The Husbands of Edith Part 12

"You won't let them love you, Edith," said Constance jauntily. "They all want to love you--all of them."

"I hate men," announced Mrs. Medcroft, retrospectively.

Developments of a most refractory character swooped down upon them at the very end of the sojourn in Innsbruck. Every one had begun to rejoice in the fact that the fortnight was almost over, and that they could go their different ways without having anything really regrettable to carry away with them. The Rodneys were going to Paris, the Medcrofts to London, the Odell-Carneys (after finding out where the others were bent) to Ostend. Freddie Ulstervelt suddenly announced his determination to remain at the Tirol for a week or two longer. That very day he had been introduced to a Mademoiselle Le Brun, a fascinating young Parisian, stopping at the Tirol with her mother.

All might have ended well had it not been for the unfortunate circ.u.mstance of Odell-Carney's making a purchase of the London _Standard_ instead of the _Times_, as was his custom. His lamentations over this piece of stupidity were cut short by the discovery of an astonis.h.i.+ng article upon the editorial page of the paper--an article which created within him a sense of grave perplexity. He read the headlines thrice and glanced through the text twice, neither time with any very definite idea of what he was reading. His fingers shook as he held the sheet nearer the window for a final effort to untangle the incredible thing that lay before him in simple, unimpeachable black and white.

"'Pon me word," he kept repeating to himself feebly. Then he got up and went off in extreme haste to find his wife.

"My dear," he said to her in the carriage-way, "I must speak with you alone." She was just starting off for a drive with Mrs. Rodney.

"Bad news, Carney?" she demanded, struck by his expression. She was following him toward a remote corner of the approach. He did not reply until they were seated, much nearer to each other than was their wont.

"Read that," he said, slipping the _Standard_ into her hands. "Wot do you think of it?"

"My dear Carney, I don't know. Would you mind telling me what I am to read?"

"The Medcroft thing. Right there."

She read the article, her husband watching her face the while. Surprise, incredulity, dismay, succeeded each other in rapid changes. She was reading in sheer amazement of the doings of Roxbury Medcroft in connection with the County Council's sub-committee--_in London_! The story went on to relate how Medcroft, implacable leader of the opposition to the "grafters," suddenly had appeared before the committee with the most astounding figures and facts to support his charges of rottenness on the part of the "clique"; his unexpected descent upon the scene had thrown the opposing leaders into a panic; every one had been led to believe that he was sojourning in the east. As a matter of fact, it was soon revealed, he had been in London, secretly working on the problem, for nearly three weeks, keeping discreetly under cover in order that his influence might not be thwarted. His array of facts, his bitter arraignment of the men who were trying to force the building bill through the Council, staggered the whole city of London. At that writing it looked as though the bill would be overthrown, its promoters had been so completely put to rout. The committee would be compelled to take cognisance of the startling exposure--the people would demand a full thres.h.i.+ng out of the obnoxious deal. Roxbury Medcroft's name was on every one's lips. The _Standard_ had profited by securing a great "beat."

The Odell-Carneys looked at each other in wonder and perplexity. "What does it mean?" asked the lady, her eyes narrowing.

"Look here, Agatha, this paper's at least two days old. Now, how the devil can Medcroft be in London and Innsbruck at the same time. He _was_ here day before yesterday, wasn't he? I'm so c'nfended un.o.bserving--"

"Yes, yes, he was here. And this paper--" She paused irresolutely.

"Says he was _there_. 'Pon my word, it's most uncanny. There's some mystery here."

"I've got it, Carney! This is not Roxbury Medcroft."

"Good Gawd!"

"This explains everything. Heavens, Carney! This fellow is--is her lover! She's running about the country with him. She's--"

"Her lover? 'Gad, my dear, he may have been so at one time, but he's the other one's lover now, take my word for it. I say, 'pon my soul, this is a charming game your friends the Rodneys have let us into. They--"

"My friends! Yours, you mean!" she retorted.

"Oh, come now! But let it go at that. They know, of course, that this fellow isn't her husband, and yet, by Gad, Agatha, they've gone about deliberately palming him off on us as the real article. They are actually sanctioning the whole b.l.o.o.d.y--"

"Stop a moment, Carney," interrupted his wife. "The London chap may be the fraud. Let us go slow, my dear."

"Slow? How the devil can we go slow in such fast company? No! This fellow is the fraud. And they knew it too. They all know it. They--"

"Rubbis.h.!.+ You forget that the whole Rodney tribe is up in arms because Medcroft is making love to his wife's sister. They're not a.s.suming anything there, let me tell you. And he's not Edith's lover. If he's not her husband, he's playing a part that she understands and approves. And this--this, my dear Carney, may account for the imaginary orphanage of Tootles. Dear me, it's quite a tangle."

"I shall telegraph my solicitors at once for definite news. They'll know whether the real Medcroft is in London, and then--well, by Jove, Agatha, I can't tell just wot steps I'll take in regard to these Rodneys."

He went into a long tirade against the unfortunate Seattle-ites, as he called them. "Understand me, Agatha, I don't blame Mrs. Medcroft. If she's having an affair with this chap and can pull the wool--"

"But she isn't having an affair with this chap," cried Mrs.

Odell-Carney, her patience exhausted. "She's having an affair with a chap in London--the one who writes--Good gracious! Of course! Why, what fools we are. The real Medcroft is in London, and it is he who is writing the letters. How stupid of me!"

"Aha!" exclaimed he triumphantly. "Of course, she's getting letters from her husband. Why not? That's to be expected. But, by the everlasting s.h.a.gpat, do you suppose that her husband knows she's off here with another fellow who masquerades as her husband? No!" He almost shouted it. "I've never heard of anything so brazen. 'Gad, what nerve these Americans have. Just to think of it!"

"I don't believe she is anything of the sort," declared his wife. "She's as good as gold. You can't fool me, Carney. I know women."

"Deuce take it, Agatha, so do I. And wot's more, I know men."

"They're a poor lot, the kind you know. This pseudo Medcroft is not your kind. He's a very clever chap and a gentleman."

"Now, look here, Agatha, don't imagine that I'm going to be such a cad as to turn against 'em in their hour of trial. Not I. I'm more their friend than ever. I'll help 'em to get away from here, and I'll bulldose these Rodneys into holding their peace forever after. It's the Rodney duplicity that I can't stand."

"Shall we stay here or shall we find an excuse to leave?" she asked pointedly.

"We'll stay long enough for me to tell the Rodneys wot I think of 'em, I'll have an answer to my despatch by night. Then, I should advise you to have a talk with Mrs. Medcroft. You've invited her to the house, you know. Tell her there can't be two Medcrofts. See wot I mean? We'll see 'em through this, but--well, you understand."

Meantime a telegram had preceded a lengthy letter into the department of the police, both directed to Herr Bauer, who in reality was James Githens, of Scotland Yard. The telegram had said: "Why do you say M. is there? He is in London. Explain. Letter to-morrow." The letter had come, and Mr. Githens, as well as the local police office, was "bowled over,"

to express it in Scotland Yard English. He had wired his employers that "M. is still in Innsbruck. Cannot be in London." It was very clearly set forth in the letter that Roxbury Medcroft was in London, and that Mr.

Githens, of Scotland Yard, had betrayed his trust. He was virtually charged with playing into the hands of the enemy,--"selling out," as it were. It readily may be expected that Mr. Githens was accused of being in the employ of the "opposition." Moreover, it is but reasonable to a.s.sume that he took vigorous steps at once to vindicate himself: which accounts for the woe that lurked close behind the heels of a man named Brock.

Brock and Constance had ridden off that afternoon to visit the historic Schloss Ambras. The great castle had been saved for the very last of their explorations; he had just been able to secure permission to visit that part of the Duke's residence open on certain occasions to the curious public. Edith had declined to accompany them. In the first place, she was expecting the all-important message from her husband--she was "on nettles," to quote her plaintive eagerness; in the second place, she realised that as the crisis was at hand in the affairs of Brock and Constance, her presence was not a necessary adjunct. Not only was she expecting a message from Roxbury, but eagerly antic.i.p.ating an outburst of joyous news from the two who had, it seemed, very gladly left her behind.

The young couple, returning by the lower road from the Schloss, came to a resting place at a little eating-house and garden on the hillside overlooking the river Inn. It is a quiet, demure, unfrequented place among the crags, standing in from the white roadway a hundred feet or more, clouded by gorgeous trees and sombre cliffs. It was to this charming, romantic retreat that Brock led his fair, now tremulous inamorata. She, too, knew that the hour for decision had come; it was in the air, in the glint of his eyes, in the leaping of her heart. And she knew what she would say to him, and what they would say to the world a few hours hence. The mountains seemed to have lost their splendid frown; they were beaming down upon her, tenderly caressing instead of bleak and foreboding as they always had been before.

A rosy-cheeked girl came into the garden to serve them. Swift, cool breezes were scurrying down the valley, bearing in their wake the soft rain clouds that were soon to drench the earth and then radiantly pa.s.s on. They were quite alone, seated in the shelter of a wide, overhanging portico. A soft, green darkness was creeping over the mountainside, pregnant with smell of the shower.

Constance ordered tea and a bite of something to eat for both. Brock's gaze never left her exquisite face while she was engaged in the pretty but rather self-conscious occupation of instructing the waitress. After the girl had departed, he leaned forward across the little table and said, a trifle hoa.r.s.ely and disjointedly,--

"It was most appetising to watch you do that. I could live forever on nothing but tea and sandwiches if you were to order them."

"You've said a great many silly things to me this afternoon."

"I wonder--" he stopped and lowered his voice--"I wonder if you would call it silly if I were to tell you that I love you, very, very much."

His gloved hand dropped upon hers as she fumbled aimlessly with the menu card; something in the very helplessness of that long slim hand drew the strength of all his love toward it--all of this confident, arrogant love that had come to be so sure of itself in these last days. His grey eyes, dark with the purpose of his pa.s.sion, took on a new and impelling glow; she looked into them for an instant, the wavering smile of last resort on her parted lips; then her lids dropped quickly and her lip trembled.

"I should still think you very silly," she said in a very low voice, "unless--unless you _do_ love me."

His fingers closed so tightly upon hers that she looked up, her eyes swimming with tenderness. Neither spoke for a long minute, but words were not needed to tell what the soul was saying through the eyes.

"I _do_ love you--you know I do, Connie. I've loved you from the first day. I cannot live without you, Connie, darling, you won't keep me waiting? You will be my wife--you will marry me at once? You _do_ love me, I know--I've known it for days and days--"

She whimsically broke in upon his pa.s.sionate declaration, saying with a pretty petulance: "Oh, you have? What insufferable conceit! I--"

He laughed joyously. "I never was so sure of anything in my life," he said. "You couldn't help loving me, Constance; I've loved you so. You don't have to tell me, dear; I know. Still, I'd like to hear you say, with those dear lips as well as with your eyes, that you love me."

She put her hand upon the back of the broad one which held the other imprisoned; there was a proud, earnest light in her eyes. "I _do_ love you," she said simply.