When I left Paris that night I’ll engage she was thinking about me as she had never thought in her whole self-centered, American-female life.
VIII
My cable to Norman was answered the next day but one by a note from him, stopping in the same hotel. I shall not detail the negotiations that followed—the long and stormy scenes between him and Dawkins, solicitor to the Marquis of Crossley. It is sufficient to say that Norman had the novel sensation of being beaten on every point. Not outwitted, for he had wit enough and to spare for any contest of cunning; but beaten by the centuries-old precedents and customs and requirements in matters of dower and settlement. The mercenary marriage is an ancient habit of the human race; in fact, the scientists have proved that it began with marriage itself, that there was no marriage in the civilized sense until there was property to marry for. Perhaps the mercenary marriage is not so recent in America as our idyllists declare. Do we not read that the father of his country married solely for money an almost feeble-minded woman whom everybody knew he did not love? And, inasmuch as marriage is first of all a business—the business of providing for the material needs and wants of two and their children—may it not barely be possible that the unqualifiedly sentimental view of marriage can be—perhaps has been—overdone? In America, where the marriage for sentiment prevails to an extent unknown anywhere else in the world—is not the institution of marriage there in its most uneasy state? And may not that be the reason?
What a world of twaddle it is! If men and women could only learn to build their ideals on the firm foundation—the only firm foundation—of the practical instead of upon the quicksand of lies and pretenses, wouldn’t the tower climb less shakily, if more slowly, toward the stars?
You may be sure there was nothing of the stars in those talks between Norman and Dawkins—or in my talks with Norman—or in Crossley’s talks with Dawkins. Crossley had had me looked up—had discovered as much about my finances as it is possible to discover about the private business of an American. He had got the usual exaggerated estimate of my wealth, and he was resolved that he would not be cheated of a single dollar he might wring from me. From my standpoint it was obvious that he and Margot must have plenty of money or they could not be happy. All I desired was to prevent him from feeling financially free—and therefore under the aristocratic code, morally free—to show and to act, after marriage, the contempt I knew he felt for all things and persons American—except the dollars, which could be exchanged into sovereigns. I fought hard, but he stood fast. Either Margot must lose him or I must give him about what he asked—a fortune in his own right for him. If I choose I could dower her; but as to dowering him he would not permit the question of alternative to be raised.
“All right,” said I at last to Norman. “Give them their minimum.”
He was astounded, was furious—and as he is not the ordinary lick-spittle lawyer but a man of arrogant independence, he did not hesitate to let me see that his anger—and scorn—were for myself. “Do you mean that?” he said.
“Yes,” replied I carelessly—as if I were now indifferent about the whole business. “My girl wants his title. And why let a question of money come between her and happiness?”
“I can’t refrain from saying, Loring, that I’d not have believed this of you.”
“She’s not fit to live in America,” said I. “Her mother hasn’t educated her for it. American mothers don’t educate their daughters nowadays to be wives of American men. Honestly, do you know an American man able to do for himself who would be foolish enough to marry that sort of girl?”