“He has only about five thousand--twenty-five thousand of our money--a
year. That is ridiculous for a marquis. He has to keep all his houses
closed and run as economically as possible. Even then they cost him
nearly seventy-five thousand dollars a year to maintain.”
“And he has only twenty-five thousand!”
“I meant twenty-five thousand over and above. He has that to live on.
And, poor fellow, he is dropping every year deeper and deeper into
debt. So much is expected of a marquis.”
“But not honesty, apparently,” said I.
“You mustn’t judge these people by our commercial standards,” she
gently rebuked.
“I forgot,” said I penitently.
“And the poor fellow does love Margot so!”
“Um,” said I. “Have you ever happened to hear of a Miss Townley--Jupey
Townley?”
A flash of annoyance flitted over Edna’s lovely, delicate countenance.
“I see you have,” said I. “You were, indeed, thorough. Permit me to
compliment you, my dear.”
“I am glad Hugh hasn’t been a saint.”
“Isn’t,” said I.
“That’s all in the past,” declared she.
“I saw them in a box at a London music hall night before last,” said I.
“They were-- They had been drinking.”
But Edna was not daunted. “You are a man of the world, Godfrey. Don’t
pretend to be narrow.”
“When a man loves a woman----”
“Love is very different from that sort of thing, and you know it.”
“Has Margot heard----”
“Godfrey!” cried Edna, in horror. “Do you think I would permit _my_
daughter--_our_ daughter--to know such things! Why, her mind is as
pure----”
I could not restrain a gesture of disgust. “You women!” I cried,
rising. “Pure! Pure--God in Heaven, pure!”
Her look of dazed astonishment, obviously sincere, helped me to get
back my composure. I sat down again. “I beg your pardon,” I said. “I
didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Even if you men have no purity yourselves, you ought to believe in it
in women,” said she, with an injured air.
“Yes, indeed,” I agreed heartily. “I congratulate you on being able to
make such generous allowances for masculine frailty.”
“You are sarcastic,” said she coldly.
“No matter. It certainly does not damage the title--perhaps adds to its
luster.”
“It’s hereditary in their family to be wild up to marriage, and then to
settle down and serve the state in some distinguished position.”
“Oh--in that case--” said I ironically.
“Margot and her husband and her children will have your money some
day,” pursued she. “Why not give it to her now, when it will get her
happiness?”
That impressed me. “I have not said I would not consent to this
marriage,” I reminded her. “As a matter of fact, I’m in favor of it. I
can see no future for Margot in America----”
“No, indeed,” cried Edna eagerly. “She simply couldn’t marry over
there. She’d be wretched.”
“But I feel it is my duty-- Rather late in the day for me to talk about
duty toward my daughter, after neglecting it all these years. Still, I
ought to see to it that she has the best possible chance for a smooth
married life. It’s only common prudence to take all precautions--isn’t
it?”
“All _sensible_ precautions,” said she.
“You know how many of these foreign ‘alliances,’ as they’re called,
have turned out badly.”
“They get a good many divorces in the states,” she suggested smilingly.
“One to every twelve marriages, I read the other day.”
I admitted that she had made an effective retort. “The truth is,” said
I, “American women aren’t brought up for domestic life. So, whether
they marry at home or abroad they have trouble.”
“Men resent their independence,” said Edna.
“It may be so,” said I. Of what use to point out to her that the
trouble lay in the women’s demanding to be supported and refusing to
do anything to earn their support? All I said was: “I suspect a good
many husbands think the marriage contract too one-sided--binding only
them and not their wives. But the trouble with the ‘alliances’ can’t be
that.”
“It’s because Europeans look on the wife as a kind of head servant. But
Hugh isn’t that sort.”
“We’ll know more as to that when we hear what Margot says after she’s
been married a few years,” said I. “The point to settle now is how to
bind him to good behavior so far as it can be done in advance. He may
be deeply in love with Margot. He may stay in love with her. But in
the circumstances it’s wise to assume that he wants only her money and
that, if he gets it, he’ll treat her badly.”
My wife’s silence was encouraging.
“If he had plenty of money he might even goad her into releasing
him--and might marry again.”
My wife was obviously impressed. “Yes--that has been done,” said she.
“Of course, if Margot should have an heir right away. But----”
She looked at me as if trying to decide whether she could trust me with
a confidence. She evidently decided in my favor, for she went on to say:
“On the other hand--Margot is a peculiar girl. No--many women have the
same peculiarity. They can’t be trusted with power over their husbands.
If she had all the money in her own name and he were dependent on
her-- Godfrey, I’m sure there’d be trouble.”
Once more she was astonishing me with her clear judgment in matters
as to which I should have thought her hopelessly prejudiced. “But _I_
can be trusted,” said I. “The plan I had in mind was to take over the
mortgages and guarantee a sufficient income.”
She shook her head. “He won’t consent,” said she. “His solicitors will
insist on better terms than that.”
“Now you see why I want to talk to him directly. I don’t purpose to be
hampered by that old trick of the principal hidden behind a go-between.”
“There’s no other way,” said Edna. “They’re too clever to yield that.”
“He needs money badly.”
“But he won’t marry unless he’s actually to get it,” replied she.
“Almost every American who has married a daughter over here has
tried to make a business bargain--at least, a bargain not altogether
one-sided. Not one of them has succeeded. These Europeans have been
handling the dowry and settlement question too many centuries.”
“I see,” said I affably. “If we want what they’ve got, we have to take
it on their terms.”
It was most satisfactory, talking with her now that she consented to
speak and listen to good sense. I was at once in a more amiable frame
of mind, although I knew she had descended from her high horse only
because she was shrewd enough to see it was the one way to get me to do
as she wished.
“I will hide behind a go-between myself,” said I.
“Any English lawyer would simply play into the hands of the other side.
At least, so Hilda was telling me.”
“Is she happy?”
“Very.”
“When’s her husband coming back?”
“Not for a year or so, I believe. Lord Blankenship cares more for big
game and for exploring than for anything else.”
“An ideal marriage,” said I. “She brought him the money he wanted. He
brought her the title she wanted. And they don’t annoy each other. He
devotes himself to sport, she to society. These aristocratic people,
with their simple, vulgar wants that are so easily gratified--how they
are to be envied!”
Edna was observing me furtively, uneasily. I pretended not to notice.
I went on: “Now, if they wanted the difficult things--things like love
and companionship and congeniality--they might be wretched. When a
child cries for a stick of candy or a tinsel-covered rattle--for money
or social position--why, it’s easily pacified. But if it cries for the
moon and the stars--” I laughed softly, enjoying her wonder as much as
my own fancies.
After a while she said, with some constraint: “You see a great deal of
Armitage?”
“We console each other,” said I, with mild raillery.
“Have you been going out much?”
“I’m very busy.”
“In one of your letters-- Those rare little notes of yours! You are
cruelly neglectful, Godfrey-- In one of them you spoke of a week end
or so on Armitage’s yacht. You and he don’t go off alone?”
“Oh, no. Some literary and artistic people usually are aboard.”
“I didn’t know you cared for that sort.”
“They’re interesting enough.”
“I suppose they’re friends of Mrs. Kirkwood’s,” pursued Edna. “She’s
like her brother--affects to despise fashionable society. Their
pretenses always amused me.”
“They are sincere people,” said I. “They don’t pretend. That’s why I
like them.”
“I notice that Armitage belongs to every fashionable club in New
York--and to some over here,” said Edna with a smile that was as shrewd
as her observation. “Also, that he manages to find time to appear at
the most exclusive parties during the season.”
I had observed this same peculiarity. While I refused to draw from it
the inference she drew--and was undeniably justified in drawing--I had
been tempted to do so. It irritated me to see her finger upon the weak
spot in Armitage’s profession of freedom from snobbishness.
“And Mary Kirkwood,” pursued Edna, “she’s the same sort of fakir. Only,
being a woman, she does it more deceptively than he.”
“She goes nowhere,” said I.
“But she revels in the fact that she _could_ go anywhere. So, she
fooled you--did she?” Edna laughed merrily at my ill-concealed
discomfiture. “But then you know so little about women.”
“I confess I’ve never seen in her the least sign of snobbishness or
of interest in fashionable foolishness,” said I, with what I flatter
myself was a fair attempt at the impartial air.
“That in itself ought to have opened your eyes,” said Edna. “Whenever
you see anyone, dear, with no sign of a weakness that everybody in the
world has, you may be sure you are seeing a fraud.”
“Because _you_ have a weakness, dear,” said I--as pleasant and as acid
as she, “you must not imagine it is universal.”
“But _you_ have that weakness, too.”
“Really?”
“Did you or did you not join the fashionable clubs Armitage put you up
at?”