It is difficult not to convey a false impression of Margaret at this
time. Habits, manners, outward conduct--nay, the superficial kindliness
in human intercourse, the exterior graceful qualities, may all remain
when the character has subtly changed, when the real aims have changed,
when the ideals are lowered. The fair exterior may be only a shell. I can
imagine the heart retaining much tenderness and sympathy with suffering
when the soul itself has ceased to struggle for the higher life, when the
mind has lost, in regard to life, the final discrimination of what is
right and wrong.
Perhaps it is fairer to Margaret to consider the general opinion of the
world regarding her. No doubt, if we had now known her for the first
time, we should have admired her exceedingly, and probably have accounted
her thrice happy in filling so well her brilliant position. That her loss
of interest in things intellectual, in a wide range of topics of human
welfare, which is in the individual soul a sign of warmth and growth,
made her less companionable to some is true, but her very absorption in
the life of her world made her much more attractive to others. I well
remember a dinner one day at the Hendersons', when Mr. Morgan and I
happened to be in town, and the gay chat and persiflage of the society
people there assembled. Margaret shone in it. The light and daring touch
of her raillery Carmen herself might have envied, and the spirit in which
she handled the trifles and personal gossip tossed to the surface, like
the bubbles on the champagne.
It was such a pretty picture--the noble diningroom, the table sparkling
with glass and silver and glowing with masses of choicest flowers from
the conservatory, the animated convives, and Margaret presiding, radiant
in a costume of white and gold.
"After all," Morgan was saying, apropos of the position of women, "men
get mighty little out of it in the modern arrangement."
"I've always said, Mr. Morgan," Margaret retorted, "that you came into
the world a couple of centuries too late; you ought to have been here in
the squaw age."
"Well, men were of some account then. I appeal to Henderson," Morgan
persisted, "if he gets more than his board and clothes."
"Oh, my husband has to make his way; he's no time for idling and
philosophizing round."
"I should think not. Come, Henderson, speak up; what do you get out of
it?"
"Oh," said Henderson, glancing at his wife with an amused expression,
"I'm doing very well. I'm very well taken care of, but I often wonder
what the fellows did when polygamy was the fashion."
"Polygamy, indeed!" cried Margaret. "So men only dropped the a pluribus
unum method on account of the expense?"
"Not at all," replied Henderson. "Women are so much better now than
formerly that one wife is quite enough."
"You have got him well in hand, Mrs. Henderson, but--" Morgan began.
"But," continued Margaret for him, "you think as things are going that
polyandry will have to come in fashion--a woman will need more than one
husband to support her?"
"And I was born too soon," murmured Carmen.
"Yes, dear, you'll have to be born again. But, Mr. Morgan, you don't seem
to understand what civilization is."
"I'm beginning to. I've been thinking--this is entirely impersonal--that
it costs more to keep one fine lady going than it does a college. Just
reckon it up." (Margaret was watching him with sparkling eyes.) "The
palace in town is for her, the house in the mountains, the house by the
sea, are for her, the army of servants is for her, the horses and
carriages for all weathers are for her, the opera box is for her, and
then the wardrobe--why, half Paris lives on what women wear. I say
nothing of what would become of the medical profession but for her."
"Have you done?" asked Margaret.
"No, but I'm taking breath."
"Well, why shouldn't we support the working-people of Paris and
elsewhere? Do you want us to make our own clothes and starve the
sewing-women? Suppose there weren't any balls and fine dresses and what
you call luxury. What would the poor do without the rich? Isn't it the
highest charity to give them work? Even with it they are ungrateful
enough."
"That is too deep for me," said Morgan, evasively. "I suppose they ought
to be contented to see us enjoying ourselves. It's all in the way of
civilization, I dare say."
"It's just as I thought," said Margaret, more lightly. "You haven't an
inkling of what civilization is. See that flower before you. It is the
most exquisite thing in this room. See the refinement of its color and
form. That was cultivated. The plant came from South Africa. I don't know
what expense the gardener has been to about it, what material and care
have been necessary to bring it to perfection. You may take it to Mrs.
Morgan as an object-lesson. It is a thing of beauty. You cannot put any
of your mercantile value on it. Well, that is woman, the consummate
flower of civilization. That is what civilization is for."
"I'm sorry for you, old fellow," said Henderson.
"I'm sorry for myself," Carmen said, demurely.
"I admit all that," Morgan replied. "Take Mr. Henderson as a gardener,
then."
"Suppose you take somebody else, and let my husband eat his dinner."
"Oh, I don't mind preaching; I've got used to being made to point a
moral."
"But he will go on next about the luxury of the age, and the extravagance
of women, and goodness knows what," said Margaret.
"No, I'm talking about men," Morgan continued. "Consider Henderson--it's
entirely impersonal--as a gardener. What does he get out of his
occupation? He can look at the flower. Perhaps that is enough. He gets a
good dinner when he has time for it, an hour at his club now and then,
occasionally an evening or half a day off at home, a decent wardrobe--"
"Fifty-two suits," interposed Margaret.
"His own brougham--"
"And a four-in-hand," added Margaret.
"A pass on the elevated road--"
"And a steam-yacht."
"Which he never gets time to sail in; practically all the time on the
road, or besieged by a throng in his office, hustled about from morning
till night, begged of, interviewed, a telegraphic despatch every five
minutes, and--"
"And me!" cried Margaret, rising. The guests all clapped their hands.
The Hendersons liked to have their house full, something going on
--dinners, musicales, readings, little comedies in the theatre; there was
continual coming and going, calling, dropping in for a cup of tea, late
suppers after the opera; the young fellows of town found no place so
agreeable for a half-hour after business as Mrs. Henderson's
reception-room. I fancied that life would be dull and hang heavily,
especially for Margaret, without this perpetual movement and excitement.
Henderson, who certainly had excitement enough without seeking it at
home, was pleased that his wife should be a leader in society, as he was
in the great enterprises in which his fortune waxed to enormous
proportions. About what we call the home life I do not know. Necessarily,
as heretofore, Henderson was often absent, and whether Margaret
accompanied him or not, a certain pace of life had to be kept up.
I suppose there is no delusion more general than that of retiring upon a
fortune--as if, when gained, a fortune would let a person retire, or,
still more improbable, as if it ever were really attained. It is not at
all probable that Henderson had set any limit to that he desired; the
wildest speculations about its amount would no doubt fall short of
satisfying the love of power which he expected to gratify in immeasurably
increasing it. Does not history teach us that to be a great general, or
poet, or philanthropist, is not more certain to preserve one's name than
to be the richest man, the Croesus, in his age? I could imagine Margaret
having a certain growing pride in this distinction, and a glowing
ambition to be socially what her husband was financially.
Heaven often plans more mercifully for us than we plan for ourselves. Had
not the Hebrew prophets a vision of the punishment by prosperity? Perhaps
it applied to an old age, gratified to the end by possession of
everything that selfishness covets, and hardened into absolute
worldliness. I knew once an old lady whose position and wealth had always
made her envied, and presumably happy, who was absolutely to be pitied
for a soul empty of all noble feeling.
The sun still shone on Margaret, and life yielded to her its specious
sweets. She was still young. If in her great house, in her dazzling
career, in the whirl of resplendent prosperity, she had hours of
unsatisfied yearning for something unattainable in this direction, the
world would not have guessed it. Whenever we heard of her she was the
centre and star of whatever for the moment excited the world of fashion.
It was indeed, at last, in the zenith of her gay existence that I, became
aware of a certain feminine anxiety about her in our neighborhood. She
had been, years before, very ill in Paris, and the apprehensions for her
safety now were based upon the recollection of her peril then. The days
came when the tender-hearted Miss Forsythe went about the house restless,
impatient, tearful, waiting for a summons that was sure to come when she
was needed. She thought only of her child, as she called her, and all the
tenderness of her nature was stirred-these years of cloud and separation
and pain were as they had not been. Little Margaret had promised to send
for her. She would not obtrude before she was wanted, but Margaret was
certain to send. And she was ready for departure the instant the despatch
came from Henderson--"Margaret wants you to come at once." I went with
her.
In calamity, trouble, sorrow, it is wonderful how the ties of blood
assert themselves. In this hour I am sure that Margaret longed for no one
more than her dear aunt, in whose arms, as a child, she had so often
forgotten her griefs. She had been able to live without her--nay, for a
long time her presence had been something of a restraint and a rebuke,
and her feelings had hardened towards her. Why is it that the heart
hardens in prosperity?
When we arrived Margaret was very ill. The house itself had a serious
air: it was no longer the palace of festivity and gayety, precautions had
been taken to secure quiet, the pavement was littered, and within the
hushed movements and the sombre looks spoke of apprehension and the
absence of the spirit that had been the life and light of the house. Our
arrival seemed to be a relief to Henderson. Little was said. I had never
before seen him nervous, never before so restless and anxious, probably
never before in all his career had he been unnerved with a sense of his
own helplessness.
"She has been asking for you this moment," he said, as he accompanied
Miss Forsythe to Margaret's apartment.
"Dear, dear aunt, I knew you would come--I love you so;" she had tried to
raise herself a little in her bed, and was sobbing like a child in her
aunt's arms.
"You must have courage, Margaret; it will all be well."
"Yes, but I'm so discouraged; I'm so tired."
The vigil began. The nurses were in waiting. The family physician would
not leave the house. He was a man of great repute in his profession. Dr.
Seftel's name was well known to me, but I had never met him before; a man
past middle life, smooth shaven, thin iron-gray hair, grave, usually
taciturn, deliberate in all his movements, as if every gesture were
important and significant, but with a kindly face. Knowing that every
moment of his waking life was golden, I could not but be impressed with
the power that could command his exclusive service for an indefinite
time. When he came down, we talked together in Henderson's room.
"It is a question of endurance, of constitution," he said; "many weak
women have this quality of persistence; many strong women go to pieces at
once; we know little about it. Mrs. Henderson"--glancing about him--"has
everything to live for; that's in her favor. I suppose there are not two
other men in the country whose fortune equals Henderson's."
I do not know how it was, probably the patient was not forgotten, but in
a moment the grave doctor was asking me if I had seen the last bulletin
about the yacht regatta. He took the keenest interest in the contest, and
described to me the build and sailing qualities of the different yachts
entered, and expressed his opinion as to which would win, and why. From
this he passed to the city government and the recent election--like a
true New Yorker, his chief interest centred in the city politics and not
in the national elections. Without the least unbending from his dignity,
he told me many anecdotes about city politicians, which would have been
amusing if I had not been anxious about other things.
The afternoon passed, and the night, and the day, I cannot tell how. But
at evening I knew by the movements in the house that the crisis had come.
I was waiting in Henderson's library. An hour passed, when Henderson came
hurrying in, pale, excited, but joyous.
"Thank God," he cried, "it is a boy!"
"And Margaret?" I gasped.
"Is doing very well!" He touched a bell, and gave an order to the
servant. "We will drink to the dear girl and to the heir of the house."
He was in great spirits. The doctor joined us, but I noticed that he was
anxious, and he did not stay long. Henderson was in and out, talking,
excited, restless. But everything was going very well, he thought. At
last, as we sat talking, a servant appeared at the door, with a
frightened look.
"The baby, sir!"
"What?"
Alas! there had been an heir of the house of Henderson for just two
hours; and Margaret was not sustaining herself.
Why go on? Henderson was beside himself; stricken with grief, enraged, I
believe, as well, at the thought of his own impotence. Messengers were
despatched, a consultation was called. The best skill of the city, at any
cost, was at Margaret's bedside. Was there anything, then, that money
could not do? How weak we are!
The next day the patient was no better, she was evidently sinking. The
news went swiftly round the city. It needed a servant constantly at the
door to answer the stream of sympathetic inquirers. Reporters were
watching the closed house from the opposite pavement. I undertook to
satisfy some of them who gained the steps and came forward, civil enough
and note-books in hand, when the door was opened. This intrusion of
curiosity seemed so dreadful.
The great house was silent. How vain and empty and pitiful it all seemed
as I wandered alone through the gorgeous apartments! What a mockery it
all was of the tragedy impending above-stairs--the approach on list-shod
feet of the great enemy! Let us not be unjust. He would have come just
the same if his prey had lain in a farmhouse among the hills, or in a
tenement-house in C Street.
A day and a night, and another day--and then! It was Miss Forsythe who
came down to me, with strained eyes and awe in her face. It needed no
words. She put her face upon my shoulder, and sobbed as if her heart were
broken.
I could not stay in the house. I went out into the streets, the streets
brilliant in the sun of an autumn day, into the town, gay, bustling,
crowded, pulsing with vigorous life. How blue the sky was! The sparrows
twittered in Madison Square, the idlers sat in the sun, the children
chased their hoops about the fountain.
I wandered into the club. The news had preceded me there. More than one
member in the reading-room grasped my hand, with just a word of sympathy.
Two young fellows, whom I had last seen at the Henderson dinner, were
seated at a small table.
"It's rough, Jack"--the speaker paused, with a match in his hand--"it's
rough. I'll be if she was not the finest woman I ever knew."
My wife and I were sitting in the orchestra stalls of the Metropolitan.
The opera was Siegfried. At the close of the first act, as we turned to
the house, we saw Carmen enter a box, radiant, in white. Henderson
followed, and took a seat a little in shadow behind her. There were
others in the box. There was a little movement and flutter as they came
in and glasses were turned that way.
"Married, and it is only two years," I said.
"It is only a year and eight months," my wife replied.
And the world goes on as cheerfully and prosperously as ever.