The Measure Of Margaret Coppered, Part One Of Three

Hello,

It's Mandy here.

Thanks for joining me this evening.

We're going to be looking at another story of Kathleen Norris,

Which is called The Measure of Margaret Copperhead,

And I'll be reading Part 1 to you tonight,

So please go right on ahead and make yourself really comfortable.

And I'll begin.

The Measure of Margaret Copperhead,

Part 1.

Duncan Copperhead felt that his father's second marriage was a great mistake.

He never said so,

That wouldn't have been Duncan's way,

But he had a little manner of discreetly compressing his lips when the second Mrs.

Copperhead was mentioned,

Eyeing his irreproachable boots and raising his handsome brows,

That was felt to be significant.

People who knew and admired Duncan,

And to know him was to admire him,

Realised that he would never give more definite indications of filial disapproval than these.

His exquisite sense of what was due his father's wife from him would not permit it,

But all the more did the silent sympathy of his friends go out to him.

To Harriet Culver he said the one thing that these friends comparing notes considered indicative of his real feeling.

Harriet,

Who met him on the common one cold afternoon,

Reproached him during the course of a slow ride for his non-appearance at various dinners and teas.

Well,

I've been rather bowled over,

Don't you know?

I've been getting my bearings,

Said Duncan simply.

Of course you have,

Said Harriet,

With an expectant thrill.

I'd gotten to count on monopolising the Governor,

Pursued Duncan,

Presently,

With a rueful smile.

I shall feel no end in the way for a while,

I'm afraid.

Of course,

I didn't think Dad would always keep his serious eyes met,

Harriet's,

Always keep my mother's place empty,

But this came rather suddenly,

Just the same.

Had your father written you,

Said Harriet,

Confused between fear of saying the wrong thing and dread of a long silence?

Oh yes,

Duncan attempted an indifferent tone.

He had written me in August about meeting Miss Charteris and her little brother in Rome,

You know,

And how much he liked her.

Her brother was an invalid and died shortly after,

And then Dad met her again in Paris,

Quite alone,

And they were married immediately.

He fell silent.

Presently,

Harriet said,

Daringly,

She's clever,

She's gifted,

Isn't she?

I think you were very bold to say that,

Dear,

Said Mrs Van Winkle,

When Harriet repeated this conversation some hours later in the family circle.

Oh Aunt Minnie,

I had to,

To see what he'd say.

And what did he say,

Asked Harriet's mother.

He looked at me gravely,

You know,

Until I was ashamed of myself,

The girl confessed,

And then he said,

Why,

Hat,

You must know that Mrs Copperhead was a professional actress.

And a very obscure little actress at that,

Finished Mrs Culver,

Nodding.

Pacific Coast Stock Companies or something like that,

Said Harriet.

Well,

And then,

After a minute,

He said,

So sadly,

That's what hurts,

Although I hate myself for letting it make a difference.

Duncan said that?

Mrs Van Winkle was incredulous.

Poor boy,

With one Aunt Mrs Vincent Hunter and the other an English Duchess,

The Copperheads have always been among Boston's best families.

It's terrible,

Said Mrs Culver.

Well I think it is,

The girl agreed,

Warmly,

Judge Clyde Potter's grandson,

And brought up with the very nicest people,

And sensitive as he is,

I think it's just too bad it should happen to Duncan.

There's no doubt she was an actress,

I suppose,

Emily.

Well,

Said Harriet's mother,

It's not denied,

She shrugged eloquently.

Shall you call,

Mother?

Oh,

I shall have to,

Once,

I suppose.

The Copperheads,

You know,

Everyone will call on her,

For Carey's sake,

Said Mrs Culver,

Sighing.

And everyone duly called on Mrs Carey Copperhead,

When she returned to Boston,

And although she made her mourning an excuse for declining all formal engagements,

She sent out cards for an at-home on a Friday in January.

She was a thin,

Graceful woman,

With the blue-black Irish eyes that are set in with a sooty finger,

And an unexpectedly rich,

Deep voice.

Her quiet,

Almost diffident manner was obviously accentuated just now by her recent sorrow,

But this didn't conceal from her husband's friends the fact that the second Mrs Copperhead was not of their world.

Everything charming she might be,

But to the manner born,

She was not.

They would not meet her on her own ground,

She could not meet them on theirs.

In her own home,

She listened,

Like a puzzled,

Silenced child,

To the gay chatter that went on about her.

Duncan stood with his father at his stepmother's side on her afternoon at home,

Prompting her when names or faces confused her,

Treating her with a little air of gracious intimacy,

Eminently becoming and charming under the circumstances.

His tact stood between her and more than one blunder,

And it was to be noticed that she relied on him even more than upon his father.

Carey Copperhead,

Indeed,

Hitherto staid and serious,

Was quite transformed by his joy and pride in her,

And would not have seen a thousand blunders on her part.

The consensus of opinion among his friends was that Carey was really a little absurd,

Don't you know,

And that Mrs.

Carey was quite deliciously odd,

And that Duncan was too wonderful.

Poor dear boy.

Mrs.

Copperhead would have agreed that her stepson was wonderful,

But with quite a literal meaning.

She found him a real cause for wonder,

This poised,

Handsome boy of nineteen,

With his tailor and his tutor and his groom,

And the heavy social responsibilities that bored him so heartily.

With the honesty of a naturally brilliant mind,

Cultivated by hard experience and much solitary reading,

She was quite ready to admit that her marriage had placed her in a new and confusing environment.

She wanted only to adapt herself,

To learn the strange laws by which it was controlled,

And she would naturally have turned quite simply to Duncan for help.

But Duncan was very gently,

Very coldly repelled by her.

He was representative of his generation.

Things were not learned by the best people,

They were instinctively known.

The girls at Duncan knew,

The very children in their nurseries,

Never hesitated over the wording of a note of thanks,

Never innocently omitted the tipping of a servant,

Never asked their maids advice as to suitable frocks and gloves for certain occasions.

All these things,

And a thousand more,

His stepmother did,

To his cold embarrassment and annoyance.

The result was unfortunate in two ways.

Mrs.

Copperhead shrank under the unexpressed disapproval into more than her native timidity,

Rightly thinking that his attitude represented that of all her new world,

And Carey,

Who worshipped his young wife,

Perceived at last that Duncan was not championing his stepmother,

And for the first time in his life showed a genuine displeasure with his son.

This was exquisitely painful to Margaret Copperhead.

She knew what father and son had been to each other before her coming.

She knew,

Far better than Carey,

That the boy's adoration of his father was the one vital passion of his life.

Mrs.

Ayers,

The housekeeper,

Sometimes made her heart sick with innocent revelations.

From the day his mother died,

Mrs.

Copperhead,

My dear,

When poor little Master Duncan wasn't but three weeks old,

I don't believe he and his father were separated an hour when they could be together.

Mr.

Copperhead would take that little owl-faced baby downstairs with him when he came in before dinner,

And way into the night they'd be in the library together,

The baby laughing or crowing,

Or asleep on a pillow on the sofa.

Why,

The boy wasn't four when he let the nurse go and carried the child off for a month's fishing in Canada.

And when we first knew that the boy's hip was bad,

Mr.

Copperhead gave up his business,

And for five years in Europe he never let Master Duncan out of his sight.

The games and the books,

I should say the child had a million lead soldiers.

The first thing in the morning it'd be,

Is Dad awake,

Paul,

And he running into the room and at noon coming back from his ride,

Is Dad home?

Wonderful to him,

His father's always been.

That's why I'm afraid he'll never like me,

Margaret was quite simple enough to say wistfully in response.

He never laughs out or chatters,

As Mr.

Copperhead said he used to do.

And after such a conversation,

She would be especially considerate of Duncan,

Find some excuse for going upstairs when she heard the click of his crutch in the hall,

So that he might find his father alone in the library,

Or excuse herself from a theatre trip so they might be together.

Oh,

I'm so glad the Poindexters want us,

She said one night,

Over her letters.

Why,

Said Carrie,

Amused by her ardour,

We can't go.

I know it,

But they're such nice people,

Carrie.

Duncan will be so pleased to have them want me.

Her husband laughed out suddenly,

But a frown followed the laugh.

You're very patient with the boy,

Margaret.

I,

Well,

I've not been very patient lately,

I'm afraid.

He manages to exasperate me so with those grandiose airs that he doesn't seem the same boy at all.

Mrs.

Copperhead came over to take the arm of his chair and put her white fingers on the little furrow between his eyes.

It breaks my heart when you hurt him,

Carrie.

He broods over it so,

And after all,

He's only doing what they all,

All the people he knows would do.

Hmm,

I thought better things of him,

Said his father.

If you go to Yucatan in February,

Carrie,

Margaret said,

He and I'll be here alone,

And then we'll get on much smoother,

You'll see.

I don't know,

He said.

I hate to go this year,

I hate to leave you.

But he went nevertheless for the annual visit to his rubber plantation,

And Margaret and Duncan were left alone in the big house for six weeks.

Duncan took his special pains to be considerate of his stepmother in his father's absence,

And showed her that he felt her comfort to be his first care.

He came and went like a polite,

Unresponsive shadow,

Spending silent evenings with her in the library,

Or acting as an irreproachable and unapproachable escort when escort was needed.

Margaret,

Watching him,

Began to despair of ever gaining his friendship.

Late one wintry afternoon,

The boy came in from a concert,

And was passing the open door of his stepmother's room when she called him.

He found her standing by one of the big windows,

A very girlish figure in her trim walking suit and long furs.

The face she turned to him under her wide hat was rosy from contact with the nipping spring air.

Duncan,

She said,

I've had such a nice invitation from Mrs Gregory.

Duncan's face brightened.

Mrs Jim,

Said he.

No,

Indeed,

Exulted Margaret,

Gaily,

Mrs Clement.

Oh,

I say,

Said Duncan,

Smiling too,

For if young Mrs Jim Gregory's friendship was good,

Old Mrs Clement's was much better.

For the first time,

He sat in Margaret's room and laid aside his crutch.

She's going to take General and Mrs Weatherby up to Snow Hill for three or four days,

Pursued Margaret,

And the Jim Gregory's and Mr Fred Gregory and me.

Won't your father be pleased?

Now,

Duncan,

What clothes do I need?

Oh,

The best you've got,

Said Duncan,

Instantly interested,

And until it was time to dress for dinner,

The two were deep in absorbed consultation.

Duncan was whistling as he went upstairs to dress,

And his stepmother was apparently in high spirits,

But 20 minutes later,

When he found her in the library,

There was a complete change.

Her eyes were worried,

Her whole manner distressed,

And her voice sharp.

She looked up from a telegram as he came in.

I've just had a wire from an old friend in New York,

She said,

And I want you to telephone the answer for me,

Will you,

Duncan?

I've not a moment to spare,

I shall have to leave for New York at the earliest possible minute.

After you've telephoned the wire,

Will you find out about the trains from South Station?

And get my ticket reservation,

Will you?

Or send Paul for them,

Whatever's quickest?

Duncan hardly recognised her.

Her hesitation was gone,

Her diffidence gone.

She didn't even look at him as she spoke.

His scowl passed entirely unnoticed.

He stood,

Coldly,

Disapproving.

I don't really see how you can go,

He began.

Mrs Gregory?

Yes,

Yes,

I know,

She agreed hastily.

I telephoned,

She hadn't come in yet,

So I had to make it a message,

Simply that Mrs Copperhead couldn't manage it tomorrow.

She'll be very angry,

Of course.

Duncan,

Would it save any time to have Paul take this right to the telegraph station?

Surely,

Duncan interrupted in turn,

You're not going to rush off?

Oh,

Surely,

Surely,

Surely I am,

She answered,

Fretted by his tone.

Don't tease me,

Dear boy,

I've had quite enough to worry over.

I.

.

.

She pushed her hair,

Childishly,

Off her face.

I wish devoutly that your father was here.

He always knows in a second what's to be done,

But,

Oh,

Fly with this telegram,

Won't you?

She broke off suddenly.

Duncan went.

The performance of his errand was not reassuring.

The telegram was directed to Philip Penrose at the Colonial Theatre,

And it read,

We'll be with you this evening,

Depend on me,

Heartsick at news,

Margaret.

To be continued.