“I—aw—knew your family, I’m sure—aw, quite sure,” he said. “You know, of course, that I lived in your—aw—delightful city for some years. Strange we never met, ‘pon my soul.”
“Oh, New York’s a pretty big place, Mr. Medcroft,” said Freddie good-naturedly. He was a slight young fellow with a fresh, inquisitive face. “It’s bigger than London in some ways. It’s bigger upwards. Say, do you know, you remind me of a fellow I knew in New York!”
“Haw, haw!” laughed Brock, without grace or reason. Miss Fowler caught her breath sharply.
“Fellow named Brock. Stupid sort of chap, my mother says. I—”
“Oh, dear me, Mr. Ulstervelt,” cried Edith, breaking in, “you shan’t say anything mean about Mr. Brock. He’s my husband’s best friend.”
“I didn’t say it, Mrs. Medcroft. It was my mother.” Brock was hiding a smile behind his hand. “She knows him better than I. To tell the truth, I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen him on the Fifth Avenue stages. You do look like him, though, by Jove.”
“It’s extraordinary how many people think I look like dear old Brock,” said the false Roxbury. “But, on the other hand, most people think that Brock looks like me, so what’s the odds? Haw, haw! Ripping! Eh, Mr. Rodney?”
“Ripping? Ripping what? Good God, am I ripping anything?” gasped Mr. Rodney, who was fussy and fat and generally futile. He seemed to grow suddenly uncomfortable, as if ripping was a habit with him.
Dinner was a success. Brock shone with a refulgence that bedimmed all expectations. His wife was delighted; in all of the four years of married life, Roxbury had never been so brilliant, so deliciously English (to use her own expression). Constance tingled with pride. Of late, she had experienced unusual difficulty in diverting her gaze from the handsome impostor, and her thoughts were ever of him—in justification of a platonic interest, of course, no more than that. Tonight her eyes and thoughts were for him alone,—a circumstance which, could he have felt sure, would have made him wildly happy, instead of inordinately furious in his complete misunderstanding of her manner toward Freddie Ulstervelt, who had no compunction about making love to two girls at the same time. She was never so beautiful, never so vivacious, never so resourceful. Brock was under the spell; he was fascinated; he had to look to himself carefully in order to keep his wits in the prescribed channel.
His self-esteem received a severe shock at the opera. Mrs. Medcroft, with malice aforethought, insisted that Ulstervelt should take her husband’s seat. As the box held but six persons, the unfortunate Brock was compelled to shift more or less for himself. Inwardly raging, hesuavely assured the party—Freddie in particular—that he would find a seat in the body of the house and would join them during the Entr’acte. Then he went out and sat in the foyer. It was fortunate that he hated Wagner. Before the end of the act he was joined by Mr. Rodney, horribly bored and eager for relief. In a near-by café they had a whiskey and soda apiece, and, feeling comfortably reinforced, returned to the opera house arm-in-arm, long and short, thin and fat, liberally discoursing upon the intellectuality of Herr Wagner.
“Say, you’re not at all like an Englishman,” exclaimed Mr. Rodney impulsively, even gratefully.
“Eh, what?” gasped Brock, replacing his eyeglass. “Oh, I say, now, ‘pon my word, haw, haw!”
“You’ve got an American sense of humour, Medcroft, that’s what you have. You recognise the joke that Wagner played on the world. Pardon me for saying it, sir, but I didn’t think it was in an Englishman.”
“Haw, haw! Ripping, by Jove! No, no! Not you. I mean the joke. But then, you see, it’s been so long since Wagner played it that even an Englishman has had time to see the point. Besides, I’ve lived a bit of my life in America.”
“That accounts for it,” said the tactless but sincere Mr. Rodney.
Brock glared so venomously at the intrusive Mr. Ulstervelt upon the occasion of his next visit to his own box, that Mrs. Medcroft smiled softly to herself as she turned her face away. A few minutes later she seized the opportunity to whisper in his ear. Her eyes were sparkling, and something in her manner bespoke the bated breath.
“You are in love with my sister,” was what she said to him. He blushed convincingly.
“Nonsense!” he managed to reply, but without much persuasiveness.
“But you are. I’m not blind. Anyone can see it. She sees it. Haven’t you sense enough to hide it from her? How do you expect to win?”
“My dear Mrs.—my dear Edith, you amaze me. I’m confusion itself. But,” he went on eagerly, illogically, “do you think I could win her?”
“That is not for one’s wife to say,” she said demurely.
“I’d be tremendously proud of you as a sister-in-law. And I’d be much obliged if you’d help me. But look at that confounded Ulstervelt! He’s making love to her with the whole house looking on.”
“I think it might be polite if you were to ask him out for a drink,” she suggested.
“But I’ve had one and I never take two.”
“Model husband! Then take the girls into the foyer for a stroll and a chat after the act. Don’t mind me. I’m your friend.”
“Do you think I’ve got a chance with her?” he asked with a brave effort.
“You’ve had one wife thrust upon you; why should you expect another without a struggle? I’m afraid you’ll have to work for Constance.”
“But I have your—I can count on your approval?” he whispered eagerly.
“Don’t, Roxbury! People will think you are making love to me!” she protested, wilfully ignoring his question.
He returned to the box after the second act and proposed a turn in the foyer. To his disgust, Ulstervelt appropriated Constance and left him to follow with Mrs. Rodney and Katherine. He almost hated Edith for the tantalising smile she shot after him as he moved away, defeated.
If he was glaring luridly at the irrepressible Freddie, he was not alone in his gloom. Katherine Rodney, green with jealousy, was sending spiteful glances after her dearest friend, while Mrs. Rodney was sniffing the air as if it was laden with frost.
“Don’t you think Connie is a perfect dear? I’m so fond of her,” said Miss Rodney, so sweetly that he should have detected the nether-flow.
He started and pulled himself together. “Aw, yes,—ripping!” He consciously adjusted his eyeglass for a hasty glance about in search of the easily disturbed Mr. Rodney. Then, to Mrs. Rodney, his mind a blank after a passing glimpse of Constance and her escort: “Aw—er—a perfectly jolly opera, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER IV
THE WOULD-BE BROTHER-IN-LAW.
The next morning, bright and early, Mr. Alfred Rodney, a telegram in his hand, charged down the hall to Mrs. Medcroft’s door. With characteristic Far West impulsiveness he banged on the door. A sleepy voice asked who was there.
“It’s me—Rodney. Get up. I want to see Medcroft. Say, Roxbury, wake up!”
“Roxbury?” came in shrill tones from within. “He—Isn’t he upstairs? Good heaven, Mr. Rodney, what has happened? What has happened?”
“Upstairs? What the deuce is he doing upstairs?”’
“He’s—he’s sleeping! Do tell me what’s the matter?”
“Isn’t this Mr. Medcroft’s room?”
“Ye-es—but he isn’t in. He objects to the noise. Oh, has anything happened to Roxbury?” She was standing just inside the door, and her voice betrayed agitation.
“My dear Edith, don’t get excited. I have a telegram from—”
She uttered a shriek.
“He’s been assassinated! Oh, Roxbury!”
“What the dev—Are you crazy? It’s a telegram from——”
“Oh, heavens! I knew they’d kill him—I knew something dreadful would happen if I left—” Here she stopped suddenly. He distinctly heard her catch her breath. After a moment she went on warily: “Is it from a man named Hobart?”
“No! It’s from Odell-Carney. Hobart? I don’t know anybody named Hobar
t.” (How was he to know that Hobart was the name that Medcroft had chosen for correspondence purposes?) “We’re to meet the Odell-Carneys today in Munich. No time to be lost. We’ve got to catch the nine o’clock train.”
“Oh!” came in great relief from the other side of the door. Then, in sudden dismay: “But I can’t do it! The idea of getting up at an hour like this!”
“What room is Roxbury in?”
“I—don’t know!!” in very decided tones. “Inquire at the office!”
Alfred Rodney was a persevering man. It is barely possible that he occupied a lower social plane than that attained by his wife, but he was a man of accomplishment, if not accomplishments. He always did what he set out to do. Be it said in defence of this assertion, he not only routed out his entire protesting flock, but had them at the West-Bahnhof in time to catch the Orient Express—luggage, accessories, and all. Be it also said that he was the only one in the party, save Constance and Tootles, who took to the situation amiably.
“Damn the Odell-Carneys,” was what Freddie Ulstervelt said as the train drew out of the station. Brock looked up approvingly.
“That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard him say,” he muttered loud enough to be heard by Miss Fowler. “I say, who are the Odell-Carneys? First I’ve heard of ’em.”
“The Odell-Carneys? Oh, dear, have you never heard of them?” she cried in surprise. He felt properly rebuked. “They are very swell Londoners. It is said—”
“Then, good heavens, they’ll know I’m not Medcroft,” he whispered in alarm.
“Not at all, my dear Roxbury. That’s just where you’re wrong. They don’t know Roxbury the first. I’ve gone over it all with Edith. She’s just crazy to get into the Odell-Carney set. I regret to say that they have failed to notice the Medcrofts up to this time. Secretly, Edith has ambitions. She has gone to the Lord Mayor’s dinners and to the Royal Antiquarians and to Sir John Rodney’s and a lot of other functions on the outer rim, but she’s never been able to break through the crust and taste the real sweets of London society. My dear Roxbury, the Odell-Carneys entertain the nobility without compunction, and they’ve been known to hobnob with royalty. Mrs. Odell-Carney was a Lady Somebody-or-other before she married the second time. She’s terribly smart, Roxbury.”
“How, in the name of heaven, do they happen to be hobnobbing, as you call it, with the Rodneys, may I ask?”
“Well, it seems that Odell-Carney is promoting a new South African mining venture. I have it from Freddie Ulstervelt that he’s trying to sell something like a million shares to Mr. Rodney, who has loads of money that came from real mines in the Far West. He’d never be such a fool as to sink a million in South Africa, you know, but he’s just clever enough to see the advantage of keeping Odell-Carney in tow, as it were. It means a great deal to Mrs. Rodney, don’t you know, Roxbury, to be able to say that she toured with the Odell-Carneys. Freddie says that Cousin Alfred is talking in a very diplomatic manner of going on to London in August to look fully into the master. It is understood that the Rodneys are to be the guests of the Odell-Carneys while in London. It won’t be the season, of course, so there won’t be much of a commotion in the smart set. It is our dear Edith’s desire to slip into the charmed circle through the rift that the Rodneys make. Do you comprehend?”
They were seated side by side in the corner of the compartment, his broad back screening her as much as possible from the persistent glances of Freddie Ulstervelt, who was nobly striving to confine his attentions to Katherine. Brock’s eyes were devouring her exquisite face with a greediness that might have caused her some uneasiness if there had not been something pleasantly agreeable in his way of doing it.
“Yes—faintly,” he replied, after an almost imperceptible conflict between the senses of sight and hearing. “But how does she intend to explain me away? I’ll be a dreadful skeleton in her closet if it comes to that. When she is obliged to produce the real Roxbury, what then?”
“She’s thought it all out, Roxbury,” said Constance severely but almost inaudibly. “I’m sure Freddie heard part of what you said. Do be careful. She’s going to reveal the whole plot to Mrs. Odell-Carney just as soon as Roxbury gives the word—treating it as a very clever and necessary ruse, don’t you see. Mrs. Odell-Carney will be implored to aid in the deception for a few days, and she’ll consent, because she’s really quite a bit of a sport. At the psychological moment the Rodneys will be told. That places Mrs. Odell-Carney in the position of being an abettor or accomplice: she’s had the distinction of being a sharer in a most glorious piece of strategy. Don’t you see how charmingly it will all work in the end?”
“What are you two whispering about?” demanded Freddie Ulstervelt noisily, patience coming to an end.
“Wha—what the devil is that to—” began Brock furiously. Constance brought him up sharp with a warning kick on the ankle. He vowed afterward that he would carry the mark to his grave.
“He’s telling me what a nice chap you are, Freddie,” said she sweetly. Brock glared out of the window. Freddie sniffed scornfully.
“I’m getting sick of this job,” growled Brock under his breath. “I didn’t calculate on—”
“Now, Roxbury dear, don’t be a bear,” she pleaded so gently, her eyes so full of appeal, that he flushed with sudden shame and contrition.
“Forgive me,” he said, the old light coming back into his eyes so strongly that she quivered for an instant before lowering her own. “I hate that confounded puppy,” he explained lamely, guarding his voice with a new care. “If you felt as I do, you would too.”
She laughed in the old way, but she was not soon to forget that moment when panic was so imminent.
“I—I don’t see how anyone can help liking Freddie,” she said, without actually knowing why. He stared hard at the Danube below. After a long silence he said,—
“It’s all tommy-rot about it being blue, isn’t it?”
She was also looking at the dark brown, swollen river that has been immortalised in song.
“It’s never blue. It’s always a yellow-ochre, it seems to me.”
He waited a long time before venturing to express the thought that of late had been troubling him seriously.
“I wonder if you truly realise the difficulty Edith will have in satisfying an incredulous world with her absolutely truthful story. She’ll have to explain, you know. There’s bound to be a sceptic or two, my dear Constance.”
“But there’s Roxbury,” she protested, her face clouding nevertheless. “He will set everything right.”
“The world will say he is a gullible fool,” said he gently. “And the world always laughs at, not with, a fool. Alas, my dear sister, it’s a very deep pool we’re in.” He leaned closer and allowed a quaint, half-bantering, wholly diffident smile to cross his face. “I—I’m afraid that you are the only being on earth who can make the story thoroughly plausible.”
“I?” she demanded quickly. Their eyes met, and the wonder suddenly left hers. She blushed furiously. “Nonsense!” she said, and abruptly left him to take a seat beside Katherine Rodney. He found small comfort in the whisperings and titterings that came, willy-nilly, to his burning ears from the corner of the compartment. He had a disquieting impression that they were discussing him; it was forced in upon him that being a brother-in-law is not an enviable occupation.
“Wot?” he asked, almost fiercely, after the insistent Freddie had thrice repeated a question.
“I say, will you have a cigaret?” half shouted Freddie, exasperated.
“Oh! No, thanks. The train makes such a beastly racket, don’t you know.”
“They told me at the Bristol you were deaf, but—Oh, I say, old man, I’m sorry. Which ear is it?”
“The one next to you,” replied Brock, recovering from his confusion. “I hear perfectly well with the other one.”
“Yes,” drawled Freddie, with a wink, “so I’ve observed.” After a reflective silence the young man ventured the inter
esting conclusion, “She’s a stunning girl, all right.” Brock looked polite askance. “By Jove, I’m glad she isn’t my sister-in-law.”
“I suppose I’m expected to ask why,” frigidly.
“Certainly. Because, if she was, I couldn’t. Do you get the point?” He crossed his legs and looked insupportably sure of himself.
They reached Munich late in the afternoon and went at once to the Hotel Vier Jahretzeiten, where they were to find the Odell-Carneys.
Mr. Odell-Carney was a middle-aged Englishman of the extremely uninitiative type. He was tall and narrow and distant, far beyond what is commonly accepted as blasé; indeed, he was especially slow of speech, even for an Englishman, quite as if it were an everlasting question with him whether it was worth while to speak at all. One had the feeling when listening to Mr. Odell-Carney that he was being favoured beyond words; it took him so long to say anything, that, if one were but moderately bright, he could finish the sentence mentally some little time in advance of the speaker, and thus be prepared to properly appreciate that which otherwise might have puzzled him considerably. It could not be said, however, that Mr. Odell-Carney was ponderous; he was merely the effectual result of delay. Perhaps it is safe to agree with those who knew him best; they maintained that Odell-Carney was a pose, nothing more.
His wife was quite the opposite in nearly every particular, except height and angularity. She was bony and red-faced and opinionated. A few sallow years with a rapid, profligate nobleman had brought her, in widowhood, to a fine sense of appreciation of the slow-going though tiresomely unpractical men of the Odell-Carney type. It mattered little that he made poor investment of the money she had sequestered from his lordship; he had kept her in the foreground by associating himself with every big venture that interested the financial smart set. Notwithstanding the fact that he never was known to have any money, he was looked upon as a financier of the highest order. Which is saying a great deal in these unfeeling days of pounds and shillings.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 200