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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Grain Of Dust + A Novel + +Author: David Graham Phillips + +Release Date: December 15, 2004 [EBook #430] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GRAIN OF DUST *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Keller and David Garcia + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<div class="figure" style="width: 80%;"> +<a name="image-0001" href="images/img-01.jpg"><img src="images/img-01.jpg" width="100%" +alt="'I will teach you to love me,' he cried."></a><br /> +<b>"I will teach you to love me," he cried.</b> +</div> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h1> + THE GRAIN OF DUST +</h1> +<h2> +<i>A NOVEL</i> +</h2> +<h3> +BY DAVID GRAHAM PHILLIPS +</h3> +<h4> +ILLUSTRATED BY A.B. WENZELL +</h4> +<p> </p><p> </p> +<h5> +1911 +</h5> + +<hr> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2>Contents</h2> + +<p style="text-align: center;"> +<a href="#2H_4_0003"> +I +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0004"> +II +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0005"> +III +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0006"> +IV +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0007"> +V +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0008"> +VI +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0009"> +VII +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0010"> +VIII +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0011"> +IX +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0012"> +X +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0013"> +XI +</a> +<br /> +<a href="#2H_4_0014"> +XII +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0015"> +XIII +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0016"> +XIV +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0017"> +XV +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0018"> +XVI +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0019"> +XVII +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0020"> +XVIII +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0021"> +XIX +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0022"> +XX +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0023"> +XXI +</a> + <a href="#2H_4_0024"> +XXII +</a></p> + +<hr /> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS +</h2> + +<p><a href="#image-0001"> +"'I will teach you to love me,' he cried." +</a></p> +<p><a href="#image-0002"> +"'You won't make an out-and-out idiot of yourself, will you Ursula?'" +</a></p> +<p><a href="#image-0003"> +"'Would you like to think I was marrying you for what you have?—or for +any other reason whatever but for what you are?'" +</a></p> +<p><a href="#image-0004"> +"'It has killed me,' he groaned." +</a></p> +<p><a href="#image-0005"> +"She glanced complacently down at her softly glistening shoulders." +</a></p> +<p><a href="#image-0006"> +"'Father ... I have asked you not to interfere between Fred and me.'" +</a></p> +<p><a href="#image-0007"> +"Evidently she had been crying." +</a></p> +<p><a href="#image-0008"> +"At Josephine's right sat a handsome young foreigner." +</a></p> +<p> </p><p> </p> + +<hr> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h1> + THE GRAIN OF DUST +</h1> +<a name="2H_4_0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + I +</h2> +<p> +Into the offices of Lockyer, Sanders, Benchley, Lockyer & Norman, +corporation lawyers, there drifted on a December afternoon a girl in +search of work at stenography and typewriting. The firm was about the +most important and most famous—radical orators often said infamous—in +New York. The girl seemed, at a glance, about as unimportant and obscure +an atom as the city hid in its vast ferment. She was blonde—tawny hair, +fair skin, blue eyes. Aside from this hardly conclusive mark of identity +there was nothing positive, nothing definite, about her. She was neither +tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, neither grave nor gay. She gave +the impression of a young person of the feminine gender—that, and +nothing more. She was plainly dressed, like thousands of other girls, in +darkish blue jacket and skirt and white shirt waist. Her boots and +gloves were neat, her hair simply and well arranged. Perhaps in these +respects—in neatness and taste—she did excel the average, which is +depressingly low. But in a city where more or less strikingly pretty +women, bent upon being seen, are as plentiful as the blackberries of +Kentucky's July—in New York no one would have given her a second look, +this quiet young woman screened in an atmosphere of self-effacement. +</p> +<p> +She applied to the head clerk. It so happened that need for another +typewriter had just arisen. She got a trial, showed enough skill to +warrant the modest wage of ten dollars a week; she became part of the +office force of twenty or twenty-five young men and women similarly +employed. As her lack of skill was compensated by industry and +regularity, she would have a job so long as business did not slacken. +When it did, she would be among the first to be let go. She shrank into +her obscure niche in the great firm, came and went in mouse-like +fashion, said little, obtruded herself never, was all but forgotten. +</p> +<p> +Nothing could have been more commonplace, more trivial than the whole +incident. The name of the girl was Hallowell—Miss Hallowell. On the +chief clerk's pay roll appeared the additional information that her +first name was Dorothea. The head office boy, in one of his occasional +spells of "freshness," addressed her as Miss Dottie. She looked at him +with a puzzled expression; it presently changed to a slight, sweet +smile, and she went about her business. There was no rebuke in her +manner, she was far too self-effacing for anything so positive as the +mildest rebuke. But the head office boy blushed awkwardly—why he did +not know and could not discover, though he often cogitated upon it. She +remained Miss Hallowell. +</p> +<p> +Opposites suggest each other. The dimmest personality in those offices +was the girl whose name imaged to everyone little more than a pencil, +notebook, and typewriting machine. The vividest personality was +Frederick Norman. In the list of names upon the outer doors of the +firm's vast labyrinthine suite, on the seventeenth floor of the +Syndicate Building, his name came last—and, in the newest lettering, +suggesting recentness of partnership. In age he was the youngest of the +partners. Lockyer was archaic, Sanders an antique; Benchley, actually +only about fifty-five, had the air of one born in the grandfather class. +Lockyer the son dyed his hair and affected jauntiness, but was in fact +not many years younger than Benchley and had the stiffening jerky legs +of one paying for a lively youth. Norman was thirty-seven—at the age +the Greeks extolled as divine because it means all the best of youth +combined with all the best of manhood. Some people thought Norman +younger, almost boyish. Those knew him uptown only, where he hid the man +of affairs beneath the man of the world-that-amuses-itself. Some people +thought he looked, and was, older than the age with which the +biographical notices credited him. They knew him down town only—where +he dominated by sheer force of intellect and will. +</p> +<p> +As has been said, the firm ranked among the greatest in New York. It was +a trusted counselor in large affairs—commercial, financial, +political—in all parts of America, in all parts of the globe, for many +of its clients were international traffickers. Yet this young man, this +youngest and most recent of the partners, had within the month forced a +reorganization of the firm—or, rather, of its profits—on a basis that +gave him no less than one half of the whole. +</p> +<p> +His demand threw his four associates into paroxysms of rage and +fear—the fear serving as a wholesome antidote to the rage. +</p> +<p> +It certainly was infuriating that a youth, admitted to partnership +barely three years ago, should thus maltreat his associates. Ingrate was +precisely the epithet for him. At least, so they honestly thought, after +the quaint human fashion; for, because they had given him the +partnership, they looked on themselves as his benefactors, and neglected +as unimportant detail the sole and entirely selfish reason for their +graciousness. But enraged though these worthy gentlemen were, and +eagerly though they longed to treat the "conceited and grasping upstart" +as he richly deserved, they accepted his ultimatum. Even the venerable +and venerated Lockyer—than whom a more convinced self-deceiver on the +subject of his own virtues never wore white whiskers, black garments, +and the other badges of eminent respectability—even old Joseph Lockyer +could not twist the acceptance into another manifestation of the +benevolence of himself and his associates. They had to stare the +grimacing truth straight in the face; they were yielding because they +dared not refuse. To refuse would mean the departure of Norman with the +firm's most profitable business. It costs heavily to live in New York; +the families of successful men are extravagant; so conduct unbecoming a +gentleman may not there be resented if to resent is to cut down one's +income. The time was, as the dignified and nicely honorable Sanders +observed, when these and many similar low standards did not prevail in +the legal profession. But such is the frailty of human nature—or so +savage the pressure of the need of the material necessities of civilized +life, let a profession become profitable or develop possibilities of +profit—even the profession of statesman, even that of lawyer—or +doctor—or priest—or wife—and straightway it begins to tumble down +toward the brawl and stew of the market place. +</p> +<p> +In a last effort to rouse the gentleman in Norman or to shame him into +pretense of gentlemanliness, Lockyer expostulated with him like a +prophet priest in full panoply of saintly virtue. And Lockyer was +passing good at that exalted gesture. He was a Websterian figure, with +the venality of the great Daniel in all its pompous dignity +modernized—and correspondingly expanded. He abounded in those idealist +sonorosities that are the stock-in-trade of all solemn old-fashioned +frauds. The young man listened with his wonted attentive courtesy until +the dolorous appeal disguised as fatherly counsel came to an end. Then +in his blue-gray eyes appeared the gleam that revealed the tenacity and +the penetration of his mind. He said: +</p> +<p> +"Mr. Lockyer, you have been absent six years—except an occasional two +or three weeks—absent as American Ambassador to France. You have done +nothing for the firm in that time. Yet you have not scorned to take +profits you did not earn. Why should I scorn to take profits I do earn?" +</p> +<p> +Mr. Lockyer shook his picturesque head in sad remonstrance at this +vulgar, coarse, but latterly frequent retort of insurgent democracy upon +indignant aristocracy. But he answered nothing. +</p> +<p> +"Also," proceeded the graceless youth in the clear and concise way that +won the instant attention of juries and Judges, "also, our profession is +no longer a profession but a business." His humorous eyes twinkled +merrily. "It divides into two parts—teaching capitalists how to loot +without being caught, and teaching them how to get off if by chance they +have been caught. There are other branches of the profession, but +they're not lucrative, so we do not practice them. Do I make myself +clear?" +</p> +<p> +Mr. Lockyer again shook his head and sighed. +</p> +<p> +"I am not an Utopian," continued young Norman. "Law and custom +permit—not to say sanctify—our sort of business. So—I do my best. But +I shall not conceal from you that it's distasteful to me. I wish to get +out of it. I shall get out as soon as I've made enough capital to assure +me the income I have and need. Naturally, I wish to gather in the +necessary amount as speedily as possible." +</p> +<p> +"Fred, my boy, I regret that you take such low views of our noble +profession." +</p> +<p> +"Yes—as a profession it is noble. But not as a practice. <i>My</i> +regret is that it invites and compels such low views." +</p> +<p> +"You will look at these things more—more mellowly when you are older." +</p> +<p> +"I doubt if I'll ever rise very high in the art of self-deception," +replied Norman. "If I'd had any bent that way I'd not have got so far so +quickly." +</p> +<p> +It was a boastful remark—of a kind he, and other similar young men, +have the habit of making. But from him it did not sound boastful—simply +a frank and timely expression of an indisputable truth, which indeed it +was. Once more Mr. Lockyer sighed. "I see you are incorrigible," said +he. +</p> +<p> +"I have not acted without reflection," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +And Lockyer knew that to persist was simply to endanger his dignity. "I +am getting old," said he. "Indeed, I am old. I have gotten into the +habit of leaning on you, my boy. I can't consent to your going, hard +though you make it for us to keep you. I shall try to persuade our +colleagues to accept your terms." +</p> +<p> +Norman showed neither appreciation nor triumph. He merely bowed +slightly. And so the matter was settled. Instead of moving into the +suite of offices in the Mills Building on which he had taken an option, +young Norman remained where he had been toiling for twelve years. +</p> +<p> +After this specimen of Norman's quality, no one will be surprised to +learn that in figure he was one of those solidly built men of medium +height who look as if they were made to sustain and to deliver shocks, +to bear up easily under heavy burdens; or that his head thickly covered +with fairish hair, was hatchet-shaped with the helve or face suggesting +that while it could and would cleave any obstacle, it would wear a merry +if somewhat sardonic smile the while. No one had ever seen Norman angry, +though a few persevering offenders against what he regarded as his +rights had felt the results of swift and powerful action of the same +sort that is usually accompanied—and weakened—by outward show of +anger. Invariably good-humored, he was soon seen to be more dangerous +than the men of flaring temper. In most instances good humor of thus +unbreakable species issues from weakness, from a desire to +conciliate—usually with a view to plucking the more easily. Norman's +good humor arose from a sense of absolute security which in turn was the +product of confidence in himself and amiable disdain for his fellow men. +The masses he held in derision for permitting the classes to rule and +rob and spit upon them. The classes he scorned for caring to occupy +themselves with so cheap and sordid a game as the ruling, robbing, and +spitting aforesaid. Coming down to the specific, he despised men as +individuals because he had always found in each and everyone of them a +weakness that made it easy for him to use them as he pleased. +</p> +<p> +Not an altogether pleasant character, this. But not so unpleasant as it +may seem to those unable impartially to analyze human character, even +their own—especially their own. And let anyone who is disposed to +condemn Norman first look within himself—in some less hypocritical and +self-deceiving moment, if he have such moments—and let him note what +are the qualities he relies upon and uses in his own struggle to save +himself from being submerged and sunk. Further, there were in Norman +many agreeable qualities, important, but less fundamental, therefore +less deep-hidden—therefore generally regarded as the real man and as +the cause of his success in which they in fact had almost no part. He +was, for example, of striking physical appearance, was attractively +dressed and mannered, was prodigally generous. Neither as lawyer nor as +man did he practice justice. But while as lawyer he practiced injustice, +as man he practiced mercy. Whenever a weakling appealed to him for +protection, he gave it—at times with splendid recklessness as to the +cost to himself in antagonisms and enmities. Indeed, so great were the +generosities of his character that, had he not been arrogant, +disdainful, self-confident, resolutely and single-heartedly ambitious, +he must inevitably have ruined himself—if he had ever been able to rise +high enough to be worthy the dignity of catastrophe. +</p> +<p> +Successful men are usually trying persons to know well. Lambs, asses, +and chickens do not associate happily with lions, wolves, and hawks—nor +do birds and beasts of prey get on well with one another. Norman was +regarded as "difficult" by his friends—by those of them who happened to +get into the path of his ambition, in front of instead of behind him, +and by those who fell into the not unnatural error of misunderstanding +his good nature and presuming upon it. His clients regarded him as +insolent. The big businesses, seeking the rich spoils of commerce, +frequent highly perilous waters. They need skillful pilots. Usually +these lawyer-pilots "know their place" and put on no airs upon the +quarter-deck while they are temporarily in command. Not so Norman. He +took the full rank, authority—and emoluments—of commander. And as his +power, fame, and income were swiftly growing, it is fair to assume that +he knew what he was about. +</p> +<p> +He was admired—extravagantly admired—by young men with not too broad a +vein of envy. He was no woman hater—anything but that. Indeed, those +who wished him ill had from time to time hoped to see him tumble down, +through miscalculation in some of his audacities with women. No—he did +not hate women. But there were several women who hated him—or tried to; +and if wounded vanity and baffled machination be admitted as just causes +for hatred, they had cause. He liked—but he did not wholly trust. When +he went to sleep, it was not where Delilah could wield the shears. A +most irritating prudence—irritating to friends and intimates of all +degrees and kinds, in a race of beings with a mania for being trusted +implicitly but with no balancing mania for deserving trust of the +implicit variety. +</p> +<p> +And he ate hugely—and whatever he pleased. He could drink beyond +belief, all sorts of things, with no apparent ill effect upon either +body or brain. He had all the appetites developed abnormally, and +abnormal capacity for gratifying them. Where there was one man who +envied him his eminence, there were a dozen who envied him his physical +capacities. We cannot live and act without doing mischief, as well as +that which most of us would rather do, provided that in the doing we are +not ourselves undone. Probably in no direction did Norman do so much +mischief as in unconsciously leading men of his sets down town and up to +imitate his colossal dissipations—which were not dissipation for him +who was abnormal. +</p> +<p> +Withal, he was a monster for work. There is not much truth in men's +unending talk of how hard they work or are worked. The ravages from +their indulgences in smoking, drinking, gallantry, eating too much and +too fast and too often, have to be explained away creditably, to +themselves and to others—notably to the wives or mothers who nurse them +and suffer from their diminishing incomes. Hence the wailing about work. +But once in a while a real worker appears—a man with enormous ingenuity +at devising difficult tasks for himself and with enormous persistence in +doing them. Frederick Norman was one of these blue-moon prodigies. +</p> +<p> +Obviously, such a man could not but be observed and talked about. +Endless stories, some of them more or less true, most of them +apocryphal, were told of him—stories of his shrewd, unexpected moves +in big cases, of his witty retorts, of his generosities, of his +peculiarities of dress, of eating and drinking; stories of his +adventures with women. Whatever he did, however trivial, took color and +charm from his personality, so easy yet so difficult, so simple yet so +complex, so baffling. Was he wholly selfish? Was he a friend to almost +anybody or to nobody? Did he ever love? No one knew, not even himself, +for life interested him too intensely and too incessantly to leave him +time for self-analysis. One thing he was certain of; he hated nobody, +envied nobody. He was too successful for that. +</p> +<p> +He did as he pleased. And, on the whole, he pleased to do far less +inconsiderately than his desires, his abilities, and his opportunities +tempted. Have not men been acclaimed good for less? +</p> +<p> +In the offices, where he was canvased daily by partners, clerks, +everyone down to the cleaners whose labors he so often delayed, opinion +varied from day to day. They worshiped him; they hated him. They loved +him; they feared him. They regarded him as more than human, as less than +human; but never as just human—though always as endowed with fine human +virtues and even finer human weaknesses. Miss Tillotson, next to the +head clerk in rank and pay—and a pretty and pushing young +person—dreamed of getting acquainted with him—really well acquainted. +It was a vain dream. For him, between up town and down town a great gulf +was fixed. Also, he had no interest in or ammunition for sparrows. +</p> +<p> +It was in December that Miss Hallowell—Miss Dorothea Hallowell—got her +temporary place at ten dollars a week—that obscure event, somewhat like +a field mouse taking quarters in a horizon-bounded grain field. It was +not until mid-February that she, the palest of personalities, came into +direct contact with Norman, about the most refulgent. This is how it +happened. +</p> +<p> +Late in that February afternoon, an hour or more after the last of the +office force should have left, Norman threw open the door of his private +office and glanced round at the rows on rows of desks. The lights in the +big room were on, apparently only because he was still within. With an +exclamation of disappointment he turned to re-enter his office. He heard +the click of typewriter keys. Again he looked round, but could see no +one. +</p> +<p> +"Isn't there some one here?" he cried. "Don't I hear a typewriter?" +</p> +<p> +The noise stopped. There was a slight rustling from a far corner, beyond +his view, and presently he saw advancing a slim and shrinking slip of a +girl with a face that impressed him only as small and insignificant. In +a quiet little voice she said, "Yes, sir. Do you wish anything?" +</p> +<p> +"Why, what are you doing here?" he asked. "I don't think I've ever seen +you before." +</p> +<p> +"Yes. I took dictation from you several times," replied she. +</p> +<p> +He was instantly afraid he might have hurt her feelings, and he, who in +the days when he was far, far less than now, had often suffered from +that commonplace form of brutality, was most careful not to commit it. +"I never know what's going on round me when I'm thinking," explained he, +though he was saying to himself that the next time he would probably +again be unable to remember one with nothing distinctive to fix +identity. "You are—Miss——?" +</p> +<p> +"Miss Hallowell." +</p> +<p> +"How do you happen to be here? I've given particular instructions that +no one is ever to be detained after hours." +</p> +<p> +A little color appeared in the pale, small face—and now he saw that she +had a singularly fair and smooth skin, singularly beautiful—and he +wondered why he had not noticed it before. Being a close observer, he +had long ago noted and learned to appreciate the wonders of that most +amazing of tissues, the human skin; and he had come to be a connoisseur. +"I'm staying of my own accord," said she. +</p> +<p> +"They ought not to give you so much work," said he. "I'll speak about +it." +</p> +<p> +Into the small face came the look of the frightened child—a fascinating +look. And suddenly he saw that she had lovely eyes, clear, expressive, +innocent. "Please don't," she pleaded, in the gentle quiet voice. "It +isn't overwork. I did a brief so badly that I was ashamed to hand it in. +I'm doing it again." +</p> +<p> +He laughed, and a fine frank laugh he had when he was in the mood. At +once a smile lighted up her face, danced in her eyes, hovered +bewitchingly about her lips—and he wondered why he had not at first +glance noted how sweet and charmingly fresh her mouth was. "Why, she's +beautiful," he said to himself, the manly man's inevitable interest in +feminine charm wide awake. "Really beautiful. If she had a figure—and +were tall—" As he thought thus, he glanced at her figure. A figure? +Tall? She certainly was tall—no, she wasn't—yes, she was. No, not tall +from head to foot, but with the most captivating long lines—long +throat, long bust, long arms, long in body and in legs—long and +slender—yet somehow not tall. He—all this took but an +instant—returned his glance to her face. He was startled. The beauty +had fled, leaving not a trace behind. Before him wavered once more a +small insignificance. Even her skin now seemed commonplace. +</p> +<p> +She was saying, "Did you wish me to do something?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes—a letter. Come in," he said abruptly. +</p> +<p> +Once more the business in hand took possession of his mind. He became +unconscious of her presence. He dictated slowly, carefully choosing his +words, for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Then he stopped and paced up +and down, revolving a new idea, a new phase of the business, that had +flashed upon him. When he had his thoughts once more in form he turned +toward the girl, the mere machine. He gazed at her in amazement. When he +had last looked, he had seen an uninteresting nonentity. But that was +not this person, seated before him in the same garments and with the +same general blondness. That person had been a girl. This time the +transformation was not into the sweet innocence of lovely childhood, but +into something incredibly different. He was gazing now at a woman, a +beautiful world-weary woman, one who had known the joys and then the +sorrows of life and love. Heavy were the lids of the large eyes gazing +mournfully into infinity—gazing upon the graves of a life, the long, +long vista of buried joys. Never had he seen anything so sad or so +lovely as her mouth. The soft, smooth skin was not merely pale; its +pallor was that of wakeful nights, of weeping until there were no more +tears to drain away. +</p> +<p> +"Miss Hallowell—" he began. +</p> +<p> +She startled; and like the flight of an interrupted dream, the woman he +had been seeing vanished. There sat the commonplace young person he had +first seen. He said to himself: "I must be a little off my base +to-night," and went on with the dictation. When he finished she withdrew +to transcribe the letter on the typewriter. He seated himself at his +desk and plunged into the masses of documents. He lost the sense of his +surroundings until she stood beside him holding the typewritten pages. +He did not glance up, but seized the sheets to read and sign. +</p> +<p> +"You may go," said he. "I am very much obliged to you." And he +contrived, as always, to put a suggestion of genuineness into the +customary phrase. +</p> +<p> +"I'm afraid it's not good work," said she. "I'll wait to see if I am to +do any of it over." +</p> +<p> +"No, thank you," said he. And he looked up—to find himself gazing at +still another person, wholly different from any he had seen before. The +others had all been women—womanly women, full of the weakness, the +delicateness rather, that distinguishes the feminine. This woman he was +looking at now had a look of strength. He had thought her frail. He was +seeing a strong woman—a splendidly healthy body, with sinews of steel +most gracefully covered by that fair smooth skin of hers. And her +features, too—why, this girl was a person of character, of will. +</p> +<p> +He glanced through the pages. "All right—thank you," he said hastily. +"Please don't stay any longer. Leave the other thing till to-morrow." +</p> +<p> +"No—it has to be done to-night." +</p> +<p> +"But I insist upon your going." +</p> +<p> +She hesitated, said quietly, "Very well," and turned to go. +</p> +<p> +"And you mustn't do it at home, either." +</p> +<p> +She made no reply, but waited respectfully until it was evident he +wished to say no more, then went out. He bundled together his papers, +sealed and stamped and addressed his letter, put on his overcoat and hat +and crossed the outer office on his way to the door. It was empty; she +was gone. He descended in the elevator to the street, remembered that he +had not locked one of his private cases, returned. As he opened the +outer door he heard the sound of typewriter keys. In the corner, the +obscure, sheltered corner, sat the girl, bent with childlike gravity +over her typewriter. It was an amusing and a touching sight—she looked +so young and so solemnly in earnest. +</p> +<p> +"Didn't I tell you to go home?" he called out, with mock sternness. +</p> +<p> +Up she sprang, her hand upon her heart. And once more she was beautiful, +but once more it was in a way startlingly, unbelievably different from +any expression he had seen before. +</p> +<p> +"Now, really. Miss—" He had forgotten her name. "You must not stay on +here. We aren't such slave drivers as all that. Go home, please. I'll +take the responsibility." +</p> +<p> +She had recovered her equanimity. In her quiet, gentle voice—but it no +longer sounded weak or insignificant—she said, "You are very kind, Mr. +Norman. But I must finish my work." +</p> +<p> +"Haven't I said I'd take the blame?" +</p> +<p> +"But you can't," replied she. "I work badly. I seem to learn slowly. If +I fall behind, I shall lose my place—sooner or later. It was that way +with the last place I had. If you interfered, you'd only injure me. I've +had experience. And—I must not lose my place." +</p> +<p> +One of the scrub women thrust her mussy head and ragged, shapeless body +in at the door. With a start Norman awoke to the absurdity of his +situation—and to the fact that he was placing the girl in a +compromising position. He shrugged his shoulders, went in and locked the +cabinet, departed. +</p> +<p> +"What a queer little insignificance she is!" thought he, and dismissed +her from mind. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + II +</h2> +<p> +Many and fantastic are the illusions the human animal, in its ignorance +and its optimism, devises to change life from a pleasant journey along a +plain road into a fumbling and stumbling and struggling about in a fog. +Of these hallucinations the most grotesque is that the weak can come +together, can pass a law to curb the strong, can set one of their number +to enforce it, may then disperse with no occasion further to trouble +about the strong. Every line of every page of history tells how the +strong—the nimble-witted, the farsighted, the ambitious—have worked +their will upon their feebler and less purposeful fellow men, regardless +of any and all precautions to the contrary. Conditions have improved +only because the number of the strong has increased. With so many lions +at war with each other not a few rabbits contrive to avoid perishing in +the nest. +</p> +<p> +Norman's genius lay in ability to take away from an adversary the legal +weapons implicitly relied upon and to arm his client with them. No man +understood better than he the abysmal distinction between law and +justice; no man knew better than he how to compel—or to assist—courts +to apply the law, so just in the general, to promoting injustice in the +particular. And whenever he permitted conscience a voice in his internal +debates—it was not often—he heard from it its usual servile +approbation: How can the reign of justice be more speedily brought about +than by making the reign of law—lawyer law—intolerable? +</p> +<p> +About a fortnight after the trifling incident related in the previous +chapter, Norman had to devise a secret agreement among several of the +most eminent of his clients. They wished to band together, to do a thing +expressly forbidden by the law; they wished to conspire to lower wages +and raise prices in several railway systems under their control. But +none would trust the others; so there must be something in writing, laid +away in a secret safety deposit box along with sundry bundles of +securities put up as forfeit, all in the custody of Norman. When he had +worked out in his mind and in fragmentary notes the details of their +agreement, he was ready for some one to do the clerical work. The some +one must be absolutely trustworthy, as the plain language of the +agreement would make clear to the dullest mind dazzling opportunities +for profit—not only in stock jobbing but also in blackmail. He rang for +Tetlow, the head clerk. Tetlow—smooth and sly and smug, lacking only +courageous initiative to make him a great lawyer, but, lacking that, +lacking all—Tetlow entered and closed the door behind him. +</p> +<p> +Norman leaned back in his desk chair and laced his fingers behind his +head. "One of your typewriters is a slight blonde girl—sits in the +corner to the far left—if she's still here." +</p> +<p> +"Miss Hallowell," said Tetlow. "We are letting her go at the end of this +week. She's nice and ladylike, and willing—in fact, most anxious to +please. But the work's too difficult for her. She's rather—rather—well, +not exactly stupid, but slow." +</p> +<p> +"Um," said Norman reflectively. "There's Miss Bostwick—perhaps she'll +do." +</p> +<p> +"Miss Bostwick got married last week." +</p> +<p> +Norman smiled. He remembered the girl because she was the oldest and +homeliest in the office. "There's somebody for everybody—eh, Tetlow?" +</p> +<p> +"He was a lighthouse keeper," said Tetlow. "There's a story that he +advertised for a wife. But that may be a joke." +</p> +<p> +"Why not that Miss—Miss Halloway?" mused Norman. +</p> +<p> +"Miss Hallowell," corrected Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"Hallowell—yes. Is she—<i>very</i> incompetent? +</p> +<p> +"Not exactly that. But business is slackening—and she's been only +temporary—and——" +</p> +<p> +Norman cut him off with, "Send her in." +</p> +<p> +"You don't wish her dismissed? I haven't told her yet." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I'm not interfering in your department. Do as you like. . . . +No—in this case—let her stay on for the present." +</p> +<p> +"I can use her," said Tetlow. "And she gets only ten a week." +</p> +<p> +Norman frowned. He did not like to <i>hear</i> that an establishment in which +he had control paid less than decent living wages—even if the market +price did excuse—yes, compel it. "Send her in," he repeated. Then, as +Tetlow was about to leave, "She is trustworthy?" +</p> +<p> +"All our force is. I see to that, Mr. Norman." +</p> +<p> +"Has she a young man—steady company, I think they call it?" +</p> +<p> +"She has no friends at all. She's extremely shy—at least, reserved. +Lives with her father, an old crank of an analytical chemist over in +Jersey City. She hasn't even a lady friend." +</p> +<p> +"Well, send her in." +</p> +<p> +A moment later Norman, looking up from his work, saw the dim slim +nonentity before him. Again he leaned back and, as he talked with her, +studied her face to make sure that his first judgment was correct. "Do +you stay late every night?" asked he smilingly. +</p> +<p> +She colored a little, but enough to bring out the exquisite fineness of +her white skin. "Oh, I don't mind," said she, and there was no +embarrassment in her manner. "I've got to learn—and doing things over +helps." +</p> +<p> +"Nothing equal to it," declared Norman. "You've been to school?" +</p> +<p> +"Only six weeks," confessed she. "I couldn't afford to stay longer." +</p> +<p> +"I mean the other sort of school—not the typewriting." +</p> +<p> +"Oh! Yes," said she. And once more he saw that extraordinary +transformation. She became all in an instant delicately, deliciously +lovely, with the moving, in a way pathetic loveliness of sweet children +and sweet flowers. Her look was mystery; but not a mystery of guile. She +evidently did not wish to have her past brought to view; but it was +equally apparent that behind it lay hid nothing shameful, only the sad, +perhaps the painful. Of all the periods of life youth is the best fitted +to bear deep sorrows, for then the spirit has its full measure of +elasticity. Yet a shadow upon youth is always more moving than the +shadows of maturer years—those shadows that do not lie upon the surface +but are heavy and corroding stains. When Norman saw this shadow upon her +youth, so immature-looking, so helpless-looking, he felt the first +impulse of genuine interest in her. Perhaps, had that shadow happened to +fall when he was seeing her as the commonplace and colorless little +struggler for bread, and seeming doomed speedily to be worsted in the +struggle—perhaps, he would have felt no interest, but only the brief +qualm of pity that we dare not encourage in ourselves, on a journey so +beset with hopeless pitiful things as is the journey through life. +</p> +<p> +But he had no impulse to question her. And with some surprise he noted +that his reason for refraining was not the usual reason—unwillingness +uselessly to add to one's own burdens by inviting the mournful +confidences of another. No, he checked himself because in the manner of +this frail and mouselike creature, dim though she once more was, there +appeared a dignity, a reserve, that made intrusion curiously impossible. +With an apologetic note in his voice—a kind and friendly voice—he +said: +</p> +<p> +"Please have your typewriter brought in here. I want you to do some work +for me—work that isn't to be spoken of—not even to Mr. Tetlow." He +looked at her with grave penetrating eyes. "You will not speak of it?" +</p> +<p> +"No," replied she, and nothing more. But she accompanied the simple +negative with a clear and honest sincerity of the eyes that set his mind +completely at rest. He felt that this girl had never in her life told a +real lie. +</p> +<p> +One of the office boys installed the typewriter, and presently Norman +and the quiet nebulous girl at whom no one would trouble to look a +second time were seated opposite each other with the broad table desk +between, he leaning far back in his desk chair, fingers interlocked +behind his proud, strong-looking head, she holding sharpened pencil +suspended over the stenographic notebook. Long before she seated herself +he had forgotten her except as machine. There followed a troubled hour, +as he dictated, ordered erasure, redictated, ordered re-readings, +skipped back and forth, in the effort to frame the secret agreement in +the fewest and simplest, and least startlingly unlawful, words. At last +he leaned forward with the shine of triumph in his eyes. +</p> +<p> +"Read straight through," he commanded. +</p> +<p> +She read, interrupted occasionally by a sharp order from him to correct +some mistake in her notes. +</p> +<p> +"Again," he commanded, when she translated the last of her notes. +</p> +<p> +This time she was not interrupted once. When she ended, he exclaimed: +"Good! I don't see how you did it so well." +</p> +<p> +"Nor do I," said she. +</p> +<p> +"You say you are only a beginner." +</p> +<p> +"I couldn't have done it so well for anyone else," said she. "You +are—different." +</p> +<p> +The remark was worded most flatteringly, but it did not sound so. He saw +that she did not herself understand what she meant by "different." <i>He</i> +understood, for he knew the difference between the confused and +confusing ordinary minds and such an intelligence as his own—simple, +luminous, enlightening all minds, however dark, so long as they were in +the light-flooded region around it. +</p> +<p> +"Have I made the meaning clear?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +He hoped she would reply that he had not, though this would have +indicated a partial defeat in the object he had—to put the complex +thing so plainly that no one could fail to understand. But she answered, +"Yes." +</p> +<p> +He congratulated himself that his overestimate of her ignorance of +affairs had not lured him into giving her the names of the parties at +interest to transcribe. But did she really understand? To test her, he +said: +</p> +<p> +"What do you think of it?" +</p> +<p> +"That it's wicked," replied she, without hesitation and in her small, +quiet voice. +</p> +<p> +He laughed. In a way this girl, sitting there—this inconsequential and +negligible atom—typefied the masses of mankind against whom that secret +agreement was directed. They, the feeble and powerless ones, with their +necks ever bent under the yoke of the mighty and their feet ever +stumbling into the traps of the crafty—they, too, would utter an +impotent "Wicked!" if they knew. His voice had the note of gentle +raillery in it as he said: +</p> +<p> +"No—not wicked. Just business." +</p> +<p> +She was looking down at her book, her face expressionless. A few moments +before he would have said it was an empty face. Now it seemed to him +sphynxlike. +</p> +<p> +"Just business," he repeated. "It is going to take money from those who +don't know how to keep or to spend it and give it to those who do know +how. The money will go for building up civilization, instead of for beer +and for bargain-trough finery to make working men's wives and daughters +look cheap and nasty." +</p> +<p> +She was silent. +</p> +<p> +"Now, do you understand?" +</p> +<p> +"I understand what you said." She looked at him as she spoke. He +wondered how he could have fancied those lack-luster eyes beautiful or +capable of expression. +</p> +<p> +"You don't believe it?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +"No," said she. And suddenly in those eyes, gazing now into space, there +came the unutterably melancholy look—heavy-lidded from heartache, +weary-wise from long, long and bitter, experiences. Yet she still looked +young—girlishly young—but it was the youthful look the classic Greek +sculptors tried to give their young goddesses—the youth without +beginning or end—younger than a baby's, older than the oldest of the +sons of men. He mocked himself for the fancies this queer creature +inspired in him; but she none the less made him uneasy. +</p> +<p> +"You don't believe it?" he repeated. +</p> +<p> +"No," she answered again. "My father has taught me—some things." +</p> +<p> +He drummed impatiently on the table. He resented her impertinence—for, +like all men of clear and positive mind, he regarded contradiction as in +one aspect impudent, in another aspect evidence of the folly of his +contradictor. Then he gave a short laugh—the confessing laugh of the +clever man who has tried to believe his own sophistries and has failed. +"Well—neither do I believe it," said he. "Now, to get the thing +typewritten." +</p> +<p> +She seated herself at the machine and set to work. As his mind was full +of the agreement he could not concentrate on anything else. From time to +time he glanced at her. Then he gave up trying to work and sat furtively +observing her. What a quaint little mystery it was! There was in +it—that is, in her—not the least charm for him. But, in all his +experience with women, he could recall no woman with a comparable +development of this curious quality of multiple personalities, showing +and vanishing in swift succession. +</p> +<p> +There had been a time when woman had interested him as a puzzle to be +worked out, a maze to be explored, a temple to be penetrated—until one +reached the place where the priests manipulated the machinery for the +wonders and miracles to fool the devotees into awe. Some men never get +to this stage, never realize that their own passions, working upon the +universal human love of the mysterious, are wholly responsible for the +cult of woman the sphynx and the sibyl. But Norman, beloved of women, +had been let by them into their ultimate secret—the simple humanness of +woman; the clap-trappery of the oracles, miracles, and wonders. He had +discovered that her "divine intuitions" were mere shrewd guesses, where +they had any meaning at all; that her eloquent silences were screens for +ignorance or boredom—and so on through the list of legends that prop +the feminist cult. +</p> +<p> +But this girl—this Miss Hallowell—here was a tangible mystery—a +mystery of physics, of chemistry. He sat watching her—watching the +changes as she bent to her work, or relaxed, or puzzled over the meaning +of one of her own hesitating stenographic hieroglyphics—watched her as +the waning light of the afternoon varied its intensity upon her skin. +Why, her very hair partook of this magical quality and altered its tint, +its degree of vitality even, in harmony with the other changes. . . . What +was the explanation? By means of what rare mechanism did her nerve force +ebb and flow from moment to moment, bringing about these fascinating +surface changes in her body? Could anything, even any skin, be better +made than that superb skin of hers—that master work of delicacy and +strength, of smoothness and color? How had it been possible for him to +fail to notice it, when he was always looking for signs of a good skin +down town—and up town, too—in these days of the ravages of pastry and +candy? . . . What long graceful fingers she had—yet what small hands! +Certainly here was a peculiarity that persisted. No—absurd though it +seemed, no! One way he looked at those hands, they were broad and +strong, another way narrow and gracefully weak. +</p> +<p> +He said to himself: "The man who gets that girl will have Solomon's +wives rolled into one. A harem at the price of a wife—or a—" He left +the thought unfinished. It seemed an insult to this helpless little +creature, the more rather than the less cowardly for being unspoken; +for, no doubt her ideas of propriety were firmly conventional. +</p> +<p> +"About done?" he asked impatiently. +</p> +<p> +She glanced up. "In a moment. I'm sorry to be so slow." +</p> +<p> +"You're not," he assured her truthfully. "It's my impatience. Let me see +the pages you've finished." +</p> +<p> +With them he was able to concentrate his mind. When she laid the last +page beside his arm he was absorbed, did not look at her, did not think +of her. "Take the machine away," said he abruptly. +</p> +<p> +He was leaving for the day when he remembered her again. He sent for +her. "I forgot to thank you. It was good work. You will do well. All you +need is practice—and confidence. Especially confidence." He looked at +her. She seemed frail—touchingly frail. "You are not strong?" +</p> +<p> +She smiled, and in an instant the frailty seemed to have been mere +delicacy of build—the delicacy that goes with the strength of steel +wires, or rather of the spider's weaving thread which sustains weights +and shocks out of all proportion to its appearance. "I've never been ill +in my life," said she. "Not a day." +</p> +<p> +Again, because she was standing before him in full view, he noted the +peculiar construction of her frame—the beautiful lines of length so +dextrously combined that her figure as a whole was not tall. He said, "A +working woman—or man—needs health above all. Thank you again." And he +nodded a somewhat curt dismissal. When she glided away and he was alone +behind the closed door, he reflected for a moment upon the extraordinary +amount of thinking—and the extraordinary kind of thinking—into which +this poor little typewriter girl had beguiled him. He soon found the +explanation for this vagary into a realm so foreign to a man of his high +tastes and ambitions. "It's because I'm so in love with Josephine," he +decided. "I've fallen into the sentimental state of all lovers. The +whole sex becomes novel and interesting and worth while." +</p> +<p> +As he left the office, unusually late, he saw her still at work—no +doubt doing over again some bungled piece of copying. She had her normal +and natural look and air—the atomic little typewriter, unattractive and +uninteresting. With another smile for his romantic imaginings, he forgot +her. But when he reached the street he remembered her again. The +threatened blizzard had changed into a heavy rain. The swift and sudden +currents of air, that have made of New York a cave of the winds since +the coming of the skyscrapers, were darting round corners, turning +umbrellas inside out, tossing women's skirts about their heads, reducing +all who were abroad to the same level of drenched and sullen +wretchedness. Norman's limousine was waiting at the curb. He, pausing in +the doorway, glanced up and down the street, had an impulse to return +and take the girl home. Then he smiled satirically at himself. Her lot +condemned her to be out in all weathers. It would not be a kindness but +an exhibition of smug vanity to shelter her this one night; also, there +was the question of her reputation—and the possibility of turning her +head, perhaps just enough to cause her ruin. He sprang across the +wind-swept, rain-swept sidewalk and into the limousine whose door was +being held open by an obsequious attendant. "Home," he said, and the +door slammed. +</p> +<p> +Usually these journeys between office and home or club in the evening +gave Norman a chance for ten or fifteen minutes of sleep. He had +discovered that this brief dropping of the thread of consciousness gave +him a wonderful fresh grip upon the day, enabled him to work or play +until late into the night without fatigue. But that evening his mind was +wide awake. Nor could he fix it upon business. It would interest itself +only in the hurrying throngs of foot passengers and the ideas they +suggested: Here am I—so ran his thoughts—here am I, tucked away +comfortably while all those poor creatures have to plod along in the +storm. I could afford to be sick. They can't. And what have I done to +deserve this good fortune? Nothing. Worse than nothing. If I had made my +career along the lines of what is honest and right and beneficial to my +fellow men, I'd probably be plugging home under an umbrella—and to a +pretty poor excuse for a home. But I was too wise to do that. I've spent +this day, as I spend all my days, in helping the powerful rich to add to +their wealth and power, to add to the burdens those poor devils out +there in the rain must bear. And I'm rewarded with a limousine, and all +the rest of it. +</p> +<p> +These thoughts neither came from nor produced a mood of penitence, or of +regret even. Norman was simply indulging in his favorite +pastime—following without prejudice the leading of a chain of pure +logic. He despised self-deceivers. He always kept himself free from +prejudice and all its wiles. He took life as he found it; but he did not +excuse it and himself with the familiar hypocrisies that make the +comfortable classes preen themselves on being the guardians and saviours +of the ignorant, incapable masses. When old Lockyer said one day that +this was the function of the "upper classes," Norman retorted: "Perhaps. +But, if so, how do they perform it? Like the brutal old-fashioned farm +family that takes care of its insane member by keeping him chained in +filth in the cellar." And once at the Federal Club—By the way, Norman +had joined it, had compelled it to receive him just to show his +associates how a strong man could break even such a firmly established +tradition as that no one who amounted to anything could be elected to a +fashionable club in New York. Once at the Federal Club old Galloway +quoted with approval some essayist's remark that every clever human +being was looking after and holding above the waves at least fifteen of +his weaker fellows. Norman smiled satirically round at the complacently +nodding circle of gray heads and white heads. "My observation has been," +said he, "that every clever chap is shrewd enough to compel at least +fifteen of his fellows to wait on him, to take care of him—do his +chores—and his dirty work." The nodding stopped. Scowls appeared, +except on the face of old Galloway. He grinned. He was one of the few +examples of a very rich man with a sense of humor. Norman always thought +it was this slight incident that led to his getting the extremely +profitable—and shady—Galloway business. +</p> +<p> +No, Norman's mood, as he watched the miserable crowds afoot and +reflected upon them, was neither remorseful nor triumphant. He simply +noted an interesting fact—a commonplace fact—of the methods of that +sardonic practical joker, Life. Because the scheme of things was unjust +and stupid, because others, most others, were uncomfortable or +worse—why should he make himself uncomfortable? It would be an +absurdity to get out of his limousine and trudge along in the wet and +the wind. It would be equally absurd to sit in his limousine and be +unhappy about the misery of the world. "I didn't create it, and I can't +recreate it. And if I'm helping to make it worse, I'm also hastening the +time when it'll be better. The Great Ass must have brains and spirit +kicked and cudgeled into it." +</p> +<p> +At his house in Madison Avenue, just at the crest of Murray Hill, there +was an awning from front door to curb and a carpet beneath it. He +passed, dry and comfortable, up the steps. A footman in quiet rich +livery was waiting to receive him. From rising until bedtime, up town +and down town, wherever he went and whatever he was about, every +possible menial detail of his life was done for him. He had nothing to +do but think about his own work and keep himself in health. Rarely did +he have even to open or to close a door. He used a pen only in signing +his name or marking a passage in a law book for some secretary to make a +typewritten copy. +</p> +<p> +Upon most human beings this sort of luxury, carried beyond the ordinary +and familiar uses of menial service, has a speedily enervating effect. +Thinking being the most onerous of all, they have it done, also. They +sink into silliness and moral and mental sloth. They pass the time at +foolish purposeless games indoors and out; or they wander aimlessly +about the earth chattering with similar mental decrepits, much like +monkeys adrift in the boughs of a tropical forest. But Norman had the +tenacity and strength to concentrate upon achievement all the powers +emancipated by the use of menials wherever menials could be used. He +employed to advantage the time saved in putting in shirt buttons and +lacing shoes and carrying books to and from shelves. In this lay one of +the important secrets of his success. "Never do for yourself what you +can get some one else to do for you as well. Save yourself for the +things only <i>you</i> can do." +</p> +<p> +In his household there were three persons, and sixteen servants to wait +upon them. His sister—she and her husband, Clayton Fitzhugh, were the +other two persons—his sister was always complaining that there were not +enough servants, and Frederick, the most indulgent of brothers, was +always letting her add to the number. It seemed to him that the more +help there was, the less smoothly the household ran. But that did not +concern him; his mind was saved for more important matters. There was no +reason why it should concern him; could he not compel the dollars to +flood in faster than she could bail them out? +</p> +<p> +This brother and sister had come to New York fifteen years before, when +he was twenty-two and she nineteen. They were from Albany, where their +family had possessed some wealth and much social position for many +generations. There was the usual "queer streak" in the Norman family—an +intermittent but fixed habit of some one of them making a "low +marriage." One view of this aberration might have been that there was in +the Norman blood a tenacious instinct of sturdy and self-respecting +independence that caused a Norman occasionally to do as he pleased +instead of as he conventionally ought. Each time the thing occurred +there was a mighty and horrified hubbub throughout the connection. But +in the broad, as the custom is, the Normans were complacent about the +"queer streak." They thought it kept the family from rotting out and +running to seed. "Nothing like an occasional infusion of common blood," +Aunt Ursula Van Bruyten (born Norman) used to say. For her Norman's +sister was named. +</p> +<p> +Norman's father had developed the "queer streak." Their mother was the +daughter of a small farmer and, when she met their father, was +chambermaid in a Troy hotel, Troy then being a largish village. As soon +as she found herself married and in a position with whose duties she was +unfamiliar, she set about fitting herself for them with the same +diligence and thoroughness which she had shown in learning chamber work +in a village hotel. She educated herself, selected not without +shrewdness and carefully put on an assortment of genteel airs, finally +contrived to make a most creditable appearance—was more aristocratic in +tastes and in talk than the high mightiest of her relatives by marriage. +But her son Fred was a Pinkey in character. In boyhood he was noted for +his rough and low associates. His bosom friends were the son of a Jewish +junk dealer, the son of a colored wash-woman, and the son of an Irish +day laborer. Also, the commonness persisted as he grew up. Instead of +seeking aristocratic ease, he aspired to a career. He had choice of +several rich and well-born girls; but he developed a strong distaste for +marriage of any sort and especially for a rich marriage. A fortune he +was resolved to have, but it should be one that belonged to him. When he +was about ready to enter a law office, his father and mother died +leaving less than ten thousand dollars in all for his sister and +himself. His sister hesitated, half inclined to marry a stupid second +cousin who had thirty thousand a year. +</p> +<p> +"Don't do it, Ursula," Fred advised. "If you must sell out, sell for +something worth while." He laughed in his frank, ironical way. "Fact is, +we've both made up our minds to sell. Let's go to the best market—New +York. If you don't like it, you can come back and marry that fat-wit any +time you please." +</p> +<p> +Ursula inspected herself in the glass, saw a face and form exceeding +fair to look upon; she decided to take her brother's advice. At twenty +she threw over a multi-millionaire and married Clayton Fitzhugh for +love—Clayton with only seventeen thousand a year. Of course, from the +standpoint of fashionable ambition, seventeen thousand a year in New +York is but one remove from tenement house poverty. As Clayton had no +more ability at making money than had Ursula herself, there was nothing +to do but live with Norman and "take care of him." But for this +self-sacrifice of sisterly affection Norman would have been rich at +thirty-seven. As he had to make her rich as well as himself, progress +toward luxurious independence was slower—and there was the house, +costing nearly fifty thousand a year to keep up. +</p> +<p> +There had been a time in Norman's career—a brief and very early +time—when, with the maternal peasant blood hot in his veins, he had +entertained the quixotic idea of going into politics on the poor or +people's side and fighting for glory only. The pressure of expensive +living had soon driven this notion clean off. Norman had almost +forgotten that he ever had it, was no longer aware how strong it had +been in the last year at law school. Young men of high intelligence and +ardent temperament always pass through this period. With some—a +few—its glory lingers long after the fire has flickered out before the +cool, steady breath of worldliness. +</p> +<p> +All this time Norman has been dressing for dinner. He now leaves the +third floor and descends toward the library, as it still lacks twenty +minutes of the dinner hour. +</p> +<p> +As he walked along the hall of the second floor a woman's voice called +to him, "That you, Fred?" +</p> +<p> +He turned in at his sister's sitting room. She was standing at a table +smoking a cigarette. Her tall, slim figure looked even taller and +slimmer in the tight-fitting black satin evening dress. Her features +faintly suggested her relationship to Norman. She was a handsome woman, +with a voluptuous discontented mouth. +</p> +<p> +"What are you worried about, sis?" inquired he. +</p> +<p> +"How did you know I was worried?" returned she. +</p> +<p> +"You always are." +</p> +<p> +"Oh!" +</p> +<p> +"But you're unusually worried to-night." +</p> +<p> +"How did you know that?" +</p> +<p> +"You never smoke just before dinner unless your nerves are ragged. . . . +What is it?" +</p> +<p> +"Money." +</p> +<p> +"Of course. No one in New York worries about anything else." +</p> +<p> +"But <i>this</i> is serious," protested she. "I've been thinking—about your +marriage—and what'll become of Clayton and me?" She halted, red with +embarrassment. +</p> +<p> +Norman lit a cigarette himself. "I ought to have explained," said he. +"But I assumed you'd understand." +</p> +<p> +"Fred, you know Clayton can't make anything. And when you +marry—why—what <i>will</i> become of us!" +</p> +<p> +"I've been taking care of Clayton's money—and of yours. I'll continue +to do it. I think you'll find you're not so badly of. You see, my +position enables me to compel a lot of the financiers to let me in on +the ground floor—and to warn me in good time before the house falls. +You'll not miss me, Ursula." +</p> +<p> +She showed her gratitude in her eyes, in a slight quiver of the lips, in +an unsteadiness of tone as she said, "You're the real thing, Freddie." +</p> +<p> +"You can go right on as you are now. Only—" He was looking at her with +meaning directness. +</p> +<p> +She moved uneasily, refused to meet his gaze. "Well?" she said, with a +suggestion of defiance. +</p> +<p> +"It's all very natural to get tired of Clayton," said her brother. "I +knew you would when you married him. But—Sis, I mind my own business. +Still—Why make a fool of yourself?" +</p> +<p> +"You don't understand," she exclaimed passionately. And the light in her +eyes, the color in her cheeks, restored to her for the moment the beauty +of her youth that was almost gone. +</p> +<p> +"Understand what?" inquired he in a tone of gentle mockery. +</p> +<p> +"Love. You are all ambition—all self control. You can be +affectionate—God knows, you have been to me, Fred. But love you know +nothing about—nothing." +</p> +<p> +His was the smile a man gives when in earnest and wishing to be thought +jesting—or when in jest and wishing to be thought in earnest. +</p> +<p> +"You mean Josephine? Oh, yes, I suppose you do care for her in a way—in +a nice, conventional way. She is a fine handsome piece—just the sort to +fill the position of wife to a man like you. She's sweet and charming, +she appreciates, she flatters you. I'm sure she loves you as much as a +<i>girl</i> knows how to love. But it's all so conventional, so proper. Your +position—her money. You two are of the regulation type even in that +you're suited to each other in height and figure. Everybody'll say, +'What a fine couple—so well matched!'" +</p> +<p> +"Maybe <i>you</i> don't understand," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"If Josephine were poor and low-born—weren't one of us—and all +that—would you have her?" +</p> +<p> +"I'm sure I don't know," was his prompt and amused answer. "I can only +say that I know what I want, she being what she is." +</p> +<p> +Ursula shook her head. "I have only to see you and her together to know +that you at least don't understand love." +</p> +<p> +"It might be well if <i>you</i> didn't," said Norman dryly. "You might be less +unhappy—and Clayton less uneasy." +</p> +<p> +"Ah, but I can't help myself. Don't you see it in me, Fred? I'm not a +fool. Yet see what a fool I act." +</p> +<p> +"Spoiled child—that's all. No self-control." +</p> +<p> +"You despise everyone who isn't as strong as you." She looked at him +intently. "I wonder if you <i>are</i> as self-controlled as you imagine. +Sometimes I wish you'd get a lesson. Then you'd be more sympathetic. But +it isn't likely you will—not through a woman. Oh, they're such +pitifully easy game for a man like you. But then men are the same way +with you—quite as easy. You get anything you want. . . . You're really +going to stick to Josephine?" +</p> +<p> +He nodded. "It's time for me to settle down." +</p> +<p> +"Yes—I think it is," she went on thoughtfully. "I can hardly believe +you're to marry. Of course, she's the grand prize. Still—I never +imagined you'd come in and surrender. I guess you <i>do</i> care for her." +</p> +<p> +"Why else should I marry?" argued he. "She's got nothing I need—except +herself, Ursula." +</p> +<p> +"What <i>is</i> it you see in her?" +</p> +<p> +"What you see—what everyone sees," replied Fred, with quiet, convincing +enthusiasm. "What no one could help seeing. As you say, she's the grand +prize." +</p> +<p> +"Yes, she is sweet and handsome—and intelligent—very superior, +without making others feel that they're outclassed. Still—there's +something lacking—not in her perhaps, but in you. You have it for +her—she's crazy about you. But she hasn't it for you." +</p> +<p> +"What?" +</p> +<p> +"I can't tell you. It isn't a thing that can be put into words." +</p> +<p> +"Then it doesn't exist." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, yes it does," cried Ursula. "If the engagement were to be +broken—or if anything were to happen to her—why, you'd get over +it—would go on as if nothing had happened. If she didn't fit in with +your plans and ambitions, she'd be sacrificed so quick she'd not know +what had taken off her head. But if you felt what I mean—then you'd +give up everything—do the wildest, craziest things." +</p> +<p> +"What nonsense!" scoffed Norman. "I can imagine myself making a fool +of myself about a woman as easily as about anything else. But I can't +imagine myself playing the fool for anything whatsoever." +</p> +<p> +There was mysterious fire in Ursula's absent eyes. "You remember me as a +girl—how mercenary I was—how near I came to marrying Cousin Jake?" +</p> +<p> +"I saved you from that." +</p> +<p> +"Yes—and for what? I fell in love." +</p> +<p> +"And out again." +</p> +<p> +"I was deceived in Clayton—deceived myself—naturally. How is a woman +to know, without experience?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I'm not criticising," said the brother. +</p> +<p> +"Besides, a love marriage that fails is different from a mercenary +marriage that fails." +</p> +<p> +"Very—very," agreed he. "Just the difference between an honorable and a +dishonorable bankruptcy." +</p> +<p> +"Anyhow—it's bankrupt—my marriage. But I've learned what love is—that +there is such a thing—and that it's valuable. Yes, Fred, I've got the +taste for that wine—the habit of it. Could I go back to water or milk?" +</p> +<p> +"Spoiled baby—that's the whole story. If you had a nursery full of +children—or did the heavy housework—you'd never think of these +foolish moonshiny things." +</p> +<p> +"Yet you say you love!" +</p> +<p> +"Clayton is as good as any you're likely to run across—is better than +<i>some</i> I've seen about." +</p> +<p> +"How can <i>you</i> say?" cried she. "It's for me to judge." +</p> +<p> +"If you would only <i>judge</i>!" +</p> +<p> +Ursula sighed. "It's useless to talk to you. Let's go down." +</p> +<p> +Norman, following her from the room, stopped her in the doorway to give +her a brotherly hug and kiss. "You won't make an out-and-out idiot of +yourself, will you, Ursula?" he said, in his winning manner. +</p> +<p> +The expression of her eyes as she looked at him showed how strong was +his influence over her. "You know I'll come to you for advice before I +do anything final," said she. "Oh, I don't know what I want! I only know +what I don't want. I wish I were well balanced—as you are, Fred." +</p> + +<div class="figure" style="width: 80%;"> +<a name="image-0002" href="images/img-02.jpg"><img src="images/img-02.jpg" width="100%" +alt="'You won't make an out-and-out idiot of yourself, will you Ursula?'"></a><br /> +<b>"You won't make an out-and-out idiot of yourself, will you Ursula?"</b> +</div> + +<a name="2H_4_0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + III +</h2> +<p> +The brother and sister dined alone. Clayton was, finding his club a more +comfortable place than his home, in those days of his wife's +disillusionment and hesitation about the future. Many weak creatures are +curiously armed for the unequal conflict of existence—some with +fleetness of foot, some with a pole-cat weapon of malignance, some with +porcupine quills, some with a 'possumlike instinct for "playing dead." +Of these last was Fitzhugh. He knew when to be silent, when to keep out +of the way, when to "sit tight" and wait. His wife had discovered that +he was a fool—that he perhaps owed more to his tailor than to any other +single factor for the success of his splendid pose of the thorough +gentleman. Yet she did not realize what an utter fool he was, so clever +had he been in the use of the art of discreet silence. Norman suspected +him, but could not believe a human being capable of such fathomless +vacuity as he found whenever he tried to explore his brother-in-law's +brain. +</p> +<p> +After dinner Norman took Ursula to the opera, to join the Seldins, and +after the first act went to Josephine, who had come with only a deaf old +aunt. Josephine loved music, and to hear an opera from a box one must be +alone. Norman entered as the lights went up. It always gave him a +feeling of dilation, this spectacle of material splendor—the women, +whose part it is throughout civilization to-day to wear for public +admiration and envy the evidences of the prowess of the males to whom +they belong. A truer version of Dr. Holmes's aphorism would be that it +takes several generations in oil to make a deep-dyed snob—wholly to +destroy a man's or a woman's point of view, sense of the kinship of all +flesh, and to make him or her over into the genuine believer in caste +and worshiper of it. For all his keenness of mind, of humor, Norman had +the fast-dyed snobbishness of his family and friends. He knew that caste +was silly, that such displays as this vulgar flaunting of jewels and +costly dresses were in atrocious bad taste. But it is one thing to know, +another thing to feel; and his feeling was delight in the spectacle, +pride in his own high rank in the aristocracy. +</p> +<p> +His eyes rested with radiant pleasure on the girl he was to marry. And +she was indeed a person to appeal to the passion of pride. Simply and +most expensively dressed in pearl satin, with only a little jewelry, she +sat in the front of her parterre box, a queen by right of her father's +wealth, her family's position, her own beauty. She was a large +woman—tall, a big frame but not ungainly. She had brilliant dark eyes, +a small proud head set upon shoulders that were slenderly young now and, +even when they should became matronly, would still be beautiful. She had +good teeth, an exquisite smile, the gentle good humor of those who, +comfortable themselves, would not have the slightest objection to all +others being equally so. Because she laughed appreciatively and repeated +amusingly she had great reputation for wit. Because she industriously +picked up from men a plausible smatter of small talk about politics, +religion, art and the like, she was renowned as clever verging on +profound. And she believed herself both witty and wise—as do thousands, +male and female, with far less excuse. +</p> +<p> +She had selected Norman for the same reason that he had selected her; +each recognized the other as the "grand prize." Pity is not nearly so +close kin to love as is the feeling that the other person satisfies to +the uttermost all one's pet vanities. It would have been next door to +impossible for two people so well matched not to find themselves drawn +to each other and filled with sympathy and the sense of comradeship, so +far as there can be comradeship where two are driving luxuriously along +the way of life, with not a serious cause for worry. People without half +the general fitness of these two for each other have gone through to the +end, regarding themselves and regarded as the most devoted of lovers. +Indeed, they were lovers. Only one of those savage tests, to which in +all probability they would never be exposed, would or could reveal just +how much, or how little, that vague, variable word lovers meant when +applied to them. +</p> +<p> +As their eyes met, into each pair leaped the fine, exalted light of +pride in possession. "This wonderful woman is mine!" his eyes said. And +her eyes answered, "And you—you most wonderful of men—you are mine!" +It always gave each of them a thrill like intoxication to meet, after a +day's separation. All the joy of their dazzling good fortune burst upon +them afresh. +</p> +<p> +"I'll venture you haven't thought of me the whole day," said she as he +dropped to the chair behind her. +</p> +<p> +It was a remark she often made—to give him the opportunity to say, +"I've thought of little else, I'm sorry to say—I, who have a career to +look after." He made the usual answer, and they smiled happily at each +other. "And you?" he said. +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I? What else has a woman to think about?" +</p> +<p> +Her statement was as true as his was false. He was indeed all she had to +think about—all worth wasting the effort of thought upon. But +he—though he did not realize it—had thought of her only in the +incidental way in which an ambition-possessed man must force himself to +think of a woman. The best of his mind was commandeered to his career. +An amiable but shakily founded theory that it was "our" career enabled +him to say without sense of lying that his chief thought had been she. +</p> +<p> +"How those men down town would poke fun at you," said she, "if they knew +you had me with you all the time, right beside you." +</p> +<p> +This amused him. "Still, I suspect there are lots of men who'd be +exposed in the same way if there were a general and complete show-down." +</p> +<p> +"Sometimes I wish I really were with you—working with you—helping you. +You have girls—a girl—to be your secretary—or whatever you call +it—don't you?" +</p> +<p> +"You should have seen the one I had to-day. But there's always something +pathetic about every girl who has to make her own living." +</p> +<p> +"Pathetic!" protested Miss Burroughs. "Not at all. I think it's fine." +</p> +<p> +"You wouldn't say that if you had tried it." +</p> +<p> +"Indeed, I should," she declared with spirit. "You men are entirely too +soft about women. You don't realize how strong they are. And, of course, +women don't resist the temptation to use their sex when they see how +easy it is to fool men that way. The sad thing about it is that the +woman who gets along by using her sex and by appealing to the +soft-heartedness of men never learns to rely on herself. She's likely to +come to grief sooner or later." +</p> +<p> +"There's truth in all that," said Norman. "Enough to make it dangerously +unjust. There's so much lying done about getting on that it's no wonder +those who've never tried to do for themselves get a wholly false notion +of the situation. It is hard—bitterly hard—for a man to get on. Most +men don't. Most men? All but a mere handful. And if those who do get on +were to tell the truth—the <i>whole</i> truth—about how they +succeeded—well, it'd not make a pleasant story." +</p> +<p> +"But <i>you've</i> got on," retorted the girl. +</p> +<p> +"So I have. And how?" Norman smiled with humorous cynicism. "I'll never +tell—not all—only the parts that sound well. And those parts are the +least important. However, let's not talk about that. What I set out to +say was that, while it's hard for a man to make a decent living—unless +he has luck—and harder still—much harder—for him to rise to +independence——" +</p> +<p> +"It wasn't so dreadfully hard for <i>you</i>," interrupted Josephine, looking +at him with proud admiration. "But then, you had a wonderful brain." +</p> +<p> +"That wasn't what did it," replied he. "And, in spite of all my +advantages—friendships, education, enough money to tide me over the +beginnings—in spite of all that, I had a frightful time. Not the work. +Of course, I had to work, but I like that. No, it was the—the +maneuvering, let's call it—the hardening process." +</p> +<p> +"You!" she exclaimed. +</p> +<p> +"Everyone who succeeds—in active life. You don't understand the system, +dear. It's a cutthroat game. It isn't at all what the successful +hypocrites describe in their talks to young men!" He laughed. "If I had +followed the 'guides to success,' I'd not be here. Oh, yes, I've made +terrible sacrifices, but—" his look at her made her thrill with +exaltation—"it was worth doing. . . . I understand and sympathize with +those who scorn to succeed. But I'm glad I happened not to be born with +their temperament, at least not with enough of it to keep me down." +</p> +<p> +"You're too hard on yourself, too generous to the failures." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I don't mean the men who were too lazy to do the work or too +cowardly to dare the—the unpleasant things. And I'm not hard with +myself—only frank. But we were talking of the women. Poor things, what +chance have they got? You scorn them for using their sex. Wait till +you're drowning, dear, before you criticise another for what he does to +save himself when he's sinking for the last time. I used everything I +had in making my fight. If I could have got on better or quicker by the +aid of my sex, I'd have used that." +</p> +<p> +"Don't say those things, Fred," cried Josephine, smiling but half in +earnest. +</p> +<p> +"Why not? Aren't you glad I'm here?" +</p> +<p> +She gave him a long look of passionate love and lowered her eyes. +</p> +<p> +"At whatever cost?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes," she said in a low voice. "But I'm <i>sure</i> you exaggerate." +</p> +<p> +"I've done nothing <i>you</i> wouldn't approve of—or find excuses for. But +that's because you—I—all of us in this class—and in most other +classes—have been trained to false ideas—no, to perverted ideas—to a +system of morality that's twisted to suit the demands of practical life. +On Sundays we go to a magnificent church to hear an expensive preacher +and choir, go in expensive dress and in carriages, and we never laugh at +ourselves. Yet we are going in the name of One who was born in a stable +and who said that we must give everything to the poor, and so on." +</p> +<p> +"But I don't see what we could do about it—" she said hesitatingly. +</p> +<p> +"We couldn't do anything. Only—don't you see my point?—the difference +between theory and practice? Personally, I've no objection—no strong +objection—to the practice. All I object to is the lying and faking +about it, to make it seem to fit the theory. But we were talking of +women—women who work." +</p> +<p> +"I've no doubt you're right," admitted she. "I suppose they aren't to +blame for using their sex. I ought to be ashamed of myself, to sneer at +them." +</p> +<p> +"As a matter of fact, their sex does few of them any good. The reverse. +You see, an attractive woman—one who's attractive <i>as</i> a woman—can +skirmish round and find some one to support her. But most of the working +women—those who keep on at it—don't find the man. They're not +attractive, not even at the start. After they've been at it a few years +and lose the little bloom they ever had—why, they've got to take their +chances at the game, precisely like a man. Only, they're handicapped by +always hoping that they'll be able to quit and become married women. I'd +like to see how men would behave if they could find or could imagine any +alternative to 'root hog or die.'" +</p> +<p> +"What's the matter with you this evening, Fred? I never saw you in such +a bitter mood." +</p> +<p> +"We never happened to get on this subject before." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, yes, we have. And you always have scoffed at the men who fail." +</p> +<p> +"And I still scoff at them—most of them. A lot of lazy cowards. Or +else, so bent on self-indulgence—petty self-indulgence—that they +refuse to make the small sacrifice to-day for the sake of the large +advantage day after to-morrow. Or else so stuffed with vanity that they +never see their own mistakes. However, why blame them? They were born +that way, and can't change. A man who has the equipment of success and +succeeds has no more right to sneer at one less lucky than you would +have to laugh at a poor girl because she wasn't dressed as well as you." +</p> +<p> +"What a mood! <i>Something</i> must have happened." +</p> +<p> +"Perhaps," said he reflectively. "Possibly that girl set me off." +</p> +<p> +"What girl?" +</p> +<p> +"The one I told you about. The unfortunate little creature who was +typewriting for me this afternoon. Not so very little, either. A curious +figure she had. She was tall yet she wasn't. She seemed thin, and when +you looked again, you saw that she was really only slender, and +beautifully shaped throughout." +</p> +<p> +Miss Burroughs laughed. "She must have been attractive." +</p> +<p> +"Not in the least. Absolutely without charm—and so homely—no, not +homely—commonplace. No, that's not right, either. She had a startling +way of fading and blazing out. One moment she seemed a blank—pale, +lifeless, colorless, a nobody. The next minute she became—amazingly +different. Not the same thing every time, but different things." +</p> +<p> +Frederick Norman was too experienced a dealer with women deliberately to +make the mistake—rather, to commit the breach of tact and +courtesy—involved in praising one woman to another. But in this case it +never occurred to him that he was talking to a woman of a woman. +Josephine Burroughs was a lady; the other was a piece of office +machinery—and a very trivial piece at that. But he saw and instantly +understood the look in her eyes—the strained effort to keep the +telltale upper lip from giving its prompt and irrepressible signal of +inward agitation. +</p> +<p> +"I'm very much interested," said she. +</p> +<p> +"Yes, she was a curiosity," said he carelessly. +</p> +<p> +"Has she been there—long?" inquired Josephine, with a feigned +indifference that did not deceive him. +</p> +<p> +"Several months, I believe. I never noticed her until a few days ago. +And until to-day I had forgotten her. She's one of the kind it's +difficult to remember." +</p> +<p> +He fell to glancing round the house, pretending to be unconscious of the +furtive suspicion with which she was observing him. She said: +</p> +<p> +"She's your secretary now?" +</p> +<p> +"Merely a general office typewriter." +</p> +<p> +The curtain went up for the second act. Josephine fixed her attention on +the stage—apparently undivided attention. But Norman felt rather than +saw that she was still worrying about the "curiosity." He marveled at +this outcropping of jealousy. It seemed ridiculous—it <i>was</i> ridiculous. +He laughed to himself. If she could see the girl—the obscure, +uninteresting cause of her agitation—how she would mock at herself! +Then, too, there was the absurdity of thinking him capable of such a +stoop. A woman of their own class—or a woman of its corresponding +class, on the other side of the line—yes. No doubt she had heard +things that made her uneasy, or, at least, ready to be uneasy. But this +poorly dressed obscurity, with not a charm that could attract even a man +of her own lowly class—It was such a good joke that he would have +teased Josephine about it but for his knowledge of the world—a +knowledge in whose primer it was taught that teasing is both bad taste +and bad judgment. Also, it was beneath his dignity, it was offense to +his vanity, to couple his name with the name of one so beneath him that +even the matter of sex did not make the coupling less intolerable. +</p> +<p> +When the curtain fell several people came into the box, and he went to +make a few calls round the parterre. He returned after the second act. +They were again alone—the deaf old aunt did not count. At once +Josephine began upon the same subject. With studied indifference—how +amusing for a woman of her inexperience to try to fool a man of his +experience!—she said: +</p> +<p> +"Tell me some more about that typewriter girl. Women who work always +interest me." +</p> +<p> +"She wouldn't," said Norman. The subject had been driven clean out of +his mind, and he didn't wish to return to it. "Some day they will +venture to make judicious long cuts in Wagner's operas, and then they'll +be interesting. It always amuses me, this reverence of little people for +the great ones—as if a great man were always great. No—he <i>is</i> always +great. But often it's in a dull way. And the dull parts ought to be +skipped." +</p> +<p> +"I don't like the opera this evening," said she. "What you said a while +ago has set me to thinking. Is that girl a lady?" +</p> +<p> +"She works," laughed he. +</p> +<p> +"But she might have been a lady." +</p> +<p> +"I'm sure I don't know." +</p> +<p> +"Don't you know <i>anything</i> about her?" +</p> +<p> +"Except that she's trustworthy—and insignificant and not too good at +her business." +</p> +<p> +"I shouldn't think you could afford to keep incompetent people," said +the girl shrewdly. +</p> +<p> +"Perhaps they won't keep her," parried Norman gracefully. "The head +clerk looks after those things." +</p> +<p> +"He probably likes her." +</p> +<p> +"No," said Norman, too indifferent to be cautious. "She has no +'gentlemen friends.'" +</p> +<p> +"How do you know that?" said the girl, and she could not keep a certain +sharpness out of her voice. +</p> +<p> +"Tetlow, the head clerk, told me. I asked him a few questions about her. +I had some confidential work to do and didn't want to trust her without +being sure." +</p> +<p> +He saw that she was now prey to her jealous suspicion. He was uncertain +whether to be amused or irritated. She had to pause long and with +visible effort collect herself before venturing: +</p> +<p> +"Oh, she does confidential work for you? I thought you said she was +incompetent." +</p> +<p> +He, the expert cross-examiner, had to admire her skill at that high +science and art. "I felt sorry for her," he said. "She seemed such a +forlorn little creature." +</p> +<p> +She laughed with a constrained attempt at raillery. "I never should have +suspected you of such weakness. To give confidential things to a forlorn +little incompetent, out of pity." +</p> +<p> +He was irritated, distinctly. The whole thing was preposterous. It +reminded him of feats of his own before a jury. By clever questioning, +Josephine had made about as trifling an incident as could be imagined +take on really quite imposing proportions. There was annoyance in his +smile as he said: +</p> +<p> +"Shall I send her up to see you? You might find it amusing, and maybe +you could do something for her." +</p> +<p> +Josephine debated. "Yes," she finally said. "I wish you would send +her—" with a little sarcasm—"if you can spare her for an hour or so." +</p> +<p> +"Don't make it longer than that," laughed he. "Everything will stop +while she's gone." +</p> +<p> +It pleased him, in a way, this discovery that Josephine had such a +common, commonplace weakness as jealousy. But it also took away +something from his high esteem for her—an esteem born of the lover's +idealizings; for, while he was not of the kind of men who are on their +knees before women, he did have a deep respect for Josephine, +incarnation of all the material things that dazzled him—a respect with +something of the reverential in it, and something of awe—more than he +would have admitted to himself. To-day, as of old, the image-makers are +as sincere worshipers as visit the shrines. In our prostrations and +genuflections in the temple we do not discriminate against the idols we +ourselves have manufactured; on the contrary, them we worship with +peculiar gusto. Norman knew his gods were frauds, that their divine +qualities were of the earth earthy. But he served them, and what most +appealed to him in Josephine was that she incorporated about all their +divine qualities. +</p> +<p> +He and his sister went home together. Her first remark in the auto was: +"What were you and Josie quarreling about?" +</p> +<p> +"Quarreling?" inquired he in honest surprise. +</p> +<p> +"I looked at her through my glasses and saw that the was all upset—and +you, too." +</p> +<p> +"This is too ridiculous," cried he. +</p> +<p> +"She looked—jealous." +</p> +<p> +"Nonsense! What an imagination you have!" +</p> +<p> +"I saw what I saw," Ursula maintained. "Well, I suppose she has heard +something—something recent. I thought you had sworn off, Fred. But I +might have known." +</p> +<p> +Norman was angry. He wondered at his own exasperation, out of all +proportion to any apparent provoking cause. And it was most unusual for +him to feel temper, all but unprecedented for him to show it, no matter +how strong the temptation. +</p> +<p> +"It's a good idea, to make her jealous," pursued his sister. "Nothing +like jealousy to stimulate interest." +</p> +<p> +"Josephine is not that sort of woman." +</p> +<p> +"You know better. All women are that sort. All men, too. Of course, some +men and women grow angry and go away when they get jealous while others +stick closer. So one has to be judicious." +</p> +<p> +"Josephine and I understand each other far too well for such pettiness." +</p> +<p> +"Try her. No, you needn't. You have." +</p> +<p> +"Didn't I tell you——" +</p> +<p> +"Then what was she questioning you about?" +</p> +<p> +"Just to show you how wrong you were, I'll tell you. She was asking me +about a poor little girl down at the office—one she wants to help." +</p> +<p> +Ursula laughed. "To help out of your office, I guess. I thought you'd +lived long enough, Fred, to learn that no woman trusts <i>any</i> man about <i>any</i> +woman. Who is this 'poor little girl'?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't even know her name. One of the typewriters." +</p> +<p> +"What made Josephine jealous of her?" +</p> +<p> +"Haven't I told you Josephine was not——" +</p> +<p> +"But I saw. Who is this girl?—pretty?" +</p> +<p> +Norman pretended to stifle a yawn. "Josephine bored me half to death +talking about her. Now it's you. I never heard so much about so little." +</p> +<p> +"Is there something up between you and the girl?" teased Ursula. +</p> +<p> +"Now, that's an outrage!" cried Norman. "She's got nothing but her +reputation, poor child. Do leave her that." +</p> +<p> +"Is she very young?" +</p> +<p> +"How should I know?" +</p> +<p> +"Youth is a charm in itself." +</p> +<p> +"What sort of rot is this!" exclaimed he. "Do you think I'd drop down to +anything of that kind—in <i>any</i> circumstances? A little working girl—and +in my own office?" +</p> +<p> +"Why do you heat so, Fred?" teased the sister. "Really, I don't wonder +Josephine was torn up." +</p> +<p> +An auto almost ran into them—one of those innumerable hairbreadth +escapes that make the streets of New York as exciting as a battle—and +as dangerous. For a few minutes Ursula's mind was deflected. But a +fatality seemed to pursue the subject of the pale obscurity whose very +name he was uncertain whether he remembered aright. +</p> +<p> +Said Ursula, as they entered the house, "A girl working in the office +with a man has a magnificent chance at him. It's lucky for the men that +women don't know their business, but are amateurs and too stuck on +themselves to set and bait their traps properly. Is that girl trying to +get round you?" +</p> +<p> +"What possesses everybody to-night!" cried Norman. "I tell you the +girl's as uninteresting a specimen as you could find." +</p> +<p> +"Then why are <i>you</i> so interested in her?" teased the sister. +</p> +<p> +Norman shrugged his shoulders, laughed with his normal easy good humor +and went to his own floor. +</p> +<p> +On top of the pile of letters beside his plate, next morning, lay a note +from Josephine: +</p> +<pre> + "Don't forget your promise about that girl, dear. I've an hour before + lunch, and could see her then. I was out of humor last night. I'm very + penitent this morning. Please forgive me. Maybe I can do something for + her. JOSEPHINE." +</pre> +<p> +Norman read with amused eyes. "Well!" soliloquized he, "I'm not likely +to forget that poor little creature again. What a fuss about nothing!" +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + IV +</h2> +<p> +Many men, possibly a majority, have sufficient equipment for at least a +fair measure of success. Yet all but a few are downright failures, +passing their lives in helpless dependence, glad to sell themselves for +a small part of the value they create. For this there are two main +reasons. The first is, as Norman said, that only a few men have the +self-restraint to resist the temptings of a small pleasure to-day in +order to gain a larger to-morrow or next day. The second is that few men +possess the power of continuous concentration. Most of us cannot +concentrate at all; any slight distraction suffices to disrupt and +destroy the whole train of thought. A good many can concentrate for a +few hours, for a week or so, for two or three months. But there comes a +small achievement and it satisfies, or a small discouragement and it +disheartens. Only to the rare few is given the power to concentrate +steadily, year in and year out, through good and evil event or report. +</p> +<p> +As Norman stepped into his auto to go to the office—he had ridden a +horse in the park before breakfast until its hide was streaked with +lather—the instant he entered his auto, he discharged his mind of +everything but the business before him down town—or, rather, business +filled his mind so completely that everything else poured out and away. +A really fine mind—a perfect or approximately perfect instrument to the +purposes of its possessor—is a marvelous spectacle of order. It is like +a vast public library constantly used by large numbers. There are +alcoves, rows on rows, shelves on shelves, with the exactest system +everywhere prevailing, with the attendants moving about in list-bottomed +shoes, fulfilling without the least hesitation or mistake the multitude +of directions from the central desk. It is like an admirably drilled +army, where there is the nice balance of freedom and discipline that +gives mobility without confusion; the divisions, down to files and even +units, can be disposed along the line of battle wherever needed, or can +be marshaled in reserve for use at the proper moment. Such a mind may be +used for good purpose or bad—or for mixed purposes, after the usual +fashion in human action. But whatever the service to which it is put, it +acts with equal energy and precision. Character—that is a thing apart. +The character determines the morality of action; but only the intellect +determines the skill of action. +</p> +<p> +In the offices of that great law firm one of the keenest pleasures of +the more intelligent of the staff was watching the workings of Frederick +Norman's mind—its ease of movement, its quickness and accuracy, its +obedience to the code of mental habits he had fixed for himself. In +large part all this was born with the man; but it had been brought to a +state of perfection by the most painful labor, by the severest +discipline, by years of practice of the sacrifice of small +temptations—temptations to waste time and strength on the little +pleasant things which result in such heavy bills—bills that bankrupt a +man in middle life and send him in old age into the deserts of poverty +and contempt. +</p> +<p> +Such an unique and trivial request as that of Josephine Burroughs being +wholly out of his mental habit for down town, he forgot it along with +everything else having to do with uptown only—along with Josephine +herself, to tell a truth which may pique the woman reader and may be +wholly misunderstood by the sentimentalists. By merest accident he was +reminded. +</p> +<p> +As the door of his private office opened to admit an important client he +happened to glance up. And between the edge of the door frame and his +client's automobile-fattened and carefully dressed body, he caught a +glimpse of the "poor little forlornness" who chanced to be crossing the +outer office. A glint of sunlight on her hair changed it from +lifelessness to golden vital vividness; the same chance sunbeam touched +her pale skin with a soft yellow radiation—and her profile was +delicately fine and regular. Thus Norman, who observed everything, saw +a head of finely wrought gold—a startling cameo against the dead white +of office wall. It was only with the second thought that he recognized +her. The episode of the night before came back and Josephine's penitent +yet persistent note. +</p> +<p> +He glanced at the clock. Said the client in the amusing tone of one who +would like to take offense if he only dared, "I'll not detain you long, +Mr. Norman. And really the matter is extremely important." +</p> +<p> +There are not many lawyers, even of the first rank, with whom their big +clients reverse the attitude of servant and master. Norman might well +have been flattered. In that restrained tone from one used to servility +and fond of it and easily miffed by lack of it was the whole story of +Norman's long battle and splendid victory. But he was not in the mood to +be flattered; he was thinking of other things. And it presently annoyed +him that his usually docile mind refused to obey his will's order to +concentrate on the client and the business—said business being one of +those huge schemes through which a big monster of a corporation is +constructed by lawyers out of materials supplied by great capitalists +and controllers of capital, is set to eating in enormous meals the +substance of the people; at some obscure point in all the principal +veins small but leechlike parasite corporations are attached, +industriously to suck away the surplus blood so that the owners of the +beast may say, "It is eating almost nothing. See how lean it is, poor +thing! Why, the bones fairly poke through its meager hide." +</p> +<p> +An interesting and highly complicated enterprise is such a construction. +It was of the kind in which Norman's mind especially delighted; Hercules +is himself only in presence of an herculean labor. But on that day he +could not concentrate, and because of a trifle! He felt like a giant +disabled by a grain of dust in the eye—yes, a mere grain of dust! "I +must love Josephine even more than I realize, to be fretted by such a +paltry thing," thought he. And after patiently enduring the client for +half an hour without being able to grasp the outlines of the project, he +rose abruptly and said: "I must get into my mind the points you've given +me before we can go further. So I'll not waste your time." +</p> +<p> +This sounded very like "Clear out—you've bored me to my limit of +endurance." But the motions of a mind such as he knew Norman had were +beyond and high above the client's mere cunning at dollar-trapping. He +felt that it was the part of wisdom—also soothing to vanity—to assume +that Norman meant only what his words conveyed. When Norman was alone he +rang for an office boy and said: +</p> +<p> +"Please ask Miss Halliday to come here." +</p> +<p> +The boy hesitated. "Miss Hallowell?" he suggested. +</p> +<p> +"Hallowell—thanks—Hallowell," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +And it somehow pleased him that he had not remembered her name. How +significant it was of her insignificance that so accurate a memory as +his should make the slip. When she, impassive, colorless, nebulous, +stood before him the feeling of pleasure was, queerly enough, mingled +with a sense of humiliation. What absurd vagaries his imagination had +indulged in! For it must have been sheer hallucination, his seeing those +wonders in her. How he would be laughed at if those pictures he had made +of her could be seen by any other eyes! "They must be right when they +say a man in love is touched in the head. Only, why the devil should I +have happened to get these crazy notions about a person I've no interest +in?" However, the main point—and most satisfactory—was that Josephine +would be at a glance convinced—convicted—made ashamed of her absurd +attack. A mere grain of dust. +</p> +<p> +"Just a moment, please," he said to Miss Hallowell. "I want to give you +a note of introduction." +</p> +<p> +He wrote the note to Josephine Burroughs: "Here she is. I've told her +you wish to talk with her about doing some work for you." When he +finished he looked up. She was standing at the window, gazing out upon +the tremendous panorama of skyscrapers that makes New York the most +astounding of the cities of men. He was about to speak. The words fell +back unuttered. For once more the hallucination—or whatever it +was—laid hold of him. That figure by the window—that beautiful girl, +with the great dreamy eyes and the soft and languorous nuances of golden +haze over her hair, over the skin of perfectly rounded cheek and +perfectly moulded chin curving with ideal grace into the whitest and +firmest of throats—— +</p> +<p> +"Am I mad? or do I really see what I see?" he muttered. +</p> +<p> +He turned away to clear his eyes for a second view, for an attempt to +settle it whether he saw or imagined. When he looked again, she was +observing him—and once more she was the obscure, the cipherlike Miss +Hallowell, ten-dollar-a-week typewriter and not worth it. Evidently she +noted his confusion and was vaguely alarmed by it. He recovered himself +as best he could and debated whether it was wise to send her to +Josephine. Surely those transformations were not altogether his own +hallucinations; and Josephine might see, might humiliate him by +suspecting more strongly—... Ridiculous! He held out the letter. +</p> +<p> +"The lady to whom this is addressed wishes to see you. Will you go +there, right away, please? It may be that you'll get the chance to make +some extra money. You've no objection, I suppose?" +</p> +<p> +She took the letter hesitatingly. +</p> +<p> +"You will find her agreeable, I think," continued he. "At any rate, the +trip can do no harm." +</p> +<p> +She hesitated a moment longer, as if weighing what he had said. "No, it +will do no harm," she finally said. Then, with a delightful color and a +quick transformation into a vision of young shyness, "Thank you, Mr. +Norman. Thank you so much." +</p> +<p> +"Not at all—not in the least," he stammered, the impulse strong to take +the note back and ask her to return to her desk. +</p> +<p> +When the door closed behind her he rose and paced about the room +uneasily. He was filled with disquiet, with hazy apprehension. His +nerves were unsteady, as if he were going through an exhausting strain. +He sat and tried to force himself to work. Impossible. "What sort of +damn fool attack is this?" he exclaimed, pacing about again. He searched +his mind in vain for any cause adequate to explain his unprecedented +state. "If I did not know that I was well—absolutely well—I'd think I +was about to have an illness—something in the brain." +</p> +<p> +He appealed to that friend in any trying hour, his sense of humor. He +laughed at himself; but his nerves refused to return to the normal. He +rushed from his private office on various pretexts, each time lingered +in the general room, talking aimlessly with Tetlow—and watching the +door. When she at last appeared, he guiltily withdrew, feeling that +everyone was observing his perturbation and was wondering at it and +jesting about it. "And what the devil am I excited about?" he demanded +of himself. What indeed? He seated himself, rang the bell. +</p> +<p> +"If Miss Hallowell has got back," he said to the office boy, "please ask +her to come in." +</p> +<p> +"I think she's gone out to lunch," said the boy. "I know she came in a +while ago. She passed along as you was talking to Mr. Tetlow." +</p> +<p> +Norman felt himself flushing. "Any time will do," he said, bending over +the papers spread out before him—the papers in the case of the General +Traction Company resisting the payment of its taxes. A noisome odor +seemed to be rising from the typewritten sheets. He made a wry face and +flung the papers aside with a gesture of disgust. "They never do +anything honest," he said to himself. "From the stock-jobbing owners +down to the nickel-filching conductors they steal—steal—steal!" And +then he wondered at, laughed at, his heat. What did it matter? An ant +pilfering from another ant and a sparrow stealing the crumb found by +another sparrow—a man robbing another man—all part of the universal +scheme. Only a narrow-minded ignoramus would get himself wrought up over +it; a philosopher would laugh—and take what he needed or happened to +fancy. +</p> +<p> +The door opened. Miss Hallowell entered, a small and demure hat upon her +masses of thick fair hair arranged by anything but unskillful fingers. +"You wished to see me?" came in the quiet little voice, sweet and frank +and shy. +</p> +<p> +He roused himself from pretended abstraction. +</p> +<p> +"Oh—it's you?" he said pleasantly. "They said you were out." +</p> +<p> +"I was going to lunch. But if you've anything for me to do, I'll be glad +to stay." +</p> +<p> +"No—no. I simply wished to say that if Miss Burroughs wished to make an +arrangement with you, we'd help you about carrying out your part of it." +</p> +<p> +She was pale—so pale that it brought out strongly the smooth dead-white +purity of her skin. Her small features wore an expression of pride, of +haughtiness even. And in the eyes that regarded him steadily there shone +a cold light—the light of a proud and lonely soul that repels intrusion +even as the Polar fastnesses push back without effort assault upon their +solitudes. "We made no arrangement," said she. +</p> +<p> +"You are not more than eighteen, are you?" inquired he abruptly. +</p> +<p> +The irrelevant question startled her. She looked as if she thought she +had not heard aright. "I am twenty," she said. +</p> +<p> +"You have a most—most unusual way of shifting to various ages and +personalities," explained he, with some embarrassment. +</p> +<p> +She simply looked at him and waited. +</p> +<p> +His embarrassment increased. It was a novel sensation to him, this +feeling ill at ease with a woman—he who was at ease with everyone and +put others at their ease or not as he pleased. "I'm sorry you and Miss +Burroughs didn't arrange something. I suppose she found the hours +difficult." +</p> +<p> +"She made me an offer," replied the girl. "I refused it." +</p> +<p> +"But, as I told you, we can let you off—anything within reason." +</p> +<p> +"Thank you, but I do not care to do that kind of work. No doubt any kind +of work for wages classes one as a servant. But those people up +there—they make one <i>feel</i> it—feel menial." +</p> +<p> +"Not Miss Burroughs, I assure you." +</p> +<p> +A satirical smile hovered round the girl's lips. Her face was altogether +lovely now, and no lily ever rose more gracefully from its stem than did +her small head from her slender form. "She meant to be kind, but she was +insulting. Those people up there don't understand. They're vain and +narrow. Oh, I don't blame them. Only, I don't care to be brought into +contact with them." +</p> +<p> +He looked at her in wonder. She talked of Josephine as if she were +Josephine's superior, and her expression and accent were such that they +contrived to convey an impression that she had the right to do it. He +grew suddenly angry at her, at himself for listening to her. "I am +sorry," he said stiffly, and took up a pen to indicate that he wished +her to go. +</p> +<p> +He rather expected that she would be alarmed. But if she was, she wholly +concealed it. She smiled slightly and moved toward the door. Looking +after her, he relented. She seemed so young—was so young—and was +evidently poor. He said: +</p> +<p> +"It's all right to be proud, Miss Hallowell. But there is such a thing +as supersensitiveness. You are earning your living. If you'll pardon me +for thrusting advice upon you, I think you've made a mistake. I'm sure +Miss Burroughs meant well. If you had been less sensitive you'd soon +have realized it." +</p> +<p> +"She patronized me," replied the girl, not angrily, but with amusement. +"It was all I could do not to laugh in her face. The idea of a woman who +probably couldn't make five dollars a week fancying she was the superior +of any girl who makes her own living, no matter how poor a living it +is." +</p> +<p> +Norman laughed. It had often appealed to his own sense of humor, the +delusion that the tower one happened to be standing upon was part of +one's own stature. But he said: "You're a very foolish young person. +You'll not get far in the world if you keep to that road. It winds +through Poverty Swamps to the Poor House." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, no," replied she. "One can always die." +</p> +<p> +Again he laughed. "But why die? Why not be sensible and live?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't know," replied she. She was looking away dreamily, and her eyes +were wonderful to see. "There are many things I feel and do—and I don't +at all understand why. But—" An expression of startling resolution +flashed across her face. "But I do them, just the same." +</p> +<p> +A brief silence; then, as she again moved toward the door, he said, "You +have been working for some time?" +</p> +<p> +"Four years." +</p> +<p> +"You support yourself?" +</p> +<p> +"I work to help out father's income. He makes almost enough, but not +quite." +</p> +<p> +Almost enough! The phrase struck upon Norman's fancy as both amusing and +sad. Almost enough for what? For keeping body and soul together; for +keeping body barely decently clad. Yet she was content. He said: +</p> +<p> +"You like to work?" +</p> +<p> +"Not yet. But I think I shall when I learn this business. One feels +secure when one has a trade." +</p> +<p> +"It doesn't impress me as an interesting life for a girl of your age," +he suggested. +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I'm not unhappy. And at home, of evenings and Sundays, I'm happy." +</p> +<p> +"Doing what?" +</p> +<p> +"Reading and talking with father and—doing the housework—and all the +rest of it." +</p> +<p> +What a monotonous narrow little life! He wanted to pity her, but somehow +he could not. There was no suggestion in her manner that she was an +object of pity. "What did Miss Burroughs say to you—if I may ask?" +</p> +<p> +"Certainly. You sent me, and I'm much obliged to you. I realize it was +an opportunity—for another sort of girl. I half tried to accept because +I knew refusing was only my—queerness." She smiled charmingly. "You are +not offended because I couldn't make myself take it?" +</p> +<p> +"Not in the least." And all at once he felt that it was true. This girl +would have been out of place in service. "What was the offer?" +</p> +<p> +Suddenly before him there appeared a clever, willful child, full of the +childish passion for imitation and mockery. And she proceeded to "take +off" the grand Miss Burroughs—enough like Josephine to give the satire +point and barb. He could see Josephine resolved to be affable and equal, +to make this doubtless bedazzled stray from the "lower classes" feel +comfortable in those palatial surroundings. She imitated Josephine's +walk, her way of looking, her voice for the menials—gracious and +condescending. The exhibition was clever, free from malice, redolent of +humor. Norman laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. +</p> +<p> +"You ought to go on the stage," said he. "How Josephine—Miss Burroughs +would appreciate it! For she's got a keen sense of humor." +</p> +<p> +"Not for the real jokes—like herself," replied Miss Hallowell. +</p> +<p> +"You're prejudiced." +</p> +<p> +"No. I see her as she is. Probably everyone else—those around her—see +her money and her clothes and all that. But I saw—just her." +</p> +<p> +He nodded thoughtfully. Then he looked penetratingly at her. "How did +you happen to learn to do that?" he asked. "To see people as they are?" +</p> +<p> +"Father taught me." Her eyes lighted up, her whole expression changed. +She became beautiful with the beauty of an intense and adoring love. +"Father is a wonderful man—one of the most wonderful that ever lived. +He——" +</p> +<p> +There was a knock at the door. She startled, he looked confused. Both +awakened to a sense of their forgotten surroundings, of who and what +they were. She went and Mr. Sanders entered. But even in his confusion +Norman marveled at the vanishing of the fascinating personality who had +been captivating him into forgetting everything else, at the +reappearance of the blank, the pale and insignificant personality +attached to a typewriting machine at ten dollars a week. No, not +insignificant, not blank—never again that, for him. He saw now the full +reality—and also why he, everyone, was so misled. She made him think of +the surface of the sea when the sky is gray and the air calm. It lies +smooth and flat and expressionless—inert, monotonous. But let sunbeam +strike or breeze ever so faint start up, and what a commotion of +unending variety! He could never look at her again without being +reminded of those infinite latent possibilities, without wondering what +new and perhaps more charming, more surprising varieties of look and +tone and manner could be evoked. +</p> +<p> +And while Sanders was talking—prosing on and on about things Norman +either already knew or did not wish to know—he was thinking of her. "If +she happens to meet a man with enough discernment to fall in love with +her," he said to himself, "he certainly will never weary. What a pity +that such a girl shouldn't have had a chance, should be wasted on some +unappreciative chucklehead of her class! What a pity she hasn't +ambition—or the quality, whatever it is—that makes those who have it +get on, whether they wish or no." +</p> +<p> +During the rest of the day he revolved from time to time indistinct +ideas of somehow giving this girl a chance. He wished Josephine would +and could help, or perhaps his sister Ursula. It was not a matter that +could be settled, or even taken up, in haste. No man of his mentality +and experience fails to learn how perilous it is in the least to +interfere in the destiny of anyone. And his notion involved not slight +interference with advice or suggestion or momentarily extended helping +hand, but radical change of the whole current of destiny. Also, he +appreciated how difficult it is for a man to do anything for a young +woman—anything that would not harm more than it would help. Only one +thing seemed clear to him—the "clever child" ought to have a chance. +</p> +<p> +He went to see Josephine after dinner that night His own house, while +richly and showily furnished, as became his means and station, +seemed—and indeed was—merely an example of simple, old-fashioned +"solid comfort" in comparison with the Burroughs palace. He had never +liked, but, being a true New Yorker, had greatly admired the splendor of +that palace, its costly art junk, its rotten old tapestries, its +unlovely genuine antiques, its room after room of tasteless +magnificence, suggesting a museum, or rather the combination home and +salesroom of an art dealer. This evening he found himself curious, +critical, disposed to license a long-suppressed sense of humor. While +he was waiting for Josephine to come down to the small salon into which +he had been shown, her older sister drifted in, on the way to a late +dinner and ball. She eyed him admiringly from head to foot. +</p> +<p> +"You've <i>such</i> an air, Fred," said she. "You should hear the butler on the +subject of you. He says that of all the men who come to the house you +are most the man of the world. He says he could tell it by the way you +walk in and take off your hat and coat and throw them at him." +</p> +<p> +Norman laughed and said, "I didn't know. I must stop that." +</p> +<p> +"Don't!" cried Mrs. Bellowes. "You'll break his heart. He adores it. You +know, servants dearly love to be treated as servants. Anyone who thinks +the world loves equality knows very little about human nature. Most +people love to look up, just as most women love to be ruled. No, you +must continue to be the master, the man of the world, Fred." +</p> +<p> +She was busy with her gorgeous and trailing wraps and with her cigarette +or she would have seen his confusion. He was recalling his scene with +the typewriter girl. Not much of the man of the world, then and there, +certainly. What a grotesque performance for a man of his position, for a +serious man of any kind! And how came he to permit such a person to +mimic Josephine Burroughs, a lady, the woman to whom he was engaged? In +these proud and pretentious surroundings he felt contemptibly +guilty—and dazed wonder at his own inexplicable folly and weakness. +</p> +<p> +Mrs. Bellowes departed before Josephine came down. So there was no +relief for his embarrassment. He saw that she too felt constrained. +Instead of meeting him half way in embrace and kiss, as she usually did, +she threw him a kiss and pretended to be busy lighting a cigarette and +arranging the shades of the table lamp. "Well, I saw your 'poor little +creature,'" she began. She was splendidly direct in all her dealings, +after the manner of people who have never had to make their own way—to +cajole or conciliate or dread the consequences of frankness. +</p> +<p> +"I told you you'd not find her interesting." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, she was a nice little girl," replied Josephine with elaborate +graciousness—and Norman, the "take off" fresh in his mind, was acutely +critical of her manner, of her mannerisms. "Of course," she went on, +"one does not expect much of people of that class. But I thought her +unusually well-mannered—and quite clean." +</p> +<p> +"Tetlow makes 'em clean up," said Norman, a gleam of sarcasm in his +careless glance and tone. And into his nostrils stole an odor of +freshness and health and youth, the pure, sweet odor that is the base of +all the natural perfumes. It startled him, his vivid memory of a feature +of her which he had not been until now aware that he had ever noted. +</p> +<p> +"I offered her some work," continued Josephine, "but I guess you keep +her too busy down there for her to do anything else." +</p> +<p> +"Probably," said Norman. "Why do you sit on the other side of the room?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I don't know," laughed Josephine. "I feel queer to-night. And it +seems to me you're queer, too." +</p> +<p> +"I? Perhaps rather tired, dear—that's all." +</p> +<p> +"Did you and Miss Hallowell work hard to-day?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, bother Miss Hallowell. Let's talk about ourselves." And he drew her +to the sofa at one end of the big fireplace. "I wish we hadn't set the +wedding so far off." And suddenly he found himself wondering whether +that remark had been prompted by eagerness—a lover's eagerness—or by +impatience to have the business over and settled. +</p> +<p> +"You don't act a bit natural to-night, Fred. You touch me as if I were a +stranger." +</p> +<p> +"I like that!" mocked he. "A stranger hold your hand like +this?—and—kiss you—like this?" +</p> +<p> +She drew away, suddenly laid her hands on his shoulders, kissed him upon +the lips passionately, then looked into his eyes. "<i>Do</i> you love me, +Fred?—<i>really</i>?" +</p> +<p> +"Why so earnest?" +</p> +<p> +"You've had a great deal of experience?" +</p> +<p> +"More or less." +</p> +<p> +"Have you ever loved any woman as you love me?" +</p> +<p> +"I've never loved any woman but you. I never before wanted to marry a +woman." +</p> +<p> +"But you may be doing it because—well, you might be tired and want to +settle down." +</p> +<p> +"Do you believe that?" +</p> +<p> +"No, I don't. But I want to hear you say it isn't so." +</p> +<p> +"Well—it isn't so. Are you satisfied?" +</p> +<p> +"I'm frightfully jealous of you, Fred." +</p> +<p> +"What a waste of time!" +</p> +<p> +"I've got something to confess—something I'm ashamed of." +</p> +<p> +"Don't confess," cried he, laughing but showing that he meant it. +"Just—don't be wicked again That's much better than confession." +</p> +<p> +"But I must confess," insisted she. "I had evil thoughts evil suspicions +about you. I've had them all day—until you came. As soon as I saw you I +felt bowed into the dust. A man like you, doing anything so vulgar as I +suspected you of—oh, dearest, I'm <i>so</i> ashamed!" +</p> +<p> +He put his arms round her and drew her to his shoulder. And the scene of +mimicry in his office flashed into his mind, and the blood burned in his +cheeks. But he had no such access of insanity as to entertain the idea +of confession. +</p> +<p> +"It was that typewriter girl," continued Josephine. She drew away again +and once more searched his face. "You told me she was homely." +</p> +<p> +"Not exactly that." +</p> +<p> +"Insignificant then." +</p> +<p> +"Isn't she?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes—in a way," said Josephine, the condescending note in her voice +again—and in his mind Miss Hallowell's clever burlesque of that note. +"But, in another way—Men are different from women. Now I—a woman of +my sort—couldn't stoop to a man of her class. But men seem not to feel +that way." +</p> +<p> +"No," said he, irritated. "They've the courage to take what they want +wherever they find it. A man will take gold out of the dirt, because +gold is always gold. But a woman waits until she can get it at a +fashionable jeweler's, and makes sure it's made up in a fashionable way. +I don't like to hear <i>you</i> say those things." +</p> +<p> +Her eyes flashed. "Then you <i>do</i> like that Hallowell girl!" she cried—and +never before had her voice jarred upon him. +</p> +<p> +"That Hallowell girl has nothing to do with this," he rejoined. "I like +to feel that you really love me—that you'd have taken me wherever you +happened to find me—and that you'd stick to me no matter how far I +might drop." +</p> +<p> +"I would! I would!" she cried, tears in her eyes. "Oh, I didn't mean +that, Fred. You know I didn't—don't you?" +</p> +<p> +She tried to put her arms round his neck, but he took her hands and held +them. "Would you like to think I was marrying you for what you have?—or +for any other reason whatever but for what you are?" +</p> +<p> +It being once more a question of her own sex, the obstinate line +appeared round her mouth. "But, Fred, I'd not be <i>me</i>, if I were—a +working girl," she replied. +</p> +<p> +"You might be something even better if you were," retorted he coldly. +"The only qualities I don't like about you are the surface qualities +that have been plated on in these surroundings. And if I thought it was +anything but just you that I was marrying, I'd lose no time about +leaving you. I'd not let myself degrade myself." +</p> +<p> +"Fred—that tone—and don't—please don't look at me like that!" she +begged. +</p> + +<div class="figure" style="width: 80%;"> +<a name="image-0003" href="images/img-03.jpg"><img src="images/img-03.jpg" width="100%" +alt="'Would you like to think I was marrying you for what you have?--Or for any other reason whatever but for what you are?'"></a><br /> +<b>"Would you like to think I was marrying you for what you have?—Or for any other reason whatever but for what you are?"</b> +</div> + +<p> +But his powerful glance searched on. He said, "Is it possible that you +and I are deceiving ourselves—and that we'll marry and wake up—and be +bored and dissatisfied—like so many of our friends?" +</p> +<p> +"No—no," she cried, wildly agitated. "Fred, dear we love each other. +You know we do. I don't use words as well as you do—and my mind works +in a queer way—Perhaps I didn't mean what I said. No matter. If my +love were put to the test—Fred, I don't ask anything more than that +your love for me would stand the tests my love for you would stand." +</p> +<p> +He caught her in his arms and kissed her with more passion than he had +ever felt for her before. "I believe you, Jo," he said. "I believe you." +</p> +<p> +"I love you so—that I could be jealous even of her—of that little girl +in your office. Fred, I didn't confess all the truth. It isn't true that +I thought her—a nobody. When she first came in here—it was in this +very room—I thought she was as near nothing as any girl I'd ever seen. +Then she began to change—as you said. And—oh, dearest, I can't help +hating her! And when I tried to get her away from you, and she wouldn't +come——" +</p> +<p> +"Away from me!" he cried, laughing. +</p> +<p> +"I felt as if it were like that," she pleaded. "And she wouldn't +come—and treated me as if she were queen and I servant—only politely, +I must say, for Heaven knows I don't want to injure her——" +</p> +<p> +"Shall I have her discharged?" +</p> +<p> +"Fred!" exclaimed she indignantly. "Do you think I could do such a +thing?" +</p> +<p> +"She'd easily get another job as good. Tetlow can find her one. Does +that satisfy you?" +</p> +<p> +"No," she confessed. "It makes me feel meaner than ever." +</p> +<p> +"Now, Jo, let's drop this foolish seriousness about nothing at all. +Let's drop it for good." +</p> +<p> +"Nothing at all—that's exactly it. I can't understand, Fred. What is +there about her that makes her haunt me? That makes me afraid she'll +haunt you?" +</p> +<p> +Norman felt a sudden thrill. He tightened his hold upon her hands +because his impulse had been to release them. "How absurd!" he said, +rather noisily. +</p> +<p> +"Isn't it, though?" echoed she. "Think of you and me almost quarreling +about such a trivial person." Her laugh died away. She shivered, cried, +"Fred, I'm superstitious about her. I'm—I'm—<i>afraid</i>!" And she flung +herself wildly into his arms. +</p> +<p> +"She <i>is</i> somewhat uncanny," said he, with a lightness he was far from +feeling. "But, dear—it isn't complimentary to me, is it?" +</p> +<p> +"Forgive me, dearest—I don't mean that. I couldn't mean that. But—I +<i>love</i> you so. Ever since I began to love you I've been looking round for +something to be afraid of. And this is the first chance you've given +me." +</p> +<p> +"<i>I've</i> given you!" mocked he. +</p> +<p> +She laughed hysterically. "I mean the first chance I've had. And I'm +doing the best I can with it." +</p> +<p> +They were in good spirits now, and for the rest of the evening were as +loverlike as always, the nearer together for the bit of rough sea they +had weathered so nicely. Neither spoke of Miss Hallowell. Each had +privately resolved never to speak of her to the other again. Josephine +was already regretting the frankness that had led her to expose a not +too attractive part of herself—and to exaggerate in his eyes the +importance of a really insignificant chit of a typewriter. When he went +to bed that night he was resolved to have Tetlow find Miss Hallowell a +job in another office. +</p> +<p> +"She certainly <i>is</i> uncanny," he said to himself. "I wonder why—I wonder +what the secret of her is. She's the first woman I ever ran across who +had a real secret. <i>Is</i> it real? I wonder." +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0007"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + V +</h2> +<p> +Toward noon the following day Norman, suddenly in need of a +stenographer, sent out for Miss Purdy, one of the three experts at +eighteen dollars a week who did most of the important and very +confidential work for the heads of the firm. When his door opened again +he saw not Miss Purdy but Miss Hallowell. +</p> +<p> +"Miss Purdy is sick to-day," said she. "Mr. Tetlow wishes to know if I +would do." +</p> +<p> +Norman shifted uneasily in his chair. "Just as +well—perfectly—certainly," he stammered. He was not looking at +her—seemed wholly occupied with the business he was preparing to +dispatch. +</p> +<p> +She seated herself in the usual place, at the opposite side of the broad +table. With pencil poised she fixed her gaze upon the unmarred page of +her open notebook. Instead of abating, his confusion increased. He could +not think of the subject about which he wished to dictate. First, he +noted how long her lashes were—and darker than her hair, as were her +well-drawn eyebrows also. Never had he seen so white a skin or one so +smooth. She happened to be wearing a blouse with a Dutch neck that day. +What a superb throat! What a line of beauty its gently swelling curve +made. Then his glance fell upon her lips, rosy-red, slightly pouted. And +what masses of dead gold hair—no, not gold, but of the white-gray of +wood ashes, and tinted with gold! No wonder it was difficult to tell +just what color her hair was. Hair like that was ready to be of any +color. And there were her arms, so symmetrical in her rather tight +sleeves, and emerging into view in the most delicate wrists. What a +marvelous skin! +</p> +<p> +"Have you ever posed?" +</p> +<p> +She startled and the color flamed in her cheeks. Her eyes shot a glance +of terror at him. "I—I," she stammered. Then almost defiantly, "Yes, I +did—for a while. But I didn't suppose anyone knew. At the time we +needed the money badly." +</p> +<p> +Norman felt deep disgust with himself for bursting out with such a +question, and for having surprised her secret. "There's nothing to be +ashamed of," he said gently. +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I'm not ashamed," she returned. Her agitation had subsided. "The +only reason I quit was because the work was terribly hard and the pay +small and uncertain. I was confused because they discharged me at the +last place I had, when they found out I had been a model. It was a +church paper office." +</p> +<p> +Again she poised her pencil and lowered her eyes. But he did not take +the hint. "Is there anything you would rather do than this sort of +work?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +"Nothing I could afford," replied she. +</p> +<p> +"If you had been kind to Miss Burroughs yesterday she would have helped +you." +</p> +<p> +"I couldn't afford to do that," said the girl in her quiet, reticent +way. +</p> +<p> +"To do what?" +</p> +<p> +"To be nice to anyone for what I could get out of it." +</p> +<p> +Norman smiled somewhat cynically. Probably the girl fancied she was +truthful; but human beings rarely knew anything about their real selves. +"What would you like to do?" +</p> +<p> +She did not answer his question until she had shrunk completely within +herself and was again thickly veiled with the expression which made +everyone think her insignificant. "Nothing I could afford to do," said +she. It was plain that she did not wish to be questioned further along +that line. +</p> +<p> +"The stage?" he persisted. +</p> +<p> +"I hadn't thought of it," was her answer. +</p> +<p> +"What then?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't think about things I can't have. I never made any definite +plans." +</p> +<p> +"But isn't it a good idea always to look ahead? As long as one has to be +moving, one might as well move in a definite direction." +</p> +<p> +She was waiting with pencil poised. +</p> +<p> +"There isn't much of a future at this business." +</p> +<p> +She shrank slightly. He felt that she regarded his remark as preparation +for a kindly hint that she was not giving satisfaction. . . . Well, why not +leave it that way? Perhaps she would quit of her own accord—would spare +him the trouble—and embarrassment—of arranging with Tetlow for another +place for her. He began to dictate—gave her a few sentences mockingly +different from his usual terse and clear statements—interrupted himself +with: +</p> +<p> +"You misunderstood me a while ago. I didn't mean you weren't doing your +work well. On the contrary, I think you'll soon be expert. But I thought +perhaps I might be able to help you to something you'd like better." +</p> +<p> +He listened to his own words in astonishment. What new freak of madness +was this? Instead of clearing himself of this uncanny girl, he was +proposing things to her that would mean closer relations. And what +reason had he to think she was fitted for anything but just what she was +now doing—doing indifferently well? +</p> +<p> +"Thank you," she said, so quietly that it seemed coldly, "but I'm +satisfied as I am." +</p> +<p> +Her manner seemed to say with polite and restrained plainness that she +was not in the least appreciative of his interest or of himself. But +this could not be. No girl in her position could fail to be grateful for +his interest. No woman, in all his life, had ever failed to respond to +his slightest advance. No, it simply could not be. She was merely shy, +and had a peculiar way of showing it. He said: +</p> +<p> +"You have no ambition?" +</p> +<p> +"That's not for a woman." +</p> +<p> +She was making her replies as brief as civility permitted. He observed +her narrowly. She was not shy, not embarrassed. What kind of game was +this? It could not be in sincere nature for a person in her position +thus to treat overtures, friendly and courteous overtures, from one in +his position. And never before—never—had a woman been thus +unresponsive. Instead of feeling relief that she had disentangled him +from the plight into which his impulsive offer had flung him, he was +piqued—angered—and his curiosity was inflamed as never before about +any woman. +</p> +<p> +The relations of the sexes are for the most part governed by traditions +of sex allurements and sex tricks so ancient that they have ceased to be +conscious and have become instinctive. One of these venerable first +principles is that mystery is the arch provoker. Norman, an old and +expert student of the great game—the only game for which the staidest +and most serious will abandon all else to follow its merry call—Norman +knew this trick of mystery. The woman veils herself and makes believe to +fly—an excellent trick, as good to-day as ever after five thousand +years of service. And he knew that in it lay the explanation for the +sudden and high upflaming of his interest in this girl. "What an ass I'm +making of myself!" reflected he. "When I care nothing about the girl, +why should I care about the mystery of her? Of course, it's some poor +little affair, a puzzle not worth puzzling out." +</p> +<p> +All true and clear enough. Yet seeing it did not abate his interest a +particle. She had veiled herself; she was pretending—perhaps +honestly—to fly. He rose and went to the window, stood with his back to +her, resumed dictating. But the sentences would not come. He whirled +abruptly. "I'm not ready to do the thing yet," he said. "I'll send for +you later." +</p> +<p> +Without a word or a glance she stood, took her book and went toward the +door. He gazed after her. He could not refrain from speaking again. "I'm +afraid you misunderstood my offer a while ago," said he, neither curt +nor friendly. "I forgot how such things from a man to a young woman +might be misinterpreted." +</p> +<p> +"I never thought of that," replied she unembarrassed. "It was simply +that I can't put myself under obligation to anyone." +</p> +<p> +As she stood there, her full beauty flashed upon him—the exquisite +form, the subtly graceful poise of her body, of her head—the loveliness +of that golden-hued white skin—the charm of her small rosy mouth—the +delicate, sensitive, slightly tilted nose—and her eyes—above all, her +eyes!—so clear, so sweet. Her voice had seemed thin and faint to him; +its fineness now seemed the rarest delicacy—the exactly fitting kind +for so evasive and delicate a beauty as hers. He made a slight bow of +dismissal, turned abruptly away. Never in all his life, strewn with +gallant experiences—never had a woman thus treated him, and never had a +woman thus affected him. "I am mad—stark mad!" he muttered. "A +ten-dollar-a-week typewriter, whom nobody on earth but myself would look +at a second time!" But something within him hurled back this scornful +fling. Though no one else on earth saw or appreciated—what of it? She +affected <i>him</i> thus—and that was enough. "<i>I</i> want her! . . . I <i>want</i> her! +I have never wanted a woman before." +</p> +<p> +He rushed into the dressing room attached to his office, plunged his +face into ice-cold water. This somewhat eased the burning sensation that +was becoming intolerable. Many were the unaccountable incidents in his +acquaintance with this strange creature; the most preposterous was this +sudden seizure. He realized now that his feeling for her had been like +the quiet, steady, imperceptible filling of a reservoir that suddenly +announces itself by the thunder and roar of a mighty cascade over the +dam. "This is madness—sheer madness! I am still master within myself. I +will make short work of this rebellion." And with an air of calmness so +convincing that he believed in it he addressed himself to the task of +sanity and wisdom lying plain before him. "A man of my position caught +by a girl like that! A man such as I am, caught by <i>any</i> woman whatever!" +It was grotesque. He opened his door to summon Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +The gate in the outside railing was directly opposite, and about thirty +feet away. Tetlow and Miss Hallowell were going out—evidently to lunch +together. She was looking up at the chief clerk with laughing eyes—they +seemed coquettish to the infuriated Norman. And Tetlow—the serious and +squab young ass was gazing at her with the expression men of the stupid +squab sort put on when they wish to impress a woman. At this spectacle, +at the vision of that slim young loveliness, that perfect form and +deliciously smooth soft skin, white beyond belief beneath its faintly +golden tint—the hot blood steamed up into Norman's brain, blinded his +sight, reddened it with desire and jealousy. He drew back, closed his +door with a bang. +</p> +<p> +"This is not I," he muttered. "What has happened? Am I insane?" +</p> +<hr> +<p> +When Tetlow returned from lunch the office boy on duty at the gate told +him that Mr. Norman wished to see him at once. Like all men trying to +advance along ways where their fellow men can help or hinder, the head +clerk was full of more or less clever little tricks thought out with a +view to making a good impression. One of them was to stamp upon all +minds his virtue of promptness—of what use to be prompt unless you +forced every one to feel how prompt you were? He went in to see Norman, +with hat in hand and overcoat on his back and one glove off, the other +still on. Norman was standing at a window, smoking a cigarette. His +appearance—dress quite as much as manner—was the envy of his +subordinate—as, indeed, it was of hundreds of the young men struggling +to rise down town. It was so exactly what the appearance of a man of +vigor and power and high position should be. Tetlow practiced it by the +quarter hour before his glass at home—not without progress in the +direction of a not unimpressive manner of his own. +</p> +<p> +As Tetlow stood at attention, Norman turned and advanced toward him. +"Mr. Tetlow," he began, in his good-humored voice with the never wholly +submerged under-note of sharpness, "is it your habit to go out to lunch +with the young ladies employed here? If so, I wish to suggest—simply to +suggest—that it may be bad for discipline." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow's jaw dropped a little. He looked at Norman, was astonished to +discover beneath a thin veneer of calm signs of greater agitation than +he had ever seen in him. "To-day was the first time, sir," he said. "And +I can't quite account for my doing it. Miss Hallowell has been here +several months. I never specially noticed her until the last few +days—when the question of discharging her came up. You may remember it +was settled by you." Norman flung his cigarette away and stalked to the +window. +</p> +<p> +"Mr. Norman," pursued Tetlow, "you and I have been together many years. +I esteem it my greatest honor that I am able—that you permit me—to +class you as my friend. So I'm going to give you a confidence—one that +really startles me. I called on Miss Hallowell last night." +</p> +<p> +Norman's back stiffened. +</p> +<p> +"She is even more charming in her own home. And—" Tetlow blushed and +trembled—"I am going to make her my wife if I can." +</p> +<p> +Norman turned, a mocking satirical smile unpleasantly sparkling in his +eyes and curling his mouth "Old man," he said, "I think you've gone +crazy." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow made a helpless gesture. "I think so myself. I didn't intend to +marry for ten years—and then—I had quite a different match in mind." +</p> +<p> +"What's the matter with you, Billy?" inquired Norman, inspecting him +with smiling, cruelly unfriendly eyes. +</p> +<p> +"I'm damned if I know, Norman," said the head clerk, assuming that his +friend was sympathetic and dropping into the informality of the old days +when they were clerks together in a small firm. "I'd have proposed to +her last night if I hadn't been afraid I'd lose her by being in such a +hurry. . . . You're in love yourself." +</p> +<p> +Norman startled violently. +</p> +<p> +"You're going to get married. Probably you can sympathize. You know how +it is to meet the woman you want and must have." +</p> +<p> +Norman turned away. +</p> +<p> +"I've had—or thought I had—rather advanced ideas on the subject of +women. I've always had a horror of being married for a living or for a +home or as an experiment or a springboard. My notion's been that I +wouldn't trust a woman who wasn't independent. And theoretically I still +think that's sound. But it doesn't work out in practice. A man has to +have been in love to be able to speak the last word on the sex +question." +</p> +<p> +Norman dropped heavily into his desk chair and rumpled his hair into +disorder. He muttered something—the head clerk thought it was an oath. +</p> +<p> +"I'd marry her," Tetlow went on, "if I knew she was simply using me in +the coldest, most calculating way. My only fear is that I shan't be able +to get her—that she won't marry me." +</p> +<p> +Norman sneered. "That's not likely," he said. +</p> +<p> +"No, it isn't," admitted Tetlow. "They—the Hallowells—are nice +people—of as good family as there is. But they're poor—very poor. +There's only her father and herself. The old man is a scientist—spends +most of his time at things that won't pay a cent—utterly impractical. A +gentleman—an able man, if a little cracked—at least he seemed so to me +who don't know much about scientific matters. But getting poorer +steadily. So I think she will accept me." +</p> +<p> +A gloomy, angry frown, like a black shadow, passed across Norman's face +and disappeared. "You'd marry her—on those terms?" he sneered. +</p> +<p> +"Of course I <i>hope</i> for better terms——" +</p> +<p> +Norman sprang up, strode to the window and turned his back. +</p> +<p> +"But I'm prepared for the worst. The fact is, she treats me as if she +didn't care a rap for the honor of my showing her attention." +</p> +<p> +"A trick, Billy. An old trick." +</p> +<p> +"Maybe so. But—I really believe she doesn't realize. She's queer—has +been queerly brought up. Yes, I think she doesn't appreciate. Then, too, +she's young and light—almost childish in some ways. . . . I don't blame +you for being disgusted with me, Fred. But—damn it, what's a man to +do?" +</p> +<p> +"Cure himself!" exploded Norman, wheeling violently on his friend. "You +must act like a man. Billy, such a marriage is ruin for you. How can we +take you into partnership next year? When you marry, you must marry in +the class you're moving toward, not in any of those you're leaving +behind." +</p> +<p> +"Do you suppose I haven't thought of all that?" rejoined Tetlow +bitterly. "But I can't help myself. It's useless for me to say I'll try. +I shan't try." +</p> +<p> +"Don't you want to get over this?" demanded Norman fiercely. +</p> +<p> +"Of course—No—I don't. Fred, you'd think better of me if you knew +her. You've never especially noticed her. She's beautiful." +</p> +<p> +Norman dropped to his chair again. +</p> +<p> +"Really—beautiful," protested Tetlow, assuming that the gesture was one +of disgusted denial. "Take a good look at her, Norman, before you +condemn her. I never was so astonished as when I discovered how +good-looking she is. I don't quite know how it is, but I suppose nobody +ever happened to see how—how lovely she is until I just chanced to see +it." At a rudely abrupt gesture from Norman he hurried on, eagerly +apologetic, "And if you talk with her—She's very reserved. But she's +the lady through and through—and has a good mind. . . . At least, I +think she has. I'll admit a man in love is a poor judge of a woman's +mind. But, anyhow, I <i>know</i> she's lovely to look at. You'll see it +yourself, now that I've called your attention to it. You can't fail to +see it." +</p> +<p> +Norman threw himself back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his +head. "<i>Why</i> do you want to marry her?" he inquired, in a tone his +sensitive ear approved as judicial. +</p> +<p> +"How can I tell?" replied the head clerk irritably. "Does a man ever +know?" +</p> +<p> +"Always—when he's sensibly in love." +</p> +<p> +"But when he's just in love? That's what ails me," retorted Tetlow, with +a sheepish look and laugh. +</p> +<p> +"Billy, you've got to get over this. I can't let you make a fool of +yourself." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow's fat, smooth, pasty face of the overfed, underexercised +professional man became a curious exhibit of alarm and obstinacy. +</p> +<p> +"You've got to promise me you'll keep away from her—except at the +office—for say, a week. Then—we'll see." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow debated. +</p> +<p> +"It's highly improbable that anyone else will discover these +irresistible charms. There's no one else hanging round?" +</p> +<p> +"No one, as I told you the other day, when you questioned me about her." +</p> +<p> +Norman shifted, looked embarrassed. +</p> +<p> +"I hope I didn't give you the impression I was ashamed of loving her or +would ever be ashamed of her anywhere?" continued Tetlow, a very +loverlike light in his usually unromantic eyes. "If I did, it wasn't +what I meant—far from it. You'll see, when I marry her, Norman. You'll +be congratulating me." +</p> +<p> +Norman sprang up again. "This is plain lunacy, Tetlow. I am amazed at +you—amazed!" +</p> +<p> +"Get acquainted with her, Mr. Norman," pleaded the subordinate. "Do it, +to oblige me. Don't condemn us——" +</p> +<p> +"I wish to hear nothing more!" cried Norman violently. "Another thing. +You must find her a place in some other office—at once." +</p> +<p> +"You're right, sir," assented Tetlow. "I can readily do that." +</p> +<p> +Norman scowled at him, made an imperious gesture of dismissal. Tetlow, +chopfallen but obdurate, got himself speedily out of sight. +</p> +<p> +Norman, with hands deep in his pockets, stared out among the skyscrapers +and gave way to a fit of remorse. It was foreign to his nature to do +petty underhanded tricks. Grand strategy—yes. At that he was an adept, +and not the shiftiest, craftiest schemes he had ever devised had given +him a moment's uneasiness. But to be driving a ten-dollar-a-week +typewriter out of her job—to be maneuvering to deprive her of a for +her brilliant marriage—to be lying to an old and loyal retainer who had +helped Norman full as much and as often as Norman had helped him—these +sneaking bits of skullduggery made him feel that he had sunk indeed. But +he ground his teeth together and his eyes gleamed wickedly. "He shan't +have her, damn him!" he muttered. "She's not for him." +</p> +<p> +He summoned Tetlow, who was obviously low in mind as the result of +revolving the things that had been said to him. "Billy," he began in a +tone so amiable that he was ashamed for himself, "you'll not forget I +have your promise?" +</p> +<p> +"What did I promise?" cried Tetlow, his voice shrill with alarm. +</p> +<p> +"Not to see her, except at the office, for a week." +</p> +<p> +"But I've promised her father I'd call this evening. He's going to show +me some experiments." +</p> +<p> +"You can easily make an excuse—business." +</p> +<p> +"But I don't want to," protested the head clerk. "What's the use? I've +got my mind made up. Norman, I'd hang on after her if you fired me out +of this office for it. And I can't rest—I'm fit for nothing—until +this matter's settled. I came very near taking her aside and proposing +to her, just after I went out of here a while ago." +</p> +<p> +"You <i>damn</i> fool!" cried Norman, losing all control of himself. "Take the +afternoon express for Albany instead of Harcott and attend to those +registrations and arrange for those hearings. I'll do my best to save +you. I'll bring the girl in here and keep her at work until you get out +of the way." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow glanced at his friend; then the tears came into his eyes. "You're +a hell of a friend!" he ejaculated. "And I thought you'd sympathize +because you were in love." +</p> +<p> +"I do sympathize, Billy," Norman replied with an abrupt change to +shamefaced apology. "I sympathize more than you know. I feel like a dog, +doing this. But it can't result in any harm, and I want you to get a +little fresh air in that hot brain of yours before you commit yourself. +Be reasonable, old man. Suppose you rushed ahead and proposed—and she +accepted—and then, after a few days, you came to. What about her? You +must act on the level, Tetlow. Do the fair thing by yourself and by +her." +</p> +<p> +Norman had often had occasion to feel proud of the ingenuity and +resourcefulness of his brain. He had never been quite so proud as he was +when he finished that speech. It pacified Tetlow; it lightened his own +sense of guilt; it gave him a respite. +</p> +<p> +Tetlow rewarded Norman with the look that in New York is the equivalent +of the handclasp friend seeks from friend in times of stress. "You're +right, Fred. I'm much obliged to you. I haven't been considering <i>her</i> +side of it enough. A man ought always to think of that. The women—poor +things—have a hard enough time to get on, at best." +</p> +<p> +Norman's smile was characteristically cynical. Sentimentality amused +him. "I doubt if there are more female wrecks than male wrecks scattered +about the earth," rejoined he. "And I suspect the fact isn't due to the +gentleness of man with woman, either. Don't fret for the ladies, Tetlow. +They know how to take care of themselves. They know how to milk with a +sure and a steady hand. You may find it out by depressing experience +some day." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow saw the aim. His obstinate, wretched expression came back. "I +don't care. I've got——" +</p> +<p> +"You went over that ground," interrupted Norman impatiently. "You'd +better be catching the train." +</p> +<p> +As Tetlow withdrew, he rang for an office boy and sent him to summon +Miss Hallowell. +</p> +<p> +Norman had been reasoning with himself—with the aid of the self that +was both better and more worldly wise. He felt that his wrestlings had +not been wholly futile. He believed he had got the strength to face the +girl with a respectful mind, with a mind resolute in duty—if not +love—toward Josephine Burroughs. "I <i>love</i> Josephine," he said to +himself. "My feeling for this girl is some sort of physical attraction. +I certainly shall be able to control it enough to keep it within myself. +And soon it will die out. No doubt I've felt much the same thing as +strongly before. But it didn't take hold because I was never bound +before—never had the sense of the necessity for restraint. That sense +is always highly dangerous for my sort of man." +</p> +<p> +This sounded well. He eyed the entering girl coldly, said in a voice +that struck him as excellent indifference, "Bring your machine in here, +Miss Hallowell, and recopy these papers. I've made some changes. If you +spoil any sheets, don't throw them away, but return everything to me." +</p> +<p> +"I'm always careful about the waste-paper baskets," said she, "since +they warned me that there are men who make a living searching the waste +thrown out of offices." +</p> +<p> +He made no reply. He could not have spoken if he had tried. Once more +the spell had seized him—the spell of her weird fascination for him. As +she sat typewriting, with her back almost toward him, he sat watching +her and analyzing his own folly. He knew that diagnosing a disease does +not cure it; but he found an acute pleasure in lingering upon all the +details of the effect she had upon his nerves. He did not dare move from +his desk, from the position that put a huge table and a revolving case +of reference books between them. He believed that if he went nearer he +would be unable to resist seizing her in his arms and pouring out the +passion that was playing along his nerves as the delicate, intense flame +flits back and forth along the surface of burning alcohol. +</p> +<p> +A knock at the door. He plunged into his papers. "Come!" he called. +</p> +<p> +Tetlow thrust in his head. Miss Hallowell did not look up. "I'm off," +the head clerk said. His gaze was upon the unconscious girl—a gaze that +filled Norman with longing to strangle him. +</p> +<p> +"Telegraph me from Albany as soon as you get there," said Norman. +"Telegraph me at my club." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow was gone. The machine tapped monotonously on. The barette which +held the girl's hair at the back was so high that the full beauty of the +nape of her neck was revealed. That wonderful white skin with the golden +tint! How soft—yet how firm—her flesh looked! How slender yet how +strong was her build—— +</p> +<p> +"How do you like Tetlow?" he asked, because speak to her he must. +</p> +<p> +She glanced up, turned in her chair. He quivered before the gaze from +those enchanting eyes of hers. "I beg pardon," she said. "I didn't +hear." +</p> +<p> +"Tetlow—how do you like him?" +</p> +<p> +"He is very kind to me—to everyone." +</p> +<p> +"How did your father like him?" +</p> +<p> +He confidently expected some sign of confusion, but there was no sign. +"Father was delighted with him," she said merrily. "He took an interest +in the work father's doing—and that was enough." +</p> +<p> +She was about to turn back to her task. He hastened to ask another +question. "Couldn't I meet your father some time? What Tetlow told me +interested me greatly." +</p> +<p> +"Father would be awfully pleased," replied she. "But—unless you really +care about—biology, I don't think you'd like coming." +</p> +<p> +"I'm interested in everything interesting," replied Norman dizzily. What +was he saying? What was he doing? What folly was his madness plunging +him into? +</p> +<p> +"You can come with Mr. Tetlow when he gets back." +</p> +<p> +"I'd prefer to talk with him alone," said Norman. "Perhaps I might see +some way to be of service to him." +</p> +<p> +Her expression was vividly different from what it had been when he +offered to help <i>her</i>. She became radiant with happiness. "I do hope +you'll come," she said—her voice very low and sweet, in the effort she +was making to restrain yet express her feelings. +</p> +<p> +"When? This evening?" +</p> +<p> +"He's always at home." +</p> +<p> +"You'll be there?" +</p> +<p> +"I'm always there, too. We have no friends. It's not easy to make +acquaintances in the East—congenial acquaintances." +</p> +<p> +"I'd want you to be there," he explained with great care, "because you +could help him and me in getting acquainted." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, he'll talk freely—to anyone. He talks only the one subject. He +never thinks of anything else." +</p> +<p> +She was resting her crossed arms on the back of her chair and, with her +chin upon them, was looking at him—a childlike pose and a childlike +expression. He said: "You are <i>sure</i> you are twenty?" +</p> +<p> +She smiled gayly. "Nearly twenty-one." +</p> +<p> +"Old enough to be in love." +</p> +<p> +She lifted her head and laughed. She had charming white teeth—small and +sharp and with enough irregularity to carry out her general suggestion +of variability. "Yes, I shall like that, when it comes," she said; "But +the chances are against it just now." +</p> +<p> +"There's Tetlow." +</p> +<p> +She was much amused. "Oh, he's far too old and serious." +</p> +<p> +Norman felt depressed. "Why, he's only thirty-five." +</p> +<p> +"But I'm not twenty-one," she reminded him. "I'd want some one of my own +age. I'm tired of being so solemn. If I had love, I'd expect it to +change all that." +</p> +<p> +Evidently a forlorn and foolish person—and doubtless thinking of him, +two years the senior of Tetlow and far more serious, as an elderly +person, in the same class with her father. "But you like biology?" he +said. The way to a cure was to make her talk on. +</p> +<p> +"I don't know anything about it," said she, looking as frivolous as a +butterfly or a breeze-bobbed blossom. "I listen to father, but it's all +beyond me." +</p> +<p> +Yes—a light-weight. They could have nothing in common. She was a mere +surface—a thrillingly beautiful surface, but not a full-fledged woman. +So little did conversation with him interest her, she had taken +advantage of the short pause to resume her work. No, she had not the +faintest interest in him. It wasn't a trick of coquetry; it was genuine. +He whom women had always bowed before was unable to arouse in her a +spark of interest. She cared neither for what he had nor for what he +was, in himself. This offended and wounded him. He struggled sulkily +with his papers for half an hour. Then he fell to watching her again +and—— +</p> +<p> +"You must not neglect to give me your address," he said. "Write it on a +slip of paper after you finish. I might forget it." +</p> +<p> +"Very well," she replied, but did not turn round. +</p> +<p> +"Why, do you think, did Tetlow come to see you?" he asked. He felt +cheapened in his own eyes—he, the great man, the arrived man, the +fiance of Josephine Burroughs, engaged in this halting and sneaking +flirtation! But he could not restrain himself. +</p> +<p> +She turned to answer. "Mr. Tetlow works very hard and has few friends. +He had heard of my father and wanted to meet him—just like you." +</p> +<p> +"Naturally," murmured Norman, in confusion. "I thought—perhaps—he was +interested in <i>you</i>." +</p> +<p> +She laughed outright—and he had an entrancing view of the clean rosy +interior of her mouth. "In <i>me</i>?—Mr. Tetlow? Why, he's too serious and +important for a girl like me." +</p> +<p> +"Then he bored you?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, no. I like him. He is a good man—thoroughly good." +</p> +<p> +This pleased Norman immensely. It may be fine to be good, but to be +called good—that is somehow a different matter. It removes a man at +once from the jealousy-provoking class. "Good exactly describes him," +said Norman. "He wouldn't harm a fly. In love he'd be ridiculous." +</p> +<p> +"Not with a woman of his own age and kind," protested she. "But I'm +neglecting my work." +</p> +<p> +And she returned to it with a resolute manner that made him ashamed to +interrupt again—especially after the unconscious savage rebukes she had +administered. He sat there fighting against the impulse to watch +her—denouncing himself—appealing to pride, to shame, to prudence—to +his love for Josephine—to the sense of decency that restrains a hunter +from aiming at a harmless tame song bird. But all in vain. He +concentrated upon her at last, stared miserably at her, filled with +longing and dread and shame—and longing, and yet more longing. +</p> +<p> +When she finished and stood at the other side of the desk, waiting for +him to pass upon her work, she must have thought he was in a profound +abstraction. He did not speak, made a slight motion with his hand to +indicate that she was to go. Shut in alone, he buried his face in his +arms. "What madness!" he groaned. "If I loved her, there'd be some +excuse for me. But I don't. I couldn't. Yet I seem ready to ruin +everything, merely to gratify a selfish whim—an insane whim." +</p> +<p> +On top of the papers she had left he saw a separate slip. He drew it +toward him, spread it out before him. Her address. An unknown street in +Jersey City! +</p> +<p> +"I'll not go," he said aloud, pushing the slip away. Go? Certainly not. +He had never really meant to go. He would, of course, keep his +engagement with Josephine. "And I'll not come down town until she has +taken another job and has caught Tetlow. I'll stop this idiocy of trying +to make an impression on a person not worth impressing. What weak +vanity—to be piqued by this girl's lack of interest!" +</p> +<p> +Nevertheless—he at six o'clock telephoned to the Burroughs' house that +he was detained down town. He sent away his motor, dined alone in the +station restaurant in Jersey City. And at half past seven he set out in +a cab in search of—what? He did not dare answer that interrogation. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0008"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + VI +</h2> +<p> +Like many another chance explorer from New York, Norman was surprised to +discover that, within a few minutes of leaving the railway station, his +cab was moving through a not unattractive city. He expected to find the +Hallowells in a tenement in some more or less squalid street overhung +with railway smoke and bedaubed with railway grime. He was delighted +when the driver assured him that there was no mistake, that the +comfortable little cottage across the width of the sidewalk and a small +front yard was the sought-for destination. +</p> +<p> +"Wait, please," he said to the cabman. "Or, if you like, you can go to +that corner saloon down there. I'll know where to find you." And he gave +him half a dollar. +</p> +<p> +The cabman hesitated between two theories of this conduct—whether it +was the generosity it seemed or was a ruse to "side step" payment. +He—or his thirst—decided for the decency of human nature; he drove +confidingly away. Norman went up the tiny stoop and rang. The sound of a +piano, in the room on the ground floor where there was light, abruptly +ceased. The door opened and Miss Hallowell stood before him. She was +throughout a different person from the girl of the office. She had +changed to a tight-fitting pale-blue linen dress made all in one piece. +Norman could now have not an instant's doubt about the genuineness, the +bewitching actuality, of her beauty. The wonder was how she could +contrive to conceal so much of it for the purposes of business. It was a +peculiar kind of beauty—not the radiant kind, but that which shines +with a soft glow and gives him who sees it the delightful sense of being +its original and sole discoverer. An artistic eye—or an eye that +discriminates in and responds to feminine loveliness—would have been +captivated, as it searched in vain for flaw. +</p> +<p> +If Norman anticipated that she would be nervous before the task of +receiving in her humbleness so distinguished a visitor, he must have +been straightway disappointed. Whether from a natural lack of that sense +of social differences which is developed to the most pitiful +snobbishness in New York or from her youth and inexperience, she +received him as if he had been one of the neighbors dropping in after +supper. And it was Norman who was ill at ease. Nothing is more +disconcerting to a man accustomed to be received with due respect to his +importance than to find himself put upon the common human level and +compelled to "make good" all over again from the beginning. He felt—he +knew—that he was an humble candidate for her favor—a candidate with +the chances perhaps against him. +</p> +<p> +The tiny parlor had little in it beside the upright piano because there +was no space. But the paper, the carpet and curtains, the few pieces of +furniture, showed no evidence of bad taste, of painful failure at the +effort to "make a front." He was in the home of poor people, but they +were obviously people who made a highly satisfactory best of their +poverty. And in the midst of it all the girl shone like the one evening +star in the mystic opalescence of twilight. +</p> +<p> +"We weren't sure you were coming," said she. "I'll call father. . . . +No, I'll take you back to his workshop. He's easier to get acquainted +with there." +</p> +<p> +"Won't you play something for me first? Or—perhaps you sing?" +</p> +<p> +"A very little," she admitted. "Not worth hearing." +</p> +<p> +"I'm sure I'd like it. I want to get used to my surroundings before I +tackle the—the biology." +</p> +<p> +Without either hesitation or shyness, she seated herself at the piano. +"I'll sing the song I've just learned." And she began. Norman moved to +the chair that gave him a view of her in profile. For the next five +minutes he was witness to one of those rare, altogether charming visions +that linger in the memory in freshness and fragrance until memory itself +fades away. She sat very straight at the piano, and the position brought +out all the long lines of her figure—the long, round white neck and +throat, the long back and bosom, the long arms and legs—a series of +lovely curves. It has been scientifically demonstrated that pale blue is +pre-eminently the sex color. It certainly was pre-eminently <i>her</i> color, +setting off each and every one of her charms and suggesting the +roundness and softness and whiteness her drapery concealed. She was one +of those rare beings whose every pose is instinct with grace. And her +voice—It was small, rather high, at times almost shrill. But in every +note of its register there sounded a mysterious, melancholy-sweet call +to the responding nerves of man. +</p> +<p> +Before she got halfway through the song Norman was fighting against the +same mad impulse that had all but overwhelmed him as he watched her in +the afternoon. And when her last note rose, swelled, slowly faded into +silence, it seemed to him that had she kept on for one note more he +would have disclosed to her amazed eyes the insanity raging within him. +</p> +<p> +She turned on the piano stool, her hands dropped listlessly in her lap. +"Aren't those words beautiful?" she said in a dreamy voice. She was not +looking at him. Evidently she was hardly aware of his presence. +</p> +<p> +He had not heard a word. He was in no mood for mere words. "I've never +liked anything so well," he said. And he lowered his eyes that she might +not see what they must be revealing. +</p> +<p> +She rose. He made a gesture of protest. "Won't you sing another?" he +asked. +</p> +<p> +"Not after that," she said. "It's the best I know. It has put me out of +the mood for the ordinary songs." +</p> +<p> +"You are a dreamer—aren't you?" +</p> +<p> +"That's my real life," replied she. "I go through the other part just to +get to the dreams." +</p> +<p> +"What do you dream?" +</p> +<p> +She laughed carelessly. "Oh, you'd not be interested. It would seem +foolish to you." +</p> +<p> +"You're mistaken there," cried he. "The only thing that ever has +interested me in life is dreams—and making them come true." +</p> +<p> +"But not <i>my</i> kind of dreams. The only kind I like are the ones that +couldn't possibly come true." +</p> +<p> +"There isn't any dream that can't be made to come true." +</p> +<p> +She looked at him eagerly. "You think so?" +</p> +<p> +"The wildest ones are often the easiest." He had a moving voice himself, +and it had been known to affect listening ears hypnotically when he was +deeply in earnest, was possessed by one of those desires that conquer +men of will and then make them irresistible instruments. "What is your +dream?—happiness? . . . love?" +</p> +<p> +She gazed past him with swimming eyes, with a glance that seemed like a +brave bright bird exploring infinity. "Yes," she said under her breath. +"But it could never—never come true. It's too perfect." +</p> +<p> +"Don't doubt," he said, in a tone that fitted her mood as the rhythm of +the cradle fits the gentle breathing of the sleeping child. "Don't ever +doubt. And the dream will come true." +</p> +<p> +"You have been in love?" she said, under the spell of his look and tone. +</p> +<p> +He nodded slowly. "I am," he replied, and he was under the spell of her +beauty. +</p> +<p> +"Is it—wonderful?" +</p> +<p> +"Like nothing else on earth. Everything else seems—poor and +cheap—beside it." +</p> +<p> +He drew a step nearer. "But you couldn't love—not yet," he said. "You +haven't had the experience. You will have to learn." +</p> +<p> +"You don't know me," she cried. "I have been teaching myself ever since +I was a little girl. I've thought of nothing else most of the time. +Oh—" she clasped her white hands against her small bosom—"if I ever +have the chance, how much I shall give!" +</p> +<p> +"I know it! I know it!" he replied. "You will make some man happier than +ever man was before." His infatuation did not blind him to the fact that +she cared nothing about him, looked on him in the most unpersonal way. +But that knowledge seemed only to inflame him the more, to lash him on +to the folly of an ill-timed declaration. "I have felt how much you will +give—how much you will love—I've felt it from the second time I saw +you—perhaps from the first. I've never seen any woman who interested me +as you do—who drew me as you do—against my ambition—against my will. +I—I——" +</p> +<p> +He had been fighting against the words that would come in spite of him. +He halted now because the food of emotion suffocated speech. He stood +before her, ghastly pale and trembling. She did not draw back. She +seemed compelled by his will, by the force of his passion, to stay where +she was. But in her eyes was a fascinated terror—a fear of him—of the +passion that dominated him, a passion like the devils that made men gash +themselves and leap from precipices into the sea. To unaccustomed eyes +the first sight of passion is always terrifying and is usually +repellent. One must learn to adventure the big wave, the great hissing, +towering billow that conceals behind its menace the wild rapture of +infinite longing realized. +</p> +<p> +"I have frightened you?" he said. +</p> +<p> +"Yes," was her whispered reply. +</p> +<p> +"But it is your dream come true." +</p> +<p> +She shrank back—not in aversion, but gently. "No—it isn't my dream," +she replied. +</p> +<p> +"You don't realize it yet, but you will." +</p> +<p> +She shook her head positively. "I couldn't ever think of you in that +way." +</p> +<p> +He did not need to ask why. She had already explained when they were +talking of Tetlow. There was a finality in her tone that filled him with +despair. It was his turn to look at her in terror. What power this slim +delicate girl had over him! What a price she could exact if she but +knew! Knew? Why, he had told her—was telling her in look and tone and +gesture—was giving himself frankly into captivity—was prostrate, +inviting her to trample. His only hope of escape lay in her +inexperience—that she would not realize. In the insanities of passion, +as in some other forms of dementia, there is always left a streak of +reason—of that craft which leads us to try to get what we want as +cheaply as possible. Men, all but beside themselves with love, will +bargain over the terms, if they be of the bargaining kind by nature. +Norman was not a haggler. But common prudence was telling him how unwise +his conduct was, how he was inviting the defeat of his own purposes. +</p> +<p> +He waved his hand impatiently. "We'll see, my dear," he said with a +light good-humored laugh. "I mustn't forget that I came to see your +father." +</p> +<p> +She looked at him doubtfully. She did not understand—did not quite +like—this abrupt change of mood. It suggested to her simplicity a lack +of seriousness, of sincerity. "Do you really wish to see my father?" she +inquired. +</p> +<p> +"Why else should I come away over to Jersey City? Couldn't I have talked +with you at the office?" +</p> +<p> +This seemed convincing. She continued to study his face for light upon +the real character of this strange new sort of man. He regarded her with +a friendly humorous twinkle in his eyes. "Then I'll take you to him," +she said at length. She was by no means satisfied, but she could not +discover why she was dissatisfied. +</p> +<p> +"I can't possibly do you any harm," he urged, with raillery. +</p> +<p> +"No, I think not," replied she gravely. "But you mustn't say those +things!" +</p> +<p> +"Why not?" Into his eyes came their strongest, most penetrating look. "I +want you. And I don't intend to give you up. It isn't my habit to give +up. So, sooner or later I get what I go after." +</p> +<p> +"You make me—afraid," she said nervously. +</p> +<p> +"Of what?" laughed he. "Not of me, certainly. Then it must be of +yourself. You are afraid you will end by wanting me to want you." +</p> +<p> +"No—not that," declared she, confused by his quick cleverness of +speech. "I don't know what I'm afraid of." +</p> +<p> +"Then let's go to your father. . . . You'll not tell Tetlow what I've +said?" +</p> +<p> +"No." And once more her simple negation gave him a sense of her absolute +truthfulness. +</p> +<p> +"Or that I've been here?" +</p> +<p> +She looked astonished. "Why not?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh—office reasons. It wouldn't do for the others to know." +</p> +<p> +She reflected on this. "I don't understand," was the result of her +thinking. "But I'll do as you ask. Only, you must not come again." +</p> +<p> +"Why not? If they knew at the office, they'd simply talk—unpleasantly." +</p> +<p> +"Yes," she admitted hesitatingly after reflecting. "So you mustn't come +again. I don't like some kinds of secrets." +</p> +<p> +"But your father will know," he urged. "Isn't that enough for—for +propriety?" +</p> +<p> +"I can't explain. I don't understand, myself. I do a lot of things by +instinct." She, standing with her hands behind her back and with clear, +childlike eyes gravely upon him, looked puzzled but resolved. "And my +instinct tells me not to do anything secret about you." +</p> +<p> +This answer made him wonder whether after all he might not be too +positive in his derisive disbelief in women's instincts. He laughed. +"Well—now for your father." +</p> +<p> +The workshop proved to be an annex to the rear, reached by a passage +leading past a cosy little dining room and a kitchen where the order and +the shine of cleanness were notable even to masculine eyes. "You are +well taken care of," he said to her—she was preceding him to show the +way. +</p> +<p> +"We take care of ourselves," replied she. "I get breakfast before I +leave and supper after I come home. Father has a cold lunch in the +middle of the day, when he eats at all—which isn't often. And on +Saturday afternoons and Sundays I do the heavy work." +</p> +<p> +"You <i>are</i> a busy lady!" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, not so very busy. Father is a crank about system and order. He has +taught me to plan everything and work by the plans." +</p> +<p> +For the first time Norman had a glimmer of real interest in meeting her +father. For in those remarks of hers he recognized at once the rare +superior man—the man who works by plan, where the masses of mankind +either drift helplessly or are propelled by some superior force behind +them without which they would be, not the civilized beings they seem, +but even as the savage in the dugout or as the beast of the field. The +girl opened a door; a bright light streamed into the dim hallway. +</p> +<p> +"Father!" she called. "Here's Mr. Norman." +</p> +<p> +Norman saw, beyond the exquisite profile of the girl's head and figure, +a lean tallish old man, dark and gray, whose expression proclaimed him +at first glance no more in touch with the affairs of active life in the +world than had he been an inhabitant of Mars. +</p> +<p> +Mr. Hallowell gave his caller a polite glance and handshake—evidence of +merest surface interest in him, of amiable patience with an intruder. +Norman saw in the neatness of his clothing and linen further proof of +the girl's loving care. For no such abstracted personality as this would +ever bother about such things for himself. These details, however, +detained Norman only for a moment. In the presence of Hallowell it was +impossible not to concentrate upon him. +</p> +<p> +As we grow older what we are inside, the kind of thoughts we admit as +our intimates, appears ever more strongly in the countenance. This had +often struck Norman, observing the men of importance about him, noting +how as they aged the look of respectability, of intellectual +distinction, became a thinner and ever thinner veneer over the +selfishness and greediness, the vanity and sensuality and falsehood. But +never before had he been so deeply impressed by its truth. Evidently +Hallowell during most of his fifty-five or sixty years had lived the +purely intellectual life. The result was a look of spiritual beauty, the +look of the soul living in the high mountain, with serenity and vast +views constantly before it. Such a face fills with awe the ordinary +follower of the petty life of the world if he have the brains to know or +to suspect the ultimate truth about existence. It filled Norman with +awe. He hastily turned his eyes upon the girl—and once more into his +face came the resolute, intense, white-hot expression of a man doggedly +set upon an earthy purpose. +</p> +<p> +There was an embarrassed silence. Then the girl said, "Show him the +worms, father." +</p> +<p> +Mr. Hallowell smiled. "My little girl thinks no one has seen that sort +of thing," said he. "I can't make her believe it is one of the +commonplaces." +</p> +<p> +"You've never had anyone here more ignorant than I, sir," said Norman. +"The only claim on your courtesy I can make is that I'm interested and +that I perhaps know enough in a general way to appreciate." +</p> +<p> +Hallowell waved his hand toward a row of large glass bottles on one of +the many shelves built against the rough walls of the room. "Here they +are," said he. "It's the familiar illustration of how life may be +controlled." +</p> +<p> +"I don't understand," said Norman, eying the bottled worms curiously. +</p> +<p> +"Oh, it's simply the demonstration that life is a mere chemical +process——" +</p> +<p> +Norman had ceased to listen. The girl was moving toward the door by +which they had entered—was in the doorway—was gone! He stood in an +attitude of attention; Hallowell talked on and on, passing from one +thing to another, forgetting his caller and himself, thinking only of +the subject, the beloved science, that has brought into the modern world +a type of men like those who haunted the deserts and mountain caves in +the days when Rome was falling to pieces. With those saintly hermits of +the Dark Ages religion was the all-absorbing subject. And seeking their +own salvation was the goal upon which their ardent eyes were necessarily +bent. With these modern devotees, science—the search for the truth +about the world in which they live—is their religion; and their goal +is the redemption of the world. They are resolved—step by step, each +worker contributing his mite of discovery—to transform the world from a +hell of discomfort and pain and death to a heaven where men and women, +free and enlightened and perhaps immortal, shall live in happiness. They +even dream that perhaps this race of gods shall learn to construct the +means to take them to another and younger planet, when this Earth has +become too old and too cold and too nakedly clad in atmosphere properly +to sustain life. +</p> +<p> +From time to time Norman caught a few words of what Hallowell +said—words that made him respect the intelligence that had uttered +them. But he neither cared nor dared to listen. He refused to be +deflected from his one purpose. When he was as old as Hallowell, it +would be time to think of these matters. When he had snatched the things +he needed, it would be time to take the generous, wide, philosopher view +of life. But not yet. He was still young; he could—and he would!—drink +of the sparkling heady life of the senses, typefied now for him in this +girl. How her loveliness flamed in his blood—flamed as fiercely when he +could not see the actual, tangible charms as when they were radiating +their fire into his eyes and through his skin! First he must live that +glorious life of youth, of nerves aquiver with ecstasy. Also, he must +shut out the things of the intellect—must live in brain as well as in +body the animal life—in brain the life of cunning and strategy. For the +intellectual life would make it impossible to pursue such ignoble +things. First, material success and material happiness. Then, in its own +time, this intellectual life to which such men as Hallowell ever beckon, +from their heights, such men as Norman, deep in the wallow that seems to +them unworthy of them, even as they roll in it. +</p> +<p> +As soon as there came a convenient pause in Hallowell's talk, Norman +said, "And you devote your whole life to these things?" +</p> +<p> +Hallowell's countenance lost its fine glow of enthusiasm. "I have to +make a living. I do chemical analyses for doctors and druggists. That +takes most of my time." +</p> +<p> +"But you can dispatch those things quickly." +</p> +<p> +Hallowell shook his head. "There's only one way to do things. My clients +trust me. I can't shirk." +</p> +<p> +Norman smiled. He admired this simplicity. But it amused him, too; in a +world of shirking and shuffling, not to speak of downright dishonesty, +it struck the humorous note of the incongruous. He said: +</p> +<p> +"But if you could give all your time you would get on faster." +</p> +<p> +"Yes—if I had the time—<i>and</i> the money. To make the search exhaustive +would take money—five or six thousand a year, at the least. A great +deal more than I shall ever have." +</p> +<p> +"Have you tried to interest capitalists?" +</p> +<p> +Hallowell smiled ironically. "There is much talk about capitalists and +capital opening up things. But I have yet to learn of an instance of +their touching anything until they were absolutely sure of large +profits. Their failed enterprises are not miscarriage of noble purpose +but mistaken judgment, judgment blinded by hope and greed." +</p> +<p> +"I see that a philosopher can know life without living it," said Norman. +"But couldn't you put your scheme in such a way that some capitalist +would be led to hope?" +</p> +<p> +"I'd have to tell them the truth. Possibly I might discover something +with commercial value, but I couldn't promise. I don't think it is +likely." +</p> +<p> +Norman's eyes were on the door. His thoughts were reaching out to the +distant and faint sound of a piano. "Just what do you propose to search +for?" inquired he. +</p> +<p> +He tried to listen, because it was necessary that he have some knowledge +of Hallowell's plans. But he could not fix his attention. After a few +moments he glanced at his watch, interrupted with, "I think I understand +enough for the present. I've stayed longer than I intended. I must go +now. When I come again I may perhaps have some plan to propose." +</p> +<p> +"Plan?" exclaimed Hallowell, his eyes lighting up. +</p> +<p> +"I'm not sure—not at all sure," hastily added Norman. "I don't wish to +give you false hopes. The matter is extremely difficult. But I'll try. +I've small hope of success, but I'll try." +</p> +<p> +"My daughter didn't explain to me," said the scientist. "She simply said +one of the gentlemen for whom she worked was coming to look at my place. +I thought it was mere curiosity." +</p> +<p> +"So it was, Mr. Hallowell," said Norman. "But I have been interested. I +don't as yet see what can be done. I'm only saying that I'll think it +over." +</p> +<p> +"I understand," said Hallowell. He was trying to seem calm and +indifferent. But his voice had the tremulous note of excitement in it +and his hands fumbled nervously, touching evidence of the agitated +gropings of his mind in the faint, perhaps illusory, light of a +new-sprung hope. "Yes, I understand perfectly. Still—it is pleasant to +think about such a thing, even if there's no chance of it. I am very +fond of dreaming. That has been my life, you know." +</p> +<p> +Norman colored, moved uneasily. The fineness of this man's character +made him uncomfortable. He could pity Hallowell as a misguided failure. +He could dilate himself as prosperous, successful, much the more +imposing and important figure in the contrast. Yet there was somehow a +point of view at which, if one looked carefully, his own sort of man +shriveled and the Hallowell sort towered. +</p> +<p> +"I <i>must</i> be going," Norman said. "No—don't come with me. I know the way. +I've interrupted you long enough." And he put out his hand and, by those +little clevernesses of manner which he understood so well, made it +impossible for Hallowell to go with him to Dorothy. +</p> +<p> +He was glad when he shut the door between him and her father. He paused +in the hall to dispel the vague, self-debasing discomfort—and listening +to <i>her</i> voice as she sang helped wonderfully. There is no more trying +test of a personality than to be estimated by the voice alone. That test +produces many strange and startling results. Again and again it +completely reverses our judgment of the personality, either destroys or +enhances its charm. The voice of this girl, floating out upon the quiet +of the cottage—the voice, soft and sweet, full of the virginal passion +of dreams unmarred by experience—It was while listening to her voice, +as he stood there in the dimly lighted hall, that Frederick Norman +passed under the spell in all its potency. In taking an anaesthetic +there is the stage when we reach out for its soothing effects; then +comes the stage when we half desire, half fear; then a stage in which +fear is dominant, and we struggle to retain our control of the senses. +Last comes the stage when we feel the full power of the drug and relax +and yield or are beaten down into quiet. Her voice drew him into the +final stage, was the blow of the overwhelming wave's crest that crushed +him into submission. +</p> +<p> +She glanced toward the door. He was leaning there, an ominous calm in +his pale, resolute face. She gazed at him with widening eyes. And her +look was the look of helplessness before a force that may, indeed must, +be struggled against, but with the foregone certainty of defeat. +</p> +<p> +A gleam of triumph shone in his eyes. Then his expression changed to one +more conventional. "I stopped a moment to listen, on my way out," said +he. +</p> +<p> +Her expression changed also. The instinctive, probably unconscious +response to his look faded into the sweet smile, serious rather than +merry, that was her habitual greeting. "Mr. Tetlow didn't get away from +father so soon." +</p> +<p> +"I stayed longer than I intended. I found it even more interesting than +I had expected. . . . Would you be glad if your father could be free to +do as he likes and not be worried about anything?" +</p> +<p> +"That is one of my dreams." +</p> +<p> +"Well, it's certainly one that might come true. . . . And you—It's a +shame that you should have to do so much drudgery—both here and in New +York." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I don't mind about myself. It's all I'm fit for. I haven't any +talent—except for dreaming." +</p> +<p> +"And for making—<i>some</i> man's dreams come true." +</p> +<p> +Her gaze dropped. And as she hid herself she looked once more almost as +insignificant and colorless as he had once believed her to be. +</p> +<p> +"What are you thinking about?" +</p> +<p> +She shook her head slowly without raising her eyes or emerging from the +deep recess of her reserve. +</p> +<p> +"You are a mystery to me. I can't decide whether you are very innocent +or very—concealing." +</p> +<p> +She glanced inquiringly at him. "I don't understand," she said. +</p> +<p> +He smiled. "No more do I. I've seen so much of faking—in women as well +as in men—that it's hard for me to believe anyone is genuine." +</p> +<p> +"Do you think I am trying to deceive you? About what?" +</p> +<p> +He made an impatient gesture—impatience with his credulity where she +was concerned. "No matter. I want to make you happy—because I want you +to make me happy." +</p> +<p> +Her eyes became as grave as a wondering child's. "You are laughing at +me," she said. +</p> +<p> +"Why do you say that?" +</p> +<p> +"Because I could not make you happy." +</p> +<p> +"Why not?" +</p> +<p> +"What could a serious man like you find in me?" +</p> +<p> +His intense, burning gaze held hers. "Some time I will tell you." +</p> +<p> +She shut herself within herself like a flower folding away its beauty +and leaving exposed only the underside of its petals. It was impossible +to say whether she understood or was merely obeying an instinct. +</p> +<p> +He watched her a moment in silence. Then he said: +</p> +<p> +"I am mad about you—mad. You <i>must</i> understand. I can think only of you. +I am insane with jealousy of you. I want you—I must have you." +</p> +<p> +He would have seized her in his arms, but the look of sheer amazement +she gave him protected her where no protest or struggle would. "You?" +she said. "Did you really mean it? I thought you were just talking." +</p> +<p> +"Can't you see that I mean it?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes—you look as if you did. But I can't believe it. I could never +think of you in that way." +</p> +<p> +Once more that frank statement of indifference infuriated him. He <i>must</i> +compel her to feel—he must give that indifference the lie—and at once! +He caught her in his arms. He rained kisses upon her pale face. She made +not the least resistance, but seemed dazed. "I will teach you to love +me," he cried, drunk now with the wine of her lips, with the perfume of +her exquisite youth. "I will make you happy. We shall be mad with +happiness." +</p> +<p> +She gently freed herself. "I don't believe I could ever think of you in +that way." +</p> +<p> +"Yes, darling—you will. You can't help loving where you are loved so +utterly." +</p> +<p> +She gazed at him wonderingly—the puzzled wonder of a child. +"You—love—me?" she said slowly. +</p> +<p> +"Call it what you like. I am mad about you. I have forgotten +everything—pride—position—things you can't imagine—and I care for +nothing but you." +</p> +<p> +And again he was kissing her with the soft fury of fire; and again she +was submitting with the passive, dazed expression that seemed to add to +his passion. To make her feel! To make her respond! He, whom so many +women had loved—women of position, of fame for beauty, of social +distinction or distinction as singers, players—women of society and +women of talent all kinds of worth-while women—they had cared, had run +after him, had given freely all he had asked and more. And this +girl—nobody at all—she had nothing for him. +</p> +<p> +He held her away from him, cried angrily: "What is the matter with you? +What is the matter with me?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't understand," she said. "I wish you wouldn't kiss me so much." +</p> +<p> +He released her, laughed satirically. "Oh—you are playing a game. I +might have known." +</p> +<p> +"I don't understand," said she. "A while ago you said you loved me. Now +you act as if you didn't like me at all." And she smiled gayly at him, +pouting her lips a little. Once more her beauty was shining. It made his +nerves quiver to see the color in her pure white skin where he had +kissed her. +</p> +<p> +"I don't care whether it is a game or not," he cried. And he was about +to seize her again, when she repulsed him. He crushed her resistance, +held her tight in his arms. +</p> +<p> +"You frighten me," she murmured. "You—hurt me." +</p> +<p> +He released her. "What do you want?" he cried. "Don't you care at all?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, yes. I like you—very much. I have from the first time I saw you. +But you seem older—and more serious." +</p> +<p> +"Never mind about that. We are going to love each other—and I am going +to make you and your father happy." +</p> +<p> +"If you make father happy I will do anything for you. I don't want +anything myself—but he is getting old and sometimes his despair is +terrible." There were tears in her voice—tears and the most touching +tenderness. "He has some great secret that he wants to discover, and he +is afraid he will die without having had the chance." +</p> +<p> +"You will love me if I make your father happy?" +</p> +<p> +He knew it was the question of a fool, but he so longed to hear from her +lips some word to give him hope that he could not help asking it. She +said: +</p> +<p> +"Love you as—as you seem to love me? Not that same way. I don't feel +that way toward you. But I will love you in my own way." +</p> +<p> +He observed her with penetrating eyes. Was this speech of hers innocence +or calculation? He could get no clue to the truth. He saw nothing but +innocence; the teaching of experience warned him to believe in nothing +but guile. He hid his doubt and chagrin behind a mocking smile. "As you +please," said he. "I will do my part. Then—we'll see. . . . Do you care +about anyone else—in <i>my</i> way of loving, I mean?" +</p> +<p> +It was again the question of an infatuated fool, and put in an +infatuated fool's way. For, if she were a "deep one," how could he hope +to get the truth? But her answer reassured him. "No," she said—her +simple, direct negation that had a convincing power he had never seen +equaled. +</p> +<p> +"If I ever knew of another man's touching you," he said, "I'd feel like +strangling him." He laughed at himself. "Not that I should strangle him. +That sort of thing isn't done any more. But I'd do something devilish." +</p> +<p> +"But I haven't promised not to kiss anyone else," she said. "Why should +I? I don't love you." +</p> +<p> +He looked at her strangely. "But you're going to love me," he said. +</p> +<p> +She shrank within herself again. She looked at him with uneasy eyes. +"You won't kiss me any more until I tell you that I do love you?" she +asked with the gravity and pathos and helplessness of a child. +</p> +<p> +"Don't you want to learn to love me?—to learn to love?" +</p> +<p> +She was silent—a silence that maddened him. +</p> +<p> +"Don't be afraid to speak," he said irritably. "What are you thinking?" +</p> +<p> +"That I don't want you to kiss me—and that I do want father to be +happy." +</p> +<p> +Was this guile? Was it innocence? He put his arms round her. "Look at +me," he said. +</p> +<p> +She gazed at him frankly. +</p> +<p> +"You like me?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes." +</p> +<p> +"Why don't you want me to kiss you?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't know. It makes me—dislike you." +</p> +<p> +He released her. She laid her hand on his arm eagerly. "Please—" she +implored. "I don't mean to hurt you. I wouldn't offend you for anything. +Only—when you ask me a question—mustn't I tell you the truth?" +</p> +<p> +"Always," he said, believing in her, in spite of the warnings of cynical +worldliness. "I don't know whether you are sincere or not—as yet. So +for the present I'll give you the benefit of the doubt." He stood back +and looked at her from head to foot. "You are beautiful!—perfect," he +said in a low voice. He laughed. "I'll resist the temptation to kiss you +again. I must go now. About your father—I'll see what can be done." +</p> +<p> +She stood with her hands behind her back, looking up at him with an +expression he could not fathom. Suddenly she advanced, put up her lips +and said gravely, +</p> +<p> +"Won't you kiss me?" +</p> +<p> +He eyed her quizzically. "Oh—you've changed your mind?" +</p> +<p> +She shook her head. +</p> +<p> +"Then why do you ask me to kiss you?" +</p> +<p> +"Because of what you said about father." +</p> +<p> +He laughed and kissed her. And then she, too, laughed. He said, "Not for +my own sake—not a little bit?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, yes," she cried, "when you kiss me that way. I like to be kissed. I +am very affectionate." +</p> +<p> +He laughed again. "You <i>are</i> a queer one. If it's a game, it's a good one. +Is it a game?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't know," said she gayly. "Good night. This is dreadfully late for +me." +</p> +<p> +"Good night," he said, and they shook hands. "Do you like me better—or +less?" +</p> +<p> +"Better," was her prompt, apparently honest reply. +</p> +<p> +"Curiously enough, I'm beginning to <i>like</i> you," said he. "Now don't ask +me what I mean by that. If you don't know already, you'll not find out +from me." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, but I do know," cried she. "The way you kissed me—that was one +thing. The way you feel toward me now—that's a different thing. Isn't +it so?" +</p> +<p> +"Exactly. I see we are going to get on." +</p> +<p> +"Yes, indeed." +</p> +<p> +They shook hands again in friendliest fashion, and she opened the front +door for him. And her farewell smile was bright and happy. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0009"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + VII +</h2> +<p> +In the cold clear open he proceeded to take the usual account of +stock—with dismal results. She had wound him round her fingers, had +made him say only the things he should not have said, and leave unsaid +the things that might have furthered his purposes. He had conducted the +affair ridiculously—"just what is to be expected of an infatuated +fool." However, there was no consolation in the discovery that he was +reduced, after all these years of experience, to the common level—man +weak and credulous in his dealings with woman. He hoped that his disgust +with himself would lead on to disgust, or, rather, distaste for her. It +is the primal instinct of vanity to dislike and to shun those who have +witnessed its humiliation. +</p> +<p> +"I believe I am coming to my senses," he said. And he ventured to call +her up before him for examination and criticism. This as he stood upon +the forward deck of the ferry with the magnificent panorama of New York +before him. New York! And he, of its strong men, of the few in all that +multitude who had rank and power—he who had won as his promised wife +the daughter of one of the dozen mighty ones of the nation! What an +ill-timed, what an absurd, what a crazy step down this excursion of +his! And for what? There he summoned her before him. And at the first +glance of his fancy at her fair sweet face and lovely figure, he +quailed. He was hearing her voice again. He was feeling the yield of her +smooth, round form to his embrace, the yield of her smooth white cheek +to his caress. In his nostrils was the fragrance of her youth, the +matchless perfume of nature, beyond any of the distillations of art in +its appeal to his normal and healthy nerves. And he burned with the fire +only she could quench. "I must—I must.—My God, I <i>must</i>!" he muttered. +</p> +<p> +When he reached home, he asked whether his sister was in. The butler +said that Mrs. Fitzhugh had just come from the theater. In search of +her, he went to the library, found her seated there with a book and a +cigarette, her wrap thrown back upon her chair. "Come out to supper with +me, Ursula," he said. "I'm starved and bored." +</p> +<p> +"Why, you're not dressed!" exclaimed his sister. "I thought you were at +the Cameron dance with Josephine." +</p> +<p> +"Had to cut it out," replied he curtly. "Will you come?" +</p> +<p> +"I can't eat, but I'll drink. Yes, let's have a spree. It's been years +since we had one—not since we were poor. Let's not go to a <i>deadly</i> +respectable place. Let's go where there are some of the other kind, +too." +</p> +<p> +"But I must have food. Why not the Martin?" +</p> +<p> +"That'll do—though I'd prefer something a little farther up Broadway." +</p> +<p> +"The Martin is gay enough. The truth is, there's nothing really gay any +more. There's too much money. Money suffocates gayety." +</p> +<p> +To the Martin they went, and he ordered an enormous supper—one of those +incredible meals for which he was famous. They dispatched a quart of +champagne before the supper began to come, he drinking at least two +thirds of it. He drank as much while he was eating—and called for a +third bottle when the coffee was served. He had eaten half a dozen big +oysters, a whole guinea hen, a whole portion of salad, another of +Boniface cheese, with innumerable crackers. +</p> +<p> +"If I could eat as you do!" sighed Ursula enviously. "Yet it's only one +of your accomplishments." +</p> +<p> +"I'm not eating much nowadays," said he gloomily. "I'm losing my +appetite." And he lit a long black cigar and swallowed half a large +glass of the champagne. "Nothing tastes good—not even champagne." +</p> +<p> +"There <i>is</i> something wrong with you," said Ursula. "Did you ask me out +for confidences, or for advice—or for both?" +</p> +<p> +"None of them," replied he. "Only for company. I knew I'd not be able to +sleep for hours, and I wanted to put off the time when I'd be alone." +</p> +<p> +"I wish I had as much influence with you as you have with me," said +Ursula, by way of preparation for confidences. +</p> +<p> +"Influence? Don't I do whatever you say?" +</p> +<p> +She laughed. "Nobody has influence over you," she said. +</p> +<p> +"Not even myself," replied he morosely. +</p> +<p> +"Well—that talking-to you gave me has had its effect," proceeded Mrs. +Fitzhugh. "It set me to thinking. There are other things besides +love—man and woman love. I've decided to—to behave myself and give +poor Clayton a chance to rest." She smiled, a little maliciously. "He's +had a horrible fright. But it's over now. What a fine thing it is for a +woman to have a sensible brother!" +</p> +<p> +Norman grunted, took another liberal draught of the champagne. +</p> +<p> +"If I had a mind like yours!" pursued Ursula. "Now, you simply couldn't +make a fool of yourself." +</p> +<p> +He looked at her sharply. He felt as if she had somehow got wind of his +eccentric doings. +</p> +<p> +"I've always resented your rather contemptuous attitude toward women," +she went on. "But you are right—really you are. We're none of us worth +the excitement men make about us." +</p> +<p> +"It isn't the woman who makes a fool of the man," said Norman. "It's the +man who makes a fool of himself. A match can cause a terrific explosion +if it's in the right place—but not if it isn't." +</p> +<p> +She nodded. "That's it. We're simply matches—and most of us of the +poor sputtering kind that burns with a bad odor and goes out right away. +A very inferior quality of matches." +</p> +<p> +"Yes," repeated Norman, "it's the man who does the whole business." +</p> +<p> +A mocking smile curled her lips. "I knew you weren't in love with +Josephine." +</p> +<p> +He stared gloomily at his cigar. +</p> +<p> +"But you're going to marry her?" +</p> +<p> +"I'm in love with her," he said angrily. "And I'm going to marry her." +</p> +<p> +She eyed him shrewdly. "Fred—are you in love with some one else?" +</p> +<p> +He did not answer immediately. When he did it was with a "No" that +seemed the more emphatic for the delay. +</p> +<p> +"Oh, just one of your little affairs." And she began to poke fun at him. +"I thought you had dropped that sort of thing for good and all. I hope +Josie won't hear of it. She'd not understand. Women never do—unless +they don't care a rap about the man. . . . Is she on the stage? I know +you'll not tell me, but I like to ask." +</p> +<p> +Her brother looked at her rather wildly. "Let's go home," he said. He +was astounded and alarmed by the discovery that his infatuation had +whirled him to the lunacy of longing to confide—and he feared lest, if +he should stay on, he would blurt out his disgraceful secret. "Waiter, +the bill." +</p> +<p> +"Don't let's go yet," urged his sister. "The most interesting people are +beginning to come. Besides, I want more champagne." +</p> +<p> +He yielded. While she gazed round with the air of a visitor to a Zoo +that is affected by fashionable people, and commented on the faces, +figures, and clothes of the women, he stared at his plate and smoked and +drank. Finally she said, "I'd give anything to see you make a fool of +yourself, just once." +</p> +<p> +He grinned. "Things are in the way to having your wish gratified," he +said. "It looks to me as if my time had come." +</p> +<p> +She tried to conceal her anxiety. "Are you serious?" she asked. Then +added: "Of course not. You simply couldn't. Especially now—when +Josephine might hear. I suppose you've noticed how Joe Culver is hanging +round her?" +</p> +<p> +He nodded. +</p> +<p> +"There's no danger—unless——" +</p> +<p> +"I shall marry Josephine." +</p> +<p> +"Not if she hears." +</p> +<p> +"She's not going to hear." +</p> +<p> +"Don't be too sure. Women love to boast. It tickles their vanity to have +a man. Yes, they pretend to be madly in love simply to give themselves +the excuse for tattling." +</p> +<p> +"She'll not hear." +</p> +<p> +"You can't be sure." +</p> +<p> +"I want you to help me out. I'm going to tell her I'm tremendously busy +these few next days—or weeks." +</p> +<p> +"Weeks!" Ursula Fitzhugh laughed. "My, it must be serious!" +</p> +<p> +"Weeks," repeated her brother. "And I want you to say things that'll +help out—and to see a good deal of her." He flung down his cigar. "You +women don't understand how it is with a man." +</p> +<p> +"Don't we though! Why, it's a very ordinary occurrence for a woman to be +really in love with several men at once." +</p> +<p> +His eyes gleamed jealously. "I don't believe it," he cried. +</p> +<p> +"Not Josephine," she said reassuringly. "She's one of those +single-hearted, untemperamental women. They concentrate. They have no +imagination." +</p> +<p> +"I wasn't thinking of Josephine," said he sullenly. "To go back to what +I was saying, I am in love with Josephine and with no one else. I can't +explain to you how or why I'm entangled. But I'll get myself untangled +all right—and very shortly." +</p> +<p> +"I know that, Fred. You aren't the permanent damn-fool sort." +</p> +<p> +"I should say not!" exclaimed he. "It's a hopeful sign that I know +exactly how big a fool I am." +</p> +<p> +She shook her head in strong dissent. "On the contrary," said she, +"it's a bad sign. I didn't realize I was making a fool of myself until +you pointed it out to me. That stopped me. If I had been doing it with +my eyes open, your jacking me up would only have made me go ahead." +</p> +<p> +"A woman's different. It doesn't take much to stop a woman. She's about +half stopped when she begins." +</p> +<p> +Ursula was thoroughly alarmed. "Fred," she said earnestly, "you're +running bang into danger. The time to stop is right now." +</p> +<p> +"Can't do it," he said. "Let's not talk about it." +</p> +<p> +"Can't? That word from <i>you</i>?" +</p> +<p> +"From me," replied he. "Don't forget helping out with Josephine. Let's +go." +</p> +<p> +And he refused to be persuaded to stay on—or to be cajoled or baited +into talking further of this secret his sister saw was weighing heavily. +</p> +<hr> +<p> +He was down town half an hour earlier than usual the next morning. But +no one noted it because his habit had always been to arrive among the +first—not to set an example but to give his prodigious industry the +fullest swing. There was in Turkey a great poet of whom it is said that +he must have written twenty-five hours a day. Norman's accomplishment +bulked in that same way before his associates. He had not slept the +whole night. But, thanks to his enormous vitality, no trace of this +serious dissipation showed. The huge supper he had eaten—and drunk—the +sleepless night and the giant breakfast of fruit and cereal and chops +and wheat cakes and coffee he had laid in to stay him until lunch time, +would together have given pause to any but such a physical organization +as his. The only evidence of it was a certain slight irritability—but +this may have been due to his state of intense self-dissatisfaction. +</p> +<p> +As he entered the main room his glance sought the corner where Miss +Hallowell was ensconced. She happened to look up at that instant. With a +radiant smile she bowed to him in friendliest fashion. He colored +deeply, frowned with annoyance, bowed coldly and strode into his room. +He fussed and fretted about with his papers for a few minutes, then rang +the bell. +</p> +<p> +"Send in Miss Pritchard—no, Mr. Gowdy—no, Miss Hallowell," he said to +the office boy. And then he looked sharply at the pert young face for +possible signs of secret cynical amusement. He saw none such, but was +not convinced. He knew too well how by a sort of occult process the +servants, all the subordinates, round a person like himself discover the +most intimate secrets, almost get the news before anything has really +occurred. +</p> +<p> +Miss Hallowell appeared, and very cold and reserved she looked as she +stood waiting. +</p> +<p> +"I sent for you because—" he began. He glanced at the door to make sure +that it was closed—"because I wanted to hear your voice." And he +laughed boyishly. He was in high good humor now. +</p> +<p> +"Why did you speak to me as you did when you came in?" said she. +</p> +<p> +There was certainly novelty in this direct attack, this equal to equal +criticism of his manners. He was not pleased with the novelty; but at +the same time he felt a lack of the courage to answer her as she +deserved, even if she was playing a clever game. "It isn't necessary +that the whole office should know our private business," said he. +</p> +<p> +She seemed astonished. "What private business?" +</p> +<p> +"Last night," said he, uncertain whether she was trifling with him or +was really the innocent she pretended to be. "If I were you, I'd not +speak as friendlily as you did this morning—not before people." +</p> +<p> +"Why?" inquired she, her sweet young face still more perplexed. +</p> +<p> +"This isn't a small town out West," explained he. "It's New York. People +misunderstand—or rather—" He gave her a laughing, mischievous +glance—"or rather—they don't." +</p> +<p> +"I can't see anything to make a mystery about," declared the girl. "Why, +you act as if there were something to be ashamed of in coming to see +me." +</p> +<p> +He was observing her sharply. How could a girl live in the New York +atmosphere several years without getting a sensible point of view? Yet, +so far as he could judge, this girl was perfectly honest in her +ignorance. "Don't be foolish," said he. "Please accept the fact as I +give it to you. You mustn't let people see everything." +</p> +<p> +She made no attempt to conceal her dislike for this. "I won't be mixed +up in anything like that," said she, quite gently and without a +suggestion of pique or anger. "It makes me feel low—and it's horribly +common. Either we are going to be friends or we aren't. And if we are, +why, we're friends whenever we meet. I'm not ashamed of you. And if you +are ashamed of me, you can cut me out altogether." +</p> +<p> +His color deepened until his face was crimson. His eyes avoided hers. "I +was thinking chiefly of you," he said—and he honestly thought he was +speaking the whole truth. +</p> +<p> +"Then please don't do so any more," said she, turning to go. "I +understand about New York snobbishness. I want nothing to do with it." +</p> +<p> +He disregarded the danger of the door being opened at any moment. He +rushed to her and took her reluctant hand. "You mustn't blame me for the +ways of the world. I can't change them. Do be sensible, dearest. You're +only going to be here a few days longer. I've got that plan for you and +your father all thought out. I'll put it through at once. I don't want +the office talking scandal about us—do you?" +</p> +<p> +She looked at him pityingly. His eyes fell before hers. "I know it's a +weakness," he said, giving up trying to deceive her and himself. "But I +can't help it. I was brought up that way." +</p> +<p> +"Well—I wasn't. I see we can never be friends." +</p> +<p> +What a mess he had made of this affair! This girl must be playing upon +him. In his folly he had let her see how completely he was in her power, +and she was using that power to establish relations between them that +were the very opposite of what he desired—and must have. He must +control himself. "As you please," he said coldly, dropping her hand. +"I'm sorry, but unless you are reasonable I can do nothing for you." And +he went to his desk. +</p> +<p> +She hesitated a moment; as her back was toward him, he could not see her +expression. Without looking round she went out of his office. It took +all his strength to let her go. "She's bluffing," he muttered. "And +yet—perhaps she isn't. There may be people like that left in New York." +Whatever the truth, he simply must make a stand. He knew women; no woman +had the least respect for a man who let her rule—and this woman, +relying upon his weakness for her, was bent upon ruling. If he did not +make a stand, she was lost to him. If he did make a stand, he could no +more than lose her. Lose her! That thought made him sick at heart. "What +a fool I am about her!" he cried. "I must hurry things up. I must get +enough of her—must get through it and back to my sober senses." +</p> +<p> +That was a time of heavy pressure of important affairs. He furiously +attacked one task after another, only to abandon each in turn. His mind, +which had always been his obedient, very humble servant, absolutely +refused to obey. He turned everything over to his associates or to +subordinates, fighting all morning against the longing to send for her. +At half past twelve he strode out of the office, putting on the air of +the big man absorbed in big affairs. He descended to the street. But +instead of going up town to keep an appointment at a business lunch he +hung round the entrance to the opposite building. +</p> +<p> +She did not appear until one o'clock. Then out she came—with the head +office boy!—the good-looking, young head office boy. +</p> +<p> +Norman's contempt for himself there reached its lowest ebb. For his +blood boiled with jealousy—jealousy of his head office boy!—and about +an obscure little typewriter! He followed the two, keeping to the other +side of the street. Doubtless those who saw and recognized him fancied +him deep in thought about some mighty problem of corporate law or +policy, as he moved from and to some meeting with the great men who +dictated to a nation of ninety millions what they should buy and how +much they should pay for it. He saw the two enter a quick-lunch +restaurant—struggled with a crack-brained impulse to join them—dragged +himself away to his appointment. +</p> +<p> +He was never too amiable in dealing with his clients, because he had +found that, in self-protection, to avoid being misunderstood and largely +increasing the difficulties of amicable intercourse, he must keep the +feel of iron very near the surface. That day he was for the first time +irascible. If the business his clients were engaged in had been less +perilous and his acute intelligence not indispensable, he would have +cost the firm dear. But in business circles, where every consideration +yields to that of material gain, the man with the brain may conduct +himself as he pleases—and usually does so, when he has strength of +character. +</p> +<p> +All afternoon he wrestled with himself to keep away from the office. He +won, but it was the sort of victory that gives the winner the chagrin +and despondency of defeat. At home, late in the afternoon, he found +Josephine in the doorway, just leaving. "You'll walk home with me—won't +you?" she said. And, taken unawares and intimidated by guilt, he could +think of no excuse. +</p> +<p> +Some one—probably a Frenchman—has said that there are always in a +man's life three women—the one on the way out, the one that is, and the +one that is to be. Norman—ever the industrious trafficker with the +feminine that the man of the intense vitality necessary to a great +career of action is apt to be—was by no means new to the situation in +which he now found himself. But never before had the circumstances been +so difficult. Josephine in no way resembled any woman with whom he had +been involved; she was the first he had taken seriously. Nor did the +other woman resemble the central figure in any of his affairs. He did +not know what she was like, how to classify her; but he did know that +she was unlike any woman he had ever known and that his feeling for her +was different—appallingly different—from any emotion any other woman +had inspired in him. So—a walk alone with Josephine—a first talk with +her after his secret treachery—was no light matter. "Deeper and +deeper," he said to himself. "Where is this going to end?" +</p> +<p> +She began by sympathizing with him for having so much to do—"and father +says you can get through more work than any man he ever knew, not +excluding himself." She was full of tenderness and compliment, of a kind +of love that made him feel as the dirt beneath his feet. She respected +him so highly; she believed in him so entirely. The thought of her +discovering the truth, or any part of it, gave him a sensation of +nausea. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Never had he +seen her more statelily beautiful. If he should lose her! "I'm +mad—<i>mad</i>!" he said to himself. +</p> +<p> +"Josephine is as high above her as heaven above earth. What is there to +her, anyhow? Not brains—nor taste—nor such miraculous beauty. Why do +I make an ass of myself about her? I ought to go to my doctor." +</p> +<p> +"I don't believe you're listening to what I'm saying," laughed +Josephine. +</p> +<p> +"My head's in a terrible state," replied he. "I can't think of +anything." +</p> +<p> +"Don't try to talk or to listen, dearest," said she in the sweet and +soothing tone that is neither sweet nor soothing to a man in a certain +species of unresponsive mood. "This air will do you good. It doesn't +annoy you for me to talk to you, does it?" +</p> +<p> +The question was one of those which confidently expects, even demands, a +sincere and strenuous negative for answer. It fretted him, this +matter-of-course assumption of hers that she could not but be altogether +pleasing, not to say enchanting to him. Her position, her wealth, the +attentions she had received, the flatteries—In her circumstances could +it be in human nature not to think extremely well of oneself? And he +admitted that she had the right so to think. Still—For the first time +she scraped upon his nerves. His reply, "Annoy me? The contrary," was +distinctly crisp. To an experienced ear there would have sounded the +faint warning under-note of sullenness. +</p> +<p> +But she, believing in his love and in herself, saw nothing, suspected +nothing. "We know each other so thoroughly," she went on, "that we don't +need to make any effort. How congenial we are! I always understand you. +I feel such a sense of the perfect freedom and perfect frankness between +us. Don't you?" +</p> +<p> +"You have wonderful intuitions," said he. +</p> +<p> +It was the time to alarm him by coldness, by capriciousness. But how +could she know it? And she was in love—really in love—not with +herself, not with love, but with him. Thus, she made the mistake of all +true lovers in those difficult moments. She let him see how absolutely +she was his. Nor did the spectacle of her sincerity, of her belief in +his sincerity put him in any better humor with himself. +</p> +<p> +The walk was a mere matter of a dozen blocks. He thought it would never +end. "You are sure you aren't ill?" she said, when they were at her +door—a superb bronze door it was, opening into a house of the splendor +that for the acclimated New Yorker quite conceals and more than +compensates absence of individual taste. "You don't look ill. But you +act queerly." +</p> +<p> +"I'm often this way when they drive me too hard down town." +</p> +<p> +She looked at him with fond admiration; he might have been better +pleased had there not been in the look a suggestion of the possessive. +"How they do need you! Father says—But I mustn't make you any vainer +than you are." +</p> +<p> +He usually loved compliment, could take it in its rawest form with fine +human gusto. Now, he did not care enough about that "father says" to +rise to her obvious bait. "I'm horribly tired," he said. "Shall I see +you to-morrow? No, I guess not—not for several days. You understand?" +</p> +<p> +"Perfectly," replied she. "I'll miss you dreadfully, but my father has +trained me well. I know I mustn't be selfish—and tempt you to neglect +things." +</p> +<p> +"Thank you," said he. "I must be off." +</p> +<p> +"You'll come in—just a moment?" Her eyes sparkled. "The butler will +have sense enough to go straight away—and the small reception room will +be quite empty as usual." +</p> +<p> +He could not escape. A few seconds and he was alone with her in the +little room—how often had he—they—been glad of its quiet and +seclusion on such occasions! She laid her hand upon his shoulders, gazed +at him proudly. "It was here," said she, "that you first kissed me. Do +you remember?" +</p> +<p> +To take her gaze from his face and to avoid seeing her look of loving +trust, he put his arms round her. "I don't deserve you," he said—one of +those empty pretenses of confession that yet give the human soul a sense +of truthfulness. +</p> +<p> +"You'd not say that if you knew how happy you make me," murmured she. +</p> +<p> +The welcome sound of a step in the hall give him his release. When he +was in the street, he wiped his hot face with his handkerchief. "And I +thought I had no moral sense left!" he reflected—not the first man, in +this climax day of the triumph of selfish philosophies, to be astonished +by the discovery that the dead hands of heredity and tradition have a +power that can successfully defy reason. +</p> +<p> +He started to walk back home, on impulse took a passing taxi and went to +his club. It was the Federal. They said of it that no man who amounted +to anything in New York could be elected a member, because any man on +his way up could not but offend one or more of the important persons in +control. Most of its members were nominated at birth or in childhood and +elected as soon as they were twenty-one. Norman was elected after he +became a man of consequence. He regarded it as one of the signal +triumphs of his career; and beyond question it was proof of his power, +of the eagerness of important men, despite their jealousy, to please him +and to be in a position to get the benefit of his brains should need +arise. Norman's whole career, like every career great and small, in the +arena of action, was a derision of the ancient moralities, a +demonstration of the value of fear as an aid to success. Even his +friends—and he had as many as he cared to have—had been drawn to him +by the desire to placate him, to stand well where there was danger in +standing ill. +</p> +<p> +Until dinner time he stood at the club bar, drinking one cocktail after +another with that supreme indifference to consequences to health which +made his fellow men gape and wonder—and cost an occasional imitator +health, and perhaps life. Nor did the powerful liquor have the least +effect upon him, apparently. Possibly he was in a better humor, but not +noticeably so. He dined at the club and spent the evening at bridge, +winning several hundred dollars. He enjoyed the consideration he +received at that club, for his fellow members being men of both social +and financial consequence, their conspicuous respect for him was a +concentrated essence of general adulation. He lingered on, eating a +great supper with real appetite. He went home in high good humor with +himself. He felt that he was a conqueror born, that such things of his +desire as did not come could be forced to come. He no longer regarded +his passion for the nebulous girl of many personalities as a descent +from dignity. Was he not king? Did not his favor give her whatever rank +he pleased? Might not a king pick and choose, according to his fancy? +Let the smaller fry grow nervous about these matters of caste. They did +well to take care lest they should fall. But not he! He had won thus far +by haughtiness, never by cringing. His mortal day would be that in which +he should abandon his natural tactics for the modes of lesser men. True, +only a strong head could remain steady in these giddy altitudes of +self-confidence. But was not his head strong? +</p> +<p> +And without hesitation he called up the vision that made him +delirious-and detained it and reveled in it until sleep came. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0010"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + VIII +</h2> +<p> +The longer he thought of it the stronger grew his doubt that the little +Hallowell girl could be so indifferent to him as she seemed. Not that +she was a fraud—that is, a conscious fraud—even so much of a fraud as +the sincerest of the other women he had known. Simply that she was +carrying out a scheme of coquetry. Could it be in human nature, even in +the nature of the most indiscriminating of the specimens of young +feminine ignorance and folly, not to be flattered by the favor of such a +man as he? Common sense answered that it could not be—but neglected to +point out to him that almost any vagary might be expected of human +nature, when it could produce such a deviation from the recognized types +as a man of his position agitated about such an unsought obscurity as +Miss Hallowell. He continued to debate the state of her mind as if it +were an affair of mightiest moment—which, indeed, it was to him. And +presently his doubt strengthened into conviction. She must be secretly +pleased, flattered, responsive. She had been in the office long enough +to be impressed by his position. Yes, there must be more or less +pretense in her apparently complete indifference—more or less pretense, +more or less coquetry, probably not a little timidity. +</p> +<p> +She would come down from her high horse—with help and encouragement +from him. He was impatient to get to the office and see just how she +would do it—what absurd, amusing attractive child's trick she would +think out, imagining she could fool him, as lesser intelligences are +ever fatuously imagining they can outwit greater. +</p> +<p> +He rather thought she would come in to see him on some pretext, would +maneuver round like a bird pretending to flutter away from the trap it +has every intention of entering. But eleven o'clock of a wasted morning +came and she did not appear. He went out to see if she was there—she +must be sick; she could not be there or he would have heard from her. . . . +Yes, she was at her desk, exactly as always. No, not exactly the same. +She was obviously attractive now; the air of insignificance had gone, +and not the dullest eyes in that office could fail to see at least +something of her beauty. And Tetlow was hanging over her, while the +girls and boys grinned and whispered. Clearly, the office was "on to" +Tetlow. . . . Norman, erect and coldly infuriate, called out: +</p> +<p> +"Mr. Tetlow—one moment, please." +</p> +<p> +He went back to his den, Tetlow startling and following like one on the +way to the bar for sentence. "Mr. Tetlow," he said, when they were shut +in together, "you are making a fool of yourself before the whole +office." +</p> +<p> +"Be a little patient with me, Mr. Norman," said the head clerk humbly. +"I've got another place for her. She's going to take it to-morrow. +Then—there'll be no more trouble." +</p> +<p> +Norman paled. "She wishes to leave?" he contrived to articulate. +</p> +<p> +"She spoke to me about leaving before I told her I had found her another +job." +</p> +<p> +Norman debated—but for only a moment. "I do not wish her to leave," he +said coldly. "I find her useful and most trustworthy." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow's eyes were fixed strangely upon him. +</p> +<p> +"What's the matter with you?" asked Norman, the under-note of danger but +thinly covered. +</p> +<p> +"Then she was right," said Tetlow slowly. "I thought she was mistaken. I +see that she is right." +</p> +<p> +"What do you mean?" said Norman—a mere inquiry, devoid of bluster or +any other form of nervousness. +</p> +<p> +"You know very well what I mean, Fred Norman," said Tetlow. "And you +ought to be ashamed of yourself." +</p> +<p> +"Don't stand there scowling and grimacing like an idiot," said Norman +with an amused smile. "What do you mean?" +</p> +<p> +"She told me—about your coming to see her—about your offer to do +something for her father—about your acting in a way that made her +uneasy." +</p> +<p> +For an instant Norman was panic-stricken. Then his estimate of her +reassured him. "I took your advice," said he. "I went to see for myself. +How did I act that she was made uneasy?" +</p> +<p> +"She didn't say. But a woman can tell what a man has in the back of his +head—when it concerns her. And she is a good woman—so innocent that +you ought to be ashamed of yourself for even thinking of her in that +way. God has given innocence instincts, and she felt what you were +about." +</p> +<p> +Norman laughed—a deliberate provocation. "Love has made a fool of you, +old man," he said. +</p> +<p> +"I notice you don't deny," retorted Tetlow shrewdly. +</p> +<p> +"Deny what? There's nothing to deny." He felt secure now that he knew +she had been reticent with Tetlow as to the happenings in the cottage. +</p> +<p> +"Maybe I'm wronging you," said Tetlow, but not in the tone of belief. +"However that may be, I know you'll not refuse to listen to my appeal. I +love her, Norman. I'm going to make her my wife if I can. And I ask +you—for the sake of our old friendship—to let her alone. I've no +doubt you could dazzle her. You couldn't make a bad woman of her. But +you could make her very miserable." +</p> +<p> +Norman pushed about the papers before him. His face wore a cynical +smile; but Tetlow, who knew him in all his moods, saw that he was deeply +agitated. +</p> +<p> +"I don't know that I can win her, Fred," he pleaded. "But I feel that I +might if I had a fair chance." +</p> +<p> +"You think she'd refuse <i>you</i>?" said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"Like a flash, unless I'd made her care for me. That's the kind she is." +</p> +<p> +"That sounds absurd. Why, there isn't a woman in New York who would +refuse a chance to take a high jump up." +</p> +<p> +"I'd have said so, too. But since I've gotten acquainted with her I've +learned better. She may be spoiled some day, but she hasn't been yet. +God knows, I wish I could tempt her. But I can't." +</p> +<p> +"You're entirely too credulous, old man. She'll make a fool of you." +</p> +<p> +"I know better," Tetlow stubbornly maintained. "Anyhow, I don't care. I +love her, and I'd marry her, no matter what her reason for marrying me +was." +</p> +<p> +What pitiful infatuation!—worse than his own. Poor Tetlow!—he deserved +a better fate than to be drawn into this girl's trap—for, of course, +she never could care for such a heavy citizen—heavy and homely—the +loosely fat kind of homely that is admired by no one, not even by a +woman with no eye at all for the physical points of the male. It would +be a real kindness to save worthy Tetlow. What a fool she'd make of +him!—how she'd squander his money—and torment him with jealousy—and +unfit him for his career. Poor Tetlow! If he could get what he wanted, +he'd be well punished for his imprudence in wanting it. Really, could +friendship do him a greater service than to save him? +</p> +<p> +Norman gave Tetlow a friendly, humorous glance. "You're a hopeless case, +Billy," he said. "But at least don't rush into trouble. Take your time. +You can always get in, you know; and you may not get in quite so deep." +</p> +<p> +"You promise to let her alone?" said Tetlow eagerly. +</p> +<p> +Again his distinguished friend laughed. "Don't be an ass, old man. Why +imagine that, just because you've taken a fancy to a girl, everyone +wants her?" He clapped him on the shoulder, gave him a push toward the +door. "I've wasted enough time on this nonsense." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow did not venture to disregard a hint so plain. He went with his +doubt still unsolved—his doubt whether his jealousy was right or his +high opinion of his hero friend whose series of ever-mounting successes +had filled him with adoration. He knew the way of success, knew no man +could tread it unless he had, or acquired, a certain hardness of heart +that made him an uncomfortable not to say dangerous associate. He +regretted his own inability to acquire that indispensable hardness, and +envied and admired it in Fred Norman. But, at the same time that he +admired, he could not help distrusting. +</p> +<p> +Norman battled with his insanity an hour, then sent for Miss Hallowell. +</p> +<p> +The girl had lost her look of strength and vitality. She seemed frail +and dim—so unimportant physically that he wondered why her charm for +him persisted. Yet it did persist. If he could take her in his arms, +could make her drooping beauty revive!—through love for him if +possible; if not, then through anger and hate! He must make her feel, +must make her acknowledge, that he had power. It seemed to him another +instance of the resistless fascination which the unattainable, however +unworthy, has ever had for the conqueror temperament. +</p> +<p> +"You are leaving?" he said curtly, both a question and an affirmation. +</p> +<p> +"Yes." +</p> +<p> +"You are making a mistake—a serious mistake." +</p> +<p> +She stood before him listlessly, as if she had no interest either in +what he was saying or in him. That maddening indifference! +</p> +<p> +"It was a mistake to tattle your trouble to Tetlow." +</p> +<p> +"I did not tattle," said she quietly, colorlessly. "I said only enough +to make him help me." +</p> +<p> +"And what did he say about me?" +</p> +<p> +"That I had misjudged you—that I must be mistaken." +</p> +<p> +Norman laughed. "How seriously the little people of the world do take +themselves!" +</p> +<p> +She looked at him. His amused eyes met hers frankly. "You didn't mean +it?" she said. +</p> +<p> +He beamed on her. "Certainly I did. But I'm not a lunatic or a wild +beast. Do you think I would take advantage of a girl in your position?" +</p> +<p> +Her eyes seemed to grow large and weary, and an expression of experience +stole over her young face, giving it a strange appearance of +age-in-youth. "It has been done," said she. +</p> +<p> +How reconcile such a look with the theory of her childlike innocence? +But then how reconcile any two of the many varied personalities he had +seen in her? He said: "Yes—it has been done. But not by me. I shall +take from you only what you gladly give." +</p> +<p> +"You will get nothing else," said she with quiet strength. +</p> +<p> +"That being settled—" he went on, holding up a small package of papers +bound together by an elastic—"Here are the proposed articles of +incorporation of the Chemical Research Company. How do you like the +name?" +</p> +<p> +"What is it?" +</p> +<p> +"The company that is to back your father. Capital stock, twenty-five +thousand dollars, one half paid up. Your father to be employed as +director of the laboratories at five thousand a year, with a fund of ten +thousand to draw upon. You to be employed as secretary and treasurer at +fifteen hundred a year. I will take the paid-up stock, and your father +and you will have the privilege of buying it back at par within five +years. Do you follow me?" +</p> +<p> +"I think I understand," was her unexpected reply. Her replies were +usually unexpected, like the expressions of her face and figure; she was +continually comprehending where one would have said she would not, and +not comprehending where it seemed absurd that she should not. "Yes, I +understand. . . . What else?" +</p> +<p> +"Nothing else." +</p> +<p> +She looked intently at him, and her eyes seemed to be reading his soul +to the bottom. +</p> +<p> +"Nothing else," he repeated. +</p> +<p> +"No obligation—for money—or—for anything?" +</p> +<p> +"No obligation. A hope perhaps." He was smiling with the gayest good +humor. "But not the kind of hope that ever becomes a disagreeable demand +for payment." +</p> +<p> +She seated herself, her hands in her lap, her eyes down—a lovely +picture of pensive repose. He waited patiently, feasting his senses upon +her delicate, aromatic loveliness. At last she said: +</p> +<p> +"I accept." +</p> +<p> +He had anticipated an argument. This promptness took him by surprise. He +felt called upon to explain, to excuse her acceptance. "I am taking a +little flyer—making a gamble," said he. "Your father may turn up +nothing of commercial value. Again the company may pay big——" +</p> +<p> +She gave him a long look through half-closed eyes, a queer smile +flitting round her lips. "I understand perfectly why you are doing it," +she said. "Do you understand why I am accepting?" +</p> +<p> +"Why should you refuse?" rejoined he. "It is a good business prop——" +</p> +<p> +"You know very well why I should refuse. But—" She gave a quiet laugh +of experience; it made him feel that she was making a fool of him—"I +shall not refuse. I am able to take care of myself. And I want father to +have his chance. Of course, I shan't explain to him." She gave him a +mischievous glance. "And I don't think <i>you</i> will." +</p> +<p> +He contrived to cover his anger, doubt, chagrin, general feeling of +having been outwitted. "No, I shan't tell him," laughed he. "You are +making a great fool of me." +</p> +<p> +"Do you want to back out?" +</p> +<p> +What audacity! He hesitated—did not dare. Her indifference to him—her +personal, her physical indifference gave her the mastery. His teeth +clenched and his passion blazed in his eyes as he said: "No—you witch! +I'll see it through." +</p> +<p> +She smiled lightly. "I suppose you'll come to the offices of the +company—occasionally?" She drew nearer, stood at the corner of the +desk. Into her exquisite eyes came a look of tenderness. "And I shall be +glad to see you." +</p> +<p> +"You mean that?" he said, despising himself for his humble eagerness, +and hating her even as he loved her. +</p> +<p> +"Indeed I do." She smiled bewitchingly. "You are a lot better man than +you think." +</p> +<p> +"I am an awful fool about you," retorted he. "You see, I play my game +with all my cards on the table. I wish I could say the same of you." +</p> +<p> +"I am not playing a game," replied she. "You make a mystery where there +isn't any. And—all your cards aren't on the table." She laughed +mockingly. "At least, you think there's one that isn't—though, really, +it is." +</p> +<p> +"Yes?" +</p> +<p> +"About your engagement." +</p> +<p> +He covered superbly. "Oh," said he in the most indifferent tone. "Tetlow +told you." +</p> +<p> +"As soon as I heard that," she went on, "I felt better about you. I +understand how it is with men—the passing fancies they have for +women." +</p> +<p> +"How did you learn?" demanded he. +</p> +<p> +"Do you think a girl could spend several years knocking about down town +in New York without getting experience?" +</p> +<p> +He smiled—a forced smile of raillery, hiding sudden fierce suspicion +and jealousy. "I should say not. But you always pretend innocence." +</p> +<p> +"I can't be held responsible for what you read into my looks and into +what I say," observed she with her air of a wise old infant. "But I was +so glad to find out that you were seriously in love with a nice girl up +town." +</p> +<p> +He burst out laughing. She gazed at him in childlike surprise. "Why are +you laughing at me?" she asked. +</p> +<p> +"Nothing—nothing," he assured her. He would have found it difficult to +explain why he was so intensely amused at hearing the grand Josephine +Burroughs called "a nice girl up town." +</p> +<p> +"You are in love with her? You are engaged to her?" she inquired, her +grave eyes upon him with an irresistible appeal for truth in them. +</p> +<p> +"Tetlow didn't lie to you," evaded he. "You don't know it, but Tetlow is +going to ask you to marry him." +</p> +<p> +"Yes, I knew," replied she indifferently. +</p> +<p> +"How? Did he tell you?" +</p> +<p> +"No. Just as I knew you were not going to ask me to marry you." +</p> +<p> +The mere phrase, even when stated as a negation, gave him a sensation of +ice suddenly laid against the heart. +</p> +<p> +"It's quite easy to tell the difference between the two kinds of +men—those that care for me more than they care for themselves and those +that care for themselves more than they care for me." +</p> +<p> +"That's the way it looks to you—is it?" +</p> +<p> +"That's the way it is," said she. +</p> +<p> +"There are some things you don't understand. This is one of them." +</p> +<p> +"Maybe I don't," said she. "But I've my own idea—and I'm going to stick +to it." +</p> +<p> +This amused him. "You are a very opinionated and self-confident young +lady," said he. +</p> +<p> +She laughed roguishly. "I'm taking up a lot of your time." +</p> +<p> +"Don't think of it. You haven't asked when the new deal is to begin." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, yes—and I shall have to tell Mr. Tetlow I'm not taking the place +he got for me." +</p> +<p> +"Be careful what you say to him," cautioned Norman. "You must see it +wouldn't be well to tell him what you are going to do. There's no reason +on earth why he should know your business—is there?" +</p> +<p> +She did not reply; she was reflecting. +</p> +<p> +"You are not thinking of marrying Tetlow—are you?" +</p> +<p> +"No," she said. "I don't love him—and couldn't learn to." +</p> +<p> +With a sincerely judicial air, now that he felt secure, he said: "Why +not? It would be a good match." +</p> +<p> +"I don't love him," she repeated, as if that were a sufficient and +complete answer. And he was astonished to find that he so regarded it, +also, in spite of every assault of all that his training had taught him +to regard as common sense about human nature. +</p> +<p> +"You can simply say to Tetlow that you've decided to stay at home and +take care of your father. The offices of the company will be at your +house. Your official duties practically amount to taking care of your +father. So you'll be speaking the truth." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, it isn't exactly lying, to keep something from somebody who has no +right to know it. What you suggest isn't quite the truth. But it's near +enough, and I'll say it to him." +</p> +<p> +His own view of lying was the same as that she had expressed. Also, he +had no squeamishness about saying what was in no sense true, if the +falsehood were necessary to his purposes. Yet her statement of her code, +moral though he thought it and eminently sensible as well, lowered her +once more in his estimation. He was eager to find reason or plausible +excuse for believing her morally other and less than she seemed to be. +Immediately the prospects of his ultimate projects—whatever they might +prove to be—took on a more hopeful air. "And I'd advise you to have +Tetlow keep away from you. We don't want him nosing round." +</p> +<p> +"No, indeed," said she. "He is a nice man, but tiresome. And if I +encouraged him ever so little, he'd be sentimental. The most tiresome +thing in the world to a girl is a man who talks that sort of thing when +she doesn't want to hear it—from him." +</p> +<p> +He laughed. "Meaning me?" he suggested. +</p> +<p> +She nodded, much pleased. "Perhaps," she replied. +</p> +<p> +"Don't worry about that," mocked he. +</p> +<p> +"I shan't till I have to," she assured him. "And I don't think I'll have +to." +</p> +<hr> +<p> +On the Monday morning following, Tetlow came in to see Norman as soon as +he arrived. "I want a two weeks' leave," he said. "I'm going to Bermuda +or down there somewhere." +</p> +<p> +"Why, what's the matter?" cried Norman. "You do look ill, old man." +</p> +<p> +"I saw her last night," replied the chief clerk, dropping an effort at +concealing his dejection. "She—she turned me down." +</p> +<p> +"Really? You?" Norman's tone of sympathetic surprise would not have +deceived half attentive ears. But Tetlow was securely absorbed. "Why, +Billy, she can't hope to make as good a match." +</p> +<p> +"That's what I told her—when I saw the game was going against me. But +it was no use." +</p> +<p> +Norman trifled nervously with the papers before him. Presently he said, +"Is it some one else?" +</p> +<p> +Tetlow shook his head. +</p> +<p> +"How do you know?" +</p> +<p> +"Because she said so," replied the head clerk. +</p> +<p> +"Oh—if she said so, that settles it," said Norman with raillery. +</p> +<p> +"She's given up work—thank God," pursued Tetlow. "She's getting more +beautiful all the time—Norman, if you had seen her last night, you'd +understand why I'm stark mad about her." +</p> +<p> +Norman's eyes were down. His hands, the muscles of his jaw were +clinched. +</p> +<p> +"But, I mustn't think of that," Tetlow went on. "As I was about to say, +if she were to stay on in the offices some one—some attractive man like +you, only with the heart of a scoundrel——" +</p> +<p> +Norman laughed cynically. +</p> +<p> +"Yes, a scoundrel!" reiterated the fat head-clerk. "Some scoundrel would +tempt her beyond her power to resist. Money and clothes and luxury will +do anything. We all get to be harlots here in New York. Some of us know +it, and some don't. But we all look it and act it. And she'd go the way +of the rest—with or without marriage. It's just as well she didn't +marry me. I know what'd have become of her." +</p> +<p> +Norman nodded. +</p> +<p> +Tetlow gave a weary sigh. "Anyhow, she's safe at home with her father. +He's found a backer for his experiments." +</p> +<p> +"That's good," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"You can spare me for ten days," Tetlow went on. "I'd be of no use if I +stayed." +</p> +<p> +There was a depth of misery in his kind gray eyes that moved Norman to +get up and lay a friendly hand on his shoulder. "It's the best thing, +old man. She wasn't for you." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow dropped into a chair and sobbed. "It has killed me," he groaned. +"I don't mean I'll commit suicide or die. I mean I'm dead inside—dead." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, come, Billy—where's your good sense?" +</p> +<p> +"I know what I'm talking about," said he. "Norman, God help the man who +meets the woman he really wants—God help him if she doesn't want him. +You don't understand. You'll never have the experience. Any woman you +wanted would be sure to want you." +</p> +<p> +Norman, his hand still on Tetlow's shoulder, was staring ahead with a +terrible expression upon his strong features. +</p> +<p> +"If she could see the inside of me—the part that's the real me—I think +she would love me—or learn to love me. But she can only see the +outside—this homely face and body of mine. It's horrible, Fred—to have +a mind and a heart fit for love and for being loved, and an outside that +repels it. And how many of us poor devils of that sort there are—men +and women both!" +</p> +<p> +Norman was at the window now, his back to the room, to his friend. After +a while Tetlow rose and made a feeble effort to straighten himself. "Is +it all right about the vacation?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +"Certainly," said Norman, without turning. +</p> +<p> +"Thank you, Fred. You're a good friend." +</p> +<p> +"I'll see you before you go," said Norman, still facing the window. +"You'll come back all right." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow did not answer. When Norman turned he was alone. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0011"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + IX +</h2> +<p> +In no way was Norman's luck superior to most men's more splendidly than +in that his inborn tendency to arrogant and extravagant desires was +matched by an inborn capacity to get the necessary money. His luxurious +tastes were certainly not moderated by his associations—enormously rich +people who, while they could be stingy enough in some respects, at the +same time could and did fling away fortunes in gratifying selfish +whims—for silly showy houses, for retinues of wasteful servants, for +gewgaws that accentuated the homeliness of their homely women and +coarsened and vulgarized their pretty women—or perhaps for a night's +gambling or entertaining, or for the forced smiles and contemptuous +caresses of some belle of the other world. Norman fortunately cared not +at all for the hugely expensive pomp of the life of the rich; if he had, +he would have hopelessly involved himself, as after all he was not a +money-grubber but a lawyer. But when there appeared anything for which +he did care, he was ready to bid for it like the richest of the rich. +</p> +<p> +Therefore the investment of a few thousand dollars seemed a small matter +to him. He had many a time tossed away far more for far less. He did not +dole out the sum he had agreed to provide. He paid it into the Jersey +City bank to the credit of the Chemical Research Company and informed +its secretary and treasurer that she could draw freely against it. "If +you will read the by-laws of the company," said he, "you will see that +you've the right to spend exactly as you see fit. When the money runs +low, let me know." +</p> +<p> +"I'll be very careful," said Dorothea Hallowell, secretary and +treasurer. +</p> +<p> +"That's precisely what we don't want," replied he. He glanced round the +tiny parlor of the cottage. "We want everything to be run in first-class +shape. That's the only way to get results. First of all, you must take a +proper house—a good-sized one, with large grounds—room for building +your father a proper laboratory." +</p> +<p> +Her dazed and dazzled expression delighted him. +</p> +<p> +"And you must live better. You must keep at least two servants." +</p> +<p> +"But we can't afford it." +</p> +<p> +"Your father has five thousand a year. You have fifteen hundred. That +makes sixty-five hundred. The rent of the house and the wages and keep +of the servants are a charge against the corporation. So, you can well +afford to make yourselves comfortable." +</p> +<p> +"I haven't got used to the idea as yet," said Dorothea. "Yes—we <i>are</i> +better off than we were." +</p> +<p> +"And you must live better. I want you to get some clothes—and things of +that sort." +</p> +<p> +She shrank within herself and sat quiet, her gaze fixed upon her hands +lying limp in her lap. +</p> +<p> +"There is no reason why your father shouldn't be made absolutely +comfortable and happy. That's the way to get the best results from a man +of his sort." +</p> +<p> +She faded on toward the self-effacing blank he had first known. +</p> +<p> +"Think it out, Dorothy," he said in his frankest, kindliest way. "You'll +see I'm right." +</p> +<p> +"No," she said. +</p> +<p> +"No? What does that mean?" +</p> +<p> +"I've an instinct against it," replied she. "I'd rather father and I +kept on as we are." +</p> +<p> +"But that's impossible. You've no right to live in this small, cramping +way. You must broaden out and give <i>him</i> room to grow. . . . Isn't that +sensible?" +</p> +<p> +"It sounds so," she admitted. "But—" She gazed round helplessly—"I'm +afraid!" +</p> +<p> +"Afraid of what?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't know." +</p> +<p> +"Then don't bother about it." +</p> +<p> +"I'll have to be very—careful," she said thoughtfully. +</p> +<p> +"As you please," replied he. "Only, don't live and think on a +ten-dollar-a-week basis. That isn't the way to get on." +</p> +<p> +He never again brought up the matter in direct form. But most of his +conversation was indirect and more or less subtle suggestions as to ways +of branching out. She moved cautiously for a few days, then timidly +began to spend money. +</p> +<p> +There is a notion widely spread abroad that people who have little money +know more about the art of spending money and the science of economizing +than those who have much. It would be about as sensible to say that the +best swimmers are those who have never been near the water, or no nearer +than a bath tub. Anyone wishing to be convinced need only make an +excursion into the poor tenement district and observe the garbage +barrels overflowing with spoiled food—or the trashy goods exposed for +sale in the shops and the markets. Those who have had money and have +lost it are probably, as a rule, the wisest in thrift. Those who have +never had money are almost invariably prodigal—because they are +ignorant. When Dorothea Hallowell was a baby the family had had money. +But never since she could remember had they been anything but poor. +</p> +<p> +She did not know how to spend money. She did not know prices or +values—being in that respect precisely like the mass of mankind—and +womankind—who imagine they are economical because they hunt so-called +bargains and haggle with merchants who have got doubly ready for them by +laying in inferior goods and by putting up prices in advance. She knew +how much ten dollars a week was, the meaning of the twenty to thirty +dollars a week her father had made. But she had only a faint—and +exaggeratedly mistaken—notion about sixty-five hundred a year—six and +a half thousands. It seemed wealth to her, so vast that a hundred +thousand a year would have seemed no more. As soon as she drifted away +from the known course—the thirty to forty dollars a week upon which +they had been living—Dorothea Hallowell was in a trackless sea, with a +broken compass and no chart whatever. A common enough experience in +America, the land of sudden changes of fortune, of rosiest hopes about +"striking it rich," of carelessness and ignorance as to values, of eager +and untrained appetite for luxury and novelty of any and every kind. +</p> +<p> +At first any expenditure, however small, for the plainest comfort which +had been beyond their means seemed a giddy extravagance. But a bank +account—<i>and</i> a check book—soon dissipated that nervousness. A few +charge accounts, a little practice in the simple easy gesture of drawing +a check, and she was almost at her ease. With people who have known only +squalor or with those who have earned their better fortune by privation +and slow accumulation, the spreading out process is usually slow—not so +slow as it used to be when our merchants had not learned the art of +tempting any and every kind of human nature, but still far from rapid. A +piece of money reminds them vividly and painfully of the toil put into +acquiring it; and they shy away from the pitfall of the facile check. +With those born and bred as Dorothy was and elevated into what seems to +them affluence by no effort of their own, the spreading is a tropical, +overnight affair. +</p> +<p> +Counting all she spent and arranged to spend in those first few weeks, +you had no great total. But it was great for a girl who had been making +ten dollars a week. Also there were sown in her mind broadcast and thick +the seeds of desire for more luxurious comfort, of need for it, that +could never be uprooted. +</p> +<p> +Norman came over almost every evening. He got a new and youthful and +youth-restoring kind of pleasure out of this process of expansion. He +liked to hear each trifling detail, and he was always making suggestions +that bore immediate fruit in further expenditure. When he again brought +up the subject of a larger house, she listened with only the faintest +protests. Her ideas of such a short time before seemed small, laughably +small now. "Father was worrying only this morning because he is so +cramped," she admitted. +</p> +<p> +"We must remedy that at once," said Norman. +</p> + +<div class="figure" style="width: 80%;"> +<a name="image-0004" href="images/img-04.jpg"><img src="images/img-04.jpg" width="100%" +alt="'It has killed me,' he groaned."></a><br /> +<b>"It has killed me," he groaned.</b> +</div> + +<p> +And on the following Sunday he and she went house hunting. They found a +satisfactory place—peculiarly satisfactory to Norman because it was +near the Hudson tunnel, and so only a few minutes from his office. To +Dorothy it loomed a mansion, almost a palace. In fact it was a modestly +roomy old-fashioned brick house, with a brick stable at the side that, +with a little changing, would make an admirable laboratory. +</p> +<p> +"You haven't the time—or the experience—to fit this place up," said +Norman. "I'll attend to it—that is, I'll have it attended to." Seeing +her uneasy expression, he added: "I can get much better terms. They'd +certainly overcharge you. There's no sense in wasting money—is there?" +</p> +<p> +"No," she admitted, convinced. +</p> +<p> +He gave the order to a firm of decorators. It was a moderate order, +considering the amount of work that had to be done. But if the girl had +seen the estimates Norman indorsed, she would have been terrified. +However, he saw to it that she did not see them; and she, ignorant of +values, believed him when he told her the general account of the +corporation must be charged with two thousand dollars. +</p> +<p> +Her alarm took him by surprise. The sum seemed small to him—and it was +only about one fifth what the alterations and improvements had cost. +Cried she, "Why, that's more than our whole income for a year has been!" +</p> +<p> +"You are forgetting these improvements add to the value of the property. +I've bought it." +</p> +<p> +That quieted her. "You are sure you didn't pay those decorators and +furnishers too much?" said she. +</p> +<p> +"You don't like their work?" inquired he, chagrined. +</p> +<p> +"Oh, yes—yes, indeed," she assured him. "I like plain, solid-looking +things. But—two thousand dollars is a lot of money." +</p> +<p> +Norman regretted that, as his whole object had been to please her, he +had not ordered the more showy cheaper stuff but had insisted upon the +simplest, plainest-looking appointments throughout. Even her bedroom +furniture, even her dressing table set, was of the kind that suggests +cost only to the experienced, carefully and well educated in values and +in taste. +</p> +<p> +"But I'm sure it isn't fair to charge <i>all</i> these things to the company," +she protested. "I can't allow it. Not the things for my personal use." +</p> +<p> +"You <i>are</i> a fierce watchdog of a treasurer," said Norman, laughing at her +but noting and respecting the fine instinct of good breeding shown in +her absence of greediness, of desire to get all she could. "But I'm +letting the firm of decorators take over what you leave behind in the +old house. I'll see what they'll allow for it. Maybe that will cover the +expense you object to." +</p> +<p> +This contented her. Nor was she in the least suspicious when he +announced that the decorators had made such a liberal allowance that the +deficit was but three hundred dollars. "Those chaps," he explained, +"have a wide margin of profit. Besides, they're eager to get more and +bigger work from me." +</p> +<p> +A few weeks, and he was enjoying the sight of her ensconced with her +father in luxurious comfort—with two servants, with a well-run house, +with pleasant gardens, with all that is at the command of an income of +six thousand a year in a comparatively inexpensive city. Only +occasionally—and then not deeply—was he troubled by the reflection +that he was still far from his goal—and had made apparently absurdly +little progress toward it through all this maneuvering. The truth was, +he preferred to linger when lingering gave him so many new kinds of +pleasure. Of those in the large and motley company that sit down to the +banquet of the senses, the most are crude, if not coarse, gluttons. They +eat fast and furiously, having a raw appetite. Now and then there is one +who has some idea of the art of enjoyment—the art of prolonging and +varying both the joys of anticipation and the joys of realization. +</p> +<p> +He turned his attention to tempting her to extravagance in dress. But +his success there was not all he could have wished. She wore better +clothes—much better. She no longer looked the poor working girl, +struggling desperately to be neat and clean. She had almost immediately +taken on the air of the comfortable classes. But everything she got for +herself was inexpensive and she made dresses for herself, and trimmed +all her hats. With the hats Norman found no fault. There her good taste +produced about as satisfactory results as could have been got at the +fashionable milliners—more satisfactory than are got by the women who +go there, with no taste of their own beyond a hazy idea that they want +"something like what Mrs. So-and-So is wearing." But homemade dresses +were a different matter. +</p> +<p> +Norman longed to have her in toilettes that would bring out the full +beauty of her marvelous figure. He, after the manner of the more +intelligent and worldly-wise New York men, had some knowledge of +women's clothes. His sister knew how to dress; Josephine knew how, +though her taste was somewhat too sober to suit Norman—at least to suit +him in Dorothy. He thought out and suggested dresses to Dorothy, and +told her where to get them. Dorothy tried to carry out at home such of +his suggestions as pleased her—for, like all women, she believed she +knew how to dress herself. Her handiwork was creditable. It would have +contented a less exacting and less trained taste than Norman's. It would +have contented him had he not been infatuated with her beauty of face +and form. As it was, the improvement in her appearance only served to +intensify his agitation. He now saw in her not only all that had first +conquered him, but also those unsuspected beauties and graces—and +possibilities of beauty and grace yet more entrancing, were she but +dressed properly. +</p> +<p> +"You don't begin to appreciate how beautiful you are," said he. It had +ever been one of his rules in dealing with women to feed their physical +vanity sparingly and cautiously, lest it should blaze up into one of +those consuming flames that produce a very frenzy of conceit. But this +rule, like all the others, had gone by the board. He could not conceal +his infatuation from her, not even when he saw that it was turning her +head and making his task harder and harder. "If you would only go over +to New York to several dressmakers whose names I'll give you, I know +you'd get clothes from them that you could touch up into something +uncommon." +</p> +<p> +"I can't afford it," said she. "What I have is good enough—and costs +more than I've the right to pay." And her tone silenced him; it was the +tone of finality, and he had discovered that she had a will. +</p> +<hr> +<p> +Never before had Frederick Norman let any important thing drift. And +when he started in with Dorothy he had no idea of changing that fixed +policy. He would have scoffed if anyone had foretold to him that he +would permit the days and the weeks to go by with nothing definite +accomplished toward any definite purpose. Yet that was what occurred. +Every time he came he had in mind a fixed resolve to make distinct +progress with the girl. Every time he left he had a furious quarrel with +himself for his weakness. "She is making a fool of me," he said to +himself. "She <i>must</i> be laughing at me." But he returned only to repeat +his folly, to add one more to the lengthening, mocking series of lost +opportunities. +</p> +<p> +The truth lay deeper than he saw. He recognized only his own weakness of +the infatuated lover's fatuous timidity. He did not realize how potent +her charm for him was, how completely content she made him when he was +with her, just from the fact that they were together. After a time an +unsatisfied passion often thus diffuses itself, ceases to be a narrow +torrent, becomes a broad river whose resistless force is hidden beneath +an appearance of sparkling calm. Her ingenuousness amused him; her +developing taste and imagination interested him; her freshness, her +freedom from any sense of his importance in the world fascinated him, +and there was a keener pleasure than he dreamed in the novel sensation +of breathing the perfume of what he, the one time cynic, would have +staked his life on being unsullied purity. Their relations were to him a +delightful variation upon the intimacy of master and pupil. Either he +was listening to her or was answering her questions—and the time flew. +And there never was a moment when he could have introduced the subject +that most concerned him when he was not with her. To have introduced it +would have been rudely to break the charm of a happy afternoon or +evening. +</p> +<p> +Was she leading him on and on nowhere deliberately? Or was it the sweet +and innocent simplicity it seemed? He could not tell. He would have +broken the charm and put the matter to the test had he not been afraid +of the consequences. What had he to fear? Was she not in his power? Was +she not his, whenever he should stretch forth his hand and claim her? +Yes—no doubt—not the slightest doubt. But—He was afraid to break +the charm; it was such a satisfying charm. +</p> +<p> +Then—there was her father. +</p> +<p> +Men who arrive anywhere in any direction always have the habit of +ignoring the nonessential more or less strongly developed. One +reason—perhaps the chief reason—why Norman had got up to the high +places of material success at so early an age was that he had an +unerring instinct for the essential and wasted no time or energy upon +the nonessential. In his present situation Dorothy's father, the +abstracted man of science, was one of the factors that obviously fell +into the nonessential class. Norman knew little about him, and cared +less. Also, he took care to avoid knowing him. Knowing the father would +open up possibilities of discomfort—But, being a wise young man, +Norman gave this matter the least possible thought. +</p> +<p> +Still, it was necessary that the two men see something of each other. +Hallowell discovered nothing about Norman, not enough about his personal +appearance to have recognized him in the street far enough away from the +laboratory to dissociate the two ideas. Human beings—except his +daughter—did not interest Hallowell; and his feeling for her was +somewhat in the nature of an abstraction. Norman, on the other hand, was +intensely interested in human beings; indeed, he was interested in +little else. He was always thrusting through surfaces, probing into +minds and souls. He sought thoroughly to understand the living machines +he used in furthering his ambitions and desires. So it was not long +before he learned much about old Newton Hallowell—and began to admire +him—and with a man of Norman's temperament to admire is to like. +</p> +<p> +He had assumed at the outset that the scientist was more or less the +crank. He had not talked with him many times before he discovered that, +far from being in any respect a crank, he was a most able and +well-balanced mentality—a genius. The day came when, Dorothy not having +returned from a shopping tour, he lingered in the laboratory talking +with the father, or, rather, listening while the man of great ideas +unfolded to him conceptions of the world that set his imagination to +soaring. +</p> +<p> +Most of us see but dimly beyond the ends of our noses, and visualize +what lies within our range of sight most imperfectly. We know little +about ourselves, less about others. We fancy that the world and the +human race always have been about as they now are, and always will be. +History reads to us like a fairy tale, to which we give conventional +acceptance as truth. As to the future, we can conceive nothing but the +continuation of just what we see about us in the present. Norman, +practical man though he was, living in and for the present, had yet an +imagination. He thought Hallowell a kind of fool for thinking only of +the future and working only for it—but he soon came to think him a +divine fool. And through Hallowell's spectacles he was charmed for many +an hour with visions of the world that is to be when, in the slow but +steady processes of evolution, the human race will become intelligent, +will conquer the universe with the weapons of science and will make it +over. +</p> +<p> +When he first stated his projects to Norman, the young man had +difficulty in restraining his amusement. A new idea, in any line of +thought with which we are not familiar, always strikes us as ridiculous. +Norman had been educated in the ignorant conventional way still in high +repute among the vulgar and among those whose chief delight is to make +the vulgar gape in awe. He therefore had no science, that is, no +knowledge—outside his profession—but only what is called learning, +though tommyrot would be a fitter name for it. He had only the most +meager acquaintance with that great fundamental of a sound and sane +education, embryology. He knew nothing of what science had already done +to destroy all the still current notions about the mystery of life and +birth. He still laughed, as at a clever bit of legerdemain, when +Hallowell showed him how far science had progressed toward mastery of +the life of the lower forms of existence—how those "worms" could be +artificially created, could be aged, made young again, made diseased and +decrepit, restored to perfect health, could be swung back and forth or +sideways or sinuously along the span of existence—could even be killed +and brought back to vigor. +</p> +<p> +"We've been at this sort of thing only a few years," said Hallowell. "I +rather think it will not be many years now before we shall not even need +the initial germ of life to enable us to create but can do it by pure +chemical means, just as a taper is lighted by holding a match to it." +</p> +<p> +Norman ceased to think of sleight-of-hand. +</p> +<p> +"Life," continued the juggler, transformed now into practical man, +leader of men, "life has been demonstrated to be simply one of the forms +of energy, or one of the consequences of energy. The final discovery is +scientifically not far away. Then—" His eyes lighted up. +</p> +<p> +"Then what?" asked Norman. +</p> +<p> +"Then immortality—in the body. Eternal youth and health. A body that is +renewable much as any of our inanimate machines of the factory is +renewable. Why not? So far as we know, no living thing ever dies except +by violence. Disease—old age—they are quite as much violence as the +knife and the bullet. What science can now do with these 'worms,' as my +daughter calls them—that it will be able to do with the higher +organisms." +</p> +<p> +"And the world would soon be jammed to the last acre," objected Norman. +</p> +<p> +Hallowell shrugged his shoulders. "Not at all. There will be no +necessity to create new people, except to take the place of those who +may be accidentally obliterated." +</p> +<p> +"But the world is dying—the earth, itself, I mean." +</p> +<p> +"True. But science may learn how to arrest that cooling process—or to +adapt man to it. Or, it may be that when the world ceases to be +inhabitable we shall have learned how to cross the star spaces, as I +think I've suggested before. Then—we should simply find a planet in its +youth somewhere, and migrate to it, as a man now moves to a new house +when the old ceases to please him." +</p> +<p> +"That is a long flight of the fancy," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"Long—but no stronger than the telegraph or the telephone. The trouble +with us is that we have been long stupefied by the ignorant theological +ideas of the universe—ideas that have come down to us from the +childhood of the race. We haven't got used to the new era—the +scientific era. And that is natural. Why, until less than three +generations ago there was really no such thing as science." +</p> +<p> +"I hadn't thought of that," admitted Norman. "We certainly have got on +very fast in those three generations." +</p> +<p> +"Rather fast. Not so fast, however, as we shall in the next three. +Science—chemistry—is going speedily to change all the conditions of +life because it will turn topsy-turvy all the ways of producing +things—food, clothing, shelter. Less than two generations ago men lived +much as they had for thousands of years. But it's very different to-day. +It will be inconceivably different to-morrow." +</p> +<p> +Norman could not get these ideas out of his brain. He began to +understand why Hallowell cared nothing about the active life of the +day—about its religion, politics, modes of labor, its habits of one +creature preying upon another. To-morrow, not religion, not politics, +but chemistry, not priests nor politicians, but chemists, would change +all that—and change it by the only methods that compel. An abstract +idea of liberty or justice can be rejected, evaded, nullified. But a +telephone, a steam engine, a mode of prolonging life—those realizations +of ideas <i>compel</i>. +</p> +<p> +When Dorothy came, Norman went into the garden with her in a frame of +mind so different from any he had ever before experienced that he +scarcely recognized himself. As the influence of the father's glowing +imagination of genius waned before the daughter's physical loveliness +and enchantment for him, he said to himself, "I'll keep away from him." +Why? He did not permit himself to go on to examine into his reasons. But +he could not conceal them from himself quickly enough to hide the +knowledge that they were moral. +</p> +<p> +"What is the matter with you to-day?" said Dorothy. "You are not a bit +interesting." +</p> +<p> +"Interested, you mean," he said with a smile of raillery, for he had +long since discovered that she was not without the feminine vanity that +commands the centering of all interest in the woman herself and resents +any wandering of thought as a slur upon her own powers of fascination. +</p> +<p> +"Well, interested then," said she. "You are thinking about something +else." +</p> +<p> +"Not now," he assured her. +</p> +<p> +But he left early. No sooner had he got away from the house than the +scientific dreaming vanished and he wished himself back with her +again—back where every glance at her gave him the most exquisite +sensations. And when he came the following day he apparently had once +more restored her father to his proper place of a nonessential. All that +definitely remained of the day before's impression was a certain +satisfaction that he was aiding with his money an enterprise of greater +value and of less questionable character than merely his own project. +But the powerful influences upon our life and conduct are rarely direct +and definite. He, quite unconsciously, had a wholly different feeling +about Dorothy because of her father, because of what his new knowledge +of and respect for her father had revealed and would continue to reveal +to him as to the girl herself—her training, her inheritance, her +character that could not but be touched with the splendor of the +father's noble genius. And long afterward, when the father as a distinct +personality had been almost forgotten, Norman was still, altogether +unconsciously, influenced by him—powerfully, perhaps decisively +influenced. Norman had no notion of it, but ever after that talk in the +laboratory, Dorothy Hallowell was to him Newton Hallowell's daughter. +</p> +<p> +When he came the following day, with his original purposes and plans +once more intact, as he thought, he found that she had made more of a +toilet than usual, had devised a new way of doing her hair that enabled +him to hang a highly prized addition in his memory gallery of widely +varied portraits of her. +</p> +<p> +The afternoon was warm. They sat under a big old tree at the end of the +garden. He saw that she was much disturbed—and that it had to do with +him. From time to time she looked at him, studying his face when she +thought herself unobserved. As he had learned that it is never wise to +open up the disagreeable, he waited. After making several futile efforts +at conversation, she abruptly said: +</p> +<p> +"I saw Mr. Tetlow this morning—in Twenty-third Street. I was coming out +of a chemical supplies store where father had sent me." +</p> +<p> +She paused. But Norman did not help her. He continued to wait. +</p> +<p> +"He—Mr. Tetlow—acted very strangely," she went on. "I spoke to him. He +stared at me as if he weren't going to speak—as if I weren't fit to +speak to." +</p> +<p> +"Oh!" said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"Then he came hurrying after me. And he said, 'Do you know that Norman +is to be married in two weeks?'" +</p> +<p> +"So!" said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"And I said, 'What of it? How does that interest me?'" +</p> +<p> +"It didn't interest you?" +</p> +<p> +"I was surprised that you hadn't spoken of it," replied she. "But I was +more interested in Mr. Tetlow's manner. What do you think he said next?" +</p> +<p> +"I can't imagine," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"Why—that I was even more shameless than he thought. He said: 'Oh, I +know all about you. I found out by accident. I shan't tell anyone, for I +can't help loving you still. But it has killed my belief in woman to +find out that <i>you</i> would sell yourself.'" +</p> +<p> +She was looking at Norman with eyes large and grave. "And what did you +say?" he inquired. +</p> +<p> +"I didn't say anything. I looked at him as if he weren't there and +started on. Then he said, 'When Norman abandons you, as he soon will, +you can count on me, if you need a friend.'" +</p> +<p> +There was a pause. Then Norman said, "And that was all?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes," replied she. +</p> +<p> +Another pause. Norman said musingly: "Poor Tetlow! I've not seen him +since he went away to Bermuda—at least he said he was going there. One +day he sent the firm a formal letter of resignation. . . . Poor Tetlow! +Do you regret not having married him?" +</p> +<p> +"I couldn't marry a man I didn't love." She looked at him with sweet +friendly eyes. "I couldn't even marry you, much as I like you." +</p> +<p> +Norman laughed—a dismal attempt at ease and raillery. +</p> +<p> +"When he told me about your marrying," she went on, "I knew how I felt +about you. For I was not a bit jealous. Why haven't you ever said +anything about it?" +</p> +<p> +He disregarded this. He leaned forward and with curious deliberateness +took her hand. She let it lie gently in his. He put his arm round her +and drew her close to him. She did not resist. He kissed her upturned +face, kissed her upon the lips. She remained passive, looking at him +with calm eyes. +</p> +<p> +"Kiss me," he said. +</p> +<p> +She kissed him—without hesitation and without warmth. +</p> +<p> +"Why do you look at me so?" he demanded. +</p> +<p> +"I can't understand." +</p> +<p> +"Understand what?" +</p> +<p> +"Why you should wish to kiss me when you love another woman. What would +she say if she knew?" +</p> +<p> +"I'm sure I don't know. And I rather think I don't care. You are the +only person on earth that interests me." +</p> +<p> +"Then why are you marrying?" +</p> +<p> +"Let's not talk about that. Let's talk about ourselves." He clasped her +passionately, kissed her at first with self-restraint, then in a kind of +frenzy. "How can you be so cruel!" he cried. "Are you utterly cold?" +</p> +<p> +"I do not love you," she said. +</p> +<p> +"Why not?" +</p> +<p> +"There's no reason. I—just don't. I've sometimes thought perhaps it was +because you don't love me." +</p> +<p> +"Good God, Dorothy! What do you want me to say or do?" +</p> +<p> +"Nothing," replied she calmly. "You asked me why I didn't love you, and +I was trying to explain. I don't want anything more than I'm getting. I +am content—aren't you?" +</p> +<p> +"Content!" He laughed sardonically. "As well ask Tantalus if he is +content, with the water always before his eyes and always out of reach. +I want you—all you have to give. I couldn't be content with less." +</p> +<p> +"You ought not to talk to me this way," she reproved gently, "when you +are engaged." +</p> +<p> +He flung her hand into her lap. "You are making a fool of me. And I +don't wonder. I've invited it. Surely, never since man was created has +there been such another ass as I." He drew her to her feet, seized her +roughly by the shoulders. "When are you coming to your senses?" he +demanded. +</p> +<p> +"What do you mean?" she inquired, in her childlike puzzled way. +</p> +<p> +He shook her, kissed her violently, held her at arm's length. "Do you +think it wise to trifle with me?" he asked. "Don't your good sense tell +you there's a limit even to such folly as mine?" +</p> +<p> +"What <i>is</i> the matter?" she asked pathetically. "What do you want? I can't +give you what I haven't got to give." +</p> +<p> +"No," he cried. "But I want what you <i>have</i> got to give." +</p> +<p> +She shook her head slowly. "Really, I haven't, Mr. Norman." +</p> +<p> +He eyed her with cynical amused suspicion. "Why did you call me <i>Mr.</i> +Norman just then? Usually you don't call me at all. It's been weeks +since you have called me Mister. Was your doing it just then one of +those subtle, adroit, timely tricks of yours?" +</p> +<p> +She was the picture of puzzled innocence. "I don't understand," she +said. +</p> +<p> +"Well—perhaps you don't," said he doubtfully. "At any rate, don't call +me Mr. Norman. Call me Fred." +</p> +<p> +"I can't. It isn't natural. You seem Mister to me. I always think of you +as Mr. Norman." +</p> +<p> +"That's it. And it must stop!" +</p> +<p> +She smiled with innocent gayety. "Very well—Fred. . . . Fred. . . . Now that +I've said it, I don't find it strange." She looked at him with an +expression between appeal and mockery. "If you'd only let me get +acquainted with you. But you don't. You make me feel that I've got to be +careful with you—that I must be on my guard. I don't know against +what—for you are certainly the very best friend that I've ever had—the +only real friend." +</p> +<p> +He frowned and bit his lip—and felt uncomfortable, though he protested +to himself that he was simply irritated at her slyness. Yes, it must be +slyness. +</p> +<p> +"So," she went on, "there's no <i>reason</i> for being on guard. Still, I feel +that way." She looked at him with sweet gravity. "Perhaps I shouldn't if +you didn't talk about love to me and kiss me in a way I feel you've no +right to." +</p> +<p> +Again he laid his hands upon her shoulders. This time he gazed angrily +into her eyes. "Are you a fool? Or are you making a fool of me?" he +said. "I can't decide which." +</p> +<p> +"I certainly am very foolish," was her apologetic answer. "I don't know +a lot of things, like you and father. I'm only a girl." +</p> +<p> +And he had the maddening sense of being baffled again—of having got +nowhere, of having demonstrated afresh to himself and to her his own +weakness where she was concerned. What unbelievable weakness! Had there +ever been such another case? Yes, there must have been. How little he +had known of the possibilities of the relations of men and women—he +who had prided himself on knowing all! +</p> +<p> +She said, "You are going to marry?" +</p> +<p> +"I suppose so," replied he sourly. +</p> +<p> +"Are you worried about the expense? Is it costing you too much, this +helping father? Are you sorry you went into it?" +</p> +<p> +He was silent. +</p> +<p> +"You are sorry?" she exclaimed. "You feel that you are wasting your +money?" +</p> +<p> +His generosity forbade him to keep up the pretense that might aid him in +his project. "No," he said hastily. "No, indeed. This expense—it's +nothing." He flushed, hung his head in shame before his own weakness, as +he added, in complete surrender, "I'm very glad to be helping your +father." +</p> +<p> +"I knew you would be!" she cried triumphantly. "I knew it!" And she +flung her arms round his neck and kissed him. +</p> +<p> +"That's better!" he said with a foolishly delighted laugh. "I believe we +are beginning to get acquainted." +</p> +<p> +"Yes, indeed. I feel quite different already." +</p> +<p> +"I hoped so. You are coming to your senses?" +</p> +<p> +"Perhaps. Only—" She laid a beautiful white pleading hand upon his +shoulder and gazed earnestly into his eyes—"please don't frighten me +with that talk—and those other kisses." +</p> +<p> +He looked at her uncertainly. "Come round in your own way," he said at +last. "I don't want to hurry you. I suppose every bird has its own way +of dropping from a perch." +</p> +<p> +"You don't like my way?" she inquired. +</p> +<p> +It was said archly but also in the way that always made him vaguely +uneasy, made him feel like one facing a mystery which should be explored +cautiously. "It is graceful," he admitted, with a smile since he could +not venture to frown. "Graceful—but slow." +</p> +<p> +She laughed—and he could not but feel that the greater laughter in her +too innocent eyes was directed at him. She talked of other things—and +he let her—charmed, yet cursing his folly, his slavery, the while. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0012"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + X +</h2> +<p> +Many a time he had pitied a woman for letting him get away from her, +when she obviously wished to hold him and failed solely because she did +not understand her business. Like every other man, he no sooner began to +be attracted by a woman than he began to invest her with a mystery and +awe which she either could dissipate by forcing him to see the truth of +her commonplaceness or could increase into a power that would enslave +him by keeping him agitated and interested and ever satisfied yet ever +baffled. But no woman had shown this supreme skill in the art of +love—until Dorothy Hallowell. She exasperated him. She fascinated him. +She kept him so restless that his professional work was all but +neglected. Was it her skill? Was it her folly? Was she simply leading +him on and on, guided blindly by woman's instinct to get as much as she +could and to give as little as she dared? Or was she protected by a real +indifference to him—the strongest, indeed the only invulnerable armor a +woman can wear? Was she protecting herself? Or was it merely that he, +weakened by his infatuation, was doing the protecting for her? +</p> +<p> +Beside these distracting questions, the once all-important matter of +professional and worldly ambition seemed not worth troubling about. They +even so vexed him that he had become profoundly indifferent as to +Josephine. He saw her rarely. When they were alone he either talked +neutral subjects or sat almost mute, hardly conscious of her presence. +He received her efforts at the customary caressings with such stolidity +that she soon ceased to annoy him. They reduced their outward show of +affection to a kiss when they met, another when they separated. He was +tired—always tired—worn out—half sick—harassed by business +concerns. He did not trouble himself about whether his listless excuses +would be accepted or not. He did not care what she thought—or might +think—or might do. +</p> +<p> +Josephine was typical of the women of the comfortable class. For them +the fundamentally vital matters of life—the profoundly harassing +questions of food, clothing, and shelter—are arranged and settled. What +is there left to occupy their minds? Little but the idle emotions they +manufacture and spread foglike over their true natures to hide the +barrenness, the monotony. They fool with phrases about art or love or +religion or charity—for none of those things can be vivid realities to +those who are swathed and stupefied in a luxury they have not to take +the least thought to provide for themselves. Like all those women, +Josephine fancied herself complex—fancied she was a person of variety +and of depth because she repeated with a slight change of wording the +things she read in clever books or heard from clever men. There seemed +to Norman to be small enough originality, personality, to the ordinary +man of the comfortable class; but there was some, because his necessity +of struggling with and against his fellow men in the several arenas of +active life compelled him to be at least a little of a person. In the +women there seemed nothing at all—not even in Josephine. When he +listened to her, when he thought of her, now—he was calmly critical. He +judged her as a human specimen—judged much as would have old Newton +Hallowell to whom the whole world was mere laboratory. +</p> +<p> +She bored him now—and he made no effort beyond bare politeness to +conceal the fact from her. The situation was saved from becoming +intolerable by that universal saver of intolerable situations, vanity. +She had the ordinary human vanity. In addition, she had the peculiar +vanity of woman, the creation of man's flatteries lavished upon the sex +he alternately serves and spurns. In further addition, she had the +vanity of her class—the comfortable class that feels superior to the +mass of mankind in fortune, in intellect, in taste, in everything +desirable. Heaped upon all these vanities was her vanity of high social +rank—and atop the whole her vanity of great wealth. None but the +sweetest and simplest of human beings can stand up and remain human +under such a weight as this. If we are at all fair in our judgments of +our fellow men, we marvel that the triumphant class—especially the +women, whose point of view is never corrected by the experiences of +practical life—are not more arrogant, more absurdly forgetful of the +oneness and the feebleness of humanity. +</p> +<p> +Josephine was by nature one of the sweet and simple souls. And her love +for Norman, after the habit of genuine love, had destroyed all the +instinct of coquetry. The woman—or, the man—has to be indeed +interesting, indeed an individuality, to remain interesting when +sincerely in love, and so elevated above the petty but potent sex +trickeries. Josephine, deeply in love, was showing herself to Norman in +her undisguised natural sweet simplicity—and monotony. But, while men +admire and reverence a sweet and simple feminine soul—and love her in +plays and between the covers of a book and when she is talking +highfaluting abstractions of morality—and wax wroth with any other man +who ignores or neglects her—they do not in their own persons become +infatuated with her. Passion is too much given to moods for that; it has +a morbid craving for variety, for the mysterious and the baffling. +</p> +<p> +The only thing that saves the race from ruin through passion is the +rarity of those by nature or by art expert in using it. Norman felt that +he was paying the penalty for his persistent search for this rarity; one +of the basest tricks of destiny upon man is to give him what he +wants—wealth, or fame, or power, or the woman who enslaves. Norman +felt that destiny had suddenly revealed its resolve to destroy him by +giving him not one of the things he wanted, but all. +</p> +<p> +The marriage was not quite two weeks away. About the time that the +ordinary plausible excuses for Norman's neglect, his abstraction, his +seeming indifference were exhausted, Josephine's vanity came forward to +explain everything to her, all to her own glory. As the elysian hour +approached—so vanity assured her—the man who loved her as her complex +soul and many physical and social advantages deserved was overcome with +that shy terror of which she had read in the poets and the novelists. A +large income, fashionable attire and surroundings, a carriage and a +maid—these things gave a woman a subtle and superior intellect and +soul. How? Why? No one knew. But everyone admitted, indeed saw, the +truth. Further, these beings—these great ladies—according to all the +accredited poets, novelists, and other final authorities upon +life—always inspired the most awed and worshipful and diffident +feelings in their lovers. Therefore, she—the great lady—was getting +but her due. She would have liked something else—something common and +human—much better. But, having always led her life as the conventions +dictated, never as the common human heart yearned, she had no keen sense +of dissatisfaction to rouse her to revolt and to question. Also, she was +breathlessly busy with trousseau and the other arrangements for the +grand wedding. +</p> +<p> +One afternoon she telephoned Norman asking him to come on his way home +that evening. "I particularly wish to see you," she said. He thought her +voice sounded rather queer, but he did not take sufficient interest to +speculate about it. When he was with her in the small drawing room on +the second floor, he noted that her eyes were regarding him strangely. +He thought he understood why when she said: +</p> +<p> +"Aren't you going to kiss me, Fred?" +</p> +<p> +He put on his good-natured, slightly mocking smile. "I thought you were +too busy for that sort of thing nowadays." And he bent and kissed her +waiting lips. Then he lit a cigarette and seated himself on the sofa +beside her—the sofa at right angles to the open fire. "Well?" he said. +</p> +<p> +She gazed into the fire for full a minute before she said in a voice of +constraint, "What became of that—that girl—the Miss Hallowell——" +</p> +<p> +She broke off abruptly. There was a pause choked with those dizzy +pulsations that fill moments of silence and strain. Then with a sob she +flung herself against his breast and buried her face in his shoulder. +"Don't answer!" she cried. "I'm ashamed of myself. I'm ashamed—ashamed!" +</p> +<p> +He put his arm about her shoulders. "But why shouldn't I answer?" said +he in the kindly gentle tone we can all assume when a matter that +agitates some one else is wholly indifferent to us. +</p> +<p> +"Because—it was a—a trap," she answered hysterically. "Fred—there was +a man here this afternoon—a man named Tetlow. He got in only because +he said he came from you." +</p> +<p> +Norman laughed quietly. "Poor Tetlow!" he said. "He used to be your head +clerk—didn't he?" +</p> +<p> +"And one of my few friends." +</p> +<p> +"He's not your friend, Fred!" she cried, sitting upright and speaking +with energy that quivered in her voice and flashed in her fine brown +eyes. "He's your enemy—a snake in the grass—a malicious, +poisonous——" +</p> +<p> +Norman's quiet, even laugh interrupted. "Oh, no," said he. "Tetlow's a +good fellow. Anything he said would be what he honestly +believed—anything he said about me." +</p> +<p> +"He pleaded that he was doing it for your good," she went on with scorn. +"They always do—like the people that write father wicked anonymous +letters. He—this man Tetlow—he said he wanted me for the sake of my +love for you to save you from yourself." +</p> +<p> +Norman glanced at her with amused eyes. "Well, why don't you? But then +you <i>are</i> doing it. You're marrying me, aren't you?" +</p> +<p> +Again she put her head upon his shoulder. "Indeed I am!" she cried. "And +I'd be a poor sort if I let a sneak shake my confidence in you." +</p> +<p> +He patted her shoulder, and there was laughter in his voice as he said, +"But I never professed to be trustworthy." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I know you <i>used</i> to—" She laughed and kissed his cheek. "Never +mind. I've heard. But while you were engaged to me—about to marry +me—why, you simply couldn't!" +</p> +<p> +"Couldn't what?" inquired he. +</p> +<p> +"Do you want me to tell you what he said?" +</p> +<p> +"I think I know. But do as you like." +</p> +<p> +"Maybe I'd better tell you. I seem to want to get rid of it." +</p> +<p> +"Then do." +</p> +<p> +"It was about that girl." She sat upright and looked at him for +encouragement. He nodded. She went on: "He said that if I asked you, you +would not dare deny you were—were—giving her money." +</p> +<p> +"Her and her father." +</p> +<p> +She shrank, startled. Then her lips smiled bravely, and she said, "He +didn't say anything about her father." +</p> +<p> +"No. That was my own correction of his story." +</p> +<p> +She looked at him with wonder and doubt. "You aren't—<i>doing</i> it, Fred!" +she exclaimed. +</p> +<p> +He nodded. "Yes, indeed." He looked at her placidly. "Why not?" +</p> +<p> +"You are <i>supporting</i> her?" +</p> +<p> +"If you wish to put it that way," said he carelessly. "My money pays the +bills—all the bills." +</p> +<p> +"Fred!" +</p> +<p> +"Yes? What is it? Why are you so agitated?" He studied her face, then +rose, took a final pull at the cigarette, tossed it in the fire. "I must +be going," he said, in a cool, even voice. +</p> +<p> +She started up in a panic. "Fred! What do you mean? Are you angry with +me?" +</p> +<p> +His calm regard met hers. "I do not like—this sort of thing," he said. +</p> +<p> +"But surely you'll explain. Surely I'm entitled to an explanation." +</p> +<p> +"Why should I explain? You have evidently found an explanation that +satisfies you." He drew himself up in a quiet gesture of haughtiness. +"Besides, it has never been my habit to allow myself to be questioned or +to explain myself." +</p> +<p> +Her eyes widened with terror. "Fred!" she gasped. "What <i>do</i> you mean?" +</p> +<p> +"Precisely what I say," said he, in the same cool, inevitable way. "A +man came to you with a story about me. You listened. A sufficient answer +to the story was that I am marrying you. That answer apparently does not +content you. Very well. I shall make no other." +</p> +<p> +She gazed at him uncertainly. She felt him going—and going finally. +She seized him with desperate fingers, cried: "I <i>am</i> content. Oh, +Fred—don't frighten me this way!" +</p> +<p> +He smiled satirically. "Are you afraid of the scandal—because +everything for the wedding has gone so far?" +</p> +<p> +"How can you think that!" cried she—perhaps too vigorously, a woman +would have thought. +</p> +<p> +"What else is there for me to think? You certainly haven't shown any +consideration for me." +</p> +<p> +"But you told me yourself that you were false to me." +</p> +<p> +"Really? When?" +</p> +<p> +She forgot her fear in a gush of rage rising from sudden realization of +what she was doing—of how leniently and weakly and without pride she +was dealing with this man. "Didn't you admit——" +</p> +<p> +"Pardon me," said he, and his manner might well have calmed the wildest +tempest of anger. "I did not admit. I never admit. I leave that to +people of the sort who explain and excuse and apologize. I simply told +you I was paying the expenses of a family named Hallowell." +</p> +<p> +"But <i>why</i> should you do it, Fred?" +</p> +<p> +His smile was gently satirical. "I thought Tetlow told you why." +</p> +<p> +"I don't believe him!" +</p> +<p> +"Then why this excitement?" +</p> +<p> +One could understand how the opposition witnesses dreaded facing him. "I +don't know just why," she stammered. "It seemed to me you were +admitting—I mean, you were confirming what that man accused you of." +</p> +<p> +"And of what did he accuse me? I might say, of what do <i>you</i> accuse me?" +When she remained silent he went on: "I am trying to be reasonable, +Josephine. I am trying to keep my temper." +</p> +<p> +The look in her eyes—the fear, the timidity—was a startling revelation +of character—of the cowardice with which love undermines the strongest +nature. "I know I've been foolish and incoherent, Fred," she pleaded. +"But—I love you! And you remember how I always was afraid of that +girl." +</p> +<p> +"Just what do you wish to know?" +</p> +<p> +"Nothing, dear—nothing. I am not sillily jealous. I ought to be +admiring you for your generosity—your charity." +</p> +<p> +"It's neither the one nor the other," said he with exasperating +deliberateness. +</p> +<p> +She quivered. "Then <i>what</i> is it?" she cried. "You are driving me crazy +with your evasions." Pleadingly, "You must admit they <i>are</i> evasions." +</p> +<p> +He buttoned his coat in tranquil preparation to depart. She instantly +took alarm. "I don't mean that. It's my fault, not asking you straight +out. Fred, tell me—won't you? But if you are too cross with me, +then—don't tell me." She laughed nervously, hiding her submission +beneath a seeming of mocking exaggeration of humility. "I'll be good. +I'll behave." +</p> +<p> +A man who admired her as a figure, a man who liked her, a man who had no +feeling for her beyond the general human feeling of wishing well pretty +nearly everybody—in brief, any man but one who had loved her and had +gotten over it would have deeply pitied and sympathized with her. Fred +Norman said, his look and his tone coolly calm: +</p> +<p> +"I am backing Mr. Hallowell in a company for which he is doing chemical +research work. We are hatching eggs, out of the shell, so to speak. Also +we are aging and rejuvenating arthropods and the like. So far we have +declared no dividends. But we have hopes." +</p> +<p> +She gave a hysterical sob of relief. "Then it's only business—not the +girl at all!" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, yes, it's the girl, too," replied he. "She's an officer of the +company. In fact, it was to make a place for her that I went into the +enterprise originally." With an engaging air of frankness he inquired, +"Anything more?" +</p> +<p> +She was gazing soberly, almost somberly, into the fire. "You'll not be +offended if I ask you one question?" +</p> +<p> +"Certainly not." +</p> +<p> +"Is there anything between you and—her?" +</p> +<p> +"You mean, am I having an affair with her?" +</p> +<p> +She hung her head, but managed to make a slight nod of assent. +</p> +<p> +He laughed. "No." He laughed again. "No—not thus far, my dear." He +laughed a third time, with still stronger and stranger mockery. "She +congratulated me on my engagement with a sincerity that would have +piqued a man who was interested in her." +</p> +<p> +"Will you forgive me?" Josephine said. "What I've just been feeling and +saying and putting you through—it's beneath both of us. I suppose a +woman—no woman—can help being nasty where another woman is +concerned." +</p> +<p> +With his satirical good-humored smile, "I don't in the least blame you." +</p> +<p> +"And you'll not think less of me for giving way to a thing so vulgar?" +</p> +<p> +He kissed her with a carelessness that made her wince But she felt that +she deserved it—and was grateful. He said: "Why don't you go over and +see for yourself? No doubt Tetlow gave you the address—and no doubt +you have remembered it." +</p> +<p> +She colored and hastily turned her head. "Don't punish me," she pleaded. +</p> +<p> +"Punish you? What nonsense! . . . Do you want me to take you over? The +laboratory would interest you—and Miss Hallowell is lovelier than ever. +She has an easier life now. Office work wears on women terribly." +</p> +<p> +Josephine looked at him with a beautiful smile of love and trust. "You +wish to be sure I'm cured. Well, can't you see that I am?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't see why you should be. I've said nothing one way or the other." +</p> +<p> +She laughed gayly. "You can't tempt me. I'm really cured. I think the +only reason I had the attack was because Mr. Tetlow so evidently +believed he was speaking the truth." +</p> +<p> +"No doubt he did think he was. I'm sure, in the same circumstances, I'd +think of anyone else just what he thinks of me." +</p> +<p> +"Then why do you do it, Fred?" urged she with ill-concealed eagerness. +"It isn't fair to the girl, is it?" +</p> +<p> +"No one but you and Tetlow knows I'm doing it." +</p> +<p> +"You're mistaken there, dear. Tetlow says a great many people down town +are talking about it—that they say you go almost every day to Jersey +City to see her. He accuses you of having ruined her reputation. He says +she is quite innocent. He blames the whole thing upon you." +</p> +<p> +Norman, standing with arms folded upon his broad chest, was gazing +thoughtfully into the fire. +</p> +<p> +"You don't mind my telling you these things?" she said anxiously. "Of +course, I know they are lies——" +</p> +<p> +"So everyone is talking about it," interrupted he, so absorbed that he +had not heard her. +</p> +<p> +"You don't realize how conspicuous you are." +</p> +<p> +He shrugged his shoulders. "Well, it can't be helped." +</p> +<p> +"You can't afford to be mixed up in a scandal," she ventured, "or to +injure a poor little creature—I'm afraid you'll have to—to stop it." +</p> +<p> +"Stop it." His eyes gleamed with mirth and something else. "It isn't my +habit to heed gossip." +</p> +<p> +"But think of <i>her</i>, Fred!" +</p> +<p> +He smiled ironically. "What a generous, thoughtful dear you are!" said +he. +</p> +<p> +She blushed. "I'll admit I don't like it. I'm not jealous—but I wish +you weren't doing it." +</p> +<p> +"So do I!" he exclaimed, with sudden energy that astonished and +disquieted her. "So do I! But since it can't be helped I shall go on." +</p> +<p> +Never had she respected him so profoundly. For the first time she had +measured strength with him and had been beaten and routed. She fancied +herself enormously proud; for she labored under the common delusion +which mistakes for pride the silly vanity of class, or birth, or wealth, +or position. She had imagined she would never lower that cherished pride +of hers to any man. And she had lowered it into the dust. No wonder +women had loved him, she said to herself; couldn't he do with them, even +the haughtiest of them, precisely as he pleased? He had not tried to +calm, much less to end her jealousy; on the contrary, he had let it +flame as high as it would, had urged it higher. And she did not dare ask +him, even as a loving concession to her weakness, to give up an affair +upon which everybody was putting the natural worst possible +construction! On the contrary, she had given him leave to go on—because +she feared—yes, knew—that if she tried to interfere he would take it +as evidence that they could not get on together. What a man! +</p> +<hr> +<p> +But there was more to come that day. As he was finishing dressing for +dinner his sister Ursula knocked. "May I come, Frederick?" she said. +</p> +<p> +"Sure," he cried. "I'm fixing my tie." +</p> +<p> +Ursula, in a gown that displayed the last possible—many of the +homelier women said impossible—inch of her beautiful shoulders, came +strolling sinuously in and seated herself on the arm of the divan. She +watched him, in his evening shirt, as he with much struggling did his +tie. "How young you do look, Fred!" said she. "Especially in just that +much clothes. Not a day over thirty." +</p> +<p> +"I'm not exactly a nonogenarian," retorted he. +</p> +<p> +"But usually your face—in spite of its smoothness and no wrinkles—has +a kind of an old young—or do I mean young old?—look. You've led such a +serious life." +</p> +<p> +"Um. That's the devil of it." +</p> +<p> +"You're looking particularly young to-night." +</p> +<p> +"Same to you, Urse." +</p> +<p> +"No, I'm not bad for thirty-four. People half believe me when I say I'm +twenty-nine." She glanced complacently down at her softly glistening +shoulders. "I've still got my skin." +</p> +<p> +"And a mighty good one it is. Best I ever saw—except one." +</p> +<p> +She reflected a moment, then smiled. "I know it isn't Josephine's. Hers +is good but not notable. Eyes and teeth are her strongholds. I suppose +it's—the other lady's." +</p> +<p> +"Exactly." +</p> +<p> +"I mean the one in Jersey City." +</p> +<p> +He went on brushing his hair with not a glance at the bomb she had +exploded under his very nose. +</p> +<p> +"You're a cool one," she said admiringly. +</p> +<p> +"Cool?" +</p> +<p> +"I thought you'd jump. I'm sure you never dreamed I knew." +</p> +<p> +He slid into his white waistcoat and began to button it. +</p> +<p> +"Though you might know I'd find out," she went on, "when everyone's +talking." +</p> +<p> +"Everyone's always talking," said he indifferently. +</p> +<p> +"And they rattle on to beat the band when they get a chance at a man +like you. Do you know what they're saying?" +</p> +<p> +"Certainly. Loosen these straps in the back of my waistcoat—the upper +ones, won't you?" +</p> + +<div class="figure" style="width: 80%;"> +<a name="image-0005" href="images/img-05.jpg"><img src="images/img-05.jpg" width="100%" +alt="'She glanced complacently down at her softly glistening shoulders.'"></a><br /> +<b>"She glanced complacently down at her softly glistening shoulders."</b> +</div> + +<p> +As she fussed with the buckles she said: "But you don't know that they +say you're going to pieces—neglecting your cases—keeping away from +your office—wasting about half of your day with your lady love. They +say that you have gone stark mad—that you are rushing to ruin." +</p> +<p> +"A little looser. That's better. Thanks." +</p> +<p> +"And everyone's wondering when Josephine will hear and go on the +rampage. She's so proud and so stuck on herself that they're betting +she'll give you the bounce." +</p> +<p> +"Well—" getting into his coat—"you'd delight in that. For you don't +like her." +</p> +<p> +"Oh—so—so," replied Ursula. "She's all right, as women go. You know we +women don't ever think any too well of each other. We're 'on.' Now, I'm +frank to admit I'm not worth the powder to blow me up. I can't do +anything worth doing. I don't know anything worth knowing—except how to +dress and make a fool of an occasional man. I'm not a good house-keeper, +nor a good wife—and I'd as lief go to jail for two years as have a +baby. But I admit I'm n. g. Most women are as poor excuses as I am, yet +they think they're <i>grand</i>!" +</p> +<p> +Norman, standing before his sister and smiling mysteriously, said: "My +dear Urse, let me give you a great truth in a sentence. The value of +anything is not its value to itself or in itself, but its value to some +one else. A woman—even as incompetent a person as you——" +</p> +<p> +"Or Josephine." +</p> +<p> +"—or Josephine—may seem to some man to be pricelessly valuable. And if +she happens to seem so to him, why, she <i>is</i> so." +</p> +<p> +"Meaning—Jersey City?" +</p> +<p> +His eyes glittered curiously. "Meaning Jersey City," he said. +</p> +<p> +A long silence. Then Ursula: "But suppose Josephine hears?" +</p> +<p> +He stood beside the doorway, waiting for her to pass out. His face +expressed nothing. "Let's go down. I'm hungry. We were talking about it +this afternoon." +</p> +<p> +"You and Jo!" +</p> +<p> +"Josephine and I." +</p> +<p> +"And it's all right?" +</p> +<p> +"Why not?" +</p> +<p> +"You fooled her?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't stoop to that sort of thing." +</p> +<p> +"No, indeed," she laughed. "You rise to heights of deception that would +make anyone else giddy. Oh, I'd give anything to have heard." +</p> +<p> +"There's nothing to deceive about," said he. +</p> +<p> +She shook her head. "You can't put it over me, Fred. You've never before +made a fool of yourself about a woman. I'd like to see her. I suppose +I'd be amazed. I've observed that the women who do the most +extraordinary things with men are the most ordinary sort of women." +</p> +<p> +"Not to the men," said he bitterly. "Not while they're doing it." +</p> +<p> +"Does <i>she</i> seem extraordinary to <i>you</i> still?" +</p> +<p> +He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. "What you heard is true. I'm +letting everything slide—work—career—everything. I think of nothing +else. Ursula, I'm mad about her—mad!" +</p> +<p> +She threw back her head, looked at him admiringly. Never had she so +utterly worshiped this wonderful, powerful brother of hers. He was in +love—really—madly in love—at last. So he was perfect! "How long do +you think it will hold, Fred?" she said, all sympathy. +</p> +<p> +"God knows!" +</p> +<p> +"Yet—caring for her you can go on and marry another woman!" +</p> +<p> +He looked at his sister cynically. "You wouldn't have me marry <i>her</i>, +would you?" +</p> +<p> +"Of course not," protested she hastily. Her passion for romance did not +carry her to that idiocy. "You couldn't. She's a sort of working +girl—isn't she?—anyhow, that class. No, you couldn't marry her. But +how can you marry another woman?" +</p> +<p> +"How could I give up Josephine?—and give her up probably to Bob +Culver?" +</p> +<p> +Ursula nodded understandingly. "But—what are you going to do?" +</p> +<p> +"How should I know? Perhaps break it off when I marry—if you can call +it breaking off, when there's nothing to break but—me." +</p> +<p> +"You don't mean—" she cried, stopping when her tone had carried her +meaning. +</p> +<p> +He laughed. "Yes—that's the kind of damn fool I've been." +</p> +<p> +"You must have let her see how crazy you were about her." +</p> +<p> +"Was anyone ever able to hide that sort of insanity?" +</p> +<p> +Ursula gazed wonderingly at him, drew a long breath. "You!" she +exclaimed. "Of all men—you!" +</p> +<p> +"Let's go down." +</p> +<p> +"She must be a deep one—dangerous," said Ursula, furious against the +woman who was daring to resist her matchless brother. "Fred, I'm wild to +see her. Maybe I'd see something that'd help cure you." +</p> +<p> +"You keep out of it," he replied, curtly but not with ill humor. +</p> +<p> +"It can't last long." +</p> +<p> +"It'd do for me, if it did." +</p> +<p> +"The marriage will settle everything," said Ursula with confidence. +</p> +<p> +"It's got to," said he grimly. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0013"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XI +</h2> +<p> +The next day or the next but one Dorothy telephoned him. He often called +her up on one pretext or another, or frankly for no reason at all beyond +the overwhelming desire to hear her voice. But she had never before +"disturbed" him. He had again and again assured her that he would not +regard himself as "disturbed," no matter what he might be doing. She +would not have it so. As he was always watching for some faint sign that +she was really interested in him, this call gave him a thrill of hope—a +specimen of the minor absurdities of those days of extravagant folly. +</p> +<p> +"Are you coming over to-day?" she asked. +</p> +<p> +"Right away, if you wish." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, no. Any time will do." +</p> +<p> +"I'll come at once. I'm not busy." +</p> +<p> +"No. Late this afternoon. Father asked me to call up and make sure. He +wants to see you." +</p> +<p> +"Oh—not you?" +</p> +<p> +"I'm a business person," retorted she. "I know better than to annoy you, +as I've often said." +</p> +<p> +He knew it was foolish, tiresome; yet he could not resist the impulse to +say, "Now that I've heard your voice I can't stay away. I'll come over +to lunch." +</p> +<p> +Her answering voice was irritated. "Please don't. I'm cleaning house. +You'd be in the way." +</p> +<p> +He shrank and quivered like a boy who has been publicly rebuked. "I'll +come when you say," he replied. +</p> +<p> +"Not a minute before four o'clock." +</p> +<p> +"That's a long time—now you've made me crazy to see you." +</p> +<p> +"Don't talk nonsense. I must go back to work." +</p> +<p> +"What are you doing?" he asked, to detain her. +</p> +<p> +"Dusting and polishing. Molly did the sweeping and is cleaning windows +now." +</p> +<p> +"What have you got on?" +</p> +<p> +"How silly you are!" +</p> +<p> +"No one knows that better than I. But I want to have a picture of you to +look at." +</p> +<p> +"I've got on an old white skirt and an old shirt waist, both dirty, and +a pair of tennis shoes that were white once but are gray now, where they +aren't black. And I've got a pink chiffon rag tied round my hair." +</p> +<p> +"Pink is wonderful when you wear it." +</p> +<p> +"I look a fright. And my face is streaked—and my arms." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, you've got your sleeves rolled up. That's an important detail." +</p> +<p> +"You're making fun of me." +</p> +<p> +"No, I'm thinking of your arms. They are—ravishing." +</p> +<p> +"That's quite enough. Good-by." +</p> +<p> +And she rang off. He was used to her treating compliment and flattery +from him in that fashion. He could not—or was it would not?—understand +why. He had learned that she was not at all the indifferent and unaware +person in the matter of her physical charms he had at first fancied her. +On the contrary, she had more than her share of physical vanity—not +more than was her right, in view of her charms, but more than she could +carry off well. With many a secret smile he had observed that she +thought herself perfect physically. This did not repel him; it never +does repel a man—when and so long as he is under the enchantment of the +charms the woman more or less exaggerates. But, while he had often seen +women with inordinate physical vanity, so often that he had come to +regarding it as an essential part of feminine character, never before +had he seen one so content with her own good opinion of herself that she +was indifferent to appreciation from others. +</p> +<p> +He did not go back to the office after lunch. Several important matters +were coming up; if he got within reach they might conspire to make it +impossible for him to be with her on time. If his partners, his clients +knew! He the important man of affairs kneeling at the feet of a +nobody!—and why? Chiefly because he was unable to convince her that he +amounted to anything. His folly nauseated him. He sat in a corner in the +dining room of the Lawyers' Club and drank one whisky and soda after +another and brooded over his follies and his unhappiness, muttering +monotonously from time to time: "No wonder she makes a fool of me. I +invite it, I beg for it, damned idiot that I am!" By three o'clock he +had drunk enough liquor to have dispatched the average man for several +days. It had produced no effect upon him beyond possibly a slight +aggravation of his moodiness. +</p> +<p> +It took only twenty minutes to get from New York to her house. He set +out at a few minutes after three; arrived at twenty minutes to four. As +experience of her ways had taught him that she was much less friendly +when he disobeyed her requests, he did not dare go to the house, but, +after looking at it from a corner two blocks away, made a detour that +would use up some of the time he had to waste. And as he wandered he +indulged in his usual alternations between self-derision and passion. He +appeared at the house at five minutes to four. Patrick, who with Molly +his wife looked after the domestic affairs, was at the front gate gazing +down the street in the direction from which he always came. At sight of +him Pat came running. Norman quickened his pace, and every part of his +nervous system was in turmoil. +</p> +<p> +"Mr. Hallowell—he's—<i>dead</i>," gasped Pat. +</p> +<p> +"Dead?" echoed Norman. +</p> +<p> +"Three quarters of an hour ago, sir. He came from the lobatry, walked in +the sitting room where Miss Dorothy was oiling the furniture and I was +oiling the floor. And he sets down—and he looks at her—as cool and +calm as could be—and he says, 'Dorothy, my child, I'm dying.' And she +stands up straight and looks at him curious like—just curious like. And +he says, 'Dorothy, good-by.' And he shivers, and I jumps up just in time +to catch him from rolling to the floor. He was dead then—so the doctor +says." +</p> +<p> +"Dead!" repeated Norman, looking round vaguely. +</p> +<p> +He went on to the house, Pat walking beside him and chattering on and +on—a stream of words Norman did not hear. As he entered the open front +door Dorothy came down the stairs. He had thought he knew how white her +skin was. But he did not know until then. And from that ghostly pallor +looked the eyes of grief beyond tears. He advanced toward her. But she +seemed to be wrapped in an atmosphere of aloofness. He felt himself a +stranger and an alien. After a brief silence she said: "I don't realize +it. I've been upstairs where Pat carried him—but I don't realize it. It +simply can't be." +</p> +<p> +"Do you know what he wished to say to me?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +"No. I guess he felt this coming. Probably it came quicker than he +expected. Now I can see that he hasn't been well for several days. But +he would never let anything about illness be said. He thought talking of +those things made them worse." +</p> +<p> +"You have relatives—somebody you wish me to telegraph?" +</p> +<p> +She shook her head. "No one. Our relatives out West are second cousins +or further away. They care nothing about us. No, I'm all alone." +</p> +<p> +The tears sprang to his eyes. But there were no tears in her eyes, no +forlornness in her voice. She was simply stating a fact. He said: "I'll +look after everything. Don't give it a moment's thought." +</p> +<p> +"No, I'll arrange," replied she. "It'll give me something to +do—something to do for him. You see, it's my last chance." And she +turned to ascend the stairs. "Something to do," she repeated dully. "I +wish I hadn't cleaned house this morning. That would be something more +to do." +</p> +<p> +This jarred on him—then brought the tears to his eyes again. How +childish she was!—and how desolate! "But you'll let me stay?" he +pleaded. "You'll need me. At any rate, I want to feel that you do." +</p> +<p> +"I'd rather you didn't stay," she said, in the same calm, remote way. +"I'd rather be alone with him, this last time. I'll go up and sit there +until they take him away. And then—in a few days I'll see what to +do—I'll send for you." +</p> +<p> +"I can't leave you at such a time," he cried. "You haven't realized yet. +When you do you will need some one." +</p> +<p> +"You don't understand," she interrupted. "He and I understood each other +in some ways. I know he'd not want—anyone round." +</p> +<p> +At her slight hesitation before "anyone" he winced. +</p> +<p> +"I must be alone with him," she went on. "Thank you, but I want to go +now." +</p> +<p> +"Not just yet," he begged. Then, seeing the shadow of annoyance on her +beautiful white face, he rose and said: "I'm going. I only want to help +you." He extended his hand impulsively, drew it back before she had the +chance to refuse it. For he felt that she would refuse it. He said, "You +know you can rely on me." +</p> +<p> +"But I don't need anybody," replied she. "Good-by." +</p> +<p> +"If I can do anything——" +</p> +<p> +"Pat will telephone." She was already halfway upstairs. +</p> +<p> +He found Pat in the front yard, and arranged with him to get news and to +send messages by way of the drug store at the corner, so that she would +know nothing about it. He went to a florist's in New York and sent +masses of flowers. And then—there was nothing more to do. He stopped in +at the club and drank and gambled until far into the morning. He fretted +gloomily about all the next day, riding alone in the Park, driving with +his sister, drinking and gambling at the club again and smiling +cynically to himself at the covert glances his acquaintances exchanged. +He was growing used to those glances. He cared not the flip of a penny +for them. +</p> +<p> +On the third day came the funeral, and he went. He did not let his +cabman turn in behind the one carriage that followed the hearse. At the +graveyard he stood afar off, watching her in her simple new black, +noting her calm. She seemed thinner, but he thought it might be simply +her black dress. He could see no change in her face. As she was leaving +the grave, she looked in his direction but he was uncertain whether she +had seen him. Pat and Molly were in the big, gloomy looking carriage +with her. +</p> +<p> +He ventured to go to the front gate an hour later. Pat came out. "It's +no use to go in, Mr. Norman," he said. "She'll not see you. She's shut +up in her own room." +</p> +<p> +"Hasn't she cried yet, Pat?" +</p> +<p> +"Not yet. We're waiting for it, sir. We're afraid her mind will give +way. At least, Molly is. I don't think so. She's a queer young lady—as +queer as she looks—though at first you'd never think it. She's always +looking different. I never seen so many persons in one." +</p> +<p> +"Can't Molly <i>make</i> her cry?—by talking about him?" +</p> +<p> +"She's tried, sir. It wasn't no use. Why, Miss Dorothy talks about him +just as if he was still here." Pat wiped the sweat from his forehead. +"I've been in many a house of mourning, but never through such a strain +as this. Somehow I feel as if I'd never before been round where there +was anyone that'd lost somebody they <i>really</i> cared about. Weeping and +moaning don't amount to much beside what she's doing." +</p> +<p> +Norman stayed round for an hour or more, then rushed away distracted. He +drank like a madman—drank himself into a daze, and so got a few hours +of a kind of sleep. He was looking haggard and wild now, and everyone +avoided him, though in fact there was not the least danger of an +outburst of temper. His sister—Josephine—the office—several clients +telephoned for him. To all he sent the same refusal—that he was too ill +to see anyone. Not until the third day after the funeral did Dorothy +telephone for him. +</p> +<p> +He took an ice-cold bath, got himself together as well as he could, and +reached the house in Jersey City about half past three in the afternoon. +She came gliding into the room like a ghost, trailing a black negligee +that made the whiteness of her skin startling. Her eyelids were heavy +and dark, but unreddened. She gazed at him with calm, clear melancholy, +and his heart throbbed and ached for her. She seated herself, clasped +her hands loosely in her lap, and said: +</p> +<p> +"I've sent for you so that I could settle things up." +</p> +<p> +"Your father's affairs? Can't I do it better?" +</p> +<p> +"He had arranged everything. There are only the papers—his notes—and +he wrote out the addresses of the men they were to be sent to. No, I +mean settle things up with you." +</p> +<p> +"You mustn't bother about that," said he. "Besides, there's nothing to +settle." +</p> +<p> +"I shan't pretend I'm going to try to pay you back," she went on, as if +he had not spoken. "I never could do it. But you will get part at least +by selling this furniture and the things at the laboratory." +</p> +<p> +"Dorothy—please," he implored. "Don't you understand you're to stay on +here, just the same? What sort of man do you think I am? I did this for +you, and you know it." +</p> +<p> +"But I did it for my father," replied she, "and he's gone." She was +resting her melancholy gaze upon him. "I couldn't take anything from +you. You didn't think I was that kind?" +</p> +<p> +He was silent. +</p> +<p> +"I cared nothing about the scandal—what people said—so long as I was +doing it for him. . . . I'd have done <i>anything</i> for him. Sometimes I +thought you were going to compel me to do things I'd have hated to do. I +hope I wronged you, but I feared you meant that." She sat thinking +several minutes, sighed wearily. "It's all over now. It doesn't matter. +I needn't bother about it any more." +</p> +<p> +"Dorothy, let's not talk of these things now," said Norman. "There's no +hurry. I want you to wait until you are calm and have thought everything +over. Then I'm sure you'll see that you ought to stay on." +</p> +<p> +"How could I?" she asked wonderingly. +</p> +<p> +"Why not? Am I demanding anything of you? You know I'm not—and that I +never shall." +</p> +<p> +"But there's no reason on earth why <i>you</i> should support <i>me</i>. I can work. +Why shouldn't I? And if I didn't, if I stayed on here, what sort of +woman would I be?" +</p> +<p> +He was unable to find an answer. He was trying not to see a look in her +face—or was it in her soul, revealed through her eyes?—a look that +made him think for the first time of a resemblance between her and her +father. +</p> +<p> +"You see yourself I've got to go. Any money I could earn wouldn't more +than pay for a room and board somewhere." +</p> +<p> +"You can let me advance you money while you—" He hesitated, had an idea +which he welcomed eagerly—"while you study for the stage. Yes, that's +the sensible thing. You can learn to act. Then you will be able to make +a decent living." +</p> +<p> +She slowly shook her head. "I've no talent for it—and no liking. No, +Mr. Norman, I must go back to work—and right away." +</p> +<p> +"But at least wait until you've looked into the stage business," he +urged. "You may find that you like it and that you have talent for it." +</p> +<p> +"I can't take any more from you," she said. +</p> +<p> +"You think I am not to be trusted. I'm not going to say now how I feel +toward you. But I can honestly say one thing. Now that you are all alone +and unprotected, you needn't have the least fear of me." +</p> +<p> +She smiled faintly. "I see you don't believe me. Well, it doesn't +matter. I've seen Mr. Tetlow and he has given me a place at twelve a +week in his office." +</p> +<p> +Norman sank back in his chair. "He is in for himself now?" +</p> +<p> +"No. He's head clerk for Pitchley & Culver." +</p> +<p> +"Culver!" exclaimed Norman. "I don't want you to go into Culver's +office. He's a scoundrel." +</p> +<p> +Again Dorothy smiled faintly. Norman colored. "I know he stands well—as +well as I do. But I can't trust you with him. That sounds ridiculous +but—it's true." +</p> +<p> +"I think I can trust myself," she said quietly. Her grave regard fixed +his. "Don't you?" she asked. +</p> +<p> +His eyes lowered. "Yes," he replied. "But—why shouldn't you come back +with us? I'll see that you get a much better position than Culver's +giving you." +</p> +<p> +Over her face crept one of those mysterious transformations that made +her so bafflingly fascinating to him. Behind that worldly-wise, +satirical mask was she mocking at him? All she said was: "I couldn't +work there. I've settled it with Mr. Tetlow. I go to work to-morrow." +</p> +<p> +"To-morrow!" he cried, starting up. +</p> +<p> +"And I've found a place to live. Pat and Molly; will take care of things +for you here." +</p> +<p> +"Dorothy! You don't <i>mean</i> this? You're not going to break off?" +</p> +<p> +"I shan't see you again—except as we may meet by accident." +</p> +<p> +"Do you realize what you're saying means to me?" he cried. "Don't you +know how I love you?" He advanced toward her. She stood and waited +passively, looking at him. "Dorothy—my love—do you want to kill me?" +</p> +<p> +"When are you to be married?" she asked quietly. +</p> +<p> +"You are playing with me!" he cried. "You are tormenting me. What have I +ever done that you should treat me this way?" He caught her unresisting +hands and kissed them. "Dear—my dear—don't you care for me at all?" +</p> +<p> +"No," she said placidly. "I've always told you so." +</p> +<p> +He seized her in his arms, kissed her with a frenzy that was savage, +ferocious. "You will drive me mad. You <i>have</i> driven me mad!" he muttered. +And he added, unconscious that he was speaking his thoughts, so +distracted was he: "You <i>must</i> love me—you <i>must</i>! No woman has ever +resisted me. You cannot." +</p> +<p> +She drew herself away from him, stood before him like snow, like ice. +"One thing I have never told you. I'll tell you now," she said +deliberately. "I despise you." +</p> +<p> +He fell back a step and the chill of her coldness seemed to be freezing +the blood in his veins. +</p> +<p> +"I've always despised you," she went on, and he shivered before that +contemptuous word—it seemed only the more contemptuous for her +calmness. "Sometimes I've despised you thoroughly—again only a +little—but always that feeling." +</p> +<p> +For a moment he thought she had at last stung his pride into the +semblance of haughtiness. He was able to look at her with mocking eyes +and to say, "I congratulate you on your cleverness in concealing your +feelings." +</p> +<p> +"It wasn't my cleverness," she said wearily. "It was your blindness. I +never deceived you." +</p> +<p> +"No, you never have," he replied sincerely. "Perhaps I deserve to be +despised. Again, perhaps if you knew the world—the one I live +in—better, you'd think less harshly of me." +</p> +<p> +"I don't think harshly of you. How could I—after all you did for my +father?" +</p> +<p> +"Dorothy, if you'll stay here and study for the stage—or anything you +choose—I promise you I'll never speak of my feeling for you—or show it +in any way—unless you yourself give me leave." +</p> +<p> +She smiled with childlike pathos. "You ought not to tempt me. Do you +want me to keep on despising you? Can't you ever be fair with me?" +</p> +<p> +The sad, frank gentleness of the appeal swung his unhinged mind to the +other extreme—from the savagery of passion to a frenzy of remorse. +"Fair to <i>you</i>? No," he cried, "because I love you. Oh, I'm +ashamed—bitterly ashamed. I'm capable of any baseness to get you. +You're right. You can't trust me. In going you're saving me from +myself." He hesitated, stared wildly, appalled at the words that were +fighting for utterance—the words about marriage—about marrying her! He +said hoarsely: "I am mad—mad! I don't know what I'm saying. +Good-by—For God's sake, don't think the worst of me, Dorothy. Good-by. +I <i>will</i> be a man again—I will!" +</p> +<p> +And he wrung her hand and, talking incoherently, he rushed from the room +and from the house. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0014"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XII +</h2> +<p> +He went straight home and sought his sister. She had that moment come in +from tea after a matinee. She talked about the play—how badly it was +acted—and about the women she had seen at tea—how badly dressed they +were. "It's hard to say which is the more dreadful—the ugly, misshapen +human race without clothes or in the clothes it insists on wearing. And +the talk at that tea! Does no one ever say a pleasant thing about +anyone? Doesn't anyone ever do a pleasant thing that can be spoken +about? I read this morning Tolstoy's advice about resolving to think all +day only nice thoughts and sticking to it. That sounded good to me, and +I decided to try it." Ursula laughed and squirmed about in her +tight-fitting dress that made an enchanting display of her figure. "What +is one to do? <i>I</i> can't be a fraud, for one. And if I had stuck to my +resolution I'd have spent the day in lying. What's the matter, Fred?" +Now that her attention was attracted she observed more closely. "What +<i>have</i> you been doing? You look—frightful!" +</p> +<p> +"I've broken with her," replied he. +</p> +<p> +"With Jo?" she cried. "Why, Fred, you can't—you can't—with the +wedding only five days away!" +</p> +<p> +"Not with Jo." +</p> +<p> +Ursula breathed noisy relief. She said cheerfully: "Oh—with the other. +Well, I'm glad it's over." +</p> +<p> +"Over?" said he sardonically. "Over? It's only begun." +</p> +<p> +"But you'll stick it out, Fred. You've made a fool of yourself long +enough. What was the girl playing for? Marriage?" +</p> +<p> +He nodded. "I guess so." He laughed curtly. "And she almost won." +</p> +<p> +Ursula smiled with fine mockery. "Almost, but not quite. I know you men. +Women do that sort of fool thing. But men—never—at least not the +ambitious, snobbish New York men." +</p> +<p> +"She almost won," he repeated. "At least, I almost did it. If I had +stayed a minute longer I'd have done it." +</p> +<p> +"You like to think you would," mocked Ursula. "But if you had tried to +say the words your lungs would have collapsed, your vocal chords snapped +and your tongue shriveled." +</p> +<p> +"I am not so damn sure I shan't do it yet," he burst out fiercely. +</p> +<p> +"But I am," said Ursula, calm, brisk, practical. "What's she going to +do?" +</p> +<p> +"Going to work." +</p> +<p> +Ursula laughed joyously. "What a joke! A woman go to work when she +needn't!" +</p> +<p> +"She is going to work." +</p> +<p> +"To work another man." +</p> +<p> +"She meant it." +</p> +<p> +"How easily women fool men!—even the wise men like you." +</p> +<p> +"She meant it." +</p> +<p> +"She still hopes to marry you—or she has heard of your marriage——" +</p> +<p> +Norman lifted his head. Into his face came the cynical, suspicious +expression. +</p> +<p> +"And has fastened on some other man. Or perhaps she's found some good +provider who's willing to marry her." +</p> +<p> +Norman sprang up, his eyes blazing, his mouth working cruelly. "By God!" +he cried. "If I thought that!" +</p> +<p> +His sister was alarmed. Such a man—in such a delirium—might commit any +absurdity. He flung himself down in despair. "Urse, why can't I get rid +of this thing? It's ruining me. It's killing me!" +</p> +<p> +"Your good sense tells you if you had her you'd be over it—" She +snapped her fingers—"like that." +</p> +<p> +"Yes—yes—I know it! But—" He groaned—"she has broken with me." +</p> +<p> +Ursula went to him and kissed him and took his head in her arms. "What a +<i>boy</i>-boy it is!" she said tenderly. "Oh, it must be dreadful to have +always had whatever one wanted and then to find something one can't +have. We women are used to it—and the usual sort of man. But not your +sort, Freddy—and I'm so sorry for you." +</p> +<p> +"I want her, Urse—I want her," he groaned, and he was almost sobbing. +"My God, I <i>can't</i> get on without her." +</p> +<p> +"Now, Freddy dear, listen to me. You know she's 'way, 'way beneath +you—that she isn't at all what you've got in the habit of picturing +her—that it's all delusion and nonsense——" +</p> +<p> +"I want her," he repeated. "I want her." +</p> +<p> +"You'd be ashamed if you had her as a wife—wouldn't you?" +</p> +<p> +He was silent. +</p> +<p> +"She isn't a <i>lady</i>." +</p> +<p> +"I don't know," replied he. +</p> +<p> +"She hasn't any sense. A low sort of cunning, yes. But not brains—not +enough to hold you." +</p> +<p> +"I don't know," replied he. "She's got enough for a woman. And—I <i>want</i> +her." +</p> +<p> +"She isn't to be compared with Josephine." +</p> +<p> +"But I don't want Josephine. I want <i>her</i>." +</p> +<p> +"But which do you want to <i>marry</i>?—to bring forward as your wife?—to +spend your life with?" +</p> +<p> +"I know. I'm a mad fool. But, Urse, I can't help it." He stood up +suddenly. "I've used every weapon I've got. Even pride—and it skulked +away. My sense of humor—and it weakened. My will—and it snapped." +</p> +<p> +"Is she so wonderful?" +</p> +<p> +"She is so—elusive. I can't understand her—I can't touch her. I can't +find her. She keeps me going like a man chasing an echo." +</p> +<p> +"Like a man chasing an echo," repeated Ursula reflectively. "I +understand. It is maddening. She must be clever—in her way." +</p> +<p> +"Or very simple. God knows which; I don't—and sometimes I think she +doesn't, either." He made a gesture of dismissal. "Well, it's finished. +I must pull myself together—or try to." +</p> +<p> +"You will," said his sister confidently. "A fortnight from now you'll be +laughing at yourself." +</p> +<p> +"I am now. I have been all along. But—it does no good." +</p> +<p> +She had to go and dress. But she could not leave until she had tried to +make him comfortable. He was drinking brandy and soda and staring at his +feet which were stretched straight out toward the fire. "Where's your +sense of humor?" she demanded. "Throw yourself on your sense of humor. +It's a friend that sticks when all others fail." +</p> +<p> +"It's my only hope," he said with a grim smile. "I can see myself. No +wonder she despises me." +</p> +<p> +"Despises you?" scoffed Ursula. "A <i>woman</i> despise <i>you</i>! She's crazy +about you, I'll bet anything you like. Before you're through with this +you'll find out I'm right. And then—you'll have no use for her." +</p> +<p> +"She despises me." +</p> +<p> +"Well—what of it? Really, Fred, it irritates me to see you absolutely +unlike yourself. Why, you're as broken-spirited as a henpecked old +husband." +</p> +<p> +"Just that," he admitted, rising and looking drearily about. "I don't +know what the devil to do next. Everything seems to have stopped." +</p> +<p> +"Going to see Josephine this evening?" +</p> +<p> +"I suppose so," was his indifferent reply. +</p> +<p> +"You'll have to dress after dinner. There's no time now." +</p> +<p> +"Dress?" he inquired vaguely. "Why dress? Why do anything?" +</p> +<p> +She thought he would not go to Josephine but would hide in his club and +drink. But she was mistaken. Toward nine o'clock he, in evening dress, +with the expression of a horse in a treadmill, rang the bell of +Josephine's house and passed in at the big bronze doors. The butler must +have particularly admired the way he tossed aside his coat and hat. As +soon as he was in the presence of his fiancee he saw that she was again +in the throes of some violent agitation. +</p> +<p> +She began at once: "I've just had the most frightful scene with father," +she said. "He's been hearing a lot of stuff about you down town and it +set him wild." +</p> +<p> +"Do you mind if I smoke a cigar?" said he, looking at her unseeingly +with haggard, cold eyes. "And may I have some whisky?" +</p> +<p> +She rang. "I hope the servants didn't hear him," she said. Then, as a +step sounded outside she put on an air of gayety, as if she were still +laughing at some jest he had made. In the doorway appeared her father +one of those big men who win half the battle in advance on personal +appearance of unconquerable might. Burroughs was noted for his +generosity and for his violent temper. As a rule men of the largeness +necessary to handling large affairs are free from petty vindictiveness. +They are too busy for hatred. They do not forgive; they are most careful +not to forget; they simply stand ready at any moment to do whatever it +is to their interest to do, regardless of friendships or animosities. +Burroughs was an exception in that he got his highest pleasure out of +pursuing his enemies. He enjoyed this so keenly that several times—so +it was said—he had sacrificed real money to satisfy a revenge. But +these rumors may have wronged him. It is hardly probable that a man who +would let a weakness carry him to that pitch of folly could have escaped +destruction. For of all the follies revenge is the most dangerous—as +well as the most fatuous. +</p> +<p> +Burroughs had a big face. Had he looked less powerful the bigness of his +features, the spread of cheek and jowl, would have been grotesque. As it +was, the face was impressive, especially when one recalled how many, +many millions he owned and how many more he controlled. The control was +better than the ownership. The millions he owned made him a coward—he +was afraid he might lose them. The millions he controlled, and of course +used for his own enrichment, made him brave, for if they were lost in +the daring ventures in which he freely staked them, why, the loss was +not his, and he could shift the blame. Usually Norman treated him with +great respect, for his business gave the firm nearly half its total +income, and it was his daughter and his wealth, prestige and power, that +Norman was marrying. But this evening he looked at the great man with a +superciliousness that was peculiarly disrespectful from so young a man +to one well advanced toward old age. Norman had been feeling relaxed, +languid, exhausted. The signs of battle in that powerful face nerved +him, keyed him up at once. He waited with a joyful impatience while the +servant was bringing cigars and whisky. The enormous quantities of +liquor he had drunk in the last few days had not been without effect. +Alcohol, the general stimulant, inevitably brings out in strong relief a +man's dominant qualities. The dominant quality of Norman was love of +combat. +</p> +<p> +"Josephine tells me you are in a blue fury," said Norman pleasantly when +the door was closed and the three were alone. "No—not a blue fury. A +black fury." +</p> +<p> +At the covert insolence of his tone Josephine became violently agitated. +"Father," she said, with the imperiousness of an only and indulged +child, "I have asked you not to interfere between Fred and me. I thought +I had your promise." +</p> +<p> +"I said I'd think about it," replied her father. He had a heavy voice +that now and then awoke some string of the lower octaves of the piano in +the corner to a dismal groan. "I've decided to speak out." +</p> +<p> +"That's right, sir," said Norman. "Is your quarrel with me?" +</p> +<p> +Josephine attempted an easy laugh. "It's that silly story we were +talking about the other day, Fred." +</p> +<p> +"I supposed so," said he. "You are not smoking, Mr. Burroughs—" He +laughed amiably—"at least not a cigar." +</p> +<p> +"The doctor only allows me one, and I've had it," replied Burroughs, his +eyes sparkling viciously at this flick of the whip. "What is the truth +about that business, Norman?" +</p> +<p> +Norman's amused glance encountered the savage glare mockingly. "Why do +you ask?" he inquired. +</p> +<p> +"Because my daughter's happiness is at stake. Because I cannot but +resent a low scandal about a man who wishes to marry my daughter." +</p> +<p> +"Very proper, sir," said Norman graciously. +</p> +<p> +"My daughter," continued Burroughs with accelerating anger, "tells me +you have denied the story." +</p> + +<div class="figure" style="width: 80%;"> +<a name="image-0006" href="images/img-06.jpg"><img src="images/img-06.jpg" width="100%" +alt="'Father ... I have asked you not to interfere between Fred and me.'"></a><br /> +<b>"Father ... I have asked you not to interfere between Fred and me."</b> +</div> + +<p> +Norman interrupted with an astonished look at Josephine. She colored, +gazed at him imploringly. His face terrified her. When body and mind are +in health and at rest the fullness of the face hides the character to a +great extent. But when a human being is sick or very tired the +concealing roundness goes and in the clearly marked features the true +character is revealed. In Norman's face, haggard by his wearing +emotions, his character stood forth—the traits of strength, of +tenacity, of inevitable purpose. And Josephine saw and dreaded. +</p> +<p> +"But," Burroughs went on, "I have it on the best authority that it is +true." +</p> +<p> +Norman, looking into the fascinating face of danger, was thrilled. "Then +you wish to break off the engagement?" he said in the gentlest, +smoothest tone. +</p> +<p> +Burroughs brought his fist down on the table—and Norman recognized the +gesture of the bluffer. "I wish you to break off with that woman!" he +cried. "I insist upon it—upon positive assurances from you." +</p> +<p> +"Fred!" pleaded Josephine. "Don't listen to him. Remember, I have said +nothing." +</p> +<p> +He had long been looking for a justifying grievance against her. It now +seemed to him that he had found it. "Why should you?" he said genially +but with subtle irony, "since you are getting your father to speak for +you." +</p> +<p> +There was just enough truth in this to entangle her and throw her into +disorder. She had been afraid of the consequences of her father's +interfering with a man so spirited as Norman, but at the same time she +had longed to have some one put a check upon him. Norman's suave remark +made her feel that he could see into her inmost soul—could see the +anger, the jealousy, the doubt, the hatred-tinged love, the +love-saturated hate seething and warring there. +</p> +<p> +Burroughs was saying: "If we had not committed ourselves so deeply, I +should deal very differently with this matter." +</p> +<p> +"Why should that deter you?" said Norman—and Josephine gave a piteous +gasp. "If this goes much farther, I assure you I shall not be deterred." +</p> +<p> +Burroughs, firmly planted in a big leather chair, looked at the young +man in puzzled amazement. "I see you think you have us in your power," +he said at last. "But you are mistaken." +</p> +<p> +"On the contrary," rejoined the young man, "I see you believe you have +me in your power. And in a sense you are <i>not</i> mistaken." +</p> +<p> +"Father, he is right," cried Josephine agitatedly. "I shouldn't love and +respect him as I do if he would submit to this hectoring." +</p> +<p> +"Hectoring!" exclaimed Burroughs. "Josephine, leave the room. I cannot +discuss this matter properly before you." +</p> +<p> +"I hope you will not leave, Josephine," said Norman. "There is nothing +to be said that you cannot and ought not to hear." +</p> +<p> +"I'm not an infant, father," said Josephine. "Besides, it is as Fred +says. He has done nothing—improper." +</p> +<p> +"Then why does he not say so?" demanded Burroughs, seeing a chance to +recede from his former too advanced position. "That's all I ask." +</p> +<p> +"But I told you all about it, father," said Josephine angrily. "They've +been distorting the truth, and the truth is to his credit." +</p> +<p> +Norman avoided the glance she sent to him; it was only a glance and +away, for more formidably than ever his power was enthroned in his +haggard face. He stood with his back to the fire and it was plain that +the muscles of his strong figure were braced to give and to receive a +shock. "Mr. Burroughs," he said, "your daughter is mistaken. Perhaps it +is my fault—in having helped her to mislead herself. The plain truth +is, I have become infatuated with a young woman. She cares nothing about +me—has repulsed me. I have been and am making a fool of myself about +her. I've been hoping to cure myself. I still hope. But I am not cured." +</p> +<p> +There was absolute silence in the room. Norman stole a glance at +Josephine. She was sitting erect, a greenish pallor over her ghastly +face. +</p> +<p> +He said: "If she will take me, now that she knows the truth, I shall be +grateful—and I shall make what effort I can to do my best." +</p> +<p> +He looked at her and she at him. And for an instant her eyes softened. +There was the appeal of weak human heart to weak human heart in his +gaze. Her lip quivered. A brief struggle between vanity and love—and +vanity, the stronger, the strongest force in her life, dominating it +since earliest babyhood and only seeming to give way to love when love +came—it was vanity that won. She stiffened herself and her mouth curled +with proud scorn. She laughed—a sneer of jealous rage. "Father," she +said, "the lady in the case is a common typewriter in his office." +</p> +<p> +But to men—especially to practical men—differences of rank and +position among women are not fundamentally impressive. Man is in the +habit of taking what he wants in the way of womankind wherever he finds +it, and he understands that habit in other men. He was furious with +Norman, but he did not sympathize with his daughter's extreme attitude. +He said to Norman sharply: +</p> +<p> +"You say you have broken with the woman?" +</p> +<p> +"She has broken with me," replied Norman. +</p> +<p> +"At any rate, everything is broken off." +</p> +<p> +"Apparently." +</p> +<p> +"Then there is no reason why the marriage should not go on." He turned +to his daughter. "If you understood men, you would attach no importance +to this matter. As you yourself said, the woman isn't a lady—isn't in +our class. That sort of thing amounts to nothing. Norman has acted well. +He has shown the highest kind of honesty—has been truthful where most +men would have shifted and lied. Anyhow, things have gone too far." Not +without the soundest reasons had Burroughs accepted Norman as his +son-in-law; and he had no fancy for giving him up, when men of his +pre-eminent fitness were so rare. +</p> +<p> +There was another profound silence. Josephine looked at Norman. Had he +returned her gaze, the event might have been different; for within her +there was now going on a struggle between two nearly evenly matched +vanities—the vanity of her own outraged pride and the vanity of what +the world would say and think, if the engagement were broken off at that +time and in those circumstances. But he did not look at her. He kept his +eyes fixed upon the opposite wall, and there was no sign of emotion of +any kind in his stony features. Josephine rose, suppressed a sob, looked +arrogant scorn from eyes shining with tears—tears of self-pity. "Send +him away, father," she said. "He has tried to degrade <i>me</i>! I am done with +him." And she rushed from the room, her father half starting from his +chair to detain her. +</p> +<p> +He turned angrily on Norman. "A hell of a mess you've made!" he cried. +</p> +<p> +"A hell of a mess," replied the young man. +</p> +<p> +"Of course she'll come round. But you've got to do your part." +</p> +<p> +"It's settled," said Norman. And he threw his cigar into the fireplace. +"Good night." +</p> +<p> +"Hold on!" cried Burroughs. "Before you go, you must see Josie alone and +talk with her." +</p> +<p> +"It would be useless," said Norman. "You know her." +</p> +<p> +Burroughs laid his hand friendlily but heavily upon the young man's +shoulder. "This outburst of nonsense might cost you two young people +your happiness for life. This is no time for jealousy and false pride. +Wait a moment." +</p> +<p> +"Very well," said Norman. "But it is useless." He understood Josephine +now—he who had become a connoisseur of love. He knew that her +vanity-founded love had vanished. +</p> +<p> +Burroughs disappeared in the direction his daughter had taken. Norman +waited several minutes—long enough slowly to smoke a cigarette. Then he +went into the hall and put on his coat with deliberation. No one +appeared, not even a servant. He went out into the street. +</p> +<p> +In the morning papers he found the announcement of the withdrawal of the +invitations—and from half a column to several columns of comment, much +of it extremely unflattering to him. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0015"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XIII +</h2> +<p> +When a "high life" engagement such as that of Norman and Miss Burroughs, +collapses on the eve of the wedding, the gossip and the scandal, however +great, are but a small part of the mess. Doubtless many a marriage—and +not in high life alone, either—has been put through, although the one +party or the other or both have discovered that disaster was +inevitable—solely because of the appalling muddle the sensible course +would precipitate. In the case of the Norman-Burroughs fiasco, there +were—to note only a few big items—such difficulties as several car +loads of presents from all parts of the earth to be returned, a house +furnished throughout and equipped to the last scullery maid and stable +boy to be disposed of, the entire Burroughs domestic economy which had +been reconstructed to be put back upon its former basis. +</p> +<p> +It is not surprising that, as Ursula Fitzhugh was credibly informed, +Josephine almost decided to send for Bob Culver and marry him on the day +before the day appointed for her marriage to Fred. The reason given for +her not doing this sounded plausible. Culver, despairing of making the +match on which his ambition—and therefore his heart was set—and +seeing a chance to get suddenly rich, had embarked for a career as a +blackmailer of corporations. That is, he nosed about for a big +corporation stealthily doing or arranging to do some unlawful but highly +profitable acts; he bought a few shares of its stock, using a fake +client as a blind; he then proceeded to threaten it with exposure, +expensive hindrances and the like, unless it bought him off at a huge +profit to himself. This business was regarded as most disreputable +and—thanks to the power of the big corporations over the courts—had +resulted in the sending of several of its practisers to jail or on hasty +journeys to foreign climes. But Culver, almost if not quite as good a +lawyer as Norman, was too clever to be caught in that way. However, +while he was getting very rich rapidly, he was as yet far from rich +enough to overcome the detestation of old Burroughs, and to be eligible +for the daughter. +</p> +<p> +So, Josephine sailed away to Europe, with the consolation that her +father was so chagrined by the fizzle that he had withdrawn his veto +upon the purchase of a foreign title—that veto having been the only +reason she had looked at home for a husband. Strange indeed are the ways +of love—never stranger than when it comes into contact with the +vanities of wealth and social position and the other things that cause a +human being to feel that he or she is lifted clear of and high above the +human condition. Josephine had her consolation. For Norman the only +consolation was escape from a marriage which had become so irksome in +anticipation that he did not dare think what it would be in the reality. +Over against this consolation was set a long list of disasters. He found +himself immediately shunned by all his friends. Their professed reason +was that he had acted shabbily in the breaking of the engagement; for, +while it was assumed that Josephine must have done the actual breaking, +it was also assumed that he must have given her provocation and to +spare. This virtuous indignation was in large part mere pretext, as +virtuous indignation in frail mortals toward frail mortals is apt to be. +The real reason for shying off from Norman was his atmosphere of +impending downfall. And certainly that atmosphere had eaten away and +dissipated all his former charm. He looked dull and boresome—and he +was. +</p> +<p> +But the chief disaster was material. As has been said, old Burroughs, in +his own person and in the enterprises he controlled, gave Norman's firm +about half its income. The day Josephine sailed, Lockyer, senior partner +of the firm, got an intimation that unless Norman left, Burroughs would +take his law business elsewhere, and would "advise" others of their +clients to follow his example. Lockyer no sooner heard than he began to +bestir himself. He called into consultation the learned Benchley and the +astute Sanders and the soft and sly Lockyer junior. There could be no +question that Norman must be got rid of. The only point was, who should +inform the lion that he had been deposed? +</p> +<p> +After several hours of anxious discussion, Lockyer, his inward +perturbations hid beneath that mask of smug and statesmanlike +respectability, entered the lion's den—a sick lion, sick unto death +probably, but not a dead lion. "When you're ready to go uptown, +Frederick," said he in his gentlest, most patriarchal manner, "let me +know. I want to have a little talk with you." +</p> +<p> +Norman, heavy eyed and listless, looked at the handsome old fraud. As he +looked something of the piercing quality and something of the humorous +came back into his eyes. "Sit down and say it now," said he. +</p> +<p> +"I'd prefer to talk where we can be quiet." +</p> +<p> +Norman rang his bell and when an office boy appeared, said "No one is to +disturb me until I ring again." Then as the boy withdrew he said to +Lockyer: "Now, sir, what is it?" +</p> +<p> +Lockyer strolled to the window, looked out as if searching for something +he failed to find, came back to the chair on the opposite side of the +desk from Norman, seated himself. "I don't know how to begin," said he. +"It is hard to say painful things to anyone I have such an affection for +as I have for you." +</p> +<p> +Norman pushed a sheet of letter paper across the desk toward his +partner. "Perhaps that will help you," observed he carelessly. +</p> +<p> +Lockyer put on his nose glasses with the gesture of grace and intellect +that was famous. He read—a brief demand for a release from the +partnership and a request for an immediate settlement. Lockyer blinked +off his glasses with the gesture that was as famous and as admiringly +imitated by lesser legal lights as was his gesture of be-spectacling +himself. "This is most astounding, my boy," said he. "It is +most—most——" +</p> +<p> +"Gratifying?" suggested Norman with a sardonic grin. +</p> +<p> +"Not in the least, Frederick. The very reverse—the exact reverse." +</p> +<p> +Norman gave a shrug that said "Why do you persist in those frauds—and +with <i>me</i>?" But he did not speak. +</p> +<p> +"I know," pursued Lockyer, "that you would not have taken this step +without conclusive reasons. And I shall not venture the impertinence of +prying or of urging." +</p> +<p> +"Thanks," said Norman drily. "Now, as to the terms of settlement." +</p> +<p> +Lockyer, from observation and from gossip, had a pretty shrewd notion of +the state of his young partner's mind, and drew the not unwarranted +conclusion that he would be indifferent about terms—would be "easy." +With the suavity of Mr. Great-and-Good-Heart he said: "My dear boy, +there can't be any question of money with us. We'll do the generously +fair thing—for, we're not hucksterers but gentlemen." +</p> +<p> +"That sounds terrifying," observed the young man, with a faint ironic +smile. "I feel my shirt going and the cold winds whistling about my bare +body. To save time, let <i>me</i> state the terms. You want to be rid of me. I +want to go. It's a whim with me. It's a necessity for you." +</p> +<p> +Lockyer shifted uneasily at these evidences of unimpaired mentality and +undaunted spirit. +</p> +<p> +"Here are my terms," proceeded Norman. "You are to pay me forty thousand +a year for five years—unless I open an office or join another firm. In +that case, payments are to cease from the date of my re-entering +practice." +</p> +<p> +Lockyer leaned back and laughed benignantly. "My dear Norman," he said +with a gently remonstrant shake of the head, "those terms are +impossible. Forty thousand a year! Why that is within ten thousand of +the present share of any of us but you. It is the income of nearly three +quarters of a million at six per cent—of a million at four per cent!" +</p> +<p> +"Very well," said Norman, settling back in his chair. "Then I stand +pat." +</p> +<p> +"Now, my dear Norman, permit me to propose terms that are fair to +all——" +</p> +<p> +"When I said I stood pat I meant that I would stay on." His eyes laughed +at Lockyer. "I guess we can live without Burroughs and his dependents. +Maybe they will find they can't live without us." He slowly leaned +forward until, with his forearms against the edge of his desk, he was +concentrating a memorable gaze upon Lockyer. "Mr. Lockyer," said he, "I +have been exercising my privilege as a free man to make a damn fool of +myself. I shall continue to exercise it so long as I feel disposed that +way. But let me tell you something. I can afford to do it. If a man's +asset is money, or character or position or relatives and friends or +popular favor or any other perishable article, he must take care how he +trifles with it. He may find himself irretrievably ruined. But my asset +happens to be none of those things. It is one that can be lost or +damaged only by insanity or death. Do you follow me?" +</p> +<p> +The old man looked at him with the sincere and most flattering tribute +of compelled admiration. "What a mind you've got, Frederick—and what +courage!" +</p> +<p> +"You accept my terms?" +</p> +<p> +"If the others agree—and I think they will." +</p> +<p> +"They will," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +The old man was regarding him with eyes that had genuine anxiety in +them. "Why <i>do</i> you do it, Fred?" he said. +</p> +<p> +"Because I wish to be free," replied Norman. He would never have told +the full truth to that incredulous old cynic of a time-server—the truth +that he was resigning at the dictation of a pride which forbade him to +involve others in the ruin he, in his madness, was bent upon. +</p> +<p> +"I don't mean, why do you resign," said Lockyer. "I mean the +other—the—woman." +</p> +<p> +Norman laughed harshly. +</p> +<p> +"I've seen too much of the world not to understand," continued Lockyer. +"The measureless power of woman over man—especially—pardon me, my dear +Norman—especially a bad woman!" +</p> +<p> +"The measureless power of a man's imagination over himself," rejoined +Norman. "Did you ever see or hear of a man without imagination being +upset by a woman? It's in here, Mr. Lockyer"—he rapped his +forehead—"altogether in here." +</p> +<p> +"You realize that. Yet you go on—and for such a—pardon me, my boy, +for saying it—for such a trifling object." +</p> +<p> +"What does 'trifling' mean, sir?" replied the young man. "What is +trifling and what is important? It depends upon the point of view. What +I want—that is vital. What I do not want—that is paltry. It's my +nature to go for what I happen to want—to go for it with all there is +in me. I will take nothing else—nothing else." +</p> +<p> +There was in his eyes the glitter called insanity—the glitter that +reflects the state of mind of any strong man when possessed of one of +those fixed ideas that are the idiosyncrasy of the strong. It would have +been impossible for Lockyer to be possessed in that way; he had not the +courage nor the concentration nor the independence of soul; like most +men, even able men, he dealt only in the conventional. Not in his +wildest youth could he have wrecked or injured himself for a woman; +women, for him, occupied their conventional place in the scheme of +things, and had no allure beyond the conventionally proper and the +conventionally improper—for, be it remembered, vice has its beaten +track no less than virtue and most of the vicious are as tame and +unimaginative as the plodders in the high roads of propriety. Still, +Lockyer had associated with strong men, men of boundless desires; thus, +he could in a measure sympathize with his young associate. What a pity +that these splendid powers should be perverted from the ordinary desires +of strong men! +</p> +<p> +Norman rose, to end the interview. "My address is my house. They will +forward—if I go away." +</p> +<p> +Lockyer gave him a hearty handclasp, made a few phrases about good +wishes and the like, left him alone. The general opinion was that Norman +was done for. But Lockyer could not see it. He had seen too many men +fall only to rise out of lowest depths to greater heights than they had +fallen from. And Norman was only thirty-seven. Perhaps this would prove +to be merely a dip in a securely brilliant career and not a fall at all. +In that case—with such a brain, such a genius for the lawlessness of +the law, what a laughing on the other side of the mouth there might yet +be among young Norman's enemies—and friends! +</p> +<p> +He spent most of the next few days—the lunch time, the late afternoon, +finally the early morning hours—lurking about the Equitable Building, +in which were the offices of Pytchley and Culver. As that building had +entrances on four streets, the best he could do was to walk round and +round, with an occasional excursion through the corridors and past the +elevators. He had written her, asking to see her; he had got no answer. +He ceased to wait at the elevators after he had twice narrowly escaped +being seen by Tetlow. He was indifferent to Tetlow, except as meeting +him might make it harder to see Dorothy. He drank hard. But drink never +affected him except to make him more grimly tenacious in whatever he had +deliberately and soberly resolved. Drink did not explain—neither wholly +nor in any part—this conduct of his. It, and the more erratic vagaries +to follow, will seem incredible conduct for a man of Norman's character +and position to feeble folk with their feeble desires, their dread of +criticism and ridicule, their exaggerated and adoring notions of the +master men. In fact, it was the natural outcome of the man's +nature—arrogant, contemptuous of his fellowmen and of their opinions, +and, like all the master men, capable of such concentration upon a +desire that he would adopt any means, high or low, dignified or the +reverse, if only it promised to further his end. Fred Norman, at these +vulgar vigils, took the measure of his own self-abasement to a hair's +breadth. But he kept on, with the fever of his infatuation burning like +a delirium, burning higher and deeper with each baffled day. +</p> +<p> +At noon, one day, as he swung into Broadway from Cedar street, he ran +straight into Tetlow. It was raining and his umbrella caught in +Tetlow's. It was a ludicrous situation, but there was no answering smile +in his former friend's eyes. Tetlow glowered. +</p> +<p> +"I've heard you were hanging about," he said. "How low you have sunk!" +</p> +<p> +Norman laughed in his face. "Poor Tetlow," he said. "I never expected to +see you develop into a crusader. And what a Don Quixote you look. Cheer +up, old man. Don't take it so hard." +</p> +<p> +"I warn you to keep away from her," said Tetlow in subdued, tense tones, +his fat face quivering with emotion. "Hasn't she shown you plainly that +she'll have nothing to do with you?" +</p> +<p> +"I want only five minutes' talk with her, Tetlow," said Norman, dropping +into an almost pleading tone. "And I guarantee I'll say nothing you +wouldn't approve, if you heard. You are advising her badly. You are +doing her an injury." +</p> +<p> +"I am protecting her from a scoundrel," retorted Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"She'll not thank you for it, when she finds out the truth." +</p> +<p> +"You can write to her. What a shallow liar you are!" +</p> +<p> +"I cannot write what I must say," said Norman. It had never been +difficult for him, however provoked, to keep his temper—outwardly. +Tetlow's insults were to him no more than the barkings of a watch dog, +and one not at all dangerous, but only amusing. "I must see her. If you +are her friend, and not merely a jealous, disappointed lover, you'll +advise her to see me." +</p> +<p> +"You shall not see her, if I can help it," cried his former friend. "And +if you persist in annoying her——" +</p> +<p> +"Don't make futile threats, Tetlow," Norman interrupted. "You've done me +all the mischief you can do. I see you hate me for the injuries you've +done me. That's the way it always is. But I don't hate you. It was at my +suggestion that the Lockyer firm is trying to get you back as a +partner." Then, as Tetlow colored—"Oh, I see you're accepting their +offer." +</p> +<p> +"If I had thought——" +</p> +<p> +"Nonsense. You're not a fool. How does it matter whose the hand, if only +it's a helping hand? And you may be sure they'd never have made you the +offer if they didn't need you badly. All the credit I claim is having +the intelligence to enlighten their stupidity with the right +suggestion." +</p> +<p> +In spite of himself Tetlow was falling under the spell of Norman's +personality, of the old and deep admiration the lesser man had for the +greater. +</p> +<p> +"Norman," he said, "how can you be such a combination of bigness and +petty deviltry? You are a monster of self-indulgence. It's a God's mercy +there aren't more men with your selfishness and your desires." +</p> +<p> +Norman laughed sardonically. "The difference between me and most men," +said he, "isn't in selfishness or in desires, but in courage. Courage, +Billy—there's what most of you lack. And even in courage I'm not alone. +My sort fill most of the high places." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow looked dismal confession of a fear that Norman was right. +</p> +<p> +"Yes," pursued Norman, "in this country there are enough wolves to +attend to pretty nearly all the sheep—though it's amazing how much +mutton there is." With an abrupt shift from raillery, "You'll help me +with her, Billy?" +</p> +<p> +"Why don't you let her alone, Fred?" pleaded Tetlow. "It isn't worthy of +you—a big man like you. Let her alone, Fred!—the poor child, trying to +earn her own living in an honest way." +</p> +<p> +"Let her alone? Tetlow, I shall never let her alone—as long as she and +I are both alive." +</p> +<p> +The fat man, with his premature wrinkles and his solemn air of law books +that look venerable though fresh from the press, took on an added +pastiness. "Fred—for God's sake, can't you love her in a noble way—a +way worthy of you?" +</p> +<p> +Norman gave him a penetrating glance. "Is love—such love as mine—<i>and</i> +yours—" There Tetlow flushed guiltily—"is it ever noble?—whatever +that means. No, it's human—human. But I'm not trying to harm her. I +give you my word. . . . Will you help me—and her?" +</p> +<p> +Tetlow hesitated. His heavy cheeks quivered. "I don't trust you," he +cried violently—the violence of a man fighting against an enemy within. +"Don't ever speak to me again." And he rushed away through the rain, +knocking umbrellas this way and that. +</p> +<p> +About noon two days later, as Norman was making one of his excursions +past the Equitable elevators, he saw Bob Culver at the news stand. It so +happened that as he recognized Culver, Culver cast in the direction of +the elevators the sort of look that betrays a man waiting for a woman. +Unseen by Culver, Norman stopped short. Into his face blazed the fury of +suspicion, jealousy, and hate—one of the cyclones of passion that swept +him from time to time and revealed to his own appalled self the full +intensity of his feeling, the full power of the demon that possessed +him. Culver was of those glossy, black men who are beloved of women. He +was much handsomer than Norman, who, indeed, was not handsome at all, +but was regarded as handsome because he had the air of great +distinction. Many times these two young men had been pitted against each +other in legal battles. Every time Norman had won. Twice they had +contended for the favor of the same lady. Each had scored once. But as +Culver's victory was merely for a very light and empty-headed lady of +the stage while he had won Josephine Burroughs away from Culver, the +balance was certainly not against him. +</p> +<p> +As Norman slipped back and into the cross corridor to avoid meeting +Culver, Dorothy Hallowell hurried from a just descended elevator and, +with a quick, frightened glance toward Culver, in profile, almost ran +toward Norman. It was evident that she had only one thought—to escape +being seen by her new employer. When she realized that some one was +standing before her and moved to one side to pass, she looked up. "Oh!" +she gasped, starting back. And then she stood there white and shaking. +</p> +<p> +"Is that beast Culver hounding you?" demanded Norman. +</p> +<p> +She recovered herself quickly. With flashing eyes, she cried: "How dare +you! How dare you!" +</p> +<p> +Norman, possessed by his rage against Culver, paid no attention. "If he +don't let you alone," he said, "I'll thrash him into a hospital for six +months. You must leave his office at once. You'll not go back there." +</p> +<p> +"You must be crazy," replied she, calm again. "I've no complaint to make +of the way I'm being treated. I never was so well off in my life. And +Mr. Culver is very kind and polite." +</p> +<p> +"You know what that means," said Norman harshly. +</p> +<p> +"Everyone isn't like you," retorted she. +</p> +<p> +He was examining her from head to foot, as if to make sure that it was +she with no charm missing. He noted that she was much less poorly +dressed than when she worked for his firm. In those days she often +looked dowdy, showed plainly the girl who has to make a hasty toilet in +a small bedroom, with tiny wash-stand and looking-glass, in the early, +coldest hours of a cold morning. Now she looked well taken care of +physically, not so well, not anything like so well as the women +uptown—the ladies with nothing to do but make toilettes; still, +unusually well looked after for a working girl. At first glance after +those famished and ravening days of longing for her and seeking her, she +before him in rather dim reality of the obvious office-girl, seemed +disappointing. It could not be that this insignificance was the cause of +all his fever and turmoil. He began to hope that he was recovering, that +the cloud of insane desire was clearing from his sky. But a second +glance killed that hope. For, once more he saw her mystery, her beauties +that revealed their perfection and splendor only to the observant. +</p> +<p> +While he looked she was regaining her balance, as the fading color in +her white skin and the subsidence of the excitement in her eyes +evidenced. "Let me pass, please," she said coldly—for, she was against +the wall with him standing before her in such a way that she could not +go until he moved aside. +</p> +<p> +"We'll lunch together," he said. "I want to talk with you. Did that +well-meaning ass—Tetlow—tell you?" +</p> +<p> +"There is nothing you can say that I wish to hear," was her quiet reply. +</p> +<p> +"Your eyes—the edges of the lids are red. You have been crying?" +</p> +<p> +She lifted her glance to his and he had the sense of a veil drawing +aside to reveal a desolation. "For my father," she said. +</p> +<p> +His face flushed. He looked steadily at her. "Now that he is gone, you +have no one to protect you. I am——" +</p> +<p> +"I need no one," said she with a faintly contemptuous smile. +</p> +<p> +"You do need some one—and I am going to undertake it." +</p> +<p> +Her face lighted up. He thought it was because of what he had said. But +she immediately undeceived him. She said in a tone of delighted relief, +"Here comes Mr. Tetlow. You must excuse me." +</p> +<p> +"Dorothy—listen!" he cried. "We are going to be married at once." +</p> +<p> +The words exploded dizzily in his ears. He assumed they would have a far +more powerful effect upon her. But her expression did not change. "No," +she said hastily. "I must go with Mr. Tetlow." Tetlow was now at hand, +his heavy face almost formidable in its dark ferocity. She said to him: +"I was waiting for you. Come on" +</p> +<p> +Norman turned eagerly to his former friend. He said: "Tetlow, I have +just asked Miss Hallowell to be my wife." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow stared. Then pain and despair seemed to flood and ravage his +whole body. +</p> +<p> +"I told you the other day," Norman went on, "that I was ready to do the +fair thing. I have just been saying to Miss Hallowell that she must have +some one to protect her. You agree with me, don't you?" +</p> +<p> +Tetlow, fumbling vaguely with his watch chain, gazed straight ahead. +"Yes," he said with an effort. "Yes, you are right, Norman. An office is +no place for an attractive girl as young as she is." +</p> +<p> +"Has Culver been annoying her?" inquired Norman. +</p> +<p> +Tetlow started. "Ah—she's told you—has she? I rather hoped she hadn't +noticed or understood." +</p> +<p> +Both men now looked at the girl. She had shrunk into herself until she +was almost as dim and unimpressive, as cipher-like as when Norman first +beheld her. Also she seemed at least five years less than her twenty. +"Dorothy," said Norman, "you will let me take care of you—won't you?" +</p> +<p> +"No," she said—and the word carried all the quiet force she was somehow +able to put into her short, direct answers. +</p> +<p> +Tetlow's pasty sallowness took on a dark red tinge. He looked at her in +surprise. "You don't understand, Miss Dorothy," he said. "He wants to +marry you." +</p> +<p> +"I understand perfectly," replied she, with the far-away look in her +blue eyes. "But I'll not marry him. I despise him. He frightens me. He +sickens me." +</p> +<p> +Norman clinched his hands and the muscles of his jaw in the effort to +control himself. "Dorothy," he said, "I've not acted as I should. Tetlow +will tell you that there is good excuse for me. I know you don't +understand about those things—about the ways of the world——" +</p> +<p> +"I understand perfectly," she interrupted. "It's you that don't +understand. I never saw anyone so conceited. Haven't I told you I don't +love you, and don't want anything to do with you?" +</p> +<p> +Tetlow, lover though he was—or perhaps because he was lover, of the +hopeless kind that loves generously—could not refrain from protest. +The girl was flinging away a dazzling future. It wasn't fair to her to +let her do it when if she appreciated she would be overwhelmed with joy +and gratitude. "I believe you ought to listen to Norman, Miss Dorothy," +he said pleadingly. "At any rate, think it over—don't answer right +away. He is making you an honorable proposal—one that's advantageous in +every way——" +</p> +<p> +Dorothy regarded him with innocent eyes, wide and wondering. "I didn't +think you could talk like that, Mr. Tetlow!" she exclaimed. "You heard +what I said to him—about the way I felt. How could I be his wife? He +tried everything else—and, now, though he's ashamed of it, he's trying +to get me by marriage. Oh, I understand. I wish I didn't. I'd not feel +so low." She looked at Norman. "Can't you realize <i>ever</i> that I don't want +any of the grand things you're so crazy about—that I want something +very different—something you could never give me—or get for me?" +</p> +<p> +"Isn't there anything I can do, Dorothy, to make you forget and +forgive?" he cried, like a boy, an infatuated boy. "For God's sake, +Tetlow, help me! Tell her I'm not so rotten as she thinks. I'll be +anything you like, my darling—<i>anything</i>—if only you'll take me. For I +must have you. You're the only thing in the world I care for—and, +without you, I've no interest in life—none—none!" +</p> +<p> +He was so impassioned that passersby began to observe them curiously. +Tetlow became uneasy. But Norman and Dorothy were unconscious of what +was going on around them. The energy of his passion compelled her, +though the passion itself was unwelcome. "I'm sorry," she said gently. +"Though you would have hurt me, if you could, I don't want to hurt +you. . . . I'm sorry. I can't love you. . . . I'm sorry. Come on, Mr. +Tetlow." +</p> +<p> +Norman stood aside. She and Tetlow went on out of the building. He +remained in the same place, oblivious of the crowd streaming by, each +man or woman with a glance at his vacant stare. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0016"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XIV +</h2> +<p> +Than Fred Norman no man ever had better reason to feel securely +entrenched upon the heights of success. It was no silly vaunt of +optimism for him to tell Lockyer that only loss of life or loss of mind +could dislodge him. And a few days after Dorothy had extinguished the +last spark of hope he got ready to pull himself together and show the +world that it was indulging too soon in its hypocritical headshakings +over his ruin. +</p> +<p> +"I am going to open an office of my own at once," he said to his sister. +</p> +<p> +She did not wish to discourage him, but she could not altogether keep +her thoughts from her face. She had, in a general way, a clear idea of +the complete system of tollgates, duly equipped with strong barriers, +which the mighty few have established across practically all the +highroads to material success. Also, she felt in her brother's manner +and tone a certain profound discouragement, a lack of the unconquerable +spirit which had carried him so far so speedily. It is not a baseless +notion that the man who has never been beaten is often destroyed by his +first reverse. Ursula feared the spell of success had been broken for +him. +</p> +<p> +"You mean," she suggested, with apparent carelessness, "that you will +give up your forty thousand a year?" +</p> +<p> +He made a disdainful gesture. "I can make more than that," said he. +"It's a second rate lawyer who can't in this day." +</p> +<p> +"Of course you can," replied she tactfully. "But why not take a rest +first? Then there's old Burroughs—on the war path. Wouldn't it be wise +to wait till he calms down?" +</p> +<p> +"If Burroughs or any other man is necessary to me," rejoined Fred, "the +sooner I find it out the better. I ought to know just where I—I +myself—stand." +</p> +<p> +"No one is necessary to you but yourself," said Ursula, proudly and +sincerely. "But, Fred—Are you yourself just now?" +</p> +<p> +"No, I'm not," admitted he. "But the way to become so again isn't by +waiting but by working." An expression of sheer wretchedness came into +his listless, heavy eyes. "Urse, I've got to conquer my weakness now, or +go under." +</p> +<p> +She was eager to hold on to the secure forty thousand a year—for his +sake no less than for her own. She argued with him with all the +adroitness of a mind as good in its way as his own. But she could not +shake his resolution. And she in prudence, desisted when he said +bitterly: "I see you've lost confidence in me. Well, I don't blame +you. . . . So have I." Then after a moment, violently rather than strongly: +"But I've got to get it back. If I don't I'm only putting off the +smash—a complete smash." +</p> +<p> +"I don't see quite how it's to be arranged," said she, red and +hesitating. For, she feared he would think her altogether selfish in her +anxiety. He certainly would have been justified in so thinking; he knew +how rarely generosity survived in the woman who leads the soft and idle +life. +</p> +<p> +"How long can we keep on as we're living now—if there's nothing, or +little, coming in?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't know," confessed she. She was as poor at finance as he, and had +certainly not been improved by his habit of giving her whatever she +happened to think was necessary. "I can't say. Perhaps a few months—I +don't know—Not long, I'm afraid." +</p> +<p> +"Six months?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, no. You see—the fact is—I've been rather careless about the +bills. You're so generous, Fred—and one is so busy in New York. I +guess we owe a good deal—here and there and yonder. And—the last few +days some of the tradespeople have been pressing for payment." +</p> +<p> +"You see!" exclaimed he. "The report is going round that I'm ruined and +done for. I've simply got to make good. If you can't keep up a front, +shut up the house and go abroad. You can stay till I've got my foot back +on its neck." +</p> +<p> +She believed in him, at bottom. She could not conceive how appearances +and her forebodings could be true. Such strength as his could not be +overwhelmed thus suddenly. And by so slight a thing!—by an unsatisfied +passion for a woman, and an insignificant woman, at that. For, like all +women, like all the world for that matter, she measured a passion by the +woman who was the object of it, instead of by the man who fabricated it. +"Yes—I'll go abroad," said she, hopefully. +</p> +<p> +"Quietly arrange for a long stay," he advised. "I <i>hope</i> it won't be long. +But I never plan on hope." +</p> +<p> +Thus, with his sister and Fitzhugh out of the way and the heaviest of +his burdens of expense greatly lightened, he set about rehabitating +himself. He took an office, waited for clients. And clients +came—excellent clients. Came and precipitately left him. +</p> +<p> +There were two reasons for it. The first—the one most often heard—was +the story going round that he had been, and probably still was, out of +his mind. No deadlier or crueler weapon can be used against a man than +that same charge as to his sanity. It has been known to destroy, or +seriously maim, brilliant and able men with no trace of any of the +untrustworthy kinds of insanity. Where the man's own conduct gives color +to the report, the attack is usually mortal. And Norman had acted the +crazy man. The second reason was the hostility of Burroughs, reinforced +by all the hatreds and jealousies Norman's not too respectful way of +dealing with his fellow men had been creating through fifteen years. +</p> +<p> +The worst moment in the life of a man who has always proudly regarded +himself as above any need whatever from his fellow men is when he +discovers all in a flash, that the timid animal he spurned as it fawned +has him upon his back, has its teeth and claws at his helpless throat. +</p> +<p> +For four months he stood out against the isolation, the suspicion as to +his sanity, the patronizing pity of men who but a little while before +had felt honored when he spoke to them. For four months he gave battle +to unseen and silent foes compassing him on every side. He had no spirit +for the fight; his love of Dorothy Hallowell and his complete rout there +had taken the spirit out of him—and with it had gone that confidence in +himself and in his luck which had won him so many critical battles. +Then—He had been keeping up a large suite of offices, a staff of +clerks and stenographers and all the paraphernalia of the great and +successful lawyer. He had been spreading out the little business he got +in a not unsuccessful effort to make it appear big and growing. He now +gave up these offices and the costly pride, pomp and circumstance—left +with several thousand dollars owing. He took two small rooms in a +building tenanted by beginners and cheap shysters. He continued to live +at his club, where even the servants were subtly insolent to him; he +could see the time approaching when he might have to let himself be +dropped for failing to pay dues and bills. +</p> +<p> +He stared at his ruin in stupid and dazed amazement. Usually, to hear or +to read about such a catastrophe as this is to get a vague, rather +impressive notion of something picturesque and romantic. Ruined, like +all the big fateful words, has a dignified sound. But the historians and +novelists and poets and other keepers of human records have a pleasant, +but not very honest way, of omitting practically all the essentials from +their records and substituting glittering imaginings that delight the +reader—and wofully mislead him as to the truth about life. What wonder +that we learn slowly—and improve slowly. How wofully we have been, and +are, misled by all upon whom we have relied as teachers. +</p> +<p> +Already one of these charming tales of majestic downfall was in process +of manufacture, with Frederick Norman as the central figure. It was only +awaiting his suicide or some other mode of complete submergence for its +final glose of glamor. In this manufacture, the truth, as usual, had +been almost omitted; such truth as was retained for this artistic +version of a human happening was so perverted that it was falser than +the simon pure fictions with which it was interwoven. Just as the +literal truth about his success was far from being altogether to his +credit, so the literal truth as to his fall gave him little of the +vesture of the hero, and that little ill fitting, to cover his naked +humanness. Let him who has risen to material success altogether by +methods approved by the idealists, let him who has fallen from on high +with graceful majesty, without hysterical clutchings and desperate +attempts at self-salvation in disregard of the safety of others—let +either of these superhuman beings come forward with the first stone for +Norman. +</p> +<p> +Those at some distance from the falling man could afford to be romantic +and piteous over his fate. Those in his dangerous neighborhood were too +busy getting out of the way. "Man falling—stand from under!" was the +cry—how familiar it is!—and acquaintances and friends fled in mad +skedaddle. He would surely be asking favors—would be trying to borrow +money. It is no peculiarity of rats to desert a sinking ship; it is +simply an inevitable precaution in a social system modeled as yet upon +nature's cruel law of the survival of the fittest. A falling man is +first of all a warning to all other men high enough up to be able to +fall—a warning to them to take care lest they fall also where footing +is so insecure and precipices and steeps beset every path. +</p> +<p> +Norman, falling, falling, gazed round him and up and down, in dazed +wonder. He had seen many others fall. He had seen just where and just +why they missed their footing. And he had been confident that with him +no such misstep was possible. He could not believe; a little while, and +luck would turn, and up he would go again—higher than before. Many a +lawyer—to look no farther than his own profession—had through +recklessness or pride or inadvertence got the big men down on him. But +after a time they had relented or had found an exact use for him; and +fall had been succeeded by rise. Was there a single instance where a man +of good brain had been permanently downed? No, not one. Stay—Some of +these unfortunates had failed to reappear on the heights of success. +Yes, thinking of the matter, he recalled several such. Had he been +altogether right in assuming, in his days of confidence and success, +that they stayed down because they belonged down? Perhaps he had judged +them harshly? Yes, he was sure he had judged them harshly. There was +such a thing as breaking a proud spirit—and he found within himself +apparent proof that precisely this calamity had befallen him. +</p> +<p> +There came a time—and it came soon—when he had about exhausted his +desperate ingenuity at cornering acquaintances and former friends and +"sticking them up" for loans of five hundred, a hundred, fifty, +twenty-five—Because these vulgar and repulsive facts are not found in +the usual records of the men who have dropped and come up again, do not +imagine that only the hopeless and never-reappearing failures pass +through such experiences. On the contrary, they are part of the common +human lot, and few indeed are the men who have not had them—and +worse—if they could but be brought to tell the truth. Destiny rarely +permits any one of us to go from cradle to grave without doing many a +thing shameful and universally condemned. How could it be otherwise +under our social system? When Norman was about at the end of all his +resources Tetlow called on him—Tetlow, now a partner in the Lockyer +firm. +</p> +<p> +He came with an air of stealth. "I don't want anyone to know I'm doing +this," said he frankly. "If it got out, I'd be damaged and you'd not +profit." +</p> +<p> +Rarely does anyone, however unworthy—and Fred Norman was far from +unworthy, as we humans go—rarely does anyone find himself absolutely +without a friend. There is a saying that no man ever sunk so low, ever +became so vile and squalid in soul and body, but that if he were dying, +and the fact were noised throughout the world, some woman somewhere +would come—perhaps from a sense of duty, perhaps from love, perhaps for +the sake of a moment of happiness long past but never equaled, and so +never forgotten—but from whatever motive, she would come. In the same +manner, anyone in dire straits can be sure of some friend. There were +several others whom Norman had been expecting—men he had saved by his +legal ingenuity at turning points in their careers. None of these was so +imprudent as uselessly to involve himself. It was Tetlow who +came—Tetlow, with whom his accounts were more than balanced, with the +balance against him. Tetlow, whom he did not expect. +</p> +<p> +Norman did not welcome him effusively. He said at once: "How is—she?" +</p> +<p> +Tetlow shifted uneasily. "I don't know. She's not with us. I gave her a +place there—to get her away from Culver. But she didn't stay long. No +doubt she's doing well." +</p> +<p> +"I thought you cared about her," said Norman, who in estimating Tetlow's +passion had measured it by his own, had neglected to consider that the +desires of most men soon grow short of breath and weary of leg. +</p> +<p> +"Yes—so I did care for her," said Tetlow, in the voice of a man who has +been ill but is now well. "But that's all over. Women aren't worth +bothering about much. They're largely vanity. The way they soon take a +man for granted if he's at all kind to them discourages any but the +poorest sort of fool. At least that's my opinion." +</p> +<p> +"Then you don't come from her?" said Norman with complete loss of +interest in his caller. +</p> +<p> +"No. I've come—Fred, I hear you're in difficulties." +</p> +<p> +Norman's now deep-set eyes gleamed humorously in his haggard and +failed-looking face. "<i>In</i> difficulties? Not at all. I'm <i>under</i> +them—drowned forty fathoms deep." +</p> +<p> +"Then you'll not resent my coming straight to the point and asking if I +can help you?" +</p> +<p> +"That's a rash offer, Tetlow. I never suspected rashness was one of your +qualities." +</p> +<p> +"I don't mean to offer you a loan or anything of that sort," pursued +Tetlow. "There's only one thing that can help a man in your position. He +must either be saved outright or left to drown. I've come with something +that may save you." +</p> +<p> +There was so much of the incongruous in a situation where <i>he</i> was +listening to an offer of salvation from such a man as Billy Tetlow that +Norman smiled. +</p> +<p> +"Well, what is it?" he said. +</p> +<p> +"There's a chance that within six months or so—perhaps +sooner—Burroughs and Galloway may end their truce and declare war on +each other. If so, Galloway will win. Anyhow, the Galloway connection +would be better than the Burroughs connection." +</p> +<p> +Norman looked at Tetlow shrewdly. "How do you know this?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +Tetlow's eyes shifted. "Can't tell you. But I know." +</p> +<p> +"Galloway hates me." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow nodded. "You were the one who forced him into a position where he +had to make peace with Burroughs. But Galloway's a big man, big enough +to admire ability wherever he sees it. He has admired you ever since." +</p> +<p> +"And has given his business to another firm." +</p> +<p> +"But if the break comes he'll need you. And he's the sort of man who +doesn't hesitate to take what he needs." +</p> +<p> +"Too remote," said Norman, and his despondent gesture showed how quickly +hope had lighted up. "Besides, Billy, I've lost my nerve. I'm no good." +</p> +<p> +"But you've gotten over that—that attack of insanity." +</p> +<p> +Norman shook his head. +</p> +<p> +"I can't understand it," ejaculated Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"Of course you can't," said Norman. "But—there it is." +</p> +<p> +"You haven't seen her lately?" +</p> +<p> +"Not since that day ... Billy, she hasn't—" Norman stopped, and +Tetlow saw that his hands were trembling with agitation, and marveled. +</p> +<p> +"Oh, no," replied Tetlow. "So far as I know, she's still respectable. +But—why don't you go to see her? I think you'd be cured." +</p> +<p> +"Why do you say that?" demanded Norman, the veins in his forehead +bulging with the fury he was ready to release. +</p> +<p> +"For no especial reason—on my honor, Fred," replied Tetlow. "Simply +because time works wonders in all sorts of ways, including infatuations. +Also—well, the fact is, it didn't seem to me that young lady improved +on acquaintance. Maybe I got tired, or piqued—I don't know. If she +hadn't been a silly little fool, would she have refused you? I know it +sounds well—in a novel or a play—for a poor girl to refuse a good +offer, just from sentiment. But, all the same, only a fool girl does +it—in life—eh? But go to see her. You'll understand what I mean, I +think. I want you to brace up. That may help." +</p> +<p> +"What's she doing?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't know. I'll send you her address. I can get it. About +Galloway—If that break comes, I propose that we get his business—you +and I. I want you for a partner. I always did. I think I know how to get +work out of you. I understand you better, than anyone else. That's why +I'm here." +</p> +<p> +"It's useless," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"I'm willing to take the risk. Now, here's what I propose. I'll stake +you to the extent of a thousand dollars a month for the next six months, +you to keep on as you are and not to tie yourself up to any other +lawyer, or to any client likely to hamper us if we get the Galloway +business." +</p> +<p> +"I've been borrowing right and left——" +</p> +<p> +"I know about that," interrupted Tetlow. "I'm not interested. If you'll +agree to my proposal, I'll take my chances." +</p> +<p> +"You are throwing away six thousand dollars." +</p> +<p> +"I owe you a position where I make five times that much." +</p> +<p> +Norman shrugged his shoulders. "Very well. Can I have five hundred at +once?" +</p> +<p> +"I'll send you a check to-day. I'll send two checks a month—the first +and the fifteenth." +</p> +<p> +"I am drinking a great deal." +</p> +<p> +"You always did." +</p> +<p> +"Not until recently. I never knew what drinking meant until these last +few months." +</p> +<p> +"Well, do as you like with the money. Drink it all, if you please. I'm +making no conditions beyond the two I stated." +</p> +<p> +"You will send me that address?" +</p> +<p> +"In the letter with the check." +</p> +<p> +"Will she see me, do you think?" +</p> +<p> +"I haven't an idea," replied Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"What's the mystery?" asked Norman. "Why do you speak of her so +indifferently?" +</p> +<p> +"It's the way I feel." Then, in answer to the unspoken suspicion once +more appearing in Norman's eyes, he added: "She's a very nice, sweet +girl, Norman—so far as I know or believe. Beyond that—Go to see +her." +</p> +<p> +It had been many a week since Norman had heard a friendly voice. The +very sound of the human voice had become hateful to him, because he was +constantly detecting the note of nervousness, the scarcely concealed +fear of being entangled in his misfortunes. As Tetlow rose to go, Norman +tried to detain him. The sound of an unconstrained voice, the sight of a +believing face that did not express one or more of the shadings of +contempt between pity and aversion—the sight and sound of this friend +Tetlow was acting upon him like one of those secret, unexpected, +powerful tonics which nature at times suddenly injects into a dying man +to confound the doctors and cheat death. +</p> +<p> +"Tetlow," said he, "I'm down—probably down for good. But if I ever get +up again, I'll not make one mistake—the one that cost me this fall. Do +you know what that mistake was?" +</p> +<p> +"I suppose you mean Miss Hallowell?" +</p> +<p> +"No," said Norman, to his surprise. "I mean my lack of money, of +capital, of a large and secure income. I used to imagine that brains +were the best, the only sure asset. I was guilty of the stupidity of +overvaluing my own possessions." +</p> +<p> +"Brains are a mighty good asset, Fred." +</p> +<p> +"Yes—and necessary. But a man of action must have under his brains +another asset—<i>must</i> have it, Billy. The one secure asset is a big +capital. Money rules this world. Some men have been lucky enough to rise +and stay risen, without money. But not a man of all the men who have +been knocked out could have been dislodged if he had been armed and +armored with money. My prodigality was my fatal mistake. I shan't make +it again—if I get the chance. You don't know, Tetlow, how hard it is to +get money when you are tumbling and must have it. I never dreamed what a +factor it is in calamities of <i>every</i> sort. It's <i>the</i> factor." +</p> +<p> +"I don't like to hear you talk that way, Norman," said Tetlow earnestly. +"I've always most admired in you the fact that you weren't mercenary." +</p> +<p> +"And I never shall be," said Norman, with the patient smile of a swift, +keen mind at one that is slow and hard to make understand. "It isn't my +nature. But, if I'm resurrected, I'll seem to be mercenary until I get a +full suit of the only armor that's invulnerable in this world. Why, I +built my fort like a fool. It was impregnable except for one thing—one +obvious thing. It hadn't a supply of water. If I build again it'll be +round a spring—an income big enough for my needs and beyond anybody's +power to cut off." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow showed that he was much cheered by Norman's revived interest in +life. But he went away uneasy; for the last thing Norman said to him +was: +</p> +<p> +"Don't forget that address!" +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0017"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XV +</h2> +<p> +But it chanced that Norman met her in the street about an hour after +Tetlow's call. +</p> +<p> +He was on the way to lunch at the Lawyer's Club—one of those apparent +luxuries that are the dire and pitiful necessities of men in New York +fighting to maintain the semblance and the reputation of prosperity. It +must not be imagined by those who are here let into Norman's inmost +secrets that his appearance betrayed the depth to which he had fallen. +At least to the casual eye he seemed the same rich and powerful +personage. An expert might have got at a good part of the truth from his +somber eyes and haggard face, from the subtle transformation of the +former look of serene pride into the bravado of pretense. And as, in a +general way, the facts of his fall were known far and wide, all his +acquaintances understood that his seeming of undiminished success was +simply the familiar "bluff." Its advantage to him with them lay in its +raising a doubt as to just what degree of disaster it hid—no small +advantage. Nor was this "bluff" altogether for the benefit of the +outside world. It made his fall less hideously intolerable to himself. +In the bottom of his heart he knew that when drink and no money should +finally force him to release his relaxing hold upon his fashionable +clubs, upon luxurious attire and habits, he would suddenly and with +accelerated speed drop into the abyss—We have all caught glimpses of +that abyss—frayed fine linen cheaply laundered, a tie of one time +smartness showing signs of too long wear, a suit from the best kind of +tailor with shiny spot glistening here, patch peeping there, a queer +unkemptness about the hair and skin—these the beginnings of a road that +leads straight and short to the barrel-house, the park bench, and the +police station. Because, when a man strikes into that stretch of the +road to perdition, he ceases to be one of our friends, passes from view +entirely, we have the habit of <i>saying</i> that such things rarely if ever +happen. But we <i>know</i> better. Many's the man now high who has had the sort +of drop Norman was taking. We remember when he was making a bluff such +as Norman was making in those days; but we think now that we were +mistaken in having suspected it of being bluff. +</p> +<p> +Norman, dressed with more than ordinary care—how sensitive a man +becomes about those things when there is neither rustle nor jingle in +his pockets, and his smallest check would be returned with the big black +stamp "No Funds"—Norman, groomed to the last button, was in Broadway +near Rector Street. Ahead of him he saw the figure of a girl—a trim, +attractive figure, slim and charmingly long of line. A second glance, +and he recognized her. What was the change that had prevented his +recognizing her at once? He had not seen that particular lightish-blue +dress before—nor the coquettish harmonizing hat. But that was not the +reason. No, it was the coquetry in her toilet—the effort of the girl +to draw attention to her charms by such small devices as are within the +reach of extremely modest means. He did not like this change. It +offended his taste; it alarmed his jealousy. +</p> +<p> +He quickened his step, and when almost at her side spoke her name—"Miss +Hallowell." +</p> +<p> +She stopped, turned. As soon as she recognized him there came into her +quiet, lovely face a delightful smile. He could not conceal his +amazement. She was glad to see him! Instantly, following the invariable +habit of an experienced analytical mind, he wondered for what +unflattering reason this young woman who did not like him was no longer +showing it, was seeming more than a little pleased to see him. "Why, how +d'ye do, Mr. Norman?" said she. And her friendliness and assurance of +manner jarred upon him. There was not a suggestion of forwardness; but +he, used to her old-time extreme reserve, felt precisely as if she were +bold and gaudy, after the fashion of so many of the working girls who +were popular with the men. +</p> +<p> +This unfavorable impression disappeared—or, rather, retired to the +background—even as it became definite. And once more he was seeing the +charms of physical loveliness, of physical—and moral, and +mental—mystery that had a weird power over him. As they shook hands, a +quiver shot through him as at the shock of a terrific stimulant; and he +stood there longing to take her in his arms, to feel the delicate yet +perfect and vividly vital life of that fascinating form—longing to kiss +that sensitive, slightly pouted rosy mouth, to try to make those clear +eyes grow soft and dreamy—— +</p> +<p> +She was saying: "I've been wondering what had become of you." +</p> +<p> +"I saw Tetlow," he said. "He promised to send me your address." +</p> +<p> +At Tetlow's name she frowned slightly; then a gleam of ridicule flitted +into her eyes. "Oh, that silly, squeamish old maid! How sick I got of +him!" +</p> +<p> +Norman winced, and his jealousy stirred. "Why?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +"Always warning me against everybody. Always giving me advice. It was +too tiresome. And at last he began to criticize me—the way I +dressed—the way I talked—said I was getting too free in my manner. The +impudence of him!" +</p> +<p> +Norman tried to smile. +</p> +<p> +"He'd have liked me to stay a silly little mouse forever." +</p> +<p> +"So you've been—blossoming out?" said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"In a quiet way," replied she, with a smile of self-content, so lovely +as a smile that no one would have minded its frank egotism. "There isn't +much chance for fun—unless a girl goes too far. But at the same time I +don't intend life to be Sunday when it isn't work. I got very cross with +him—Mr. Tetlow, I mean. And I took another position. It didn't pay +quite so well—only fifteen a week. But I couldn't stand being +watched—and guyed by all the other girls and boys for it." +</p> +<p> +"Where are you working?" +</p> +<p> +"With an old lawyer named Branscombe. It's awful slow, as I'm the only +one, and he's old and does everything in an old-fashioned way. But the +hours are easy, and I don't have to get down till nine—which is nice +when you've been out at a dance the night before." +</p> +<p> +Norman kept his eyes down to hide from her the legion of devils of +jealousy. "You <i>have</i> changed," he said. +</p> +<p> +"I'm growing up," replied she with a charming toss of her small +head—what beautiful effects the sunlight made in among those wavy +strands and strays! +</p> +<p> +"And you're as lovely as ever—lovelier," he said—and his eyes were +the eyes of the slave she had spurned. +</p> +<p> +She did not spurn him now—and it inflamed his jealousy that she did +not. She said: "Oh, what's the good of looks? The town's full of pretty +girls. And so many of them have money—which I haven't. To make a hit in +New York a girl's got to have both looks and dress. But I must be going. +I've an engagement to lunch—" She gave a proud little smile—"at the +Astor House. It's nice upstairs there." +</p> +<p> +"With Bob Culver?" +</p> +<p> +She laughed. "I haven't seen him since I left his office. You know, Mr. +Tetlow took me with him—back to your old firm. I didn't like Mr. +Culver. I don't care for those black men. They are bad-tempered and +two-faced. Anyhow, I'd not have anything to do with a man who wanted to +slip round with me as if he were ashamed of me." +</p> +<p> +She was looking at Norman pleasantly enough. He wasn't sure that the hit +was for him as well as for Culver, but he flushed deeply. "Will you +lunch with me at the Astor House at one to-morrow?" +</p> +<p> +"I've got an engagement," said she. "And I must be going. I'm awfully +late." He had an instinct that her engagement on both days was with the +same man. "I'm glad to have seen you——" +</p> +<p> +"Won't you let me call on you?" he said imploringly, but with the +suggestion that he had no hope of being permitted to come. +</p> +<p> +"Certainly," responded she with friendly promptness. She opened the +shopping bag swinging on her arm. "Here is one of my cards." +</p> +<p> +"When? This evening?" +</p> +<p> +Her laugh showed the beautiful deep pink and dazzling white behind her +lips. "No—I'm going to a party." +</p> +<p> +"Let me take you." +</p> +<p> +She shook her head. "You wouldn't like it. Only young people." +</p> +<p> +"But I'm not so old." +</p> +<p> +She looked at him critically. "No—you're not. It always puzzled me. You +aren't old—you look like a boy lots of the time. But you always <i>seem</i> +old to me." +</p> +<p> +"I'll try to do better. To-night?" +</p> +<p> +"Not to-night," laughed she. "Let's see—to-morrow's Sunday. Come +to-morrow—about half past two." +</p> +<p> +"Thank you," he said so gratefully that he cursed himself for his folly +as he heard his voice—the idiotic folly of so plainly betraying his +feelings. No wonder she despised him! Beginning again—and beginning; +wrong. +</p> +<p> +"Good-by." Her eyes, her smile flashed and he was alone, watching her +slender grace glide through the throngs of lower Broadway. +</p> +<p> +At his office again at three, he found a note from Tetlow inclosing +another of Dorothy's cards and also the promised check. Into his face +came the look that always comes into the faces of the prisoners of +despair when the bolts slide back and the heavy door swings and hope +stands on the threshold instead of the familiar grim figure of the +jailer. "This looks like the turn of the road," he muttered. Yes, a turn +it certainly was—but was it <i>the</i> turn? "I'll know more as to that," said +he with a glance at the clock, "about this time to-morrow." +</p> +<hr> +<p> +It was a boarding house on the west side. And when the slovenly, smelly +maid said, "Go right up to her room," he knew it was—probably +respectable, but not rigidly respectable. However, working girls must +receive, and they cannot afford parlors and chaperons. Still—It was no +place for a lovely young girl, full of charm and of love of life—and +not brought up in the class where the women are trained from babyhood to +protect themselves. +</p> +<p> +He ascended two flights, knocked at the door to the rear. "Come!" called +a voice, and he entered. It was a small neat room, arranged comfortably +and with some taste. He recognized at first glance many little things +from her room in the Jersey City house—things he had provided for her. +On the chimney piece was a large photograph of her father—Norman's eyes +hastily shifted from that. The bed was folded away into a couch—for +space and for respectability. At first he did not see her. But when he +advanced a step farther, she was disclosed in the doorway of a deep +closet that contained a stationary washstand. +</p> +<p> +He had never seen her when she was not fully dressed. He was now seeing +her in a kind of wrapper—of pale blue, clean but not fresh. It was +open at the throat; its sleeves fell away from her arms. And, to cap the +climax of his agitation, her hair, her wonderful hair, was flowing +loosely about her face and shoulders. +</p> +<p> +"What's the matter with you?" she cried laughingly. Her eyes sparkled +and danced; the waves of her hair, each hair standing out as if it were +alive, sparkled and danced. It was a smile never to be forgotten. "Why +are you so embarrassed?" +</p> +<p> +He was embarrassed. He was thrilled. He was enraged—enraged because, if +she would thus receive him whom she did not like, she would certainly +thus receive any man. +</p> +<p> +"I don't mind you," she went on, mockingly. "I'd have to be careful if +it was one of the boys." +</p> +<p> +"Do you receive the—boys—here?" demanded he glumly, his voice arrogant +with the possessive rights a man feels when he cares for a woman, +whether she cares for him or not. +</p> +<p> +"Why not?" scoffed she. "Where else would I see them? I don't make +street corner dates, thank you. You're as bad as fat, foolish Mr. +Tetlow." +</p> +<p> +"I beg your pardon," said he humbly. +</p> +<p> +She straightway relented, saying: "Of course I'd not let one of the boys +come up when I was dressed like this. But I didn't mind <i>you</i>." He winced +at this amiable, unconscious reminder of her always exasperating and +tantalizing and humiliating indifference to him—"And as I'm going to a +grand dance to-night I simply had to wash my hair. Does that satisfy +you, Mr. Primmey?" +</p> +<p> +He hid the torment of his reopened wound and seated himself at the +center table. She returned to a chair in the window where the full force +of the afternoon sun would concentrate upon her hair. And he gazed spell +bound. He had always known that her hair was fine. He had never dreamed +it was like this. It was thick, it was fine and soft. In color, as the +sunbeams streamed upon it, it was all the shades of gold and all the +other beautiful shades between brown and red. It fell about her face, +about her neck, about her shoulders in a gorgeous veil. And her pure +white skin—It was an even more wonderful white below the line of her +collar—where he had never seen it before. Such exquisitely modeled +ears—such a delicate nose—and the curve of her cheeks—and the glory +of her eyes! He clinched his teeth and his hands, sat dumb with his gaze +down. +</p> +<p> +"How do you like my room?" she chattered on. "It's not so bad—really +quite comfortable—though I'm afraid I'll be cold when the weather +changes. But it's the best I can do. As it is, I don't see how I'm going +to make ends meet. I pay twelve of my fifteen for this room and two +meals. The rest goes for lunch and car fare. As soon as I have to get +clothes—" She broke off, laughing. +</p> +<p> +"Well," he said, "what then?" +</p> +<p> +"I'm sure I don't know," replied she carelessly. "Perhaps old Mr. +Branscombe'll give me a raise. Still, eighteen or twenty is the most I +could hope for—and that wouldn't mean enough for clothes." +</p> +<p> +She shook her head vigorously and her hair stood out yet more vividly +and the sunbeams seemed to go mad with joy as they danced over and under +and through it. He had ventured to glance up; again he hastily looked +down. +</p> +<p> +"You spoiled me," she went on. "Those few months over there in Jersey +City. It made <i>such</i> a change in me, though I didn't realize it at the +time. You see, I hadn't known since I was a tiny little girl what it was +to live really decently, and so I was able to get along quite +contentedly. I didn't know any better." She made a wry face. "How I +loathe the canned and cold storage stuff I have to eat nowadays. And how +I do miss the beautiful room I had in that big house over there! and how +I miss Molly and Pat—and the garden—and doing as I pleased—and the +clothes I had: I thought I was being careful and not spoiling myself. +You may not believe it, but I was really conscientious about spending +money." She laughed in a queer, absent way. "I had such a funny idea of +what I had a right to do and what I hadn't. And I didn't spend so very +much on out-and-out luxury. But—enough to spoil me for this life." +</p> +<p> +As Norman listened, as he noted—in her appearance, manner, way of +talking—the many meaning signs of the girl hesitating at the fork of +the roads—he felt within him the twinges of fear, of jealousy—and +through fear and jealousy, the twinges of conscience. She was telling +the truth. He had undermined her ability to live in purity the life to +which her earning power assigned her. . . . <i>Why</i> had she been so friendly +to him? Why had she received him in this informal, almost if not quite +inviting fashion? +</p> +<p> +"So you think I've changed?" she was saying. "Well—I have. Gracious, +what a little fool I was!" +</p> +<p> +His eyes lifted with an agonized question in them. +</p> +<p> +She flushed, glanced away, glanced at him again with the old, sweet +expression of childlike innocence which had so often made him wonder +whether it was merely a mannerism, or was a trick, or was indeed a beam +from a pure soul. "I'm foolish still—in certain ways," she said +significantly. +</p> +<p> +"And you always intend to be?" suggested he with a forced smile. +</p> +<p> +"Oh—yes," replied she—positively enough, yet it somehow had not the +full force of her simple short statements in the former days. +</p> +<p> +He believed her. Perhaps because he wished to believe, must believe, +would have been driven quite mad by disbelief. Still, he believed. As +yet she was good. But it would not last much longer. With him—or with +some other. If with him, then certainly afterward with another—with +others. No matter how jealously he might guard her, she would go that +road, if once she entered it. If he would have her for his very own he +must strengthen her, not weaken her, must keep her "foolish still—in +certain ways." +</p> +<p> +He said: "There's nothing in the other sort of life." +</p> +<p> +"That's what they say," replied she, with ominous irritation. +"Still—some girls—<i>lots</i> of girls seem to get on mighty well without +being so terribly particular." +</p> +<p> +"You ought to see them after a few years." +</p> +<p> +"I'm only twenty-one," laughed she. "I've got lots of time before I'm +old. . . . You haven't—married?" +</p> +<p> +"No," said he. +</p> +<p> +"I thought I'd have heard, if you had." She laughed queerly—again shook +out her hair, and it shimmered round her face and over her head and out +from her shoulders like flames. "You've got a kind of a—Mr. Tetlow way +of talking. It doesn't remind me of you as you were in Jersey City." +</p> +<p> +She said nothing, she suggested nothing that had the least impropriety +in it, or faintest hint of impropriety. It was nothing positive, nothing +aggressive, but a certain vague negative something that gave him the +impression of innocence still innocent but looking or trying to look +tolerantly where it should not. And he felt dizzy and sick, stricken +with shame and remorse and jealous fear. Yes—she was sliding slowly, +gently, unconsciously down to the depth in which he had been lying, sick +and shuddering—no, to deeper depths—to the depths where there is no +light, no trace of a return path. And he had started her down. He had +done it when he, in his pride and selfishness, had ignored what the +success of his project would mean for her. But he knew now; in +bitterness and shame and degradation he had learned. "I was infamous!" +he said to himself. +</p> +<p> +She began to talk in a low, embarrassed voice: +</p> +<p> +"Sometimes I think of getting married. There's a young man—a young +lawyer—he makes twenty-five a week, but it'll be years and years before +he has a good living. A man doesn't get on fast in New York unless he +has pull." +</p> +<p> +Norman, roused from his remorse, blazed inside. "You are in love with +him?" +</p> +<p> +She laughed, and he could not tell whether it was to tease him or to +evade. +</p> +<p> +"You'd not care about him long," said Norman, "unless there were more +money coming in than he'd be likely to get soon. Love without money +doesn't go—at least, not in New York." +</p> +<p> +"Do you suppose I don't know that?" said she with the irritation of one +faced by a hateful fact. "Still—I don't see what to do." +</p> +<p> +Norman, biting his lip and fuming and observing her with jealous eyes, +said in the best voice he could command, "How long have you been in love +with him?" +</p> +<p> +"Did I say I was in love?" mocked she. +</p> +<p> +"You didn't say you weren't. Who is he?" +</p> +<p> +"If you'll stay on about half an hour or so, you'll see him. No—you +can't. I've got to get dressed before I let him up. He has very strict +ideas—where I'm concerned." +</p> +<p> +"Then why did you let <i>me</i> come up?" Norman said, with a penetrating +glance. +</p> +<p> +She lowered her gaze and a faint flush stole into her cheeks. Was it +confession of the purpose he suspected? Or, was it merely embarrassment? +</p> +<p> +"I heard of a case once," continued Norman, his gaze significantly +direct, "the case of a girl who was in love with a poor young fellow. +She wanted money—luxury. Also, she wanted the poor young fellow." +</p> +<p> +The color flamed into the girl's face, then left it pale. Her white +fingers fluttered with nervous grace into her masses of hair and back to +her lap again, to rest there in timid quiet. +</p> +<p> +"She knew another man," pursued Norman, "one who was able to give her +what she wanted in the way of comfort. So, she decided to make an +arrangement with the man, and keep it hidden from her lover—and in that +way get along pleasantly until her lover was in better circumstances ." +</p> +<p> +Her gaze was upon her hands, listless in her lap. He felt that he had +spoken her unspoken, probably unformed thoughts. Yes, unformed. Men and +women, especially women, habitually pursued these unacknowledged +and—even unformed purposes, in their conflicts of the desire to get +what they wanted and their desire to appear well to themselves. +</p> +<p> +"What would you think of an arrangement like that?" asked he, determined +to draw her secret heart into the open where he could see, where she +could see. +</p> +<p> +She lifted frank, guileless eyes to his. "I suppose the girl was trying +to do the best she could." +</p> +<p> +"What do you think of a girl who'd do that?" +</p> +<p> +"I don't judge anybody—any more. I've found out that this world isn't +at all as I thought—as I was taught." +</p> +<p> +"Would <i>you</i> do it?" +</p> +<p> +She smiled faintly. "No," she replied uncertainly. Then she restored his +wavering belief in her essential honesty and truthfulness by adding: +"That is to say, I don't think I would." +</p> +<p> +She busied herself with her hair, feeling it to see whether it was not +yet dry, spreading it out. He looked at her unseeingly. At last she +said: "You must go. I've got to get dressed." +</p> +<p> +"Yes—I must be going," said he absently, rising and reaching for his +hat on the center table. +</p> +<p> +She stood up, put out her hand. "I'm glad you came." +</p> +<p> +"Thank you," said he, still in the same abstraction. He shook hands with +her, moved hesitatingly toward the door. With his hand on the knob he +turned and glanced keenly at her. He surprised in her face a look of +mystery—of seriousness, of sadness—was there anxiety in it, also? And +then he saw a certain elusive reminder of her father—and it brought to +him with curious force the memory of how she had been brought up, of +what must be hers by inheritance and by training—she, the daughter of a +great and simple and noble man—— +</p> +<p> +"You'll come again?" she said, and there was the note in her voice that +made his nerves grow tense and vibrate. +</p> +<p> +But he seemed not to have heard her question. Still at the unopened +door, he folded his arms upon his chest and said, speaking rapidly yet +with the deliberation of one who has thought out his words in advance: +</p> +<p> +"I don't know what kind of girl you are. I never have known. I've never +wanted to know. If you told me you were—what is called good, I'd doubt +it. If you told me you weren't, I'd want to kill you and myself. They +say there's a fatal woman for every man and a fatal man for every woman. +I always laughed at the idea—until you. I don't know what to make of +myself." +</p> +<p> +She suddenly laid her finger on her lips. It irritated him, to discover +that, as he talked, speaking the things that came from the very depths +of his soul, she had been giving him only part of her attention, had +been listening for a step on the stairs. He was hearing the ascending +step now. He frowned. "Can't you send him away?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +"I must," said she in a low tone. "It wouldn't do for him to know you +were here. He has strict ideas—and is terribly jealous." +</p> +<p> +A few seconds of silence, then a knock on the other side of the door. +</p> +<p> +"Who's there?" she called. +</p> +<p> +"I'm a little early," came in an agreeable, young man's voice. "Aren't +you ready?" +</p> +<p> +"Not nearly," replied she, in a laughing, innocent voice. "You'll have +to go away for half an hour." +</p> +<p> +"I'll wait out here on the steps." +</p> +<p> +Her eyes were sparkling. A delicate color had mounted to her skin. +Norman, watching her jealously, clinched his strong jaws. She said: +"No—you must go clear away. I don't want to feel that I'm being +hurried. Don't come back until a quarter past four." +</p> +<p> +"All right. I'm crazy to see you." This in the voice of a lover. She +smiled radiantly at Norman, as if she thought he would share in her +happiness at these evidences of her being well loved. The unseen young +man said: "Exactly a quarter past. What time does your clock say it is +now?" +</p> +<p> +"A quarter to," replied she. +</p> +<p> +"That's what my watch says. So there'll be no mistake. For half an +hour—good-by!" +</p> +<p> +"Half an hour!" she called. +</p> +<p> +She and Norman stood in silence until the footsteps died away. Then she +said crossly to Norman: "You ought to have gone before. I don't like to +do these things." +</p> +<p> +"You do them well," said he, with a savage gleam. +</p> +<p> +She was prompt and sure with his punishment. She said, simply and +sweetly: "I'd do anything to keep <i>his</i> good opinion of me." +</p> +<p> +Norman felt and looked cowed. "You don't know how it makes me suffer to +see you fond of another man," he cried. +</p> +<p> +She seemed not in the least interested, went to the mirror of the bureau +and began to inspect her hair with a view to doing it up. "You can go in +five minutes," said she. "By that time he'll be well out of the way. +Anyhow, if he saw you leaving the house he'd not know but what you had +been to see some one else. He knows you by reputation but not by sight." +</p> +<p> +Norman went to her, took her by the shoulders gently but strongly. "Look +at me," he said. +</p> +<p> +She looked at him with an expression, or perhaps absence of expression, +that was simple listening. +</p> +<p> +"If you meant awhile ago some such thing as I hinted—I will have +nothing to do with it. You must marry me—or it's nothing at all." +</p> +<p> +Her gaze did not wander, but before his wondering eyes she seemed to +fade, fade toward colorlessness insignificance. The light died from +her eyes, the flush of health from her white skin, the freshness from +her lips, the sparkle and vitality from her hair. A slow, gradual +transformation, which he watched with a frightened tightening at the +heart. +</p> +<p> +She said slowly: "You—want—me—to—<i>marry</i>—you?" +</p> +<p> +"I've always wanted it, though I didn't realize," replied he. "How else +could I be sure of you? Besides—" He flushed, added hurriedly, almost +in an undertone—"I owe it to you." +</p> +<p> +She seated herself deliberately. +</p> +<p> +After he had waited in vain for her to speak, he went on: "If you +married me, I know you'd play square. I could trust you absolutely. I +don't know—can't find out much about you—but at least I know that." +</p> +<p> +"But I don't love you," said she. +</p> +<p> +"You needn't remind me of it," rejoined he curtly. +</p> +<p> +"I don't think so—so poorly of you as I used to," she went on. "I +understand a lot of things better than I did. But I don't love you, and +I feel that I never could." +</p> +<p> +"I'll risk that," said Norman. Through his clinched teeth, "I've got to +risk it." +</p> +<p> +"I'd be marrying you because I don't feel able to—to make my own way." +</p> +<p> +"That's the reason most girls have for marrying," said he. "Love comes +afterward—if it comes. And it's the more likely to come for the girl +not having faked the man and herself beforehand." +</p> +<p> +She glanced at the clock. He frowned. She started up. "You <i>must</i> go," she +said. +</p> +<p> +"What is your answer?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I couldn't decide so quickly. I must think." +</p> +<p> +"You mean you must see your young man again—see whether there isn't +some way of working it out with him." +</p> +<p> +"That, too," replied she simply. "But—it's nearly four o'clock——" +</p> +<p> +"I'll come back at seven for my answer." +</p> +<p> +"No, I'll write you to-night." +</p> +<p> +"I must know at once. This suspense has got to end. It unfits me for +everything." +</p> +<p> +"I'll—I'll decide—to-night," she said, with a queer catch in her +voice. "You'll get the letter in the morning mail." +</p> +<p> +"Very well." And he gave her his club address. +</p> +<p> +She opened the door in her impatience to be rid of him. He went with a +hasty "Good-by" which she echoed as she closed the door. +</p> +<p> +When he left the house he saw standing on the curb before it a tall, +good-looking young man—with a frank amiable face. He hesitated, +glowering at the young man's profile. Then he went his way, suffocating +with jealous anger, depressed, despondent, fit for nothing but to drink +and to brood in fatuous futility. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0018"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XVI +</h2> +<p> +Until very recently indeed psychology was not an ology at all but an +indefinite something or other "up in the air," the sport of the winds +and fogs of transcendental tommy rot. Now, however, science has drawn it +down, has fitted it in its proper place as a branch of physiology. And +we are beginning to have a clearer understanding of the thoughts and the +thought-producing actions of ourselves and our fellow beings. Soon it +will be no longer possible for the historian and the novelist, the +dramatist, the poet, the painter or sculptor to present in all +seriousness as instances of sane human conduct, the aberrations +resulting from various forms of disease ranging from indigestion in its +mild, temper-breeding forms to acute homicidal or suicidal mania. In +that day of greater enlightenment a large body of now much esteemed art +will become ridiculous. Practically all the literature of strenuous +passion will go by the board or will be relegated to the medical library +where it belongs; and it, and the annals of violence found in the daily +newspapers of our remote time will be cited as documentary proof of the +low economic and hygienic conditions prevailing in that almost barbarous +period. For certain it is that the human animal when healthy and well +fed is invariably peaceable and kindly and tolerant—up to the limits of +selfishness, and even encroaching upon those limits. +</p> +<p> +Of writing rubbish about love and passion there is no end—and will be +no end until the venerable traditional nonsense about those interesting +emotions shares the fate that should overtake all the cobwebs of +ignorance thickly clogging the windows and walls of the human mind. Of +all the fiddle-faddle concerning passion probably none is more +shudderingly admired than the notion that one possessed of an +overwhelming desire for another longs to destroy that other. It is true +there is a form of murderous mania that involves practically all the +emotions, including of course the passions—which are as readily subject +to derangement as any other part of the human organism. But passion in +itself—even when it is so powerful that it dominates the whole life, as +in the case of Frederick Norman—passion in itself is not a form of +mental derangement in the medical sense. And it does not produce acute +selfishness, paranoiac egotism, but a generous and beautiful kind of +unselfishness. Not from the first moment of Fred Norman's possession did +he wish to injure or in any way to make unhappy the girl he loved. He +longed to be happy with her, to have her happy with and through him. He +represented his plotting to himself as a plan to make her happier than +she ever had been; as for ultimate consequences, he refused to consider +them. The most hardened rake, when passion possesses him, wishes all +happiness to the woman of his pursuit. Indifference, coldness—the +natural hard-heartedness of the normal man—returns only when the +inspiration and elevation of passion disappear in satiety. The man or +the woman who continues to inspire passion continues to inspire +tenderness and considerateness. +</p> +<p> +So when Norman left Dorothy that Sunday afternoon, he, being a normal if +sore beset human being, was soon in the throes of an agonized remorse. +There may have been some hypocrisy in it, some struggling to cover up +the baser elements in his infatuation for her. What human emotion of +upward tendency has not at least a little of the varnish of hypocrisy on +certain less presentable spots in it? But in the main it was a +creditable, a manly remorse, and not altogether the writhings of +jealousy and jealous fear of losing her. +</p> +<p> +He saw clearly that she was telling the truth, and telling it too +gently, when she said he was responsible for her having standards of +living which she could not unaided hope to attain. It is a dreadful +thing to interfere in the destiny of a fellow being. We do it all the +time; we do it lightly. Nevertheless, it is a dreadful thing—not one +that ought not to be done, but one that ought to be done only under +imperative compulsion, and then with every precaution. He had interfered +in Dorothy Hallowell's destiny. He had lifted her out of the dim obscure +niche where she was ensconced in comparative contentment. He had lifted +her up where she had seen and felt the pleasures of a life of luxury. +</p> +<p> +"But for me," he said to himself, "she would now be marrying this poor +young lawyer, or some chap of the same sort, and would be looking +forward to a life of happiness in a little flat or suburban cottage." +</p> +<p> +If she should refuse his offer—what then? Clearly he ought to do his +best to help her to happiness with the other man. He smiled cynically at +the moral height to which his logic thus pointed the way. Nevertheless, +he did not turn away but surveyed it—and there formed in his mind an +impulse to make an effort to attempt that height, if Fate should rule +against him with her. "If I were a really decent man," thought he, "I'd +sit down now and write her that I would not marry her but would give her +young man a friendly hand in the law if she wished to marry him." But he +knew that such utter generosity was far beyond him. "Only a hero could +do it," said he; he added with what a sentimentalist might have called a +return of his normal cynicism, "only a hero who really in the bottom of +his heart didn't especially want the girl." And a candid person of +experience might possibly admit that there was more truth than cynicism +in his look askance at the grand army of martyrs of renunciation, most +of whom have simply given up something they didn't really want. +</p> +<p> +"If she accepts me, I'll make it impossible for her not to be happy," he +said to himself, in all the fine unselfishness of passion—not divine +unselfishness but human—not the kind we read about and pretend to +have—and get a savage attack of bruised vanity if we are accused of not +having it—no, but just the kind we have and show in our daily +lives—the unselfishness of longing to make happy those whom it would +make us happier to see happy. "She may think she cares for this young +clerk—" so ran his thoughts—"but she doesn't know her own mind. When +she is mine, I'll take her in hand as a gardener does a delicate rare +flower—and, by Heaven, how I shall make her blossom and bloom!" +</p> +<p> +It would hardly be possible for a human being to pass a stormier night +than was that night of his. Alternations between hope and +despair—fantastic pictures of future with and without her, wild +pleadings with her—those delirious transports to which our imaginations +give way if we happen to be blessed and cursed with imaginations—in the +security of the darkness and aloneness of night and bed. And through it +all he was tormented body and soul by her loveliness—her hair, her +skin, her eyes, the shy, slender graces of her form—He tossed about +until his bed was so wildly disheveled that he had to rise and remake +it. +</p> +<p> +When day came and the first mail, there was her letter on the salver of +the boy entering the room. He reached for it with eager, trembling arm, +drew back. "Put it on the table," he said. +</p> +<p> +The boy left. He was alone. Leaning upon his elbow in the bed he stared +at the letter with hollow, terrified eyes. It contained his destiny. If +she accepted, he would go up, for his soul sickness would be cured. If +she refused, he would cease to struggle. He rose, took from a locked +drawer a bottle of rye whisky. He poured a tall glass—the kind called a +bar glass—half full, drank it straight down without a pause or a +quiver. The shock brought him up standing. He looked and acted like his +former self as he went to the table, took the letter, opened it, and +read: +</p> +<pre> + "I am willing to marry you, if you really want me. I am so tired of + struggling, and I don't see anything but dark ahead.—D. H." +</pre> +<p> +Norman struggled over to the bed, threw himself down, flat upon his +back, arms and legs extended wide and whole body relaxed. He felt the +blood whirl up into his brain like the great red and black tongues of +flame and smoke in a conflagration, and then he slept soundly until +nearly one o'clock. +</p> +<p> +To an outsider there would have been a world of homely commonplace +pathos in that little letter of the girl's if read aright, that is to +say, if read with what was between the lines supplied. It is impossible +to live in cities any length of time and with any sort of eyes without +learning the bitter unromantic truths about poverty—city poverty. In +quiet, desolate places one may be poor, very poor, without much +conscious suffering. There are no teasing contrasts, no torturing +temptations. But in a city, if one knows anything at all of the +possibilities of civilized life, of the joys and comforts of good food, +clothing, and shelter, of theater and concert and excursion, of +entertaining and being entertained, poverty becomes a hell. In the +country, in the quiet towns, the innocent people wonder at the +greediness of the more comfortable kinds of city people, at their love +of money, their incessant dwelling upon it, their reverence for those +who have it, their panic-like flight from those who have it not. They +wonder how folk, apparently human, can be so inhuman. Let them be +careful how they judge. If you discover any human being anywhere acting +as you think a human being should not, investigate all the +circumstances, look thoroughly into all the causes of his or her +conduct, before you condemn him or her as inhuman, unworthy of your +kinship and your sympathy. +</p> +<p> +In her brief letter the girl showed that, young though she was and not +widely experienced in life, she yet had seen the horrors of city +poverty, how it poisons and kills all the fine emotions. She had seen +many a loving young couple start out confidently, with a few hundred +dollars of debt for furniture—had seen the love fade and wither, +shrivel, die—had seen appear peevishness and hatred and unfaithfulness +and all the huge, foul weeds that choke the flowers of married life. She +knew what her lover's salary would buy—and what it would not buy—for +two. She could imagine their fate if there should be three or more. She +showed frankly her selfishness of renunciation. But there could be read +between the lines—concealed instead of vaunted—perhaps +unsuspected—her unselfishness of renunciation for the sake of her lover +and for the sake of the child or the children that might be. In our love +of moral sham and glitter, we overlook the real beauties of human +morality; we even are so dim or vulgar sighted that we do not see them +when they are shown to us. +</p> +<p> +As Norman awakened, he reached for the telephone, said to the boy in +charge of the club exchange: "Look in the book, find the number of a +lawyer named Branscombe, and connect me with his office." After some +confusion and delay he got the right office, but Dorothy was out at +lunch. He left a message that she was to call him up at the club as soon +as she came in. He was shaving when the bell rang. +</p> +<p> +He was at the receiver in a bound. "Is it you?" he said. +</p> +<p> +"Yes," came in her quiet, small voice. +</p> +<p> +"Will you resign down there to-day? Will you marry me this afternoon?" +</p> +<p> +A brief silence, then—"Yes." +</p> +<p> +Thus it came about that they met at the City Hall license bureau, got +their license, and half an hour later were married at the house of a +minister in East Thirty-third Street, within a block of the Subway +station. He was feverish, gay, looked years younger than his +thirty-seven. She was quiet, dim, passive, neither grave nor gay, but +going through her part without hesitation, with much the same patient, +plodding expression she habitually bore as she sat working at her +machine—as if she did not quite understand, but was doing her best and +hoped to get through not so badly. +</p> +<p> +"I've had nothing to eat," said he as they came out of the parsonage. +</p> +<p> +"Nor I," said she. +</p> +<p> +"We'll go to Delmonico's," said he, and hailed a passing taxi. +</p> +<p> +On the way, he sitting in one corner explained to her, shrunk into the +other corner: "I can confess now that I married you under false +pretenses. I am not prosperous, as I used to be. To be brief and plain, +I'm down and out, professionally." +</p> +<p> +She did not move. Apparently she did not change expression. Yet he, +speaking half banteringly, felt some frightful catastrophe within her. +"You are—poor?" she said in her usual quiet way. +</p> +<p> +"<i>We</i> are poor," corrected he. "I have at present only a thousand dollars +a month—a little more, but not enough to talk about." +</p> +<p> +She did not move or change expression. Yet he felt that her heart, her +blood were going on again. +</p> +<p> +"Are you—angry?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +"A thousand dollars a month seems an awful lot of money to me," she +said. +</p> +<p> +"It's nothing—nothing to what we'll soon have. Trust me." And back into +his eyes flashed their former look. "I've been sick. I'm well again. I +shall get what I want. If you want anything, you've only to ask for it. +I'll get it. I know how. . . . I don't prey, myself—I've no fancy for +the brutal sports. But I teach lions how to prey, and I make them pay +for the lessons." He laughed with an effervescing of young vitality and +self-confidence that made him look handsome and powerful. "In the future +they'll have to pay still higher prices." +</p> +<p> +She was looking at him with weary, wondering, pathetic eyes that gazed +from the pallor of her dead-white face mysteriously. +</p> +<p> +"What are you thinking?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +"I was listening," replied she. +</p> +<p> +"Doesn't it make you happy—what you are going to have?" +</p> +<p> +"No," replied she. "But it makes me content." +</p> +<p> +With eyes suddenly suffused, he took her hand—so gently. "Dorothy," he +said, "you will try to love me?" +</p> +<p> +"I'll try," said she. "You'll be kind to me?" +</p> +<p> +"I couldn't be anything else," he cried. And in a gust of passion he +caught her to his breast and kissed her triumphantly. "I love you—and +you're mine—mine!" +</p> +<p> +She released herself with the faint insistent push that seemed weak, but +always accomplished its purpose. Her lip was trembling. "You said you'd +be kind," she murmured. +</p> +<p> +He gazed at her with a baffled expression. "Oh—I understand," he said. +"And I shall be kind. But I must teach you to love me." +</p> +<p> +Her trembling lip steadied. "You must be careful or you may teach me to +hate you," said she. +</p> +<p> +He studied her in a puzzled way, laughed. "What a mystery you are!" he +cried with raillery. "Are you child or are you woman? No matter. We +shall be happy." +</p> +<p> +The taxicab was swinging to the curb. In the restaurant he ordered an +enormous meal. And he ate enormously, and drank in due proportion. She +ate and drank a good deal herself—a good deal for her. And the results +were soon apparent in a return of the spirits that are normal to +twenty-one years, regardless of what may be lurking in the heart, in a +dark corner, to come forth and torment when there is nothing to distract +the attention. +</p> +<p> +"We shall have to live quietly for a while," said he. "Of course you +must have clothes-at once. I'll take you shopping to-morrow." He laughed +grimly. "Just at present we can get only what we pay cash for. Still, +you won't need much. Later on I'll take you over to Paris. Does that +attract you?" +</p> +<p> +Her eyes shone. "How soon?" she asked. +</p> +<p> +"I can tell you in a week or ten days." He became abstracted for a +moment. "I can't understand how I let them get me down so easily—that +is, I can't understand it now. I suppose it's just the difference +between being weak with illness and strong with health." His eyes +concentrated on her. "Is it really you?" he cried gaily. "And are you +really mine? No wonder I feel strong! It was always that way with me. I +never could leave a thing until I had conquered it." +</p> +<p> +She gave him a sweet smile. "I'm not worth all the trouble you seem to +have taken about me," said she. +</p> +<p> +He laughed; for he knew the intense vanity so pleasantly hidden beneath +her shy and modest exterior. "On the contrary," said he good-humoredly, +"you in your heart think yourself worth any amount of trouble. It's a +habit we men have got you women into. And you—One of the many things +that fascinate me in you is your supreme self-control. If the king were +to come down from his throne and fall at your feet, you'd take it as a +matter of course." +</p> +<p> +She gazed away dreamily. And he understood that her indifference to +matters of rank and wealth and power was not wholly vanity but was, in +part at least, due to a feeling that love was the only essential. Nor +did he wonder how she was reconciling this belief of high and pure +sentiment with what she was doing in marrying him. He knew that human +beings are not consistent, cannot be so in a universe that compels them +to face directly opposite conditions often in the same moment. But just +as all lines are parallel in infinity, so all actions are profoundly +consistent when referred to the infinitely broad standard of the +necessity that every living thing shall look primarily to its own well +being. Disobedience to this fundamental carries with it inevitable +punishment of disintegration and death; and those catastrophes are +serious matters when one has but the single chance at life, that will be +repeated never again in all the eternities. +</p> +<p> +After their late lunch or early dinner, they drove to her lodgings. He +went up with her and helped her to pack—not a long process, as she had +few belongings. He noted that the stockings and underclothes she took +from the bureau drawers were in anything but good condition, that the +half dozen dresses she took from the closet and folded on the couch were +about done for. Presently she said, cheerfully and with no trace of +false shame: +</p> +<p> +"You see, I'm pretty nearly in rags." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, that's soon arranged," replied he. "Why bother to take these +things? Why not give them to the maid?" +</p> +<p> +She debated with herself. "I think you're right," she decided. "Yes, +I'll give them to Jennie." +</p> +<p> +"The underclothes, too," he urged. "And the hats." +</p> +<p> +It ended in her having left barely enough loosely to fill the bottom of +a small trunk with two trays. +</p> +<p> +They drove to the Knickerbocker Hotel, and he took a small suite, one of +the smallest and least luxurious in the house, for with all his desire +to make her feel the contrast of her change of circumstances sharply, he +could not forget how limited his income was, and how unwise it would be +to have to move in a few days to humbler quarters. He hoped that the +rooms, englamoured by the hotel's general air of costly luxury, would +sufficiently impress her. And while she gave no strong indication but +accepted everything in her wonted quiet, passive manner, he was shrewd +enough to see that she was content. "To-morrow," he said to himself, +"after she has done some shopping, the last regret will leave her, and +her memory of that clerk will begin to fade fast. I'll give her too much +else to think about." +</p> +<hr> +<p> +The following morning, when they faced each other at breakfast in their +sitting room, he glanced at her from time to time in wonder and terror. +She looked not merely insignificant, but positively homely. Her skin had +a sickly pallor; her hair seemed to be of many different and +disagreeable shades of uninteresting dead yellow. Her eyes suggested +faded blue china dishes, with colorless lashes and reddened edges of the +lids. Her lips had lost their rosy freshness, her teeth their sparkling +whiteness. +</p> +<p> +His heavy heart seemed to be resting nauseously upon the pit of his +stomach. Was his infatuation sheer delusion, with no basis of charm in +her at all? Was she, indeed, nothing but this unattractive, faded little +commonplaceness?—a poor specimen of an inferior order of working girl? +What an awakening! And she was his <i>wife</i>!—was his companion for the yet +more brilliant career he had resolved and was planning! He must +introduce her everywhere, must see the not to be concealed amazement in +the faces of his acquaintances, must feel the cruel covert laughter and +jeering at his weak folly! Was there ever in history or romance a +parallel to such fatuity as his? Why, people would be right in thinking +him a sham, a mere bluffer at the high and strong qualities he was +reputed to have. +</p> +<p> +Had Norman been, in fact, the man of ice and iron the compulsions of a +career under the social system made him seem, the homely girl opposite +him that morning would speedily have had something to think about other +than her unhappiness of the woman who has given her person to one man +and her heart to another. Instead, the few words he addressed to her +were all gentleness and forbearance. Stronger than his chagrin was his +pity for her—the poor, unconscious victim of his mad hallucination. +If she thought about the matter at all, she assumed that he was still +the slave of her charms—for, the florid enthusiasm of man's passion +inevitably deludes the woman into fancying it objective instead of +wholly subjective; and, only the rare very wise woman, after much +experience, learns to be suspicious of the validity of her own charms +and to concentrate upon keeping up the man's delusions. +</p> +<p> +At last he rose and kissed her on the brow and let his hand rest gently +on her shoulder—what a difference between those caresses and the +caresses that had made her beg him to be "kind" to her! Said he: +</p> +<p> +"Do you mind if I leave you alone for a while? I ought to go to the club +and have the rest of my things packed and sent. I'll not be gone +long—about an hour." +</p> +<p> +"Very well," said she lifelessly. +</p> +<p> +"I'll telephone my office that I'll not be down to-day." +</p> +<p> +With an effort she said, "There's no reason for doing that. I don't want +to interfere with your business." +</p> +<p> +"I'm neglecting nothing. And that shopping must be done." +</p> +<p> +She made no reply, but went to the window, and from the height looked +down and out upon the mighty spread of the city. He observed her a +moment with a dazed pitying expression, took his hat and departed. +</p> +<p> +It was nearly two hours before he got together sufficient courage to +return. He had been hoping—had been saying to himself with vigorous +effort at confidence—that he had simply seen one more of the many +transformations, each of which seemed to present her as a wholly +different personality. When he should see her again, she would have +wiped out the personality that had shocked and saddened him, would +appear as some new variety of enchantress, perhaps even more potent over +his senses than ever before. But a glance as he entered demolished that +hope. She was no different than when he left. Evidently she had been +crying, and spasms of that sort always accentuate every unloveliness. He +did not try to nerve himself to kiss her, but said: +</p> +<p> +"It'll not take you long to get ready?" +</p> +<p> +She moved to rise from her languid rest upon the sofa. She sank back. +"Perhaps we'd better not go to-day," suggested she. +</p> +<p> +"Don't you feel well?" he asked, and his tone was more sympathetic than +it would have been had his sympathy been genuine. +</p> +<p> +"Not very," replied she, with a faint deprecating smile. "And not +very—not very——" +</p> +<p> +"Not very what?" he said, in a tone of encouragement. +</p> +<p> +"Not very happy," she confessed. "I'm afraid I've made a—a dreadful +mistake." +</p> + +<div class="figure" style="width: 80%;"> +<a name="image-0007" href="images/img-07.jpg"><img src="images/img-07.jpg" width="100%" +alt="'Evidently she had been crying.'"></a><br /> +<b>"Evidently she had been crying."</b> +</div> + +<p> +He looked at her in silence. She could have said nothing that would have +caused a livelier response within himself. His cynicism noted the fact +that while he had mercifully concealed his discontent, she was thinking +only of herself. But he did not blame her. It was only the familiar +habit of the sex, bred of man's assiduous cultivation of its egotism. He +said: "Oh, you'll feel differently about it later. Let's get some fresh +air and see what the shops have to offer." +</p> +<p> +A pause, then she, timidly: "Would you mind very much if I—if I +didn't—go on?" +</p> +<p> +"You mean, if you left me?" +</p> +<p> +She nodded without looking at him. He could not understand himself, but +as he sat observing her, so young, so inexperienced and so undesirable, +a pity of which he would not have dreamed his nature capable welled up +in him, choking his throat with sobs he could scarcely restrain and +filling his eyes with tears he had secretly to wipe away. And he felt +himself seized of a sense of responsibility for her as strong in its +solemn, still way as any of the paroxysms of his passion had been. +</p> +<p> +He said: "My dear—you mustn't decide anything so important to you in a +hurry." +</p> +<p> +A tremor passed over her, and he thought she was going to dissolve in +hysterics. But she exhibited once more that marvelous and mysterious +self-control, whose secret had interested and baffled him. She said in +her dim, quiet way: +</p> +<p> +"It seems to me I just can't stay on." +</p> +<p> +"You can always go, you know. Why not try it a few days?" +</p> +<p> +He could feel the trend of her thoughts, and in the way things often +amuse us without in the least moving us to wish to laugh, he was amused +by noting that she was trying to bring herself to stay on, out of +consideration for <i>his</i> feelings! He said with a kind of paternal +tenderness: +</p> +<p> +"Whenever you want to go, I am willing to arrange things for you—so +that you needn't worry about money. But I feel that, as I am older than +you, I ought to do all I can to keep you from making a mistake you might +soon regret." +</p> +<p> +She studied him dubiously. He saw that she—naturally enough—did not +believe in his disinterestedness, that she hadn't a suspicion of his +change, or, rather collapse, of feeling. She said: +</p> +<p> +"If you ask it, I'll stay a while. But you must promise to—to be kind +to me." +</p> +<p> +There was only gentleness in his smile. But what a depth of satirical +self-mockery and amusement at her innocent young egotism it concealed! +"You'll never have reason to speak of that again, my dear," said he. +</p> +<p> +"I—can—trust you?" she said. +</p> +<p> +"Absolutely," replied he. "I'll have another room opened into this +suite. Would you like that?" +</p> +<p> +"If you—if you don't mind." +</p> +<p> +He stood up with sudden boyish buoyance. "Now—let's go shopping. Let's +amuse ourselves." +</p> +<p> +She rose with alacrity. She eyed him uncertainly, then flung her arms +round his neck and kissed him. +</p> +<p> +"You are <i>so</i> good to me!" she cried. "And I'm not a bit nice." +</p> +<p> +He did not try to detain her, but sent her to finish dressing, with an +encouraging pat on the shoulder and a cheerful, "Don't worry about +yourself—or me." +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0019"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XVII +</h2> +<p> +About half an hour later the door into the bedroom opened and she +appeared on the threshold of the sitting room, ready for the street. He +stared at her in the dazed amazement of a man faced by the impossible, +and uncertain whether it is sight or reason that is tricking him. She +had gone into the bedroom not only homely but commonplace, not only +commonplace but common, a dingy washed-out blonde girl whom it would be +a humiliation to present as his wife. She was standing there, in the +majesty of such proud pale beauty as poets delight to ascribe to a +sorrowful princess. Her wonderful skin was clear and translucent, giving +her an ethereal look. Her hair reminded him again of what marvels he had +seen in the sunlight of Sunday afternoon. And looking at her form and +the small head so gracefully capping it, he could think only of the +simile that had always come to him in his moments of ecstasy—the lily +on its tall stem. +</p> +<p> +And once more, like a torrent, the old infatuation sprang from its dried +sources and came rushing and overwhelming through vein and nerve. "Am I +mad now?—was I mad a few moments ago?—is it she or is it my own +disordered senses?" +</p> +<p> +She was drawing on her gloves, was unconscious of his confusion. He +controlled himself and said: "You have a most disconcerting way of +changing your appearance." +</p> +<p> +She glanced down at her costume. "No, it's the same dress. I've only the +one, you know." +</p> +<p> +He longed to take her in his arms, but could not trust himself. And this +wonder-girl, his very own, was talking of leaving him! And he—not an +hour before—he, apparently in his right senses had been tolerating +such preposterous talk! Give her up? Never! He must see to it that the +subject did not find excuse for intruding again. "I have frightened +her—have disgusted her. I must restrain myself. I must be patient—and +teach her slowly—and win her gradually." +</p> +<p> +They spent an interesting and even exciting afternoon, driving from shop +to shop and selecting the first beginnings of her wardrobe. He had only +about three hundred dollars. Some of the things they ordered were ready +for delivery, and so had to be paid for at once. When they returned to +the hotel he had but fifty dollars left—and had contracted debts that +made it necessary for him to raise at least a thousand dollars within a +week. He saw that his freedom with sums of money which terrified her +filled her with awe and admiration—and that he was already more +successful than he had expected to be, in increasing her hesitation +about leaving him. Among the things they had bought were a simple black +chiffon dress and a big plumed black hat to match. These needed no +alterations and were delivered soon after they returned. Some silk +stockings came also and a pair of slippers bought for the dinner toilet. +</p> +<p> +"You can dress to-night," said he, "and I'll take you to Sherry's, and +to the theater afterwards." +</p> +<p> +She was delighted. At last she was going to look like the women of whom +she had been dreaming these last few months. She set about dressing +herself, he waiting in the sitting room in a state of acute nervousness. +What would be the effect of such a toilet? Would she look like a +lady—or like—what she had suggested that morning? She was so +changeable, had such a wide range of variability that he dared not hope. +When she finally appeared, he was ready to fall down and worship. He was +about to take her where his world would see her, where every inch of her +would be subjected to the cruelest, most hostile criticism. One glance +at her, and he knew a triumph awaited him. No man and no woman would +wonder that he had lost his head over such beauty as hers. Hat and dress +seemed just what had been needed to bring out the full glory of her +charms. +</p> +<p> +"You are incredibly beautiful," he said in an awed tone. "I am proud of +you." +</p> +<p> +A little color came into her cheeks. She looked at herself in the mirror +with her quiet intense secret, yet not covert vanity. He laughed in +boyish pleasure. "This is only the small beginning," said he. "Wait a +few months." +</p> +<p> +At dinner and in a box at the theater afterwards, he had the most +exquisite pleasure of his life. She had been seen by many of his former +friends, and he was certain they knew who she was. He felt that he would +have no difficulty in putting her in the place his wife should occupy. A +woman with such beauty as hers was a sensation, one fashionable society +would not deny itself. She had good manners, an admirable manner. With a +little coaching she would be as much at home in grandeur as were those +who had always had it. +</p> +<p> +The last fear of losing her left him. On the way back to the hotel he, +in a delirium of pride and passion, crushed her in his arms and caressed +her with the frenzy that had always terrified her. She resisted only +faintly, was almost passive. "She is mine!" he said to himself, +exultantly. "She is really mine!" +</p> +<hr> +<p> +When he awoke in the morning she was still asleep—looked like a tired +lovely child. Several times, while he was dressing, he went in to feast +his eyes upon her beauty. How could he possibly have thought her homely, +in whatever moment of less beauty or charm she might have had? The +crowning charm of infinite variety! She had a delightfully sweet +disposition. He was not sure how much or how little intelligence she +had—probably more than most women. But what did that matter? It would +be impossible ever to grow weary or to be anything but infatuated lover +when she had such changeful beauty. +</p> +<p> +He kissed her lightly on her thick braids, as he was about to go. He +left a note explaining that he did not wish to disturb her and that it +was necessary for him to be at the office earlier. And that morning in +all New York no man left his home for the day's struggle for dollars +with a freer or happier heart, or readier to play the game boldly, +skillfully, with success. +</p> +<p> +Certainly he needed all his courage and all his skill. +</p> +<p> +To most of the people who live in New York and elsewhere throughout the +country—or the world, for that matter—an income of a thousand dollars +a month seems extremely comfortable, to say the least of it. The average +American family of five has to scrape along on about half that sum a +year. But among the comfortable classes in New York—and perhaps in one +or two other cities—a thousand dollars a month is literally genteel +poverty. To people accustomed to what is called luxury nowadays—people +with the habit of the private carriage, the private automobile, and +several servants—to such people a thousand dollars a month is an absurd +little sum. It would not pay for the food alone. It would not buy for a +man and his wife, with no children, clothing enough to enable them to +make a decent appearance. +</p> +<p> +Norman, living alone and living very quietly indeed, might have got +along for a while on that sum, if he had taken much thought about +expenditures, had persisted in such severe economies as using street +cars instead of taxicabs and drinking whisky at dinner instead of his +customary quart of six-dollar champagne. Norman, the married man, could +not escape disaster for a single month on an income so pitiful. +</p> +<p> +Probably on the morning on which he set out for downtown in search of +money enough to enable him to live decently, not less than ten thousand +men on Manhattan Island left comfortable or luxurious homes faced with +precisely the same problem. And each and every one of them knew that on +that day or some day soon they must find the money demanded imperiously +by their own and their families' tastes and necessities or be +ruined—flung out, trampled upon, derided as failures, hated by the +"loved ones" they had caused to be humiliated. And every man of that +legion had a fine, an unusually fine brain—resourceful, incessant, +teeming with schemes for wresting from those who had dollars the dollars +they dared not go home without. And those ten thousand quickest and most +energetic brains, by their mode of thought and action, determined the +thought and action of the entire country—gave the mercenary and +unscrupulous cast to the whole social system. Themselves the victims of +conditions, they were the bellwethers to millions of victims compelled +to follow their leadership. +</p> +<p> +Norman, by the roundabout mode of communication he and Tetlow had +established, summoned his friend and backer to his office. "Tetlow," he +began straight off, "I've got to have more money." +</p> +<p> +"How much?" said Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"More than you can afford to advance me." +</p> +<p> +"How much?" repeated Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"Three thousand a month right away—at the least." +</p> +<p> +"That's a big sum," said Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"Yes, for a man used to dealing in small figures. But in reality it's a +moderate income." +</p> +<p> +"Few large families spend more." +</p> +<p> +"Few large or small families in my part of New York pinch along on so +little." +</p> +<p> +"What has happened to you?" said Tetlow, dropping into a chair and +folding his fat hands on his stomach. +</p> +<p> +"Why?" asked Norman. +</p> +<p> +"It's in your voice—in your face—in your cool demand for a big +income." +</p> +<p> +"Let's start right, old man," said Norman. "Don't <i>call</i> thirty-six +thousand a year big or you'll <i>think</i> it big. And if you think it big, you +will stay little." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow nodded. "I'm ready to grow," said he. "Now what's happened to +you?" +</p> +<p> +"I've got married," replied Norman. +</p> +<p> +"I thought so. To Miss—Hallowell?" +</p> +<p> +"To Miss Hallowell. So my way's clear, and I'm going to resume the +march." +</p> +<p> +"Yes?" +</p> +<p> +"I've two plans. Either will serve. The first is yours—the one you +partly revealed to me the other day." +</p> +<p> +"Partly?" said Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"Partly," repeated Norman, laughing. "I know you, Billy, and that means +I know you're absolutely incapable of plotting as big a scheme as you +suggested to me. It came either from Galloway or from some one of his +clique." +</p> +<p> +"I said all I'm at liberty to say, Fred." +</p> +<p> +"I don't wish you to break your promise. All I want to know is, can I +get the three thousand a month and assurance of its lasting and leading +to something bigger?" +</p> +<p> +"What is your other scheme?" said Tetlow, and it was plain to the +shrewder young lawyer that the less shrewd young lawyer wished to gain +time. +</p> +<p> +"Simple and sure," replied Norman. "We will buy ten shares of Universal +Fuel Company through a dummy and bring suit to dissolve it. I looked +into the matter for Burroughs once when he was after the Fosdick-Langdon +group. Universal Fuel wouldn't dare defend the action I could bring. We +could get what we pleased for our ten shares to let up on the suit. The +moment their lawyers saw the papers I'd draw, they'd advise it." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow shook his large, impressively molded head. "Shady," said he. +"Shady." +</p> +<p> +Norman smiled with good-natured patience. "You sound like Burroughs or +Galloway when they are denouncing a man for trying to get rich by the +same methods they pursued. My dear Bill, don't be one of those lawyers +who will do the queer work for a client but not for themselves. There's +no sense, no morality, no intelligent hypocrisy even, in that. We didn't +create the commercial morality of the present day. For God's sake, let's +not be of the poor fools who practice it but get none of its benefits." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow shifted uneasily. "I don't like to hear that sort of thing," said +he, apologetic and nervous. +</p> +<p> +"Is it true?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes. But—damn it, I don't like to hear it." +</p> +<p> +"That is to say, you're willing to pay the price of remaining small and +obscure just for the pleasure of indulging in a wretched hypocrisy of a +self-deception. Bill, come out of the small class. Whether you go in +with me or not, come out of the class of understrappers. What's the +difference between the big men and their little followers? Why, the big +men <i>see</i>. They don't deceive themselves with the cant they pour out for +the benefit of the ignorant mob." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow was listening like a pupil to a teacher. That was always his +attitude toward Norman. +</p> +<p> +"The big men," continued Norman, "know that canting is necessary—that +one must always profess high and disinterested motives, and so on, and +so on. But they don't let their hypocritical talk influence their +actions. How is it with the little fellows? Why, they believe the +flapdoodle the leaders talk. They go into the enterprise, do all the +small dirty work, lie and cheat and steal, and hand over the proceeds to +the big fellows, for the sake of a pat on the back and a noisy 'Honest +fellow! Here are a few crumbs for you.' And crumbs are all that a weak, +silly, hypocritical fool deserves. Can you deny it?" +</p> +<p> +"No doubt you're right, Fred," conceded Tetlow. "But I'm afraid I +haven't the nerve." +</p> +<p> +"Come in behind me. I've got nerve for two—<i>now</i>!" +</p> +<p> +At that triumphant "now" Tetlow looked curiously at his friend. "Yes, <i>it</i> +has changed you—changed you back to what you were. I don't understand." +</p> +<p> +"It isn't necessary that you understand," rejoined Norman." +</p> +<p> +"Do you think you could really carry through that scheme you've just +outlined?" +</p> +<p> +"I see it fascinates you." +</p> +<p> +"I've no objection to rising to the class of big men," said Tetlow. "But +aren't you letting your confidence in yourself deceive you?" +</p> +<p> +"Did I ever let it deceive me?" +</p> +<p> +"No," confessed Tetlow. "I've often watched you, and thought you'd fall +through it, or stumble at least. But you never did." +</p> +<p> +"And shall I tell you why? Because I use my self-confidence and my +hopefulness and all my optimistic qualities only to create an atmosphere +of success. But when it comes to planning a move of any kind, when I +assemble my lieutenants round the council board in my brain, I never +permit a single cheerful one to speak, or even to enter. It's a serious, +gloomy circle of faces, Bill." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow nodded reminiscently. "Yes, you always were like that, Fred." +</p> +<p> +"And the one who does the most talking at my council is the gloomiest of +all. He's Lieutenant Flawpicker. He can't see any hope for anything. +He sees all the possibilities of failure. He sees all the chances +against success. And what's the result? Why, when the council rises it +has taken out of the plan every chance of mishap that my intelligence +could foresee and it has provided not one but several safe lines of +orderly retreat in case success proves impossible." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow gazed at Norman in worshipful admiration. "What a brain! What a +mind!" he ejaculated. "And to think that <i>you</i> could be upset by a <i>woman</i>!" +</p> +<p> +Norman leaned back in his chair smiling broadly. "Not by a woman," he +corrected. "By a girl—an inexperienced girl of twenty." +</p> +<p> +"It seems incredible." +</p> +<p> +"A grain of dust, dropped into a watch movement in just the right +place—you know what happens." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow nodded. Then, with a sharp, anxious look, "But it's all over?" +</p> +<p> +Norman hesitated. "I believe so," he said. +</p> +<p> +Tetlow rose and rubbed his thighs. He had been sitting long in the same +position, and he was now stout enough to suffer from fat man's cramp. +"Well," said he, "we needn't bother about that Universal Fuel scheme at +present. I can guarantee you the three thousand dollars, and the other +things." +</p> +<p> +Norman shook his head. "Not enough," he said. +</p> +<p> +"You want more money?" +</p> +<p> +"No. But I will not work, or rather, wait, in the dark. Tell your +principals that I must be let in." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow hesitated, walking about the office. Finally he said, "Look here, +Fred—you think I deceived you the other day—posed as your friend when +in reality I was simply acting as agent for people who wanted you." +</p> +<p> +Norman gave Tetlow a look that made him redden with pleasure. "No, I +don't, old man," said he. "I know you recommended me—and that they were +shy of me because of the way I've been acting—and that you stood +sponsor for me. Isn't that right?" +</p> +<p> +"Something like that," admitted Tetlow. "But they were eager to get you. +It was only a question of trusting you. I was able to do you a good turn +there." +</p> +<p> +"And I'll make a rich man, and a famous one, of you," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"Yes. I believe you will," cried Tetlow, tears in his prominent studious +eyes. "I'll see those people in a day or two, and let you know. Do you +need money right away? Of course you do." And down he sat and drew a +check for fifteen hundred dollars. +</p> +<p> +Norman laughed as he glanced to see if it was correctly drawn. "I'd not +have dared return to my bride with empty pockets. That's what it means +to live in New York." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow grinned. "A sentimental town, isn't it? Especially the women." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I don't blame them," said Norman. "They need the money, and the +only way they've got of making it is out of sentiment. And you must +admit they give a bully good quality, if the payment is all right." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow shrugged his shoulders. "I'm glad I don't need them," said he. +"It gives me the creeps to see them gliding about with their beautiful +dresses and their sweet, soft faces." +</p> +<p> +He and Norman lunched together in an out-of-the way restaurant. After a +busy and a happy afternoon, Norman returned early to the hotel. He had +cashed his check. He was in funds. He would give her another and more +thrilling taste of the joy that was to be hers through him—and soon she +would be giving even as she got—for he would teach her not to fear +love, not to shrink from it, but to rejoice in it and to let it permeate +and complete all her charms. +</p> +<p> +He ascended to the apartment and knocked. There was no answer. He +searched in vain for a chambermaid to let him in. He descended to the +office. "Oh, Mr. Norman," said one of the clerks. "Your wife left this +note for you." +</p> +<p> +Norman took it. "She went out?" +</p> +<p> +"About three o'clock—with a young gentleman who called on her. They +came back a while ago and she left the note." +</p> +<p> +"Thank you," said Norman. He took his key, went up to the apartment. Not +until he had closed and locked the door did he open the note. He read: +</p> +<pre> + "Last night you broke your promise. So I am going away. Don't look for + me. It won't be any use. When I decide what to do I'll send you word." +</pre> +<p> +He was standing at the table. He tossed the note on the marble, threw +open the bedroom door. The black chiffon dress, the big plumed hat, and +all the other articles they had bought were spread upon the bed, +arranged with the obvious intention that he should see at a glance she +had taken nothing away with her. +</p> +<p> +"Hell!" he said aloud. "Why didn't I let her go yesterday morning?" +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0020"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XVIII +</h2> +<p> +A few days later, Tetlow, having business with Norman, tried to reach +him by telephone. After several failures he went to the hotel, and in +the bar learned enough to enable him to guess that Norman was of on a +mad carouse. He had no difficulty in finding the trail or in following +it; the difficulty lay in catching up, for Norman was going fast. Not +until late at night—that is, early in the morning—of the sixth day +from the beginning of his search did he get his man. +</p> +<p> +He was prepared to find a wreck, haggard, wildly nervous and +disreputably disheveled; for, so far as he could ascertain Norman had +not been to bed, but had gone on and on from one crowd of revelers to +another, in a city where it is easy to find companions in dissipation at +any hour of the twenty-four. Tetlow was even calculating upon having to +put off their business many weeks while the crazy man was pulling +through delirium tremens or some other form of brain fever. +</p> +<p> +An astonishing sight met his eyes in the Third Avenue oyster house +before which the touring car Norman had been using was drawn up. At a +long table, eating oysters as fast as the opener could work, sat Norman +and his friend Gaskill, a fellow member of the Federal Club, and about a +score of broken and battered tramps. The supper or breakfast was going +forward in admirable order. Gaskill, whom Norman had picked up a few +hours before, showed signs of having done some drinking. But not Norman. +It is true his clothing might have looked fresher; but hardly the man +himself. +</p> +<p> +"Just in time!" he cried out genially, at sight of Tetlow. "Sit down +with us. Waiter, a chair next to mine. Gentlemen, Mr. Tetlow. Mr. +Tetlow, gentlemen. What'll you have, old man?" +</p> +<p> +Tetlow declined champagne, accepted half a dozen of the huge oysters. +"I've been after you for nearly a week," said he to Norman. +</p> +<p> +"Pity you weren't <i>with</i> me," said Norman. "I've been getting acquainted +with large numbers of my fellow citizens." +</p> +<p> +"From the Bowery to Yonkers." +</p> +<p> +"Exactly. Don't fall asleep, Gaskill." +</p> +<p> +But Gaskill was snoring with his head on the back of his chair and his +throat presented as if for the as of the executioner. "He's all in," +said Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"That's the way it goes," complained Norman. "I can't find anyone to +keep me company." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow laughed. "You look as if you had just started out," said he. +"Tell me—<i>where</i> have you slept?" +</p> +<p> +"I haven't had time to sleep as yet." +</p> +<p> +"I dropped in to suggest that a little sleep wouldn't do any harm." +</p> +<p> +"Not quite yet. Watch our friends eat. It gives me an appetite. Waiter, +another dozen all round—and some more of this carbonated white wine +you've labeled champagne." +</p> +<p> +As he called out this order, a grunt of satisfaction ran round the row +of human derelicts. Tetlow shuddered, yet was moved and thrilled, too, +as he glanced from face to face—those hideous hairy countenances, +begrimed and beslimed, each countenance expressing in its own repulsive +way the one emotion of gratified longing for food and drink. "Where did +you get 'em?" inquired he. +</p> +<p> +"From the benches in Madison Square," replied Norman. He laughed +queerly. "Recognize yourself in any of those mugs, Tetlow?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +Tetlow shivered. "I should say not!" he exclaimed. +</p> +<p> +Norman's eyes gleamed. "I see myself in all of 'em," said he. +</p> +<p> +"Poor wretches!" muttered Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"Pity wasted," he rejoined. "You might feel sorry for a man on the way +to where they've got. But once arrived—as well pity a dead man sleeping +quietly in his box with three feet of solid earth between him and +worries of every kind." +</p> +<p> +"Shake this crowd," said Tetlow impatiently. "I want to talk with you." +</p> +<p> +"All right, if it bores you." He sent the waiter out for enough +lodging-house tickets to provide for all. He distributed them himself, +to make sure that the proprietor of the restaurant did not attempt to +graft. Then he roused Gaskill and bundled him into the car and sent it +away to his address. The tramps gathered round and gave Norman three +cheers—they pressed close while four of them tried to pick his and +Tetlow's pockets. Norman knocked them away good-naturedly, and he and +Tetlow climbed into Tetlow's hansom. +</p> +<p> +"To my place," suggested Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"No, to mine—the Knickerbocker," replied Norman. +</p> +<p> +"I'd rather you went to my place first," said Tetlow uneasily. +</p> +<p> +"My wife isn't with me. She has left me," said Norman calmly. +</p> +<p> +Tetlow hesitated, extremely nervous, finally acquiesced. They drove a +while in silence, then Norman said, "What's the business?" +</p> +<p> +"Galloway wants to see you." +</p> +<p> +"Tell him to come to my office to-morrow—that means to-day—at any time +after eleven." +</p> +<p> +"But that gives you no chance to pull yourself together," objected +Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +Norman's face, seen in the light of the street lamp they happened to be +passing, showed ironic amusement. "Never mind about me, Billy. Tell him +to come." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow cleared his throat nervously. "Don't you think, old man, that +you'd better go to see him? I'll arrange the appointment." +</p> +<p> +Norman said quietly: "Tetlow, I've dropped pretty far. But not so far +that I go to my clients. The rule of calls is that the man seeking the +favor goes to the man who can grant it." +</p> +<p> +"But it isn't the custom nowadays for a lawyer to deal that way with a +man like Galloway." +</p> +<p> +"And neither is it the custom for anyone to have any self-respect. Does +Galloway need my brains more than I need his money, or do I need his +money more than he needs my brains? You know what the answer to that is, +Billy. We are partners—you and I. I'm training you for the position." +</p> +<p> +"Galloway won't come," said Tetlow curtly. +</p> +<p> +"So much the worse for him," retorted Norman placidly. "No—I've not +been drinking too much, old man—as your worried—old-maid look +suggests. Do a little thinking. If Galloway doesn't get me, whom will he +get?" +</p> +<p> +"You know very well, Norman, there are scores of lawyers, good ones, +who'd crawl at his feet for his business. Nowadays, most lawyers are +always looking round for a pair of rich man's boots to lick." +</p> +<p> +"But I am not 'most lawyers,'" said Norman. "Of course, if Galloway +could make me come to him, he'd be a fool to come to me. But when he +finds I'm not coming, why, he'll behave himself—if his business is +important enough for me to bother with." +</p> +<p> +"But if he doesn't come, Fred?" +</p> +<p> +"Then—my Universal Fuel scheme, or some other equally good. But you +will never see me limbering my knees in the anteroom of a rich man, when +he needs me and I don't need him." +</p> +<p> +"Well, we'll see," said Tetlow, with the air of a sober man patient with +one who is not sober. +</p> +<p> +"By the way," continued Norman, "if Galloway says he's too ill to +come—or anything of that sort—tell him I'd not care to undertake the +affairs of a man too old or too feeble to attend to business, as he +might die in the midst of it." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow's face was such a wondrous exhibit of discomfiture that Norman +laughed outright. Evidently he had forestalled his fat friend in a +scheme to get him to Galloway in spite of himself. "All right—all +right," said Tetlow fretfully. "We'll sleep on this. But I don't see why +you're so opposed to going to see the man. It looks like snobbishness to +me—false pride—silly false pride." +</p> +<p> +"It <i>is</i> snobbishness," said Norman. "But you forget that snobbishness +rules the world. The way to rule fools is to make them respect you. And +the way to make them respect you is by showing them that they are your +inferiors. I want Galloway's respect because I want his money. And I'll +not get his money—as much of it as belongs to me—except by showing +him my value. Not my value as a lawyer, for he knows that already, but +my value as a man. Do you see?" +</p> +<p> +"No, I don't," snapped Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"That's what it means to be Tetlow. Now, I do see—and that's why I'm +Norman." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow looked at him doubtfully, uncertain whether he had been listening +to wisdom put in a jocose form of audacious egotism or to the +effervescings of intoxication. The hint of a smile lurking in the +sobriety of the powerful features of his extraordinary friend only +increased his doubt. Was Norman mocking him, and himself as well? If so, +was it the mockery of sober sense or of drunkenness? +</p> +<p> +"You seem to be puzzled, Billy," said Norman, and Tetlow wondered how he +had seen. "Don't get your brains in a stew trying to understand me. I'm +acting the way I've always acted—except in one matter. You know that I +know what I'm about?" +</p> +<p> +"I certainly do," replied his admirer. +</p> +<p> +"Then, let it go at that. If you could understand me—the sort of man I +am, the sort of thing I do—you'd not need me, but would be the whole +show yourself—eh? That being true, don't show yourself a commonplace +nobody by deriding and denying what your brain is unable to comprehend. +Show yourself a somebody by seeing the limitations of your ability. The +world is full of little people who criticise and judge and laugh at and +misunderstand the few real intelligences. And very tedious interruptions +of the scenery those little people are. Don't be one of them. . . . Did +you know my wife's father?" +</p> +<p> +Tetlow startled. "No—that is, yes," he stammered. "That is, I met him a +few times." +</p> +<p> +"Often enough to find out that he was crazy?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, yes. He explained some of his ideas to me. Yes—he was quite mad, +poor fellow." +</p> +<p> +Norman gave way to a fit of silent laughter. "I can imagine," he +presently said, "what you'd have thought if Columbus or Alexander or +Napoleon or Stevenson or even the chaps who doped out the telephone and +the telegraph—if they had talked to you before they arrived. Or even +after they arrived, if they had been explaining some still newer and +bigger idea not yet accomplished." +</p> +<p> +"You don't think Mr. Hallowell was mad?" +</p> +<p> +"He was mad, assuming that you are the standard of sanity. Otherwise, he +was a great man. There'll be statues erected and pages of the book of +fame devoted to the men who carry out his ideas." +</p> +<p> +"His death was certainly a great loss to his daughter," said Tetlow in +his heaviest, most bourgeois manner. +</p> +<p> +"I said he was a great man," observed Norman. "I didn't say he was a +great father. A great man is never a great father. It takes a small man +to be a great father." +</p> +<p> +"At any rate, her having no parents or relatives doesn't matter, now +that she has you," said Tetlow, his manner at once forced and +constrained. +</p> +<p> +"Um," muttered Norman. +</p> +<p> +Said Tetlow: "Perhaps you misunderstood why I—I acted as I did about +her, toward the last." +</p> +<p> +"It was of no importance," said Norman brusquely. "I wish to hear +nothing about it." +</p> +<p> +"But I must explain, Fred. She piqued me by showing so plainly that she +despised me. I must admit the truth, though I've got as much vanity as +the next man, and don't like to admit it. She despised me, and it made +me mad." +</p> +<p> +An expression of grim satire passed over Norman's face. Said he: "She +despised me, too." +</p> +<p> +"Yes, she did," said Tetlow. "And both of us were certainly greatly her +superiors—in every substantial way. It seemed to me most—most——" +</p> +<p> +"Most impertinent of her?" suggested Norman. +</p> +<p> +"Precisely. <i>Most</i> impertinent." +</p> +<p> +"Rather say, ignorant and small. My dear Tetlow, let me tell you +something. Anybody, however insignificant, can be loved. To be loved +means nothing, except possibly a hallucination in the brain of the +lover. But to <i>love</i>—that's another matter. Only a great soul is capable +of a great love." +</p> +<p> +"That is true," murmured Tetlow sentimentally, preening in a quiet, +gentle way. +</p> +<p> +Said Norman sententiously: "<i>You</i> stopped loving. It was <i>I</i> that kept +on." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow looked uncomfortable. "Yes—yes," he said. "But we were talking +of her—of her not appreciating the love she got. And I was about to +say—" Earnestly—"Fred, she's not to be blamed for her folly! She's +very, very young—and has all the weaknesses and vanities of youth——" +</p> +<p> +"Here we are," interrupted Norman. +</p> +<p> +The hansom had stopped in Forty-second Street before the deserted but +still brilliantly lighted entrances to the great hotel. Norman sprang +out so lightly and surely that Tetlow wondered how it was possible for +this to be the man who had been racketing and roistering day after day, +night after night for nearly a week. He helped the heavy and awkward +Tetlow to descend, said: +</p> +<p> +"You'll have to pay, Bill. I've got less than a dollar left. And I +touched Gaskill for a hundred and fifty to-night. You can imagine how +drunk he was, to let me have it. How they've been shying off from <i>me</i> +these last few months!" +</p> +<p> +"And you want <i>Galloway</i> to come to <i>you</i>," thrust Tetlow, as he counted out +the money. +</p> +<p> +"Don't go back and chew on that," laughed Norman. "It's settled." He +took the money, gave it to the driver. "Thanks," he said to Tetlow. +"I'll pay you to-morrow—that is, later to-day—when you send me another +check." +</p> +<p> +"Why should you pay for my cab?" rejoined Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"Because it's easier for me to make money than it is for you," replied +Norman. "If you were in my position—the position I've been in for +months—would anybody on earth give you three thousand dollars a month?" +</p> +<p> +Tetlow looked sour. His good nature was rubbing thin in spots. +</p> +<p> +"Don't lose your temper," laughed Norman. "I'm pounding away at you +about my superiority, partly because I've been drinking, but chiefly for +your own good—so that you'll realize I'm right and not mess things with +Galloway." +</p> +<p> +They went up to Norman's suite. Norman tried to unlock the door, found +it already unlocked. He turned the knob, threw the door wide for Tetlow +to enter first. Then, over Tetlow's shoulder he saw on the marble-topped +center table Dorothy's hat and jacket, the one she had worn away, the +only one she had. He stared at them, then at Tetlow. A confused look in +the fat, slow face made him say sharply: +</p> +<p> +"What does this mean, Tetlow?" +</p> +<p> +"Not so loud, Fred," said Tetlow, closing the door into the public hall. +"She's in the bedroom—probably asleep. She's been here since +yesterday." +</p> +<p> +"You brought her back?" demanded Norman. +</p> +<p> +"She wanted to come. I simply——" +</p> +<p> +Norman made a silencing gesture. Tetlow's faltering voice stopped short. +Norman stood near the table, his hands deep in his trousers' pockets, +his gaze fixed upon the hat and jacket. When Tetlow's agitation could +bear the uncertainties of that silence no longer, he went on: +</p> +<p> +"Fred, you mustn't forget how young and inexperienced she is. She's been +foolish, but nothing more. She's as pure as when she came into the +world. And it's the truth that she wanted to come back. I saw it as soon +as I began to talk with her." +</p> +<p> +"What are you chattering about?" said Norman fiercely. "Why did you +meddle in my affairs? Why did you bring her back?" +</p> +<p> +"I knew she needed you," pleaded Tetlow. "Then, too—I was afraid—I +knew how you acted before, and I thought you'd not get your gait again +until you had her." +</p> +<p> +Norman gave a short sardonic laugh. "If you'd only stop trying to +understand me!" he said. +</p> +<p> +Tetlow was utterly confused. "But, Fred, you don't realize—not all," he +cried imploringly. "She discovered—she thinks, I believe—that +is—she—she—that probably—that in a few months you'll be something +more than a husband—and she something more than a wife—that +you—that—you and she will be a father and a mother." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow's meaning slowly dawned on Norman. He seated himself in his +favorite attitude, legs sprawled, fingers interlaced behind his head. +</p> +<p> +"Wasn't I right to bring her back—to tell her she needn't fear to +come?" pleaded Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +Norman made no reply. After a brief silence he said: "Well, good night, +old man. Come round to my office any time after ten." He rose and gave +Tetlow his hand. "And arrange for Galloway whenever you like. Good +night." +</p> +<p> +Tetlow hesitated. "Fred—you'll not be harsh to her?" he said. +</p> +<p> +Norman smiled—a satirical smile, yet exquisitely gentle. "If you <i>only</i> +wouldn't try to understand me, Bill," he said. +</p> +<p> +When he was alone he sat lost in thought. At last he rang for a bell +boy. And when the boy came, he said: "That door there"—indicating one +in the opposite wall of the sitting room—"what does it lead into?" +</p> +<p> +"Another bedroom, sir." +</p> +<p> +"Unlock it, and tell them at the office I wish that room added to my +suite." +</p> +<p> +As soon as the additional bedroom was at his disposal, he went in and +began to undress. When he had taken off coat and waistcoat he paused to +telephone to the office a call for eight o'clock. As he finished and +hung up the receiver, a sound from the direction of the sitting room +made him glance in there. On the threshold of the other bedroom stood +his wife. She was in her nightgown; her hair, done in a single thick +braid, hung down across her bosom. There was in the room and upon her +childish loveliness the strange commingling of lights and shadows that +falls when the electricity is still on and the early morning light is +pushing in at the windows. They looked at each other in silence for some +time. If she was frightened or in the least embarrassed she did not show +it. She simply looked at him, while ever so slowly a smile dawned—a +gleam in the eyes, a flutter round the lips, growing merrier and +merrier. He did not smile. He continued to regard her gravely. +</p> +<p> +"I heard you and Mr. Tetlow come in," she said. "Then—you talked so +long—I fell asleep again. I only this minute awakened." +</p> +<p> +"Well, now you can go to sleep again," said he. +</p> +<p> +"But I'm not a bit sleepy. What are you doing in that room?" +</p> +<p> +She advanced toward his door. He stood aside. She peeped in. She was so +close to him that her nightgown brushed the bosom of his shirt. "Another +bedroom!" she exclaimed. "Just like ours." +</p> +<p> +"I didn't wish to disturb you," said he, calm and grave. +</p> +<p> +"But you wouldn't have been disturbing me," protested she, leaning +against the door frame, less than two feet away and directly facing him. +</p> +<p> +"I'll stay on here," said he. +</p> +<p> +She gazed at him with great puzzled eyes. "Aren't you glad I'm back?" +she asked. +</p> +<p> +"Certainly," said he with a polite smile. "But I must get some sleep." +And he moved away. +</p> +<p> +"You must let me tell you how I happened to go and why I came——" +</p> +<p> +"Please," he interrupted, looking at her with a piercing though not in +the least unfriendly expression that made her grow suddenly pale and +thoughtful. "I do not wish to hear about it—not now—not ever. Tetlow +told me all that it's necessary for me to know. You have come to stay, I +assume?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes—if"—her lip quivered—"if you'll let me." +</p> +<p> +"There can be no question of that," said he with the same polite gravity +he had maintained throughout. +</p> +<p> +"You want me to leave you alone?" +</p> +<p> +"Please. I need sleep badly—and I've only three hours." +</p> +<p> +"You are—angry with me?" +</p> +<p> +He looked placidly into her lovely, swimming eyes. "Not in the least." +</p> +<p> +"But how can you help being? I acted dreadfully." +</p> +<p> +He smiled gently. "But you are back—and the incident is closed." +</p> +<p> +She looked down at the carpet, her fingers playing with her braid, +twisting and untwisting its strands. He stood waiting to close the door. +She said, without lifting her eyes—said in a quiet, expressionless way, +"I have killed your love?" +</p> +<p> +"I'll not trouble you any more," evaded he. And he laid his hand +significantly upon the knob. +</p> +<p> +"I don't understand," she murmured. Then, with a quick apologetic glance +at him, "But I'm very inconsiderate. You want to sleep. Good night." +</p> +<p> +"Good night," said he, beginning to close the door. +</p> +<p> +She impulsively stood close before him, lifted her small white face, as +if for a kiss. "Do you forgive me?" she asked. "I was foolish. I didn't +understand—till I went back. Then—nothing was the same. And I knew I +wasn't fitted for that life—and didn't really care for him—and——" +</p> +<p> +He kissed her on the brow. "Don't agitate yourself," said he. "And we +will never speak of this again." +</p> +<p> +She shrank as if he had struck her. Her head drooped, and her shoulders. +When she was clear of the door, he quietly closed it. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0021"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XIX +</h2> +<p> +It was not many minutes after ten when Tetlow hurried into Norman's +office. "Galloway's coming at eleven!" said he, with an air of triumph. +</p> +<p> +"So you mulled over what I said and decided that I was not altogether +drunk?" +</p> +<p> +"I wasn't sure of that," replied Tetlow. "But I was afraid you'd be +offended if I didn't try to get him. He gave me no trouble at all. As +soon as I told him you'd be glad to see him at your office, he astounded +me by saying he'd come." +</p> +<p> +"He and I have had dealings," said Norman. "He understood at once. I +always know my way when I'm dealing with a big man. It's only the little +people that are muddled and complex. I hope you'll not forget this +lesson, Billy." +</p> +<p> +"I shan't," promised Tetlow. +</p> +<p> +"We are to be partners," pursued Norman. "We shall be intimately +associated for years. You'll save me a vast amount of time and energy +and yourself a vast amount of fuming and fretting, if you'll simply +accept what I say, without discussion. When I want discussion I'll ask +your advice." +</p> +<p> +"I'm afraid you don't think it's worth much," said Tetlow humbly, "and I +guess it isn't." +</p> +<p> +"On the contrary, invaluable," declared Norman with flattering emphasis. +"Where you lack and I excel is in decision and action. I'll often get +you to tell me what ought to be done, and then I'll make you do +it—which you'd never dare, by yourself." +</p> +<p> +At eleven sharp Galloway came, looking as nearly like a dangerous old +eagle as a human being well could. Rapacious, merciless, tyrannical; a +famous philanthropist. Stingy to pettiness; a giver away of millions. +Rigidly honest, yet absolutely unscrupulous; faithful to the last letter +of his given word, yet so treacherous where his sly mind could nose out +a way to evade the spirit of his agreements that his name was a synonym +for unfaithfulness. An assiduous and groveling snob, yet so militantly +democratic that, unless his interest compelled, he would not employ any +member of the "best families" in any important capacity. He seemed a +bundle of contradictions. In fact he was profoundly consistent. That is +to say, he steadily pursued in every thought and act the gratification +of his two passions—wealth and power. He lost no seen opportunity, +however shameful, to add to his fortune or to amuse himself with the +human race, which he regarded with the unpitying contempt characteristic +of every cold nature born or risen to success. +</p> +<p> +His theory of life—and it is the theory that explains most great +financial successes, however they may pretend or believe—his theory of +life was that he did not need friends because the friends of a strong +man weaken and rob him, but that he did need enemies because he could +grow rich and powerful destroying and despoiling them. To him friends +suggested the birds living in a tree. They might make the tree more +romantic to the unthinking observer; but they in fact ate its budding +leaves and its fruit and rotted its bough joints with their filthy +nests. +</p> +<p> +We Americans are probably nearest to children of any race in +civilization. The peculiar conditions of life—their almost Arcadian +simplicity—up to a generation or so ago, gave us a false training in +the study of human nature. We believe what the good preacher, the +novelist and the poet, all as ignorant of life as nursery books, tell us +about the human heart. We fancy that in a social system modeled upon the +cruel and immoral system of Nature, success is to the good and kind. +Life is like the pious story in the Sunday-school library; evil is the +exception and to practice the simple virtues is to tread with sure step +the highway to riches and fame. This sort of ignorance is taught, is +proclaimed, is apparently accepted throughout the world. Literature and +the drama, representing life as it is dreamed by humanity, life as it +perhaps may be some day, create an impression which defies the plain +daily and hourly mockings of experience. Because weak and petty +offenders are often punished, the universe is pictured as sternly +enforcing the criminal codes enacted by priests or lawyers. But, while +all the world half inclines to this agreeable mendacity about life, only +in America of all civilization is the mendacity accepted as gospel, and +suspicion about it frowned upon as the heresy of cynicism. So the +Galloways prosper and are in high moral repute. Some day we shall learn +that a social system which is merely a slavish copy of Nature's +barbarous and wasteful sway of the survival of the toughest could be and +ought to be improved upon by the intelligence of the human race. Some +day we shall put Nature in its proper place as kindergarten teacher, and +drop it from godship and erect enlightened human understanding instead. +But that is a long way off. Meanwhile the Galloways will reign, and will +assure us that they won their success by the Decalogue and the Golden +Rule—and will be believed by all who seek to assure for themselves in +advance almost certain failure at material success in the arena of +action. +</p> +<p> +But they will not be believed by men of ambition, pushing resolutely for +power and wealth. So Frederick Norman knew precisely what he was facing +when Galloway's tall gaunt figure and face of the bird of prey appeared +before him. Galloway had triumphed and was triumphing not through +obedience to the Sunday sermons and the silly novels, poems, plays, and +the nonsense chattered by the obscure multitudes whom the mighty few +exploit, but through obedience to the conditions imposed by our social +system. If he raised wages a little, it was in order that he might have +excuse for raising prices a great deal. If he gave away millions, it was +for his fame, and usually to quiet the scandal over some particularly +wicked wholesale robbery. No, Galloway was not a witness to the might of +altruistic virtue as a means to triumph. Charity and all the other forms +of chicanery by which the many are defrauded and fooled by the few—those +"virtues" he understood and practiced. But justice—humanity's ages-long +dream that at last seems to glitter as a hope in the horizon of the +future—justice—not legal justice, nor moral justice, but human +justice—that idea would have seemed to him ridiculous, Utopian, +something for the women and the children and the socialists. +</p> +<p> +Norman understood Galloway, and Galloway understood Norman. Galloway, +with an old man's garrulity and a confirmed moral poseur's eagerness +about appearances, began to unfold his virtuous reasons for the +impending break with Burroughs—the industrial and financial war out of +which he expected to come doubly rich and all but supreme. Midway he +stopped. +</p> +<p> +"You are not listening," said he sharply to the young man. +</p> +<p> +Their eyes met. Norman's eyes were twinkling. "No," said he, "I am +waiting." +</p> +<p> +There was the suggestion of an answering gleam of sardonic humor in +Galloway's cold gray eyes. "Waiting for what?" +</p> +<p> +"For you to finish with me as father confessor, to begin with me as +lawyer. Pray don't hurry. My time is yours." This with a fine air of +utmost suavity and respect. +</p> +<p> +In fact, while Galloway was doddering on and on with his fake +moralities, Norman was thinking of his own affairs, was wondering at his +indifference about Dorothy. The night before—the few hours before—when +he had dealt with her so calmly, he, even as he talked and listened and +acted, had assumed that the enormous amount of liquor he had been +consuming was in some way responsible. He had said to himself, "When I +am over this, when I have had sleep and return to the normal, I shall +again be the foolish slave of all these months." But here he was, sober, +having taken only enough whisky to prevent an abrupt let-down—here he +was viewing her in the same tranquil light. No longer all his life; no +longer even dominant; only a part of life—and he was by no means +certain that she was an important part. +</p> +<p> +How explain the mystery of the change? Because she had voluntarily come +back, did he feel that she was no longer baffling but was definitely +his? Or had passion running madly on and on dropped—perhaps not dead, +but almost dead—from sheer exhaustion?—was it weary of racing and +content to saunter and to stroll? . . . He could not account for the +change. He only knew that he who had been quite mad was now quite +sane. . . . Would he like to be rid of her? Did he regret that they were +tied together? No, curiously enough. It was high time he got married; +she would do as well as another. She had beauty, youth, amiability, +physical charm for him. There was advantage in the fact that her +inferiority to him, her dependence on him, would enable him to take as +much or as little of her as he might feel disposed, to treat her as the +warrior must ever treat his entire domestic establishment from wife down +to pet dog or cat or baby. . . . No, he did not regret Josephine. He could +see now disadvantages greater than her advantages. All of value she +would have brought him he could get for himself, and she would have been +troublesome—exacting, disputing his sway, demanding full value or more +in return for the love she was giving with such exalted notions of its +worth. +</p> +<p> +"You are married?" Galloway suddenly said, interrupting his own speech +and Norman's thought. +</p> +<p> +"Yes," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"Just married, I believe?" +</p> +<p> +"Just." +</p> +<p> +Young and old, high and low, successful and failed, we are a race of +advice-givers. As for Galloway, he was not one to neglect that showy +form of inexpensive benevolence. "Have plenty of children," said he. +</p> +<p> +"And keep your family in the country till they grow up. Town's no place +for women. They go crazy. Women—and most men—have no initiative. They +think only about whatever's thrust at them. In the country it'll be +their children and domestic things. In town it'll be getting and +spending money." +</p> +<p> +Norman was struck by this. "I think I'll take your advice," said he. +</p> +<p> +"A man's home ought to be a retreat, not an inn. We are humoring the +women too much. They are forgetting who earns what they spend in +exhibiting themselves. If a woman wants that sort of thing, let her get +out and earn it. Why should she expect it from the man who has +undertaken her support because he wanted a wife to take care of his +house and a mother for his children? If a woman doesn't like the job, +all right. But if she takes it and accepts its pay, why, she should do +its work." +</p> +<p> +"Flawless logic," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +"When I hire a man to work, he doesn't expect to idle about showing +other people how handsome he is in the clothes my money pays for. Not +that marriage is altogether a business—not at all. But, my dear sir—" +And Galloway brought his cane down with the emphasis of one speaking +from a heart full of bitter experience—"unless it is a business at +bottom, organized and conducted on sound business principles, there's no +sentiment either. We are human beings—and that means we are first of +all <i>business</i> beings, engaged in getting food, clothing, shelter. No +sentiment—<i>no</i> sentiment, sir, is worth while that isn't firmly grounded. +It's a house without a foundation. It's a steeple without a church under +it." +</p> +<p> +Norman looked at the old man with calm penetrating eyes. "I shall +conduct my married life on a sound, business basis, or not at all," said +he. +</p> +<p> +"We'll see," said Galloway. "That's what I said forty years ago—No, I +didn't. I had no sense about such matters then. In my youth the men knew +nothing about the woman question." He smiled grimly. "I see signs that +they are learning." +</p> +<p> +Then as abruptly as he had left the affairs he was there to discuss he +returned to them. His mind seemed to have freed itself of all +irrelevancy and superfluity, as a stream often runs from a faucet with +much spluttering and rather muddy at first, then steadies and clears. +Norman gave him the attention one can get only from a good mind that is +interested in the subject and understands it thoroughly. Such attention +not merely receives the words and ideas as they fall from the mouth of +him who utters them, but also seems to draw them by a sort of suction +faster and in greater abundance. It was this peculiar ability of giving +attention, as much as any other one quality, that gave Norman's clients +their confidence in him. Galloway, than whom no man was shrewder judge +of men, showed in his gratified eyes and voice, long before he had +finished, how strongly his conviction of Norman's high ability was +confirmed. +</p> +<p> +When Galloway ended, Norman rapidly and in clear and simple sentences +summarized what Galloway had said. "That is right?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +"Precisely," said Galloway admiringly. "What a gift of clear statement +you have, young man!" +</p> +<p> +"It has won me my place," said Norman. "As to your campaign, I can tell +you now that the legal part of it can be arranged. That is what the law +is for—to enable a man to do whatever he wants. The penalties are for +those who have the stupidity to try to do things in an unlawful way." +</p> +<p> +Galloway laughed. "I had heard that they were for doing unlawful +things." +</p> +<p> +"Nothing is unlawful," said Norman, "except in method." +</p> +<p> +"That's an interesting view of courts of justice." +</p> +<p> +"But we have no courts of justice. We have only courts of law." +</p> +<p> +Galloway threw back his head and laughed till the tears rolled down his +cheeks. "What a gift for clear statement!" he cried. +</p> +<p> +Norman beamed appreciation of a compliment so flattering. But he went +back to business. "As I was saying, you can do what you want to do. You +wish me to show you how. In our modern way of doing things, the relation +of lawyer and client has somewhat changed. To illustrate by this case, +you are the bear with the taste for honey and the strength to rob the +bees. I am the honey bird—that is, the modern lawyer—who can show you +the way to the hive. Most of the honey birds—as yet—are content with a +very small share of the honey—whatever the bear happens to be unable to +find room for. But I—" Norman's eyes danced and his strong mouth curved +in a charming smile—"I am a honey bird with a bear appetite." +</p> +<p> +Galloway was sitting up stiffly. "I don't quite follow you, sir," he +said. +</p> +<p> +"Yet I am plain enough. My ability at clear statement has not deserted +me. If I show you the way through the tangled forest of the law to this +hive you scent—I must be a partner in the honey." +</p> +<p> +Galloway rose. "Your conceptions of your profession—and of me, I may +say—are not attractive. I have always been, and am willing and anxious +to pay liberally—more liberally than anyone else—for legal advice. But +my business, sir, is my own." +</p> +<p> +Norman rose, his expression one of apology and polite disappointment. "I +see I misunderstood your purpose in coming to me," said he. "Let us take +no more of each other's time." +</p> +<p> +"And what did you think my object was in coming?" demanded Galloway. +</p> +<p> +"To get from me what you realized you could get nowhere else—which +meant, as an old experienced trader like you must have known, that you +were ready to pay my price. Of course, if you can get elsewhere the +assistance you need, why, you would be most unwise to come to me." +</p> +<p> +Galloway moved toward the door. "And you might have charged practically +any fee you wished," said he, laughing satirically. "Young man, you are +making the mistake that is ruining this generation. You wish to get rich +all at once. You are not willing to be patient and to work and to build +your fortune solidly and slowly." +</p> +<p> +Norman smiled as at a good joke. "What an asset to you strong men has +been the vague hope in the minds of the masses that each poor devil of +them will have his turn to loot and grow rich. I used to think ignorance +kept the present system going. But I have discovered that it is that +sly, silly, corrupt hope. But, sir, it does not catch me. I shall not +work for you and the other strong men, and patiently wait my turn that +would never come. My time is <i>now</i>." +</p> +<p> +"You threaten me!" cried Galloway furiously. +</p> +<p> +"Threaten you?" exclaimed Norman, amazed. +</p> +<p> +"You think, because I have given you, my lawyer, my secrets, that you +can compel me——" +</p> +<p> +With an imperious gesture Norman stopped him. "Good day, sir," he said +haughtily. "Your secrets are safe with me. I am a lawyer, not a +financier." +</p> +<p> +Galloway was disconcerted. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Norman," he said. "I +misunderstood you. I thought I heard you say in effect that you purposed +to be rich, and that you purposed to compel me to make you so." +</p> +<p> +"So I did," replied Norman. "But not by the methods you financiers are +so adept at using. Not by high-class blackmail and blackjacking. I meant +that my abilities were such that you and your fellow masters of modern +society would be compelled to employ me on my own terms. A few moments +ago you outlined to me a plan. It may be you can find other lawyers +competent to steer it through the channel of the law. I doubt it. I may +exaggerate my value. But—" He smiled pleasantly—"I don't think so." +</p> +<p> +In this modern world of ours there is no more delicate or more important +branch of the art of material success than learning to play one's own +tune on the trumpets of fame. To those who watch careers intelligently +and critically, and not merely with mouth agape and ears awag for +whatever sounds the winds of credulity bear, there is keen interest in +noting how differently this high art is practiced by the +fame-seekers—how well some modest heroes disguise themselves before +essaying the trumpet, how timidly some play, how brazenly others. It is +an art of infinite variety. How many there are who can echo +Shakespeare's sad lament, through Hamlet's lips—"I lack advancement!" +Those are they who have wholly neglected, as did Shakespeare, this +essential part of the art of advancement—Shakespeare, who lived almost +obscure and was all but forgotten for two centuries after his death. +</p> +<p> +Norman, frankly seeking mere material success, and with the colossal +egotism that disdains egotism and shrugs at the danger of being accused +of it—Norman did not hesitate to proclaim his own merits. He reasoned +that he had the wares, that crying them would attract attention to them, +that he whose attention was attracted, if he were a judge of wares and a +seeker of the best, would see that the Norman wares were indeed as +Norman cried them. At first blush Galloway was amused by Norman's candid +self-esteem. But he had often heard of Norman's conceit—and in a long +and busy life he had not seen an able man who was unaware of his +ability; any more than he had seen a pretty woman unaware of her +prettiness. So, at second blush, Galloway was tempted by Norman's calm +strong blast upon his own trumpet to look again at the wares. +</p> +<p> +"I always have had a high opinion of you, young man," said he, with +laughing eyes. "Almost as high an opinion as you have of yourself. Think +over the legal side of my plan. When you get your thoughts in order, let +me know—and make me a proposition as to your own share. Does that +satisfy you?" +</p> +<p> +"It's all I ask," said Norman. +</p> +<p> +And they parted on the friendliest terms—and Norman knew that his +fortune was assured, if Galloway lived another nine months. When he was +alone, the sweat burst out upon him and, trembling from head to foot, he +locked his door and flung himself at full length upon the rug. It was +half an hour before the fit of silent hysterical reaction passed +sufficiently to let him gather strength to rise. He tottered to his desk +chair, and sat with his head buried in his arms upon the desk. After a +while the telephone at his side rang insistently. He took the receiver +in a hand he could not steady. +</p> +<p> +"Yes?" he called. +</p> +<p> +"It's Tetlow. How'd you come out?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh—" He paused to stiffen his throat to attack the words +naturally—"all right. We go ahead." +</p> +<p> +"With G.?" +</p> +<p> +"Certainly. But keep quiet. Don't let him know you've heard, if you see +him or he sends for you. Remember, it's in my hands entirely." +</p> +<p> +"Trust me." Tetlow's voice, suppressed and jubilant, suggested a fat, +hoarse rooster trying to finish a crow before a coming stone from a farm +boy reaches him. "It seems natural and easy to you, old man. But I'm +about crazy with joy. I'll come right over." +</p> +<p> +"No. I'm going home." +</p> +<p> +"Can't I see you there?" +</p> +<p> +"No. I've other matters to attend to. Come about lunch time +to-morrow—to the office, here." +</p> +<p> +"All right," said Tetlow disappointedly, and Norman rang off. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0022"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XX +</h2> +<p> +In the faces of men who have dominion of whatever kind over their fellow +men—be it the brutal rule of the prize fighter over his gang or the +apparently gentle sway of the apparently meek bishop over his loving +flock—in the faces of all men of power there is a dangerous look. They +may never lose their tempers. They may never lift their voices. They may +be ever suave and civil. The dangerous look is there—and the danger +behind it. And the sense of that look and of its cause has a certain +restraining effect upon all but the hopelessly impudent or solidly +dense. Norman was one of the men without fits of temper. In his moments +of irritation, no one ever felt that a storm of violent language might +be impending. But the danger signal flaunted from his face. Danger of +what? No one could have said. Most people would have laughed at the idea +that so even tempered a man, pleased with himself and with the world, +could ever be dangerous. Yet everyone had instinctively respected that +danger flag—until Dorothy. +</p> +<p> +Perhaps it had struck for her—had really not been there when she looked +at him. Perhaps she had been too inexperienced, perhaps too +self-centered, to see it. Perhaps she had never before seen his face in +an hour of weariness and relaxation—when the true character, the +dominating and essential trait or traits, shows nakedly upon the +surface, making the weak man or woman look pitiful, the strong man or +woman formidable. +</p> +<p> +However that may be, when he walked into the sitting room, greeted her +placidly and kissed her on the brow, she, glancing uncertainly up at +him, saw that danger signal for the first time. She studied his face, +her own face wearing her expression of the puzzled child. No, not quite +that expression as it always had been theretofore, but a modified form +of it. To any self-centered, self-absorbed woman—there comes in her +married life, unless she be married to a booby, a time, an hour, a +moment even—for it can be narrowed down to a point—when she takes her +first <i>seeing</i> look at the man upon whom she is dependent for protection, +whether spiritual or material, or both. In her egotism and vanity she +has been regarding him as her property. Suddenly, and usually +disagreeably, it has been revealed to her that she is his property. That +hour had come for Dorothy Norman. And she was looking at her husband, +was wondering who and what he was. +</p> +<p> +"You've had your lunch?" he said. +</p> +<p> +"No," replied she. +</p> +<p> +"You have been out for the air?" +</p> +<p> +"No." +</p> +<p> +"Why not?" +</p> +<p> +"You didn't tell me what to do." +</p> +<p> +He smiled good humoredly. "Oh, you had no money." +</p> +<p> +"Yes—a little. But I—" She halted. +</p> +<p> +"Yes?" +</p> +<p> +"You hadn't told me what to do," she repeated, as if on mature thought +that sentence expressed the whole matter. +</p> +<p> +He felt in his pockets, found a small roll of bills. He laid twenty-five +dollars on the table. "I'll keep thirty," he said, "as I shan't have any +more till I see Tetlow to-morrow. Now, fly out and amuse yourself. I'm +going to sleep. Don't wake me till you're ready for dinner." +</p> +<p> +And he went into his bedroom and closed the door. When he awoke, he saw +that it was dark outside, and some note in the din of street noises from +far below made him feel that it was late. He wrapped a bathrobe round +him, opened the door into the sitting room. It was dark. +</p> +<p> +"Dorothy!" he called. +</p> +<p> +"Yes," promptly responded the small quiet voice, so near that he started +back. +</p> +<p> +"Oh!" he exclaimed, and switched on the light. "There you are—by the +window. What were you doing, in the dark?" +</p> +<p> +She was dressed precisely as when he had last seen her. She was sitting +with her hands listless in her lap and her face a moving and beautiful +expression of melancholy dreams. On the table were the bills—where he +had laid them. "You've been out?" he said. +</p> +<p> +"No," she replied. +</p> +<p> +"Why not?" +</p> +<p> +"I've been—waiting." +</p> +<p> +"For what?" laughed he. +</p> +<p> +"For—I don't know," she replied. "Just waiting." +</p> +<p> +"But there's nothing to wait for." +</p> +<p> +She looked at him interrogatively. "No—I suppose not," she said. +</p> +<p> +He went back into his room and glanced at his watch. "Eleven o'clock!" +he cried. "Why didn't you wake me? You must be nearly starved." +</p> +<p> +"Yes, I am hungry," said she. +</p> +<p> +Her patient, passive resignation irritated him. "I'm ravenous," he said. +"I'll dress—and you dress, too. We'll go downstairs to supper." +</p> +<p> +When he reappeared in the sitting room, in a dinner jacket, she was +again seated near the window, hands listless in her lap and eyes gazing +dreamily into vacancy. But she was now dressed in the black chiffon and +the big black hat. He laughed. "You are prompt and obedient," said he. +"Nothing like hunger to subdue." +</p> +<p> +A faint flush tinged her lovely skin; the look of the child that has +been struck appeared in her eyes. +</p> +<p> +He cast about in his mind for the explanation. Did she think he meant it +was need that had brought her meekly back to him? That was true enough, +but he had not intended to hint it. In high good humor because he was so +delightfully hungry and was about to get food, he cried: "Do cheer up! +There's nothing to be sad about—nothing." +</p> +<p> +She lifted her large eyes and gazed at him timidly. "What are you going +to do with me?" +</p> +<p> +"Take you downstairs and feed you." +</p> +<p> +"But I mean—afterward?" +</p> +<p> +"Bring—or send—you up here to go to bed." +</p> +<p> +"Are you going away?" +</p> +<p> +"Where?" +</p> +<p> +"Away from me." +</p> +<p> +He looked at her with amused eyes. She was exquisitely lovely; never had +he seen her lovelier. It delighted him to note her charms—the charms +that had enslaved him—not a single charm missing—and to feel that he +was no longer their slave, was his own master again. +</p> +<p> +A strange look swept across her uncannily mobile face—a look of wonder, +of awe, of fear, of dread. "You don't even like me any more," she said +in her colorless way. +</p> +<p> +"What have I done to make you think I dislike you?" said he pleasantly. +</p> +<p> +She gazed down in silence. +</p> +<p> +"You need have no fear," said he. "You are my wife. You will be well +taken care of, and you will not be annoyed. What more can I say?" +</p> +<p> +"Thank you," she murmured. +</p> +<p> +He winced. She had made him feel like an unpleasant cross between an +alms-giver and a bully. "Now," said he, with forced but resolute +cheerfulness, "we will eat, drink and be merry." +</p> +<p> +On the way down in the elevator he watched her out of the corner of his +eye. When they reached the hall leading to the supper room he touched +her arm and halted her. "My dear," said he in the pleasant voice which +yet somehow never failed to secure attention and obedience, "there will +be some of my acquaintances in there at supper. I don't want them to see +you with that whipped dog look. There's no occasion for it." +</p> +<p> +Her lip trembled. "I'll do my best," said she. +</p> +<p> +"Let's see you smile," laughed he. "You have often shown me that you +know the woman's trick of wearing what feelings you choose on the +outside. So don't pretend that you've got to look as if you were about +to be hung for a crime you didn't commit. There!—that's better." +</p> +<p> +And indeed to a casual glance she looked the happy bride trying—not +very successfully—to seem used to her husband and her new status. +</p> +<p> +"Hold it!" he urged gayly. "I've no fancy for leading round a lovely +martyr in chains. Especially as you're about as healthy and well placed +a person as I know. And you'll feel as well as you look when you've had +something to eat." +</p> +<p> +Whether it was obedience or the result of a decision to drop an +unprofitable pose he could not tell, but as soon as they were seated and +she had a bill of fare before her and was reading it, her expression of +happiness lost its last suggestion of being forced. "Crab meat!" she +said. "I love it!" +</p> +<p> +"Two portions of crab meat," he said to the waiter with pad and pencil +at attention. +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I don't want that much," she protested. +</p> +<p> +"You forget that I am hungry," rejoined he. "And when I am hungry, the +price of food begins to go up." He addressed himself to the waiter: +"After that a broiled grouse—with plenty of hominy—and grilled sweet +potatoes—and a salad of endive and hothouse tomatoes—and I know the +difference between hothouse tomatoes and the other kinds. Next—some +cheese—Coullomieres—yes, you have it—I got the steward to get it—and +toasted crackers—the round kind, not the square—and not the hard ones +that unsettle the teeth—and—what kind of ice, my dear?—or would you +prefer a fresh peach flambee?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes—I think so," said Dorothy. +</p> +<p> +"You hear, waiter?—and a bottle of—there's the head waiter—ask +him—he knows the champagne I like." +</p> +<p> +As Norman had talked, in the pleasant, insistent voice, the waiter had +roused from the air of mindless, mechanical sloth characteristic of the +New York waiter—unless and until a fee below his high expectation is +offered. When he said the final "very good, sir," it was with the accent +of real intelligence. +</p> +<p> +Dorothy was smiling, with the amusement of youth and inexperience. "What +a lot of trouble you took about it," said she. +</p> +<p> +He shrugged his shoulders. "Anything worth doing at all is worth taking +trouble about. You will see. We shall get results. The supper will be +the best this house can put together." +</p> +<p> +"You can have anything you want in this world, if you only can pay for +it," said she. +</p> +<p> +"That's what most people think," replied he. "But the truth is, the +paying is only a small part of the art of getting what one wants." +</p> +<p> +She glanced nervously at him. "I'm beginning to realize that I'm +dreadfully inexperienced," said she. +</p> +<p> +"There's nothing discouraging in that," said he. "Lack of experience can +be remedied. But not lack of judgment. It takes the great gift of +judgment to enable one to profit by mistakes, to decide what is the real +lesson of an experience." +</p> +<p> +"I'm afraid I haven't any judgment, either," confessed she. +</p> +<p> +"That remains to be seen." +</p> +<p> +She hesitated—ventured: "What do you think is my worst fault?" +</p> +<p> +He shook his head laughingly. "We are going to have a happy supper." +</p> +<p> +"Do you think I am very vain?" persisted she. +</p> +<p> +"Who's been telling you so?" +</p> +<p> +"Mr. Tetlow. He gave me an awful talking to, just before I—" She paused +at the edge of the forbidden ground. "He didn't spare me," she went on. +"He said I was a vain, self-centered little fool." +</p> +<p> +"And what did you say?" +</p> +<p> +"I was very angry. I told him he had no right to accuse me of that. I +reminded him that he had never heard me say a word about myself." +</p> +<p> +"And did he say that the vainest people were just that way—never +speaking of themselves, never thinking of anything else?" +</p> +<p> +"Oh, he told you what he said," cried she. +</p> +<p> +"No," laughed he. +</p> +<p> +She reddened. "<i>You</i> think I'm vain?" +</p> +<p> +He made a good-humoredly satirical little bow. "I think you are +charming," said he. "It would be a waste of time to look at or to think +of anyone else when oneself is the most charming and interesting person +in the world. Still—" He put into his face and voice a suggestion of +gravity that caught her utmost attention—"if one is to get anywhere, is +to win consideration from others—and happiness for oneself—one simply +must do a little thinking about others—occasionally." +</p> +<p> +Her eyes lowered. A faint color tinged her cheeks. +</p> +<p> +"The reason most of us are so uncomfortable—downright unhappy most of +the time—is that we never really take our thoughts off our precious +fascinating selves. The result is that some day we find that the +liking—and friendship—and love—of those around us has limits—and we +are left severely alone. Of course, if one has a great deal of money, +one can buy excellent imitations of liking and friendship and even +love—I ought to say, especially love——" +</p> +<p> +The color flamed in her face. +</p> +<p> +"But," he went on, "if one is in modest circumstances or poor, one has +to take care." +</p> +<p> +"Or dependent," she said, with one of those unexpected flashes of subtle +intelligence that so complicated the study of her character. He had been +talking to amuse himself rather than with any idea of her understanding. +Her sudden bright color and her two words—"or dependent"—roused him to +see that she thought he was deliberately giving her a savage lecture +from the cover of general remarks. "With the vanity of the typical +woman," he said to himself, "she always imagines <i>she</i> is the subject of +everyone's thought and talk." +</p> +<p> +"Or dependent," said he to her, easily. "I wasn't thinking of you, but +yours <i>is</i> a case in point. Come, now—nothing to look blue about! Here's +something to eat. No, it's for the next table." +</p> +<p> +"You won't let me explain," she protested, between the prudence of +reproach and the candor of anger. +</p> +<p> +"There's nothing to explain," replied he. "Don't bother about the +mistakes of yesterday. Remember them—yes. If one has a good memory, to +forget is impossible—not to say unwise. But there ought to be no more +heat or sting in the memory of past mistakes than in the memory of last +year's mosquito bites." +</p> +<p> +The first course of the supper arrived. Her nervousness vanished, and he +got far away from the neighborhood of the subjects that, even in +remotest hint, could not but agitate her. And as the food and the wine +asserted their pacific and beatific sway, she and he steadily moved into +better and better humor with each other. Her beauty grew until it had +him thinking that never, not in the most spiritual feminine conceptions +of the classic painters, had he seen a loveliness more ethereal. Her +skin was so exquisite, the coloring of her hair and eyes and of her lips +was so delicately fine that it gave her the fragility of things +bordering upon the supernal—of rare exotics, of sunset and moonbeam +effects. No, he had been under no spell of illusion as to her beauty. It +was a reality—the more fascinating because it waxed and waned not with +regularity of period but capriciously. +</p> +<p> +He began to look round furtively, to see what effect this wife of his +was producing on others. These last few months, through prudence as much +as through pride, he had been cultivating the habit of ignoring his +surroundings; he would not invite cold salutations or obvious avoidance +of speaking. He now discovered many of his former associates—and his +vanity dilated as he noted how intensely they were interested in his +wife. +</p> +<p> +Some men of ability have that purest form of egotism which makes one +profoundly content with himself, genuinely indifferent to the approval +or the disapproval of others. Norman's vanity had a certain amount of +alloy. He genuinely disdained his fellow-men—their timidity, their +hypocrisy, their servility, their limited range of ideas. He was +indifferent to the verge of insensibility as to their adverse criticism. +But at the same time it was necessary to his happiness that he get from +them evidences of their admiration and envy. With that amusing hypocrisy +which tinges all human nature, he concealed from himself the +satisfaction, the joy even, he got out of the showy side of his +position. And no feature of his infatuation for Dorothy surprised him so +much as the way it rode rough shod and reckless over his snobbishness. +</p> +<p> +With the fading of infatuation had come many reflections upon the +practical aspects of what he had done. It pleased him with himself to +find that, in this first test, he had not the least regret, but on the +contrary a genuine pride in the courageous independence he had +shown—another and strong support to his conviction of his superiority +to his fellow-men. He might be somewhat snobbish—who was not?—who else +in his New York was less than supersaturated with snobbishness? But +snobbishness, the determining quality in the natures of all the women +and most of the men he knew, had shown itself one of the incidental +qualities in his own nature. After all, reflected he, it took a man, a +good deal of a man, to do what he had done, and not to regret it, even +in the hour of disillusionment. And it must be said for this egotistic +self-approval of his that like all his judgments there was sound merit +of truth in it. The vanity of the nincompoop is ridiculous. The vanity +of the man of ability is amusing and no doubt due to a defective point +of view upon the proportions of the universe; but it is not without +excuse, and those who laugh might do well to discriminate even as they +guffaw. +</p> +<p> +Looking discreetly about, Norman was suddenly confronted by the face of +Josephine Burroughs, only two tables away. +</p> +<p> +Until their eyes squarely met he did not know she was there, or even in +America. Before he could make a beginning of glancing away, she gave him +her sweetest smile and her friendliest bow. And Dorothy, looking to see +to whom he was speaking, was astonished to receive the same radiance of +cordiality. Norman was pleased at the way his wife dealt with the +situation. She returned both bow and smile in her own quiet, slightly +reserved way of gentle dignity. +</p> +<p> +"Who was that, speaking?" asked she. +</p> +<p> +"Miss Burroughs. You must remember her." +</p> +<p> +He noted it as characteristic that she said, quite sincerely: "Oh, so it +is. I didn't remember her. That is the girl you were engaged to." +</p> +<p> +"Yes—'the nice girl uptown,'" said he. +</p> +<p> +"I didn't like her," said Dorothy, with evident small interest in the +subject. "She was vain." +</p> +<p> +"You mean you didn't like her way of being vain," suggested Norman. +"Everyone is vain; so, if we disliked for vanity we should dislike +everyone." +</p> +<p> +"Yes, it was her way. And just now she spoke to us both, as if she were +doing us a favor." +</p> +<p> +"Gracious, it's called," said he. "What of it? It does us no harm and +gives her about the only happiness she's got." +</p> + +<div class="figure" style="width: 80%;"> +<a name="image-0008" href="images/img-08.jpg"><img src="images/img-08.jpg" width="100%" +alt="'At Josephine's right sat a handsome young foreigner.'"></a><br /> +<b>"At Josephine's right sat a handsome young foreigner."</b> +</div> + +<p> +Norman, without seeming to do so, noted the rest of the Burroughs party. +At Josephine's right sat a handsome young foreigner, and it took small +experience of the world to discover that he was paying court to her, and +that she was pleased and flattered. Norman asked the waiter who he was, +and learned that he came from the waiter's own province of France, was +the Duc de Valdome. At first glance Norman had thought him +distinguished. Afterward he discriminated. There are several kinds or +degrees of distinction. There is distinction of race, of class, of +family, of dress, of person. As Frenchman, as aristocrat, as a scion of +the ancient family of Valdome, as a specimen of tailoring and valeting, +Miss Burroughs's young man was distinguished. But in his own proper +person he was rather insignificant. The others at the table were +Americans. Following Miss Burroughs's cue, they sought an opportunity to +speak friendlily to Norman—and he gave it them. His acknowledgment of +those effusive salutations was polite but restrained. +</p> +<p> +"They are friends of yours?" said Dorothy. +</p> +<p> +"They were," said he. "And they may be again—when they are friends of +<i>ours</i>." +</p> +<p> +"I'm not very good at making friends," she warned him. "I don't like +many people." This time her unconscious and profound egotism pleased +him. Evidently it did not occur to her that she should be eager to be +friends with those people on any terms, that the only question was +whether they would receive her. +</p> +<p> +She asked: "Why was Miss—Miss Burroughs so friendly?" +</p> +<p> +"Why shouldn't she be?" +</p> +<p> +"But I thought you threw her over." +</p> +<p> +He winced at this crude way of putting it. "On the contrary, she threw +me over." +</p> +<p> +Dorothy laughed incredulously. "I know better. Mr. Tetlow told me." +</p> +<p> +"She threw me over," repeated he coldly. "Tetlow was repeating malicious +and ignorant gossip." +</p> +<p> +Dorothy laughed again—it was her second glass of champagne. "You say +that because it's the honorable thing to say. But I know." +</p> +<p> +"I say it because it's true," said he. +</p> +<p> +He spoke quietly, but if she had drunk many more than two glasses of an +unaccustomed and heady liquor she would have felt his intonation. She +paled and shrank and her slim white fingers fluttered nervously at the +collar of her dress. "I was only joking," she murmured. +</p> +<p> +He laughed good-naturedly. "Don't look as if I had given you a +whipping," said he. "Surely you're not afraid of me." +</p> +<p> +She glanced shyly at him, a smile dancing in her eyes and upon her lips. +"Yes," she said. And after a pause she added: "I didn't used to be. But +that was because I didn't know you—or much of anything." The smile +irradiated her whole face. "You used to be afraid of me. But you aren't, +any more." +</p> +<p> +"No," said he, looking straight at her. "No, I'm not." +</p> +<p> +"I always told you you were mistaken in what you thought of me. I really +don't amount to much. A man as serious and as important as you are +couldn't—couldn't care about me." +</p> +<p> +"It's true you don't amount to much, as yet," said he. "And if you never +do amount to much, you'd be no less than most women and most men. But +I've an idea—at times—that you <i>could</i> amount to something." +</p> +<p> +He saw that he had wounded her vanity, that her protestations of +humility were precisely what he had suspected. He laughed at her: "I see +you thought I'd contradict you. But I can't afford to be so amiable now. +And the first thing you've got to get rid of is the part of your vanity +that prevents you from growing. Vanity of belief in one's possibilities +is fine. No one gets anywhere without it. But vanity of belief in one's +present perfection—no one but a god could afford that luxury." +</p> +<p> +Observing her closely he was amused—and pleased—to note that she was +struggling to compose herself to endure his candors as a necessary part +of the duties and obligations she had taken on herself when she gave up +and returned to him. +</p> +<p> +"What <i>you</i> thought of <i>me</i> used to be the important thing in our +relations," he went on, in his way of raillery that took all or nearly +all the sting out of what he said, but none of its strength. "Now, the +important thing is what I think of you. You are much younger than I, +especially in experience. You are going to school to life with me as +teacher. You'll dislike the teacher for the severity of the school. That +isn't just, but it's natural—perhaps inevitable. And please—my dear—when +you are bitterest over what <i>you</i> have to put up with from <i>me</i>—don't +forget what <i>I</i> have to put up with from <i>you</i>." +</p> +<p> +She was fighting bravely against angry tears. As for him, he had +suddenly become indifferent to what the people around them might be +thinking. With all his old arrogance come back in full flood, he was +feeling that he would live his own life in his own way and that those +who didn't approve—yes, including Dorothy—might do as they saw fit. +She said: +</p> +<p> +"I don't blame you for regretting that you didn't marry Miss Burroughs." +</p> +<p> +"But I don't regret it," replied he. "On the contrary, I'm glad." +</p> +<p> +She glanced hopefully at him. But the hopeful expression faded as he +went on: +</p> +<p> +"Whether or not I made a mistake in marrying you, I certainly had an +escape from disaster when she decided she preferred a foreigner and a +title. There's a good sensible reason why so many girls of her +class—more and more all the time—marry abroad. They are not fit to be +the wives of hard-working American husbands. In fact I've about reached +the conclusion that of the girls growing up nowdays very few in any +class are fit to be American wives. They're not big enough. They're too +coarse and crude in their tastes. They're only fit for the shallow, +showy sort of thing—and the European aristocracy is their hope—and +their place." +</p> +<p> +Her small face had a fascinating expression of a +child trying to understand things far beyond its depth. He was +interested in his own thoughts, however, and went on—for, if he had +been in the habit of stopping when his hearers failed to understand, or +when they misunderstood, either he would have been silent most of the +time in company or his conversation would have been as petty and narrow +and devoid of originality or imagination as is the mentality of most +human beings—as is the talk and reading that impress them as +interesting—and profound! +</p> +<p> +"The American man of the more ambitious sort," he went on, "either has +to live practically if not physically apart from his wife or else has to +educate some not too difficult woman to be his wife." +</p> +<p> +She understood that. "You are really going to educate me?" she said, +with an arch smile. Now that Norman had her attention, now that she was +centering upon him instead of upon herself, she was interested in him, +and in what he said, whether she understood it or not, whether it +pleased her vanity or wounded it. The intellects of women work to an +unsuspected extent only through the sex charm. Their appreciations of +books, of art, of men are dependant, often in the most curious indirect +ways, upon the fact that the author, the artist, the politician or what +not is betrousered. Thus, Dorothy was patient, respectful, attentive, +was not offended by Norman's didactic way of giving her the lessons in +life. Her smile was happy as well as coquettish, as she asked him to +educate her. +</p> +<p> +He returned her smile. "That depends," answered he. +</p> +<p> +"You're not sure I'm worth the trouble?" +</p> +<p> +"You may put it that way, if you like. But I'd say, rather, I'm not sure +I can spare the time—and you're not sure you care to fit yourself for +the place." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, but I do!" cried she. +</p> +<p> +"We'll see—in a few weeks or months," replied he. +</p> +<p> +The Burroughs party were rising. Josephine had choice of two ways to the +door. She chose the one that took her past Norman and his bride. She +advanced, beaming. Norman rose, took her extended hand. Said she: +</p> +<p> +"So glad to see you." Then, turning the radiant smile upon Dorothy, "And +is this your wife? Is this the pretty little typewriter girl?" +</p> +<p> +Dorothy nodded—a charming, ingenuous bend of the head. Norman felt a +thrill of pride in her, so beautifully unconscious of the treacherous +attempt at insult. It particularly delighted him that she had not made +the mistake of rising to return Josephine's greeting but had remained +seated. Surely this wife of his had the right instincts that never fail +to cause right manners. For Josephine's benefit, he gazed down at +Dorothy with the proudest, fondest eyes. "Yes—this is she," said he. +"Can you blame me?" +</p> +<p> +Josephine paled and winced visibly, as if the blow she had aimed at him +had, after glancing off harmlessly, returned to crush her. She touched +Dorothy's proffered hand, murmured a few stammering phrases of vague +compliment, rejoined her friends. Said Dorothy, when she and Norman were +settled again: +</p> +<p> +"I shall never like her. Nor she me." +</p> +<p> +"But you do like this cheese? Waiter, another bottle of that same." +</p> +<p> +"Why did she put you in such a good humor?" inquired his wife. +</p> +<p> +"It wasn't she. It was you!" replied he. But he refused to explain. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0023"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XXI +</h2> +<p> +Galloway accepted Norman's terms. He would probably have accepted terms +far less easy. But Norman as yet knew with the thoroughness which must +precede intelligent plan and action only the legal side of financial +operations; he had been as indifferent to the commercial side as a pilot +to the value of the cargo in the ship he engages to steer clear of +shoals and rocks. So with the prudence of the sagacious man's audacities +he contented himself with a share of this first venture that would +simply make a comfortable foundation for the fortune he purposed to +build. As the venture could not fail outright, even should Galloway die, +he rented a largish place at Hempstead, with the privilege of purchase, +and installed his wife and himself with a dozen servants and a +housekeeper. +</p> +<p> +"This housekeeper, this Mrs. Lowell," said he to Dorothy, "is a good +enough person as housekeepers go. But you will have to look sharply +after her." +</p> +<p> +Dorothy seemed to fade and shrink within herself, which was her way of +confessing lack of courage and fitness to face a situation: "I don't +know anything about those things," she confessed. +</p> +<p> +"I understand perfectly," said he. "But you learned something at the +place in Jersey City—quite enough for the start. Really, all you need +to know just now is whether the place is clean or not, and whether the +food comes on the table in proper condition. The rest you'll pick up +gradually." +</p> +<p> +"I hope so," said she, looking doubtful and helpless; these new +magnitudes were appalling, especially now that she was beginning to get +a point of view upon life. +</p> +<p> +"At any rate, don't bother me for these few next months," said he. "I'm +going to be very busy—shall leave early in the morning and not be back +until near dinner time—if I come at all. No, you'll not be annoyed by +me. You'll be absolute mistress of your time." +</p> +<p> +She tried to look as if this contented her. But he could not have failed +to see how dissatisfied and disquieted she really was. He had the best +of reasons for thinking that she was living under the same roof with him +only because she preferred the roof he could provide to such a one as +she could provide for herself whether by her own earnings or by marrying +a man more to her liking personally. Yet here she was, piqued and +depressed because of his indifference—because he was not thrusting upon +her gallantries she would tolerate only through prudence! +</p> +<p> +"You will be lonely at times, I'm afraid," said he. "But I can't provide +friends or even acquaintances for you for several months—until my +affairs are in better order and my sister and her husband come back from +Europe." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I shan't be lonely," cried she. "I've never cared for people." +</p> +<p> +"You've your books, and your music—and riding—and shopping trips to +town—and the house and grounds to look after." +</p> +<p> +"Yes—and my dreams," said she hopefully, her eyes suggesting the dusky +star depths. +</p> +<p> +"Oh—the dreams. You'll have little time for them," said he drily. "And +little inclination, I imagine, as you wake up to the sense of how much +there is to be learned. Dreaming is the pastime of people who haven't +the intelligence or the energy to accomplish anything. If you wish to +please me—and you do—don't you?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes," she murmured. She forced her rebellious lips to the laconic +assent. She drooped the lids over her rebellious eyes, lest he should +detect her wounded feelings and her resentment. +</p> +<p> +"I assumed so," said he, with a secret smile. "Well, if you wish to +please me, you'll give your time to practical things—things that'll +make you more interesting and make us both more comfortable. It was all +very well to dream, while you had little to do and small opportunity. +But now—Try to cut it out." +</p> +<p> +It is painful to an American girl of any class to find that she has to +earn her position as wife. The current theory, a tradition from an early +and woman-revering day, is that the girl has done her share and more +when she has consented to the suit of the ardent male and has intrusted +her priceless charms to his exclusive keeping. According to that same +theory, it is the husband who must earn his position—must continue to +earn it. He is a humble creature, honored by the presence of a wonderful +being, a cross between a queen and a goddess. He cannot do enough to +show his gratitude. Perhaps—but only perhaps—had Norman married +Josephine Burroughs, he might have assented, after a fashion, to this +idea of the relations of the man and the woman. No doubt, had he +remained under the spell of Dorothy's mystery and beauty, he would have +felt and acted the slave he had made of himself at the outset. But in +the circumstances he was looking at their prospective life together with +sane eyes. And so she had, in addition to all her other reasons for +heartache, a sense that she, the goddess-queen, the American woman, with +the birthright of dominion over the male, was being cheated, humbled, +degraded. +</p> +<p> +At first he saw that this sense of being wronged made it impossible for +her to do anything at all toward educating herself for her position. But +time brought about the change he had hoped for. A few weeks, and she +began to cheer up, almost in spite of herself. What was the use in +sulking or sighing or in self-pitying, when it brought only unhappiness +to oneself? The coarse and brutal male in the case was either unaware or +indifferent. There was no one and no place to fly to—unless she wished +to be much worse off than her darkest mood of self-pity represented her +to her sorrowing self. The housekeeper, Mrs. Lowell, was a "broken down +gentlewoman" who had been chastened by misfortune into a wholesome state +of practical good sense about the relative values of the real and the +romantic. Mrs. Lowell diagnosed the case of the young wife—as Norman +had shrewdly guessed she would—and was soon adroitly showing her the +many advantages of her lot. Before they had been three months at +Hempstead, Dorothy had discovered that she, in fact, was without a +single ground for serious complaint. She had a husband who was generous +about money, and left her as absolutely alone as if he were mere +occasional visitor at the house. She had her living—and such a +living!—she had plenty of interesting occupation—she had not a single +sordid care—and perfect health. +</p> +<p> +The dreams, too—It was curious about those dreams. She would now have +found it an intolerable bore to sit with hands idle in her lap and eyes +upon vacancy, watching the dim, luminous shadows flit aimlessly by. Yet +that was the way she used to pass hours—entire days. She used to fight +off sleep at night the longer to enjoy her one source of pure happiness. +There was no doubt about it, the fire of romance was burning low, and +she was becoming commonplace, practical, resigned. Well, why not? Was +not life over for her?—that is, the life a girl's fancy longs for. In +place of hope of romance, there was an uneasy feeling of a necessity of +pleasing this husband of hers—of making him comfortable. What would +befall her if she neglected trying to please him or if she, for all her +trying, failed? She did not look far in that direction. Her uneasiness +remained indefinite—yet definite enough to keep her working from waking +until bedtime. And she dropped into the habit of watching his face with +the same anxiety with which a farmer watches the weather. When he +happened one day to make a careless, absent-minded remark in disapproval +of something in the domestic arrangements, she was thrown into such a +nervous flutter that he observed it. +</p> +<p> +"What is it?" he asked. +</p> +<p> +"Nothing—nothing," replied she in the hurried tone of one who is trying +hastily to cover his thoughts. +</p> +<p> +He reflected, understood, burst into a fit of hearty laughter. "So, you +are trying to make a bogey of me?" +</p> +<p> +She colored, protested faintly. +</p> +<p> +"Don't you know I'm about the least tyrannical, least exacting person in +the world?" +</p> +<p> +"You've been very patient with me," said she. +</p> +<p> +"Now—now," cried he in a tone of raillery, "you might as well drop +that. Don't you know there's no reason for being afraid of me?" +</p> +<p> +"Yes, I <i>know</i> it," replied she. "But I <i>feel</i> afraid, just the same. I +can't help it." +</p> +<p> +It was impossible for him to appreciate the effect of his personality +upon others—how, without his trying or even wishing, it made them dread +a purely imaginary displeasure and its absurdly imaginary consequences. +But this confession of hers was not the first time he had heard of the +effect of potential and latent danger he had upon those associated with +him. And, as it was most useful, he was not sorry that he had it. He +made no further attempt to convince her that he was harmless. He knew +that he was harmless where she was concerned. Was it not just as well +that she should not know it, when vaguely dreading him was producing +excellent results? As with a Christian the fear of the Lord was the +beginning of wisdom, so with a wife the fear of her husband was the +beginning of wisdom. In striving to please him, to fit herself for the +position of wife, she was using up the time she would otherwise have +spent in making herself miserable with self-pity—that supreme curse of +the idle both male and female, that most prolific of the breeders of +unhappy wives. Yes, wives were unhappy not because their husbands +neglected them, for busy people have no time to note whether they are +neglected or not, but because they gave their own worthless, negligent, +incapable selves too much attention. +</p> +<p> +One evening, she, wearing the look of the timid but resolute intruder, +came into his room while he was dressing for dinner and hung about with +an air no man of his experience could fail to understand. +</p> +<p> +"Something wrong about the house?" said he finally. "Need more money?" +</p> +<p> +"No—nothing," she replied, with a slight flush. He saw that she was +mustering all her courage for some grand effort. He waited, only mildly +curious, as his mind was busy with some new business he and Tetlow had +undertaken. Presently she stood squarely before him, her hands behind +her back and her face upturned. "Won't you kiss me?" she said. +</p> +<p> +"Sure!" said he. And he kissed her on the cheek and resumed operations +with his military brushes. +</p> +<p> +"I didn't mean that—that kind of a kiss," said she dejectedly. +</p> +<p> +He paused with a quick characteristic turn of the head, looked keenly at +her, resumed his brushing. A quizzical smile played over his face. "Oh, +I see," said he. "You've been thinking about duty. And you've decided to +do yours. . . . Eh?" +</p> +<p> +"I think—It seems to me—I don't think—" she stammered, then said +desperately, "I've not been acting right by you. I want to—to do +better." +</p> +<p> +"That's good," said he briskly, with a nod of approval—and never a +glance in her direction. "You think you'll let me have a kiss now and +then—eh? All right, my dear." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, you <i>won't</i> understand me!" she cried, ready to weep with vexation. +</p> +<p> +"You mean I won't misunderstand you," replied he amiably, as he set +about fixing his tie. "You've been mulling things over in your mind. +You've decided I'm secretly pining for you. You've resolved to be good +and kind and dutiful—generous—to feed old dog Tray a few crumbs now +and then. . . . That's nice and sweet of you—" He paused until the +crisis in tying was passed—"very nice and sweet of you—but—There's +nothing in it. All I ask of you for myself is to see that I'm +comfortable—that Mrs. Lowell and the servants treat me right. If I +don't like anything, I'll speak out—never fear." +</p> +<p> +"But—Fred—I want to be your wife—I really do," she pleaded. +</p> +<p> +He turned on her, and his eyes seemed to pierce into the chamber of her +thoughts. "Drop it, my dear," he said quietly. "Neither of us is in love +with the other. So there's not the slightest reason for pretending. If I +ever want to be free of you, I'll tell you so. If you ever want to get +rid of me, all you have to do is to ask—and it'll be arranged. +Meanwhile, let's enjoy ourselves." +</p> +<p> +His good humor, obviously unfeigned, would have completely discouraged a +more experienced woman, though as vain as Dorothy and with as much +ground as he had given her for self-confidence where he was concerned. +But Dorothy was depressed rather than profoundly discouraged. A few +moments and she found courage to plead: "But you used to care for me. +Don't I attract you any more?" +</p> +<p> +"You say that quite pathetically," said he, in good-humored amusement. +"I'm willing to do anything within reason for your happiness. But +really—just to please your vanity I can't make myself over again into +the fool I used to be about you. You'd hate it yourself. Why, then, this +pathetic air?" +</p> +<p> +"I feel so useless—and as if I were shirking," she persisted. "And if +you did care for me, it wouldn't offend me now as it used to. I've grown +much wiser—more sensible. I understand things—and I look at them +differently. And—I always did <i>like</i> you." +</p> +<p> +"Even when you despised me?" mocked he. It irritated him a little +vividly to recall what a consummate fool he had made of himself for her, +even though he had every reason to be content with the event of his +folly. +</p> +<p> +"A girl always thinks she despises a man when she can do as she pleases +with him," replied she. "As Mr. Tetlow said, I was a fool." +</p> +<p> +"<i>I</i> was the fool," said he. "Where did that man of mine lay the +handkerchief?" +</p> +<p> +"I, too," cried she, eagerly. "You were foolish to bother about a little +silly like me. But, oh, what a <i>fool</i> I was not to realize——" +</p> +<p> +"You're not trying to tell me you're in love with me?" said he sharply. +</p> +<p> +"Oh, no—no, indeed," she protested in haste, alarmed by his +overwhelming manner. "I'm not trying to deceive you in any way." +</p> +<p> +"Never do," said he. "It's the one thing I can't stand." +</p> +<p> +"But I thought—it seemed to me—" she persisted, "that perhaps if we +tried to—to care for each other, we'd maybe get to—to caring—more or +less. Don't you think so?" +</p> +<p> +"Perhaps," was his careless reply. He added, "But I, for one, am well +content with things as they are. I confess I don't look back with any +satisfaction on those months when I was making an ass of myself about +you. I was ruining my career. Now I'm happy, and everything is going +fine in my business. No experiments, if you please." He shook his head, +looking at her with smiling raillery. "It might turn out that I'd care +for you in the same crazy way again, and that you didn't like it. Again +you might get excited about me and I'd remain calm about you. That would +give me a handsome revenge, but I'm not looking for revenge." +</p> +<p> +He finished his toilet, she standing quiet and thoughtful in an attitude +of unconscious grace. +</p> +<p> +"No, my dear," resumed he, as he prepared to descend for dinner, "let's +have a peaceful, cheerful married life, with no crazy excitements. +Let's hang on to what we've got, and take no unnecessary risks." He +patted her on the shoulder. "Isn't that sensible?" +</p> +<p> +She looked at him with serious, appealing eyes. "You are <i>sure</i> you aren't +unhappy?" +</p> +<p> +It was amusing to him—though he concealed it—to see how tenaciously +her feminine egotism held to the idea that she was the important person. +And, when women of experience thus deluded themselves, it was not at all +strange that this girl should be unable to grasp the essential truth as +to the relations of men and women—that, while a woman who makes her sex +her profession must give to a man, to some man, a dominant place in her +life, a man need give a woman—at least, any one woman—little or no +place. But he would not wantonly wound her harmless vanity. "Don't worry +about me, please," said he in the kindest, friendliest way. "I am +telling you the truth." +</p> +<p> +And they descended to the dining room. Usually he was preoccupied and +she did most of the talking—not a difficult matter for her, as she was +one of those who by nature have much to say, who talk on and on, giving +lively, pleasant recitals of commonplace daily happenings. That evening +it was her turn to be abstracted, or, at least, silent. He talked +volubly, torrentially, like a man of teeming mind in the highest +spirits. And he was in high spirits. The Galloway enterprise had +developed into a huge success; also, it did not lessen his sense of the +pleasantness of life to have learned that his wife was feeling about as +well disposed toward him as he cared to have her feel, had come round to +that state of mind which he, as a practical man, wise in the art of +life, regarded as ideal for a wife. +</p> +<p> +A successful man, with a quiet and comfortable home, well enough looked +after by an agreeable wife, exceeding good to look at and interested +only in her home and her husband—what more could a man ask? +</p> +<hr> +<p> +What more could a man ask? Only one thing more—a baby. The months soon +passed and that rounding out of the home side of his life was +consummated with no mishap. The baby was a girl, which contented him and +delighted Dorothy. He wished it to be named after her, she preferred his +sister's name—Ursula. It was Ursula who decided the question. "She +looks like you, Fred," she declared, after an earnest scanning of the +weird little face. "Why not call her Frederica?" +</p> +<p> +Norman thought this clumsy, but Dorothy instantly assented—and the baby +was duly christened Frederica. +</p> +<p> +Perhaps it was because he was having less pressing business in town, but +whatever the reason, he began to stay at home more—surprisingly more. +And, being at home, he naturally fell into the habit of fussing with the +baby, he having the temperament that compels a man to be always at +something, and the baby being convenient and in the nature of a +curiosity. Ursula, who was stopping in the house, did not try to conceal +her amazement at this extraordinary development of her brother's +character. +</p> +<p> +Said she: "I never before knew you to take the slightest interest in a +child." +</p> +<p> +Said he: "I never before saw a child worth taking the slightest interest +in." +</p> +<p> +"Oh, well," said Ursula, "it won't last. You'll soon grow tired of your +plaything." +</p> +<p> +"Perhaps you're right," said Norman. "I hope you're wrong." He +reflected, added: "In fact, I'm almost certain you're wrong. I'm too +selfish to let myself lose such a pleasure. If you had observed my life +closely, you'd have discovered that I have never given up a single thing +I found a source of pleasure. That is good sense. That is why the +superior sort of men and women retain something of the boy and the girl +all their lives. I still like a lot of the games I played as a boy. For +some years I've had no chance to indulge in them. I'll be glad when Rica +is old enough to give me the chance again." +</p> +<p> +She was much amused. "Who'd have suspected that <i>you</i> were a born father!" +</p> +<p> +"Not I, for one," confessed he. "We never know what there is in us until +circumstances bring it out." +</p> +<p> +"A devoted father and a doting husband," pursued Ursula. "I must say I +rather sympathize with you as a doting husband. Of course, I, a woman, +can't see her as you do. I can't imagine a man—especially a man of your +sort—going stark mad about a mere woman. But, as women go, I'll admit +she is a good specimen. Not the marvel of intelligence and complex +character you imagine, but still a good specimen. And physically—" She +laughed—"<i>That's</i> what caught you. That's what holds you—and will hold +you as long as it lasts." +</p> +<p> +"Was there ever a woman who didn't think that?—and didn't like to +think it, though I believe many of them make strong pretense at scorning +the physical." Fred was regarding his sister with a quizzical +expression. "You approve of her?" he said. +</p> +<p> +"More than I'd have thought possible. And after I've taken her about in +the world a while she'll be perfect." +</p> +<p> +"No doubt," said Norman. "But, alas, she'll never be perfect. For, +you're not going to take her about." +</p> +<p> +"So she says when I talk of it to her," replied Ursula. "But I know +you'll insist. You needn't be uneasy as to how she'll be received." +</p> +<p> +"I'm not," said Norman dryly. +</p> +<p> +"You've got back all you lost—and more. How we Americans do worship +success!" +</p> +<p> +"Don't suggest to Dorothy anything further about society," said Norman. +"I've no time or taste for it, and I don't wish to be annoyed by +intrusions into my home." +</p> +<p> +"But you'll not be satisfied always with just her," urged his sister. +"Besides, you've got a position to maintain." +</p> +<p> +Norman's smile was cynically patient. "I want my home and I want my +career," said he. "And I don't want any society nonsense. I had the good +luck to marry a woman who knows and cares nothing about it. I don't +purpose to give up the greatest advantage of my marriage." +</p> +<p> +Ursula was astounded. She knew the meaning of his various tones and +manners, and his way of rejecting her plans for Dorothy—and, +incidentally, for her own amusement—convinced her that he was through +and through in earnest. "It will be dreadfully lonesome for her, Fred," +she pleaded. +</p> +<p> +"We'll wait till that trouble faces us," replied he, not a bit +impressed. "And don't forget—not a word of temptation to her from you." +This with an expression that warned her how well he knew her indirect +ways of accomplishing what she could not gain directly. +</p> +<p> +"Oh, I shan't interfere," said she in a tone that made it a binding +promise. "But you can't expect me to sympathize with your plans for an +old-fashioned domestic life." +</p> +<p> +"Certainly not," said Norman. "You don't understand. Women of your sort +never do. That's why you're not fit to be the wives of men worth while. +A serious man and a society woman can't possibly hit it off together. +For a serious man the outside world is a place to work, and home is a +place to rest. For a society woman, the world is a place to idle and +home is a work shop, an entertainment factory. It's impossible to +reconcile those two opposite ideas." +</p> +<p> +She saw his point at once, and it appealed to her intelligence. And she +had his own faculty for never permitting prejudice to influence +judgment. She said in a dubious tone, "Do you think Dorothy will +sympathize with your scheme?" +</p> +<p> +"I'm sure I don't know," replied he. +</p> +<p> +"If she doesn't—" Ursula halted there. +</p> +<p> +Her brother shrugged his shoulders. "If she proves to be the wrong sort +of woman for me, she'll go her way and I mine." +</p> +<p> +"Why, I thought you loved her!" +</p> +<p> +"What have I said that leads you to change your mind?" said he. +</p> +<p> +"A man does not take the high hand with the woman he adores." +</p> +<p> +"So?" said Norman tranquilly. +</p> +<p> +"Well," said his puzzled sister by way of conclusion, "if you persist in +being the autocrat——" +</p> +<p> +"Autocrat?—I?" laughed he. "Am I trying to compel her to do anything +she doesn't wish to do? Didn't I say she would be free to go if she were +dissatisfied with me and my plan—if she didn't adopt it gladly as her +own plan, also?" +</p> +<p> +"But you know very well she's dependent upon you, Fred." +</p> +<p> +"Is that my fault? Does a man force a woman to become dependent? And +just because she is dependent, should he therefore yield to her and let +her make of his life a waste and a folly?" +</p> +<p> +"You're far too clever for me to argue with. Anyhow, as I was saying, if +you persist in what I call tyranny——" +</p> +<p> +"When a woman cries tyranny, it means she's furious because she is not +getting <i>her</i> autocratic way." +</p> +<p> +"Maybe so," admitted Ursula cheerfully. "At any rate, if you +persist—unless she loves you utterly, your life will be miserable." +</p> +<p> +"She may make her own life miserable, but not mine," replied he. "If I +were the ordinary man—counting himself lucky to have induced any woman +to marry him—afraid if he lost his woman he'd not be able to get +another—able to give his woman only an indifferent poor support, and so +on—if I were one of those men, what you say might be true. But what +deep and permanent mischief can a frail woman do a strong man?" +</p> +<p> +"There's instance after instance in history——" +</p> +<p> +"Of strong men wrecking <i>themselves</i> through various kinds of madness, +including sex madness. But, my dear Ursula, not an instance—not +one—where the woman was responsible. If history were truth, instead of +lies—you women might have less conceit." +</p> +<p> +"You—talking this way!" mocked Ursula. +</p> +<p> +"Meaning, I suppose, my late infatuation?" inquired he, unruffled. +</p> +<p> +"I never saw or read of a worse case." +</p> +<p> +"Am I ruined?" +</p> +<p> +"No. But why not? Because you got her. If you hadn't—" Ursula blew out +a large cloud of cigarette smoke with a "Pouf!" +</p> +<p> +"If I hadn't got her," said Norman, "I'd have got well, just the same, +in due time. A sick <i>weak</i> man goes down; a sick <i>strong</i> man gets well. +When a man who's reputed to be strong doesn't get well, it's because he +merely seemed strong but wasn't. The poets and novelists and the +historians and the rest of the nature fakers fail to tell <i>all</i> the facts, +dear sister. All the facts would spoil a pretty story." +</p> +<p> +Ursula thought a few minutes, suddenly burst out with, "Do you think +Dorothy loves you now?" +</p> +<p> +Norman rose to go out doors. "I don't think about such unprofitable +things," said he. "As long as we suit each other and get along +pleasantly—why bother about a name for it?" +</p> +<p> +In the French window he paused, stood looking out with an expression so +peculiar that Ursula, curious, came to see the cause. A few yards away, +under a big symmetrical maple in full leaf sat Dorothy with the baby on +her lap. She was dressed very simply in white. There was a little +sunlight upon her hair, a sheen of gold over her skin. She was looking +down at the baby. Her expression—— +</p> +<p> +Said Ursula: "Several of the great painters have tried to catch that +expression. But they've failed." +</p> +<p> +Norman made no reply. He had not heard. All in an instant there had been +revealed to him a whole new world—a view of man and woman—of woman—of +sex—its meaning so different from what he had believed and lived. +</p> +<p> +"What're you thinking about, Fred?" inquired his sister. +</p> +<p> +He shook his head, with a mysterious smile, and strolled away. +</p> +<a name="2H_4_0024"><!-- H2 anchor --></a> + +<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div> + +<h2> + XXII +</h2> +<p> +The baby grew and thrived, as the habit is with healthy children well +taken care of. Mrs. Norman soon got back her strength, her figure, and +perhaps more than her former beauty—as the habit is with healthy women +well taken care of. Norman's career continued to prosper, likewise +according to the habit of all healthy things well taken care of. In a +world where nothing happens by chance, mischance, to be serious, must +have some grave fault as its hidden cause. We mortals, who love to live +at haphazard and to blame God or destiny or "bad luck" for our +calamities, hate to take this modern and scientific view of the world +and life. But, whether we like it or not, it is the truth—and, as we +can't get round it, why not accept it cheerfully and, so appear a little +less ignorant and ridiculous? +</p> +<p> +During their first year at the Hempstead place the results in luxury and +comfort had at no time accounted for the money it cost and the servants +it employed—that is to say, paid. But Norman was neither unreasonable +nor impatient. Also, in his years of experience with his sister's +housekeeping, and of observation of the other women, he had grown +exceedingly moderate in his estimate of the ability of women and in his +expectations from them. He had reached the conclusion that the women who +were sheltered and pampered by the men of the successful classes were +proficient only in those things that call for no skill or effort beyond +the wagging of the tongue. He saw that Dorothy was making honest +endeavor to learn her business, and he knew that learning takes +time—much time. +</p> +<p> +He believed that in the end she would do better than any other wife of +his acquaintance, at the business of wife and mother. +</p> +<p> +Before the baby was two years old, his belief was rewarded. Things began +to run better—began to run well, even. Dorothy—a serious person, +unhampered of a keen sense of humor, had taught herself the duties of +her new position in much the same slow plodding way in which she had +formerly made of herself a fair stenographer and a tolerable typewriter. +Mrs. Lowell had helped—and Ursula, too—and Norman not a little. But +Dorothy, her husband discovered, was one of those who thoroughly +assimilate what they take in—who make it over into part of themselves. +So, her manner of keeping house, of arranging the gardens, of bringing +up the baby, of dressing herself, was peculiarly her own. It was not by +any means the best imaginable way. It was even what many energetic, +systematic and highly competent persons would speak contemptuously of. +But it satisfied Norman—and that was all Dorothy had in mind. +</p> +<p> +If those who have had any considerable opportunity to observe married +life will forget what they have read in novels and will fix their minds +on what they have observed at first hand, they will recognize the Norman +marriage, with the husband and wife living together yet apart as not +peculiar but of a rather common type. Neither Fred nor Dorothy had any +especial reason on any given day to try to alter their relations; so the +law of inertia asserted itself and matters continued as they had begun. +It was, perhaps, a chance remark of Tetlow's that was the remote but +efficient cause of a change, as the single small stone slipping high up +on the mountain side results in a vast landslide into the valley miles +below. Tetlow said one day, in connection with some estate they were +settling: +</p> +<p> +"I've always pitied the only child. It must be miserably lonesome." +</p> +<p> +No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he colored violently; +for, he remembered that the Normans had but one child and he knew the +probable reason for it. Norman seemed not to have heard or seen. Tetlow +hoped he hadn't, but, knowing the man, feared otherwise. And he was +right. +</p> +<p> +In the press of other matters Norman forgot Tetlow's remark—remembered +it again a few days later when he was taking the baby out for an airing +in the motor—forgot it again—finally, when he took a several days' +rest at home, remembered it and kept it in mind. He began to think of +Dorothy once more in a definite, personal way, began to observe her as +his wife, instead of as mere part of his establishment. An intellectual +person she certainly was not. She had a quaint individual way of +speaking and of acting. She had the marvelous changeable beauty that had +once caused him to take the bit in his teeth and run wild. But he would +no more think of talking with her about the affairs that really +interested him than—well, than the other men of large career in his +acquaintance would think of talking those matters to their wives. +</p> +<p> +But—He was astonished to discover that he liked this slim, quiet, +unobtrusive little wife of his better than he liked anyone else in the +world, that he eagerly turned away from the clever and amusing +companionship he might have at his clubs to come down to the country and +be with her and the baby—not the baby alone, but her also. Why? He +could not find a satisfactory reason. He saw that she created at that +Hempstead place an atmosphere of rest, of tranquility. But this merely +thrust the mystery one step back. <i>How</i> did she create this +atmosphere—and for a man of his varied and discriminating tastes? To +that question he could work out no answer. She had for him now a charm +as different from the infatuation of former days as calm sea is from +tempest-racked sea—utterly different, yet fully as potent. As he +observed her and wondered at these discoveries of his, the ghost of a +delight he had thought forever dead stirred in his heart, in his fancy. +Yes, it was a pleasure, a thrilling pleasure to watch her. There was +music in those quiet, graceful movements of hers, in that quiet, sweet +voice. Not the wild, blood-heating music of the former days, but a kind +far more melodious—tender, restful to nerves sorely tried by the +tensions of ambition. He made some sort of an attempt to define his +feeling for her, but could not. It seemed to fit into none of the usual +classifications. +</p> +<p> +Then, he wondered—"What is <i>she</i> thinking of <i>me</i>?" +</p> +<p> +To find out he resorted to various elaborate round about methods that +did credit to the ingenuity of his mind. But he made at every cunning +cast a barren water-haul. Either she was not thinking of him at all or +what she thought swam too deep for any casts he knew how to make in +those hidden and unfamiliar waters. Or, perhaps she did not herself know +what she thought, being too busy with the baby and the household to have +time for such abstract and not pressing, perhaps not important, matters. +He moved slowly in his inquiries into her state of mind because there +was all the time in the world and no occasion for haste. He moved +cautiously because he wished to do nothing that might disturb the +present serenity of their home life. Did she dislike him? Was she +indifferent? Had she developed a habit of having him about that was in a +way equivalent to liking? +</p> +<p> +These languid but delightful investigations—not unlike the pastimes one +spins out when one has a long, long lovely summer day with hours on +hours for luxurious happy idling—these investigations were abruptly +suspended by a suddenly compelled trip to Europe. He arranged for +Dorothy to send him a cable every day—"about yourself and the +baby"—and he sent an occasional cabled bulletin about himself in reply. +But neither wrote to the other; their relationship was not of the +letter-exchanging kind—and had no need of pretense at what it was not. +</p> +<p> +In the third month of his absence, his sister Ursula came over for +dresses, millinery and truly aristocratic society. She had little time +for him, or he for her, but they happened to lunch alone about a week +after his arrival. +</p> +<p> +"You're looking cross and unhappy," said she. "What's the matter? +Business?" +</p> +<p> +"No—everything's going well." +</p> +<p> +"Same thing that's troubling Dorothy, then?" +</p> +<p> +"Is Dorothy ill?" inquired he, suddenly as alert as he had been absent. +"She hasn't let me know anything about it." +</p> +<p> +"Ill? Of course not," reassured Ursula. "She's never ill. But—I've not +anywhere or ever seen two people as crazy about each other as you and +she." +</p> +<p> +"Really?" Norman had relapsed into interest in what he was eating. +</p> +<p> +"You live all alone down there in the country. You treat anyone who +comes to see you as intruder. And as soon as darling husband goes away, +darling wife wanders about like a damned soul. Honestly, it gave me the +blues to look at her eyes. And I used to think she cared more about the +baby than about you." +</p> +<p> +"She's probably worried about something else," said Norman. "More salad? +No? There's no dessert—at least I've ordered none. But if you'd like +some strawberries——" +</p> +<p> +"I thought of that," replied Ursula, not to be deflected. "I mean of her +being upset about something beside you. I'm slow to suspect anyone of +really caring about any <i>one</i> else. But, although she didn't confess, I +soon saw that it was your absence. And she wasn't putting on for my +benefit, either. My maid hears the same thing from all the servants." +</p> +<p> +"This is pleasant," said Norman in his mocking good-humored way. +</p> +<p> +"And you're in the same state," she charged with laughing but +sympathetic eyes. "Why, Fred, you're as madly in love with her as ever." +</p> +<p> +"I wonder," said he reflectively. +</p> +<p> +"Why didn't you bring her with you?" +</p> +<p> +He stared at his sister like a man who has just discovered that he, with +incredible stupidity, had overlooked the obvious. "I didn't think I'd +be away long," evaded he. +</p> +<p> +He saw Ursula off for the Continent, half promised to join her in a few +weeks at Aix. A day or so after her departure he had a violent fit of +blues, was haunted by a vision of the baby and the comfortable, peaceful +house on Long Island. He had expected to stay about two months longer. +"I'm sick of England and of hotels," he said, and closed up his business +and sailed the following week. +</p> +<hr> +<p> +She and the baby were at the pier to meet him. He looked for signs of +the mourning Ursula had described, but he looked in vain. Never had he +seen her lovelier, or so sparkling. And how she did talk!—rattling on +and on, with those interesting commonplaces of domestic event—the baby, +the household, the garden, the baby—the horses, the dogs, the +baby—the servants, her new dresses, the baby—and so on, and so on—and +the baby. +</p> +<p> +But when they got into the motor at Hempstead station for the drive +home, silence fell upon her—he had been almost silent from the start of +the little journey. As the motor swung into the grounds, looking their +most beautiful for his homecoming, an enormous wave of pure delight +began to surge up in him, to swell, to rush, to break, dashing its spray +of tears into his eyes. He turned his head away to hide the too obvious +display of feeling. They went into the house, he carrying the baby. He +gave it to the nurse—and he and she were alone. +</p> +<p> +"It certainly is good to be home again," he said. +</p> +<p> +The words were the tamest commonplace. We always speak in the old +stereotyped commonplaces when we speak directly from the heart. His tone +made her glance quickly at him. +</p> +<p> +"Why, I believe you <i>are</i> glad," said she. +</p> +<p> +He took her hand. They looked at each other. Suddenly she flung herself +wildly into his arms and clung to him in an agony of joy and fear. "Oh, +I missed you so!" she sobbed. "I missed you so!" +</p> +<p> +"It was frightful," said he. "It shall never happen again." +</p> + + +<div style="height: 6em;"><br><br><br><br><br><br></div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Grain Of Dust, by David Graham Phillips + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GRAIN OF DUST *** + +***** This file should be named 430-h.htm or 430-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/430/ + +Produced by Charles Keller and David Garcia + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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