PUTTING DOWN A MUTINY
Margaret made it an all but inflexible rule not to go out, but to rest
and repair one evening in each week; that was the evening, under the
rule, but she would have broken the rule had any opportunity offered. Of
course, for the first time since the season began, no one sent or
telephoned to ask her to fill in at the last moment. She half-expected
Craig, though she knew he was to be busy; he neither came nor called up.
She dined moodily with the family, sat surlily in a corner of the
veranda until ten o'clock, hid herself in bed. She feared she would have
a sleepless night. But she had eaten no dinner; and, as indigestion is
about the only thing that will keep a healthy human being awake, she
slept dreamlessly, soundly, not waking until Selina slowly and softly
opened the inner blinds of her bedroom at eight the next morning.
There are people who are wholly indifferent about their surroundings,
and lead the life dictated by civilized custom only because they are
slaves of custom, Margaret was not one of these. She not only adopted
all the comforts and luxuries that were current, she also spent much
tune in thinking out new luxuries, new refinements upon those she
already had. She was through, and through the luxurious idler; she made
of idling a career--pursued it with intelligent purpose where others
simply drifted, yawning when pastimes were not provided for them. She
was as industrious and ingenious at her career as a Craig at furthering
himself and his ideas in a public career.
Like the others of her class she left the care of her mind to chance. As
she had a naturally good mind and a bird-like instinct for flitting
everywhere, picking out the food from the chaff, she made an excellent
showing even in the company of serious people. But that was accident.
Her person was her real care. To her luxurious, sensuous nature every
kind of pleasurable physical sensation made keen appeal, and she strove
in every way to make it keener. She took the greatest care of her
health, because health meant beauty and every nerve and organ in
condition to enjoy to its uttermost capacity.
Because of this care it was often full three hours and half between the
entrance of Selina and her own exit, dressed and ready for the day. And
those three hours and a half were the happiest of her day usually,
because they were full of those physical sensations in which she most
delighted. Her first move, after Selina had awakened her, was to spend
half an hour in "getting the yawns out." She had learned this
interesting, pleasant and amusing trick from a baby in a house where she
had once spent a week. She would extend herself at full length in the
bed, and then slowly stretch each separate muscle of arm and leg, of
foot and hand, of neck and shoulders and waist. This stretching process
was accompanied by a series of prolonged, profound, luxurious yawns.
The yawning exercise completed, she rose and took before a long mirror a
series of other exercises, some to strengthen her waist, others to keep
her back straight and supple, others to make firm the contour of her
face and throat. A half-hour of this, then came her bath. This was no
hurried plunge, drying and away, but a long and elaborate function at
which Selina assisted. There had to be water of three temperatures; a
dozen different kinds of brushes, soaps, towels and other apparatus
participated. When it was finished Margaret's skin glowed and shone, was
soft and smooth and exhaled a delicious odor of lilacs. During the
exercises Selina had been getting ready the clothes for the
day--everything fresh throughout, and everything delicately redolent of
the same essence of lilacs with which Selina had rubbed her from hair to
tips of fingers and feet. The clothes were put on slowly, for Margaret
delighted in the feeling of soft silks and laces being drawn over her
skin. She let Selina do every possible bit of work, and gave herself up
wholly to the joy of being cared for.
"There isn't any real reason why I shouldn't be doing this for you,
instead of your doing it for me--is there, Selina?" mused she aloud.
"Goodness gracious, Miss Rita!" exclaimed Selina, horrified. "I wouldn't
have it done for anything. I was brought up to be retiring about
dressing. It was my mother's dying boast that no man, nor no woman, had
ever seen her, a grown woman, except fully dressed."
"Really?" said Margaret absently. She stood up, surveyed herself in the
triple mirror--back, front, sides. "So many women never look at
themselves in the back," observed she, "or know how their skirts hang
about the feet. I believe in dressing for all points of view."
"You certainly are just perfect," said the adoring Selina, not the least
part of her admiring satisfaction due to the fact that the toilette was
largely the creation of her own hands. "And you smell like a real
lady--not noisy, like some that comes here. I hate to touch their wraps
or to lay 'em down in the house. But you--It's one of them smells that
you ain't sure whether you smelt it or dreamed it."
"Pretty good, Selina!" said Margaret. She could not but be pleased with
such a compliment, one that could have been suggested only by the truth.
"The hair went up well this morning, didn't it?"
"Lovely--especially in the back. It looks as if it had been marcelled,
without that common, barbery stiffness-like."
"Yes, the back is good. And I like this blouse. I must wear it oftener."
"You can't afford to favor it too much, Miss Rita. You know you've got
over thirty, all of them beauties."
"Some day, when I get time, we must look through my clothes. I want to
give you a lot of them.... What DOES become of the time? Here it is,
nearly eleven. See if breakfast has come up. I'll finish dressing
afterward if it has."
It had. It was upon a small table in the rose and gold boudoir. And the
sun, shining softly in at the creeper-shaded window, rejoiced in the
surpassing brightness and cleanness of the dishes of silver and thinnest
porcelain and cut glass. Margaret thought eating in bed a "filthy,
foreign fad," and never indulged in it. She seated herself lazily, drank
her coffee, and ate her roll and her egg slowly, deliberately, reading
her letters and glancing at the paper. A charming picture she made--the
soft, white Valenciennes of her matinee falling away from her throat and
setting off the clean, smooth healthiness of her skin, the blackness of
her vital hair; from the white lace of her petticoat's plaited flounces
peered one of her slim feet, a satin slipper upon the end of it. At the
top of the heap of letters lay one she would have recognized, she
thought, had she never seen the handwriting before.
"Sure to be upsetting," reflected she; and she laid it aside, glancing
now and then at the bold, nervous, irregular hand and speculating about
the contents and about the writer.
She had gone to bed greatly disturbed in mind as to whether she was
doing well to marry the obstreperous Westerner. "He fascinates me in a
wild, weird sort of a way when I'm with him," she had said to herself
before going to sleep, "and the idea of him is fascinating in certain
moods. And it is a temptation to take hold of him and master and train
him--like broncho-busting. But is it interesting enough for--for
marriage? Wouldn't I get horribly tired? Wouldn't Grant and humdrum be
better? less wearying?" And when she awakened she found her problem all
but solved. "I'll send him packing and take Grant," she found herself
saying, "unless some excellent reason for doing otherwise appears.
Grandmother was right. Engaging myself to him was a mood." Once more she
was all for luxury and ease and calmness, for the pleasant, soothing,
cut-and-dried thing. "A cold bath or a rough rub-down now and then, once
in a long while, is all very well. It makes one appreciate comfort and
luxury more. But that sort of thing every day--many times each day--"
Margaret felt her nerves rebelling as at the stroking of velvet the
wrong way.
She read all her other letters, finished her toilette, had on her hat,
and was having Selina put on her boots when she opened Craig's letter
and read:
"I must have been out of my mind this afternoon. You are wildly
fascinating, but you are not for me. If I led you to believe that I
wished to marry you, pray forget it. We should make each other unhappy
and, worse still, uncomfortable.
"Do I make myself clear? We are not engaged. I hope you will marry
Arkwright; a fine fellow, in every way suited to you, and, I happen to
know, madly in love with you. Please try to forgive me. If you have any
feeling for me stronger than friendship you will surely get over it.
"Anyhow, we couldn't marry. That is settled.
"Let me have an answer to this. I shall be upset until I hear." No
beginning. No end. Just a bald, brutal casting-off. A hint--more than a
hint--of a fear that she would try to hold him in spite of himself. She
smiled--small, even teeth clenched and eyelids contracted cruelly--as
she read a second time, with this unflattering suggestion obtruding. The
humiliation of being jilted! And by such a man!--the private shame--the
public disgrace--She sprang up, crunching her foot hard down upon one of
Selina's hands. "What is it?" said she angrily, at her maid's cry of
pain.
"Nothing, Miss," replied Selina, quickly hiding the wounded hand. "You
moved so quick I hadn't time to draw away. That was all."
"Then finish that boot!"
Selina had to expose the hand, Margaret looked down at it indifferently,
though her heel had torn the skin away from the edge of the palm and had
cut into the flesh.
"Hurry!" she ordered fiercely, as Selina fumbled and bungled.
She twitched and frowned with impatience while Selina finished buttoning
the boot, then descended and called Williams. "Get me Mr. Craig on the
telephone," she said.
"He's been calling you up several times to-day, ma'am,--"
"Ah!" exclaimed Margaret, eyes flashing with sudden delight.
"But we wouldn't disturb you."
"That was right," said Margaret. She was beaming now, was all sunny good
humor. Even her black hair seemed to glisten in her simile. So! He had
been calling up! Poor fool, not to realize that she would draw the
correct inference from this anxiety.
"Shall I call him?" "No. I'll wait. Probably he'll call again soon. I'll
be in the library."
She had not been roaming restlessly about there many minutes before
Williams appeared "He's come, himself, ma'am," said he. "I told him I
didn't know whether you'd be able to see him or not."
"Thank you, Williams," said Margaret sweetly. "Order the carriage to
come round at once. Leave Mr. Craig in the drawing-room. I'll speak to
him on the way out."
She dashed upstairs. "Selina! Selina!" she called. And when Selina came:
"Let me see that hand. I hurt you because I got news that went through
me like a knife. You understand, don't you?"
"It was nothing, Miss Rita," protested Selina. "I'd forgot it myself
already."
But Margaret insisted on assuring herself with her own eyes, got blood
on her white gloves, had to change them. As she descended she was
putting on the fresh pair--a new pair. How vastly more than even the
normal is a man's disadvantage in a "serious" interview with a woman if
she is putting on new gloves! She is perfectly free to seem occupied or
not, as suits her convenience; and she can, by wrestling with the
gloves, interrupt him without speech, distract his attention, fiddle his
thoughts, give him a sense of imbecile futility, and all the time offer
him no cause for resentment against her. He himself seems in the wrong;
she is merely putting On her gloves.
She was wrong in her guess that Arkwright had been at him. He had simply
succumbed to his own fears and forebodings, gathered in force as soon as
he was not protected from them by the spell of her presence. The mystery
of the feminine is bred into men from earliest infancy, is intensified
when passion comes and excites the imagination into fantastic activity
about women. No man, not the most experienced, not the most depraved, is
ever able wholly to divest himself of this awe, except, occasionally, in
the case of some particular woman. Awe makes one ill at ease; the woman
who, by whatever means, is able to cure a man of his awe of her, to make
him feel free to be himself, is often able to hold him, even though he
despises her or is indifferent to her; on the other hand, the woman who
remains an object of awe to a man is certain to lose him. He may be
proud to have her as his wife, as the mother of his children, but he
will seek some other woman to give her the place of intimacy in his
life.
At the outset on an acquaintance between a man and a woman his awe for
her as the embodiment of the mystery feminine is of great advantage to
her; it often gets him for her as a husband. In this particular case of
Margaret Severence and Joshua Craig, while his awe of her was an
advantage, it was also a disadvantage. It attracted him; it perilously
repelled him. He liked to release his robust imagination upon those
charms of hers--those delicate, refined beauties that filled him with
longings, delicious in their intensity, longings as primeval in kind as
well as in force as those that set delirious the savage hordes from the
German forests when they first poured down over the Alps and beheld the
jewels and marbles and round, smooth, soft women of Italy's ancient
civilization. But at the same time he had the unmistakable, the
terrifying feeling of dare-devil sacrilege. What were his coarse hands
doing, dabbling in silks and cobweb laces and embroideries? Silk
fascinated him; but, while he did not like calico so well, he felt at
home with it. Yes, he had seized her, had crushed her madly in the
embrace of his plowman arms. But that seemed now a freak of courage, a
drunken man's deed, wholly beyond the nerve of sobriety.
Then, on top of all this awe was his reverence for her as an aristocrat,
a representative of people who had for generations been far removed
above the coarse realities of the only life he knew. And it was this
adoration of caste that determined him. He might overcome his awe of her
person and dress, of her tangible trappings; but how could he ever hope
to bridge the gulf between himself and her intangible superiorities? He
was ashamed of himself, enraged against himself for this feeling of worm
gazing up at star. It made a mockery of all his arrogant, noisy
protestations of equality and democracy.
"The fault is not in my ideas," thought he; "THEY'RE all right. The
fault's in me--damned snob that I am!"
Clearly, if he was to be what he wished, if he was to become what he had
thought he was, he must get away from this sinister influence, from this
temptation that had made him, at first onset, not merely stumble, but
fall flat and begin to grovel. "She is a superior woman--that is no snob
notion of mine," reflected he. "But from the way I falter and get weak
in the knees, she ought to be superhuman--which she isn't, by any means.
No, there's only one thing to do--keep away from her. Besides, I'd feel
miserable with her about as my wife." My wife! The very words threw him
into a cold sweat.
So the note was written, was feverishly dispatched.
No sooner was it sent than it was repented. "What's the matter with me?"
demanded he of himself, as his courage came swaggering back, once the
danger had been banished. "Why, the best is not too good for me. She is
the best, and mighty proud she ought to be of a man who, by sheer force
of character, has lifted himself to where I am and who, is going to be
what I shall be. Mighty proud! There are only two realities--money and
brains. I've certainly got more brains than she or any of her set; as
for money, she hasn't got that. The superiority is all on my side. I'm
the one that ought to feel condescending."
What had he said in his note? Recalling it as well as he could--for it
was one, the last, of more than a dozen notes he had written in two
hours of that evening--recalling phrases he was pretty sure he had put
into the one he had finally sent, in despair of a better, it seemed to
him he had given her a wholly false impression--an impression of her
superiority and of his fear and awe. That would never do. He must set
her right, must show her he was breaking the engagement only because she
was not up to his standard. Besides, he wished to see her again to make
sure he had been victimized into an engagement by a purely physical,
swiftly-evanescent imagining. Yes, he must see her, must have a look at
her, must have a talk with her.
"It's the only decent, courageous thing to do in the circumstances.
Sending that note looked like cowardice--would be cowardice if I didn't
follow it up with a visit. And whatever else I am, surely I'm not a
coward!"
Margaret had indulged in no masculine ingenuities of logic. Woman-like,
she had gone straight to the practical point: Craig had written instead
of coming--he was, therefore, afraid of her. Having written he had not
fled, but had come--he was, therefore, attracted by her still. Obviously
the game lay in her own hands, for what more could woman ask than that a
man be both afraid and attracted? A little management and she not only
would save herself from the threatened humiliation of being
jilted--jilted by an uncouth nobody of a Josh Craig!--but also would
have him in durance, to punish his presumption at her own good pleasure
as to time and manner. If Joshua Craig, hardy plodder in the arduous
pathway from plowboy to President, could have seen what was in the mind
so delicately and so aristocratically entempled in that graceful,
slender, ultra-feminine body of Margaret Severence's, as she descended
the stairs, putting fresh gloves upon her beautiful, idle hands, he
would have borrowed wings of the wind and would have fled as from a
gorgon.
But as she entered the room nothing could have seemed less formidable
except to the heart. Her spring dress--she was wearing it for the first
time--was of a pale green, suggesting the draperies of islands of
enchantment. Its lines coincided with the lines of her figure. Her hat,
trimmed to match, formed a magic halo for her hair; and it, in turn, was
the entrancing frame in which her small, quiet, pallid face was
set--that delicate, sensitive face, from which shone, now softly and now
brilliantly, those hazel eyes a painter could have borrowed for a wood
nymph. In the doorway, before greeting him, she paused.
"Williams," she called, and Craig was thrilled by her "high-bred"
accent, that seemed to him to make of the English language a medium
different from the one he used and heard out home.
"Yes, ma'am," came the answer in the subtly-deferential tone of the
aristocracy of menialdom, conjuring for Craig, with the aid of the woman
herself and that aristocratic old room, a complete picture of the life
of upper-class splendor.
"Did you order the carriage, as I asked?"
"Yes, ma'am; it's at the door."
"Thank you." And Margaret turned upon an overwhelmed and dazzled Craig.
He did not dream that she had calculated it all with a view to
impressing him--and, if he had, the effect would hardly have been
lessened. Whether planned or not, were not toilette and accent, and
butler and carriage, all realities? Nor did he suspect shrewd
calculations upon snobbishness when she said: "I was in such haste to
dress that I hurt my poor maid's hand as she was lacing my boot"--she
thrust out one slender, elegantly-clad foot--"no, buttoning it, I mean."
Oh, these ladies, these ladies of the new world--and the old--that are
so used to maids and carriages and being waited upon that they no more
think of display in connection with them than one would think of
boasting two legs or two eyes!
The advantage from being in the act of putting on gloves began at the
very outset. It helped to save her from deciding a mode of salutation.
She did not salute him at all. It made the meeting a continuation,
without break, of their previous meeting.
"How do you like my new dress?" she asked, as she drew the long part of
her glove up her round, white arm.
"Beautiful," he stammered.
From the hazel eyes shot a shy-bold glance straight into his; it was as
if those slim, taper fingers of hers had twanged the strings of the lyre
of his nerves. "You despise all this sort of trumpery, don't you?"
"Sometimes a man says things he don't mean," he found tongue to utter.
"I understand," said she sympathetically, and he knew she meant his
note. But he was too overwhelmed by his surroundings, by her envelope of
aristocracy, too fascinated by her physical charm, too flattered by
being on such terms with such a personage, to venture to set her right.
Also, she gave him little chance; for in almost the same breath she went
on: "I've been in such moods!--since yesterday afternoon--like the
devils in Milton, isn't it?--that are swept from lands of ice to lands
of fire?--or is it in Dante? I never can remember. We must go straight
off, for I'm late. You can come, too--it's only a little meeting about
some charity or other. All rich people, of course--except poor me. I'm
sure I don't know why they asked me. I can give little besides advice.
How handsome you are to-day, Joshua!"
It was the first time she had called him by his first name. She repeated
it--"Joshua--Joshua"--as when one hits upon some particularly sweet and
penetrating chord at the piano, and strikes it again, and yet again.
They were in the carriage, being whirled toward the great palace of Mrs.
Whitson, the latest and grandest of plutocratic monuments that have
arisen upon the ruins of the old, old-fashioned American Washington. And
she talked incessantly--a limpid, sparkling, joyous strain. And either
her hand sought his or his hers; at any rate, he found himself holding
her hand. They were almost there before he contrived to say, very
falteringly: "You got my note?"
She laughed gayly. "Oh, yes--and your own answer to it, Joshua--my
love"--the "my love" in a much lower, softer tone, with suggestion of
sudden tears trembling to fall.
"But I meant it," he said, though in tones little like any he was used
to hearing from his own lips. But he would not dare look himself in the
face again if he did not make at least a wriggle before surrendering.
"We mean many things in as many moods," said she. "I knew it was only a
mood. I knew you'd come. I've such a sense of implicit reliance on you.
You are to me like the burr that shields the nut from all harm. How
secure and cozy and happy the nut must feel in its burr. As I've walked
through the woods in the autumn I've often thought of that, and how, if
I ever married--"
A wild impulse to seize her and crush her, as one crushes the ripe berry
for its perfume and taste, flared in his eyes. She drew away to check
it. "Not now," she murmured, and her quick breath and flush were not
art, but nature. "Not just now--Joshua."
"You make me--insane," he muttered between his teeth. "God!--I DO love
you!"
They were arrived; were descending. And she led him, abject and in
chains, into the presence of Mrs. Whitson and the most fashionable of
the fashionable set. "So you've brought him along?" cried Mrs. Whitson.
"Well, I congratulate you, Mr. Craig. It's very evident you have a
shrewd eye for the prizes of life, and a strong, long reach to grasp
them."
Craig, red and awkward, laughed hysterically, flung out a few
meaningless phrases. Margaret murmured: "Perhaps you'd rather go?" She
wished him to go, now that she had exhibited him.
"Yes--for Heaven's sake!" he exclaimed. He was clutching for his
braggart pretense of ease in "high society" like a drowning man scooping
armsful of elusive water.
She steered her captive in her quiet, easeful manner toward the door,
sent him forth with a farewell glance and an affectionate interrogative,
"This afternoon, at half-past four?" that could not be disobeyed.
The mutiny was quelled. The mutineer was in irons. She had told him she
felt quite sure about him; and it was true, in a sense rather different
from what the words had conveyed to him. But it was of the kind of
security that takes care to keep the eye wakeful and the powder dry. She
felt she did not have him yet where she could trust him out of her sight
and could herself decide whether the engagement was to be kept or
broken.
"Why, my dear," said Mrs. Whitson, "he positively feeds out of your
hand! And such a wild man he seemed!"
Margaret, in the highest of high spirits, laughed with pleasure.
"A good many," pursued Mrs. Whitson, "think you are throwing yourself
away for love. But as I size men up--and my husband says I'm a wonder at
it--I think he'll be biggest figure of all at one end of Pennsylvania
Avenue or the other. Perhaps, first one end, then at the other."
"I'm glad to hear you say that," cried Margaret, with the keen
enthusiasm with which, in time of doubt, we welcome an ally to our own
private judgment. "But," she hastened to add, with veiled eye and
slightly tremulous lip, "I'm ready to take whatever comes."
"That's right! That's right!" exclaimed Mrs. Whitson, a tender and
dreamy sentimentalist except in her own affairs. "Love is best!"
"Love is best," echoed Margaret.