Part 33 (1/2)
”Oh, aunt won't do anything, or take an interest in anything. She just stays there. I've tried in vain to get her here. Do you know”--and she turned upon the earl a look of the old playfulness--”she doesn't quite approve of me.”
”Oh,” he replied, hesitating a little--”I think, Mrs. Henderson, that her heart is bound up in you. It isn't for me to say that you haven't a truer friend in the world.”
”Yes, I know. If I'd only--” and she stopped, with a petulant look on her fair face--”well, it doesn't matter. She is a dear soul.”
”I--suppose,” said the earl, rising, ”we shall see you again on the other side?”
”Perhaps,” with a smile. Could anything be more commonplace than such a parting? Good-by, I shall see you tomorrow or next year, or in the next world. Hail and farewell! That is the common experience. But, oh, the bitterness of it to many a soul!
It is quite possible that when the Earl of Chisholm said good-by, with an air of finality, Margaret felt that another part of her life was closed. He was not in any way an extraordinary person, he was not a very rich peer, probably with his modesty and conscientiousness, and devotion to the ordinary duties of his station, he would never attain high rank in the government. Yet no one could be long with him without apprehending that his life was on a high plane. It was with a little irritation that Margaret recognized this, and remembered, with a twinge of conscience, that it was upon that plane that her life once traveled.
The time had been when the more important thing to her was the world of ideas, of books, of intellectual life, of pa.s.sionate sympathy with the fortunes of humanity, of deepest interest in all the new thoughts struck out by the leaders who studied the profound problems of life and destiny.
That peace of mind which is found only in the highest activity for the n.o.blest ends she once had, though she thought it then unrest and striving--what Carmen, who was under no illusions about Henderson, or Uncle Jerry, or the world of fas.h.i.+on, and had an intuitive perception of cant that is sometimes denied to the children of light, called ”taking pleasure in the things of the mind.” To do Margaret justice, there entered into her reflections no thought of the t.i.tle and position of the Earl of Chisholm. They had never been alluring to her. If one could take any satisfaction in this phase of her character, her worldiness was purely American.
”I hardly know which I should prefer,” Carmen was saying when they were talking over the ball and the earl's departure, ”to be an English countess or the wife of an American millionaire.”
”It might depend upon the man,” replied Margaret, with a smile.
”The American,” continued Carmen, not heeding this suggestion, ”has the greater opportunities, and is not hindered by traditions. If you were a countess you would have to act like a countess. If you are an American you can act--like anything--you can do what you please. That is nicer.
Now, an earl must do what an earl has always done. What could you do with such a husband? Mind! Yes, I know, dear, about things of the mind.
First, you know, he will be a gentleman socialist (in the magazines), and maybe a Christian socialist, or a Christian scientist, or something of that sort, interested in the Mind Cure.”
”I should think that would suit you. Last I knew, you were deep in the Mind Cure.”
”So I was. That was last week. Now I'm in the Faith Cure; I've found out about both. The difference is, in the Mind Cure you don't require any faith; in the Faith Cure you don't require any mind. The Faith Cure just suits me.”
”So you put your faith in an American millionaire?”
”Yes, I think I should, until an American millionaire put faith in me.
That might shake me. It is such a queer world. No, I'm in doubt. If you loved an earl he would stay an earl. If you loved an American millionaire, ten to one he would fail.”
Margaret did not escape the responsibility of her success. Who does? My dear Charmian, who wrote the successful novel of last year, do you not already repent your rash act? If you do not write a better novel this year, will not the public flout you and jeer you for a pretender? Did the public overpraise you at first? Its mistaken partiality becomes now your presumption. Last year the press said you were the rival of Hawthorne. This year it is, ”that Miss Charmian who set herself up as a second Hawthorne.” When the new house was opened, it might be said that socially Mrs. Henderson had ”arrived.” Had she? When one enters on the path of worldliness is there any resting-place? Is not eternal vigilance the price of position?
Henderson was apparently on good terms with the world. Many envied him, many paid him the sincerest flattery, that of imitation. He was a king in the street, great enterprises sought his aid, all the charities knocked at his door, his word could organize a syndicate or a trust, his nod could smash a ”corner.” There were fabulous stories about his wealth, about his luck. This also was Margaret's world. Her ambition expanded in it with his. The things he set his heart on she coveted.
Alas! there is always another round to the ladder.
Seeing the means by which he gained his ends, and the public condonation of them, would not his cynicism harden into utter unbelief in general virtue and goodness? I don't know that Henderson changed much, accented as his grasping selfishness was on occasion; prosperity had not impaired that indifferent good-fellows.h.i.+p and toleration which had early gained him popularity. His presence was nowhere a rebuke to whatever was going on. He was always accessible, often jocular. The younger members in the club said Henderson was a devilish good fellow, whatever people said.
The President of the United States used to send for him and consult him, because he wanted no office; he knew men, and it was a relief to talk with a liberal rich man of so much bonhomie who wanted nothing.
And Margaret, what view of the world did all this give her? Did she come in contact with any one who had not his price, who was not going or wanting to go in the general current? Was it not natural that she should take Henderson's view? Dear me, I am not preaching about her. We did not see much of her in those days, and for one or two years of what I suppose was her greatest enjoyment of her social triumphs. So far as we heard, she was liked, admired, followed, envied. It could not be otherwise, for she did not lose her beauty nor her charm, and she tried to please. Once when I saw her in the city and we fell into talk--and the talk was gay enough and unconstrained--I was struck with a certain hardness of tone, a little bitterness quite unlike her old self. It is a very hard thing to say, and I did not say it even to my wife, but I had a painful impression that she was valuing people by the money they had, by the social position they had attained.
Was she content in that great world in which she moved? I had heard stories of slights, of stabs, of rebuffs, of spiteful remarks. Had she not come to know how success even in social life is sometimes attained--the meannesses, the jealousies, the cringing? Even with all her money at command, did she not know that her position was at the price of incessant effort? Because she had taken a bold step today, she must take a bolder one tomorrow--more display, more servants, some new invention of luxury and extravagance. And seeing, as I say, the inside of this life and what it required, and how triumphs and notoriety were gained, was it a wonder that she gradually became in her gayety cynical, in her judgments bitter?
I am not criticising her. What are we, who have had no opportunities, to sit in judgment on her! I believe that it is true that it was at her solicitation that Henderson at last did endow a university in the Southwest. I know that her name was on all the leading charities of the city. I know that of all the patronesses of the charity ball her costume was the most exquisite, and her liberality was most spoken of. I know that in the most fas.h.i.+onable house of wors.h.i.+p (the newspapers call it that) she was a constant attendant; that in her modest garb she never missed a Lenten service; and we heard that she performed a novena during this penitential season.
Why protract the story of how Margaret was lost to us? Could this interest any but us--we who felt the loss because we still loved her?
And why should we presume to set up our standard of what is valuable in life, of what is a successful career? She had not become what we hoped, and little by little all the pleasure of intercourse on both sides, I dare say, disappeared. Could we say that life, after all, had not given her what she most desired? Rather than write on in this strain about her, I would like to read her story as it appeared to the companions whose pleasures were her pleasures, whose successes were her successes--her story written by one who appreciated her worldly advantages, and saw all the delight there was in this attractive worldliness.