Part 19

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!”

I laughed.

She drew a long breath of relief. “Oh, you weren’t in earnest,” she said.

“No,” replied I. “But--don’t live here.”

“I shan’t,” said she firmly. “It’s dreadful for the looks. You’ve seen what so many of these English women look like.”

“Like shriveled, frost-bitten apples,” said I. “They don’t die because they’re used to it. But it’s death for people accustomed to civilization. Not even the steady glow of pride in your title and position can keep you heated up enough to save you.”

“Will you give Hugh a house, if he’ll consent?”

“Yes.... Until to-night or to-morrow.”

And I fled from the romantic old Abbey, but not soon enough to avoid what was threatening to be the cold of my life.

IX

The moment I was in London, and before that Sothewell Abbey cold had a chance to grip me, I went at it. Starve, stay in bed, and keep the air out for a day--that’s the way to put a cold out of business. Unless it be some occasional prodigy endowed with superhuman common sense and self-restraint, no one learns how to take care of his health except by experience. The doctors know precious little about disease; about health they know nothing--naturally, they have no interest in health. The average human being not only does not know how to take care of his health, but also does not wish to learn how; health involves self-denial, cutting down on food, drink, tobacco and the other joys of life. So he who wishes to avoid enormous payments in discomfort and pain for slight neglects and transgressions of physical laws has to work it out for himself. I’ve made several valuable discoveries in the science and art of living; about the most valuable of them is that every illness starts under cover of a cold. So I instantly take myself in hand whenever I begin to sneeze and to have chilly sensations or a catch in the throat. The result has been that since I was thirty I have not spent a cent on doctors or lost a day through illness, and I’ve eaten and drunk about as I pleased. I can see gentle reader’s expression of disdain at these confessions as to my care for health. You are welcome to your disdain, gentle reader. It is characteristic of your shallowness. You see, the chief difference between you and me is that I have imagination while you have not. And as I have imagination, illness makes to my mind a picture of revolting internal conditions which I can no more endure than I could endure having my outside unclean and frowzy.

Margot, coming by a later train, sent me word that she was ill. She had called in a doctor. He poured some medicine--some poison--into her, of course, and so got her into the way of giving him an excuse for robbing her. In England doctors rank socially with butchers and bakers, rank scientifically with voodoo quacks and astrologers. They still look on a cold as a trifle, and treat it by feeding! The food and drugs she swallowed soon reduced Margot to the state where it was taking all the reserve force of her youth to save her from severe illness. I was entirely well the following day, and went to see her. The doctor--five guineas or twenty-five dollars a visit--was coming twice a day; his assistant--two guineas or ten dollars a visit--was coming four times a day. The Marchioness of Crossley, a rich American, was ill. Her social position and Dr. Sir Spratt Wallet’s rank as a practitioner together made it imperative that the illness be no ordinary affair. The second day he issued bulletins to the papers. I attempted to interfere in the treatment, but Margot would not have it.

“She’s growing worse instead of better,” said I to Wallet.

“Certainly, sir,” replied he. “That is the regular course with a cold.” And he stroked his whiskers and looked at me with dull, self-complacent, supercilious eyes. “The regular course, sir.”

“In England, but not in America,” said I.

“I dare say,” said he, with heavy politeness. Then, after a heavy pause, “her ladyship will be quite fit again in a week--quite fit.”

As she was eating three strapping meals a day and taking rhinitis and another equally poisonous drug I had my doubts. But once you let a doctor in you are powerless. If you order him out without giving him an opportunity in his own good time to cure the mischief he has done the consequences may be serious. Not to linger over this incident in high life, Wallet made out of that cold a hundred guineas, not counting his commissions on the fees of his assistant, on the wages of a trained nurse, and on the stuff from the chemist. If Margot had been English born the bill would have been about one fourth that sum--for the same rank in society. Slay the Midianite! But that’s the rule the world over. When I am “trimmed” abroad I console myself with reflecting on the fate of the luckless foreigner visiting America. Europe trims us to the quick; but we trim to the bone; and when no foreigners are handy we keep in practice by trimming one another.

Margot’s illness did not interfere with my efforts to right her matrimonial ship and set it in its course again. I had greatly modified my original plan. It involved my seeking the Marquis. My new plan was to compel him to seek me. I proceeded so successfully that on the morning of the third day of Margot’s “indisposition,” while I was at breakfast in my sitting room, Markham came in with a grin of triumph on his face. “You win,” he cried. “But you always do.”

“Dawkins?”

“Here’s his card.”

“Let him up. No--wait.... Tell him I’ll see him in half an hour.”

Gentle reader, you are about to learn why in that controversy over settlements _I_ abruptly abandoned the struggle and yielded everything. I worked with Markham at my mail and telegrams for three quarters of an hour before I let Dawkins in. I saw at a glance that my treatment of him had produced the effect I had hoped. He was a typical middle-class Englishman--but all middle-class Englishmen are typical. He was fattish and baldish and smug. He had a beef-and-beer face, ruddy and smooth except tufts of red-gray, curling whiskers before either ear. He had cold, shrewd, pious eyes--the eyes of the hypocrite who serves the Lord with every breath he draws, and gets a blessing upon every crime he commits before committing it. In my first interviews with him I, being new to England, had made the mistake of treating him as an equal, that is, as a human being. My respect for myself forbids me to meet any of my fellow-members of the human race in any other fashion. But experience has taught me that in doing business with a man, it is being absolutely necessary that you dominate him unless you are willing to have him dominate you, the most skillful care must be taken to impress him with your superiority. A certain amount of “side” is useful in America. A lot of it is imperative in England; and if you are dealing with an Englishman who feels that he is low, you dare not treat him as an equal or he at once imagines you are lower than he, and despicable--and you can do nothing with him.

I had suffered, and so had my lawyer, Norman, for our American way of treating Dawkins. I appreciated my mistake afterwards, and resolved not to repeat it. I studied the manner of Crossley and Blankenship and the other upper-class men toward the middle and lower classes, and I learned to copy it, an accomplishment of which I am not proud, though common sense forbids me to be ashamed of it. Dawkins, entering with heels thoroughly cooled, made ready to put out his hand, but did so hesitatingly. He saw that his worst fears were realized, altered the handshaking gesture into a tug at his right whiskers. Nor did I offer him a seat, but simply looked at him pleasantly over the top of my newspaper and said:

“Ah, Dawkins, is that you?”

“Good morning, Mr. Loring. Hope you are well, sir,” said Dawkins, now squeezing awkwardly into his proper place.

I half turned my back on him and dictated a note and a telegram to Markham. Then I glanced at Dawkins again. “Ah, Dawkins, yes--what were you saying?”

“I would esteem it a favor, sir, if you would give me a few minutes of your time--alone.”

“We are alone,” said I. “What is it?”

The solicitor shifted his portly frame uneasily, smoothed his top hat with his gloved left hand, glanced dubiously at Markham. “The matter is confidential, sir--relating to--to the family.”

“Mr. Markham knows more about my affairs than I do,” said I. “Don’t beat about the bush, Dawkins. I have no time to waste.”

“Very well, sir. I beg your pardon. It concerns those bonds--the bonds you turned over to me in arranging the settlements.”

“Yes. I remember. Great Lakes and Gulf bonds, were they not?”

“Precisely, sir. You bound us to a stipulation that they were not to be converted for at least five years.”

“That’s right,” said I. “In fact, I made it impossible for you to convert them.”

A pained expression came into the face of Dawkins.

“I believe I conceded everything else your client demanded,” pursued I.

“But it now develops, sir,” said Dawkins, “that that was the only important thing.”

“Really?” said I.

“You have doubtless seen the papers these last few days--the stock market.”

“Yes.... Yes--so the bonds _are_ dropping. That’s unfortunate.”

“Dropping rapidly,” said Dawkins. “And there are rumors that Great Lakes and Gulf will soon be practically worthless.”

“So I’ve read.”

“I’ve come to ask you to release us. We wish to sell. We must sell. If we don’t the settlement on your son-in-law will be worthless.”

I smiled agreeably. “As worthless as his promises to my daughter. As worthless as he is.”

Dawkins was breathing heavily. His pious eyes were snapping with rage. He had prided himself on his astuteness. He had gloated over his shrewdness in outwitting Norman and me. And now he discovered that the boot was on the other leg. I had trapped him and put him and his client in my power.

I leaned back comfortably and smiled. “Of course I know nothing about it, Dawkins, but I am willing to make a Yankee guess that the bonds will continue to drop until----”

When my pause became unendurable, he said: “Yes, sir. Until when?”

“Until I discover some signs of value in my son-in-law. Then he may discover some signs of value in the bonds. Our America is a peculiar country, Dawkins.”

“Peculiar will do, sir,” said he with respectful insolence. “But I should have chosen another word.”

I shook my head laughingly. “What bad losers you English are!” said I. “But--I’ll not detain you. Good morning, Dawkins.”

“Then I am to understand, sir----”

But I had my back squarely to him and was busy with Markham, who took his cue for the little comedy we were playing like the well-trained American business man that he was. Presently Markham said, “He’s gone, and I never saw a madder man get out of a room more awkwardly.”

You, gentle reader, who know about as much of the science of managing men in practical life as you know of any other phase of the world-that-is--you, gentle reader, are shocked by my rudeness to a polite, well-educated, well-dressed Englishman. And you hope--and feel--that I overreached myself. But let me inform you--not for your instruction but for my own satisfaction--courtesy has to be used most sparingly. Human vanity is so monstrous that men eagerly read into politeness to them--the most ordinary politeness--evidence that their superiority is inspiring fear, awe and desire to conciliate them. You often hear men in high place severely criticised for being rude, short, arrogant, insulting. Do not condemn them too hastily. It may be that they were driven into this attitude toward their fellows by the disastrous consequences of courtesy. Be polite to a man and he will misunderstand. Be cool to him and he, thickly enveloped in his own good opinion of himself, will not feel it. Rudeness, overt and unmistakable, is often the one way to reach him and save not only yourself but also him from the consequences of his vanity. It is the instinct of big men to be big and simple and natural in their dealings with their fellows. The mass of little men with big vanities compels them to suppress this instinct; and by suppression it inevitably becomes in time crushed out of existence. How can one who is busy continue to show consideration for others if they, instead of showing a return consideration for him, take it as tribute to their importance and begin to rear and impose and trample?

To cite my own relatively unimportant case, I have long had a reputation for coldness and meager civility in my business relations. I recall distinctly the desperate pressure of sheer imposition that led me to abandon my early openness to all comers at all times. And I admit that I did change; rather abruptly, too, for it suddenly came to me why I was slipping backwards. But looking only at my career _since_ the change, when I think of the boredom I have endured, the folly I have permitted to waste my valuable time--when I recall the forbearance I have shown in sparing impudent and lazy incompetence where I might, yes, ought to have used the ax--when I think of my good-natured tolerance in face of extremest daily provocation, year after year, I marvel at myself and feel how unjust, how characteristically the verdict of little shallow men, is the attack on me as cold and unsympathetic. When I consider how the leaders of the human race have been tempted to tyranny, I cannot understand why history is able to record comparatively few real tyrants, most of them being homicidal lunatics like Nero, or success-crazed megalomaniacs like Napoleon, and almost none men of sanity. If the great of earth were as vain, as selfishly, as egotistically inconsiderate of the small as the small are of the great and of each other, would not the story of history have come to an end long ago for lack of surviving characters?

Two days after Dawkins came Crossley. I knew that in America there is no one so easily frightened as a rich man who has inherited his wealth and does not know whether, if he lost it, he could make a living or not. All rich men are cowards, but that species is craven. I suspected that the same thing was true of the European type--the nobleman with the grotesque pose of disdain for money that convinces and captivates you, gentle reader, and your favorite authors. Crossley’s face instantly showed me that my suspicion was correct. He had been dissipating wildly for several weeks, but it did not account for the look in his eyes. If, gentle reader, you wish to learn the truth about the aristocracy you worship--which you do not--get an aristocrat where you can cut off or turn on his supply of cash at will. You will then discover that he who has a stiff neck also has supple knees--the stiffer the neck the suppler the knees.

Crossley was a clever chap in his way; that is, he knew his business of idle spender of unearned money thoroughly. Another mode of putting it would be the commonplace and less exact if more alluring phrase “aristocrat to his finger tips.” There are many modes of cringing. He showed judgment and taste--judgment of me, taste in sparing himself--in his choice of the mode. With fright and wariness in his eyes--the look of readiness to go to any depths of self-abasement in gaining his end--he put a tone of manly, bluff, shamefaced contrition into his voice as he said:

“Pardon my breaking in on you this way. I’ve just heard. Is _she_ very ill?”

He meant he had just heard about the bonds. I knew he meant that, and he knew I knew it. But we were men of the world. “Not desperately ill,” said I. “Only about twenty guineas a day.”

He smiled a faint but flattering appreciation of my humor, then resumed his gloomy anxiety and self-reproach. “But she _is_ ill. I read it in one of those screaming ha’penny rags and came as fast as ever I could. The truth is--well, we’ve had a bit of a row. Has she told you?”

“Not much,” said I. “A little.”

“I’ve acted the skunk, the howling skunk--and I want to-- Do you think she’ll see me?”

“If you wish, I’ll find out.”

“I’d be no end grateful,” said he with enthusiasm.