The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

  The remainder of Brock’s day was spent in getting acquainted with his family—or, rather, his ménage. There were habits and foibles, demands and restrictions, that he had to adapt himself to with unvarying benignity. He made a friend of Raggles without half trying; dogs always took to him, he admitted modestly. Tootles was less vulnerable. She howled consistently at each of his first half-dozen advances; his courage began to wane with shocking rapidity; his next half-hearted advances were in reality inglorious retreats. Spurred on by the sustaining Constance, he stood by his guns and at last was gratified to see faint signs of surrender. By midday he had conquered. Tootles permitted him to carry her up and down the station platform (she was too young to realise the risk she ran). Edith and Constance, with the beaming nurse and O’Brien, applauded warmly when he returned from his first promenade, bearing Tootles and proudly heeled by Raggles. Fond mothers in the crowd of hurrying travellers found time to look upon him and smile as if to say, “What a nice man!” He could almost hear them saying it. Which, no doubt, accounted for the intense ruddiness of his cheeks.

  “Do you ever spank her?” he demanded once of Mrs. Medcroft, after Tootles had brought tears to his eyes with a potent attack upon his nose. She caught the light of danger in his grey eyes and hastily snatched the offending Tootles from his arms.

  Miss Fowler kept him constantly at work with his eyeglass and his English, neither of which he was managing well enough to please her critical estimate. In fact, he laboured all day with the persistence, if not the sullenness, of a hard-driven slave. He did not have time to become tired. There was always something new to be done or learned or unlearned: his day was full to overflowing. He was a man of family!

  The wife of his bosom was tranquillity itself. She was enjoying herself. When not amusing herself by watching Brock’s misfortunes, she was napping or reading or sending out for cool drinks. With all the selfishness of a dutiful wife, she was content to shift responsibilities upon that ever convenient and useful creature—a detached sister.

  Brock sent telegrams for her from cities along the way,—Ulm, Munich, Salzburg, and others,—all meant for the real Roxbury in London, but sent to a fictitious being in Great Russell Street, the same having been agreed upon by at least two of the conspirators. It mattered little that she repeated herself monotonously in regard to the state of health of herself and Tootles. Roxbury would doubtless enjoy the protracted happiness brought on by these despatches, even though they got him out of bed or missed him altogether until they reached him in a bunch the next day. He may also have been gratified to hear from Munich that Roxbury was perfectly lovely. She said, in the course of her longest despatch, that she was so glad that the baby was getting to like her father more and more as the day wore on.

  At one station Brock narrowly escaped missing the train. He swung himself aboard as the cars were rolling out of the sheds. As he sank, hot and exhausted, into the seat opposite his wife and her sister, the former looked up from her book, yawning ever so faintly, and asked:

  “Are you enjoying your honeymoon, Roxbury?”

  “Immensely!” he exclaimed, but not until he had searched for and caught Connie’s truant gaze. “Aren’t we?” he asked of Miss Fowler, his eyes dancing. She smiled encouragingly.

  “I think you are such a nice man to have about,” commented Mrs. Medcroft, this time yawning freely and stretching her fine young arms in the luxury of home contentment.

  Brock went to bed early, in Vienna that night—tired but happy, caring not what the morrow brought forth so long as it continued to provide him with a sister-in-law and a wife who was devoted—to another man.

  CHAPTER III

  THE DISTANT COUSINS.

  The end of the week found Brock quite thoroughly domesticated—to use an expression supplied by his new sister-in-law. True, he had gone through some trying ordeals and had lost not a little of his sense of locality, but he was rapidly recovering it as the pathway became easier and less obscure. At first he was irritatingly remiss in answering to the name of Medcroft; but, to justify the stupidity, it is only necessary to say that he had fallen into a condition which scarcely permitted him to know his own name, much less that of another. He was under the spell! Wherefore it did not matter at all what name he went by: he would have answered as readily to one as the other.

  He blandly ignored telegrams and letters addressed to Roxbury Medcroft, and once he sat like a lump, with everyone staring at him, when the chairman of the architects’ convention asked if Mr. Medcroft had anything to say on the subject under discussion. He was forced, in some confusion, to attribute his heedlessness to a life-long defect in hearing. Thereafter it was his punishment to have his name and fragments of conversation hurled about in tones so stentorian that he blushed for very shame. In the Bristol, in the Kärntner-Ring, in the Lichtenstein Gallery, in the Gardens—no matter where he went—if he were to be accosted by any of the genial architects it was always in a voice that attracted attention; he could have heard them if they had been a block away. It became a habit with him to instinctively lift his hand to his ear when one of them hove in sight, having seen him first.

  “That’s what I get for being a liar,” he lamented dolefully. Constance had just whispered her condolences. “Do you think they’ll consider it odd that you don’t shout at me too?”

  “You might explain that you can tell what I am saying by looking at my lips,” she said. He was immensely relieved.

  Considerable difficulty had to be overcome at the Bristol in the matter of rooms. Without going into details, Brock resignedly took the only room left in the crowded hotel—a six by ten cubby-hole on the top floor overlooking the air-shaft. He had to go down one flight for his morning tub, and he never got it because he refused to stand in line and await his turn. Mrs. Medcroft had the choicest room in the hotel, looking down upon the beautiful Kärntner-Ring. Constance proposed, in the goodness of her heart, to give up to Brock her own room, adjoining that of her sister, provided Edith would take her in to sleep with her. Edith was perfectly willing, but interposed the sage conclusion that gossiping menials might not appreciate a preference so unique.

  Mr. Roxbury Medcroft’s sky parlour adjoined the elevator shaft. The head of his bed was in close proximity to the upper mechanism of the lift, a thin wall intervening. A French architect, who had a room hard by, met Brock in the hall, hollow-eyed and haggard, on the morning after their first night. He shouted lugubrious congratulations in Brock’s ear, just as if Brock’s ear had not been harassed a whole night long by shrieking wheels and rasping cables.

  “Monsieur is very fortunate in being so afflicted,” he boomed. “A thousand times in the night have I wished that I might be deaf also. Ah, even an affliction such as yours, monsieur, has its benedictions!”

  Matters drifted along smoothly, even merrily, for several days. They were all young and full of the joy of living. They laughed in secret over the mishaps and perils; they whiffed and enjoyed the spice that filled the atmosphere in which they lived. They visited the gardens and the Hofs, the Chateau at Schönbrunn, the Imperial stables, the gay “Venice in Vienna”; they attended the opera and the concerts, ever in a most circumspect “trinity,” as Brock had come to classify their parties. Like a dutiful husband, he always included his wife in the expeditions.

  “You are not only a most exemplary wife, Mrs. Medcroft,” he declared, “but an unusually agreeable chaperon. I don’t know how Constance and I could get on without you.”

  But the day of severest trial was now at hand. The Rodneys were arriving on the fifth day from Berlin. Despite the fact that the Seattle “connections” had never seen the illustrious Medcroft, husband to their distant cousin, there still remained the disturbing fear that they would recognise—or rather fail to recognise him!—from chance pictures that might have come to their notice. Besides, there was always the possibility that they had seen or even met Brock in New York. He lugubriously admitted that he had met unfortunate thousands whom he had
promptly forgotten but who seldom failed to remember him. It is not surprising, then, that the Medcrofts, ex parte, were in a state of perturbation,—a condition which did not relax in the least as the time drew near for the arrival of the five o’clock train from the north. Constance strove faithfully, even valiantly, to inject confidence into the souls of the prime conspirators.

  “You have done so beautifully up to this time,” she protested to the dolorous Brock, “why should you be afraid? I once read of an Indian chief whose name was Young-Man-Afraid-of-his-Wife! He was a very brave fellow in spite of all that. You are afraid of Edith, but can’t you be like the Indian? He—”

  “That’s all very nice,” mourned Brock, “but he could cover his confusion with war paint. Don’t forget that, my dear. Think of the difference in our disguises! War paint in daubs versus spats and an eyeglass. Besides, he didn’t have to talk West End English. And, moreover, he lived in a wigwam, and didn’t have to explain a sky bedroom to strangers who happened along.”

  “That is a bit awkward,” she confessed thoughtfully. “But can’t you say that you have insomnia, and can’t sleep unless you are above the noise of the street?”

  He looked at her with an expression that made a verbal reply to this suggestion altogether unnecessary.

  “Nurse says that Tootles has forgotten the real Roxbury,” she went on, after a moment. “See how cleverly you have played the part.”

  Still he stared moodily, unconvinced, at the roadway ahead. They were driving in the Haupt Allee.

  “I hope I haven’t got Roxbury into trouble by that interview I gave out concerning the new method of fire-proofing woodwork in office buildings and hotels. It occurred to me afterward that he is violently opposed to the system. I advocated it. He’ll have a—I might say, a devil of a time explaining his change of front.”

  As a matter of fact, when Medcroft, hiding in London, saw the reproduced interview in the “Times,” together with editorial comments upon the extraordinary attitude of a supposedly conservative Englishman of recognised ability, he was tried almost beyond endurance. For the next two or three days the newspapers printed caustic contributions from fellow architects and builders, in each of which the luckless Medcroft was taken to task for advocating an impractical and fatuous New York hobby in the way of construction,—something that staid old London would not even tolerate or discuss. The social chroniclings of the Medcrofts in Vienna, as despatched by the correspondents, offset this unhappy “bull” to some extent, in so far as Medcroft’s peace of mind was concerned, but nothing could have drawn attention to the fact that he was not in London at that particular time so decisively as the Vienna interview and its undefended front. Even his shrewdest enemy could not have suspected Medcroft of a patience which would permit him to sit quiet in London while the attacks were going on. He found some small solace in the reflection that he could make the end justify the means.

  On their return to the Bristol, Brock and Miss Fowler found the fair Edith in a pitiful state of collapse. She declared over and over again that she could not face the Rodneys; it was more than should be expected of her; she was sure that something would go wrong; why, oh, why was it necessary to deceive the Rodneys? Why should they be kept in the dark? Why wasn’t Roxbury there to counsel wisely—and more, ad infinitum, until the distracted pair were on the point of deserting the cause. She finally dissolved into tears, and would not listen to reason, expostulation, or persuasion. It was then that Brock cruelly but effectively declared his intention to abdicate, as he also had a reputation to preserve. Whereupon, with a fine sense of distinction, she flared up and accused him of treachery to his best friend, Roxbury Medcroft, who was reposing the utmost confidence in his friendship and loyalty. How could she be expected to go on with the play if he, the man upon whom everything depended, was to turn tail in a critical hour like this?

  “How can you have the heart to spoil everything?” she cried indignantly. He looked at her in fresh amazement. “Roxbury would never forgive you. We have both placed the utmost confidence in you, Mr. Brock, and—”

  “’Sh! Say ‘Roxbury, dear’!” interposed the practical Constance. “The walls may have ears, my dears.”

  Then Mrs. Medcroft plaintively implored his forgiveness, and said that she was miserable and ashamed and very unappreciative. Brock, in deep humility, begged her pardon for his unnecessary harshness, and promised not to offend again.

  “The first quarrel,” cried Constance delightedly. “How nicely you’ve made it up. And you’ve been married less than a week!”

  “Roxbury and I didn’t have our first quarrel until we’d been married a year,” said Edith reflectively.

  “Oh, I say, Edith,” exclaimed Brock, with a dark frown, “I’d rather you wouldn’t be forever extolling the good qualities of my predecessor. It’s very bad taste. Very much like the pies mother used to make.”

  “Silly!” cried Medcroft’s wife, now in fine humour.

  “Besides, Rox is an Englishman. It would take him a year to produce a quarrel. The American husband is not so confounded slow. I won’t live up to Roxbury in everything.”

  It was decided that Constance should greet the Rodneys upon their arrival; the Medcrofts were not to appear until dinner time. Afterwards the entire party would attend the opera, which was then in the closing week. Brock, with splendid prodigality, had taken a box for the final performance of “Tristan and Isolde.” It is not out of place to remark that Brock loathed the Wagnerian opera; he was of “The Mikado” cult. He took the seats with a definite purpose in mind to cast the burden of responsibility upon his wife, who would be forced to extend herself in the capacity of hostess, giving him the much-needed opportunity to secure safe footing in the dark area of uncertainty. He believed himself capable of diverting the youthful Miss Rodney and his discreet sister-in-law, but he was consumed by an unholy dread of Rodney père; something told him that this shrewd American business man was not the kind who would have the wool pulled over his eyes by anyone. Brock felt that the support of Constance was of greater value than that of Edith at any stage or in any emergency.

  Besides, he was now quite palpably in love with her! “I’ve got it bad!” he reflected in sober consideration of his plight. “But,” came the ironic justification, “I’m able to confine it to the immediate family. That’s more than most husbands can say.”

  The Rodneys descended upon the Bristol at five o’clock, rushing down from the Nord-Bahnhof as if there was not a minute to spare. Constance pursued Katherine to her room, where they revelled in the delights of a reunion, gradually coming out of its throes as the hour for dressing approached.

  “We dine early, dear,” said Constance, “with supper after the opera. I must be off to dress.”

  “I am so eager to meet Mr. Medcroft. Is he nice?”

  “He’s the dearest thing in the world,” cried the other, her cheeks aglow.

  “I’m so glad, on Edith’s account. Most of these English matches turn out abominably,” commented Miss Rodney, who was twenty, very pretty, and very worldly. “Oh, did I tell you that Freddie Ulstervelt is with us?”

  “No!”

  “We came across him in Berlin, and dad asked him to join us, if he had nothing better to do, so he said he would. He was with us in Dresden and Prague and—don’t you think he’s awfully jolly?”

  “Ripping!” said Constance with deplorable fervour.

  “How awfully English! He said he’d seen you in Paris this spring.”

  “Yes,” said Miss Fowler, her cheeks going red suddenly. “I told him you’d asked me to be with you in June.” She could have cut out her tongue for saying this, but it was too late. Katherine laughed a trifle hardly after a stiff moment; then a queer light flitted into her eyes,—the light of awakened opposition. Constance was saying to herself, “She’s in love with Freddie. I might have known it.” Back in her brain lay the memory of Freddie’s violent protestations of love, uttered during those recent days in Paris. He had thr
eatened to throw himself into the Seine; she remembered that quite well—and also the fact that he did nothing of the sort, but had a very jolly time at Maxim’s and sent her flowers by way of repentance. Knowing Freddie so well, it would not have surprised her in the least to find that he had become engaged to Katherine. His heart was a very flexible organ.

  “Oh,” said Katherine, “I believe he did say that you had mentioned us.” Of herself she was asking: “I wonder if she is in love with him!”

  And thus it transpired that Freddie Ulstervelt—addlepated, good-looking, inconstant Freddie, just out of college—was transformed into a bone of contention, whether he would or no.

  He was of the kind who love or make love to every new girl they meet, seriously enough at the time, but easily passed over if need be. Rebuffs may have puzzled him, but they left no jagged scar. He belonged to that class which upsets the tranquillity of inexperienced maidens by whispering intensely, “God, it’s grand!” And he means it at the moment.

  Katherine Rodney was in love with him. He belonged to a fashionable New York family of wealth, and he had been a young lion at Pasadena during the winter just past. He owned automobiles and a yacht and—an extensive wardrobe. These notable assets had much to do with the conquest of Mrs. Rodney: she looked with favour upon the transitory Mr. Ulstervelt, and believed in her heart that he had something to do with the location of the shining sun. But of this affair more anon, as the novelists say.

  Brock was presented to the Rodneys just before the party went in to dinner. He managed his eyeglass and his drawl bravely, and got on swimmingly with the elder Rodneys, until Constance appeared with Katherine and Freddie Ulstervelt. It was not until then that it occurred to Miss Fowler that Freddie, being from New York, was almost certain to know Brock either personally or by sight. She experienced a cold chill, the distinct approach of catastrophe. Brock had just been told that young Ulstervelt of New York was to be of the party. His blood ran cold. He had never seen the young man, but he knew his father well; he had even dined at the mansion in Madison Avenue. There was every reason, however, to suspect that Freddie knew him by sight. Even as he was planning a mode of defence in case of recognition, the young man was presented. Brock’s drawl was something wonderful.