“And she—she is undecided?” cried Brock, his eyes darkening.
“No, hang it all, she’s not undecided. She’s said no every time. That’s why I’m up a tree, so to speak.”
“Oh?” was all that Brock said. Of course she couldn’t love a creature of Freddie’s stamp! He gloated!
“’Gad, you’re a lucky dog, Roxbury,” went on Freddie enviously. “Money isn’t everything. You’re married to one of the prettiest and most fascinating women in the world. She’s a wonder. You can’t blame me for wanting your wife as a sister-in-law. Now, can you? And that kid! You lucky dog!”
CHAPTER V
THE FRIENDS OF THE FAMILY.
Brock discovered in due time that he was living in a lofty but uncertain place, among the clouds of exaltation. It was not until the close of the succeeding day that he began to lower himself grudgingly from the height to which Freddie’s ill-mannered confession had led him. By that time he satisfactorily had convinced himself that no one but a fool could have suspected Constance of being in love with Ulstervelt; and yet, on the other hand, was he any better off for this cheerful argument? There was nothing to prove that she cared for him, notwithstanding this agreeable conclusion by contrast. As a matter of fact, he came earthward with a rush, weighted down by the conviction that she did not care a rap for him except as a conveniently moral brother-in-law. He was further distressed by Edith’s comfortless, though perhaps well-qualified, announcement that she believed her sister to be in love; she could not imagine with whom; she only knew she “acted as if she were.”
“Besides, Roxbury,” she said warningly, “it’s a most degenerate husband who falls in love with his wife’s sister.”
They were walking in one of the mountain paths, some distance behind the others. They did not know that Mrs. Odell-Carney had stopped to rest in the leafy niche above the path. She was lazily fanning herself on the stone seat that man had provided as an improvement to nature. Being a sharp-eared person with a London drawing-room instinct, she plainly could hear what they were saying as they approached. These were the first words she fully grasped, and they caused her to prick up her ears:
“I don’t give a hang, Edith. I’m tired of being her brother-in-law.”
“You’re tired of me, Roxbury, that’s what it is,” in plaintive tones.
“You’re happy, you love and are loved, so please don’t put it that way. It’s not fair. Think of the pitiable position I’m in.”
“My dear Roxbury,” quite severely, “if there’s nothing else that will influence you, just stop to consider the che-ild! There’s Tootles, dear Tootles, to think of.”
Of course Mrs. Odell-Carney could not be expected to know that Edith was blithely jesting.
“My dear Edith,” he said, just as firmly “Tootles has nothing to do with the case. You know, and Constance knows, and I know, and the whole world will soon know that I’m not even related to her, poor little beggar. I don’t see why she should come between me and happiness just because she happens to bear a social resemblance to a man who isn’t her father. Come, now, let’s talk over the situation sensibly.”
Just then they passed beyond the hearing of the astonished eavesdropper. Good heaven, what was this? Not his child? Two minutes later Mrs. Odell-Carney was back at the spring where they had left her somnolent husband, who had refused to climb a hill because all of his breath was required to smoke a cigaret.
“Carney,” she said sternly, her lips rigid, her eyes set hard upon his face, “how long have the Medcrofts been married?”
He blinked heavily. “How the devil should I know? ‘Pon me word, it’s—”
“Four years, I think Mrs. Rodney told me. How old is that baby?”
“’Pon me soul, Agatha, I’m as much in the dark as you. I don’t know.”
“A little over a year, I’d say. Well, I just heard Medcroft say that she wasn’t his child. Whose is it?” She stood there like an accusing angel. He started violently, and his jaw dropped; an expression of alarmed protest leaped into his listless eyes.
“’Pon me word, Agatha, how the devil should I know? Don’t look at me like that. Give you my word of honour, I don’t know the woman. ‘Pon me soul, I don’t, my dear.”
He was very much in earnest, thoroughly aroused by what seemed to be a direct insinuation.
“Oh, don’t be stupid,” she cried. “Good heavens, can there be a scandal in that lovely woman’s life?”
“There’s never any scandal in a woman’s life unless she’s reasonably lovely,” remarked he.
“Whose child is she, if she isn’t Medcroft’s?” she pursued with a perplexed frown.
“Demme, Agatha, don’t ask me,” he said irritably, passing his hand over his brow. “I’ve told you that twice. Ask them; I daresay they know.”
She looked at him in disgust. “As if I could do such a thing as that! Dear me, I don’t understand it at all. Four years married. Yes, I’m sure that’s it. Carney, you don’t suppose—” She hesitated. It was not necessary to complete the obvious question.
“Agatha,” said he, weighing his remark carefully, “I’ve said all along that Medcroft is a fool. Take those windows, for instance. If he—”
“Oh, rubbish! What have the windows to do with it? You are positively stupid. And I’d come to like her too. Yes, I’d even asked her to come and see me.” She was really distressed.
“And why not?” he demanded. “Hang it all, Agatha, it’s nothing unusual. She’s a jolly good sort and a sight too good for Medcroft. He’s a stupid ass. I’ve said so all along. How the devil she ever married him, I can’t see. But, by Jove, Agatha, I can readily see how she might have loved the father of this child, no matter who he is. Take my advice, my dear, and don’t be harsh in your judgment. Don’t say a word about what you’ve heard. If they are reconciled to the—er—the situation, why the devil should we give a hang? And, above all, don’t let these Rodneys suspect.” Here he lowered his voice gradually. “They’re a pack of rotters and they couldn’t understand. They’d cut her, even if she is a cousin or whatever it is. I’ve give a year or two of my life to know positively whether Rodney intends taking those shares or not.” He said it in contemplative delight in what he would do if it were definitely settled. “I can’t stand them much longer.”
“What great variety of Americans there are,” she reflected. “Mrs. Medcroft and her sister are Americans. Compare them with the Rodneys and Mr. Ulstervelt. No, Carney, I’ll not start a scandal. The Rodneys would not understand, as you say. They’d tear her to shreds and gloat over the mutilation. No; we’ll have her to see us in London. I like her.”
“And, by Jove, Agatha, I like her sister.”
“My dear, the baby is a darling.”
“But what an ass Medcroft is!”
And thus is it proved that Mrs. Odell-Carney was not only a dutiful wife in taking her husband into her confidence, but also that jointly they enjoyed a peculiarly rational outlook upon the world as they had come to know it and to feel for the people thereof. It is of small consequence that they could not find it in their power to be in tune with the virtuous Rodneys: the Rodneys were conditions, not effects.
However that may be, it was Katherine Rodney, pretty, plump, and spoiled, who pulled the first stone from the foundation of Medcroft’s house of cards. Katherine had convinced herself that she was deeply enamoured of the volatile Freddie; the more she thought that she loved him, the greater became the conviction that he did not care as much for her as he professed. She began to detect a decided falling off in his ardour; it was no use trying to hide the fact from herself that Constance was the most disturbing symptom in evidence. Jealousy succeeded speculation. Katherine decided to be hateful; she could not have helped it if she had tried.
It was very evident, to her at least, that Freddie was not to blame; he was being led on by the artful Miss Fowler. There could be no doubt of it—none in the least, declared Miss Rodney in the privacy of her own miserable reflecti
ons.
Just as she was on the point of carrying her woes to her mother, an astounding revelation came to her out of a clear sky; an entirely new condition came into the problem. It dawned upon her suddenly, without warning, that Roxbury Medcroft was in love with his sister-in-law!
When she burst in upon her mother, half an hour later, that excellent lady started up from her couch, alarmed by the excitement in her daughter’s face. Mrs. Rodney, good soul, was one of the kind who always think the world is coming to an end, or the house is on fire, or the king has been assassinated, if any one approaches with a look of distress in his face.
“My dear, my dear!” she cried, as Katherine stopped tragically in the doorway. “What has happened to your father? Speak!”
“Mamma, it’s worse than that! I—”
“Merciful heaven!” The good lady blindly reached for her smelling salts.
“I’ve made a dreadful discovery,” went on Katherine in suppressed tones. “It came to me like a flash. I couldn’t believe my own brain. So I watched them from my window. There’s no doubt about it, mamma. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. He—”
“My darling, what are you talking about? Is my nose—what is the matter with my nose?” She vaguely felt of her nose in horror.
“He’s in love with her. There’s no mistake. And, will you believe me, mamma, she is encouraging him! Positively! Why—why, it’s utterly contemptible! Oh, dear, what are we to do?”
Mrs. Rodney looked blankly at her daughter, who had thrown herself in a chair. She gasped and then gave vent to a tremulous squeak.
“In love! Your father? With whom—who is she?”
“Father? Oh, Lord, mother, I didn’t say anything about father. Don’t cry! It’s another man altogether.”
“Not Freddie Ulstervelt?” quavered Mrs. Rodney, pulling herself together. “After all he has said to you—”
“No, no, mamma,” cried her daughter irritably. “Freddie may be in love with her, but he’s not the only one. Mamma!” She straightened up and looked at her mother with wide, horror-struck eyes, “Roxbury Medcroft is madly in love with Constance Fowler!”
Mrs. Rodney did not utter a sound for fully a minute and a half. She never took her eyes from her daughter’s distressed face. The colour was coming back into her own, and her lips were setting themselves into thin red lines above her rigid chin.
“I’m sorry, Katherine, that you have seen it too. I have suspected it for several days. But I have not dared to speak—it seemed too improbable. What are we to do?” She sat down suddenly, even weakly.
“She’s not only leading Freddie on, but she’s flirting with her own brother-in-law—her own sister’s husband—her—her—”
“Her own niece’s father! It’s atrocious!”
“She’s a horrid beast! And I thought I loved her. Oh, mamma, it’s just dreadful!”
“Katherine, control yourself. I will not have you upsetting yourself like this. You’ll have another of those awful headaches. Leave it all to me, dear. Something must be done. We can’t stand by and see dear Edith betrayed. She’s so happy and so trusting. And, besides all that, we’d be dragged into the scandal. I—”
“And the Odell-Carneys too. Heavens!”
“It must be stopped! I shall go at once to Mrs. Odell-Carney and tell her what we have discovered. It will prepare her. She is the best friend I have, and I know she will suggest a way to put a stop to this thing before it is too late. We must—”
“Why don’t you speak to father about it first?”
“Your father! My dear, what would be the use? He wouldn’t believe it. He never does. I wonder if dear Mrs. Odell-Carney is in her room.” The estimable lady fluttered loosely toward the door. Her daughter called to her.
“If I were you, I’d wait a day or two, mamma.” She was quite cool and very calculating now. “It may adjust itself, and—and if we can just drop a hint that we suspect, they won’t be so—so—well, so public about it. I know—I just know that Freddie will be disgusted with her if he sees how she’s carrying on.” Katherine suddenly had realised that good might spring from evil, after all.
In the mean time, young Mr. Ulstervelt was having troubles and disappointments of his own. Persistent effort to make love to Miss Fowler had finally resulted in an almost peremptory command to desist. An unlucky impulse to hold her hand during one of his attempts to “try her out” met with disaster. Miss Fowler snatched her hand away and, with a look he never forgot, abruptly left him. “It’s all off with her,” ruminated Freddie, shivering slightly as an after effect of the icy stare she had given him. “She’s got it in for me, for some reason or other. Wow! That was a frost! I feel it yet. Medcroft has played the deuce helping me. I wonder if— Hello! There’s Katherine.”
Freddie did some rapid-fire thinking in the next half-minute, with the result that Constance Fowler was banished forever from his calculations and Katherine Rodney restored to her own. So long as he could not possibly win Constance he figured that he might just as well devote himself to the girl he was virtually engaged to marry. Freddie’s was a convenient and adaptable constancy. Miss Fowler out of sight was also out of mind; he descended upon Katherine with all of the old ardour shining in his eyes. It was soon after Miss Rodney’s conference with her mother, and the young lady was off for a walk in the town.
“Hello, Katherine,” called he, coming up from behind. “Shopping? Take me along to carry the bundles. I want to begin now.”
It was Miss Rodney’s fancy to receive his advances with disdain. She assumed a most unfriendly manner.
“Indeed?” with chilling irony. “And why, may I ask?”
Freddie was taken aback. This was most unexpected.
“Practice makes perfect,” he said glibly. “Don’t you want me to carry ’em, Kitty?” He said it almost tearfully.
Katherine exulted inwardly. Outwardly she was very cool and very baffling. “Please don’t call me Kitty. I hate it.”
“It’s a dear little name. That’s what I’m going to call you when we are—well, you know.”
“I don’t know. What are you talking about?”
“Oh, come now, Miss Rodney. Don’t be so icy. What’s up? Never mind—don’t tell me. I know. You’re jealous of Connie.” It was a bold stroke and it had an immediate effect.
“Jealous!” she scoffed, but her cheeks went red. “Not I, Freddie.” She considered for a second and then went on: “She’s not in love with you. You must be blind. She’s crazy about Mr. Medcroft.”
“By Jove,” exclaimed Freddie, stopping short, his eyes bulging. He looked at her for a minute in silence, realisation sifting into his face. “You’re right! She is in love with him. I see it now. Well, what do you think of that! Her brother-in-law!”
“And he is in love with her too. Now you may go back to her and see if you can’t win her away from him. I shan’t interfere, my dear Freddie. Don’t have me on your conscience. Good-by.”
She left him standing there in the street. With well-practised tact he darted into a tobacconist’s shop.
“Another shake-down,” he reflected ruefully. “They’re all passing me up today. But, great hooks, what’s all this about Medcroft and Constance?” He bought some cigarets and started off for a walk, mildly excited by this new turn of affairs. It occurred to him, as he turned it all over in his mind, that Mrs. Medcroft was amazingly resigned to the situation. Of course, she was not blind to her husband’s infatuation for her sister. Therefore, if she were so cheerful and indifferent about it, it followed that she was not especially distressed; in fact, it suddenly dawned upon him she was not only reconciled but relieved. She had ceased to love her husband! She could be a freelance in Love’s lists, notwithstanding the inconvenience of a legal attachment. “She’s ripping, too,” concluded Freddie, with a certain buoyancy of spirit. “If she doesn’t love Medcroft, she at least ought to love someone else instead. It’s customary. I wonder—” Here he reflected deeply for an instant, his
spirits floating high. Then he turned abruptly and made his way to the Tirol.
It came to pass, in the course of the evening, that Mr. Ulstervelt, supremely confident from the effect of past achievements, drew the unsuspecting Mrs. Medcroft into a secluded tête-à-tête. It is not of record that he was ever a diplomatic wooer; one in haste never is. Suffice it to say, Mrs. Medcroft, her cheeks flaming, her eyes wide with indignation, suddenly left the side of the indomitable Freddie and joined the party at the other end of the entresol, but not before she had said to him with unmistakable clearness and decision,—
“You little wretch! How dare you say such silly things to me!”
The rebuff decisive! And he had only meant to be comforting, not to say self-sacrificing. He’d be hanged if he could understand women nowadays. Not these women, at least. In high dudgeon he stalked from the room. In the door he met Brock.
“For two cents,” he declared savagely, as if Brock were to blame, “I’d take the next train for Paris.”
Brock watched him down the hall. He drew a handful of small coins from his pocket, ruefully looking them over. “Two cents,” he said. “Hang it all, I’ve nothing here but pfennigs and hellers and centimes.”
In the course of his wanderings the disconsolate Freddie came upon Mrs. Odell-Carney and pudgy Mr. Rodney. They were sitting in a quiet corner of the reading-room. Mr. Rodney had had a hard day. He had climbed a mountain—or, more accurately speaking, he had climbed half-way up and then the same half down. He was very tired. Freddie observed from his lonely station that Mr. Rodney was fast dropping to sleep, notwithstanding his companion’s rapid flow of small talk. It did not take Freddie long to decide. He was an outcast and a pariah and he was very lonely. He must have someone to talk to. Without more ado he bore down upon the couple, and a moment later was tactfully advising the sleepy Mr. Rodney to take himself off to bed,—advice which that gentleman gladly accepted. And so it came about that Freddie sat face to face with the last resort, at the foot of the chaise-longue, gazing with serene adulation into the eyes of a woman who might have had a son as old as he—if she had had one at all. She had been a coquette in her salad days; there was no doubt of it. She had encountered fervid gallants in all parts of the world and in all stations of life. But it remained for the gallant Freddie Ulstervelt to bowl her over with surprise for the first time in her long and varied career. At the end of half an hour she pulled herself together and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan, a quizzical smile on her lips.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 202