The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

  At last there came a day of deliverance. The guests were departing and I can truthfully say that I was speeding them.

  Elsie Hazzard took me off to a remote corner, where a little later on Betty Billy and the two husbands found us.

  “John, will you ever forgive me?” she said very soberly. “I swear to you I hadn’t the faintest idea what it—”

  “Please, please, Elsie,” I broke in warmly; “don’t abuse yourself in my presence. I fully understand everything. At least, nearly everything. What I can’t understand, for the life of me, is this: how did you happen to pick up two such consummate bounders as these fellows are?”

  “Alas, John,” said she, shaking her head, “a woman never knows much about a man until she has lived a week in the same house with him. Now you are a perfect angel.”

  “You’ve always said that,” said I. “You did not have to live in the same house with me to find it out, did you?”

  She ignored the question. “I shall never, never forgive myself for this awful week, John. We’ve talked it all over among ourselves. We are ashamed—oh, so terribly ashamed. If you can ever like us again after—”

  “Like you!” I cried, taking her by the shoulders. “Why, Elsie Hazzard, I have never liked you and George half so much as I like you now. You two and the Smiths stand out like Gibraltars in my esteem. I adore all of you. I sha’n’t be happy again until I know that you four—and no more—are coming back to Schloss Rothhoefen for an indefinite stay. Good Lord, how happy we shall be!”

  I said it with a great deal of feeling. The tears rushed into her eyes.

  “You are a dear, John,” she sighed.

  “You’ll come?”

  “In a minute,” said she with vehemence, a genuine American girl once more.

  “Just as soon as these pesky workmen are out of the place, I’ll drop you a line,” said I, immeasurably exalted. “But I draw the line at noblemen.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, setting her nice little white teeth. “I draw it too. Never again! Never!”

  It occurred to me that here was an excellent opening for a bit of missionary work. Very pointedly I said to her: “I fancy you are willing to admit now that she wasn’t such a simpleton for leaving him.”

  She went so far as to shudder, all the time regarding me with dilated eyes. “I can’t imagine anything more dreadful than being that man’s wife, John.”

  “Then why won’t you admit that you are sorry for her? Why won’t you be a little just to her?”

  She looked at me sharply. “Do you know her?”

  “Not by a long shot,” I replied hastily, and with considerable truthfulness.

  “Why are you so keen to have me take sides with her?”

  “Because I did, the instant I saw that infernal cad.”

  She pursed her lips. It was hard for her to surrender.

  “Out with it, Elsie,” I commanded. “You know you’ve been wrong about that poor little girl. I can tell by the look in your eyes that you have switched over completely in the last four days, and so has Betty Billy.”

  “I can’t forgive her for marrying him in the first place,” she said stubbornly. “But I think she was justified in leaving him. As I know him now, I don’t see how she endured it as long as she did. Yes, I am sorry for her. She is a dear girl and she has had a—a—”

  “I’ll say it, my dear: a hell of a time.”

  “Thank you.” “And I daresay you now think she did right in taking the child, too,” I persisted.

  “I—I hope she gets safely away with little Rosemary, back to God’s country as we are prone to call it. Oh, by the way, John, I don’t see why I should feel bound to keep that wretch’s secret any longer. He has treated us like dogs. He doesn’t deserve—”

  “Hold on! You’re not thinking of telling me his name, are you?”

  “Don’t you want to know it? Don’t you care to hear that you’ve been entertaining the most talked of, the most interesting—”

  “No, I don’t!”

  “Don’t you care to hear who it was that he married and how many millions he got from—”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “And why not?”

  “Well,” said I, judicially, “in the first place I like the mystery of it all. In the second place, I don’t want to know anything more about this fellow than I already know. He is enough of a horror to me, as it is, God knows, without giving a name to him. I prefer to think of him as Mr. Pless. If you don’t mind, Elsie, I’ll try to eradicate him thoroughly from my system as Pless before I take him on in any other form of evil. No, I don’t want to know his name at present, nor do I care a hang who it was he married. Silly notion, I suppose, but I mean what I say.”

  She looked at me in wonder for a moment and then shook her head as if considering me quite hopeless. “You are an odd thing, John. God left something out when He fashioned you. I’m just dying to tell you all about them, and you won’t let me.”

  “Is she pretty?” I asked, yielding a little.

  “She is lovely. We’ve been really quite hateful about her, Betty and I. Down in our hearts we like her. She was a spoiled child, of course, and all that sort of thing, but heaven knows she’s been pretty thoroughly made over in a new crucible. We used to feel terribly sorry for her, even while we were deriding her for the fool she had made of herself in marrying him. I’ve seen her hundreds of times driving about alone in Vienna, where they spent two winters, a really pathetic figure, scorned not only by her husband but by every one else. He never was to be seen in public with her. He made it clear to his world that she was not to be inflicted upon it by any unnecessary act of his. She came to see Betty and me occasionally; always bright and proud and full of spirit, but we could see the wounds in her poor little heart no matter how hard she tried to hide them. I tell you, John, they like us as women but they despise us as wives. It will always be the same with them. They won’t let us into their charmed circle. Thank God, I am married to an American. He must respect me whether he wants to or not.”

  “Poor little beggar,” said I, without thinking of how it would sound to her; “she has had her fling, and she has paid well for it.”

  “If her stingy old father, who permitted her to get into the scrape, would come up like a man and pay what he ought to pay, there would be no more pother about this business. He hasn’t lived up to his bargain. The—Mr. Pless has squandered the first million and now he wants the balance due him. A trade’s a trade, John. The old man ought to pay up. He went into it with his eyes open, and I haven’t an atom of sympathy for him. You have read that book of Mrs. O’Burnett’s, haven’t you?—’The Shuttle’? Well, there you are. This is but another example of what fools American parents can be when they get bees in their bonnets.”

  She seemed to be accusing me!

  “I hope she gets away safely with the kiddie,” said I, non-committally.

  “Heaven knows where she is. Maybe she’s as safe as a bug in a rug.”

  “I shouldn’t be surprised,” said I.

  The Billy Smiths and George Hazzard came up at this juncture. Elsie at once proceeded to go into a long series of conjectures as to the probable whereabouts of Mr. Pless’s former wife and their child. I was immensely gratified to find that they were now undivided in their estimate of Mr. Pless and firmly allied on the side of the missing countess.

  I gathered from their remarks that the young woman’s mother and brothers were still in Paris, where their every movement was being watched by secret agents. They were awaiting the arrival from New York of the father of the countess, after which they were to come to Vienna for the purpose of making a determined fight for the daughter’s absolute freedom and the custody of the child.

  Somehow this news gave me a strange feeling of apprehension, a sensation that later on was to be amply justified.

  I daresay an historian less punctilious about the truth than I propose to be, would, at this stage of the narrative, insert a whopping lie fo
r the sake of effect, or “action,” or “heart interest,” as such things are called in the present world of letters. He would enliven his tale by making Mr. Pless do something sensational while he was about it, such as yanking his erstwhile companion out of her place of hiding by the hair of her head, or kicking down all the barricades about the place, or fighting a duel with me, or—well, there is no end of things he might do for the sake of a “situation.” But I am a person of veracity and the truth is in me. Mr. Pless did none of these interesting things, so why should I say that he did?

  He went away with the others at half-past eleven, and that was the end of his first visit to my domain. For fear that you, kind reader, may be disappointed, I make haste to assure you that he was to come again.

  Of course there was more or less turmoil and—I might say disaffection—attending his departure. He raised Cain with my servants because they did this and that when they shouldn’t have done either; he (and the amiable baron) took me to task for having neglected to book compartments for them in the Orient Express; he insisted upon having a luncheon put up in a tea basket and taken to the railway station by Britton, and he saw to it personally that three or four bottles of my best wine were neatly packed in with the rest. He said three or four, but Britton is firm in his belief that there was nearer a dozen, judging by the weight.

  He also contrived to have Mr. Poopendyke purchase first-class railway tickets for him and the baron, and then forgot to settle for them. It amounted to something like four hundred and fifty kronen, if I remember correctly. He took away eleven hundred and sixty-five dollars of my money, besides, genially acquired at roulette, and I dread to think of what he and the baron took out of my four friends at auction bridge.

  I will say this for him: he was the smartest aristocrat I’ve ever known.

  Need I add that the Hazzards and the Smiths travelled second-class?

  “Well, thank the Lord!” said I, as the ferry put off with the party, leaving me alone on the little landing. The rotten timbers seemed to echo the sentiment. At the top of the steep all the Schmicks were saying it, too; in the butler’s pantry it was also being said; a score of workmen were grunting it; and the windlass that drew me up the hill was screaming it in wild, discordant glee. I repeated it once more when Britton returned from town and assured me that they had not missed the train.

  “That’s what I’d like to say, sir,” said he.

  “Well, say it,” said I. And he said it so vociferously that I know it must have been heard in the remotest corners of heaven.

  The merry song of the hammer and the sweet rasp of the saw greeted my delighted ear as I entered the castle. Men were singing and whistling for all they were worth; the air was full of music. It was not unlike the grand transformation scene in the pantomime when all that has been gloom and despondency gives way in the flash of an eye to elysian splendour and dazzling gaiety. ’Pon my soul, I never felt so exuberant in all my life. The once nerve-racking clangour was like the soothing strains of an invisible orchestra to my delighted senses. Ha! Ha! What a merry old world it is, after all!

  Nearing my study, I heard an almost forgotten noise: the blithe, incessant crackle of a typewriting machine. Never have I heard one rattle so rapidly or with such utter garrulousness.

  I looked in at the door. Over in his corner by the window Poopendyke was at work, his lanky figure hunched over the key-board, his head enveloped in clouds from a busy pipe, for all the world like a tugboat smothering in its own low-lying smoke. Sheets of paper were strewn about the floor. Even as I stood there hesitating, he came to the end of a sheet and jerked it out of the machine with such a resounding snap that the noise startled me. He was having the time of his life!

  I stole away, unwilling to break in upon this joyful orgy.

  Conrad, grinning from ear to ear, was waiting for me outside my bedroom door late in the day. He saluted me with unusual cordiality.

  “A note, mein herr,” said he, and handed me a dainty little pearl-grey envelope. He waited while I read the missive.

  “I sha’n’t be home for dinner, Conrad,” said I, my eyes aglow. “Tell Hawkes, will you?”

  He bowed and scraped himself away; somehow he seemed to have grown younger by decades. It was in the air to be young and care-free. I read the note again and felt almost boyish. Then I went up to my room, got out my gayest raiment without shame or compunction, dressed with especial regard for lively effects, and hied me forth to carry sunshine into the uttermost recesses of my castle.

  The Countess welcomed me with a radiant smile. We shook hands.

  “Well, he has gone,” said I, drawing a deep breath.

  “Thank the Lord,” said she, and then I knew that the symphony was complete. We all had sung it.

  It must not be supposed for an instant that I had been guilty of neglecting my lovely charge during that season of travail and despair. No, indeed! I had visited her every day as a matter of precaution. She required a certain amount of watching.

  I do not hesitate to say at this time that she seemed to be growing lovelier every day. In a hundred little ways she was changing, not only in appearance but in manner.

  Now, to be perfectly frank about it, I can’t explain just what these little changes were—that is, not in so many words—but they were quite as pronounced as they were subtle. I may risk mentioning an improvement in her method of handling me. She was not taking quite so much for granted as she did at first. She was much more humble and considerate, I remarked; instead of bullying me into things she now cajoled me; instead of making demands upon my patience and generosity, she rather hesitated about putting me to the least trouble. She wasn’t so arrogant, nor so hard to manage. In a nutshell, I may say with some satisfaction, she was beginning to show a surprising amount of respect for me and my opinions. Where once she had done as she pleased, she now did so only after asking my advice and permission, both of which I gave freely as a gentleman should. Fundamentally she was all right. It was only in a superficial sort of way that she fell short of being ideal. She really possessed a very sweet, lovely nature. I thought I could see the making of a very fine woman in her.

  I do not say that she was perfect or ever could be, but she might come very close to it if she went on improving as she did every day. As a matter of fact, I found an immense amount of analytical pleasure in studying the changes that attended the metamorphosis. It seemed to my eager imagination that she was being translated before my eyes; developing into a serious, sensible, unselfish person with a soul preparing to mount higher than self. Her voice seemed to be softer, sweeter; the satirical note had disappeared almost entirely, and with it went the forced raillery that had been so pronounced at the beginning of our acquaintance.

  Her devotion to Rosemary was wonderful to see. By the way, while I think of it, the child was quite adorable. She was learning to pronounce my name, and getting nearer and nearer to it every day. At the time of which I now write she was calling me (with great enthusiasm), by the name of “Go-go,” which, reduced to aboriginal American, means “Man-with-the-Strong-Arm-Who-Carries-Baby.”

  “It is very nice of you to ask me up to dine with you,” said I.

  “Isn’t it about time I was doing something for you in return for all that you have done for me?” she inquired gaily. “We are having a particularly nice dinner this evening, and I thought you’d enjoy a change.”

  “A change?” said I, with a laugh. “As if we haven’t been eating out of the same kettle for days!”

  “I was not referring to the food,” she said, and I was very properly squelched.

  “Nevertheless, speaking of food,” said I, “it may interest you to know that I expected to have rather a sumptuous repast of my own to celebrate the deliverance. A fine plump pheasant, prepared a la Oscar, corn fritters like mother used to make, potatoes picard,—”

  “And a wonderful alligator pear salad,” she interrupted, her eyes dancing.

  I stared. “How in the world did you guess?�
�

  She laughed in pure delight, and I began to understand. By the Lord Harry, the amazing creature was inviting me to eat my own dinner in her salle manger! “Well, may I be hanged! You do beat the Dutch!”

  She was wearing a wonderful dinner gown of Irish lace, and she fairly sparkled with diamonds. There was no ornament in her brown hair, however, nor were her little pink ears made hideous by ear-rings. Her face was a jewel sufficient unto itself. I had never seen her in an evening gown before. The effect was really quite ravishing. As I looked at her standing there by the big oak table, I couldn’t help thinking that the Count was not only a scoundrel but all kinds of a fool.

  “It was necessary for me to bribe all of your servants, Mr. Smart,” she said.

  “You did not offer the rascals money, I hope,” I said in a horrified tone.

  “No, indeed!” She did not explain any farther than that, but somehow I knew that money isn’t everything to a servant after all. “I hope you don’t mind my borrowing your butler and footman for the evening,” she went on. “Not that we really need two to serve two, but it seems so much more like a function, as the newspapers would call it.”

  It was my turn to say “No, indeed.”

  “And now you must come in and kiss Rosemary good night,” she said, glancing at my great Amsterdam clock in the corner.

  We went into the nursery. It was past Rosemary’s bedtime by nearly an hour and the youngster was having great difficulty in keeping awake. She managed to put her arms around my neck when I took her up from the bed, all tucked away in her warm little nightie, and sleepily presented her own little throat for me to kiss, that particular spot being where the honey came from in her dispensation of sweets.

  I was full of exuberance. An irresistible impulse to do a jig seized upon me. To my own intense amazement, and to Blake’s horror, I began to dance about the room like a clumsy kangaroo. Rosemary shrieked delightedly into my ear and I danced the harder for that. The Countess, recovering from her surprise, cried out in laughter and began to clap time with her hands. Blake forgot herself and sat down rather heavily on the edge of the bed. I think the poor woman’s knees gave way under her.