Somehow, “The Maddened Brute” was a disappointment. It was truly, as the
advertisements declared it, a tense and gripping drama of life in the
raw, but the characters were all so very violent that it was rather a
relief than a tragedy when any one of them was silenced by stabbing,
drowning, and so on.
Mr. Ordway was a little tense himself. When Cousin Winnie had seen him
in the historic cottage, he had appeared such a cheerful young man, and
now he was so odd, so silent. He ordered a superb luncheon at the Ritz;
he provided them with an unparalleled box of chocolates; he was, in
material ways, a most satisfactory host.
But spiritually he was depressing. In the theater he sat on the aisle,
next to Cousin Winnie, and whenever the curtain went down he kept asking
her about her plans, in a low and alarmingly serious voice.
“You won’t stay in that house all winter, will you?” And he spoke of
pneumonia, of bronchitis, of rheumatism, with a horrid eloquence. He
said that candles often set houses on fire. He pictured such a disaster
on a bitter midwinter night.
He spoke of thieves. He went on to escaped lunatics; and when the
curtain rose on the third act and showed the _Maddened Brute_ gibbering
in a cellar by the light of one candle, she gasped.
“I must speak to Lucy!” she thought. “She’s got to go away!” It was her
policy not to interfere with her child, and she had waited very
patiently for some word as to what Lucy meant to do with the check. But
now she would wait no longer; she would speak to her about going away.
She had no opportunity, though. The young man insisted on taking them
all the way back to the cottage.
It did, indeed, look sinister that evening, so small, so lonely under a
stormy sky. Mad things could so easily be hiding behind those bushes. Of
course they weren’t, but they _could_.
“You must come in, Mr. Ordway,” said Cousin Winnie.
“Thanks,” he replied. “But--thanks, but I’ve got to go. Only, I wish
you’d tell me first that you’ve decided not to stay here this winter.”
“Oh, dear!” said Cousin Winnie, mildly. “I’m sure I can’t.”
“Why don’t you go to Bermuda?” continued the young man. “Or Florida?
You--both of you--look pale.”
Although a little tiresome, Cousin Winnie thought the young man’s
solicitude rather touching. But Lucy answered him bluntly.
“We can’t afford things like that. We’re going to stay here--”
“But five thousand dollars ought--” he began, vehemently, and stopped
short. There was a blank silence.
“Mother!” said Lucy, reproachfully.
“My dear!” said Cousin Winnie. “_Naturally_, I never mentioned--”
There was another silence.
“Mr. Ordway,” Lucy began. “What made you say ‘five thousand dollars’?”
“Oh! It--it just came into my head,” he replied.
“It couldn’t,” said Lucy, coldly. “I’d like to know. Will you tell me,
please, why you thought I had five thousand dollars?”
Another silence.
“Because,” said Ordway, “I sent it.”
“_Oh!_” cried mother and daughter.
“But--listen, please!” said the young man, in great distress. “It’s--if
you’ll just listen. You see, I had a letter written by this Mme. Van Der
What’s Her Name--and Mr. Phillips wanted it--badly. And when I saw
how--what it was like in the cottage--and he seemed to have all he
wanted to spare for that darn fool letter. I made him pay five thousand
for it. Please! Just a minute! It really _belongs_ to you. You’re his
relatives.”
“But--Cousin Peter!” cried Lucy.
“I made him up,” said Cousin Winnie, faintly. “The letter said--from an
anonymous friend--and I thought--perhaps your Cousin Ronald himself--But
now, of course, Lucy will return it to you at once, Mr. Ordway.”
“I can’t,” said Lucy, with a sob. “You told me this Cousin Peter
yarn--and you said you were amply provided for--and I’m young and
healthy--and the poor thing did look so wretched--”
“Lucy! What ‘poor thing’? Oh, Lucy, what have you done?”
“You told me he was ruined,” said Lucy. “And he did look so cold, and
wretched, and dismal--and I rather like him.”
“Lucy! You didn’t--”
“I did!” cried Lucy in despair. “I gave it to Cousin Ronald!”
“He accepted it?” asked Ordway, in a terrible voice.
“He had to,” Lucy replied. “I put it in an envelope and wrote--‘from an
admirer of Mme. Van Der Dokjen’!”
No one spoke for a time.
“I know it was foolish,” said Lucy, finally. “But the day I got it, I
felt so--I can’t describe it--so--well, so healthy, you know, and able
to do anything I wanted. And he was sitting in there, writing his poor
silly old book, with one candle. And his gray hair, and his funny little
beard--and the way he clears his throat--sort of baaing--like a lamb.
And I thought he was ruined.”
“Foolish!” repeated Cousin Winnie, and with that she walked briskly up
the path.
“I really am a little bit sorry,” Lucy remarked.
“Sorry for what?” inquired Ordway.
“Well,” said she. “For you, I guess. You must feel pretty flat, just
now.”
“Thank you,” said he. “I do.”
“It was a nasty, condescending thing.”
“It wasn’t meant like that,” he declared. “What I--”
The door of the cottage opened, and Cousin Winnie called:
“Don’t stand there in the cold!”
“Mother says--” Lucy began.
“I heard her,” said Ordway. “Thing is--what do _you_ say?”
“Well, I’d--I’d like you to come,” said Lucy.