A Strange, Sad Comedy/Chapter 8
MR. ROMAINE had certainly succeeded perfectly in a pastime dear to his heart—setting everybody by the ears. Colonel Corbin was deeply offended with him, and made no secret of it.
"For, if the time should come," he said, with dignity, to Letty and Miss Jemima, "that Romaine's relations may accuse us of playing upon Romaine and getting his money out of him, I desire to be able to prove that we were not on terms with him. Therefore, I shall only treat him with the merest civility. I shall certainly not go to Shrewsbury, and I trust he will not come to Corbin Hall."
Futile hope! Mr. Romaine came twice as often as he had ever done before, and the Colonel and Letty found it practically impossible to freeze him out. Meanwhile, another complication came upon Letty, who seemed destined to suffer all sorts of pains and penalties for what are commonly counted the good things of life. She had privately determined that it would take all her diplomatic powers to avert an offer from both Sir Archy and Farebrother—for there was something of "the fierceness of maidenhood" about her—and she was not yet beyond the secret liking stage with Farebrother, whom she infinitely preferred. But it dawned upon her gradually that Farebrother himself was an adept in the art of walking the tight rope of flirtation. He would talk to Letty in the rainy days, when he could not get out of doors, by the hour, in such a way that Letty's heart would be in her mouth for fear the inevitable offer would come in spite of her. But after a while she discovered that Farebrother could look down without flinching from the dizzy height of sentimental badinage, and then quietly walk away. In a little while these tactics of his bore fruit. Letty, from being very much afraid that he would propose, began to be very much piqued that he did not propose. Kindness was then lavished upon him—sweet looks on the sly, and every encouragement was given him to make a fool of himself, in order that Letty might be revenged on him. But Farebrother declined to accept the invitation. He was shrewd enough to see that Letty's design in leading him on was simply to throw him over—and he had no intention to be slaughtered to make a coquette's holiday. And he knew besides that Letty had a heart—that she was a perfect specimen of the Southern type, which coquettes with the whole world, only to make the most absolute surrender to one man—and that her heart was not to be won by letting her make a football of his.
The two men watched each other stealthily, but Farebrother, in quickness of resource, had much the advantage of Sir Archy. And he was clear sighted enough to see that there was something wrong between the Corbins and Mr. Romaine. All at once the Colonel and Letty ceased going to Shrewsbury, and once when he suggested casually to Letty that they ride over to see the Chessinghams and Miss Maywood, the Colonel interfered, with a flush upon his wrinkled face.
"I would prefer, my dear Farebrother," he said, "that my granddaughter should not go to Shrewsbury at present. Rest assured that my reason is a good one—else I would not commit so grave a solecism toward a guest in my house as to object to her going anywhere with you."
Farebrother was completely puzzled—the more so that the objection was all on the Colonel's side—for Mr. Romaine had been at Corbin Hall the day before alone, and the day before that with Chessingham's womankind. He had noticed some slight constraint on Letty's part, but the Colonel had been absent both times. He said no more about going to Shrewsbury, and privately resolved to go there no more except for a farewell visit. This gave him distinctly the advantage over Sir Archy, whose long intimacy and real friendship with Chessingham made it natural and inevitable that he should go often to Shrewsbury.
Letty, however, was no more capable of keeping an unpledged secret than Ethel Maywood, and one afternoon, walking through the pine woods with Farebrother, the whole story about Mr. Romaine and his will came out.
Farebrother sat down on a fallen log and shouted with laughter.
"The old imp!" he cried, and laughed the more.
"Of course," said Letty, laughing in spite of herself, "I really don't believe it is in earnest. Grandpapa says people who make their wills so openly commonly have a passion for making wills, and he has no doubt Mr. Romaine is merely doing this for some present object."
"Certainly," cried Farebrother, laughing still. "It's his own peculiar Romainesque way of giving Miss Maywood warning. Pray pardon me for hinting such a thing, but Miss Maywood herself has acted with such delicious candor about the whole matter that it's absurd to pretend ignorance. Now what a devilish revenge the old Mephistopheles took!"
Farebrother seemed so carried away by his enjoyment of Mr. Romaine's tactics in giving Miss Maywood the slip that Letty was quite offended with him for his lack of interest in her side of the case. But at last he condescended to be serious. It was a soft and lovely autumn afternoon, the red sun slanting upon the straggling woods, and making golden vistas through the trees. It was hushed and still. It had rained that day, and the air was filled with the aromatic odor of the dead, wet leaves. Farebrother had remained seated on the log to have his laugh out, but Letty had got up and was standing over him in an indignant attitude, one hand thrust in the pocket of her natty jacket, while with the other she grasped firmly the brim of her large black hat, under which her eyes shone with a peculiar, soft splendor. Farebrother thought then that he had never seen her pale, piquant beauty to greater advantage.
"But if you could for one moment take your mind off Miss Maywood, and consider my grievances," said she, tartly. "Can you imagine anything more odious? Here is Mr. Romaine pretending—for I don't believe it 's anything but that he is trying to make a fool of me—pretending, I say, that he means to leave me a fortune some day—and he is just perverse enough to ignore any objection I may make, not only to his plans, but to himself—for I assure you, I really dislike him, although I pity him, too. Then suppose he dies and does leave me the money! You never heard of such tribes of poor relations as he has, in your life, and all of them, as grandpapa says, have counted on Mr. Romaine's money for forty years. He has one niece—as poor as poverty, with nine—shoeless—hatless—shabby children—who has actually condescended to beg for help from him—and what do you think she will say of me when the truth comes out? And there are whole regiments of nephews—and cousins galore—and the entire family are what grandpapa calls 'litigious'—they 'd rather go to law than not—oh, I can shut my eyes and see the way these people will hound me for that money, that after all should be theirs."
Farebrother was grave enough now. He rose and went and stood by her.
"Money, my dear Miss Corbin, is like electricity or steam, or any other great force—it is dangerous when it is unmanageable. However, he said, lightly, "as I've had to part with some lately, I've had to call up all the old saws against it that I could think of."
"But I don't believe you are very sorry about your money."
"Sorry? Then you don't know me. I experienced the keenest regret when I discovered that, according to my father's will, I came out at the little end of the horn in the event of disaster, because, as the dear old gentleman said, I was well able to take care of myself. Of course I said the handsome thing—when the crash came—especially to Colonel Corbin, who would have kicked me out of his house if I had n't—but I assure you I did n't feel in spirits for a whole week after the financial earthquake."
Letty looked at him smiling. She was not a bad judge of human nature and much shrewder than she looked, and she read Farebrother like an open book—and liked the volume.
"But then, your profession?"
"Oh, yes, my profession. Well, the first thing that cheered my gloom was when I got a contract for an eight-story granite business building. I met on the street that very day the fellow I told you of once—a clever architect, but who has a wife and an army of children on him, and who always looked at me reproachfully in the old days when we met—and I had the satisfaction of telling him that it was work or starvation with me now—and he spoke out the thought I had read so often in his mind before—'It's all right now, but when I saw you driving those thoroughbreds round the Park, in that imported drag of yours, and heard of you buying the pick of the pictures at the exhibition, while I had seven children to bring up and educate on my earnings, it did seem deuced hard that you should enter into competition with us poor devils.' So I reminded him that the thoroughbreds and the pictures and a few other things were going under the hammer, and the wretch actually grinned. But I 'll tell you what I have found out lately—that there 's such a thing as good-fellowship in the world. There is n't any among rich men. They are all bent on amusing themselves or being amused. They are so perfectly independent of each other that there is n't any room for sentiment—while among poorer men they are all interdependent. They have to help each other along in pleasures and work, and that sort of thing—and that's why it is that comradeship exists among them as it cannot exist among the rich."
"I never knew anything about money until that visit to Newport," said Letty, candidly. "We had bills—and when the wheat crop was sold it paid the bills—that is, as far as it would go—for the wheat crop never was quite as much as we expected, and the bills were always a great deal more than we expected. But I found the spending of that money in New York delightful."
"So did I," answered Farebrother. "Never enjoyed anything more in my life. You had more actual, substantial fun in spending that money than my sisters have out of so many thousands."
"But I think," remarked the astute Letty, "that it is more the way we show it. Your sisters are used to money—"
"That 's it—and so it is as necessary to them as the air we breathe—but as we breathe air all the time, we are not conscious of any ecstatic bliss in doing it."
"Perhaps—but, you see, I am bent on enjoyment, and I am bent on showing it as well as feeling it."
"In short, you are a very wise girl," said Farebrother, smiling, "and I think it is a pity that you are so determined on never bestowing so much wisdom and cheerfulness on some man or other."
"I have never said I would n't."
"Oh, not in words perhaps, but I imagine a fixed determination on your part to hold on to your liberty. You may, however, succumb to the charms of Sir Archy Corbin, of Fox Court."
Farebrother emphasized the "Sir" and the "Fox Court" in a way that Letty thought disagreeable—and how dared he talk so coolly of her marrying Sir Archy, without one single qualifying word of regret? And just as Farebrother intended, his suggestion did not help her to regard Sir Archy with any increase of favor.
"There he is now," cried Farebrother, "shall I make off so as to give him a chance?
Letty was so staggered by the novelty and iniquity of Farebrother's perfect willingness to give her up to Sir Archy that she could not recover herself all at once—and the next thing, Sir Archy had tramped through the underbush to them, looking wonderfully handsome and stalwart in his knickerbockers and his glengarry pulled over his eyes.
If Letty found that Farebrother was always joking and difficult to reduce to seriousness, she could find no such fault with Sir Archy. He was the literal and exact Briton, who took everything au sérieux, and whose humor was of the broad and obvious kind that prevails in the tight little island. He was as much puzzled by the status of affairs between Letty and Farebrother as Ethel Maywood was—and could hardly refrain sometimes from classing Letty as a flirt—a word that meant to him everything base and dishonorable in womankind—for a flirt, from his point of view, was a girl with a little money, who led younger sons and rash young officers and helpless curates to believe that she could be persuaded to marry one of them, and ended by hooking a mature baronet, or an elder son, with a good landed property.
Flirtation on the American plan, merely to pass away the time, and with no ulterior object whatever, was altogether incomprehensible to him. And Letty's perfect self-possession! No tell-tale blush, but a look of the most infantile innocence she wore, when she was caught in the very act of taking a sentimental walk with a man! The genuine American girl—not the imitation Anglo-American formed by transatlantic travel—was a very queer lot, thought Sir Archy, gravely.
"Where have you been?" asked Letty, with an air of authority, which she alternated with the most charming submissiveness.
"At Shrewsbury," answered Sir Archy.
"Ah, I know—we all know. There 's a magnet at Shrewsbury."
Now, to be chaffed about a girl, and particularly a girl like Miss Maywood—to whom he had undeniably paid certain attentions, was both novel and unpleasant to Sir Archy, so he only answered stiffly, "I don't quite understand your allusion."
"Why, Ethel Maywood, of course!" cried Letty. "Does anybody suppose that you would go so often to see that wicked old man at Shrewsbury? or Mrs. Chessingham and her husband?"
"If you suppose that there is anything more than friendship between Miss Maywood and myself, you are mistaken—and the suspicion would do Miss Maywood great injustice," said Sir Archy, with dignity.
"Oh, if you think it would hurt Miss Maywood to have it supposed that you are devoted to her—"
"I did not intend to say that," answered Sir Archy, who was neither a liar nor a hypocrite, and who knew well enough how baronets with unencumbered estates are valued matrimonially. "I only meant to state, most emphatically, that there is nothing whatever between Miss Maywood and myself—and justice requires—"
"Justice—fudge!" cried Letty, with animation; "who ever heard of justice between a man and a woman?"
"I have," answered Sir Archy, sententiously.
"And next, you will be saying that women are bound by the same rules of behavior as men," continued Letty, with pretty but vicious emphasis.
Farebrother looked on without taking any part in the scrimmage, and was infinitely diverted.
"I hardly think I understand you," said Sir Archy, much puzzled.
"I 'll explain then," replied Letty. "I mean this; that a man should be the soul of honor toward a woman—honorable to the point of telling the most awful stories for her—and always taking the blame, and never accusing her even if he catches her at the crookedest sort of things—and giving her all the chicken livers, and the breast of duck, and always pretending to believe her whether he does or not."
"And may I ask," inquired Sir Archy, who took all this for chaff, without crediting in the least the amount of sincerity Letty felt in her code, "may I ask what is exacted of a woman in her treatment of men, as a return for all this?"
"Nothing whatever," replied Letty, airily; "a man has no rights that a woman is bound to respect—that is, in this glorious land."
"It strikes me that your rule would work very one-sidedly."
"It's a bad rule that works both ways," declared Letty, solemnly.
Sir Archy did not believe a word of all this; but Farebrother thought that Letty had not really over-stated her case very much.
Presently they all turned round and walked home through the purple twilight. The path led through the woods to the straggling edges of the young growth of trees on the borders of a pasture, now brown and bare. A few lean cattle browsed about—the Colonel spent a good deal of time and money, as his fathers had done before him, in getting the grass out of his fields, and raising fodder for his stock, instead of letting the grass grow for them to fatten on—so they were very apt to be lean for nine months in the year. The path led across the pasture to the whitewashed fence that enclosed the lawn. A young moon trembled in the opal sky. As they walked along in Indian file they felt their feet sinking in the soft, rich earth. The old brick house, with its clustering great trees, loomed large before them, and a ruddy light from the library windows shone hospitably. The dogs ran yelping toward them as they crossed the lawn, old Rattler giving subdued whines of delight. The thoughts of both Sir Archy and Farebrother, all the way home, had been how delicious that twilight walk would have been with Letty, had only the other fellow been out of it.
When they got in the house there were letters—the mail only came twice a week, and Tom Battercake brought the letters and papers in a calico bag from the postoffice, eight miles off. Farebrother read his letters with a scowl. He had meant to stay a few days longer—in fact, he determined to stay as long as Sir Archy, if he could—but he discovered that he could not.
"Business," he said—"I am a working man, you know, and employers and contractors won't wait—so I shall have to take the boat to-morrow."
The Colonel and Miss Jemima were profuse in their regrets—Letty was civil and Sir Archy was positively gay, when it was fixed that Farebrother should go the next day. Still, the supper table was cheerful. Farebrother had a very strong hope that Letty and Sir Archy never would be able to understand each other enough to enter into a matrimonial agreement; and then, he was determined to show Miss Letty that he was by no means heartbroken at the prospect of leaving her.
None of the men who had admired Letty Corbin understood her so well as Farebrother. The others had paid her court, more or less sincere, but Farebrother, when he became really interested in her, saw that such tactics would never do. Instead, he made it his business to pique her, so artfully that Letty was completely blind to the facts in the case, and her determination was aroused to conquer this laughing, careless, stiff-necked admirer, whose conduct to her was very like her conduct to others. In the first place, the idea that he should come all the way from New York, upon what seemed likely to turn out a purely platonic errand, was, from her point of view, a most iniquitous proceeding. She did not want any man—but she vehemently and innocently demanded the homage of all. And when a man calmly retained his heart and his reason, while she invited him to lose both, was in the highest degree exasperating. But Farebrother absolutely declined presenting his head to Letty on a charger, even when they were alone in the great cold drawing-room, under the pretense of hearing some farewell waltzes from Letty's fingers, and it seemed almost unavoidable that he should say something sentimental. He remained obstinately cheerful, and kept it up until the last.
He had to leave Corbin Hall at five o'clock in the morning, so Letty, secretly much disgusted with him on account of his callousness, had to say farewell the night before. The Colonel would be up the next morning, and Miss Jemima, to give him breakfast, but Letty gave no hint of any such intention. They had a very jolly evening in the library, the Colonel being in great feather and telling some of his best stories while he brewed the family punch bowl full of apple toddy. Miss Jemima, too, had been induced by the most outrageous flattery on Farebrother's part to bring out her guitar, and to sing to them in a thin, sweet voice some desperately sentimental songs of forty years before—"Oh No, We Never Mention Her," "When Stars are in the Quiet Skies," and "Ben Bolt." It was very simple and primitive. The two men of the world enjoyed it much more than many of the costliest evenings of their lives, and neither one could remember anything quite like it. The life at Corbin Hall was as simple and quaint as that of the poorest people in the world—and yet more refined, more gently bred, than almost any of the rich people in the world.
At eleven o'clock, Letty rose to go. Farebrother lighted her candle for her from those on the rickety hall table, and escorted her to the foot of the stairs. It really did cost him an effort then to play the cheerfully departing guest. There was no doubt that Letty had been vastly improved by her touch with the outside world. She had learned to dress herself, which she did not know before—and she had learned a charming modesty concerning herself—and she was quite unspoiled. She still thought Corbin Hall good enough for anybody in the world, and although she admired satin damask chairs and sofas and art drapery, she still cherished an affection for hair cloth and dimity curtains. This ineradicable simplicity of character was what charmed Farebrother most—she would always retain a delightful freshness, and she never could become wholly sophisticated.
"I can't tell you how much I have enjoyed being here," he said to her, with hearty sincerity, as he stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at Letty. She held the candle a little above her head, and its yellow circle of flame fell on her pure, pale face—for this young lady who tried so hard to make fools of men, had the air, the face, and the soul of a vestal.
Letty nodded her head gravely.
"Of course you have enjoyed yourself. We are such an—ahem—agreeable family."
"I should say so! And to get into a community where people won't even talk about divorce—and where nobody chases the dollar very hard—and where the dear Colonel is considered a very practical man—pray excuse me, Miss Corbin, but I do think your grandfather the noblest old innocent!"
"I know it. Grandpapa is innocent. So is Aunt Jemima. I am the only worldling in the family."
"My dear young friend,—for you must allow me to address you as a father after that astounding statement,—you are not, and never can be worldly minded. You are a very clever girl—but it is the wisdom of the dove, not of the serpent."
"Very graceful indeed. I thank you. You have a pretty wit when you choose to exercise it. Now, good-by. I hope so much I shall, some time or other, see—your sisters—again."
"Oh, hang my sisters! Don't you want to see me again?"
"Y-y-yes. A little. A very little." But while saying this, her hand softly returned Farebrother's clasp.
It was still dark next morning, when Letty slipped out of bed and ran to the window, pulling aside the dimity curtains—she had heard the old carriage rattling up to the door. The moon had gone down, but the stars still shone in the blue black sky. Presently Farebrother came out, accompanied by the Colonel. Letty could hear their voices, and saw Farebrother take off his hat as he shook the Colonel's hand. Then he sprang into the carriage. Tom Battercake gave the restless horses a cut with a long sapling with all the twigs cut off, and in two minutes the rig had disappeared around the turn in the lane. Letty crept back to bed, feeling as if something pleasant had suddenly dropped out of her life. She determined to go to sleep again, and to sleep as late as she could. There was no object in going down to breakfast early—only Sir Archy would be there. Then she began to think about Farebrother—and her last conscious thought was: "A man so hard to get must be worth having."