The Grain of Dust: A Novel

  VIII

  The longer he thought of it the stronger grew his doubt that the littleHallowell girl could be so indifferent to him as she seemed. Not thatshe was a fraud--that is, a conscious fraud--even so much of a fraud asthe sincerest of the other women he had known. Simply that she wascarrying out a scheme of coquetry. Could it be in human nature, even inthe nature of the most indiscriminating of the specimens of youngfeminine ignorance and folly, not to be flattered by the favor of such aman as he? Common sense answered that it could not be--but neglected topoint out to him that almost any vagary might be expected of humannature, when it could produce such a deviation from the recognized typesas a man of his position agitated about such an unsought obscurity asMiss Hallowell. He continued to debate the state of her mind as if itwere an affair of mightiest moment--which, indeed, it was to him. Andpresently his doubt strengthened into conviction. She must be secretlypleased, flattered, responsive. She had been in the office long enoughto be impressed by his position. Yes, there must be more or lesspretense in her apparently complete indifference--more or less pretense,more or less coquetry, probably not a little timidity.

  She would come down from her high horse--with help and encouragementfrom him. He was impatient to get to the office and see just how shewould do it--what absurd, amusing attractive child's trick she wouldthink out, imagining she could fool him, as lesser intelligences areever fatuously imagining they can outwit greater.

  He rather thought she would come in to see him on some pretext, wouldmaneuver round like a bird pretending to flutter away from the trap ithas every intention of entering. But eleven o'clock of a wasted morningcame and she did not appear. He went out to see if she was there--shemust 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 leastsomething of her beauty. And Tetlow was hanging over her, while thegirls 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 theway to the bar for sentence. "Mr. Tetlow," he said, when they were shutin together, "you are making a fool of yourself before the wholeoffice."

  "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 anotherjob."

  Norman debated--but for only a moment. "I do not wish her to leave," hesaid 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 butthinly covered.

  "Then she was right," said Tetlow slowly. "I thought she was mistaken. Isee that she is right."

  "What do you mean?" said Norman--a mere inquiry, devoid of bluster orany other form of nervousness.

  "You know very well what I mean, Fred Norman," said Tetlow. "And youought to be ashamed of yourself."

  "Don't stand there scowling and grimacing like an idiot," said Normanwith an amused smile. "What do you mean?"

  "She told me--about your coming to see her--about your offer to dosomething for her father--about your acting in a way that made heruneasy."

  For an instant Norman was panic-stricken. Then his estimate of herreassured 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 hishead--when it concerns her. And she is a good woman--so innocent thatyou ought to be ashamed of yourself for even thinking of her in thatway. God has given innocence instincts, and she felt what you wereabout."

  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 knewshe 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. Ilove her, Norman. I'm going to make her my wife if I can. And I askyou--for the sake of our old friendship--to let her alone. I've nodoubt you could dazzle her. You couldn't make a bad woman of her. Butyou could make her very miserable."

  Norman pushed about the papers before him. His face wore a cynicalsmile; but Tetlow, who knew him in all his moods, saw that he was deeplyagitated.

  "I don't know that I can win her, Fred," he pleaded. "But I feel that Imight 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 wouldrefuse a chance to take a high jump up."

  "I'd have said so, too. But since I've gotten acquainted with her I'velearned 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. Ilove her, and I'd marry her, no matter what her reason for marrying mewas."

  What pitiful infatuation!--worse than his own. Poor Tetlow!--he deserveda 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--theloosely fat kind of homely that is admired by no one, not even by awoman with no eye at all for the physical points of the male. It wouldbe a real kindness to save worthy Tetlow. What a fool she'd make ofhim!--how she'd squander his money--and torment him with jealousy--andunfit him for his career. Poor Tetlow! If he could get what he wanted,he'd be well punished for his imprudence in wanting it. Really, couldfriendship do him a greater service than to save him?

  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. Whyimagine that, just because you've taken a fancy to a girl, everyonewants her?" He clapped him on the shoulder, gave him a push toward thedoor. "I've wasted enough time on this nonsense."

  Tetlow did not venture to disregard a hint so plain. He went with hisdoubt still unsolved--his doubt whether his jealousy was right or hishigh opinion of his hero friend whose series of ever-mounting successeshad filled him with adoration. He knew the way of success, knew no mancould tread it unless he had, or acquired, a certain hardness of heartthat made him an uncomfortable not to say dangerous associate. Heregretted his own inability to acquire that indispensable hardness, andenvied and admired it in Fred Norman. But, at the same time that headmired, he could not help distrusting.

  Norman battled with his insanity an hour, then sent for Miss Hallowell.

  The girl had lost her look of strength and vitality. She seemed frailand dim--so unimportant physically that he wondered why her charm forhim persisted. Yet it did persist. If he could take her in his arms,could make her drooping beauty revive!--through love for him ifpossible; if not, then through anger and hate! He must make her feel,must make her acknowledge, that he had power. It seemed to him anotherinstance of the resistless fascination which the unattainable, howeverunworthy, 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."
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  She stood before him listlessly, as if she had no interest either inwhat 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 enoughto 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 takethemselves!"

  She looked at him. His amused eyes met hers frankly. "You didn't meanit?" she said.

  He beamed on her. "Certainly I did. But I'm not a lunatic or a wildbeast. 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 experiencestole over her young face, giving it a strange appearance ofage-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 hadseen in her? He said: "Yes--it has been done. But not by me. I shalltake 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 papersbound together by an elastic--"Here are the proposed articles ofincorporation of the Chemical Research Company. How do you like thename?"

  "What is it?"

  "The company that is to back your father. Capital stock, twenty-fivethousand dollars, one half paid up. Your father to be employed asdirector of the laboratories at five thousand a year, with a fund of tenthousand to draw upon. You to be employed as secretary and treasurer atfifteen hundred a year. I will take the paid-up stock, and your fatherand you will have the privilege of buying it back at par within fiveyears. Do you follow me?"

  "I think I understand," was her unexpected reply. Her replies wereusually unexpected, like the expressions of her face and figure; she wascontinually comprehending where one would have said she would not, andnot comprehending where it seemed absurd that she should not. "Yes, Iunderstand. . . . What else?"

  "Nothing else."

  She looked intently at him, and her eyes seemed to be reading his soulto the bottom.

  "Nothing else," he repeated.

  "No obligation--for money--or--for anything?"

  "No obligation. A hope perhaps." He was smiling with the gayest goodhumor. "But not the kind of hope that ever becomes a disagreeable demandfor payment."

  She seated herself, her hands in her lap, her eyes down--a lovelypicture of pensive repose. He waited patiently, feasting his senses uponher delicate, aromatic loveliness. At last she said:

  "I accept."

  He had anticipated an argument. This promptness took him by surprise. Hefelt called upon to explain, to excuse her acceptance. "I am taking alittle flyer--making a gamble," said he. "Your father may turn upnothing of commercial value. Again the company may pay big----"

  She gave him a long look through half-closed eyes, a queer smileflitting 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 laughof experience; it made him feel that she was making a fool of him--"Ishall not refuse. I am able to take care of myself. And I want father tohave his chance. Of course, I shan't explain to him." She gave him amischievous glance. "And I don't think _you_ will."

  He contrived to cover his anger, doubt, chagrin, general feeling ofhaving been outwitted. "No, I shan't tell him," laughed he. "You aremaking a great fool of me."

  "Do you want to back out?"

  What audacity! He hesitated--did not dare. Her indifference to him--herpersonal, her physical indifference gave her the mastery. His teethclenched 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 thecompany--occasionally?" She drew nearer, stood at the corner of thedesk. Into her exquisite eyes came a look of tenderness. "And I shall beglad to see you."

  "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 thanyou think."

  "I am an awful fool about you," retorted he. "You see, I play my gamewith 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 thereisn't any. And--all your cards aren't on the table." She laughedmockingly. "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. "Tetlowtold you."

  "As soon as I heard that," she went on, "I felt better about you. Iunderstand how it is with men--the passing fancies they have forwomen."

  "How did you learn?" demanded he.

  "Do you think a girl could spend several years knocking about down townin New York without getting experience?"

  He smiled--a forced smile of raillery, hiding sudden fierce suspicionand jealousy. "I should say not. But you always pretend innocence."

  "I can't be held responsible for what you read into my looks and intowhat I say," observed she with her air of a wise old infant. "But I wasso glad to find out that you were seriously in love with a nice girl uptown."

  He burst out laughing. She gazed at him in childlike surprise. "Why areyou laughing at me?" she asked.

  "Nothing--nothing," he assured her. He would have found it difficult toexplain why he was so intensely amused at hearing the grand JosephineBurroughs called "a nice girl up town."

  "You are in love with her? You are engaged to her?" she inquired, hergrave 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 isgoing 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 ofice suddenly laid against the heart.

  "It's quite easy to tell the difference between the two kinds ofmen--those that care for me more than they care for themselves and thosethat care for themselves more than they care for me."

  "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 stickto it."

  This amused him. "You are a very opinionated and self-confident younglady," 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 placehe got for me."

  "Be careful what you say to him," cautioned Norman. "You must see itwouldn't be well to tell him what you are going to do. There's no reasonon 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: "Whynot? It would be a good match."

  "I don't love him," she repeated, as if that were a sufficient andcomplete answer. And he was astonished to find that he so regarded it,also, in spite of every assault of all that his training had taught himto regard as common sense about human nature.

  "You can simply say to Tetlow that you've decided to stay at home andtake care of your father. The offices of the company will be at you
rhouse. Your official duties practically amount to taking care of yourfather. So you'll be speaking the truth."

  "Oh, it isn't exactly lying, to keep something from somebody who has noright to know it. What you suggest isn't quite the truth. But it's nearenough, and I'll say it to him."

  His own view of lying was the same as that she had expressed. Also, hehad no squeamishness about saying what was in no sense true, if thefalsehood were necessary to his purposes. Yet her statement of her code,moral though he thought it and eminently sensible as well, lowered heronce more in his estimation. He was eager to find reason or plausibleexcuse for believing her morally other and less than she seemed to be.Immediately the prospects of his ultimate projects--whatever they mightprove to be--took on a more hopeful air. "And I'd advise you to haveTetlow keep away from you. We don't want him nosing round."

  "No, indeed," said she. "He is a nice man, but tiresome. And if Iencouraged him ever so little, he'd be sentimental. The most tiresomething in the world to a girl is a man who talks that sort of thing whenshe doesn't want to hear it--from him."

  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 haveto."

  * * * * *

  On the Monday morning following, Tetlow came in to see Norman as soon ashe arrived. "I want a two weeks' leave," he said. "I'm going to Bermudaor 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 atconcealing his dejection. "She--she turned me down."

  "Really? You?" Norman's tone of sympathetic surprise would not havedeceived 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. Butit 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 morebeautiful all the time--Norman, if you had seen her last night, you'dunderstand why I'm stark mad about her."

  Norman's eyes were down. His hands, the muscles of his jaw wereclinched.

  "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 likeyou, only with the heart of a scoundrel----"

  Norman laughed cynically.

  "Yes, a scoundrel!" reiterated the fat head-clerk. "Some scoundrel wouldtempt her beyond her power to resist. Money and clothes and luxury willdo anything. We all get to be harlots here in New York. Some of us knowit, and some don't. But we all look it and act it. And she'd go the wayof the rest--with or without marriage. It's just as well she didn'tmarry 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 Istayed."

  There was a depth of misery in his kind gray eyes that moved Norman toget 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 whomeets 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 youwanted would be sure to want you."

  Norman, his hand still on Tetlow's shoulder, was staring ahead with aterrible expression upon his strong features.

  "If she could see the inside of me--the part that's the real me--I thinkshe would love me--or learn to love me. But she can only see theoutside--this homely face and body of mine. It's horrible, Fred--to havea mind and a heart fit for love and for being loved, and an outside thatrepels it. And how many of us poor devils of that sort there are--menand women both!"

  Norman was at the window now, his back to the room, to his friend. Aftera while Tetlow rose and made a feeble effort to straighten himself. "Isit 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.