A Strange, Sad Comedy/Chapter 7
SIR ARCHY and Farebrother remained three weeks at Corbin Hall, and in that time a great many things happened.
There was constant intercourse between the two places, Corbin Hall and Shrewsbury, which were only four miles apart. Neither of the young men made anything of walking over to Shrewsbury for a little turn, nor did the Chessinghams and Miss Maywood consider the walk to Corbin Hall anything but a stroll. Not so Letty, who was no great walker, but a famous rider. Nor did Mr. Romaine, who had a very stylish trap and a well set-up iron-gray riding nag that speedily learned his way to Corbin Hall. Mr. Romaine got to coming over with surprising frequency, much to Miss Maywood's disgust. The Colonel took all of Mr. Romaine's visits to himself, nor was Mr. Romaine ever able to convince him that Letty was his objective point. As for Letty, she was a little amused and a little annoyed and a little frightened at the attentions of her elderly admirer. She did not know in the least how to treat him—and he had so much acuteness and finesse, and subtlety of all sorts, that he had the distinct advantage of her in spite of her native mother wit. All her skill was in managing young men—a youngish old man was a type she had never come across before—as, indeed, Mr. Romaine was, strictly speaking, sui generis. He was never persistent—he paid short and very entertaining visits. He made no bones of letting Miss Jemima see that he regarded her as at least thirty years older than himself. Men hug the fond delusion that they never grow old—women live in dread of it—and men are the wiser.
Ethel Maywood, though, was cruelly disappointed. She thought Mr. Romaine was in love with Letty, and in spite of that vehement protest Letty had made at their very first meeting, she did not for one instant believe that Letty would refuse so much money. For Ethel's part, she sincerely respected and admired Mr. Romaine; she had got used to his peculiarities, and had fully made up her mind to be a good wife to him if Fate should be so kind as to give her a chance. And now, it was too exasperating that Letty, whom she firmly believed could have either Farebrother or Sir Archy, should rob her of her one opportunity. It turned out though that Miss Maywood was mistaken, and Letty did not by any means enjoy the monopoly with which she was credited.
Chessingham, in consequence of the liberal salary paid him by Mr. Romaine, had agreed to remain with him by the year—and, of course, Mr. Romaine had nothing to do with Chessingham's womankind, who elected to stay, to which Mr. Romaine very willingly agreed. Still, the chance of Miss Maywood being some day Mrs. Romaine was not without its effect upon both the young doctor and his pretty wife. But shortly after their arrival at Shrewsbury, they all became convinced that this hope was vain.
One stormy November day, when they had been in Virginia about a fortnight, Mr. Romaine shut himself up in the library as he usually did, and there he remained nearly all day, writing busily. It was too disagreeable for him to go over to Corbin Hall, which he had done with uncommon frequency. In fact, every time he went out to drive or ride he either said or hinted that he was going over there—but he did not always go. Mr. Romaine, who could pay like a prince for other people, and who treated the Chessinghams magnificently as regards money, delighted in sticking pins in the people he benefited—and it must be acknowledged that much of his attention to Letty Corbin came from a malicious pleasure he took in teasing Miss Maywood. After these announcements as to where he was going, Mr. Romaine would go off, generally on horseback, his back looking very young and trim, while his face looked white and old and bloodless; but as often as not he turned his horse's head away from Corbin Hall as soon as he was out of sight of his own windows. He would grin sardonically at the injured air Ethel would wear upon these occasions.
But on this day he saw no one, and went nowhere. About five o'clock, when dusk had fallen, a message came. Mr. Romaine desired his compliments to Miss Maywood and Mr. Chessingham, and would they come to the library.
The message surprised them both—nevertheless they went with alacrity. Mr. Romaine was walking up and down the luxurious room with a peculiarly cheerful smile, and his black eyes glowing. A single large sheet of paper, closely written, lay on the library table.
"Thank you for coming," he said, in his sweetest tones to Ethel. "I will detain you but a moment. I have been engaged in what is generally a lugubrious performance—making my will. It is now done, and I desire you and Chessingham to witness it."
It gave a slight shock to both of them. Chessingham had always found Mr. Romaine firmly wedded to the idea that, although he was full of diseases, he would never die. He made plans extending onward for twenty, thirty, and even forty years, and although he was decidedly a valetudinarian, he indicated the utmost contempt for his alleged ailments when it came to a serious question. Miss Maywood felt that all her hopes were dashed to the ground. A man who is thinking about getting married does not make his will before that event. She paled a little, but being a philosophic girl, and not being in love with Mr. Romaine, she maintained her composure fairly well. "I wish to read it to you," said he, and then, placing a chair for Ethel, and toying with his pince-nez, he continued, with a smile:
"It may astonish you—wills generally do surprise people. But, after all, mine will be found not so extraordinary. I make a few bequests, and then I—make—Miss—Letty—Corbin—my—residuary—legatee."
Mr. Romaine said this very slowly, so as not to miss its dramatic effect. He achieved all he wanted. Ethel flushed violently, and fell back in her chair. Chessingham half rose and sat down again. None of this was lost on Mr. Romaine, who could not wholly conceal his enjoyment of it. He began, in his clear, well-modulated voice, to read the will. It was just as he said. He gave a thousand dollars here, and a thousand dollars there, he left Chessingham five hundred dollars to buy a memento, and then Letty Corbin was to have the rest.
"And now," said he, gracefully handing a pen to Miss Maywood, "will you kindly attest it?"
In the midst of Chessingham's natural disappointment and disgust, he could scarcely refrain from laughing. The whole thing was so characteristic of Mr. Romaine. Ethel felt like flinging the pen in his face, but she was obliged to sign her name, biting her lips as she did so, with vexation. Chessingham's signature followed. Then both of them went out, leaving Mr. Romaine apparently in a very jovial humor.
As soon as they reached their own sitting-room, where Mrs. Chessingham was waiting, devoured with curiosity, Ethel dissolved into tears of anger and disappointment.
"He has made a fool of me," she sobbed, to Chessingham's attempted consolation.
"Who is it that Mr. Romaine can't make a fool of, when he tries?" asked Chessingham, grimly.
"I think," said Mrs. Chessingham, who had much sound sense, "Mr. Romaine acts the fool himself. He has a plenty of money, fairly good health in spite of his imagination to the contrary, and a great deal to make him happy. Instead of that, he is about as dissatisfied an old creature as I ever knew."
"Right," answered Chessingham, "and, Ethel, I am not at all sure that you have n't made a lucky miss."
"That may be," said Ethel, drying her eyes, "but all the same, everybody expected him to offer himself to me. When we left England it was considered, you remember, by all the people we knew, that it was as good as an engagement. And now—to have to go back—" here Ethel could say no more.
"And Letty Corbin—who, I believe, really dislikes him," said Mrs. Chessingham.
"Don't be too sure about Letty," remarked Chessingham. "It 's just as likely as not that he will make another will to-morrow. All this may be simply to enliven the dulness of the country, and to give Ethel warning that she is wasting her time. You notice, he exacted no promise of us—he probably wants us to tell this at Corbin Hall. I sha'n't oblige him, for one."
"Nor I," added Ethel. "And one thing is certain, I shall go back to England. I am missing all my winter visits by staying here, and I may not be able to make a good arrangement for the season in town—so I think I shall go."
Both Chessingham and his wife thought this a judicious thing. Ethel was twenty-seven and had no time to lose, and she was clearly wasting it buried in the country—or rather in the wilderness, as she considered it. And, besides, the Chessinghams were fully convinced that Mr. Romaine would not stay long at Shrewsbury. It was a mere freak in the beginning, and they already detected signs of boredom in him.
Within a few days Chessingham mentioned to him casually that Miss Maywood would return to England at the first convenient opportunity. Mr. Romaine received the news with a sardonic grin and many expressions of civil regret.
"My dear Miss Maywood," he said, the next time he ran across her, "you cannot imagine what a gap your absence will make to me. However, since your decision is made, all I can do will be to provide as far as possible for your comfort during your journey back to England. I will even let Chessingham off to take you to New York, and every day, while you are at sea, I will arrange that you shall have some reminder of those that you have left behind in Virginia."
"Thank you," stiffly responded the practical Ethel, who thought that Mr. Romaine had behaved like a brute.
The news of her impending departure was conveyed to Letty one afternoon when the two girls were sitting comfortably over Letty's bedroom fire—for although there was still no love lost between them, they found no difficulty in maintaining a feminine entente cordiale. Letty was surprised and said so.
"Of course," said Ethel, who could not banish her injuries from her mind, "it will be embarrassing to go back. Some malicious people will say that Mr. Romaine has jilted me—but there is not a word of truth in it."
"Certainly not," cried Letty, energetically. "Who on earth would believe that you would marry that old—pachyderm?" Letty hunted around in her mind for an epithet to suit Mr. Romaine, but could think of nothing better than the one she used.
"I 'm afraid plenty of people will believe it," answered Ethel, with a faint smile—and then the womanish incapacity to keep a secret that is not bound by a promise made her tell Letty the very thing she had declared she would not tell her.
"It sounds rather ungrateful of you to talk that way, for Mr. Romaine intends conferring a very great benefit—the greatest benefit—on you."
"What do you mean?" asked the surprised Letty.
"Only this. A week or two ago he called Reggie and me into the library one afternoon, and there lay his will on the library table—and he asked us to act as witnesses and read us the will—and you are—"
Ethel paused a moment. Letty was leaning forward deeply interested.
"Did he leave me money for a pair of pearl bracelets?" she cried.
"No. He made you his residuary legatee, after giving away a few thousand dollars to other people," answered Ethel.
Letty was quick of wit, and took in at once what Ethel meant. Mr. Romaine had left her his fortune.
She grew a little pale and lay back in her chair. Her first feelings were full of contradictions, as her emotions always were where Mr. Romaine was concerned. Money was a delightful thing—she had found that out—but Mr. Romaine's money! And sometimes she hated Mr. Romaine, and laughed at him behind his back—and now she would have to be very attentive to him, and to let him see that she felt her obligations to him. While this was passing through her mind in a chaotic way, she suddenly remembered to ask:
"Did Mr. Romaine authorize you to tell me this?"
"Not exactly," said Ethel. "But he said nothing about keeping it secret, and Reggie says he is convinced Mr. Romaine wishes us to mention it—for he is a very secretive man usually, and never omits any precaution when he wishes a thing kept quiet."
Letty remained strangely still and silent. She was staggered by what Ethel told her, and thoroughly puzzled—and she had a vague feeling that Mr. Romaine had taken an unwarrantable liberty with her.
"I think," said Ethel, "that he wants to marry you, and he imagines this will incline you to him."
"In that case," replied Letty, rising with dignity, "Mr. Romaine makes a very great mistake. Nothing on earth would induce me to marry him."
Ethel did not stay long after this, and Letty was left alone.
Sir Archy and Farebrother had not yet returned from their day's sport. Letty knew that her grandfather would be likely to be sitting alone in the library, and the impulse to tell him this strange and not wholly pleasing thing took hold of her. She ran down-stairs rapidly, opened the door, and there, in the dusky afternoon, dozing before the fire, was the Colonel, with a volume of Goldsmith open upon his knee.
Letty went up to him and touched him gently.
"Grandpapa," she said.
"I was not asleep, my dear," answered the Colonel, very promptly, without waiting for the accusation.
"If you were," said Letty, with nervous audacity, "what I'm about to tell you will wake you up."
She hesitated for a moment, in order to convey the news in a guarded and appropriate manner—and then, suddenly burst out with—
"Grandpapa—Mr. Romaine has made his will and left me nearly all his money."
The Colonel fairly jumped from his chair. He thought Letty had lost her mind.
"He has, indeed," she continued, in a half-stifled, half-laughing voice. "He read his will to Ethel Maywood and Mr. Chessingham, and got them to sign it as witnesses."
The Colonel could do nothing but gasp for a few moments. Then he lapsed into an amazed silence—his shaggy brows drawn together, and his deep-set eyes fixed on Letty's agitated face.
"And there is something else Ethel Maywood said," kept on Letty, with her face growing scarlet, "something that made me very angry with Mr. Romaine, and I don't like him, anyhow," she said.
"Go on," commanded the Colonel, in a tragic basso.
"She thinks—that—that—Mr. Romaine wants to m-m-marry me—and he fancies this will win me over," said Letty, faintly.
"The old ass!" bawled the Colonel, for once roused out of his placid dignity. "Excuse me, my love, but this is simply too preposterous! When you first spoke, I assure you, I was alarmed—I was actually alarmed—I thought you did not know what you were saying. But, on reflection, knowing, as I do, Romaine's perverse and peculiar character, I can wholly believe what you tell me."
The Colonel paused a moment, and then the same idea that occurred to Chessingham came to him.
"And the making of a will does n't mean the enjoyment of the property, my love. Romaine may have a passion for making wills—some rich men have—and this may be one of a dozen he may make."
Letty said nothing. Money was the greatest good fortune in the eyes of the world—but the scheme devised for her eventual enrichment had serious drawbacks. Mr. Romaine might live for twenty years—even Mr. Chessingham himself did not know precisely what were the old gentleman's real maladies, and what were his imaginary ones—and that would mean twenty years of subservience on her part toward a man for whom she now felt a positive repulsion. She caught herself wishing that Mr. Romaine would die soon—and was frightened and ashamed of herself. And now Mr. Romaine's relatives would hate her!
"All of the Romaine people will hate me," she said, with pale lips, to the Colonel—they were both standing up now before the fire, and although the ruddy blaze made the room quite light, it was dark outside.
"Yes," answered the Colonel, gloomily, "and they may claim undue influence on your part, and then there may be a lawsuit and the devil to pay generally. Excuse my language, my dear."
The Colonel was completely shaken out of his usual composure, and expressed himself in what he was wont to call—"the vulgar—the excessively vulgar tongue." "I foresee a peck of trouble ahead," he continued.
"One thing is certain," said Letty, raising her eyes, "I feel that I hate Mr. Romaine—and with that feeling, I ought not in any event to take his money. And if, as you say, he is merely amusing himself at my expense, and trying to annoy his family, and—and—Ethel Maywood and the Chessinghams, I hate him worse than ever."
"If such is your feeling, you undoubtedly should protest against Romaine's action."
Then there was a commotion in the hall. Farebrother and Sir Archy and Tom Battercake had got home, and there was a rattle of guns on the rack, and Tom Battercake was guffawing over the contents of the game bags.
Both Letty and the Colonel had plenty of self-possession, and no one during the evening would have suspected that anything out of the common had occurred. But Letty went to bed early and lay awake half the night, while her dislike for Mr. Romaine grew like Jonah's gourd.
Next morning, as soon as the coast was clear, the Colonel sent for Letty into the library.
"I want to say to you, my love," he began at once, "that I believe this thing that Romaine has done is not done in good faith. He is the sort of man to leave his property to perpetuate his name in a library or something of that kind. And, moreover, if he should even be in good faith, his relations are not the people to let so much money go to a comparative stranger without a struggle. They have been looking to him now, for two generations, to set them on their feet, and they will be infuriated with you. And they will have just cause—for, after reflection, I am convinced that grave injustice will be done if this money comes to you. Then, your personal dislike—"
"Personal dislike! say personal hatred; for I assure you I have felt something more than mere dislike ever since I heard of this. Queer, is n't it?"
"Not at all," replied the Colonel, with the ghost of a smile. "Your amiable sex is subject to aberrations of that description. However, I think, on the whole, that nothing but trouble will result if this plan of Romaine's is carried out—and I would be glad to see it prevented."
The Colonel had no more idea of the practical value of money than a baby. Nor had Letty much more—and besides, she had youth and beauty and esprit, and so had managed to get on very well so far without a fortune. The Colonel's views decided her.
"Then, grandpapa, the best thing to do seems to me to be the most direct and straightforward thing. Write to Mr. Romaine and tell him frankly what we have heard, and say that I prefer not to incur the obligation he would lay upon me."
"Precisely what I desired you to say," replied the Colonel, highly gratified.
It required both of them to compose the letter to Mr. Romaine, but at last it was finished, copied off in the Colonel's best clerk-like hand with a quill pen, and sealed with his large and flamboyant seal. This was the letter:
My Dear Romaine:
Circumstances of a peculiar character necessitate this communication on my part, and I am constrained to approach you in regard to a subject on which otherwise I would observe the most punctilious reticence. This refers to certain testamentary intentions on your part concerning my granddaughter, which she and I have heard through direct and responsible sources. Many reasons influence my granddaughter in desiring me to say to you, that with the keenest sense of the good will on your part toward her, and with assurances of the most profound consideration, she feels compelled to decline absolutely the measures you have devised for her benefit. Of these many reasons, I will give only one, but that, my dear Romaine, will be conclusive. It would be a very flagrant wrong, I conceive, to those of your own blood, who might justly expect to be the beneficiaries of your bounty, to find themselves passed over in favor of one who has not the slightest claim of any kind upon you. This would place my granddaughter in a most painful position, and might result in legal complications extremely embarrassing to a delicate minded person of the gentler sex. She begs, therefore, through this medium, that you will change your kind intentions toward her and not bestow upon her that to which she apprehends others are better entitled than herself. With renewed assurances of respect and regard, believe me to be, my dear Romaine,
thought a grand composition, was despatched to Shrewsbury by Tom Battercake. Tom returned within an hour or two, with a missive. The Colonel sent for Letty to the library to read it. It was written with a fine pointed pen, upon delicately tinted paper with a handsome crest. It ran thus:
Dear Corbin:
You always were the most impractical man about money I ever knew. I shall do as I please with my own.
"Most curt and unhandsome," cried the Colonel, flushing angrily. "What does he take me for? I shall at once express my sentiments in writing regarding this extraordinary communication from Romaine."
"No, grandpapa," cried Letty, who agreed with the Colonel in thinking Mr. Romaine's letter extremely impertinent, "I 'll answer it."
Once in a while Letty had her way, and this was one of the occasions. She sat down at the library table, and, with the angry blood mantling her face, dashed off the following to Mr. Romaine.
"Just listen to this, if you please," she cried, flourishing her pen in dangerous proximity to the Colonel's nose. "I think Mr. Romaine will find that he has got a Roland for his Oliver."
Then, in a melodramatic voice, she read:
My Dear Mr. Romaine:
As you say, you have a right to do as you please with your own. This personal liberty pertaining to you likewise pertains to me—and I decline positively to be benefited against my will. I will not have your money. Pardon me if I have copied your own brevity and positiveness in settling this question. I am,
The Colonel chuckled over this letter; nevertheless it was against his code to send it, but Letty was firm, and Tom Battercake was despatched for the second time that day to Shrewsbury, with an important communication.
Letty was radiant with triumph. It was no mean victory to achieve over Mr. Romaine.
"And if he reads between the lines he will see that he won't be here with those sharp black eyes and that cackling laugh of his when it comes to disposing of his property," she gleefully remarked to the Colonel.
But her triumph only lasted until Tom Battercake's return. He brought the following letter from Mr. Romaine:
My Dear Miss Corbin:
Your spirited and delightful letter has just been received. Permit me to say that I have been so charmed with your disinterestedness and freedom from that love of money which is the cancer of our age, that it only determines me the more to allow my well-considered will to stand. I need only make the alteration of leaving the property in trust for you, so that it will be out of your power to dispose of the principal, even to give it to my relatives—whom I particularly do not desire to have it. All I ask is that you continue to me the kindness you have always shown me. My ailments become daily more complicated and acute, but still I possess great vitality, and I would be deceiving you if I gave you to understand that you would not have long to wait for your inheritance. But whether you treat me well or ill, it and myself are both
At the conclusion of the reading of this letter Letty sat down and cried as if her heart would break, from pure spite and chagrin at Mr. Romaine's "outrageous behavior," as she and the Colonel agreed in calling it.