Part 19

“Of course she _knows_, but she doesn’t care. She’s always been like that. I remember that once, when she was a little girl, she said she was going to make a birthday cake for her father. Well, almost as soon as she began, she hurt herself with a hammer, trying to crack walnuts. Her mother told me about it. She said the child was sick and white with pain, but she would have her poor little crushed fingers tied up, and she would go on. The cake turned out not fit to eat, and the obstinate little thing was suffering so much that she had to be put to bed and the doctor sent for; but all she said was: ‘Anyhow, I made it. I did what I said I’d do!’ And that’s just the way she’s been about Will Mallet. She said she would marry him, and she’s going to. She’d wait--she’d wait forever!”

“Like poor _Madama Butterfly_,” said her husband. “Still, you’re obliged to admire that spirit. It’s fine!”

“Fine!” said his wife. “Not a bit of it! Devilish--that’s what it is. And when she’s married that scarecrow--yes, he is a scarecrow; I don’t care how handsome he is, he’s stuffed with straw--when she’s married Will Mallet, she’ll grow worse and worse. She’ll trample on him. It’ll do him good, but it’s terribly bad for her. If she’d had a real man like Robert Dacier, she’d have got over that. He’s the best-tempered, best-hearted boy in the world, but nobody could trample on _him_!”

Mr. Terhune respected his wife’s distress, and said no more. He couldn’t feel quite so strongly about weddings as she did, although he was very fond of Mildred Henaberry, and very sorry for her headstrong folly. He thought that on the whole the world was a pleasant place--especially on such a matchless day as this, the great climax of the summer.

They were speeding along smooth roads to the village where Mildred lived, and where the wedding was to take place that morning. The cloudless sky overhead was a brave, glorious blue, and the sun went up it like a conqueror. The grain stood ripe in the fields, the trees were at their best. You would think the countryside serenely quiet, unless you stopped to listen, and caught the ecstasy of sound from birds and insects all about.

None of this gave comfort to Mrs. Terhune. Her eyes were red when she alighted at the church, and she was glad, for she didn’t intend to look happy. She marched up the aisle and sat down in a front pew beside her husband. No one else was there except a rosy little girl in spectacles, and her mother.

Consulting her wrist watch, Mrs. Terhune saw that she had time to cry a little longer, and she was about to begin, when she was startled by the sight of her favorite nephew, Robert Dacier.

“You here?” she exclaimed, because she had fancied that there were reasons why he would not enjoy Mildred’s wedding.

“Yes,” he said affably, and sat down beside her.

As was mentioned before, he was good at talking, and his aunt and uncle were pleasantly beguiled, until the chiming of the clock in the belfry aroused Mr. Terhune.

“Time they were here,” he said, glancing about.

Dacier went on talking, but his aunt had grown restless. The little girl in spectacles had grown restless, too, and was wriggling.

“Fifteen minutes late!” said Mrs. Terhune. “It’s very odd, Robert! You’d better see if the clergyman is waiting.”

Dacier reported that the clergyman was waiting in the vestry, and growing a little impatient.

“It seems very strange!” said Mrs. Terhune.

Twenty minutes--twenty-five--half an hour. Then the clergyman came in, and, impressed by the appearance of Mr. Terhune, approached him.

“It’s somewhat awkward for me, as it happens,” he observed. “I have an important engagement for half past twelve. I was informed that the young man’s train arrived here shortly after ten, and that he would stop at Miss Henaberry’s house and bring her here at eleven; and my wife informed me that she saw a strange young man with two bags get off that train.”

“Shall I go and see what’s wrong?” asked Dacier. “It’s only a step.”

“Oh, please do!” said Mrs. Terhune.

Off went Robert. He pushed open the little gate, and went up the garden path to the enchanted cottage, which seemed quieter than ever under the hot sun. He rang the bell.

No answer--not a sound inside.

He rang again, and then opened the door and entered.

The sitting room was gay with flowers from the garden, and, if possible, neater and daintier than ever--but empty. Dacier went into the kitchen, and there, on the table, he saw a frosted cake that caused him a sharp pang. No one there!

He went into the little passage and listened, but heard not a sound.

“Miss Henaberry!” he called. “Please! Mildred!”

A door slammed open upstairs, and down she came like a whirlwind, such a tragic and heart-stirring figure! Her dark hair was wildly untidy, her eyes were heavy with tears, yet she had a look of such stern and dauntless pride on her face that a man might well feel abashed.

“Go away!” she cried. “Why do you come here? Go away!”

“No,” said Dacier. “I’m not going away. They’re waiting for you in the church. What do you want me to tell them?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“That’s not very polite.”

“Polite!” she cried. “Do you want to make one of your schoolboy jokes about--this? Go away! I won’t listen to you! I can’t bear to see you!”

“You’ve got to face this,” said Dacier firmly. “There’s no use flying at me. Perhaps I can help you.”

“I don’t want any help--from any one.”

“Where’s Mallet?”

It was a blunt enough question, but the shock of it steadied her. She turned away her head for a minute, and then faced him with something of her old composure.

“The--a boy came with a note,” she said evenly. “Mr. Mallet has been called away on business. The wedding will have to be postponed.”

Dacier came a little nearer, and looked at her with eyes as steady as her own.

“Don’t you think twice is too often?” he asked.

Her pale face grew scarlet.

“What do you mean? How can you dare--”

“I mean just what I said. I think it’s time the wedding came off now,” he answered. “The clergyman’s there, and the guests; and if you’ll take me, here’s the bridegroom.”

She smiled scornfully.

“That’s very chivalrous, Mr. Dacier, but--”

“It would please Mrs. Terhune.”

“I scarcely think you’re called upon to sacrifice yourself for Mrs. Terhune--or for me, either,” said Mildred, still scornful. “I’d rather not talk any more.”

Dacier caught her hand as she was moving away.

“There are lots of other reasons,” he said; “only there’s not time to tell them now, even if you were in the mood to listen. Anyhow, Mildred, I think you know. I’m sure you know. You must have seen, long ago, how I felt.”

“Oh, no!” she said, with a sob. “Not now! Do, please, go away, and leave me alone! You don’t know--you can’t imagine--I could die of shame and wretchedness. Do go away!”

“Darling girl!” he said. “Dear, darling girl! Come and have your wedding! Hold up your dear head again! We’ll say it was a sort of joke, and you meant me all the time. After all, I’m _almost_ as good a fellow as Mallet, don’t you think?”

He said it in a boastful, conceited way that should have been rebuked; but Mildred did not rebuke him.

“Oh, you’re a thousand times better!” she cried, instead. “Better and dearer than any one else in the world! Only--”

It has been mentioned before that Dacier was good at talking. He needed all his skill now, for he had only a few minutes in which to overcome any number of objections, to change her tears to smiles, and to persuade her to make haste and get ready. He succeeded.

VIII

The clergyman was not surprised, because the bridegroom was unknown to him anyhow; but the little girl in spectacles, and Mr. and Mrs. Terhune!

Moreover, there were several things which startled Mildred. When they had all got back to the cottage, and the bride had gone into the kitchen for that noble cake, and Dacier had naturally followed her, she asked:

“Robert, why did you have a wedding ring in your pocket?”

“I have carried one there for some time, in case of emergencies,” he answered promptly.

“And why did you have a license with your name in it?”

“Foresight,” he replied. “I got that as soon as I saw you.”

He had come around the table and put his arm about her shoulders, and she looked up into his gay, audacious face.

“Robert,” she said sternly, “where is Will Mallet?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, “and I don’t care; but I don’t mind telling you that I found out from the moonfaced little girl when he was expected, and I met him at the railway station.”

“But--” she began indignantly--and stopped, because he was no longer smiling. He looked--she was surprised at his expression--he looked like a person pleasantly but firmly resolved not to be trampled upon; so all she did was to kiss him.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

SEPTEMBER, 1923 Vol. LXXIX NUMBER 4

The Marquis of Carabas

THE STRANGE STORY OF TWO YOUNG DOCTORS

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Perhaps you remember the story of “Puss in Boots”--how the talented and resolute cat caught game in the woods and presented it to the king as the gift of his master, the _Marquis of Carabas_. Then the cat advised his master to bathe in the river, and, as the king’s coach rolled past, he set up a great shout that the _Marquis of Carabas_ was drowning, and that his fine clothes had been stolen by thieves. The king stopped, ordered new clothes for the marquis, and took him into the royal coach. While they drove on, the cat ran ahead, and bullied the workers in the fields into saying that all the land belonged to _Carabas_.

There is more in the story, but the chief thing is that the cat secured for his master a fine castle and estate, and the hand of a beautiful princess. And, mind you, the young man was nothing on earth but the youngest son of a poor miller, the _Marquis of Carabas_ being simply an invention of the clever animal’s.

Well, there are people alive to-day who have the same ambition as that devoted cat--people who try to make a _Marquis of Carabas_ out of some ordinary young man. Unfortunately, they do not always succeed. I know of a case in point.

There appeared one day in a certain town in Westchester a new doctor, arriving unknown and without introduction in the midst of a quite sufficient supply of well established practitioners. It was a prosperous town, but not a growing one. There seemed to be nothing for a new doctor to do, unless he set to work to create a demand for his services--a thing that doctors can’t very well do. He put out his sign, however, on his tidy little house--“Noel Hunter, M.D.”--sat down behind his sign, and waited.

Now and then he was seen out on his veranda, looking at the barometer, or strolling out to the garage, where an energetic little car ate its head off in idleness. Whoever saw him was favorably impressed, because he was a charming young fellow, slender, tall, and dark, with an honest, good-humored face and very fine black eyes. Indeed, he was almost too handsome for a doctor. It was cruel to think of his being called out at night in all weathers, of having hurried and inadequate meals and too little sleep, of losing his endearing youth in arduous and exhausting toil.

Well, to be sure, that was not happening, He had ample time for sleep, and, providing he was able to pay, there was nothing to prevent his eating all day. And that, too, was a pity and a waste, because obviously he must be longing to give his medical services, and must have studied a long time to prepare himself. The people who lived on the same street felt embarrassed and a little guilty when they caught sight of Noel Hunter, M.D., all ready to be a doctor, but wanted by no one.

II

One day there came to Mr. Miles, the rector of the parish, an affable little lady, dressed in a conservative style suited to her years--which were fifty-five or so--and presenting a letter from a clergyman in Brooklyn. The letter gave information that the bearer was Mrs. Edwin Carew, “whom we are more than sorry to lose, because of her tact and sympathy and her invaluable assistance in parish work.”

There was more of this, too, so that Mr. Miles blushed a little in deference to Mrs. Edwin Carew as he read it. He welcomed her very cordially. He assured her that she would find plenty of opportunities for using her tact and sympathy and for giving her invaluable assistance in parish work. He was so favorably impressed by the lady that he sent at once for Mrs. Miles, and Mrs. Miles was instantly charmed.

“The Needlework Guild is meeting now,” said she. “If you would care to come in and meet some of the ladies--”

Mrs. Carew accepted graciously, was brought before this gathering of her peers, and was judged and found worthy. She seemed to be the nicest sort of little body, cheerful and kindly and gentle, and though she was far too well bred to boast, it was obvious that she was a person of some social importance. She had traveled; she knew the world; she knew what was what; she was an acquisition.

“Are you going to be here permanently, Mrs. Carew?” asked the august and resplendent Mrs. Lorrimer.

“I hope so,” she answered, smiling. “I’m beginning to be quite fond of your pretty little town; but it all depends on my nephew. You see, he’s used to life in a large city, and I’m afraid--Still, I hope he’ll like it.”

“Oh! Your nephew?” said Mrs. Lorrimer encouragingly.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Carew. “Perhaps I did wrong in persuading him to leave the city and come here, where it’s so--so much quieter; but I feel sure that after he’s used to it, it will really do him good. He had so many friends in the city, and so many, many engagements, that it interfered with his work; and though I know we must make allowances for young people, still I can’t bear the idea of his talent being wasted.”

“Oh! His talent?” said Mrs. Lorrimer.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Carew. “He’s a physician. I think he has already ‘hung out his shingle,’ as they say--Noel Hunter. Of course, he doesn’t expect to do much practicing yet. I want him to rest first, and to get accustomed to the place.”

As if by magic, Dr. Hunter was transformed by those words from an object of pity into a very interesting young man. Professionally his life was not altered, but the very next week he was invited to a little dance; and every one who saw him there was irresistibly urged to invite him to something else. Ladies came to call upon Mrs. Carew, to sing the praises of her charming nephew. He was forever going out, or getting ready to go out, and he seemed to be very happy about it.

From the window Mrs. Carew would watch him drive off in his little closed coupé, so useful for a doctor, who must be abroad in all weathers. Much as she admired his resplendent appearance, and rejoiced in his popularity, she did wish that now and then he might be summoned to something less cheerful than a party.

That never happened. The more he was danced with and flirted with, the more did it seem tactless and ill-bred to mention one’s sordid ailments to him. It was unthinkable to call in one’s dancing partner and confess to a bilious headache from too much pastry. No one could see him as a doctor.

He seemed not at all downcast by this. Indeed, Mrs. Carew sometimes imagined that he had forgotten all about being a doctor.

“Don’t you think you ought to read your medical books now and then, Noel?” she suggested. “Just to--to keep up?”

“Oh, no!” he replied cheerfully. “I’m not likely to forget all that stuff that was so much trouble to learn. Don’t worry!”

“But you mustn’t lose interest, Noel,” she persisted.

He flushed a little, for he had at the moment two preoccupations which were nearer to his heart than the theory and practice of medicine. The first of these was Nesta Lorrimer, and the second was her brother’s hydroplane. They merged very well, because Nesta was frequently in the vicinity of the hydroplane, so that they could both be studied together.

It was unfortunate that Noel did not mention this to his aunt, because she would have approved heartily of one of those interests; but he knew that aunts were extremely likely to worry about flying. He was very fond of her, and didn’t want to worry her; so the poor lady knew nothing.

Mrs. Lorrimer knew, however.

“Alan,” she said to her son, “don’t you think you encourage that young Dr. Hunter a little too much?”

She spoke moderately, because she had a great respect for her son. He was a level-headed, intelligent young fellow, who used such things as hydroplanes only for diversion, and never neglected his business. He was not handsome, like his sister, but he didn’t need to be. He was a remarkably successful lawyer for his twenty-seven years, and he was a good-humored, quick-witted, tolerant fellow whom every one was obliged to like.

“Encourage him?” he repeated, with a smile. “That’s a queer way to put it. I’d like to think I encouraged any one. But why? What’s wrong with him?”

“He doesn’t seem to get on very well,” said Mrs. Lorrimer.

“He’s mistaken his métier,” her son replied casually. “But I like him very much. Plenty of nerve and grit. As a pilot--”

“Ah!” Mrs. Lorrimer interrupted. “I dare say; but as a brother-in-law?”

Alan was astounded, as brothers always are.

“What?” he exclaimed. “You don’t mean that Nesta--impossible!”

“I’m afraid she’s growing fond of him, Alan.”

He reflected in silence for some time, and then he said:

“Well, after all, she might do worse.”

“That’s not the question,” replied his mother, a little indignant. “_I_ think she might do very much better.”

“I don’t know. He’s a very decent fellow. Personally--”

“Oh, every one likes him!” she interrupted impatiently; “and every one seems to have forgotten that we don’t know anything at all about him. Mrs. Carew is very nice, of course; but after all, they’ve only been here a few months. They don’t seem at all well off, and yet he doesn’t appear to be worried about not having the least sign of a practice. I can’t help thinking--”

She paused significantly.

“What can’t you help thinking?” inquired her son, with a smile. “That poor Hunter has some sinister secret in his past?”

“No,” said she. “No, not that. I don’t like to say it, but I’ve sometimes thought he might be nothing but an adventurer, who came here to find a wife with money.”

“Mother!” exclaimed Alan, quite shocked. “That’s not like you!”

But his trained and disciplined brain refused to remain shocked. He was obliged to admit that the qualities for which he admired Hunter--courage and daring and steady nerves--did not always signify moral excellence. An adventurer might very well possess them; and about Hunter’s former life, about his home life, he knew absolutely nothing.

“Very well!” he said to himself. “In justice to Nesta, and in justice to Hunter as well, it’s my business to find out.”

The thing was to take him by surprise, to see him at home, off his guard.

III

Alan felt unpleasantly like a spy as he drew near the house that evening. He would have preferred putting Hunter on the stand and cross-examining him. After all, he was a lawyer, not a detective, and to go to a friend’s house for the purpose of observing and judging him seemed an unworthy thing to do.

“Still, if he hasn’t anything to be ashamed of, he won’t care,” he reflected. “If he has, I’d better know it. I’ll have to study him carefully for some time.”

He rang the bell, and was amazed at the confusion the sound apparently caused. He had to wait outside for a long time, while furniture was being pushed about, footsteps hurried to and fro, and doors were closed. Then, at last, the door was opened, and he was still more amazed.

No one had ever heard mention of any other members of the household but Mrs. Carew and Hunter. Who, then, was this lovely girl, dark and serious, a little flushed and ruffled, as if from haste, but with the high-held head, the level, unabashed glance, the dignity of a young princess?

Having come expressly to observe, Alan did observe, and he thought this was the most intelligent and charming face he had seen in many a day. The girl was obliged to repeat her question.

“Who is it you want, sir?”

“Sir”--impossible! She didn’t speak like a servant, or dress like one, or look like one.

“The doctor in?” he asked.

“No, sir--not at present. If you care to wait--”

He asked for Mrs. Carew, and gave her his name, and she left him in the little sitting room, where he began to walk up and down, very much perplexed. A pretty room, furnished in a very good taste, but shabby. Through the half-open folding doors he could see a dining room of very much the same sort, with the table still laid, as if the diners had just risen. And--the table was laid for three!

“For three!” he said to himself. “And yet there’s no guest here. Mrs. Carew and Hunter--and who else?”

There was a light, quick step on the stairs. Turning, he saw the inexplicable girl descending. This was an excellent opportunity to study her, which Alan did not miss. A remarkable girl! Mere prettiness was not a thing that particularly appealed to this young man. He had met dozens of pretty girls without losing his heart. What interested him now was not the fine regularity of her features, but her air of candid and unassuming dignity, and the thoughtful intelligence of her face.

She entered the room to tell him that Mrs. Carew would be down directly.

“Thank you!” said he, and sought desperately for something to say that would keep her there.

Before he could do so, she had gone--only into the dining room, however, where he could still watch her as she cleared off the table. The more he watched, the more impressed and the more puzzled he became. When he caught sight of her hands--strong and beautiful hands, exquisitely tended--he very nearly exclaimed aloud. Three places at the table, and a girl with hands like that playing the servant!

“It’s a good thing I came,” he reflected grimly. “There’s something here that needs explaining.”

Well, he didn’t get much out of Mrs. Carew when she came down. He brought the talk around to the topic of servants. She said that _she_ never had any trouble with them.

“You’re fortunate,” he observed.

“Indeed I am!” she replied brightly. “How charming the country is beginning to look now!”