MR. CRAIG KISSES THE IDOL'S FOOT
Grant Arkwright reached the Waldorf a little less than an hour after he
had seen the bride and groom drive away from Doctor Scones'. He found
Craig pacing up and down before the desk, his agitation so obvious that
the people about were all intensely and frankly interested. "You look as
if you were going to draw a couple of guns in a minute or so and shoot
up the house," said he, putting himself squarely before Josh and halting
him.
"For God's sake, Grant," cried Joshua, "see how I'm sweating! Go
upstairs--up to their suite, and find out what's the matter."
"Go yourself," retorted Grant.
Craig shook his head. He couldn't confess to Arkwright what was really
agitating him, why he did not disregard Margaret's injunction.
"What're you afraid of?"
Josh scowled as Grant thus unconsciously scuffed the sore spot. "I'm not
afraid!" he cried aggressively. "It's better that you should go. Don't
haggle--go!"
As Grant could think of no reason why he shouldn't, and as he had the
keenest curiosity to see how the "old tartar" was taking it, he went.
Margaret's voice came in response to his knock. "Oh, it's you," said she
in a tone of relief.
Her face was swollen and her eyes red. She looked anything but lovely.
Grant, however, was instantly so moved that he did not notice her
homeliness. Also, he was one of those unobservant people who, having
once formed an impression of a person, do not revise it except under
compulsion; his last observation of Margaret had resulted in an
impression of good looks, exceptional charm. He bent upon her a look in
which understanding sympathy was heavily alloyed with the longing of the
covetous man in presence of his neighbor's desirable possessions. But he
discreetly decided that he would not put into words--at least, not just
yet--his sympathy with her for her dreadful, her tragic mistake. No, it
would be more tactful as well as more discreet to pretend belief that
her tears had been caused by her grandmother. He glanced round.
"Where's Madam Bowker?" inquired he. "Did she blow up and bolt?"
"Oh, no," answered Margaret, seating herself with a dreary sigh. "She's
gone to her sitting-room to write with her own hand the announcement
that's to be given out. She says the exact wording is very important."
"So it is," said Grant. "All that's said will take its color from the
first news."
"No doubt." Margaret's tone was indifferent, absent.
Arkwright hesitated to introduce the painful subject, the husband; yet
he had a certain malicious pleasure in doing it, too. "Josh wants to
come up," said he. "He's down at the desk, champing and tramping and
pawing holes in the floor." And he looked at her, to note the impression
of this vivid, adroitly-reminiscent picture.
"Not yet," said Margaret curtly and coldly. All of a sudden she buried
her face in her hands and burst into tears.
"Rita--dear Rita!" exclaimed Grant, his own eyes wet, "I know just how
you feel. Am I not suffering, too? I thought I didn't care, but I did--I
do. Rita, it isn't too late yet--"
She straightened; dried her eyes. "Stop that, Grant!" she said
peremptorily. "Stop it!"
His eyes sank. "I can't bear to see you suffer."
"You don't mean a word of what you've just said," she went on. "You are
all upset, as I am. You are his friend and mine." Defiantly: "And I love
him, and you know I do."
It was the tone of one giving another something that must be repeated by
rote. "That's it," said he, somewhat sullenly, but with no hint of
protest. "I'm all unstrung, like you, and like him."
"And you will forget that you saw me crying."
"I'll never think of it again."
"Now go and bring him, please."
He went quickly toward the door.
"Grant!" she cried. As he turned she rose, advanced with a friendly
smile and put out her hand for his. "Thank you," she said. "You have
shown yourself OUR best friend."
"I meant to be," he answered earnestly, as he pressed her hand. "When I
pull myself together I think you'll realize I'm some decenter than I've
seemed of late."
Madam Bowker came just as he returned with Craig. So all attention was
concentrated upon the meeting of the two impossibilities. The old lady
took her new relative's hand with a gracious, queenly smile--a smile
that had the effect both of making him grateful and of keeping him "in
his place." Said she, "I have been writing out the announcement."
"Thank you," was Joshua's eager, respectful reply.
She gave him the sheet of notepaper she was carrying in her left hand.
It was her own private paper, heavy, quiet, rich, engraved with
aristocratic simplicity, most elegant; and most elegant was the
handwriting. "This," said she, "is to be given out in addition to the
formal notice which Grant will send to the newspapers."
Craig read:
"Mrs. Bowker announces the marriage of her granddaughter, Margaret
Severence, and Joshua Craig, of Wayne, Minnesota, and Washington, by the
Reverend Doctor Scones, at the Waldorf, this morning. Only a few
relatives and Mr. Craig's friend, Mr. Grant Arkwright, were present. The
marriage occurred sooner than was expected, out of consideration for
Mrs. Bowker, as she is very old, and wished it to take place before she
left for her summer abroad."
Craig lifted to the old lady the admiring glance of a satisfied expert
in public opinion. Their eyes met on an equality; for an instant he
forgot that she figured in his imagination as anything more than a human
being. "Splendid!" cried he, with hearty enthusiasm. "You have covered
the case exactly. Grant, telephone for an Associated Press reporter and
give him this."
"I'll copy it off for him," said Grant.
Madam Bowker and Craig exchanged amused glances. "You'll give it to him
in Madam Bowker's handwriting," ordered Craig. "You told Scones to keep
his mouth shut, when you paid him?"
The other three looked conscious, and Margaret reddened slightly at this
coarse brusqueness of phrase. "Yes," said Grant. "He'll refuse to be
interviewed. I'll go and attend to this."
"We're having a gala lunch, at once--in the apartment," said the old
lady. "So, come back quickly."
When he was gone she said to the two: "And now what are your plans?"
"We have none," said Craig.
"I had thought--" began Margaret. She hesitated, colored, went on:
"Grandmother, couldn't you get the Millicans' camp in the Adirondacks? I
heard Mrs. Millican say yesterday they had got it all ready and had
suddenly decided to go abroad instead."
"Certainly," said the old lady. "I'll telephone about it at once, and
I'll ask the Millicans to lunch with us to-day."
She left them alone. Craig, eyeing his bride covertly, had a sense of
her remoteness, her unattainability. He was like a man who, in an hour
of rashness and vanity, has boasted that he can attain a certain
mountain peak, and finds himself stalled at its very base. He decided
that he must assert himself; he tried to nerve himself to seize her in
his old precipitate, boisterous fashion. He found that he had neither
the desire to do so nor the ability. He had never thought her so full of
the lady's charm. That was just the trouble--the lady's charm, not the
human being's; not the charm feminine for the male.
"I hope you'll be very patient with me," said she, with a wan smile. "I
am far from well. I've been debating for several days whether or not to
give up and send for the doctor."
He did not see her real motive in thus paving the way for the formation
of the habit of separate lives; he eagerly believed her, was grateful to
her, was glad she was ill. So quaint is the interweaving of thought,
there flashed into his mind at that moment: "After all, I needn't have
blown in so much money on trousseau. Maybe I can get 'em to take back
those two suits of twenty-dollar pajamas. Grant went in too deep." This,
because the money question was bothering him greatly, the situation that
would arise when his savings should be gone; for now it seemed to him he
would never have the courage to discuss money with her. If she could
have looked in upon his thoughts she would have been well content; there
was every indication of easy sailing for her scheme to reconstruct his
career.
"When do you think of starting for the Adirondacks?" he asked, with a
timidity of preliminary swallowing and blushing that made her turn away
her face to hide her smile. How completely hers was the situation! She
felt the first triumphant thrill of her new estate.
"To-night," she replied. "We can't put it off."
"No, we can't put it off," assented he, hesitation in his voice, gloom
upon his brow. "Though," he added, "you don't look at all well." With an
effort: "Margaret, are you glad--or sorry?"
"Glad," she answered in a firm, resolute tone. It became a little hard
in its practicality as she added: "You were quite right. We took the
only course."
"You asked me to be a little patient with you," he went on.
She trembled; her glance fluttered down.
"Well--I--I--you'll have to be a little patient with me, too." He was
red with embarrassment. She looked so still and cold and repelling that
he could hardly muster voice to go on: "You can't but know, in a general
sort of way, that I'm uncouth, unaccustomed to the sort of thing you've
had all your life. I'm going to do my best, Margaret. And if you'll help
me, and be a little forbearing, I think--I hope--you'll soon find
I'm--I'm--oh, you understand."
She had given a stealthy sigh of relief when she discovered that he was
not making the protest she had feared. "Yes, I understand," replied she,
her manner a gentle graciousness, which in some moods would have sent
his pride flaring against the very heavens in angry scorn. But he
thought her most sweet and considerate, and she softened toward him with
pity. It was very, pleasant thus to be looked up to, and, being human,
she felt anything but a lessened esteem for her qualities of
delicateness and refinement, of patrician breeding, when she saw him
thus on his knees before them. He had invited her to look down on him,
and she was accepting an invitation which it is not in human nature to
decline.
There was one subject she had always avoided with him--the subject of
his family. He had not exactly avoided it, indeed, had spoken
occasionally of his brothers and sisters, their wives and husbands,
their children. But his reference to these humble persons, so far
removed from the station to which he had ascended, had impressed her as
being dragged in by the ears, as if he were forcing himself to pretend
to himself and to her that he was not ashamed of them, when in reality
he could not but be ashamed. She felt that now was the time to bring up
this subject and dispose of it.
Said she graciously: "I'm sorry your father and mother aren't living.
I'd like to have known them."
He grew red. He was seeing a tiny, unkempt cottage in the outskirts of
Wayne, poor, even for that modest little town. He was seeing a bent,
gaunt old laborer in jeans, smoking a pipe on the doorsill; he was
seeing, in the kitchen-dining-room-sitting-room-parlor, disclosed by the
open door, a stout, aggressive-looking laborer's wife in faded calico,
doing the few thick china dishes in dented dishpan on rickety old table.
"Yes," said he, with not a trace of sincerity in his ashamed,
constrained voice, "I wish so, too."
She understood; she felt sorry for him, proud of herself. Was it not
fine and noble of her thus to condescend? "But there are your brothers
and sisters," she went graciously on. "I must meet them some time."
"Yes, some time," said he, laboriously pumping a thin, watery pretense
of enthusiasm into his voice.
She had done her duty by his dreadful, impossible family. She passed
glibly to other subjects. He was glad she had had the ladylike tact not
to look at him during the episode; he wouldn't have liked any human
being to see the look he knew his face was wearing.
In the press of agitating events, both forgot the incident--for the
time.