'Evidently she had been crying.'"Evidently she had been crying."
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."
A pause, then she, timidly: "Would you mind very much if I—if I didn't—go on?"
"You mean, if you left me?"
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.
He said: "My dear—you mustn't decide anything so important to you in a hurry."
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:
"It seems to me I just can't stay on."
"You can always go, you know. Why not try it a few days?"
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 forhisfeelings! He said with a kind of paternal tenderness:
"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."
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:
"If you ask it, I'll stay a while. But you must promise to—to be kind to me."
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.
"I—can—trust you?" she said.
"Absolutely," replied he. "I'll have another room opened into this suite. Would you like that?"
"If you—if you don't mind."
He stood up with sudden boyish buoyance. "Now—let's go shopping. Let's amuse ourselves."
She rose with alacrity. She eyed him uncertainly, then flung her arms round his neck and kissed him.
"You aresogood to me!" she cried. "And I'm not a bit nice."
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."
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.
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?"
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."
She glanced down at her costume. "No, it's the same dress. I've only the one, you know."
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."
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.
"You can dress to-night," said he, "and I'll take you to Sherry's, and to the theater afterwards."
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.
"You are incredibly beautiful," he said in an awed tone. "I am proud of you."
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."
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.
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!"
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.
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.
Certainly he needed all his courage and all his skill.
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.
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.
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.
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."
"How much?" said Tetlow.
"More than you can afford to advance me."
"How much?" repeated Tetlow.
"Three thousand a month right away—at the least."
"That's a big sum," said Tetlow.
"Yes, for a man used to dealing in small figures. But in reality it's a moderate income."
"Few large families spend more."
"Few large or small families in my part of New York pinch along on so little."
"What has happened to you?" said Tetlow, dropping into a chair and folding his fat hands on his stomach.
"Why?" asked Norman.
"It's in your voice—in your face—in your cool demand for a big income."
"Let's start right, old man," said Norman. "Don'tcallthirty-six thousand a year big or you'llthinkit big. And if you think it big, you will stay little."
Tetlow nodded. "I'm ready to grow," said he. "Now what's happened to you?"
"I've got married," replied Norman.
"I thought so. To Miss—Hallowell?"
"To Miss Hallowell. So my way's clear, and I'm going to resume the march."
"Yes?"
"I've two plans. Either will serve. The first is yours—the one you partly revealed to me the other day."
"Partly?" said Tetlow.
"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."
"I said all I'm at liberty to say, Fred."
"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?"
"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.
"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."
Tetlow shook his large, impressively molded head. "Shady," said he. "Shady."
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."
Tetlow shifted uneasily. "I don't like to hear that sort of thing," said he, apologetic and nervous.
"Is it true?"
"Yes. But—damn it, I don't like to hear it."
"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 mensee. They don't deceive themselves with the cant they pour out for the benefit of the ignorant mob."
Tetlow was listening like a pupil to a teacher. That was always his attitude toward Norman.
"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?"
"No doubt you're right, Fred," conceded Tetlow. "But I'm afraid I haven't the nerve."
"Come in behind me. I've got nerve for two—now!"
At that triumphant "now" Tetlow looked curiously at his friend. "Yes,ithas changed you—changed you back to what you were. I don't understand."
"It isn't necessary that you understand," rejoined Norman."
"Do you think you could really carry through that scheme you've just outlined?"
"I see it fascinates you."
"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?"
"Did I ever let it deceive me?"
"No," confessed Tetlow. "I've often watched you, and thought you'd fall through it, or stumble at least. But you never did."
"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."
Tetlow nodded reminiscently. "Yes, you always were like that, Fred."
"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."
Tetlow gazed at Norman in worshipful admiration. "What a brain! What a mind!" he ejaculated. "And to think thatyoucould be upset by awoman!"
Norman leaned back in his chair smiling broadly. "Not by a woman," he corrected. "By a girl—an inexperienced girl of twenty."
"It seems incredible."
"A grain of dust, dropped into a watch movement in just the right place—you know what happens."
Tetlow nodded. Then, with a sharp, anxious look, "But it's all over?"
Norman hesitated. "I believe so," he said.
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."
Norman shook his head. "Not enough," he said.
"You want more money?"
"No. But I will not work, or rather, wait, in the dark. Tell your principals that I must be let in."
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."
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?"
"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."
"And I'll make a rich man, and a famous one, of you," said Norman.
"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.
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."
Tetlow grinned. "A sentimental town, isn't it? Especially the women."
"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."
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."
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.
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."
Norman took it. "She went out?"
"About three o'clock—with a young gentleman who called on her. They came back a while ago and she left the note."
"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:
"Last night you broke your promise. So I am going away. Don't look forme. It won't be any use. When I decide what to do I'll send you word."
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.
"Hell!" he said aloud. "Why didn't I let her go yesterday morning?"
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.
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.
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.
"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?"
Tetlow declined champagne, accepted half a dozen of the huge oysters. "I've been after you for nearly a week," said he to Norman.
"Pity you weren'twithme," said Norman. "I've been getting acquainted with large numbers of my fellow citizens."
"From the Bowery to Yonkers."
"Exactly. Don't fall asleep, Gaskill."
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.
"That's the way it goes," complained Norman. "I can't find anyone to keep me company."
Tetlow laughed. "You look as if you had just started out," said he. "Tell me—wherehave you slept?"
"I haven't had time to sleep as yet."
"I dropped in to suggest that a little sleep wouldn't do any harm."
"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."
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.
"From the benches in Madison Square," replied Norman. He laughed queerly. "Recognize yourself in any of those mugs, Tetlow?" he asked.
Tetlow shivered. "I should say not!" he exclaimed.
Norman's eyes gleamed. "I see myself in all of 'em," said he.
"Poor wretches!" muttered Tetlow.
"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."
"Shake this crowd," said Tetlow impatiently. "I want to talk with you."
"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.
"To my place," suggested Tetlow.
"No, to mine—the Knickerbocker," replied Norman.
"I'd rather you went to my place first," said Tetlow uneasily.
"My wife isn't with me. She has left me," said Norman calmly.
Tetlow hesitated, extremely nervous, finally acquiesced. They drove a while in silence, then Norman said, "What's the business?"
"Galloway wants to see you."
"Tell him to come to my office to-morrow—that means to-day—at any time after eleven."
"But that gives you no chance to pull yourself together," objected Tetlow.
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."
Tetlow cleared his throat nervously. "Don't you think, old man, that you'd better go to see him? I'll arrange the appointment."
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."
"But it isn't the custom nowadays for a lawyer to deal that way with a man like Galloway."
"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."
"Galloway won't come," said Tetlow curtly.
"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?"
"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."
"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."
"But if he doesn't come, Fred?"
"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."
"Well, we'll see," said Tetlow, with the air of a sober man patient with one who is not sober.
"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."
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."
"Itissnobbishness," 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?"
"No, I don't," snapped Tetlow.
"That's what it means to be Tetlow. Now, I do see—and that's why I'm Norman."
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?
"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?"
"I certainly do," replied his admirer.
"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?"
Tetlow startled. "No—that is, yes," he stammered. "That is, I met him a few times."
"Often enough to find out that he was crazy?"
"Oh, yes. He explained some of his ideas to me. Yes—he was quite mad, poor fellow."
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."
"You don't think Mr. Hallowell was mad?"
"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."
"His death was certainly a great loss to his daughter," said Tetlow in his heaviest, most bourgeois manner.
"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."
"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.
"Um," muttered Norman.
Said Tetlow: "Perhaps you misunderstood why I—I acted as I did about her, toward the last."
"It was of no importance," said Norman brusquely. "I wish to hear nothing about it."
"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."
An expression of grim satire passed over Norman's face. Said he: "She despised me, too."
"Yes, she did," said Tetlow. "And both of us were certainly greatly her superiors—in every substantial way. It seemed to me most—most——"
"Most impertinent of her?" suggested Norman.
"Precisely.Mostimpertinent."
"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 tolove—that's another matter. Only a great soul is capable of a great love."
"That is true," murmured Tetlow sentimentally, preening in a quiet, gentle way.
Said Norman sententiously: "Youstopped loving. It wasIthat kept on."
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——"
"Here we are," interrupted Norman.
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:
"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 frommethese last few months!"
"And you wantGallowayto come toyou," thrust Tetlow, as he counted out the money.
"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."
"Why should you pay for my cab?" rejoined Tetlow.
"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?"
Tetlow looked sour. His good nature was rubbing thin in spots.
"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."
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:
"What does this mean, Tetlow?"
"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."
"You brought her back?" demanded Norman.
"She wanted to come. I simply——"
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:
"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."
"What are you chattering about?" said Norman fiercely. "Why did you meddle in my affairs? Why did you bring her back?"
"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."
Norman gave a short sardonic laugh. "If you'd only stop trying to understand me!" he said.
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."
Tetlow's meaning slowly dawned on Norman. He seated himself in his favorite attitude, legs sprawled, fingers interlaced behind his head.
"Wasn't I right to bring her back—to tell her she needn't fear to come?" pleaded Tetlow.
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."
Tetlow hesitated. "Fred—you'll not be harsh to her?" he said.
Norman smiled—a satirical smile, yet exquisitely gentle. "If youonlywouldn't try to understand me, Bill," he said.
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?"
"Another bedroom, sir."
"Unlock it, and tell them at the office I wish that room added to my suite."
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.
"I heard you and Mr. Tetlow come in," she said. "Then—you talked so long—I fell asleep again. I only this minute awakened."
"Well, now you can go to sleep again," said he.
"But I'm not a bit sleepy. What are you doing in that room?"
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."
"I didn't wish to disturb you," said he, calm and grave.
"But you wouldn't have been disturbing me," protested she, leaning against the door frame, less than two feet away and directly facing him.
"I'll stay on here," said he.
She gazed at him with great puzzled eyes. "Aren't you glad I'm back?" she asked.
"Certainly," said he with a polite smile. "But I must get some sleep." And he moved away.
"You must let me tell you how I happened to go and why I came——"
"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?"
"Yes—if"—her lip quivered—"if you'll let me."
"There can be no question of that," said he with the same polite gravity he had maintained throughout.
"You want me to leave you alone?"
"Please. I need sleep badly—and I've only three hours."
"You are—angry with me?"
He looked placidly into her lovely, swimming eyes. "Not in the least."
"But how can you help being? I acted dreadfully."
He smiled gently. "But you are back—and the incident is closed."
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?"
"I'll not trouble you any more," evaded he. And he laid his hand significantly upon the knob.
"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."
"Good night," said he, beginning to close the door.
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——"
He kissed her on the brow. "Don't agitate yourself," said he. "And we will never speak of this again."
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.