# A Strange, Sad Comedy/Chapter 4

IT might be supposed that the modest sum of money, which seemed like a million to Colonel Corbin, would have been used in paying off some of the incumbrances on Corbin Hall, or at least in refitting some part of it. A few hundreds might have been spent very judiciously in stopping up the chinks and crannies of the house, in replacing the worn carpets and having the rickety old furniture mended. But far were such thoughts from the Colonel, Miss Jemima, or Letty. Money was a rare and unfamiliar commodity to all of them, and when they got any of it they wisely spent it in pleasuring. New carpets and sound furniture were not in the least essential to these simple folk, and would have altogether spoiled the harmony of the comfortable shabbiness that prevailed at Corbin Hall. So the Colonel proposed to stop a month or two in New York in order ​to disburden themselves of this inconvenient amount of cash. Farebrother found out involuntarily, as indeed everybody else did, the state of affairs, and he took positive delight in the simplicity and primitiveness of these sweet and excellent people, to whom the majesty of the dollar was so utterly unknown.
So admirably had Mr. Romaine got on with the Corbin party, in spite of the Colonel's continual efforts to remind him of the time when they were boys together, that he announced his intention, one night, upon a visit to the little sitting-room appropriated to the Chessinghams, of going to New York the same time the Corbins did, and staying at the same old-fashioned but aristocratic hotel. The two young women were sitting under the drop-light, each with the inevitable piece of fancy work in her hand that is so necessary to the complete existence of an English woman. Mrs. Chessingham glanced at Ethel, whose fine, white skin grew a little pale.
Mr. Romaine sat watching her with something like a malicious smile upon his delicate, highbred old face. He did not often bestow his company upon his suite, as Letty wickedly called his party. He traveled in extravagant ​luxury, and what with his own room, his sitting-room and his valet's room, and the apartments furnished the Chessinghams and Miss Maywood, it really did seem a marvel sometimes, as Ethel Maywood said, how anybody could pay such bills. But he did pay them, promptly and ungrudgingly. Nobody—not Chessingham himself—knew how Mr. Romaine's money came or how much he had. Nor did Mr. Romaine's relatives, of whom he had large tribes and clans in Virginia, know any more on this interesting subject. They would all have liked to know, not only where it came from, but where it was going to. Not the slightest hint, however, had been got from Mr. Romaine during his forty years' sojourn on the other side. Nor did his unlooked-for return to his native land incline him any more to confidences about his finances. There was a cheque-book always at hand, and Mr. Romaine paid his score with a lofty indifference to detail that was delightful to women's souls, particularly to Mrs. Chessingham and Miss Maywood. Both of them were scrupulously honest women, and not disposed in the slightest degree to impose upon him. But if he found out by accident that they had walked ​when they might have driven, or had paid for the carriage themselves, or had in any way paid a bill that might have been charged to him, he always chided them gently, and declared that if it happened again all would be over between Chessingham and himself. This charming peculiarity had caused Ethel to say very often to her sister:
"Although one would much rather marry an Englishman than an American, I don't believe any Englishman alive would be so indulgent to a woman as Mr. Romaine would be. I have never known any married woman made so free of her husband's money as we are with Mr. Romaine's, and if he does offer himself, I am sure he will make most unheard-of settlements."
But when Mr. Romaine, sitting back in a dark velvet chair which showed off his face, clear cut as a cameo, with his superb black eyes shining full of meaning, spoke of the New York trip, Ethel began to think that there was no longer any hope of that offer. She remained silent, but Mrs. Chessingham, with a pitying glance at her sister, said resignedly, "It will be very pleasant, no doubt. The glimpse we had of New York when we ​landed was scarcely enough for so large a place."
"It is quite a large place," answered Mr. Romaine, gravely. "How large should you take it to be?" he asked Miss Maywood.
"About two or three hundred thousand," replied Ethel, dubiously.
"There are four million people within a radius of ten miles of New York's City Hall. Good night," said Mr. Romaine, with much suavity, rising and going.
When he was out of the door Mrs. Chessingham spoke up promptly: "What a story! I don't believe a word of it."
"Of course it isn't true," complained Ethel, "but that is the worst of Americans—you never can tell when they are joking and when they aren't. As for Miss Corbin, I simply can't understand her at all. However, this move of Mr. Romaine's settles one thing. Miss Corbin will be Mrs. Romaine, mark my words."
"Reggie says that there is positively nothing in it; that Mr. Romaine likes her, and is amused by her. She is amusing."
"Yes, I know she is," replied Ethel, ruefully, with something like tears in her voice at the admission.
​"And he says that she would n't marry Mr. Romaine to save his life—and that he has heard her laugh at the idea."
"That only shows, Gladys dear, how blind Reggie is, like the rest of his sex. Of course Miss Corbin protests that she does n't want Mr. Romaine. She did the equivalent to it the very first talk we ever had together, that day at the Casino. But I did n't believe her, and what shocked me was her want of candor. The notion of a girl who does n't want money and position is entirely too great a strain on my credulity. I suppose she 'll say next that she does n't want to be Lady Corbin and live at Fox Court. I think it 's much better to be truthful about things."
"So do I, dear. But my own belief is that she really likes Mr. Farebrother best of all."
"Nonsense," cried Ethel, sharply. "Mr. Farebrother could n't begin to give her Sir Archy's position or Mr. Romaine's money. He's an architect, with about enough to live on after his father's fortune is cut up into six or seven parts. Not that I pretend to despise Mr. Farebrother; I am truthful in all things, and I think he's a very presentable, pleasant man, and would be a good match. But to ​suppose that any girl in her senses would take him in preference to Mr. Romaine or Sir Archibald Corbin is too wildly grotesque for anything. I 'll follow Mr. Romaine's example and say good-night." And off she went.
Sir Archy had begun to find Newport pleasanter day by day. He had wearied in the beginning of the adulation paid to his title and his money, and it soon came to be understood that he was not in the market, so to speak. He found the Farebrother girls pleasant and amiable, and showed them some attention. As he showed none whatever to any other of the cottage girls, nor did he go to any except to the Farebrothers' villa, the family were credited with having laid a deep scheme to monopolize him. The real state of the case was too simple to be understood by artificial people.
Then he had an agreeable sense of familiarity with Mrs. Chessingham and Miss Maywood. They were really well bred and well educated English gentlewomen. Ethel's aloneness had perhaps developed rather too sharply her aspirations toward an establishment of her own, but that is a not uncommon thing among women, and the terrible English ​frankness brings it to the front without any disguises whatever. Sir Archy, though, knew how to take care of himself among his own countrywomen, as Englishmen do. But he was like clay in the hands of the potter where his American cousin, as he persisted in calling Letty Corbin, was concerned.
Whether Letty was extravagantly fond of him or utterly detested him he could not for the life of him discern. He did discover unmistakably, though, that she was a very charming girl. Her frankness, so different from Ethel Maywood's frankness, was perfectly bewitching. She acknowledged with the utmost candor her fondness for admiration,—her willingness to swallow not only the bait of flattery, but the hook, bob, sinker, and all,—and calmly related the details of her various forms of coquetry. Thus she possessed the charm of both art and simplicity, but, as the case is with her genus, when she fancied she was artful she was very simple, and when she meant to be very simple she was extremely artful.
But she was a delightful and never ending puzzle to Sir Archy. He was manly, clever, and modest, but deep down in his heart was ​fixed that ineradicable masculine delusion that he was, after all, a very desirable fellow for any girl; and his money and his title had always been treated as such outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace, that he would have been more or less than human if he had not been sanguine of success if ever he really put his mind to winning any girl. But Letty was a conundrum to him of the sort that it is said drove old Homer to suicide because he could not solve it.
Farebrother, however, understood Letty and Sir Archy and the Romaine party perfectly, and the little comedy played before his eyes had a profound interest for him. When he heard of Mr. Romaine's decision to go to New York and stay at the same hotel with the Corbins, he chuckled and shrewdly suspected that Mr. Romaine had in mind more Miss Maywood's discomfiture than Miss Corbin's satisfaction. He chuckled more than ever when, on the evening he went to see the Corbins off on the boat, he found the Romaine party likewise established on deck with Mr. Romaine's valet and Mrs. Chessingham's maid superintending the transfer of a van-load of trunks to the steamer.
​They were all sitting together on the upper deck when Farebrother appeared. He carried three bouquets exactly alike, which he handed respectively to Mrs. Chessingham, Miss Maywood, and Letty. Miss Maywood colored beautifully under the thin gray veil drawn over her handsome, aquiline features. Mrs. Chessingham smiled prettily, but Letty's face was a study. A thundercloud would have been more amiable. Farebrother, however, was not in the least disconcerted, but went over to her and smiled at her in a very exasperating manner.
"So kind of you to give us all bouquets alike," began Letty, scornfully.
Meanwhile, in order to keep her chagrin from being obvious to Ethel and Mrs. Chessingham, who would by no means have understood her particularity about attentions, she was cuddling the bouquet as if it were a real treasure.
"I suppose your feeble intelligence was not equal to inventing three separate bouquets for one occasion," she continued, frowning at the offender.
"Yes, it was," answered Farebrother, stoutly. "I knew though that it would thor​oughly exasperate you, so I did it on purpose."
At this candid defiance Letty's scowl dissolved into a smile.
"I like your childlike innocence," she remarked, "and the way you avow your dishonest motives. And I like a man who is a match for me. I was going to give the wretched nosegay to the stewardess, but now I 'll keep it as a souvenir of your delightful impertinence."
"Thank you," responded Farebrother politely. There was still half an hour before the boat started, and all three of the young women felt a degree of secret anxiety as to whether Sir Archy Corbin would be on hand to bid them good-by. He had spoken vaguely of seeing them again, and had accepted Colonel Corbin's elaborate invitation to make a visit at Corbin Hall, but whether he would depart far enough from his British caution in dealing with marriageable young women to see them off on the boat, was highly uncertain.
Miss Maywood, being an eminently reasonable girl, did not fix her hopes too high, and thought that to be Lady Corbin was too good ​to be true. Yet it was undeniable that he seemed to like her, and in this extraordinary country, where, according to her ideas, there was a scandalous laxity regarding the value of attentions, Sir Archy might fall into the prevailing ways. So she kept her weather eye open, in spite of the presence of Mr. Romaine, who sat a little distance off slyly watching the bouquet episode and Farebrother.
Letty considered Mr. Romaine merely in the light of an interesting fossil, but she felt a characteristic desire to monopolize Farebrother. Besides, at the bottom of her heart was a genuine admiration for him, and she felt a sentimental tenderness at the parting which she fully expected him to share. But Farebrother was irritatingly unresponsive. He divided his attentions among the three women with what was to Letty the most infuriating impartiality. Nor did he show the downcast spirits which she fully expected, and altogether his behavior was inexplicable and unsatisfactory.
Letty, however, determined, as the severest punishment she could inflict, to be very debonair with him, and when at last he seated himself in the camp chair next hers, she be​gan upon a flippant subject which she thought would let Farebrother see that the parting was as little to her as to him.
"When I get to New York I shall have some money of my own to spend, and I have been wondering what I shall do with it," she said, gravely.
"I am glad to see you appreciate your responsibilities," answered Farebrother.
"Now I know you are making fun of me," said Letty, calmly. "But I don't mind. In the first place, I would like to buy two stained glass windows for the church which you miserable Yankees wrecked during the war. Have you any idea of the price of stained glass windows?"
"I think they run from fifteen dollars up to twenty or thirty thousand."
"I should n't get a thirty thousand dollar one, at all events. Then I must have a complete new riding outfit for myself. This comes of going to Newport. Before that I thought my riding-skirt, saddle, and bridle quite good enough, but now I yearn for a tailor made habit and all the etceteras. How much do you think that will cost? However, it's not worth while to ask you, for you would n't be ​likely to know. And if you knew, you would n't tell me the truth."
"Again—thanks."
"And of course I want some clothes—swell gowns like those I saw at Newport. And my mother's watch is past repairing any more, and my piano is on its last legs, and I promised to bring dear Mrs. Cary, our next neighbor, an easy-chair for a present, and of course I shall have to carry Dad Davy and all the other servants something nice, and I must make a little gift to Aunt Jemima, and, and—I'm afraid my money won't hold out."
"Don't give up," said Farebrother, encouragingly. "Leave out the swell gowns, and the watch, and the piano, and the riding habit, and I daresay you 'll have enough left for the rest."
"What do you take me for? To get nothing for myself? Please understand I am not so foolish as I look. But, perhaps, after all, I won't buy any of those things, and I will lay it all out in a pair of pearl bracelets to match my mother's necklace, and trust to luck to get another windfall at some time during my sojourn in this vale of tears."
But Farebrother, who professed to be deeply ​interested in this scheme for squandering a fortune, would not let the subject drop. He drew Miss Maywood into the conversation, and although the two girls cordially disliked each other, they were too ladylike to show it, and they had in mind the prospect of spending some months in a lonely country neighborhood, when each might find the other a resource.
"I should think, dear," said the literal Ethel, in her sweet, slow English voice, "that it would be impossible to buy half the things you are thinking of out of that much money, and everything is so ruinously dear in New York, I understand."
"Oh," answered Letty, airily, "it's not the impossibility of the thing that puzzles me; it is the making up of my mind as to which one of the impossibilities I shall finally conclude to achieve."
Miss Maywood thought this a very flippant way of talking, but all American girls were distressingly flippant, except the sham English ones that she met at Newport, who were distressingly serious. And then in a moment or two more a genuine sensation occurred. Sir Archy appeared, red but triumphant, fol​flowed by his man, and both of them loaded down with gun-cases, hat-boxes, fishing-reels, packing-cases, mackintoshes, sticks, umbrellas, traveling-rugs and pillows, guide-books and all the vast impedimenta with which an Englishman prepares for a twelve hours' trip as if he were going to the antarctic circle.
Everybody was surprised to see him, and to see him in that guise. Mrs. Chessingham opened her eyes, the ever ready blood flew into Ethel's fair face, while Letty uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"You here!" she cried.
"Yes," sighed Sir Archy, beginning to pitch down his sticks, umbrellas and mackintoshes, while he heaped a whole cartload of other things upon the patient valet. "I made up my mind at the last moment that it would be deucedly dull without all of you, and here I am."
Mr. Romaine, who had been sitting at a little distance, now advanced, his eyes gleaming with a Mephistophelian amusement. In traveling costume, his make-up was no less complete than in full evening dress. His perfectly fitting ulster was buttoned closely around his slight figure; his usual gray hat was re​placed by a correct traveling-cap; his dog-skin gloves fitted without a wrinkle. He took in at once the sensation Sir Archy's unexpected appearance would create in the feminine contingent of the party, and he wanted to be on hand to enjoy it.
"We are very pleased to have your company, Sir Archy," he said, blandly, "and still more so if you intend patronizing the same hotel that we shall in New York."
"Thank you," answered Sir Archy, heartily. "I had intended to do so, having been recommended by Colonel Corbin."
Just then the Colonel appeared.
"Why, my dear fellow," he cried, in his rich, cordial voice. "This is truly gratifying. I thought when I bade you farewell this morning it was for a considerable period, until you paid us that promised visit at Corbin Hall," for the Colonel had become completely reconciled to Sir Archy, and had generously overlooked his experiences during the war.
"Yes," said Sir Archy, cheerfully, "I was afraid I 'd be a horrid bore, following you all up this way, but I felt so dismal after I had told you good-by—swore so hard at Tompkins, and made a brute of myself generally—​that at last I concluded I 'd better pull up stakes and quit."
"Nothing could have been more judicious, my young kinsman," responded the Colonel, "and these ladies, I am sure, are the magnets that have drawn you to us."
"Are you quite sure of that, Corbin?" asked Mr. Romaine, with a foxy smile. "Sometimes a cow does not like to be chased by a haystack."
Sir Archy, still busy with his traps, did not take this in. Ethel Maywood did not contradict it at all. She never took issue with Mr. Romaine, but Letty flushed angrily. She concluded then that Mr. Romaine was very old and very disagreeable.
Farebrother was still lingering, although the first whistle had already blown. It was about nine o'clock on a lovely September evening. The moon had risen, and a pale, opaline glow still lingered on sea and sky, bathing the harbor and the white walled fort and a fleet of yachts in its magic light. The scene and the hour melted Letty. She had been very happy at Newport. Usually, the first taste a provincial gets of the great world beyond is bitter in the mouth, but her experiences had ​been rather happy, and of all the men she met, Farebrother, whose father had made his money in wines and liquors, and who had conscientious scruples against making money, had impressed her the most. With the easy confidence born of youthful vanity, and the simplicity of a provincial girl, Letty fancied that Farebrother would turn up at Corbin Hall within a month, unable to keep away from her longer. But at the actual moment of saying good-by, some lines she had once heard came back to her—"A chord is snapped asunder at every parting"—some faint doubt, whether, after all, he cared enough about her to seek her out, crossed her mind. Farebrother caught her eyes fixed on him with a new light in them. He had begun then to make his good-bys. Ethel Maywood only felt that general regret at parting with him that she always felt at seeing the last of an eligible man—but the presence of Mr. Romaine and Sir Archy Corbin was more than enough to console her. All the others, though, were genuinely sorry—he was so bright, so full of good fellowship, such a capital fellow all around.
The Colonel wrung his hand for five minutes. He gave Farebrother seven separate ​invitations to visit them at Corbin Hall, each more pressing than the last; he sent his regards to everything at the Farebrother cottage, including the butler. "A very worthy man, although in an humble station in life, and particularly attentive to me whenever I availed myself of your noble hospitality, so that I did not feel the want of my own serving man, David, who is equally worthy, although a great fool."
Miss Jemima pressed Farebrother's hand warmly, and promised to send him a gallon of a particular kind of peach cordial which she knew was very superior to the trashy imported cordial he had been reduced to drinking.
Letty said nothing, but when Farebrother came to say good-by to her, she made a deft movement that took them off a little to themselves, where a word might be said in private without the others hearing it.
"Good-by," she said, in a voice with a real thrill in it, such as Farebrother had never heard before.
He had heard her in earnest about books, politics, religion, and numerous other subjects, but seriousness in her tone with men, and especially with men who admired her, was some​thing new. He held her slim gloved hand in his, and he felt the light pressure of her fingers as she said quickly, in a low voice:
"I sha'n't forget your goodness to me. I hope we shall meet again."
"I hope so too," answered Farebrother, laughing.
The extreme cheeriness of his tone grated upon Letty. She tried to withdraw her hand, but Farebrother held on to it stoutly. A change, too, came over him. His bright, strong face grew tender, and he looked at Letty with a glance so piercing that it forced her to meet his gaze and then forced her to drop her eyes.
"We shall meet again, and soon, if I can compass it; and meanwhile, will you promise not to forget me?"
A hubbub of talk had been around them. The tramp of the last belated ones hurrying across the gang-plank, and the screaming of the whistle made a commotion that drowned their voices except for each other.
"I promise," said Letty, her heart beginning to beat and her cheeks to flush.
She was very emotional and she was conscious that her eyes were filling with tears ​and her throat was beginning to throb, and she wanted Farebrother to go before she betrayed herself.
"Good-by, and God bless you," he said, with one last pressure of the hand.
By that time the gang-plank was being hauled in. Farebrother swung himself over the rail to the deck below, ran along the steamer's gangway, and just as the blue water showed between the great hull and the dock, he cleared it at a bound and stood on the pier waving his hat. The gigantic steamer moved majestically out, while handkerchiefs fluttered from her decks and from the dock. It was now almost dark, but as they steamed quickly out into the moonlit bay, Letty fancied she could still distinguish Farebrother's athletic figure in the shadowy darkness that quickly descended upon the shore.