thronged with people when Brock appeared, fully half an hour before departing time. In no little dismay, he found himself wondering if the whole of Paris was going away or, on the other hand, if the rest of the continent was arriving. He felt a fool in Medcroft’s unspeakable checked suit; and the eyeglass was a much more obstinate, untractable thing than he had even suspected it could be. The right side of his face was in a condition of semi-paralysis due to the muscular exactions required; he had a sickening fear that the scowl that marked his brow was destined to form a perpetual alliance with the smirk at the corner of his nose, forever destroying the symmetry of his face. If one who has not the proper facial construction will but attempt the feat of holding a monocle in place for unbroken hours, he may come to appreciate at least one of the trials which beset poor Brock.
Every one seemed to be staring at him. He heard more than one American in the scurrying throng say to another, “English,” and he felt relieved until an Englishman or two upset his confidence by brutally alluding to him as a “confounded American toady.”
It was quite train time before Mrs. Medcroft was seen hurrying in from the carriage way, pursued by a trio of facteurs, laden with bags and boxes.
“Don’t shake hands,” she warned in a quick whisper, as they came together. “I recognised you by the clothes.”
“Thank God, it wasn’t my face!” he cried. “Are your trunks checked?”
“Yes,—this afternoon. I have nothing but the bags. You have the tickets? Then let us get aboard. I just couldn’t get here earlier,” she whispered guiltily. “We had to say good-by, you know. Poor old Roxy! How he hated it! I sent Burton and O’Brien on ahead of me. My sister brought them here in her carriage, and I daresay they’re aboard and abed by this time. You didn’t see them? But of course you wouldn’t know my maids. How stupid of me! Don’t be alarmed. They have their instructions, Roxbury. Doesn’t it sound odd to you?”
Brock was icy-cold with apprehension as they walked down the line of wagon-lits in the wake of the bag-bearers. Mrs. Medcroft was as self-possessed and as dégagé as he was ill at ease and awkward. As they ascended the steps of the carriage, she turned back to him and said, with the most malicious twinkle in her eyes,—
“I’m not a bit nervous.”
“But you’ve been married so much longer than I have,” he responded.
Then came the disposition of the bags and parcels. She calmly directed the porters to put the overflow into the upper berth. The garde came up to remonstrate in his most rapid French.
“But where is M’sieur to sleep if the bags go up there?” he argued.
Mrs. Medcroft dropped her toilet bag and turned to Brock with startled eyes, her lips parted. He was standing in the passage, his two bags at his feet, an aroused gleam in his eyes. A deep flush overspread her face; an expression of utter rout succeeded the buoyancy of the moment before.
“Really,” she murmured and could go no farther. The loveliest pucker came into her face. Brock waved the garde aside.
“It’s all right,” he explained. “I shan’t occupy the—I mean, I’ll take one of the other compartments.” As the garde opened his lips to protest, she drew Brock inside the compartment and closed the door. Mrs. Medcroft was agitated.
“Oh, what a wretched contretemps!” she cried in despair. “Roxy has made a frightful mess of it, after all. He has not taken a compartment for you. I’m—I’m afraid you’ll have to take this one and—and let me go in with—”
“Nonsense!” he broke in. “Nothing of the sort! I’ll find a bed, never fear. I daresay there’s plenty of room on the train. You shan’t sleep with the servants. And don’t lie awake blaming poor old Rox. He’s lonesome and unhappy, and he—”
“But he has a place to sleep,” she lamented. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Brock. It’s perfectly horrid, and I’m—I’m dreadfully afraid you won’t be able to get a berth. Roxbury tried yesterday for a lower for himself.”
“And he—couldn’t get one?”
“No, Mr. Brock. But I’ll ask the maids to give up their—”
“Please, please don’t worry—and please don’t call me Mr. Brock. I hate the name. Good night! Now don’t think about me. I’ll be all right. You’ll find me as gay as a lark in the morning.”
He did not give her a chance for further protest, but darted out of the compartment. As he closed the door he had the disquieting impression that she was sitting upon the edge of her berth, giggling hysterically.
The garde listened to his demand for a separate compartment with the dejection of a capable French attendant who is ever ready with joint commiseration and obduracy. No, he was compelled to inform Monsieur the American (to the dismay of the pseudo-Englishman) it would be impossible to arrange for another compartment. The train was crowded to its capacity. Many had been turned away. No, a louis would not be of avail. The deepest grief and anguish filled his soul to see the predicament of Monsieur, but there was no relief.
Brock’s miserable affectation of the English drawl soon gave way to sharp, emphatic Americanisms. It was after eight o’clock and the train was well under way. The street lamps were getting fewer and fewer, and the soft, fresh air of the suburbs was rushing through the window.
“But, hang it all, I can’t sit up all night!” growled Brock in exasperated finality.
“Monsieur forgets that he has a berth. It is not the fault of the compagnie that he is without a bed. Did not M’sieur book the compartment himself? Très bien!”
As the result of strong persuasion, the garde consented to make “the grand tour” of the train de luxe in search of a berth. It goes without saying that he was intensely mystified by Brock’s incautious remark that he would be satisfied with “an upper if he couldn’t do any better.” For the life of him, Monsieur the garde could not comprehend the situation. He went away, shaking his head and looking at the tickets, as much as to say that an American is never satisfied—not even with the best.
Brock lowered a window-seat in the passage and sat down, staring blankly and blackly out into the whizzing night. The predicament had come upon him so suddenly that he had not until now found the opportunity to analyse it in its entirety. The worst that could come of it, of course, was the poor comfort of a night in a chair. He knew that it was a train of sleeping-coaches—Ah! He suddenly remembered the luggage van! As a last resort, he might find lodging among the trunks!
And then, too, there was something irritating in the suspicion that she had laughed as if it were a huge joke—perhaps, even now, she was doubled up in her narrow couch, stifling the giggle that would not be suppressed.
When the garde came back with the lugubrious information that nothing, positively nothing, was to be had, it is painful to record that Brock swore in a manner which won the deepest respect of the trainman.
“At four o’clock in the morning, M’sieur, an old gentleman and his wife will get out at Strassburg, their destination. They are in this carriage and you may take their compartment, if M’sieur will not object to sleeping in a room just vacated by two mourners who today buried a beloved son in Paris. They
have kept all of the flowers in their—”
“Four o’clock! Good Lord, what am I to do till then?” groaned Brock, glaring with unmanly hatred at the door of the Medcroft compartment.
“Perhaps Madame may be willing to take the upper—” ventured the guard timorously, but Brock checked him with a peremptory gesture. He proposed, instead, the luggage van, whereupon the guard burst into a psalm of utter dejection. It was against the rules, irrevocably.
“Then I guess I’ll have to sit here all night,” said Brock faintly. He was forgetting his English.
“If M’sieur will not occupy his own bed, yes,” said the guard, shrugging his shoulders and washing his hands of the whole incomprehensible affair. “M’sieur will then be up to receive the Customs officers at the frontier. Perhaps he will give me the keys to Madame’s trunks, so that she may not be disturbed.”
“Ask her for ’em yourself,” growled Brock, after one dazed moment of dismay.
The hours crawled slowly by. He paced the length of the wriggling corridor a hundred times, back and forth; he sat on every window-seat in the carriage; he nodded and dozed and groaned, and laughed at himself in the deepest derision all through the dismal night. Daylight came at four; he saw the sun rise for the first time in his life. He neither enjoyed nor appreciated the novelty. Never had he witnessed anything so mournfully depressing as the first grey tints that crept up to mock him in his vigil; never had he seen anything so ghastly as the soft red glow that suffused the morning sky.
“I’ll sleep all day if I ever get into that damned bed,” he said to himself, bitterly wistful.
The Customs officers had eyed him suspiciously at the border. They evidently had been told of his strange madness in refusing to occupy the berth he had paid for. Their examination of his effects was more thorough than usual. It may have entered their heads that he was standing guard over the repose of a fair accomplice. They asked so manyembarrassing and disconcerting questions that he was devoutly relieved when they passed on, still suspicious.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 197