University of Virginia Library

12. XII

HE went straight home and sought his sister. She had that moment come in from tea after a matinée. 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 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 have you been doing? You look — frightful!”

“I've broken with her,” replied he.

“With Jo?” she cried. “Why, Fred, you can't — you can't — with the wedding only five days away!”

“Not with Jo.”

Ursula breathed noisy relief. She said cheerfully: “Oh — with the other. Well, I'm glad it's over.”

“Over?” said he sardonically. “Over? It's only begun.”

“But you'll stick it out, Fred. You've made a fool of yourself long enough. What was the girl playing for? Marriage?”

He nodded. “I guess so.” He laughed curtly. “And she almost won.”

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.”

“She almost won,” he repeated. “At least, I almost did it. If I had stayed a minute longer I'd have done it.”

“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.”

“I am not so damn sure I shan't do it yet,” he burst out fiercely.

“But I am,” said Ursula, calm, brisk, practical. “What's she going to do?”

“Going to work.”

Ursula laughed joyously. “What a joke! A woman go to work when she needn't!”

“She is going to work.”

“To work another man.”

“She meant it.”

“How easily women fool men! — even the wise men like you.”

“She meant it.”

“She still hopes to marry you — or she has heard of your marriage — — ”

Norman lifted his head. Into his face came the cynical, suspicious expression.

“And has fastened on some other man. Or perhaps she's found some good provider who's willing to marry her.”

Norman sprang up, his eyes blazing, his mouth working cruelly. “By God!” he cried. “If I thought that!”

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!”

“Your good sense tells you if you had her you'd be over it — ” She snapped her fingers — “like that.”

“Yes — yes — I know it! But — ” He groaned — “she has broken with me.”

Ursula went to him and kissed him and took his head in her arms. “What a boy-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.”

“I want her, Urse — I want her,” he groaned, and he was almost sobbing. “My God, I can't get on without her.”

“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 — — ”

“I want her,” he repeated. “I want her.”

“You'd be ashamed if you had her as a wife — wouldn't you?”

He was silent.

“She isn't a lady.”

“I don't know,” replied he.

“She hasn't any sense. A low sort of cunning, yes. But not brains — not enough to hold you.”

“I don't know,” replied he. “She's got enough for a woman. And — I want her.”

“She isn't to be compared with Josephine.”

“But I don't want Josephine. I want her.”

“But which do you want to marry? — to bring forward as your wife? — to spend your life with?”

“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.”

“Is she so wonderful?”

“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.”

“Like a man chasing an echo,” repeated Ursula reflectively. “I understand. It is maddening. She must be clever — in her way.”

“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.”

“You will,” said his sister confidently. “A fortnight from now you'll be laughing at yourself.”

“I am now. I have been all along. But — it does no good.”

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.”

“It's my only hope,” he said with a grim smile. “I can see myself. No wonder she despises me.”

“Despises you?” scoffed Ursula. “A woman despise

you! 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.”

“She despises me.”

“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.”

“Just that,” he admitted, rising and looking drearily about. “I don't know what the devil to do next. Everything seems to have stopped.”

“Going to see Josephine this evening?”

“I suppose so,” was his indifferent reply.

“You'll have to dress after dinner. There's no time now.”

“Dress?” he inquired vaguely. “Why dress? Why do anything?”

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 fiancée he saw that she was again in the throes of some violent agitation.

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.”

“Do you mind if I smoke a cigar?” said he, looking at her unseeingly with haggard, cold eyes. “And may I have some whisky?”

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.

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.

“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.”

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.”

“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.”

“That's right, sir,” said Norman. “Is your quarrel with me?”

Josephine attempted an easy laugh. “It's that silly story we were talking about the other day, Fred.”

“I supposed so,” said he. “You are not smoking, Mr. Burroughs — ” He laughed amiably — “at least not a cigar.”

“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?”

Norman's amused glance encountered the savage glare mockingly. “Why do you ask?” he inquired.

“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.”

“Very proper, sir,” said Norman graciously.

“My daughter,” continued Burroughs with accelerating anger, “tells me you have denied the story.”

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.

“But,” Burroughs went on, “I have it on the best authority that it is true.”

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.

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.”

“Fred!” pleaded Josephine. “Don't listen to him. Remember, I have said nothing.”

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.”

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.

Burroughs was saying: “If we had not committed ourselves so deeply, I should deal very differently with this matter.”

“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.”

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.”

“On the contrary,” rejoined the young man, “I see you believe you have me in your power. And in a sense you are not mistaken.”

“Father, he is right,” cried Josephine agitatedly. “I shouldn't love and respect him as I do if he would submit to this hectoring.”

“Hectoring!” exclaimed Burroughs. “Josephine, leave the room. I cannot discuss this matter properly before you.”

“I hope you will not leave, Josephine,” said Norman.

“There is nothing to be said that you cannot and ought not to hear.”

“I'm not an infant, father,” said Josephine. “Besides, it is as Fred says. He has done nothing — improper.”

“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.”

“But I told you all about it, father,” said Josephine angrily. “They've been distorting the truth, and the truth is to his credit.”

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.”

There was absolute silence in the room. Norman stole a glance at Josephine. She was sitting erect, a greenish pallor over her ghastly face.

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.”

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.”

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:

“You say you have broken with the woman?”

“She has broken with me,” replied Norman.

“At any rate, everything is broken off.”

“Apparently.”

“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 preëminent fitness were so rare.

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 me! I am done with him.” And she rushed from the room, her father half starting from his chair to detain her.

He turned angrily on Norman. “A hell of a mess you've made!” he cried.

“A hell of a mess,” replied the young man.

“Of course she'll come round. But you've got to do your part.”

“It's settled,” said Norman. And he threw his cigar into the fireplace. “Good night.”

“Hold on!” cried Burroughs. “Before you go, you must see Josie alone and talk with her.”

“It would be useless,” said Norman. “You know her.”

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.”

“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.

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.

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.