A Strange, Sad Comedy/Chapter 11
AT last, Mr. Romaine was conquered by pain, and rose to leave the Chessinghams' rooms about ten o'clock. As he said good-night, some strange impulse made him take Ethel's soft, white hand in his, which was deathly cold and clammy. He looked at her in her fresh, wholesome beauty. He knew she was just as designing in her own way as Madame de Fonblanque—but the designing was different in the two women, according to their race. Ethel's was the peculiarly artless and primitive designing, which is as near as the English character can come to deception—for it really deceives nobody. Madame de Fonblanque's was the consummate designing of the Latin races, which could deceive almost anybody. At that very moment she was completely hoodwinking the people at Corbin Hall, and Letty, who had been disgusted with Ethel's transparent devices to ensnare Mr. Romaine, never for a moment suspected that the graceful and tactful Madame de Fonblanque's "business" with Mr. Romaine was an attempt to entrap him of a nature much more desperate and barefaced than Ethel would have dreamed of.
But as Mr. Romaine looked into Ethel's rosy, fresh face, he saw a great deal of good there. She would not bedevil him as the French woman had done. She was amiable even in her disappointments, and if things had been otherwise, and she could have shared with him the town house, and the country house, and the carriage, would have tended him faithfully and kindly. Some dim idea of rewarding her by making her an offer as soon as he was clear of the French woman dawned upon his mind. Ethel, for her part, read a new look of gentleness in his expressive black eyes—and his hand-clasp was positively tender. But his pain showed in his glance—there was something agonizing in his eyes as Ethel's met his. And fascinated by them she gazed into them with a strange and pathetic feeling that it was not "good-night" she was saying, but "good-by." Mr. Romaine himself had something of this feeling—and so for a full minute they stood hand in hand, and quite silent. Mrs. Chessingham moved away judiciously—and did not return until the door closed behind Mr. Romaine. Ethel stood in the same spot, with a pained face.
"Do you know, Gladys, I had a queer feeling just now—as if Mr. Romaine were really ill, and might die at any time? And all the time we have looked upon him as a hypochondriac."
"Reggie says if anybody really expected Mr. Romaine to die he would live forever. But I have not heard him say he was ill, and I am sure Reggie does not suspect it. And, Ethel dear, I should n't be surprised if, after all, that house at Prince's Gate should be yours."
"I should be," answered Ethel, "but if it ever is, I promise to be kind to the old gentleman."
Bridge had met "the old gentleman" just outside the door, and had gone with him to the library, where he sat within easy call. Mr. Romaine, seated at his table, after a while seemed to recover from his paroxysm of pain. He unlocked a drawer and took out his will, which he read over, smiling all the time—he seemed to regard it as a very facetious document. Then he added something to it. He had a few valuable diamonds which he had collected for no particular purpose some years before, and he thought that Ethel Maywood might as well have them. And then he wrote his offer to Madame de Fonblanque, and sealed and addressed it. It seemed to give him such acute pleasure that he almost forgot his pain. He smiled, his black eyes sparkled, he smoothed his mustache coquettishly, and thought to himself:
"Checkmated, by Jove!"
It was then near twelve o'clock, and he rang for Bridge and went to his bedroom.
The man undressed him and put him to bed, and then Mr. Romaine said casually:
"You had better sit in this room to-night."
Even with this servant, who knew the whole secret of his ailments, Mr. Romaine maintained a systematic kind of deceit which did not deceive.
Bridge stirred the fire into a ruddy blaze, and sat down by it to doze. Occasionally he rose and went toward the luxurious bed, where Mr. Romaine lay with wide-open, staring eyes, and every few moments he wanted something done for him. This alarmed Bridge, but he dared not show his uneasiness. At last, about two o'clock in the morning, when he had given up all attempts at dozing, he heard a sound which made him jump. It was a slight groan.
In all the sixteen years that he had served Mr. Romaine he had never known from him the slightest sign that pain was victor. Bridge fairly ran to the bed at this.
"What's the matter?" sternly asked Mr. Romaine.
"Did n't I hear you groan, sir?"
"Of course not—Bridge, you are in your dotage."
Bridge went back to his place. In ten minutes came another groan—and another.
He rose and went to the bedside again.
"Mr. Romaine, I'm a-goin' for Mr. Chessingham. I can't stand this no longer."
"I should think if I could stand it, you could."
"No, sir. Can't nobody stand what you can stand, and I 'm a-goin' for Mr. Chessingham."
"If you dare," said Mr. Romaine.
Bridge moved toward the door. By a tremendous effort Mr. Romaine rose up in bed, and seizing a carafe of water from the table at his side, sent it whizzing after Bridge. It missed its target by a very close shave, indeed.
"Next time," said Mr. Romaine, "I will aim better."
Bridge returned to his seat by the fire.
All night the struggle went on. Mr. Romaine writhed in agony, but the determination to disappoint Bridge brought him out alive. When morning broke, the worst was over, and he seemed as likely to live as he had done at any time since Bridge first knew him. But the unhappy valet showed the terrible experience he had been through with, and his pallid face and nervous hands brought a grim smile to Mr. Romaine's face.
About ten o'clock Mr. Romaine announced that he would rise and dress, having made, many years before, a secret resolution that he would die with his boots on. Bridge, completely subdued, assisted at this toilet, and helped him into the library.
While shaving him, though, Mr. Romaine said, crossly:
"You are so afraid I am dying that you'll probably cut my throat out of pure nervousness. I have half a mind to send for that black barber at Corbin Hall, who can give you points on shaving."
Bridge was so frightened and uneasy about Mr. Romaine's condition that he did not even resent this slur.
It was still intensely cold and snowing. But the roaring fire and heavy curtains made the room deliciously comfortable. Chessingham always came to Mr. Romaine at eleven—and on this particular morning he found Mr. Romaine in his usual place before the great, cheery fireplace. But he undoubtedly looked ill.
"What sort of a night did you have?" was the young doctor's first inquiry.
"Only fairly good," replied Mr. Romaine, and then went on with great seriousness to describe a multitude of trifling symptoms, such as any imaginative person can conjure up at any moment.
"The fact is,—to be perfectly candid with you,"—said Chessingham, who was a conscientious man, "if you allow yourself to dwell upon these trifling ailments they will entail real suffering upon you. Try and forget about your stiff shoulder, and your neuralgic headache, and that sort of thing."
"But my dear fellow," answered Mr. Romaine, with a flash of humor in his black eyes, "you know it is my infirmity to exaggerate my aches and pains. Last night, for what I acknowledge was a mere trifle, I actually lay in my bed and groaned." This was for Bridge's benefit, who was putting on Mr. Romaine's immaculate boots at that moment.
Chessingham, however, did not know exactly what to make of Mr. Romaine's statement. His practised eye saw that something was the matter. But if Mr. Romaine refused to tell the doctor whom he hired to take care of his health what ailed him, the doctor was not to blame. Chessingham went back to his part of the house, much puzzled and deeply annoyed.
"Do you know," he said to his wife, "I doubt very much if I did a wise thing in accepting Mr. Romaine's offer to stay with him. My object, of saving enough from my salary to start me in London, will be attained. But suppose Mr. Romaine should die of some disease that he has concealed from me—my professional reputation would be hurt."
Gladys said some comforting words, and told him about Mr. Romaine's plans for buying an estate in England, the Prince's Gate house, the impending ball, etc. At every word she said, Chessingham looked more and more gloomy.
"Very bad, very bad," he said. "Worse and worse. He must be very ill, indeed, if he thinks it necessary to talk that way."
Gladys laughed at Chessingham's interpretation of Mr. Romaine's remarks, and reminded him of his oft-repeated prediction that Mr. Romaine would live to bury all of them.
"It is simply the same old puzzle," he said at last, impatiently. "I thought heretofore that nothing ailed him except his diabolically ingenious imagination. Now, I believe that everything ails him—but I cannot tell."
The day passed on with leaden feet to Mr. Romaine, sitting, suffering and smiling, in his easy chair. At six o'clock, he called for Bridge to dress him for the evening as usual. Bridge, thoroughly frightened, turned pale at this.
"Mr. Romaine," he said, pleadingly, "I'm afraid, sir, it 'll—be the death of you."
"You 'll be the death of me another way," vigorously responded Mr. Romaine. "You 'll enrage me so that I 'll break a blood vessel."
Bridge went and got the necessary things, and Mr. Romaine made a ghastly toilet. He was always particular about the tying of his white cravat, and on this especial evening almost took poor Bridge's head off and ruined four ties before one was done to suit him. When he got through, he was gasping for breath, but perfectly undaunted.
The nervous apprehension of the young doctor about Mr. Romaine communicated itself to everybody at Shrewsbury. They all, from the Chessinghams and Miss Maywood down to the very house dogs, that whined in their loneliness and imprisonment to the house, felt as if something ghastly and terrible was descending with the night. All except Mr. Romaine himself, who maintained an uncanny sort of gaiety all day long, and who, every time Chessingham visited him, was found cackling over some humorous journals that had arrived a day or two before. But the young doctor could not quite appreciate the funny cartoons and lively jokes, and his grave face seemed to afford Mr. Romaine much saturnine amusement.
The day that was so long at Shrewsbury was very short at Corbin Hall. The Colonel was simply delighted with Madame de Fonblanque, and harangued to Letty privately upon Romaine's deuced unchivalric conduct to a noble, attractive, and blameless woman. This excellent man had accepted Madame de Fonblanque at her face value. Letty was more worldly wise than the Colonel, but she, too, had fallen a victim to Madame de Fonblanque's charms and was only too ready to think Mr. Romaine a brute.
After a delightful day, spent chiefly in the comfortable old library, where they could bid defiance to the cold and snow without, a wholly unexpected visitor turned up just at nightfall. A loud knock at the front door, much yelping of dogs and stamping of booted feet announced an arrival.
There had been an understanding that Sir Archy was to repeat his visit later in the winter. He was liable to arrive at any day, and when the commotion in the large and dusky hall was heard, the Colonel only voiced the general impression of the group around the library fire when he said:
"It is no doubt our kinsman, Sir Archibald." But it was not "Sir Archibald"—and the next minute Farebrother came walking in, as if he had just been around the corner. His face was ruddy with the biting wintry air, and his eyes were bright.
The Colonel was openly charmed to see him; so was Miss Jemima, and Letty's face turned such a rosy red that it told a little story of its own. Farebrother explained that he was on his way home from the South on a professional trip, and had written that he would stop over two or three days at Corbin Hall. His letters had not been received—the mails being conducted upon a happy-go-lucky schedule in that part of the world—and on finding the river closed by ice when he left the railway twenty-five miles away, he had hired horses and had driven the distance that day in spite of the storm.
It was certainly good to see him—he was so cheerful, so manly, so full of fresh and breezy life. When he, as it were, was dragged into the library by the Colonel, Madame de Fonblanque was not present—she had gone to her room for a little rest before supper. In a little while the Colonel began to tell about her—and once started on a theme, he could not resist airing his opinion of "Romaine's utter want of courtesy and consideration for a woman." Farebrother's countenance was a study during all this. When the Colonel had left the room, he turned to Letty and said, half laughing as he spoke, "Is it possible that Colonel Corbin picked up Madame de Fonblanque at the river landing and brought her here to stay until she chooses to quit?"
"Of course," answered Letty, tartly. "What else was there left to do?"
A great part of Farebrother's enjoyment of his Corbin Hall friends consisted in their simplicity and the number of hearty laughs they afforded him.
"I declare, Miss Corbin," he exclaimed, after indulging himself in a masculine ha-ha, "it's a great thing to know a place where one can get a new sensation. It can always be had in Virginia. You are certainly the simplest people about some things and the shrewdest about others I ever saw."
"Thank you," answered Letty, smiling, "but, please, as I am not quite a woman of the world yet—tell me what is the matter with Madame de Fonblanque?"
"Nothing on earth that I know of. But there is room for suspicion in everybody's mind who knows the world. What is her mysterious business with Mr. Romaine? Likely as not, blackmail."
Letty jumped as Farebrother said this; for at that moment the door opened and Madame de Fonblanque entered.
Within ten minutes after her introduction to Farebrother, Letty saw a subtile change in her. She exchanged her charming candor and frank personal conversation for the guarded manner of a woman who knows a good deal about this wicked world, and she conversed upon the safest and most general subjects. When the Colonel returned they all went in to supper, which boasted seven different kinds of bread, served by Dad Davy with his grandest flourishes. But the Colonel's delightful assumption that Madame de Fonblanque would be their guest for at least a month, and would probably return in the autumn, "when the climate of old Virginia, madam, is truly glorious and life-giving," did not meet with the same enthusiastic acceptance from Madame de Fonblanque as it had done at dinner.
The truth was, with Farebrother's keen eyes upon her, and his polite but guarded manner toward her, she was dealing with a different person from the innocent old Colonel and the unsuspicious Letty. The conversation turned upon Mr. Romaine. The Colonel glowered darkly, and growled below his breath that Romaine, with age and eccentricities, was becoming intolerable. Madame de Fonblanque shrugged her shoulders.
"I hope none of you will be so unhappy as to have business transactions with Mr. Romaine. You will certainly find him a very difficult person." She said Farebrother seemed to be the only friend that Mr. Romaine had at the table.
"There 's really a great deal that is engaging and even admirable about him," he said. "He is a man of great natural astuteness, and if he took a stand he would be apt to know his ground well, so that he could hold it."
Madame de Fonblanque flashed a look at Farebrother, which he met with a cool smile. She knew that he suspected her, and he knew that she knew he suspected her. Her surroundings were entirely novel to her; her hosts were like the old provincial gentry in the remote corners of France, and such people are always much alike, and easy to hoodwink. She was grateful to them for their kindness, and had no thought of deceiving them any more than was necessary. But Farebrother was a type of man that she knew all about; well learned in the ways of the world, superlatively honest, but fully able to protect himself against scamps of either sex. She wondered if he had not heard some talk about the affair between Mr. Romaine and herself—and at that very moment, she was almost overcome by chagrin and disappointment. She was desperately in need of money, despite her fur cloak and her expensive finery, and she had felt from the moment Mr. Romaine spoke that there was not the slightest chance of her getting any money from him. She wanted to write to England and consult her lawyer there before taking any further steps, and it had occurred to her, as the most convenient arrangement, to await his reply at Corbin Hall. And besides, what a rage it would put Mr. Romaine in! But if this robust and slightly bold person, with his cheerful manner and his alert blue eyes, were to be there, Madame de Fonblanque would rather be somewhere else.
The Colonel was much puzzled because Madame de Fonblanque and Farebrother were not hail-fellow-well-met, and felt very much as if Farebrother were guilty of a want of chivalry—but still, there was nothing to take hold of, for he was perfectly courteous to her. But she had nothing more to say about her intimacy with the old royalist families, and when Farebrother boldly avowed himself a firm believer in the French republic, Madame de Fonblanque did not sigh and say, "Ah, if you had ancestors who died for Louis and Charles and Louis Philippe, you would not love the republic," as she had done when Letty advanced the same view. In short, Madame de Fonblanque had met her match.
As soon as supper was over she excused herself and went to her room for an hour or two. She really felt depressed and unequal to keeping up the strain any longer at that time. The Colonel tramped down to the stable in the snow, to see that Tom Battercake had made the horses comfortable for the night; and Miss Jemima always remained an hour in the dining room after every meal, in close confabulation with the cook. Letty and Farebrother went alone to the library.
The lamps were lighted, but the fire needed a vigorous poking, which Letty proceeded to administer, going down on her knees. Farebrother, who knew better than to interfere, stood by the hearth watching her. When she had got through, he suddenly went up close to her and caught her hands in his.
"Letty," he said, in a firm and serious voice that she had never heard him use before, "do you know what I came here for?"
In an instant she knew. But the knowledge staggered her. The idea that Farebrother would take the bit between his teeth and break through all her maze of little coquetries like that had never dawned upon her. In another minute he had made his meaning so plain to her that there was no evading it.
For the first time Farebrother saw a frightened look come into her clear eyes. She turned pale, but she made no effort to escape from him. He told her that he loved her well, with the manly force and directness that women like, and Letty stammered some sweet, incoherent answer which revealed that she too knew the exaltation of life's great fever. All her pretty airs and graces dropped from her in a moment—she stood trembling, and unconsciously returned the clasp of Farebrother's strong hands, like some weak creature holding desperately to one that is all steadfastness. Farebrother could not recall afterward one word that he had said; he only remembered that he felt as if they two stood alone on some cloud-capped peak, the whole world vanished from their sight, but sunshine above them and all around them.
Two tears dropped from Letty's eyes, she knew not why, and Farebrother consoled her, for what he did not know—and they drank the wine of life together. But after a while they came from their own heaven down to a real world that was scarcely less beautiful to them.
Almost the first rational question Farebrother asked her was—"And how about that good-looking villain of an Englishman?"
"My cousin Archibald? Why, he never asked me to be Lady Corbin."
"Thank the Lord." There was a good deal more sincerity in this thanksgiving than might have been suspected.
"Do you think I would have been dazzled by his title and money?" asked Letty, offended.
"No, because you don't know anything about either money or titles. You are a very clever girl, my dear, but you are very unsophisticated, so far. I believe, though, he would have to come down here among you quaint Virginia people to find any girl who would n't take him. And the sinner is a deuced fine fellow—that I must admit."
"I did want the honor and glory of refusing him," Letty admitted, candidly, "but he never gave me the chance, more's the pity."
Farebrother burst into a ringing laugh. Letty's ideas on the subject of love and courtship had a unique and childish candor which delighted a man who knew as much about this ridiculous old planet as Farebrother.
Their love making was cut short by the Colonel's and Miss Jemima's entrance. Colonel Corbin at once engaged Farebrother in a red-hot political discussion. The Colonel was a believer in states' rights to the point of not believing in a central government at all, and Letty ably assisted him by ready references to the Constitution of the United States. But Farebrother was a match for them both, and argued that Washington, Hamilton, and a great many of the fathers wanted a central government a great deal stronger than their successors of to-day are prepared to accept. The Colonel, though, was rather disgusted to observe that Letty and Farebrother were half laughing while they argued and quarrelled, and that Letty wore a very sweet smile when once or twice the Colonel was unhorsed in the discussion. From politics they fell into talk about Mr. Romaine, and in the midst of it a tap came at the door, and Madame de Fonblanque entered.
"We were again discussing our eccentric friend Romaine, Madame," said the Colonel, anxious lest Madame de Fonblanque should suppose that her arrival was an interruption. "Mr. Farebrother seems to take a more indulgent view of him than any of us do."
"For my part," answered Madame de Fonblanque, with a gesture of aversion, "I do not hesitate to say that I dislike Mr. Romaine very much. I cannot deny that he is a gentleman—"
"Technically, my dear madam—technically—"
"—But I believe, if he were to die to-morrow, he would not leave behind him one heart to ache for him."
Just then the door opened, and Dad Davy presented a solemn, scared face.
"Marse Colonel," he said, "dee done sont dat white man, Dodson, f'um Shrewsbury, an' he say Mr. Romaine mighty sick an' dee 'feerd he gwine die, and he want Madame Fireblock—or whatever she name—ter come right away. Dee got a kerridge and hosses out d'yar and de white man k'yarn leave 'em."
A sudden chill and silence fell upon them all at this. Mr. Romaine must indeed be dying if he sent for Madame de Fonblanque.
So terrible and so piteous is death that every one of them, who a moment before had been discussing the dying man with severity, felt that he or she would do much to save him. Even Madame de Fonblanque turned pale.
"Of course, I will go," she said, "perhaps he wants my forgiveness—or to repair the injury he has done me."
She went hastily up-stairs, Letty with her, to put on her wraps to go to the house from which only a few hours before she had been ignominiously shown. The Colonel would by no means allow her to go alone, and when she came down, she found him with his great-coat on, and a large pair of "gambadoes" strapped around his legs to protect his trousers, in case he should have to get out on the road in the snow and slush. In a few moments, they were on their way in the bitter night toward Shrewsbury, the Colonel's saddle horse following the carriage.
Letty and Farebrother and Miss Jemima, sitting in the library, determined to wait until midnight, certainly, for some news of the dying man or the Colonel's return. In spite of the happiness of the lovers, there was a cloud upon Farebrother and Letty. Not a word was said about Mr. Romaine's will. All of them were more or less skeptical about it, but still his death was deeply impressive to them. At one o'clock, they were still sitting there, talking gravely, when they heard the returning carriage, and presently the Colonel stalked solemnly in, and Madame de Fonblanque in much agitation with him.