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THE HUSBANDS OF EDITH
by
GEORGE BARR McCUTCHEON
With Illustrations by Harrison Fisher
and Decorations by Theodore B. Hapgood
New York
Dodd, Mead & Company
The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A.
1908
* * * * * * *
OTHER BOOKS BY MR. McCUTCHEON
NEDRA
BEVERLY OF GRAUSTARK
THE DAY OF THE DOG
THE PURPLE PARASOL
THE SHERRODS
GRAUSTARK
CASTLE CRANEYCROW
BREWSTER'S MILLIONS
JANE CABLE
COWARDICE COURT
THE DAUGHTER OF ANDERSON CROW
THE FLYERS
* * * * * * *
[Illustration: Motif]
[Illustration: "'Don't you think Connie is a perfect
dear?'" (page 54)]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER Page
I HUSBANDS AND WIFE 1
II THE SISTER-IN-LAW 17
III THE DISTANT COUSINS 37
IV THE WOULD-BE BROTHER-IN-LAW 51
V THE FRIENDS OF THE FAMILY 70
VI OTHER RELATIONS 87
VII THE THREE GUARDIANS 102
VIII THE PRODIGAL HUSBAND 116
ILLUSTRATIONS
"'Don't you think Connie is a perfect
dear?'" (page 54) Frontispiece
Brock 24
Katherine 44
"She began to detect a decided
falling off in his ardour" 74
"'I _do_ love you,' she said simply" 98
THE HUSBANDS OF EDITH
CHAPTER I
HUSBANDS AND WIFE
Brock was breakfasting out-of-doors in the cheerful little garden of the
Hôtel Chatham. The sun streamed warmly upon the concrete floor of the
court just beyond the row of palms and oleanders that fringed the rail
against which his _Herald_ rested, that he might read as he ran, so to
speak. He was the only person having _déjeuner_ on the "terrace," as he
named it to the obsequious waiter who always attended him. Charles was
the magnet that drew Brock to the Chatham (that excellent French hotel
with the excellent English name). It is beside the question to remark
that one is obliged to reverse the English when directing a _cocher_ to
the Chatham. The Paris cabman looks blank and more than usually
unintelligent when directed to drive to the Chatham, but his face
radiates with joy when his fare is inspired to substitute Sha-_t'am_,
with distinct emphasis on the final syllable. Then he cracks his whip
and lashes his sorry nag, with passive appreciation of his own
astuteness, all the way to the Rue Daunou. The street is so short that
he almost invariably takes one to _it_ instead of to the hotel itself.
But one must say Sha-_t'am_!
Charles was standing, alert but pensive, quite near at hand, ready to
replenish the bowl with honey (Brock was especially fond of it), but
with his eyes cocked inquiringly, even eagerly, in the direction of an
upstairs window across the court, beyond which a thoughtless guest of
the establishment was making her toilette in blissful ignorance of the
fact that the flimsy curtains were not tightly drawn. Brock had gone to
the Chatham for years just because Charles was a fixture there. Charles
spoke the most execrably picturesque English, served with a
punctiliousness that savoured almost of the overbearing, and boasted
that he had acquired the art of making American cocktails in the Waldorf
during a five weeks' residence in the United States.
It was a lazy morning. Brock was happy. He was even interested when a
porter came forth and unravelled a long roll of garden hose, with which
he abruptly began to splash water upon the concrete surface of the court
without regard for distance or direction. Moreover, he proceeded to
water the palms at Brock's elbow, operating from a spot no less than
twenty feet away. He likewise was casting inquiring glances at divers
windows--few if any at the plants--until the faithful Charles restored
him to earth by means of certain subdued injunctions and less moderate
gesticulations, from which it could be readily gathered that "M'sieur
was eating, not bathing." Whereupon the utterly uncrushed porter
splashed water at right angles, much to Brock's relief, while all his
fellow porters, free or engaged, took up the quarrel with rare disregard
for cause or justice. A _femme de chambre_, from a convenient window,
joined in the hubbub without in the least knowing what it was all
about. Monsieur's comfort must be preserved: that seemed to be the issue
in which, at once, all were united. "M'sieur will pardon the boy,"
apologised Charles in deepest humility, taking much for granted. "It
will be very warm to-day. Your _serviette_, M'sieur--it is damp.
Pardon!" He flew away and back with another napkin. "Of course, M'sieur,
the Chatham is not the Waldorf," he announced deprecatingly.
"_Parbleu_," beating himself on the forehead, "I forgot! M'sieur does
not like the Waldorf. _Eh, bien_, Paris is not New York, no." Having
sufficiently humbled Paris, he withdrew into the background, rubbing his
hands as if he were cleansing them of something unsightly. Brock spread
one of the buttered biscuits with honey and inwardly admitted that Paris
was _not_ New York.
He was a good-looking chap of thirty or thereabouts, an American to the
core,--bright-eyed, keen-witted, smooth-faced, virile. From boyhood's
earliest days he had spent a portion of his summers in Europe. Two or
three years of his life had been employed in the Beaux Arts,--fruitful
years, for Brock had not wasted his opportunities. He had gone in for
architecture and building. To-day he stood high among the younger men in
New York,--prosperous, successful, and a menace to the old cry that a
son of the rich cannot thrive in his father's domain. Nowadays he came
to the Old World for his breathing spells. He was able to combine
dawdling and development without sacrificing one for the other, wherein
lies the proof that his vacations were not akin to those taken by most
of us.
The fortnight in Paris was to be followed by a week in St. Petersburg
and a brief tour of Sweden and Norway. His stay in the gay city was
drawing to a close. That very morning he expected to book for St.
Petersburg, leaving in three days.
Suddenly his glance fell upon a name in the society column before him,
"Roxbury Medcroft." His face lighted up with genuine pleasure. An old
friend, a boon companion in bygone days, was this same Medcroft,--a
broad-minded, broad-gauged young Englishman who had profited by a stay
of some years in the States. They had studied together in Paris and they
had toiled together in New York. This is what he read: "Mr. and Mrs.
Roxbury Medcroft, of London, are stopping at the Ritz, _en route_ to
Vienna. Mr. Medcroft will attend the meeting of Austrian Architects, to
be held there next week, and, with his wife, will afterwards spend a
fortnight in the German Alps, the guests of the Alfred Rodneys, of
Seattle."
"Dear old Rox, I must look him up at once," mused Brock. "The Rodneys of
Seattle? Never heard of 'em." He looked at his watch, signed his check,
deposited the usual franc, acknowledged Charles's well-practised smile
of thanks, and pushed back his chair, his gaze travelling involuntarily
toward the portals of the American bar across the court, just beyond the
_concierge's_ quarters. Simultaneously a tall figure emerged from the
bar, casting eager glances in all directions,--a tall figure in a
checked suit, bowler hat, white reindeer gloves, high collar, and grey
spats. Brock came to his feet quickly. The monocle dropped from the
other's eye, and his long legs carried him eagerly toward the American.
"Medcroft! Bless your heart! I was just on the point of looking you up
at the Ritz. It's good to see you," Brock cried as they clasped hands.
"Of all the men and of all the times, Brock, you are the most
opportune," exclaimed the other. "I saw that you were here and bolted my
breakfast to catch you. These beastly telephones never work. Oh, I say,
old man, have you finished yours?"
"Quite--but luckily I didn't have to bolt it. You're off for Vienna, I
see. Sit down, Rox. Won't you have another egg and a cup of coffee? Do!"
"Thanks and no to everything you suggest. Wot you doing for the next
half-hour or so? I'm in a deuce of a dilemma and you've got to help me
out of it." The Englishman looked at his watch and fumbled it nervously
as he replaced it in his upper coat pocket. "That's a good fellow,
Brock. You _will_ be the ever present help in time of trouble, won't
you?"
"My letter of credit is at your disposal, old man," said Brock promptly.
He meant it. It readily may be seen from this that their friendship is
no small item to be considered in the development of this tale.
"My dear fellow, that's the very thing I'm eager to thrust upon you--my
letter of credit," exclaimed the other.
"What's that?" demanded Brock.
"I say, Brock, can't we go up to your rooms? Dead secret, you know.
Really, old chap, I mean it. No one must get a breath of it. That's why
I'm whispering. I'm not a lunatic, so don't stare like that. I'd do as
much for you if the conditions were reversed."
"I dare say you would, Rox, but what the devil is it you want me to do?"
"Do I appear to be agitated?"
"Well, I should say so."
"Well, I _am_. You know how I loathe asking a favour of anyone.
Besides, it's rather an extraordinary one I'm going to ask of you. Came
to me in a flash this morning when I saw your name in the paper. Sort of
inspiration, 'pon my word. I think Edith sees it the same as I, although
I haven't had time to go into it thoroughly with her. She's ripping, you
know; pluck to the very core."
Brock's face expressed bewilderment and perplexity.
"Won't you have another drink, old man?" he asked gently.
"Another? Hang it all, I haven't had one in a week. Come along. I must
talk it all over with you before I introduce you to her. You must be
prepared."
"Introduce me to whom?" demanded Brock, pricking up his ears. He was
following Medcroft to the elevator.
"To my wife--Edith," said Medcroft, annoyed by the other's obtuseness.
"Does it require preparation for an ordeal so charming?" laughed Brock.
He was recalling the fact that Medcroft had married a beautiful
Philadelphia girl some years ago in London, a young lady whom he had
never seen, so thoroughly expatriated had she become in consequence of
almost a lifetime residence in England. He remembered now that she was
rich and that he had sent her a ridiculously expensive present and a
congratulatory cablegram at the time of the wedding. Also, it occurred
to him that the Medcrofts had asked him to visit them at their
shooting-box for several seasons in succession, and that their town
house was always open to him. While he had not ignored the invitations,
he had never responded in person. He began to experience twinges of
remorse: Medcroft was such a good fellow!
The Londoner did not respond to the innocuous query. He merely stared
in a preoccupied, determined manner at the succeeding _étages_ as they
slipped downward. At the fourth floor they disembarked, and Brock led
the way to his rooms, overlooking the inner court. Once inside, with the
door closed, he turned upon the Englishman.
"Now, what's up, Rox? Are you in trouble?" he demanded.
"Are we quite alone?" Medcroft glanced significantly at the transom and
the half-closed bathroom door. With a laugh, Brock led him into the
bathroom and out, and then closed the transom.
"You're darned mysterious," he said, pointing to a chair near the
window. Medcroft drew another close up and seated himself.
"Brock," he said, lowering his voice and leaning forward impressively,
"I want you to go to Vienna in my place." Brock stared hard. "You are a
godsend, old man. You're just in time to do me the greatest of favours.
It's utterly impossible for me to go to Vienna as I had planned, and yet
it is equally unwise for me to give up the project. You see, I've just
got to be in London and Vienna at the same time."
"It will require something more than a stretch of the imagination to do
that, old man. But I'm game, and my plans are such that they can be
changed readily to oblige a friend. I shan't mind the trip in the least
and I'll be only too happy to help you out! 'Gad, I thought by your
manner that you were in some frightful difficulty. Have a cigaret."
"By Jove, Brock, you're a brick," cried Medcroft, shaking the other's
hand vigorously. At the same time his face expressed considerable
uncertainty and no little doubt as to the further welfare of his as yet
partially divulged proposition.
"It's easy to be a brick, my boy, if it involves no more than the
changing of a single letter in one's name. I'd like to attend the
convention, anyway," said Brock amiably.
"Well, you see, Brock," said Medcroft lamely, "I fear you don't quite
appreciate the situation. I want you to pose as Roxbury Medcroft."
"You--What do you mean?"
"I thought you'd find that a facer. That's just it: you are to go to
Vienna as Roxbury Medcroft, not as yourself. Ha, ha! Ripping, eh?"
"'Pon my soul, Rox, you are not in earnest?"
"Never more so."
"But, my dear fellow--"
"You won't do it? That's what your tone means," in despair.
"It isn't that, and you know it. I've got nothing to lose. It's you that
will have to suffer. You're known all over Europe. What will be said
when the trick is discovered? 'Gad, man!"
"Then you will go?" with beaming eyes. "I knew it would appeal to you,
as an American."
"What does it all mean?"
"It's all very simple, if one looks at it from the right angle, Brock.
Up to last night, I was blissfully committed to the most delightful of
outings, so to speak. At ten o'clock everything was changed. Mrs.
Medcroft and I sat up all night discussing the situation with the
messenger--my solicitor, by the way. The Vienna trip is out of the
question, so far as I am concerned. It is of vital importance that I
should return to London to-night, but is even more vitally important
that the world should say that I am in Vienna. See what I mean?"
"No, I'm hanged if I do."
"What I have just heard from London makes me shudder to think of the
consequences if I go on east to-night. I may as well tell you that there
is a plot on foot to perpetrate a gigantic fraud against the people. The
County Council is to be hoodwinked out and out into moving forward
certain building projects, involving millions of the people's money. Our
firm has opposed a certain band of grafters, and when I left England it
was pretty well settled that we had blocked their game. They have
learned of my proposed absence and intend to steal a march on us while I
am away. Without assuming too much credit to myself, I may say that I,
your old friend, Roxbury, I am the one man who has proved the real thorn
in the sides of these scoundrels. With me out of the way, they feel that
they can secure the adoption of all these infamous measures. My partners
and the leaders on our side have sent for me to return secretly. They
won't bring the matter to issue if they find that I've returned; it
would be suicidal. Therefore it is necessary that we steal a march on
'em. I know the inside workings of the scheme. If I can steal back and
keep under cover as an advisory chief, so to speak, we can well afford
to let 'em rush the matter through, for then we can spring the coup and
defeat them for good and all. But, don't you see, old man, unless they
_know_ that I've gone to Vienna they won't undertake the thing. That's
why I'm asking you to go on to Vienna and pose as Roxbury Medcroft
while I steal back to London and set the charge under these demmed
bloodsuckers. Really, you know, it's a terribly serious matter, Brock.
It means fortune and honour to me, as well as millions to the
rate-payers of Greater London. All you've got to do is to register at
the Bristol, get interviewed by the papers, attend one or two sessions
of the convention, which lasts three days, and then go off into the
mountains with the Rodneys,--the society reporters will do the rest."
"With the Rodneys? My dear fellow, suppose that they object to the
substitution! Really, you know, it's not to be thought of."
"Deuce take it, man, the Rodneys are not to know that there has been a
substitution. Perfectly simple, can't you see?"
"I'm damned if I do."
"What a stupid ass you are, Brock! The Rodneys have never laid eyes on
me. They know of me as Edith's husband, that's all. They are to take you
in as Medcroft, of course."
At this point Brock set up an emphatic remonstrance. He began by
laughing his friend to scorn; then, as Medcroft persisted, went so far
as to take him severely to task for the proposed imposition on the
unsuspecting Rodneys, to say nothing of the trick he would play upon the
convention of architects.
"I'd be recognised as an impostor," he said warmly, "and booted out of
the convention. I shudder to think of what Mr. Rodney will do to me when
he learns the truth. Why, Medcroft, you must be crazy. There will be
dozens of architects there who know you personally or by sight. You--"
"My dear boy, if they don't see me there, they can't very well
recognise me, can they? If necessary, you can affect an illness and stay
away from the sessions altogether. Give a statement to the press from
the privacy of the sickroom--regret your inability to take part in the
discussions, and all that, you know. Hire a nurse, if necessary. You
might venture to express an opinion or two on vital topics, in my name.
I don't care a hang what you say. I only want 'em to think I'm there. No
doubt our enemies will have a spy or two hanging about to see that I am
actually off for a jaunt with the Rodneys, but they will be Viennese and
they won't know me from Adam. What's the odds, so long as Edith is there
to stand by you? If she's willing to assume that you are her husband--"
"Good Lord!" half shouted Brock, leaping to his feet, wide-eyed. "You
don't mean to say that she is--is--is to go to Vienna with me?"
"Emphatically, yes. She's also invited. Of course, she's going."
"You mean that she's going just as you are going--by proxy?" murmured
Brock helplessly.
"Proxy, the devil! 'Pon my soul, Brock, you're downright stupid. She
can't have a proxy. They know her. The Rodneys are in some way
connections of hers, and all that--third cousins. If she isn't there to
vouch for you, how the deuce can you expect to--"
"Medcroft, you _are_ crazy! No one but an insane man would submit his
wife to--Why, good Lord, man, think of the scandal! She won't have a
shred left--"
"At the proper time the matter will be explained to the Rodneys,--not at
first, you know,--and I'll be in a position to step into your shoes
before the party returns to Paris. Afterwards the whole trick will be
exposed to the world, and she'll be a heroine."
"I'm absolutely paralysed!" mumbled Brock.
"Brace up, old chap. I'm going to take you around to the Ritz at once to
introduce you to my wife--to your wife, I might say. She'll be waiting
for us, and, take my word for it, she's in for the game. She appreciates
its importance. Come now, Brock, it means so little to you, and it means
everything to me. You will do this for me? For us?"
For ten minutes Brock protested, his argument growing weaker and weaker
as the true humour of the project developed in his mind. He came at last
to realise that Medcroft was in earnest, and that the situation was as
serious as he pictured it. The Englishman's plea was unusual, but it was
not as rattle-brained as it had seemed at the outset. Brock was
beginning to see the possibilities that the ruse contained; to say the
least, he would be running little or no risk in the event of its
miscarriage. In spite of possible unpleasant consequences, there were
the elements of a rare lark in the enterprise; he felt himself being
skilfully guided past the pitfalls and dangers.
"I shall insist upon talking it over thoroughly with Mrs. Medcroft
before consenting," he said in the end. "If she's being bluffed into the
game, I'll revoke like a flash. If she's keen for the adventure, I'll
go, Rox. But I've got to see her first and talk it all over--"
"'Pon my word, old chap, she's ripping, awfully good sort, even though I
say it myself. She's true blue, and she'll do anything for me. You see,
Brock," and his voice grew very tender, "she loves me. I'm sure of her.
There isn't a nobler wife in the world than mine. Nor a prettier one,
either," he concluded, with fine pride in his eyes. "You won't be
ashamed of her. You will be proud of the chance to point her out as your
wife, take my word for it." Then they set out for the Ritz.
"Roxbury," said Brock soberly, when they were in the Rue de la Paix,
after walking two blocks in contemplative silence, "my peace of mind is
poised at the brink of an abyss. I have a feeling that I am about to
chuck it over."
"Nonsense. You'll buck up when Edith has had a fling at you."
"I suppose I'm to call her Edith."
"Certainly, and I won't mind a 'dear' or two when it seems propitious.
It's rather customary, you know, even among the unhappily married. Of
course, I've always been opposed to kissing or caressing in public; it's
so middle-class."
"And I daresay Mrs. Medcroft will object to it in private," lamented
Brock good-naturedly.
"I daresay," said her husband cheerfully. "She's your wife in public
only. By the way, you'll have to get used to the name of Roxbury. Don't
look around as if you expected to find me standing behind your back when
she says, 'Roxbury, dear!' I shan't be there, you know. She'll mean you.
Don't forget that."
"Oh, I say," exclaimed Brock, halting abruptly, and staring in dismay at
the confident conspirator, "will I have to wear a suit of clothes like
that, and an eyeglass, and--and--good Lord! spats?"
"By Jove, you shall wear this very suit!" cried Medcroft, inspired.
"We're of a size, and it won't fit you any better than it does me. Our
clothes never fit us in London. Clever idea of yours, Brock, to think of
it. And, here! We'll stop at this shop and pick up a glass. You can
have all day for practice with it. And, I say, Brock, don't you think
you can cultivate a--er--little more of an English style of speech? That
twang of yours won't--"
"Heavens, man, I'm to be a low comedian, too," gasped Brock, as he was
fairly pushed onto the shop. Three minutes later they were on the
sidewalk, and Brock was in possession of an object he had scorned most
of all things in the world,--a monocle.
Arm in arm, they sauntered into the Ritz. Medcroft retained his clasp on
his friend's elbow as they went up in the lift, after the fashion of one
who fears that his victim is contemplating flight. As they entered the
comfortable little sitting-room of the suite, a young woman rose
gracefully from the desk at which she had been writing. With perfect
composure she smiled and extended her slim hand to the American as he
crossed the room with Medcroft's jerky introduction dinging in his ears.
"My old friend Brock, dear. He has consented to be your husband. You've
never met your wife, have you, old man?" A blush spread over her
exquisite face.
"Oh, Roxbury, how embarrassing! He hasn't even proposed to me. So glad
to meet you, Mr. Brock. I've been trying to picture what you would look
like, ever since Roxbury went out to find you. Sit here, please, near
me. Roxbury, has Mr. Brock really fallen into your terrible trap? Isn't
it the most ridiculous proceeding, Mr. Brock--"
"Call him Roxbury, my dear. He's fully prepared for it. And now let's
get down to business. He insists upon talking it over with you. You
don't mind me being present, do you, Brock? I daresay I can help you
out a bit. I've been married four years."
For an hour the trio discussed the situation from all sides and in all
its phases. When Brock arose to take his departure, he was irrevocably
committed to the enterprise; he was, moreover, completely enchanted by
the vista of harmless fun and sweet adventure that stretched before him.
He went away with his head full of the brilliant, quick-witted, loyal
young American who was entering so heartily into the plot to deceive her
own friends for the time being in order that her husband might profit in
high places.
"She _is_ ripping," he said to Medcroft in the hallway. All of the plans
had been made and all of them had been approved by the young wife. She
had shown wonderful perspicacity and foresight in the matter of details;
her capacity for selection and disposal was even more comprehensive than
that of the two men, both of whom were somewhat staggered by the
boldness of more than one suggestion which came from her fruitful
storehouse of romantic ideas. She had grasped the full humour of the
situation, from inception to _dénouement_, and, to all appearance, was
heart and soul deep in the venture, despising the risks because she knew
that succour was always at her elbow in the shape of her husband's loyal
support. There was no condition involved which could not be explained to
her credit; adequate compensation for the merry sacrifice was to be had
in the brief detachment from rigid English conventionality, in the
hazardous injection of quixotism into an otherwise overly healthful life
of platitudes. Society had become the sepulchre of youthful
inspirations; she welcomed the resurrection. The exquisite delicacy with
which she analysed the cost and computed the interest won for her the
warmest regard of her husband's friend, fellow conspirator in a plot
which involved the subtlest test of loyalty and honour.
"Yes," said Medcroft simply. "You won't have reason to change your
opinion, Brock." He hesitated for a moment and then burst out, rather
plaintively: "She's an awfully good sort, demme, she is. And so are you,
Brock,--it's mighty decent of you. You're the only man in all the world
that I could or would have asked to do this for me. You are my best
friend, Brock,--you always have been." He seized the American's hand and
wrung it fervently. Their eyes met in a long look of understanding and
confidence.
"I'll take good care of her," said Brock quietly.
"I know you will. Good-by, then. I'll see you late this afternoon. You
leave this evening at seven-twenty by the Orient Express. I've had the
reservations booked and--and--" He hesitated, a wry smile on his lips,
"I daresay you won't mind making a pretence of looking after the luggage
a bit, will you?"
"I shall take this opportunity to put myself in training against the day
when I may be travelling away with a happy bride of my own. By the way,
how long am I expected to remain in this state of matrimonial bliss?
That's no small detail, you know, even though it escaped for the
moment."
"Three weeks."
"Three weeks?" He almost reeled.
"That's a long time in these days of speedy divorces," said Medcroft
blandly.