The Husbands of Edith | Page 5

they will be Viennese
and they won't know me from Adam. What's the odds, so long as Edith
is there to stand by you? If she's willing to assume that you are her
husband--"
"Good Lord!" half shouted Brock, leaping to his feet, wide-eyed. "You
don't mean to say that she is--is--is to go to Vienna with me?"
"Emphatically, yes. She's also invited. Of course, she's going."
"You mean that she's going just as you are going--by proxy?"
murmured Brock helplessly.
"Proxy, the devil! 'Pon my soul, Brock, you're downright stupid. She
can't have a proxy. They know her. The Rodneys are in some way
connections of hers, and all that--third cousins. If she isn't there to
vouch for you, how the deuce can you expect to--"
"Medcroft, you are crazy! No one but an insane man would submit his
wife to--Why, good Lord, man, think of the scandal! She won't have a
shred left--"
"At the proper time the matter will be explained to the Rodneys,--not at
first, you know,--and I'll be in a position to step into your shoes before
the party returns to Paris. Afterwards the whole trick will be exposed to
the world, and she'll be a heroine."
"I'm absolutely paralysed!" mumbled Brock.
"Brace up, old chap. I'm going to take you around to the Ritz at once to
introduce you to my wife--to your wife, I might say. She'll be waiting
for us, and, take my word for it, she's in for the game. She appreciates
its importance. Come now, Brock, it means so little to you, and it
means everything to me. You will do this for me? For us?"

For ten minutes Brock protested, his argument growing weaker and
weaker as the true humour of the project developed in his mind. He
came at last to realise that Medcroft was in earnest, and that the
situation was as serious as he pictured it. The Englishman's plea was
unusual, but it was not as rattle-brained as it had seemed at the outset.
Brock was beginning to see the possibilities that the ruse contained; to
say the least, he would be running little or no risk in the event of its
miscarriage. In spite of possible unpleasant consequences, there were
the elements of a rare lark in the enterprise; he felt himself being
skilfully guided past the pitfalls and dangers.
"I shall insist upon talking it over thoroughly with Mrs. Medcroft
before consenting," he said in the end. "If she's being bluffed into the
game, I'll revoke like a flash. If she's keen for the adventure, I'll go,
Rox. But I've got to see her first and talk it all over--"
"'Pon my word, old chap, she's ripping, awfully good sort, even though
I say it myself. She's true blue, and she'll do anything for me. You see,
Brock," and his voice grew very tender, "she loves me. I'm sure of her.
There isn't a nobler wife in the world than mine. Nor a prettier one,
either," he concluded, with fine pride in his eyes. "You won't be
ashamed of her. You will be proud of the chance to point her out as
your wife, take my word for it." Then they set out for the Ritz.
"Roxbury," said Brock soberly, when they were in the Rue de la Paix,
after walking two blocks in contemplative silence, "my peace of mind
is poised at the brink of an abyss. I have a feeling that I am about to
chuck it over."
"Nonsense. You'll buck up when Edith has had a fling at you."
"I suppose I'm to call her Edith."
"Certainly, and I won't mind a 'dear' or two when it seems propitious.
It's rather customary, you know, even among the unhappily married. Of
course, I've always been opposed to kissing or caressing in public; it's
so middle-class."

"And I daresay Mrs. Medcroft will object to it in private," lamented
Brock good-naturedly.
"I daresay," said her husband cheerfully. "She's your wife in public
only. By the way, you'll have to get used to the name of Roxbury. Don't
look around as if you expected to find me standing behind your back
when she says, 'Roxbury, dear!' I shan't be there, you know. She'll
mean you. Don't forget that."
"Oh, I say," exclaimed Brock, halting abruptly, and staring in dismay at
the confident conspirator, "will I have to wear a suit of clothes like that,
and an eyeglass, and--and--good Lord! spats?"
"By Jove, you shall wear this very suit!" cried Medcroft, inspired.
"We're of a size, and it won't fit you any better than it does me. Our
clothes never fit us in London. Clever idea of yours, Brock, to think of
it. And, here! We'll stop at this shop and pick up a glass. You can have