XII
He went straight home and sought his sister. She had that moment come infrom tea after a matinee. She talked about the play--how badly it wasacted--and about the women she had seen at tea--how badly dressed theywere. "It's hard to say which is the more dreadful--the ugly, misshapenhuman race without clothes or in the clothes it insists on wearing. Andthe talk at that tea! Does no one ever say a pleasant thing aboutanyone? Doesn't anyone ever do a pleasant thing that can be spokenabout? I read this morning Tolstoy's advice about resolving to think allday only nice thoughts and sticking to it. That sounded good to me, andI decided to try it." Ursula laughed and squirmed about in hertight-fitting dress that made an enchanting display of her figure. "Whatis one to do? _I_ can't be a fraud, for one. And if I had stuck to myresolution 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 thewedding 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 longenough. 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 theambitious, snobbish New York men."
"She almost won," he repeated. "At least, I almost did it. If I hadstayed a minute longer I'd have done it."
"You like to think you would," mocked Ursula. "But if you had tried tosay the words your lungs would have collapsed, your vocal chords snappedand 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 todo?"
"Going to work."
Ursula laughed joyously. "What a joke! A woman go to work when sheneedn'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, suspiciousexpression.
"And has fastened on some other man. Or perhaps she's found some goodprovider 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 anyabsurdity. He flung himself down in despair. "Urse, why can't I get ridof this thing? It's ruining me. It's killing me!"
"Your good sense tells you if you had her you'd be over it--" Shesnapped 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 havealways had whatever one wanted and then to find something one can'thave. We women are used to it--and the usual sort of man. But not yoursort, 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 beneathyou--that she isn't at all what you've got in the habit of picturingher--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--notenough 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?--tospend your life with?"
"I know. I'm a mad fool. But, Urse, I can't help it." He stood upsuddenly. "I've used every weapon I've got. Even pride--and it skulkedaway. 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'tfind her. She keeps me going like a man chasing an echo."
"Like a man chasing an echo," repeated Ursula reflectively. "Iunderstand. It is maddening. She must be clever--in her way."
"Or very simple. God knows which; I don't--and sometimes I think shedoesn'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 belaughing 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 tomake him comfortable. He was drinking brandy and soda and staring at hisfeet which were stretched straight out toward the fire. "Where's yoursense 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. Nowonder she despises me."
"Despises you?" scoffed Ursula. "A _woman_ despise _you_! She's crazyabout you, I'll bet anything you like. Before you're through with thisyou'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 absolutelyunlike yourself. Why, you're as broken-spirited as a henpecked oldhusband."
"Just that," he admitted, rising and looking drearily about. "I don'tknow 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 anddrink. But she was mistaken. Toward nine o'clock he, in evening dress,with the expression of a horse in a treadmill, rang the bell ofJosephine's house and passed in at the big bronze doors. The butler musthave particularly admired the way he tossed aside his coat and hat. Assoon as he was in the presence of his fiancee he saw that she was againin 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 itset him wild."
"Do you mind if I smoke a cigar?" said he, looking at her unseeinglywith haggard, cold eyes. "And may I have some whisky?"
She rang. "I hope the servants didn't hear him," she said. Then, as astep sounded outside she put on an air of gayety, as if she were stilllaughing at some jest he had made. In the doorway appeared her fatherone of those big men who win half the battle in advance on personalappearance of unconquerable might. Burroughs was noted for hisgenerosity and for his violent temper. As a rule men of the largenessnecessary to handling large affairs are free from petty vindictiveness.They are too busy for hatred. They do not forgive; they are most carefulnot to forget; they simply stand ready at any moment to do whatever itis to their interest to do, regardless of friendships or animosities.Burroughs was an exception in that he got his highest pleasure out ofpursuing his enemies. He enjoyed this so keenly that several times--soit was said--he had sacrificed real money to satisfy a revenge. Butthese rumors may have wronged him. It is hardly probable that a man whowould let a wea
kness carry him to that pitch of folly could have escapeddestruction. For of all the follies revenge is the most dangerous--aswell as the most fatuous.
Burroughs had a big face. Had he looked less powerful the bigness of hisfeatures, the spread of cheek and jowl, would have been grotesque. As itwas, the face was impressive, especially when one recalled how many,many millions he owned and how many more he controlled. The control wasbetter than the ownership. The millions he owned made him a coward--hewas afraid he might lose them. The millions he controlled, and of courseused for his own enrichment, made him brave, for if they were lost inthe daring ventures in which he freely staked them, why, the loss wasnot his, and he could shift the blame. Usually Norman treated him withgreat respect, for his business gave the firm nearly half its totalincome, and it was his daughter and his wealth, prestige and power, thatNorman was marrying. But this evening he looked at the great man with asuperciliousness that was peculiarly disrespectful from so young a manto one well advanced toward old age. Norman had been feeling relaxed,languid, exhausted. The signs of battle in that powerful face nervedhim, keyed him up at once. He waited with a joyful impatience while theservant was bringing cigars and whisky. The enormous quantities ofliquor he had drunk in the last few days had not been without effect.Alcohol, the general stimulant, inevitably brings out in strong relief aman's dominant qualities. The dominant quality of Norman was love ofcombat.
"Josephine tells me you are in a blue fury," said Norman pleasantly whenthe door was closed and the three were alone. "No--not a blue fury. Ablack fury."
At the covert insolence of his tone Josephine became violently agitated."Father," she said, with the imperiousness of an only and indulgedchild, "I have asked you not to interfere between Fred and me. I thoughtI had your promise."
"I said I'd think about it," replied her father. He had a heavy voicethat now and then awoke some string of the lower octaves of the piano inthe 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 weretalking about the other day, Fred."
"I supposed so," said he. "You are not smoking, Mr. Burroughs--" Helaughed amiably--"at least not a cigar."
"The doctor only allows me one, and I've had it," replied Burroughs, hiseyes sparkling viciously at this flick of the whip. "What is the truthabout that business, Norman?"
Norman's amused glance encountered the savage glare mockingly. "Why doyou ask?" he inquired.
"Because my daughter's happiness is at stake. Because I cannot butresent 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 meyou have denied the story."
"'Father ... I have asked you not to interfere betweenFred and me.'"]
Norman interrupted with an astonished look at Josephine. She colored,gazed at him imploringly. His face terrified her. When body and mind arein health and at rest the fullness of the face hides the character to agreat extent. But when a human being is sick or very tired theconcealing roundness goes and in the clearly marked features the truecharacter is revealed. In Norman's face, haggard by his wearingemotions, his character stood forth--the traits of strength, oftenacity, of inevitable purpose. And Josephine saw and dreaded.
"But," Burroughs went on, "I have it on the best authority that it istrue."
Norman, looking into the fascinating face of danger, was thrilled. "Thenyou wish to break off the engagement?" he said in the gentlest,smoothest tone.
Burroughs brought his fist down on the table--and Norman recognized thegesture of the bluffer. "I wish you to break off with that woman!" hecried. "I insist upon it--upon positive assurances from you."
"Fred!" pleaded Josephine. "Don't listen to him. Remember, I have saidnothing."
He had long been looking for a justifying grievance against her. It nowseemed to him that he had found it. "Why should you?" he said geniallybut with subtle irony, "since you are getting your father to speak foryou."
There was just enough truth in this to entangle her and throw her intodisorder. She had been afraid of the consequences of her father'sinterfering with a man so spirited as Norman, but at the same time shehad longed to have some one put a check upon him. Norman's suave remarkmade her feel that he could see into her inmost soul--could see theanger, the jealousy, the doubt, the hatred-tinged love, thelove-saturated hate seething and warring there.
Burroughs was saying: "If we had not committed ourselves so deeply, Ishould deal very differently with this matter."
"Why should that deter you?" said Norman--and Josephine gave a piteousgasp. "If this goes much farther, I assure you I shall not be deterred."
Burroughs, firmly planted in a big leather chair, looked at the youngman 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 haveme in your power. And in a sense you are _not_ mistaken."
"Father, he is right," cried Josephine agitatedly. "I shouldn't love andrespect him as I do if he would submit to this hectoring."
"Hectoring!" exclaimed Burroughs. "Josephine, leave the room. I cannotdiscuss this matter properly before you."
"I hope you will not leave, Josephine," said Norman. "There is nothingto be said that you cannot and ought not to hear."
"I'm not an infant, father," said Josephine. "Besides, it is as Fredsays. He has done nothing--improper."
"Then why does he not say so?" demanded Burroughs, seeing a chance torecede from his former too advanced position. "That's all I ask."
"But I told you all about it, father," said Josephine angrily. "They'vebeen distorting the truth, and the truth is to his credit."
Norman avoided the glance she sent to him; it was only a glance andaway, for more formidably than ever his power was enthroned in hishaggard face. He stood with his back to the fire and it was plain thatthe muscles of his strong figure were braced to give and to receive ashock. "Mr. Burroughs," he said, "your daughter is mistaken. Perhaps itis my fault--in having helped her to mislead herself. The plain truthis, I have become infatuated with a young woman. She cares nothing aboutme--has repulsed me. I have been and am making a fool of myself abouther. 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 atJosephine. She was sitting erect, a greenish pallor over her ghastlyface.
He said: "If she will take me, now that she knows the truth, I shall begrateful--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 hisgaze. Her lip quivered. A brief struggle between vanity and love--andvanity, the stronger, the strongest force in her life, dominating itsince earliest babyhood and only seeming to give way to love when lovecame--it was vanity that won. She stiffened herself and her mouth curledwith proud scorn. She laughed--a sneer of jealous rage. "Father," shesaid, "the lady in the case is a common typewriter in his office."
But to men--especially to practical men--differences of rank andposition among women are not fundamentally impressive. Man is in thehabit of taking what he wants in the way of womankind wherever he findsit, and he understands that habit in other men. He was furious withNorman, 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 turnedto his daughter. "If you understood men, you would attach no importanceto this matter. As you yourself said, the woman isn't a lady--isn't inour class. That sort of thing amounts to
nothing. Norman has acted well.He has shown the highest kind of honesty--has been truthful where mostmen would have shifted and lied. Anyhow, things have gone too far." Notwithout the soundest reasons had Burroughs accepted Norman as hisson-in-law; and he had no fancy for giving him up, when men of hispre-eminent fitness were so rare.
There was another profound silence. Josephine looked at Norman. Had hereturned her gaze, the event might have been different; for within herthere was now going on a struggle between two nearly evenly matchedvanities--the vanity of her own outraged pride and the vanity of whatthe world would say and think, if the engagement were broken off at thattime and in those circumstances. But he did not look at her. He kept hiseyes fixed upon the opposite wall, and there was no sign of emotion ofany kind in his stony features. Josephine rose, suppressed a sob, lookedarrogant scorn from eyes shining with tears--tears of self-pity. "Sendhim away, father," she said. "He has tried to degrade _me_! I am done withhim." And she rushed from the room, her father half starting from hischair 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 andtalk with her."
"It would be useless," said Norman. "You know her."
Burroughs laid his hand friendlily but heavily upon the young man'sshoulder. "This outburst of nonsense might cost you two young peopleyour 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 Josephinenow--he who had become a connoisseur of love. He knew that hervanity-founded love had vanished.
Burroughs disappeared in the direction his daughter had taken. Normanwaited several minutes--long enough slowly to smoke a cigarette. Then hewent into the hall and put on his coat with deliberation. No oneappeared, not even a servant. He went out into the street.
In the morning papers he found the announcement of the withdrawal of theinvitations--and from half a column to several columns of comment, muchof it extremely unflattering to him.