XV
But it chanced that Norman met her in the street about an hour afterTetlow's call.
He was on the way to lunch at the Lawyer's Club--one of those apparentluxuries that are the dire and pitiful necessities of men in New Yorkfighting to maintain the semblance and the reputation of prosperity. Itmust not be imagined by those who are here let into Norman's inmostsecrets that his appearance betrayed the depth to which he had fallen.At least to the casual eye he seemed the same rich and powerfulpersonage. An expert might have got at a good part of the truth from hissomber eyes and haggard face, from the subtle transformation of theformer look of serene pride into the bravado of pretense. And as, in ageneral way, the facts of his fall were known far and wide, all hisacquaintances understood that his seeming of undiminished success wassimply the familiar "bluff." Its advantage to him with them lay in itsraising a doubt as to just what degree of disaster it hid--no smalladvantage. Nor was this "bluff" altogether for the benefit of theoutside world. It made his fall less hideously intolerable to himself.In the bottom of his heart he knew that when drink and no money shouldfinally force him to release his relaxing hold upon his fashionableclubs, upon luxurious attire and habits, he would suddenly and withaccelerated speed drop into the abyss--We have all caught glimpses ofthat abyss--frayed fine linen cheaply laundered, a tie of one timesmartness showing signs of too long wear, a suit from the best kind oftailor with shiny spot glistening here, patch peeping there, a queerunkemptness about the hair and skin--these the beginnings of a road thatleads straight and short to the barrel-house, the park bench, and thepolice station. Because, when a man strikes into that stretch of theroad to perdition, he ceases to be one of our friends, passes from viewentirely, we have the habit of _saying_ that such things rarely if everhappen. But we _know_ better. Many's the man now high who has had the sortof drop Norman was taking. We remember when he was making a bluff suchas Norman was making in those days; but we think now that we weremistaken in having suspected it of being bluff.
Norman, dressed with more than ordinary care--how sensitive a manbecomes about those things when there is neither rustle nor jingle inhis pockets, and his smallest check would be returned with the big blackstamp "No Funds"--Norman, groomed to the last button, was in Broadwaynear Rector Street. Ahead of him he saw the figure of a girl--a trim,attractive figure, slim and charmingly long of line. A second glance,and he recognized her. What was the change that had prevented hisrecognizing her at once? He had not seen that particular lightish-bluedress before--nor the coquettish harmonizing hat. But that was not thereason. No, it was the coquetry in her toilet--the effort of the girlto draw attention to her charms by such small devices as are within thereach of extremely modest means. He did not like this change. Itoffended his taste; it alarmed his jealousy.
He quickened his step, and when almost at her side spoke her name--"MissHallowell."
She stopped, turned. As soon as she recognized him there came into herquiet, lovely face a delightful smile. He could not conceal hisamazement. She was glad to see him! Instantly, following the invariablehabit of an experienced analytical mind, he wondered for whatunflattering reason this young woman who did not like him was no longershowing it, was seeming more than a little pleased to see him. "Why, howd'ye do, Mr. Norman?" said she. And her friendliness and assurance ofmanner jarred upon him. There was not a suggestion of forwardness; buthe, used to her old-time extreme reserve, felt precisely as if she werebold and gaudy, after the fashion of so many of the working girls whowere popular with the men.
This unfavorable impression disappeared--or, rather, retired to thebackground--even as it became definite. And once more he was seeing thecharms of physical loveliness, of physical--and moral, andmental--mystery that had a weird power over him. As they shook hands, aquiver shot through him as at the shock of a terrific stimulant; and hestood there longing to take her in his arms, to feel the delicate yetperfect and vividly vital life of that fascinating form--longing to kissthat sensitive, slightly pouted rosy mouth, to try to make those cleareyes grow soft and dreamy----
She was saying: "I've been wondering what had become of you."
"I saw Tetlow," he said. "He promised to send me your address."
At Tetlow's name she frowned slightly; then a gleam of ridicule flittedinto her eyes. "Oh, that silly, squeamish old maid! How sick I got ofhim!"
Norman winced, and his jealousy stirred. "Why?" he asked.
"Always warning me against everybody. Always giving me advice. It wastoo tiresome. And at last he began to criticize me--the way Idressed--the way I talked--said I was getting too free in my manner. Theimpudence of him!"
Norman tried to smile.
"He'd have liked me to stay a silly little mouse forever."
"So you've been--blossoming out?" said Norman.
"In a quiet way," replied she, with a smile of self-content, so lovelyas a smile that no one would have minded its frank egotism. "There isn'tmuch chance for fun--unless a girl goes too far. But at the same time Idon't intend life to be Sunday when it isn't work. I got very cross withhim--Mr. Tetlow, I mean. And I took another position. It didn't payquite so well--only fifteen a week. But I couldn't stand beingwatched--and guyed by all the other girls and boys for it."
"Where are you working?"
"With an old lawyer named Branscombe. It's awful slow, as I'm the onlyone, and he's old and does everything in an old-fashioned way. But thehours are easy, and I don't have to get down till nine--which is nicewhen you've been out at a dance the night before."
Norman kept his eyes down to hide from her the legion of devils ofjealousy. "You _have_ changed," he said.
"I'm growing up," replied she with a charming toss of her smallhead--what beautiful effects the sunlight made in among those wavystrands and strays!
"And you're as lovely as ever--lovelier," he said--and his eyes werethe eyes of the slave she had spurned.
She did not spurn him now--and it inflamed his jealousy that she didnot. She said: "Oh, what's the good of looks? The town's full of prettygirls. And so many of them have money--which I haven't. To make a hit inNew York a girl's got to have both looks and dress. But I must be going.I've an engagement to lunch--" She gave a proud little smile--"at theAstor House. It's nice upstairs there."
"With Bob Culver?"
She laughed. "I haven't seen him since I left his office. You know, Mr.Tetlow took me with him--back to your old firm. I didn't like Mr.Culver. I don't care for those black men. They are bad-tempered andtwo-faced. Anyhow, I'd not have anything to do with a man who wanted toslip round with me as if he were ashamed of me."
She was looking at Norman pleasantly enough. He wasn't sure that the hitwas for him as well as for Culver, but he flushed deeply. "Will youlunch with me at the Astor House at one to-morrow?"
"I've got an engagement," said she. "And I must be going. I'm awfullylate." He had an instinct that her engagement on both days was with thesame man. "I'm glad to have seen you----"
"Won't you let me call on you?" he said imploringly, but with thesuggestion that he had no hope of being permitted to come.
"Certainly," responded she with friendly promptness. She opened theshopping bag swinging on her arm. "Here is one of my cards."
"When? This evening?"
Her laugh showed the beautiful deep pink and dazzling white behind herlips. "No--I'm going to a party."
"Let me take you."
She shook her head. "You wouldn't like it. Only young people."
"But I'm not so old."
She looked at him critically. "No--you're not. It always puzzled me. Youaren't old--you look like a boy lots of the time. But you always _seem_old to me."
"I'll try to do better. To-night?"
"Not to-night," laughed she. "Let's see--to-morrow's Sunday. Cometo-morrow--about half past two."
"Thank you," he said so gratefully that he cursed himself for his follyas he heard his voice--the idiotic folly of so plainly betraying hisfeelings. No wonder she despised him
! Beginning again--and beginning;wrong.
"Good-by." Her eyes, her smile flashed and he was alone, watching herslender grace glide through the throngs of lower Broadway.
At his office again at three, he found a note from Tetlow inclosinganother of Dorothy's cards and also the promised check. Into his facecame the look that always comes into the faces of the prisoners ofdespair when the bolts slide back and the heavy door swings and hopestands on the threshold instead of the familiar grim figure of thejailer. "This looks like the turn of the road," he muttered. Yes, a turnit certainly was--but was it _the_ turn? "I'll know more as to that," saidhe with a glance at the clock, "about this time to-morrow."
* * * * *
It was a boarding house on the west side. And when the slovenly, smellymaid said, "Go right up to her room," he knew it was--probablyrespectable, but not rigidly respectable. However, working girls mustreceive, and they cannot afford parlors and chaperons. Still--It was noplace for a lovely young girl, full of charm and of love of life--andnot brought up in the class where the women are trained from babyhood toprotect themselves.
He ascended two flights, knocked at the door to the rear. "Come!" calleda voice, and he entered. It was a small neat room, arranged comfortablyand with some taste. He recognized at first glance many little thingsfrom her room in the Jersey City house--things he had provided for her.On the chimney piece was a large photograph of her father--Norman's eyeshastily shifted from that. The bed was folded away into a couch--forspace and for respectability. At first he did not see her. But when headvanced a step farther, she was disclosed in the doorway of a deepcloset that contained a stationary washstand.
He had never seen her when she was not fully dressed. He was now seeingher in a kind of wrapper--of pale blue, clean but not fresh. It wasopen at the throat; its sleeves fell away from her arms. And, to cap theclimax of his agitation, her hair, her wonderful hair, was flowingloosely about her face and shoulders.
"What's the matter with you?" she cried laughingly. Her eyes sparkledand danced; the waves of her hair, each hair standing out as if it werealive, sparkled and danced. It was a smile never to be forgotten. "Whyare you so embarrassed?"
He was embarrassed. He was thrilled. He was enraged--enraged because, ifshe would thus receive him whom she did not like, she would certainlythus receive any man.
"I don't mind you," she went on, mockingly. "I'd have to be careful ifit was one of the boys."
"Do you receive the--boys--here?" demanded he glumly, his voice arrogantwith the possessive rights a man feels when he cares for a woman,whether she cares for him or not.
"Why not?" scoffed she. "Where else would I see them? I don't makestreet corner dates, thank you. You're as bad as fat, foolish Mr.Tetlow."
"I beg your pardon," said he humbly.
She straightway relented, saying: "Of course I'd not let one of the boyscome up when I was dressed like this. But I didn't mind _you_." He wincedat this amiable, unconscious reminder of her always exasperating andtantalizing and humiliating indifference to him--"And as I'm going to agrand dance to-night I simply had to wash my hair. Does that satisfyyou, Mr. Primmey?"
He hid the torment of his reopened wound and seated himself at thecenter table. She returned to a chair in the window where the full forceof the afternoon sun would concentrate upon her hair. And he gazed spellbound. He had always known that her hair was fine. He had never dreamedit was like this. It was thick, it was fine and soft. In color, as thesunbeams streamed upon it, it was all the shades of gold and all theother beautiful shades between brown and red. It fell about her face,about her neck, about her shoulders in a gorgeous veil. And her purewhite skin--It was an even more wonderful white below the line of hercollar--where he had never seen it before. Such exquisitely modeledears--such a delicate nose--and the curve of her cheeks--and the gloryof her eyes! He clinched his teeth and his hands, sat dumb with his gazedown.
"How do you like my room?" she chattered on. "It's not so bad--reallyquite comfortable--though I'm afraid I'll be cold when the weatherchanges. But it's the best I can do. As it is, I don't see how I'm goingto make ends meet. I pay twelve of my fifteen for this room and twomeals. The rest goes for lunch and car fare. As soon as I have to getclothes--" She broke off, laughing.
"Well," he said, "what then?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied she carelessly. "Perhaps old Mr.Branscombe'll give me a raise. Still, eighteen or twenty is the most Icould hope for--and that wouldn't mean enough for clothes."
She shook her head vigorously and her hair stood out yet more vividlyand the sunbeams seemed to go mad with joy as they danced over and underand through it. He had ventured to glance up; again he hastily lookeddown.
"You spoiled me," she went on. "Those few months over there in JerseyCity. It made _such_ a change in me, though I didn't realize it at thetime. You see, I hadn't known since I was a tiny little girl what it wasto live really decently, and so I was able to get along quitecontentedly. I didn't know any better." She made a wry face. "How Iloathe the canned and cold storage stuff I have to eat nowadays. And howI do miss the beautiful room I had in that big house over there! and howI miss Molly and Pat--and the garden--and doing as I pleased--and theclothes I had: I thought I was being careful and not spoiling myself.You may not believe it, but I was really conscientious about spendingmoney." She laughed in a queer, absent way. "I had such a funny idea ofwhat I had a right to do and what I hadn't. And I didn't spend so verymuch on out-and-out luxury. But--enough to spoil me for this life."
As Norman listened, as he noted--in her appearance, manner, way oftalking--the many meaning signs of the girl hesitating at the fork ofthe roads--he felt within him the twinges of fear, of jealousy--andthrough fear and jealousy, the twinges of conscience. She was tellingthe truth. He had undermined her ability to live in purity the life towhich her earning power assigned her. . . . _Why_ had she been so friendlyto him? Why had she received him in this informal, almost if not quiteinviting fashion?
"So you think I've changed?" she was saying. "Well--I have. Gracious,what a little fool I was!"
His eyes lifted with an agonized question in them.
She flushed, glanced away, glanced at him again with the old, sweetexpression of childlike innocence which had so often made him wonderwhether it was merely a mannerism, or was a trick, or was indeed a beamfrom a pure soul. "I'm foolish still--in certain ways," she saidsignificantly.
"And you always intend to be?" suggested he with a forced smile.
"Oh--yes," replied she--positively enough, yet it somehow had not thefull force of her simple short statements in the former days.
He believed her. Perhaps because he wished to believe, must believe,would have been driven quite mad by disbelief. Still, he believed. Asyet she was good. But it would not last much longer. With him--or withsome other. If with him, then certainly afterward with another--withothers. No matter how jealously he might guard her, she would go thatroad, if once she entered it. If he would have her for his very own hemust strengthen her, not weaken her, must keep her "foolish still--incertain ways."
He said: "There's nothing in the other sort of life."
"That's what they say," replied she, with ominous irritation."Still--some girls--_lots_ of girls seem to get on mighty well withoutbeing so terribly particular."
"You ought to see them after a few years."
"I'm only twenty-one," laughed she. "I've got lots of time before I'mold. . . . You haven't--married?"
"No," said he.
"I thought I'd have heard, if you had." She laughed queerly--again shookout her hair, and it shimmered round her face and over her head and outfrom her shoulders like flames. "You've got a kind of a--Mr. Tetlow wayof talking. It doesn't remind me of you as you were in Jersey City."
She said nothing, she suggested nothing that had the least improprietyin it, or faintest hint of impropriety. It was nothing positive, nothingaggressive, but a certain vague negative something that gave him t
heimpression of innocence still innocent but looking or trying to looktolerantly where it should not. And he felt dizzy and sick, strickenwith shame and remorse and jealous fear. Yes--she was sliding slowly,gently, unconsciously down to the depth in which he had been lying, sickand shuddering--no, to deeper depths--to the depths where there is nolight, no trace of a return path. And he had started her down. He haddone it when he, in his pride and selfishness, had ignored what thesuccess of his project would mean for her. But he knew now; inbitterness and shame and degradation he had learned. "I was infamous!"he said to himself.
She began to talk in a low, embarrassed voice:
"Sometimes I think of getting married. There's a young man--a younglawyer--he makes twenty-five a week, but it'll be years and years beforehe has a good living. A man doesn't get on fast in New York unless hehas pull."
Norman, roused from his remorse, blazed inside. "You are in love withhim?"
She laughed, and he could not tell whether it was to tease him or toevade.
"You'd not care about him long," said Norman, "unless there were moremoney coming in than he'd be likely to get soon. Love without moneydoesn't go--at least, not in New York."
"Do you suppose I don't know that?" said she with the irritation of onefaced by a hateful fact. "Still--I don't see what to do."
Norman, biting his lip and fuming and observing her with jealous eyes,said in the best voice he could command, "How long have you been in lovewith him?"
"Did I say I was in love?" mocked she.
"You didn't say you weren't. Who is he?"
"If you'll stay on about half an hour or so, you'll see him. No--youcan't. I've got to get dressed before I let him up. He has very strictideas--where I'm concerned."
"Then why did you let _me_ come up?" Norman said, with a penetratingglance.
She lowered her gaze and a faint flush stole into her cheeks. Was itconfession of the purpose he suspected? Or, was it merely embarrassment?
"I heard of a case once," continued Norman, his gaze significantlydirect, "the case of a girl who was in love with a poor young fellow.She wanted money--luxury. Also, she wanted the poor young fellow."
The color flamed into the girl's face, then left it pale. Her whitefingers fluttered with nervous grace into her masses of hair and back toher lap again, to rest there in timid quiet.
"She knew another man," pursued Norman, "one who was able to give herwhat she wanted in the way of comfort. So, she decided to make anarrangement with the man, and keep it hidden from her lover--and in thatway get along pleasantly until her lover was in better circumstances ."
Her gaze was upon her hands, listless in her lap. He felt that he hadspoken her unspoken, probably unformed thoughts. Yes, unformed. Men andwomen, especially women, habitually pursued these unacknowledgedand--even unformed purposes, in their conflicts of the desire to getwhat they wanted and their desire to appear well to themselves.
"What would you think of an arrangement like that?" asked he, determinedto draw her secret heart into the open where he could see, where shecould see.
She lifted frank, guileless eyes to his. "I suppose the girl was tryingto do the best she could."
"What do you think of a girl who'd do that?"
"I don't judge anybody--any more. I've found out that this world isn'tat all as I thought--as I was taught."
"Would _you_ do it?"
She smiled faintly. "No," she replied uncertainly. Then she restored hiswavering belief in her essential honesty and truthfulness by adding:"That is to say, I don't think I would."
She busied herself with her hair, feeling it to see whether it was notyet dry, spreading it out. He looked at her unseeingly. At last shesaid: "You must go. I've got to get dressed."
"Yes--I must be going," said he absently, rising and reaching for hishat on the center table.
She stood up, put out her hand. "I'm glad you came."
"Thank you," said he, still in the same abstraction. He shook hands withher, moved hesitatingly toward the door. With his hand on the knob heturned and glanced keenly at her. He surprised in her face a look ofmystery--of seriousness, of sadness--was there anxiety in it, also? Andthen he saw a certain elusive reminder of her father--and it brought tohim with curious force the memory of how she had been brought up, ofwhat must be hers by inheritance and by training--she, the daughter of agreat and simple and noble man----
"You'll come again?" she said, and there was the note in her voice thatmade his nerves grow tense and vibrate.
But he seemed not to have heard her question. Still at the unopeneddoor, he folded his arms upon his chest and said, speaking rapidly yetwith the deliberation of one who has thought out his words in advance:
"I don't know what kind of girl you are. I never have known. I've neverwanted to know. If you told me you were--what is called good, I'd doubtit. If you told me you weren't, I'd want to kill you and myself. Theysay there's a fatal woman for every man and a fatal man for every woman.I always laughed at the idea--until you. I don't know what to make ofmyself."
She suddenly laid her finger on her lips. It irritated him, to discoverthat, as he talked, speaking the things that came from the very depthsof his soul, she had been giving him only part of her attention, hadbeen listening for a step on the stairs. He was hearing the ascendingstep now. He frowned. "Can't you send him away?" he asked.
"I must," said she in a low tone. "It wouldn't do for him to know youwere here. He has strict ideas--and is terribly jealous."
A few seconds of silence, then a knock on the other side of the door.
"Who's there?" she called.
"I'm a little early," came in an agreeable, young man's voice. "Aren'tyou ready?"
"Not nearly," replied she, in a laughing, innocent voice. "You'll haveto go away for half an hour."
"I'll wait out here on the steps."
Her eyes were sparkling. A delicate color had mounted to her skin.Norman, watching her jealously, clinched his strong jaws. She said:"No--you must go clear away. I don't want to feel that I'm beinghurried. Don't come back until a quarter past four."
"All right. I'm crazy to see you." This in the voice of a lover. Shesmiled radiantly at Norman, as if she thought he would share in herhappiness at these evidences of her being well loved. The unseen youngman said: "Exactly a quarter past. What time does your clock say it isnow?"
"A quarter to," replied she.
"That's what my watch says. So there'll be no mistake. For half anhour--good-by!"
"Half an hour!" she called.
She and Norman stood in silence until the footsteps died away. Then shesaid crossly to Norman: "You ought to have gone before. I don't like todo these things."
"You do them well," said he, with a savage gleam.
She was prompt and sure with his punishment. She said, simply andsweetly: "I'd do anything to keep _his_ good opinion of me."
Norman felt and looked cowed. "You don't know how it makes me suffer tosee you fond of another man," he cried.
She seemed not in the least interested, went to the mirror of the bureauand began to inspect her hair with a view to doing it up. "You can go infive minutes," said she. "By that time he'll be well out of the way.Anyhow, if he saw you leaving the house he'd not know but what you hadbeen to see some one else. He knows you by reputation but not by sight."
Norman went to her, took her by the shoulders gently but strongly. "Lookat me," he said.
She looked at him with an expression, or perhaps absence of expression,that was simple listening.
"If you meant awhile ago some such thing as I hinted--I will havenothing to do with it. You must marry me--or it's nothing at all."
Her gaze did not wander, but before his wondering eyes she seemed tofade, fade toward colorlessness insignificance. The light died fromher eyes, the flush of health from her white skin, the freshness fromher lips, the sparkle and vitality from her hair. A slow, gradualtransformation, which he watched with a frightened tightening at theheart.
She
said slowly: "You--want--me--to--_marry_--you?"
"I've always wanted it, though I didn't realize," replied he. "How elsecould I be sure of you? Besides--" He flushed, added hurriedly, almostin an undertone--"I owe it to you."
She seated herself deliberately.
After he had waited in vain for her to speak, he went on: "If youmarried me, I know you'd play square. I could trust you absolutely. Idon't know--can't find out much about you--but at least I know that."
"But I don't love you," said she.
"You needn't remind me of it," rejoined he curtly.
"I don't think so--so poorly of you as I used to," she went on. "Iunderstand a lot of things better than I did. But I don't love you, andI feel that I never could."
"I'll risk that," said Norman. Through his clinched teeth, "I've got torisk it."
"I'd be marrying you because I don't feel able to--to make my own way."
"That's the reason most girls have for marrying," said he. "Love comesafterward--if it comes. And it's the more likely to come for the girlnot having faked the man and herself beforehand."
She glanced at the clock. He frowned. She started up. "You _must_ go," shesaid.
"What is your answer?"
"Oh, I couldn't decide so quickly. I must think."
"You mean you must see your young man again--see whether there isn'tsome way of working it out with him."
"That, too," replied she simply. "But--it's nearly four o'clock----"
"I'll come back at seven for my answer."
"No, I'll write you to-night."
"I must know at once. This suspense has got to end. It unfits me foreverything."
"I'll--I'll decide--to-night," she said, with a queer catch in hervoice. "You'll get the letter in the morning mail."
"Very well." And he gave her his club address.
She opened the door in her impatience to be rid of him. He went with ahasty "Good-by" which she echoed as she closed the door.
When he left the house he saw standing on the curb before it a tall,good-looking young man--with a frank amiable face. He hesitated,glowering at the young man's profile. Then he went his way, suffocatingwith jealous anger, depressed, despondent, fit for nothing but to drinkand to brood in fatuous futility.
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