CHAPTER XIX
MADAM BOWKER'S BLESSING
"If you like I'll go up and tell your grandmother," said Craig, breakingthe silence as they neared the hotel. But Margaret's brain had resumedits normal function, was making up for the time it had lost. With theshaking off of the daze had come amazement at finding herself married.In the same circumstances a man would have been incapacitated foraction; Craig, who had been so reckless, so headlong a few minutesbefore, was now timid, irresolute, prey to alarms. But women, beneaththe pose which man's resolute apotheosis of woman as the embodiment ofunreasoning imagination has enforced upon them, are rarely soimaginative that the practical is wholly obscured. Margaret wasaccepting the situation, was planning soberly to turn it to the bestadvantage. Obviously, much hung upon this unconventional, thisvulgarly-sensational marriage being diplomatically announced to theperson from whom she expected to get an income of her own. "No," saidshe to Joshua, in response to his nervously-made offer. "You must waitdown in the office while I tell her. At the proper time I'll send foryou."
She spoke friendlily enough, with an inviting suggestion of their commoninterests. But Craig found it uncomfortable even to look at her. Nowthat the crisis was over his weaknesses were returning; he could notbelieve he had dared bear off this "delicate, refined creature," thiswoman whom "any one can see at a glance is a patrician of patricians."That kind of nervousness as quickly spreads through every part, moral,mental and physical, of a man not sure of himself as a fire through ahaystack. He could not conceal his awe of her. She saw that somethingwas wrong with him; being herself in no "patrician" mood, but, on thecontrary, in a mood that was most humanly plebeian, she quite missed thecause of his clumsy embarrassment and constraint; she suspected a suddenphysical ailment. "It'll be some time, I expect," said she. "Don'tbother to hang around. I'll send a note to the desk, and you caninquire--say, in half an hour or so."
"Half an hour!" he cried in dismay. Whatever should he do with himself,alone with these returned terrors, and with no Margaret there to makehim ashamed not to give braver battle to them.
"An hour, then."
She nodded, shook hands with a blush and a smile, not without its gleamof appreciation of the queerness of the situation. He lifted his hat,made a nervous, formal bow and turned away, though no car was there. Asthe elevator was starting up with her he came hurrying back.
"One moment," he said. "I quite forgot."
She joined him and they stood aside, in the shelter of a greatwrap-rack. "You can tell your grandmother--it may help to smooth thingsover--that my appointment as Attorney-General will be announced dayafter to-morrow."
"Oh!" exclaimed she, her eyes lighting up.
He went on to explain. "As you know, the President didn't want to giveit to me. But I succeeded in drawing him into a position where he eitherhad to give it to me or seem to be retiring me because I had sovigorously attacked the big rascals he's suspected of being privatelymore than half in sympathy with."
"She'll be delighted!" exclaimed Margaret.
"And you?" he asked with awkward wistfulness.
"I?" said she blushing and dropping her glance. "Is it necessary for youto ask?"
She went back to the elevator still more out of humor with herself. Shehad begun their married life with what was very nearly a--well, itcertainly was an evasion; for she cared nothing about his politicalcareer, so soon to end. However, she was glad of the appointment,because the news of it would be useful in calming and reconciling hergrandmother. Just as her spirits began to rise it flashed into her mind:"Why, that's how it happens I'm married! If he hadn't been successful ingetting the office he wouldn't have come.... He maneuvered the Presidentinto a position where he had to give him what he wanted. Then he camehere and maneuvered me into a position where _I_ had to give him what hewanted. Always his 'game!' No sincerity or directness anywhere in him,and very little real courage." Here she stopped short in the full swingof pharisaism, smiled at herself in dismal self-mockery. "And what am_I_ doing? Playing MY 'game.' I'm on my way now to maneuver mygrandmother. We are well suited--he and I. In another walk of life wemight have been a pair of swindlers, playing into each other's hands....And yet I don't believe we're worse than most people. Why, most peopledo these things without a thought of their being--unprincipled. And,after all, I'm not harming anybody, am I? That is, anybody but myself."
She had her campaign carefully laid out; she had mapped it in the cabbetween the parsonage and the hotel. "Grandmother," she began as the oldlady looked up with a frown because of her long, unexpected absence, "Imust tell you that just before we left Washington Craig broke theengagement."
Madam Bowker half-started from her chair. "Broke the engagement!" shecried in dismay.
"Abruptly and, apparently, finally. I--I didn't dare tell you before."
She so longed for sympathy that she half-hoped the old lady would showsigns of being touched by the plight which that situation meant. But nosign came. Instead, Madam Bowker pierced her with wrathful eyes and saidin a furious voice: "This is frightful! And you have done nothing?" Shestruck the floor violently with her staff. "He must be brought to asense of honor--of decency! He must! Do you hear? It was your fault, Iam sure. If he does not marry you are ruined!"
"He came over this morning," pursued Margaret. "He wanted to marry me atonce."
"You should have given him no chance to change his mind again," criedMadam Bowker. "What a trifler you are! No seriousness! Your intelligenceall in the abstract; only folly and fritter for your own affairs. Youshould have given him no chance to change!"
Margaret closed in and struck home. "I didn't," said she tersely. "Imarried him."
The old lady stared. Then, as she realized how cleverly Margaret hadtrapped her, she smiled a grim smile of appreciation and forgiveness."Come and kiss me," said she. "You will do something, now that you havea chance. No woman has a chance--no LADY--until she is a Mrs. It's thestruggle to round that point that wrecks so many of them."
Margaret kissed her. "And," she went on, "he has been madeAttorney-General."
Never, never had Margaret seen such unconcealed satisfaction in hergrandmother's face. The stern, piercing eyes softened and beamedaffection upon the girl; all the affection she had deemed it wise toshow theretofore always was tempered with sternness. "What a pity hehasn't money," said she. "Still, it can be managed, after a fashion."
"We MUST have money," pursued the girl. "Life with him, without it,would be intolerable. Poor people are thrown so closely together. He istoo much for my nerves--often."
"He's your property now," Madam Bowker reminded her. "You must notdisparage your own property. Always remember that your husband is yourproperty. Then your silly nerves will soon quiet down."
"We must have money," repeated Margaret. "A great deal of money."
"You know I can't give you a great deal," said the old ladyapologetically. "I'll do my best.... Would you like to live with me?"
There was something so fantastic in the idea of Joshua Craig and MadamBowker living under the same roof, and herself trying to live with them,that Margaret burst out laughing. The old lady frowned; then,appreciating the joke, she joined in. "You'll have to make up your mindto live very quietly. Politics doesn't pay well--not Craig's branch ofit, except in honor. He will be very famous."
"Where?" retorted Margaret disdainfully. "Why, with a lot of people whoaren't worth considering. No, I am going to take Joshua out ofpolitics."
The old lady looked interest and inquiry.
"He has had several flattering offers to be counsel to big corporations.The things he has done against them have made them respect and want him.I'm going to get him to leave politics and practice law in New York.Lawyers there--the shrewd ones, like him--make fortunes. He can stillspeak occasionally and get all the applause he wants. Joshua lovesapplause."
The old lady was watching her narrowly.
"Don't you think I'm right, Grandma? I'm telling you because I want youropinion."
/> "Will he do it?"
Margaret laughed easily. "He's afraid of me. If I manage him well he'lldo whatever I wish. I can make him realize he has no right to deprivemyself and him of the advantages of my station."
"Um--um," said the old lady, half to herself. "Yes--yes--perhaps.Um--um--"
"He will be much more content once he's settled in the new line.Politics as an end is silly--what becomes of the men who stick to it?But politics as a means is sensible, and Joshua has got out of it aboutall he can get--about all he needs."
"He hopes to be President."
"So do thousands of other men. And even if he should get it how would welive--how would _I_ live--while we were waiting--and after it was over?I detest politics--all those vulgar people." Margaret made a disdainfulmouth. "It isn't for our sort of people--except, perhaps, the diplomaticposts, and they, of course, go by 'pull' or purchase. I like the lifeI've led--the life you've led. You've made me luxurious and lazy,Grandma.... Rather than President I'd prefer him to be ambassador toEngland, after a while, when we could afford it. We could have a greatsocial career."
"You think you can manage him?" repeated Madam Bowker.
She had been simply listening, her thoughts not showing at the surface.Her tone was neither discouraging nor encouraging, merely interrogative.But Margaret scented a doubt. "Don't you think so?" she said a littleless confidently.
"I don't know.... I don't know.... It will do no harm to try."
Margaret's expression was suddenly like a real face from which a maskhas dropped. "I must do it, Grandma. If I don't I shall--I shall HATEhim! I will not be his servant! When I think of the humiliations he hasput upon me I--I almost hate him now!"
Madam Bowker was alarmed, but was too wise to show it. She laughed. "Howseriously you take yourself, child," said she. "All that is very youngand very theatrical. What do birth and breeding mean if not that one hasthe high courage to bear what is, after all, the lot of most women, andthe high intelligence to use one's circumstances, whatever they may be,to accomplish one's ambitions? A lady cannot afford to despise herhusband. A lady is, first of all, serene. You talk like a Craig ratherthan like a Severance. If he can taint you this soon how long will it bebefore you are at his level? How can you hope to bring him up to yours?"
Margaret's head was hanging.
"Never again let me hear you speak disrespectfully of your husband, mychild," the old lady went on impressively. "And if you are wise you willno more permit yourself to harbor a disrespectful thought of him thanyou would permit yourself to wear unclean underclothes."
Margaret dropped down at her grandmother's knee, buried her face in herlap. "I don't believe I can ever love him," she murmured.
"So long as you believe that, you never can," said Madam Bowker; "andyour married life will be a failure--as great a failure as mine was--asyour mother's was. If I had only known what I know now--what I amtelling you--" Madam Bowker paused, and there was a long silence in theroom. "Your married life, my dear," she went on, "will be what youchoose to make of it. You have a husband. Never let yourself indulge insilly repinings or ruinous longings. Make the best of what you have.Study your husband, not ungenerously and superciliously, but with eyesdetermined to see the virtues that can be developed, the faults that canbe cured, and with eyes that will not linger on the faults that can't becured. Make him your constant thought and care. Never forget that youbelong to the superior sex."
"I don't feel that I do," said Margaret. "I can't help feeling women areinferior and wishing I'd been a man."
"That is because you do not think," replied Madam Bowker indulgently."Children are the center of life--its purpose, its fulfillment. Allnormal men and women want children above everything else. Our only titleto be here is as ancestors--to replace ourselves with wiser and betterthan we. That makes woman the superior of man; she alone has the powerto give birth. Man instinctively knows this, and it is his fear ofsubjection to woman that makes him sneer at and fight against everyeffort to develop her intelligence and her independence. If you are atrue woman, worthy of your race and of your breeding, you will neverforget your superiority--or the duties it imposes on you--what you oweto your husband and to your children. You are a married woman now.Therefore you are free. Show that you deserve freedom and know how touse it."
Margaret listened to the old woman with a new respect for her--and forherself. "I'll try, Grandmother," she said soberly. "But--it won't beeasy." A reflective silence, and she repeated, "No, not easy."
"Easier than to resist and repine and rage and hunt another man who, onclose acquaintance, would prove even less satisfactory," replied hergrandmother. "Easy--if you honestly try." She looked down at the girlwith the sympathy that goes out to inexperience from those who havelived long and thoughtfully and have seen many a vast and fearful bogyloom and, on nearer view, fade into a mist of fancy. "Above all, child,don't waste your strength on imaginary griefs and woes--you'll have noneleft for the real trials."
Margaret had listened attentively; she would remember what the old ladyhad said--indeed, it would have been hard to forget words so direct andso impressively uttered. But at the moment they made small impressionupon her. She thought her grandmother kindly but cold. In fact, the oldlady was giving her as deep commiseration as her broader experiencepermitted in the circumstances, some such commiseration as one gives achild who sees measureless calamity in a rainy sky on a long-anticipatedpicnic morning.