MADAM BOWKER HEARS THE NEWS
In the midst of profound hush Madam Bowker was charging her heavy
artillery, to train it upon and demolish the engagement certainly, and
probably Margaret, too. Just as she was about to open fire callers were
ushered in. As luck had it they were the three Stillwater girls, hastily
made-over Westerners, dressed with great show of fashion in what
purported to be imported French hats and gowns. An expert eye, however,
would instantly have pierced the secret of this formidable array of
plumes and furbelows. The Stillwaters fancied they had exquisite taste
and real genius in the art of dress. Those hats were made at home, were
adaptations of the imported hats--adaptations of the kind that "see" the
original and "go it a few better." As for the dresses, the Stillwaters
had found one of those treasures dear to a certain kind of woman, had
found a "woman just round the corner, and not established yet"--"I
assure you, my dear, she takes a mental picture of the most difficult
dress to copy, and you'd never know hers from the original--and SO
reasonable!"
In advance came Molly Stillwater, the youngest and prettiest and the
most aggressively dressed because her position as family beauty made it
incumbent upon her to lead the way in fashion. As soon as the greetings
were over--cold, indeed, from Madam Bowker, hysterical from
Roxana--Molly gushed out: "Just as we left home, Josh Craig came tearing
in. If possible, madder than a hatter--yes--really--" Molly was still
too young to have learned to control the mechanism of her mouth; thus,
her confused syntax seemed the result of the alarming and fascinating
contortions of her lips and tongue--"and, when we told him where we were
going he shouted out, 'Give Rita my love.'"
Margaret penetrated to the purpose to anger her against Craig. Was not
Craig intended by Mrs. Stillwater for Jessie, the eldest and only
serious one of the three? And was not his conduct, his hanging about
Margaret and his shying off from Jessie, thoroughly up on public
questions and competent to discuss them with anybody--was not his
conduct most menacing to her plans? Mrs. Stillwater, arranging for
matrimony for all her daughters, had decided that Jess was hopeless
except as a "serious woman," since she had neither figure nor face, nor
even abundant hair, which alone is enough to entangle some men. So, Jess
had been set to work at political economy, finance, at studying up the
political situations; and, if started right and not interfered with, she
could give as good account of her teaching as any phonograph.
Margaret welcomed Molly's message from Craig with a sweet smile. An
amused glance at the thunderous face of her grandmother, and she said,
"Perhaps it would interest you, dear, to know that he and I are
engaged."
What could Madam Bowker say? What could she do? Obviously, nothing. The
three Stillwaters became hysterical. Their comments and congratulations
were scraps of disjointed nonsense, and they got away under cover of
more arrivals, in as great disorder as if the heavy guns Madam Bowker
had stacked to the brim for Margaret had accidentally discharged into
them. Madam Bowker could wait no longer. "Margaret," said she, "help me
to my carriage."
Mrs. Severence gave her difficult daughter an appealing glance, as if
she feared the girl would cap the climax of rebellion by flatly
refusing; but Margaret said sweetly:
"Yes, Grandma."
The two left the room, the old lady leaning heavily on her granddaughter
and wielding her ebony staff as if getting her arm limbered to use it.
In the hall, she said fiercely, "To your room," and waved her staff
toward the stairway.
Margaret hesitated, shrugged her shoulders. She preceding, and Madam
Bowker ascending statelily afterward, they went up and were presently
alone in Margaret's pretty rose and gold boudoir, with the outer door
closed.
"Now!" exclaimed Madam Bowker.
"Not so loud, please," suggested the tranquil Margaret, "unless you wish
Selina to hear." She pointed to the door ajar. "She's sewing in there."
"Send the woman away," commanded the old lady.
But Margaret merely closed the door. "Well, Grandmother?"
"Sit at this desk," ordered the old lady, pointing with the ebony staff,
"and write a note to that man Craig, breaking the engagement. Say you
have thought it over and have decided it is quite impossible. And
to-morrow morning you go to New York with me."
Margaret seated herself on the lounge instead. "I'll do neither," said
she.
The old lady waved the end of her staff in a gesture of lofty disdain.
"As you please. But, if you do not, your allowance is withdrawn."
"Certainly," said Margaret. "I assumed that."
Madam Bowker gazed at her with eyes like tongues of flame. "And how do
you expect to live?" she inquired.
"That is OUR affair," replied the girl. "You say you are done with me.
Well, so am I done with you."
It was, as Margaret had said, because she was not afraid of her
grandmother that that formidable old lady respected her; and as she was
one of those who can give affection only where they give respect, she
loved Margaret--loved her with jealous and carping tenacity. The girl's
words of finality made her erect and unyielding soul shiver in a sudden
dreary blast of loneliness, that most tragic of all the storms that
sweep the ways of life. It was in the tone of the anger of love with the
beloved that she cried, "How DARE you engage yourself to such a person!"
"You served notice on me that I must marry," replied the girl, her own
tone much modified. "He was the chance that offered."
"The chance!" Madam Bowker smiled with caustic scorn, "He's not a
chance."
"You ordered me to marry. I am marrying. And you are violating your
promise. But I expected it."
"My promise? What do you mean?"
"You told me if I'd marry you'd continue my allowance after marriage.
You even hinted you'd increase it."
"But this is no marriage. I should consider a connection between such a
man and a Severence as a mere vulgar intrigue. You might as well run
away with a coachman. I have known few coachmen so ill-bred--so
repellent--as this Craig."
Margaret laughed cheerfully. "He isn't what you'd call polished, is he?"
Her grandmother studied her keenly. "Margaret," she finally said, "this
is some scheme of yours. You are using this engagement to help you to
something else."
"I refused Grant Arkwright just before you came."
"You--refused--Arkwright?"
"My original plan was to trap Grant by making him jealous of Craig. But
I abandoned it."
"And why?"
"A remnant of decency."
"I doubt it," said the old lady.
"So should I in the circumstances. We're a pretty queer lot, aren't we?
You, for instance--on the verge of the grave, and breaking your promise
to me as if a promise were nothing."
Mrs. Bowker's ebon staff twitched convulsively and her terrible eyes
were like the vent-holes of internal fires; but she managed her rage
with a skill that was high tribute to her will-power. "You are right in
selecting this clown--this tag-rag," said she. "You and he, I see, are
peculiarly suited to each other.... My only regret is that in my blind
affection I have wasted all these years and all those thousands of
dollars on you." Madam Bowker affected publicly a fine scorn of money
and all that thereto appertained; but privately she was a true
aristocrat in her reverence and consideration for that which is the bone
and blood of aristocracy.
"Nothing so stupid and silly as regret," said Margaret, with placid
philosophy of manner. "I, too, could think of things I regret. But I'm
putting my whole mind on the future."
"Future!" Madam Bowker laughed. "Why, my child, you have no future.
Within two years you'll either be disgracefully divorced, or the wife of
a little lawyer in a little Western town."
"But I'll have my husband and my children. What more can a woman ask?"
The old lady scrutinized her granddaughter's tranquil, delicate face in
utter amazement. She could find nothing on which to base a hope that the
girl was either jesting or posing. "Margaret," she cried, "are you
CRAZY?"
"Do you think a desire for a home, and a husband who adores one, and
children whom one adores is evidence of insanity?"
"Yes, you are mad--quite mad!"
"I suppose you think that fretting about all my seasons without an offer
worth accepting has driven me out of my senses. Sometimes I think so,
too." And Margaret lapsed into abstracted, dreamy silence.
"Do you pretend that you--you--care for--this person?" inquired the old
lady.
"I can't discuss him with you, Grandmother," replied the girl. "You know
you have washed your hands of me."
"I shall never give up," cried the old lady vehemently, "until I rescue
you. I'll not permit this disgrace. I'll have him driven out of
Washington."
"Yes, you might try that," said Margaret. "I don't want him to stay
here. I am sick--sick to death--of all this. I loathe everything I ever
liked. It almost seems to me I'd prefer living in a cabin in the
back-woods. I've just wakened to what it really means--no love, no
friendship, only pretense and show, rivalry in silly extravagance,
aimless running to and fro among people that care nothing for one, and
that one cares nothing for. If you could see it as I see it you'd
understand."
But Madam Bowker had thought all her life in terms of fashion and
society. She was not in the least impressed. "Balderdash!" said she with
a jab at the floor with the ebony staff. "Don't pose before me. You know
very well you're marrying this man because you believe he will amount to
a great deal."
Margaret beamed upon her grandmother triumphantly, as if she had stepped
into a trap that had been set for her. "And your only reason for being
angry," cried she, "is that you don't believe he will."
"I know he won't. He can't. Stillwater has kept him solely because that
unspeakable wife of his hopes to foist their dull, ugly eldest girl on
him."
"You think a man as shrewd as Stillwater would marry his daughter to a
nobody?"
"It's useless for you to argue, Margaret," snapped the old lady. "The
man's impossible--for a Severence. I shall stop the engagement."
"You can't," rejoined Margaret calmly. "My mind is made up. And along
with several other qualities, Grandmother, dear, I've inherited your
will."
"Will without wit--is there anything worse? But I know you are not
serious. It is merely a mood--the result of a profound discouragement.
My dear child, let me assure you it is no unusual thing for a girl of
your position, yet without money, to have no offers at all. You should
not believe the silly lies your girlfriends tell about having bushels of
offers. No girl has bushels of offers unless she makes herself common
and familiar with all kinds of men--and takes their loose talk
seriously. Most men wouldn't dare offer themselves to you. The impudence
of this Craig! You should have ordered him out of your presence."
Margaret, remembering how Craig had seized her, smiled.
"I admit I have been inconsiderate in urging you so vigorously,"
continued her grandmother. "I thought I had observed a tendency to
fritter. I wished you to stop trifling with Grant Arkwright--or, rather,
to stop his trifling with you. Come, now, my dear, let me put an end to
this engagement. And you will marry Grant, and your future will be
bright and assured."
Margaret shook her head. "I have promised," said she, and her expression
would have thrilled Lucia.
Madam Bowker was singularly patient with this evidence of
sentimentalism. "That's fine and noble of you. But you didn't realize
what a grave step you were taking, and you--"
"Yes, but I did. If ever anything was deliberate on a woman's part, that
engagement was." A bright spot burned in each of the girl's cheeks. "He
didn't really propose. I pretended to misunderstand him."
Her grandmother stared.
"You needn't look at me like that," exclaimed Margaret. "You know very
well that Grandfather Bowker never would have married you if you hadn't
fairly compelled him. I heard him tease you about it once when I was a
little girl."
It was Madam Bowker's turn to redden. She deigned to smile. "Men are so
foolish," observed she, "that women often have to guide them. There
would be few marriages of the right sort if the men were not managed."
Margaret nodded assent. "I realize that now," said she. Earnestly:
"Grandmother, try to make the best of this engagement of mine. When a
woman, a woman as experienced and sensible as I am, makes up her mind a
certain man is the man for her, is it wise to interfere?"
Madam Bowker, struck by the searching wisdom of this remark, was
silenced for the moment. In the interval of thought she reflected that
she would do well to take counsel of herself alone in proceeding to
break this engagement. "You are on the verge of making a terrible
misstep, child," said she with a gentleness she had rarely shown even to
her favorite grandchild. "I shall think it over, and you will think it
over. At least, promise me you will not see Craig for a few days."
Margaret hesitated. Her grandmother, partly by this unusual gentleness,
partly by inducing the calmer reflection of the second thought, had
shaken her purpose more than she would have believed possible. "If I've
made a mistake," said she, "isn't seeing him the best way to realize
it?"
"Yes," instantly and emphatically admitted the acute old lady. "See him,
by all means. See as much of him as possible. And in a few days you will
be laughing at yourself--and very much ashamed."
"I wonder," said Margaret aloud, but chiefly to herself.
And Madam Bowker, seeing the doubt in her face, only a faint reflection
of the doubt that must be within, went away content.