“That’s right! Blame me!”
“And aren’t you to be blamed?” urged I. “Didn’t you have full charge of
her from the time she was born? Couldn’t you have made what you pleased
of her? Didn’t you make what you pleased of her?”
Edna tossed her head indignantly. “I never taught her to be a vulgar
snob.”
“Why, I thought that was her whole education.”
Edna ignored this interruption. “It’s all very well for the women of
noble families to act the snob,” pursued she. “Lots of them do, and no
one criticises. But Margot ought to have had sense enough to realize
that she, a mere American, couldn’t afford to do it. I warned her that
her cue was sweetness and an air of equality. I told her that her
title in itself would keep people at their proper distance. But she
lost her head.”
“Then the thing for her to do is to behave herself.”
“It’s too late, I’m afraid. The tide has turned against her. All the
women--especially the titled English women of good family--were against
her--hated her--were ready to stab her in the back. And her haughtiness
and condescension gave them the chance.”
“Well, what do you propose? To give him more money?”
Edna showed none of her familiar scorn of sordid things. She reflected,
said uncertainly: “I wonder would that do any good?”
“To win anyone give them what they most want,” said I. “What do your
friends over here want above everything and anything?”
“Perhaps you are right,” confessed she. Consider, gentle reader, what
this confession involved, how it exposed the rotten insincerity of
all her and her fine friends’ pretenses. “Yes, I guess you’re right,
Godfrey.” She pressed her hands to her temples. “It simply _must_ be
straightened out. I am quite distracted. I can’t afford to lose sleep
and to be harrowed up. Those things mean ruin to a woman’s looks.
And what _would_ I do if she were flung back on my hands in this
disgraceful fashion!”
“You want me to go to London?”
“Godfrey, you _must_ go. You must see her, and him, too.”
“I was thinking it would be enough to see him. But perhaps you’re
right.”
“She is clean mad,” cried Edna, with sudden fury against her daughter.
“She doesn’t appreciate the peril of her position. One minute she’s
all for groveling. The next she talks like an idiot about her rank and
power. Oh, she is a fool--a _fool_! I always knew she was--though I
wouldn’t admit it to myself. You never will know what a time I’ve had
training her to hide it enough to make a pleasing appearance. She is a
brainless fool.”
“A fool, but not brainless,” said I. “Her education made her a fool and
paralyzed her brain. You see, she didn’t have the advantages you had
in your early training. In your early days you had the chance to learn
something--the useful things that have saved you from the consequences
of such folly as you’ve taught her.”
“What nonsense!” cried Edna in disgust. “But we mustn’t quarrel. I’m
agitated enough already. You will go to London?”
“Yes,” said I, after reflecting. “I’ll go.”
“When?”
“To-morrow.”
“And I’ll go with you.”
“No,” said I firmly. “Either I manage this affair alone or I have
nothing to do with it.”
“But, Godfrey, there are so many things about these people that you
don’t understand. And you----”
“I understand the essential thing,” said I. “And that is their mania
for money.”
She was on the verge of hysteria--afraid I would not go, afraid of what
I would do if I did go. “But they have to be handled carefully,” she
urged. “If you put them in a position where their pride won’t let them
take the--the money----”
“Trust me,” said I. “Go to bed, sleep soundly, and trust me.”
I stood. She suddenly flung herself against my breast and began to
sob on my shoulder. “You are hard and cold,” she said. “You have no
sympathy with me--no feeling for anything but business. But somehow--in
spite of it all--I have such a sense of your strength and your honesty.”
I laughed rather awkwardly, patted her shoulder, helped her to a chair.
“There are times when a coarse, common American business man of a
husband has his uses--and advantages,” I said lightly. “I’ll telegraph
you how things are going.”
She dried her eyes, looked at me in a puzzled way. “You always repulse
me,” she said.
“I appreciate your kindness in remembering to toss a few crumbs to the
starving man,” laughed I. “They are precious crumbs, no doubt, and more
than he deserves. But--please don’t do it. He hates that sort of thing.
You are free to act as you feel like acting. I’ll do as much for you
and Margot without the crumbs as with them.”
“How hard you are, Godfrey! How you have always misunderstood me!”
“That’s right,” said I amiably. “I’m too coarse for such a fine nature.
Well--good night.”
I took myself hastily away to bed; and at ten the next morning I
departed for London.
I decided to see Margot first. She was at Sothewell Abbey, about an
hour by express from Paddington. You perhaps know Sothewell Abbey
through the pictures and descriptions. And it is indeed an imposing
pile of old masonry seated in the midst of a park of surpassing beauty.
As soon as I entered the ancient gates for the two-mile drive to the
Abbey, I saw signs that my money was in action. When I first visited
it, the lodge was in sad disrepair, the gates were about to fall to
pieces and the vista of the drive was unkempt. Now, all was changed.
The servile pair who came out to open for me, and made me fear they
would drop down on their bellies and crawl before me, were neatly and
properly dressed, in strong contrast to their former appearance.
The exterior of the house, which had been most “romantic” but obviously
the front of poverty and decay, looked much better--not younger I
hasten to assure you, quiet reader, but somewhat like a hairless,
toothless old man when he gets a nice white wig on his pate and a set
of good false teeth on his shriveled gums. I saw gardeners at work--and
plenty there was for them to do. Within, I saw evidences of a more
adequate staff of servants; but the great halls were dreary and bare
and dingy. That was a cold summer in England, even colder than the
summer usually is. So, the enormous house was literally uninhabitable,
like all the European palaces, city and country, that I have been in.
I can fancy what such a place must be in winter with no way of heating
it but open fireplaces, and not many of them. I can’t conceive any
sane American, used to comfort in the way of steam heat, spending
a winter in the English country. I know it is done by Americans
reputedly sane; but if those at home knew what Europe in winter
meant--the old-fashioned “romantic” Europe--they would not believe
their expatriated countrymen sane in sacrificing comfort and health to
vanity. Yes, I believe they would; for, do not they, at home, make the
same imbecile sacrifices to vanity in other ways?
“Take me to some small warm room,” said I to Margot, “before I catch my
death of cold.” This the instant I was within doors and felt in my very
marrow the clammy chill of that picturesque vaulted hall.
“There isn’t any warm room in the house,” replied she.
“How about the kitchen?” said I.
She looked alarmed--being her mother’s own daughter, in lack of the
sense of humor as in many other ways. She said hastily: “The upstairs
rooms are a little better.”
“They couldn’t be worse. These rooms are cold storage.”
“I’m getting used to it,” said she. “One doesn’t mind it so much after
a while.”
Her nose was red and swollen, and her voice husky. She had a frightful
cold at that very moment. “Why don’t you get out of here and go to a
decent modern hotel in town?” said I.
“Give up possession!” cried she in horror. “He might not let me come
back.”
It was too ridiculous. “Possession of what?” said I.
“Oh, _papa_!” cried she, in despair and shame at my coarse stupidity.
“Possession of what?” I repeated. “Of a dirty, dingy old cold-storage
plant. Why should you want to come back? Put on your wraps and let’s
fly to town by the next train.”
She burst into tears. “I’d rather die!” she sobbed. “I _won’t_ give up
my position. I am Marchioness of Crossley and I belong here.”
“All right,” said I. “Let’s try the smaller rooms.”
She led me up a vast stairway--it would have thrilled your soul,
gentle reader. Think how it sounds, put into the fitting language--
“The beautiful young Marchioness conducted her father up the ancient
and magnificent stairway that rose from the spacious mediæval hall and
swept in a curve of wonderfully wrought stone work, dating from the
thirteenth century, to the upper chambers of the majestic old abbey.” I
hurried her as fast as I could, for we both were sneezing and a hideous
draught like the breath of death was streaming from somewhere. I don’t
mind looking at pictures of abbeys and the like; but when I read of the
grandeur of living in that sort of place, I laugh. The men who built
them did as well as they could in the age they lived in. But what shall
be said of men who dwell in them now, when infinitely better is to be
had?
Those upper chambers! Cold, clammy, draughty--the furniture and
hangings old and dowdy. And my daughter’s room! Like a squalid,
decrepit tenement flat. Yes, squalid; for the rugs and draperies were
dirty, were stained and frayed. There was a distinct tenement odor.
“Isn’t it fascinating?” said she, gazing round with sparkling eyes.
“Where’s the fire?” said I.
She led me to a smelly, low-ceilinged little room, like a segment out
of a hovel. It was her boudoir, she informed me. In one wall, in a
dinky fireplace burned a handful of fire.
“Is that it?” said I. “Is that all?”
“You must remember, papa,” said she proudly, “that this isn’t a
_modern_ house.”
“Ring for a servant,” said I. “This overcoat of mine is too light. I
must have wraps if I’m to sit here. And you’d better get out your furs
and put them on.”
“The servants’d think me mad,” said she. “Must you have a coat?”
“No--that spread will do,” said I. And I jerked it from the sofa and
flung it round my shoulders. “I don’t want to upset your establishment.
Good God, I had no idea people with any money at all anywhere on earth
lived like this. If you’re going to stay here, you must put in steam
heat.”
“Oh, we couldn’t do that, papa dear,” said she with a plaintive
mingling of shame for me and apology for the tradition against sense
and health.
“Let’s get to business, Margot,” said I. “Sit in the fireplace--that’s
right. What’s the trouble? Your mother has explained--has told all she
knew. I’ve come to find what the quarrel is _really_ about.”
“Has she told you of that woman?”
“Why did he go back to her?”
She began to sob. “Oh, the hideous things he said to me! I
didn’t dream a gentleman could talk like that. He called me a low
American--said he was ashamed of me--said he was going to get rid of me
at any cost, said----”
“But what had you _done_!” interrupted I.
“Nothing!” she cried, lifting her flushed face. “Absolutely
nothing--except worship him.”
“What had you done?” I repeated. As she started to rise I restrained
her. “Stay in the fireplace. What was the beginning of the row--the
very beginning?”
Her eyes wavered, but she said: “Nothing, papa!” though less vigorously.
“It was about money,” said I. “It always is--in all ranks of society.
The beginnings of the quarrels have money at the bottom of them.
Now--tell me!”
She was silent.
“I can’t help you unless you do.”
“Oh, it was so sordid!” cried she. “And I thought him high above those
things.”
“No one that’s human is,” said I. “Any person who wears pants or skirts
that have to be paid for is not above money.”
“He wanted me to turn over to him all I had,” said she. “Think of that!”
“I might have known,” said I.
“He said it was beneath his dignity as an English gentleman to have a
wife independent of him. And, do you know, papa, I was so infatuated
that I almost yielded. I could see his point of view. And I’d have been
glad to come to him for every cent. Only--” She stopped short.
“Only what?” I urged.
“I heard about that other woman. And his way of treating me-- He said
it was the proper way for a marquis to treat his marchioness. And I
liked the dignity and the beauty of it all, when others were about. But
it seemed to me that when we were alone-- Oh, papa, I can’t tell you
these things.”
“Never mind,” said I. “I understand.”
“And I was--a little jealous, away down in my heart--and suspicious.
And I was afraid he wanted the money to spend on _her_.”
“Um,” said I. “You didn’t tell your mother this?”
“She hates sordidness of every kind,” said Margot. “And I hadn’t the
courage. Besides, I’m sure mamma would have advised me to let him
have his way. She wouldn’t sympathize with the--the weak side of my
character.”
I was interested. Could it be that Edna’s daughter had a “weak”--a
human side? Could it be that her education and her mode of life had not
altogether killed the natural and made her soul a garden of artificial
flowers only?
“So, you want to be free from him?” said I.
“Free from him!” cried she, aghast. “Give up my position? Oh,
papa--never--_never_!”
“But you don’t love him. Don’t come away from that fire!”
She seated herself by the miserable smoky little blaze again. “He is my
husband. I am his wife. I am the Marchioness of Crossley.” And she drew
herself up with as much of an air as her cold and the contracted space
in the chimney-piece permitted. Unluckily, the sudden gesture caused a
current of air, and she sneezed once--twice--three times.
“Better get those furs,” said I. “You want the man back?”
“Yes, indeed. I must have him back.” She clasped her hands and wailed,
“If I only had a son! Then--_then_ I’d show Hugh that he couldn’t
trample on me. But he has me in his power now. If he casts me off
I shan’t have any position at all. The women are down on me. They
hate all the American women, except those who toady to them and give
them money or jewelry or pay their bridge and dressmaker’s bills.
And they’re only too glad of the chance to crush me. But they’ll not
succeed!”
“Why not?” said I dryly.
She burst into tears. “Oh, I don’t know what to do! Papa, shall I give
him the money?--sign over all my income to him and take only what he’ll
allow me? And would he come back if I did?”
“He would not,” said I.
“Then--what _shall_ I do? Oh, what slaves we women are! Think of it,
papa! He wants to make a _slave_ of me--said he didn’t believe in women
gadding about and showing themselves off in costly dresses and causing
scandalous talk--said my place was at home--looking after the house and
that sort of thing!” She laughed wildly. “Like a low, common servant!
And he--he free to carry on with that woman!”
“You might teach him to stay at home, if you set him a good example,”
suggested I.
“But I don’t want to stay at home!” cried she. “I didn’t marry for
that. I want to enjoy all the privileges of my rank.”
“To be sure,” said I.
“I wasn’t brought up to be like a low, middle-class woman, or a
workingman’s wife.”
“No, indeed,” said I. “You are a lady. You’re made, not to be of use in
the world, but to enjoy yourself.”
She seemed to find some cause for dissatisfaction in my enthusiastic
tone. “Of course,” she said, “I shall do my duty as a member of the
high nobility--lead in society and open bazars and visit the poor on
our estate and--and all that.”
“Yes, indeed,” said I. “And the world being what it is, there’s no
reason why you shouldn’t.”
“Do you think you can bring him back, papa?”
“That depends on you,” said I warily.
“I’ll do anything--anything. I’ll crawl to him, if he wants me to.
After all, he _is_ the Marquis of Crossley, and I’m only an American
nobody.”
“That’s the proper spirit,” said I. “But you mustn’t show it to
him _too_ plainly. Be moderate. A little pretense of dignity--of
self-respect.”
“I understand,” said she seriously--she was indeed Edna’s own daughter.
“I’ll be as I was before we were married.” Her eyes flashed. “Oh, I can
bide my time. When I have a son!”
“Get ready and come up to town to-night,” said I, with a most
unfatherly gruffness and curtness, I fear. “I’m off now to deal with
him.”
“Be careful not to wound his pride, papa,” she cautioned.
“I realize the danger of that,” replied I. “Come to the Savoy. Be on
hand, so I can get hold of you whenever I need you.”
“Oh, papa _dear_!” she cried, and cast herself into my arms.
I brushed my lips upon her crown of hair--it was false hair, that
being the fashion of the day. “Try to make yourself as pretty as you
can,” said I, releasing her and myself. “You’ll hear from me to-night
or to-morrow, unless I’ve caught my death in this damp cave. You must
leave it to the frogs, and snakes, and bats, and build yourself a
decent house somewhere. You’ll die here.”
“I’m afraid Hugh wouldn’t consent to _live_ anywhere but here. It’s
the ancestral seat, you know. The Massingfords have lived here since
forever and ever.”
“Have died here, you mean. Have killed wives they wanted to get rid of,
here.”
She startled--looked excitedly at me. “Papa!” she exclaimed
breathlessly. “Yes--I wouldn’t put it past him!”