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 reflections.
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!
[Illustration: "She began to detect a decided falling off in his
ardour."]
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
to-day. 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.
"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."