MRS. SEVERENCE IS ROUSED
Craig swooped upon the Severences the next afternoon. His arrivals were
always swoopings--a swift descent on a day when he was not expected; or,
if the day was forearranged, then the hour would be a surprise. It was a
habit with him, a habit deliberately formed. He liked to take people
unawares, to create a flurry, reasoning that he, quick of eye and
determined of purpose, could not but profit by any confusion. He was
always in a hurry--that is, he seemed to be. In this also there was
deliberation. It does not follow because a man is in a hurry that he is
an important and busy person; no more does it follow that a man is an
inconsequential procrastinator if he is leisurely and dilatory. The
significance of action lies in intent. Some men can best gain their ends
by creating an impression that they are extremely lazy, others by
creating the impression that they are exceedingly energetic. The
important point is to be on the spot at the moment most favorable for
gaining the desired advantage; and it will be found that of the men who
get what they want in this world, both those who seem to hasten and
those who seem to lounge are always at the right place at the right
time.
It best fitted Craig, by nature impatient, noisily aggressive, to adopt
the policy of rush. He arrived before time usually, fumed until he had
got everybody into that nervous state in which men, and women, too, will
yield more than they ever would in the kindly, melting mood. Though he
might stay hours, he, each moment, gave the impression that everybody
must speak quickly or he would be gone, might quickly be rid of him by
speaking quickly. Obviously, intercourse with him was socially
unsatisfactory; but this did not trouble him, as his theory of life was,
get what you want, never mind the way or the feelings of others. And as
he got by giving, attached his friends by self-interest, made people do
for him what it was just as well that they should do, the net result,
after the confusion and irritation had calmed, was that everybody felt,
on the whole, well content with having been compelled. It was said of
him that he made even his enemies work for him; and this was undoubtedly
true--in the sense in which it was meant as well as in the deeper sense
that a man's enemies, if he be strong, are his most assiduous allies and
advocates. It was also true that he did a great deal for people. Where
most men do favors only when the prospect of return is immediate, he
busied himself as energetically if returns seemed remote, even
improbable, as he did when his right hand was taking in with interest as
his left hand gave. It was his nature to be generous, to like to give;
it was also his nature to see that a reputation for real generosity and
kindness of heart was an invaluable asset, and that the only way to win
such a reputation was by deserving it.
Craig arrived at the Severences at half-past four, when no one was
expected until five. "Margaret is dressing," explained Mrs. Severence,
as she entered the drawing-room. "She'll be down presently--if you care
to wait." This, partly because she hoped he would go, chiefly because he
seemed in such a hurry.
"I'll wait a few minutes," said Craig in his sharp, irritating voice.
And he began to tour the room, glancing at pictures, at articles on the
tables, mussing the lighter pieces of furniture about. Mrs. Severence,
pink-and-white, middle-aged, fattish and obviously futile, watched him
with increasing nervousness. He would surely break something; or, being
by a window when the impulse to depart seized him, would leap through,
taking sash, curtains and all with him.
"Perhaps we'd better go outdoors," suggested she. She felt very
helpless, as usual. It was from her that Lucia inherited her laziness
and her taste for that most indolent of all the dissipations, the
reading of love stories.
"Outdoors?" exploded Craig, wheeling on her, as if he had previously
been unconscious of her presence. "No. We'll sit here. I want to talk to
you."
And he plumped himself into a chair near by, his claw-like hands upon
his knees, his keen eyes and beak-like nose bent toward her. Mrs.
Severence visibly shrank. She felt as if that handsome, predatory face
were pressed against the very window of her inmost soul.
"You wish to talk to me," she echoed, with a feeble conciliatory smile.
"About your daughter," said Craig, still more curt and aggressive. "Mrs.
Severence, your daughter ought to get married."
Roxana Severence was so amazed that her mouth dropped open. "Married?"
she echoed, as if her ears had deceived her.
The colossal impudence of it! This young man, this extremely common
young man, daring to talk to her about such a private matter! And she
had not yet known him a month; and only within the last fortnight had he
been making frequent visits--entirely on his own invitation, for she
certainly would not overtly provoke such a visitation as his coming
meant. Mrs. Severence would have been angry had she dared. But Craig's
manner was most alarming; what would--what would not a person so
indifferent to the decencies of life do if he were crossed?
"She must get married," pursued Craig firmly. "Do you know why I've been
coming here these past two or three weeks?"
Mrs. Severence was astounded anew. The man was actually about to propose
for her daughter! This common man, with nothing!
"It's not my habit to make purposeless visits," continued he,
"especially among frivolous, idle people like you. I've been coming here
to make a study of your daughter."
He paused. Mrs. Severence gave a feeble, frightened smile, made a sound
that might have been mirth and again might have been the beginnings of a
hastily-suppressed call for help.
"And," Craig went on energetically, "I find that she is a very superior
sort of person. In another environment she might have been a big, strong
woman. She's amazing, considering the sickly, sycophantic atmosphere
she's been brought up in. Now, I want to see her married. She's
thoroughly discontented and unhappy. She's becoming sour and cynical. WE
must get her married. It's your duty to rouse yourself."
Mrs. Severence did rouse herself just at this moment. Cheeks aflame and
voice trembling, she stood and said:
"You are very kind, Mr. Craig, to offer to assist me in bringing up my
family. Surely--such--such interest is unusual on brief and very slight
acquaintance." She rang the bell. "I can show my appreciation in only
one way." The old butler, Williams, appeared. "Williams, show this
gentlemen out." And she left the room.
Williams, all frigid dignity and politeness, stood at the large entrance
doors, significantly holding aside one curtain. Craig rose, his face
red. "Mrs. Severence isn't very well," said he noisily to the servant,
as if he were on terms of closest intimacy with the family. "Tell
Margaret I'll wait for her in the garden." And he rushed out by the
window that opened on the veranda, leaving the amazed butler at the
door, uncertain what to do.
Mrs. Severence, ascending the stairs in high good humor with herself at
having handled a sudden and difficult situation as well as she had ever
read of its being handled in a novel, met her daughter descending.
"Sh-h!" said she in a whisper, for she had not heard the front door
close. "He may not be gone. Come with me."
Margaret followed her mother into the library at the head of the stairs.
"It was that Craig man," explained Mrs. Severence, when she had the door
closed. "What DO you think he had the impudence to do?"
"I'm sure I can't imagine," said Margaret, impatient.
"He proposed for you!"
Margaret reflected a brief instant. "Nonsense!" she said decisively.
"He's not that kind. You misunderstood him."
"I tell you he did!" cried her mother. "And I ordered him out of the
house."
"What?" screamed Margaret, clutching her mother's arm. "WHAT?"
"I ordered him out of the house," stammered her mother.
"I wish you'd stick to your novels and let me attend to my own affairs,"
cried Margaret, pale with fury. "Is he gone?"
"I left Williams attending to it. Surely, Rita--"
But Margaret had flung the door open and was darting down the stairs.
"Where is he?" she demanded fiercely of Williams, still in the
drawing-room doorway.
"In the garden, ma'am," said Williams. "He didn't pay no attention."
But Margaret was rushing through the drawing-room. At the French windows
she caught sight of him, walking up and down in his usual quick, alert
manner, now smelling flowers, now staring up into the trees, now
scrutinizing the upper windows of the house. She drew back, waited until
she had got her breath and had composed her features. Then, with the
long skirts of her graceful pale-blue dress trailing behind her, and a
big white sunshade open and resting upon her shoulder, she went down the
veranda steps and across the lawn toward him. He paused, gazed at her in
frank--vulgarly frank--admiration; just then, it seemed to her, he never
said or did or looked anything except in the vulgarest way.
"You certainly are a costly-looking luxury," said he loudly, when there
were still a dozen yards between them. "Oh, there's your mother at the
window, upstairs--her bedroom window."
"How did you know it was her bedroom?" asked Margaret.
"While I was waiting for you to come down one day I sent for one of the
servants and had him explain the lay of the house."
"Really!" said Margaret, satirical and amused. "I suppose there was no
mail on the table or you'd have read that while you waited?"
"There you go, trying to say clever, insulting things. Why not be frank?
Why not be direct?"
"Why should I, simply because YOU wish it? You don't half realize how
amusing you are."
"Oh, yes, I do," retorted he, with a shrewd, quick glance from those
all-seeing eyes of his.
"Half, I said. You do half realize. I told you once before that I knew
what a fraud you were."
"I play my game in my own way," evaded he; "and it seems to be doing
nicely, thank you."
"But the further you go, the harder it'll be for you to progress."
"Then the harder for those opposing me. I don't make it easy for those
who are making it hard for me. I get 'em so busy nursing their own
wounds that they've no longer time to bother me. I've told you before,
and I tell you again, I shall go where I please."
"Let me see," laughed Margaret; "it was Napoleon--wasn't it?--who used
to talk that way?"
"And you think I'm imitating him, eh?"
"You do suggest it very often."
"I despise him. A wicked, little, dago charlatan who was put out of
business as soon as he was really opposed. No!--no Waterloo for me!...
How's your mother? She got sick while I was talking to her and had to
leave the room."
"Yes, I know," said Margaret.
"You ought to make her take more exercise. Don't let her set foot in a
carriage. We are animals, and nature has provided that animals shall
walk to keep in health. Walking and things like that are the only sane
modes of getting about. Everything aristocratic is silly. As soon as we
begin to rear and strut we stumble into our graves--But it's no use to
talk to you about that. I came on another matter."
Margaret's lips tightened; she hastily veiled her eyes.
"I've taken a great fancy to you," Craig went on. "That's why I've
wasted so much time on you. What you need is a husband--a good husband.
Am I not right?"
Margaret, pale, said faintly: "Go on."
"You know I'm right. Every man and every woman ought to marry. A
home--children--THAT'S life. The rest is all incidental--trivial. Do you
suppose I could work as I do if it wasn't that I'm getting ready to be a
family man? I need love--sympathy--tenderness. People think I'm hard and
ambitious. But they don't know. I've got a heart, overflowing with
tenderness, as some woman'll find out some day. But I didn't come to
talk about myself."
Margaret made a movement of surprise--involuntary, startled.
"No, I don't always talk about myself," Craig went on; "and I'll let you
into a secret. I don't THINK about myself nearly so much as many of
these chaps who never speak of themselves. However, as I was saying, I'm
going to get you a husband. Now, don't you get sick, as your mother did.
Be sensible. Trust me. I'll see you through--and that's more than any of
these cheap, shallow people round you would do."
"Well?" said Margaret.
"You and Grant Arkwright are going to marry. Now don't pretend--don't
protest. It's the proper thing and it must be done. You like him?"
As Craig was looking sharply at her she felt she must answer. She made a
vague gesture of assent.
"Of course!" said Craig. "If you and he led a natural life you'd have
been married long ago. Now, I'm going to dine with him to-night. I'll
lay the case before him. He'll be out here after you to-morrow."
Margaret trembled with anger. Two bright spots burned in her cheeks.
"You wouldn't dare!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "No, not even you!"
"And why not?" demanded Craig calmly. "Do you suppose I'm going to stand
idly by, and let two friends of mine, two people I'm as fond of as I am
of you two creatures, make fools of yourselves? No. I shall bring you
together."
Margaret rose. "If you say a word to Grant I'll never speak to you
again. And I assure you I shouldn't marry HIM if he were the last man on
earth."
"If you only knew men better!" exclaimed Craig earnestly. His eyes
fascinated her, and his sharp, penetrating voice somehow seemed to reach
to her very soul and seize it and hold it enthralled. "My dear child,
Grant Arkwright is one man in a million. I've been with him in times
that show men's qualities. Don't judge men by what they are ordinarily.
They don't reveal their real selves. Wait till a crisis comes--then you
see manhood or lack of it. Life is bearable, at the worst, for any of us
in the routine. But when the crisis comes we need, not only all our own
strength, but all we can rally to our support. I tell you, Miss
Severence, Grant is one of the men that can be relied on. I despise his
surface--as I do yours. But it's because I see the man--the
manhood--beneath that surface, that I love him. And I want him to have a
woman worthy of him. That means YOU. You, too, have the soul that makes
a human being--a real aristocrat--of the aristocracy, of strong and
honest hearts."
Craig's face was splendid, was ethereal in its beauty, yet flashing with
manliness. He looked as she had seen him that night two years before,
when he had held even her and her worldly friends spellbound, had made
them thrill with ideas of nobility and human helpfulness foreign to
their everyday selves. She sat silent when he had finished, presently
drew a long breath.
"Why aren't you always like that?" she exclaimed half to herself.
"You'll marry Grant?"
She shook her head positively. "Impossible."
"Why not?"
"Impossible," she repeated. "And you mustn't speak of it to me--or to
him. I appreciate your motive. I thank you--really, I do. It makes me
feel better, somehow, to have had any one think so well of me as you do.
And Grant ought to be proud of your friendship."
Their eyes met. She flushed to the line of her hair and her glance fell,
for she felt utterly ashamed of herself for the design upon him which
she had been harboring. "Let us go in and join the others," said she
confusedly. And her color fled, returned in a flood.
"No, I'm off," replied he, in his ordinary, sharp, bustling way. "I'm
not defeated. I've done well--very well, for a beginning." And he gave
her hand his usual firm, uncomfortable clasp, and rushed away.
She walked up and down full fifteen minutes before she went toward the
house. At the veranda Lucia intercepted her. "Did he?" she asked
anxiously.
Margaret looked at her vaguely, then smiled. "No, he did not."
"He didn't?" exclaimed Lucia, at once disappointed and relieved.
"Not yet," said Margaret. She laughed, patted Lucia's full-blown cheek.
"Not quite yet." And she went on in to tea, humming to herself gayly;
she did not understand her own sudden exceeding high spirits.