“My dear Mr. Ulstervelt, are you trying to make love to me? You nice Americans! How gallant you can be. I am quite old enough to be your mother. Believe me, I thank you for the compliment. I can’t tell you how I appreciate this delicate flattery. You are very delicious. But,” as she arose graciously, “I’d follow Mr. Rodney’s example if I were you. I’d go to bed.” Then, with a rare smile which could not have been more chilling, she left him standing there.
“By Jove,” he muttered, passing his hand across his eyes, as if bewildered, “what was I saying to her? Good Lord, has it got to be a habit with me? Was I making love to—her?” He departed for the American bar.
Mrs. Rodney had but little sleep that night. She went to bed in a state of worry and uncertainty, oppressed by the shadows which threatened eternal darkness to the fair name of the family—however distantly removed. Katherine’s secret had in reality been news to her; she had not paid enough attention to the Medcrofts to notice anything that they did, so long as they did not do it in conjunction with the Odell-Carneys. The Odell-Carneys were her horizon,—morning, noon, and night. And now there was likelihood of that glorious horizon being obscured by a sickening scandal in the vulgar foreground. Inspired by Katherine’s dreadful conclusions, the excellent lady set about to observe for herself. During the entire evening she flitted about the hotel and grounds with all the snooping instincts of a Sherlock Holmes. She lurked, if that is not putting it too theatrically. From unexpected nooks she emerged to view the landscape o’er; by devious paths she led her doubts to the gates of absolute certainty, and then sat down to shudder to her heart’s content. It was all true! For four hours she had been trying to get to the spot where she could see with her own eyes, and at last she had come to it. Of course, she had to admit to herself that she did not actually hear Mr. Medcroft tell Constance that he loved her, but it was enough for her that he sat with her in the semi-darkness for two unbroken hours, speaking in tones so low that they might just as well have been whispering so far as her taut ears were concerned.
Moreover, other persons than herself had smilingly nudged each other and referred to the couple as lovers; no one seemed to doubt it—nor to resent it, which is proof that the world loves a lover when it recognises him as one.
Mrs. Rodney also discovered that Mrs. Medcroft went to her room at nine o’clock, at least three hours before the subdued tête-à-tête came to an end. The poor thing doubtless was crying her eyes out, decided Mrs. Rodney.
And now, after all this, is it to be considered surprising that the distressed mother of Katherine did not sleep well that night? Nor should her wakefulness be laid at the door of the tired Mr. Rodney, who was ever a firm and stentorian sleeper.
Morning came, and with it a horseback ride for Brock and Miss Fowler. That was enough for Mrs. Rodney; she would hold in no longer. Mrs. Odell-Carney must be told; she, at least, must have the chance to escape before the storm of scandal broke to muddy her immaculate skirts. Forthwith the considerate hostess appeared before her guest with a headful of disclosures. She had decided in advance that it would not do to beat about the bush, so to speak; she would come directly to the obnoxious point.
They were in Mrs. Odell-Carney’s sitting-room. Mr. Odell-Carney was smoking a cigaret on the balcony, just outside the window. Mrs. Rodney did not know that he was there. It is only natural that he held himself inhospitably aloof: Mrs. Rodney bored him to death. He did not hear all that was poured out between them, but he heard quite enough to cause him something of a pang. He distinctly heard his wife say things to Mrs. Rodney that she had solemnly avowed she would not say,—things about the Medcroft baby.
It goes without saying that Mrs. Odell-Carney refused to be surprised by the disclosures. She calmly admitted that she had suspected Medcroft of being too fond of his sister-in-law, but, she went on cheerfully, why not? His wife didn’t care a rap for him—she said rap and nothing else; Mrs. Medcroft had an affair of her own, dear child; she was not so slow as Mrs. Rodney thought, oh, no. Mrs. Odell-Carney warmed up considerably in defending the not-to-be-pitied Edith. She said she had liked her from the beginning, and more than ever, now that she had really come to the conclusion that her husband was the kind who sets his wife an example by being a bit divaricating himself.
Mrs. Rodney fairly screeched with horror when she heard that Tootles was “a poor little beggar,” and “all that sort of thing, you know.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Odell-Carney, hating herself all the time for engaging in the spread of gossip, but femininely unable to withstand the test, “your excellent cousin, Mrs. Medcroft, receives two letters a day from London,—great, fat letters which take fifteen minutes to read in spite of the fact that they are written in a perfectly huge hand by a man—a man, d’ye hear? They’re not from her husband. He’s here. He cannot have written them in London, don’t you see? He—”
“I see,” inserted Mrs. Rodney, who was afraid that Mrs. Odell-Carney might think she didn’t see.
“Mind your Mrs. Rodney, I’m terribly cut up about all this. She has—”
“Oh, I knew you would be,” mourned Mrs. Rodney, her heart in her boots. “You must just hate me for exposing you to—”
“Rubbish!” scoffed the other. “It isn’t that. I’ve been through a dozen affairs in which my best friends were frightfully—er—complicated. I meant to say that I’m terribly cut up over poor Mrs. Medcroft. She’s a dear. Believe me, she’s a most delicious sinner. Even Carney says that, and he’s very fastidious—and very loyal.”
“They are married in name only,” said Mrs. Rodney, beginning to sniffle. She looked up and smiled wanly through her tears. “You know what I mean. My grammar is terrible when I’m nervous.” She pulled at her handkerchief for a wavering moment. “Do you think I’d better speak to Edith? We may be able to prevent the divorce.”
“Divorce, my dear,” gasped Mrs. Odell-Carney incredulously.
At this juncture Mr. Odell-Carney emerged from his shell, so to speak. He stalked through the window and confronted the two ladies, one of whom, at least, was vastly dismayed by his sudden appearance.
“Now, see here,” he began without preliminary apology, “I won’t hear of a divorce. That’s all rubbish—perfect rot, ‘pon my soul. Wot’s the use? Hang it all, Mrs. Rodney, wot’s the odds, so long as all parties are contented? We can stand it, by Jove, if they can, don’t you know. We can’t regulate the love affairs of the universe. Besides, I’m not going to stand by and see a friend dragged into a thing of this sort—”
“A friend, Carney,” exclaimed his wife.
“Well, it’s possible, my dear, that he may be a friend. I know so many chaps in London who might be doing this sort of thing, don’t you know. Who knows but the chap who’s writing her these letters may be one of my best friends? It doesn’t pay to take a chance on it. I won’t hear to it. If Medcroft knows and his wife knows and Miss Fowler knows, why the deuce should we bother our heads about it? Last night I heard the Medcroft infant bawling its lungs out—teething, I daresay—but did I go in and take a hand in straightening out the poor little beggar? Not I. By the same token, why should I or anybody else presume to step in and try to straighten out the troubles of its parents? It‘s useless interference, either way you take it.”
“I think it’s all very entertaining and diverting,” said Mrs. Odell-Carney carelessly. She yawned.
“Do you really think so?” asked the doubting Mrs. Rodney. “I was so afraid you’d mind. Your position in society, my dear Mrs.—”
“My position in society, Mrs. Rodney, can weather the tempest you predict,” said Mrs. Odell-Carney with a smile that went to Mrs. Rodney’s marrow.
“Oh, if—if you really don’t mind—” she mumbled apologetically.
“Not at all, my dear madam,” remarked Odell-Carney, carefully adjusting his eyeglass. “It’s quite immaterial, I assure you.”
CHAPTER VI
OTHER RELATIONS.
It is but natural to pres
ume, after the foregoing, that the affairs of the Medcrofts were under close and careful scrutiny from that confidential hour. The Odell-Carneys were conspicuously nice and agreeable to the Medcrofts and Miss Fowler. It may be said, indeed, that Mr. Odell-Carney went considerably out of his way to be agreeable to Mrs. Medcroft; so much so, in fact, that she made it a point to have someone else with her whenever she seemed likely to be left alone with him. The Rodneys struggled bravely and no doubt conscientiously to emulate the example set by the Odell-Carneys, but it was hardly to be expected that they could see new things through old-world eyes. They grew very stiff and ceremonious,—that is, the Rodney ladies did. It was their prerogative, of course: were they not cousins of the diseased?
Four or five days of uneasy pretence passed with a swiftness that irritated certain members of the party and a slowness that distressed the others. Days never were so short as those which the now recklessly infatuated Brock was spending. He was valiantly earning his way into the heart of Constance,—a process that tried his patience exceedingly, for she was blithely unimpressionable, if one were to judge by the calmness with which she fended off the inevitable though tardy assault. She kept him at arm’s length; appearances demanded a discreetness, no matter how she may secretly have felt toward the good-looking husband of her sister. To say that she was enjoying herself would be putting it much too tamely; she was revelling in the fun of the thing. It mattered little to her that people—her own cousins in particular—were looking upon her with cold and critical eyes; she knew, down in her heart, that she could throw a bomb among them at any time by the mere utterance of a single word. It mattered as little that Edith was beginning to chafe miserably under the strain of waiting and deception; the novelty had worn off for the wife of Roxbury; she was despairingly in love, and she was pining for the day to come when she could laugh again with real instead of simulated joyousness.
“Connie, dear,” she would lament a dozen times a day, “it’s growing unbearable. Oh, how I wish the three weeks were ended. Then I could have my Roxbury, and you could have my other Roxbury, and everybody wouldn’t be pitying me and cavilling at you because I’m unhappily married.”
“Why do you say I could have your other Roxbury?” demanded her sister on one occasion. “You forget that father expects me to marry the viscount. I—”
“You are so tiresome, Connie. Don’t worry me with your love affairs—I don’t want to hear them. There’s Mr. Brock waiting for you in the garden.”
“I know it, my dear. He’s been waiting for an hour. I think it is good for him to wait,” said the other, with airy confidence. “What does Roxy say in his letter this morning?”
“He says it will all be over in a day or two. Dear me, how I wish it were over now! I can’t endure Cousin Mary’s snippishness much longer, and as for Katherine! My dear, I hate that girl!”
“She’s been very nice lately, Edith—ever since Freddie dropped me so completely. By the way, Burton was telling me today that Odell-Carney had been asking her some very curious and staggering questions about Tootles and your most private affairs.”
“I know, my dear,” groaned Edith. “He very politely remarked to me last night that Tootles made him think very strangely of a friend of his in London. He wouldn’t mention the fellow’s name. He only smiled and said, ‘Nevah mind, my dear, he’s a c’nfended handsome dog.’ I daresay he meant that as a compliment for Tootles. She is pretty, don’t you think so, dear?”
“She’s just like you, Edith,” said Constance, who understood things quite clearly.
“Then, in heaven’s name, Connie, why are they staring at her so impolitely—all of them?”
“It’s because she is so pretty. Goodness, Edith, don’t let every little thing worry you. You’ll have wrinkles and grey hairs soon enough.”
“It’s all very nice for you to talk,” grumbled Edith. “I’m going mad with loneliness. You have a lover near you all the time—he’s mad about you. What have I? I’m utterly alone. No one loves me—no, not a soul—”
“You won’t let them love you, Edith,” said Constance jauntily. “They all want to love you—all of them.”
“I hate men,” announced Mrs. Medcroft, retrospectively.
Developments of a most refractory character swooped down upon them at the very end of the sojourn in Innsbruck. Every one had begun to rejoice in the fact that the fortnight was almost over, and that they could go their different ways without having anything really regrettable to carry away with them. The Rodneys were going to Paris, the Medcrofts to London, the Odell-Carneys (after finding out where the others were bent) to Ostend. Freddie Ulstervelt suddenly announced his determination to remain at the Tirol for a week or two longer. That very day he had been introduced to a Mademoiselle Le Brun, a fascinating young Parisian, stopping at the Tirol with her mother.
All might have ended well had it not been for the unfortunate circumstance of Odell-Carney’s making a purchase of the London Standard instead of the Times, as was his custom. His lamentations over this piece of stupidity were cut short by the discovery of an astonishing article upon the editorial page of the paper—an article which created within him a sense of grave perplexity. He read the headlines thrice and glanced through the text twice, neither time with any very definite idea of what he was reading. His fingers shook as he held the sheet nearer the window for a final effort to untangle the incredible thing that lay before him in simple, unimpeachable black and white.
“’Pon me word,” he kept repeating to himself feebly. Then he got up and went off in extreme haste to find his wife.
“My dear,” he said to her in the carriage-way, “I must speak with you alone.” She was just starting off for a drive with Mrs. Rodney.
“Bad news, Carney?” she demanded, struck by his expression. She was following him toward a remote corner of the approach. He did not reply until they were seated, much nearer to each other than was their wont.
“Read that,” he said, slipping the Standard into her hands. “Wot do you think of it?”
“My dear Carney, I don’t know. Would you mind telling me what I am to read?”
“The Medcroft thing. Right there.”
She read the article, her husband watching her face the while. Surprise, incredulity, dismay, succeeded each other in rapid changes. She was reading in sheer amazement of the doings of Roxbury Medcroft in connection with the County Council’s sub-committee—in London! The story went on to relate how Medcroft, implacable leader of the opposition to the “grafters,” suddenly had appeared before the committee with the most astounding figures and facts to support his charges of rottenness on the part of the “clique”; his unexpected descent upon the scene had thrown the opposing leaders into a panic; every one had been led to believe that he was sojourning in the east. As a matter of fact, it was soon revealed, he had been in London, secretly working on the problem, for nearly three weeks, keeping discreetly under cover in order that his influence might not be thwarted. His array of facts, his bitter arraignment of the men who were trying to force the building bill through the Council, staggered the whole city of London. At that writing it looked as though the bill would be overthrown, its promoters had been so completely put to rout. The committee would be compelled to take cognisance of the startling exposure—the people would demand a full threshing out of the obnoxious deal. Roxbury Medcroft’s name was on every one’s lips. The Standard had profited by securing a great “beat.”
The Odell-Carneys looked at each other in wonder and perplexity. “What does it mean?” asked the lady, her eyes narrowing.
“Look here, Agatha, this paper’s at least two days old. Now, how the devil can Medcroft be in London and Innsbruck at the same time. He was here day before yesterday, wasn’t he? I’m so c’nfended unobserving—”
“Yes, yes, he was here. And this paper—” She paused irresolutely.
“Says he was there. ‘Pon my word, it’s most uncanny. There’s some mystery here.”
“I’ve got it, Carney! This is not Roxbury Medcroft.”
“Good Gawd!”
“This explains everything. Heavens, Carney! This fellow is—is her lover! She’s running about the country with him. She’s—”
“Her lover? ‘Gad, my dear, he may have been so at one time, but he’s the other one’s lover now, take my word for it. I say, ‘pon my soul, this is a charming game your friends the Rodneys have let us into. They—”
“My friends! Yours, you mean!” she retorted.
“Oh, come now! But let it go at that. They know, of course, that this fellow isn’t her husband, and yet, by Gad, Agatha, they’ve gone about deliberately palming him off on us as the real article. They are actually sanctioning the whole bloody—”
“Stop a moment, Carney,” interrupted his wife. “The London chap may be the fraud. Let us go slow, my dear.”
“Slow? How the devil can we go slow in such fast company? No! This fellow is the fraud. And they knew it too. They all know it. They—”
“Rubbish! You forget that the whole Rodney tribe is up in arms because Medcroft is making love to his wife’s sister. They’re not assuming anything there, let me tell you. And he’s not Edith’s lover. If he’s not her husband, he’s playing a part that she understands and approves. And this—this, my dear Carney, may account for the imaginary orphanage of Tootles. Dear me, it’s quite a tangle.”
“I shall telegraph my solicitors at once for definite news. They’ll know whether the real Medcroft is in London, and then—well, by Jove, Agatha, I can’t tell just wot steps I’ll take in regard to these Rodneys.”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 203