 | VIII Grain of Dust. |  |
8. VIII
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
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.
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:
“Mr. Tetlow — one moment, please.”
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,
“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.”
Norman paled. “She wishes to leave?” he contrived to articulate.
“She spoke to me about leaving before I told her I had found her another job.”
Norman debated — but for only a moment. “I do not wish her to leave,” he said coldly. “I find her useful and most trustworthy.”
Tetlow's eyes were fixed strangely upon him.
“What's the matter with you?” asked Norman, the under-note of danger but thinly covered.
“Then she was right,” said Tetlow slowly. “I thought she was mistaken. I see that she is right.”
“What do you mean?” said Norman — a mere inquiry, devoid of bluster or any other form of nervousness.
“You know very well what I mean, Fred Norman,” said Tetlow. “And you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Don't stand there scowling and grimacing like an idiot,” said Norman with an amused smile. “What do you mean?”
“She told me — about your coming to see her —
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?”
“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.”
Norman laughed — a deliberate provocation. “Love has made a fool of you, old man,” he said.
“I notice you don't deny,” retorted Tetlow shrewdly.
“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.
“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.”
Norman pushed about the papers before him. His
“I don't know that I can win her, Fred,” he pleaded. “But I feel that I might if I had a fair chance.”
“You think she'd refuse you?” said Norman.
“Like a flash, unless I'd made her care for me. That's the kind she is.”
“That sounds absurd. Why, there isn't a woman in New York who would refuse a chance to take a high jump up.”
“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.”
“You're entirely too credulous, old man. She'll make a fool of you.”
“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.”
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
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.”
“You promise to let her alone?” said Tetlow eagerly.
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.”
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
Norman battled with his insanity an hour, then sent for Miss Hallowell.
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.
“You are leaving?” he said curtly, both a question and an affirmation.
“Yes.”
“You are making a mistake — a serious mistake.”
She stood before him listlessly, as if she had no interest either in what he was saying or in him. That maddening indifference!
“It was a mistake to tattle your trouble to Tetlow.”
“I did not tattle,” said she quietly, colorlessly. “I said only enough to make him help me.”
“And what did he say about me?”
“That I had misjudged you — that I must be mistaken.”
Norman laughed. “How seriously the little people of the world do take themselves!”
She looked at him. His amused eyes met hers frankly. “You didn't mean it?” she said.
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?”
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.
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.”
“You will get nothing else,” said she with quiet strength.
“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?”
“What is it?”
“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
“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?”
“Nothing else.”
She looked intently at him, and her eyes seemed to be reading his soul to the bottom.
“Nothing else,” he repeated.
“No obligation — for money — or — for anything?”
“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.”
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:
“I accept.”
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
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?”
“Why should you refuse?” rejoined he. “It is a good business prop — — ”
“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 you will.”
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.”
“Do you want to back out?”
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.”
She smiled lightly. “I suppose you'll come to the offices of the company — occasionally?” She drew
“You mean that?” he said, despising himself for his humble eagerness, and hating her even as he loved her.
“Indeed I do.” She smiled bewitchingly. “You are a lot better man than you think.”
“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.”
“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.”
“Yes?”
“About your engagement.”
He covered superbly. “Oh,” said he in the most indifferent tone. “Tetlow told you.”
“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.”
“How did you learn?” demanded he.
“Do you think a girl could spend several years knocking about down town in New York without getting experience?”
He smiled — a forced smile of raillery, hiding sudden
“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.”
He burst out laughing. She gazed at him in childlike surprise. “Why are you laughing at me?” she asked.
“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.”
“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.
“Tetlow didn't lie to you,” evaded he. “You don't know it, but Tetlow is going to ask you to marry him.”
“Yes, I knew,” replied she indifferently.
“How? Did he tell you?”
“No. Just as I knew you were not going to ask me to marry you.”
The mere phrase, even when stated as a negation, gave him a sensation of ice suddenly laid against the heart.
“It's quite easy to tell the difference between the two kinds of men — those that care for me more than
“That's the way it looks to you — is it?”
“That's the way it is,” said she.
“There are some things you don't understand. This is one of them.”
“Maybe I don't,” said she. “But I've my own idea — and I'm going to stick to it.”
This amused him. “You are a very opinionated and self-confident young lady,” said he.
She laughed roguishly. “I'm taking up a lot of your time.”
“Don't think of it. You haven't asked when the new deal is to begin.”
“Oh, yes — and I shall have to tell Mr. Tetlow I'm not taking the place he got for me.”
“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?”
She did not reply; she was reflecting.
“You are not thinking of marrying Tetlow — are you?”
“No,” she said. “I don't love him — and couldn't learn to.”
With a sincerely judicial air, now that he felt secure, he said: “Why not? It would be a good match.”
“I don't love him,” she repeated, as if that were a
“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.”
“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.”
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.”
“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
He laughed. “Meaning me?” he suggested.
She nodded, much pleased. “Perhaps,” she replied.
“Don't worry about that,” mocked he.
“I shan't till I have to,” she assured him. “And I don't think I'll have to.”
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.”
“Why, what's the matter?” cried Norman. “You do look ill, old man.”
“I saw her last night,” replied the chief clerk, dropping an effort at concealing his dejection. “She — she turned me down.”
“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.”
“That's what I told her — when I saw the game was going against me. But it was no use.”
Norman trifled nervously with the papers before him. Presently he said, “Is it some one else?”
Tetlow shook his head.
“How do you know?”
“Because she said so,” replied the head clerk.
“Oh — if she said so, that settles it,” said Norman with raillery.
“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.”
Norman's eyes were down. His hands, the muscles of his jaw were clinched.
“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 — — ”
Norman laughed cynically.
“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.”
Norman nodded.
Tetlow gave a weary sigh. “Anyhow, she's safe at home with her father. He's found a backer for his experiments.”
“That's good,” said Norman.
“You can spare me for ten days,” Tetlow went on. “I'd be of no use if I stayed.”
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.”
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.”
“Oh, come, Billy — where's your good sense?”
“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.”
Norman, his hand still on Tetlow's shoulder, was staring ahead with a terrible expression upon his strong features.
“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!”
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.
“Certainly,” said Norman, without turning.
“Thank you, Fred. You're a good friend.”
“I'll see you before you go,” said Norman, still facing the window. “You'll come back all right.”
Tetlow did not answer. When Norman turned he was alone.
| VIII Grain of Dust. | |