The Grain of Dust: A Novel

by David Graham Phillips

  XX

  In the faces of men who have dominion of whatever kind over their fellowmen--be it the brutal rule of the prize fighter over his gang or theapparently gentle sway of the apparently meek bishop over his lovingflock--in the faces of all men of power there is a dangerous look. Theymay never lose their tempers. They may never lift their voices. They maybe ever suave and civil. The dangerous look is there--and the dangerbehind it. And the sense of that look and of its cause has a certainrestraining effect upon all but the hopelessly impudent or solidlydense. Norman was one of the men without fits of temper. In his momentsof irritation, no one ever felt that a storm of violent language mightbe impending. But the danger signal flaunted from his face. Danger ofwhat? No one could have said. Most people would have laughed at the ideathat so even tempered a man, pleased with himself and with the world,could ever be dangerous. Yet everyone had instinctively respected thatdanger flag--until Dorothy.

  Perhaps it had struck for her--had really not been there when she lookedat him. Perhaps she had been too inexperienced, perhaps tooself-centered, to see it. Perhaps she had never before seen his face inan hour of weariness and relaxation--when the true character, thedominating and essential trait or traits, shows nakedly upon thesurface, making the weak man or woman look pitiful, the strong man orwoman formidable.

  However that may be, when he walked into the sitting room, greeted herplacidly and kissed her on the brow, she, glancing uncertainly up athim, saw that danger signal for the first time. She studied his face,her own face wearing her expression of the puzzled child. No, not quitethat expression as it always had been theretofore, but a modified formof it. To any self-centered, self-absorbed woman--there comes in hermarried life, unless she be married to a booby, a time, an hour, amoment even--for it can be narrowed down to a point--when she takes herfirst _seeing_ look at the man upon whom she is dependent for protection,whether spiritual or material, or both. In her egotism and vanity shehas been regarding him as her property. Suddenly, and usuallydisagreeably, it has been revealed to her that she is his property. Thathour had come for Dorothy Norman. And she was looking at her husband,was wondering who and what he was.

  "You've had your lunch?" he said.

  "No," replied she.

  "You have been out for the air?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "You didn't tell me what to do."

  He smiled good humoredly. "Oh, you had no money."

  "Yes--a little. But I--" She halted.

  "Yes?"

  "You hadn't told me what to do," she repeated, as if on mature thoughtthat sentence expressed the whole matter.

  He felt in his pockets, found a small roll of bills. He laid twenty-fivedollars on the table. "I'll keep thirty," he said, "as I shan't have anymore till I see Tetlow to-morrow. Now, fly out and amuse yourself. I'mgoing to sleep. Don't wake me till you're ready for dinner."

  And he went into his bedroom and closed the door. When he awoke, he sawthat it was dark outside, and some note in the din of street noises fromfar below made him feel that it was late. He wrapped a bathrobe roundhim, opened the door into the sitting room. It was dark.

  "Dorothy!" he called.

  "Yes," promptly responded the small quiet voice, so near that he startedback.

  "Oh!" he exclaimed, and switched on the light. "There you are--by thewindow. What were you doing, in the dark?"

  She was dressed precisely as when he had last seen her. She was sittingwith her hands listless in her lap and her face a moving and beautifulexpression of melancholy dreams. On the table were the bills--where hehad laid them. "You've been out?" he said.

  "No," she replied.

  "Why not?"

  "I've been--waiting."

  "For what?" laughed he.

  "For--I don't know," she replied. "Just waiting."

  "But there's nothing to wait for."

  She looked at him interrogatively. "No--I suppose not," she said.

  He went back into his room and glanced at his watch. "Eleven o'clock!"he cried. "Why didn't you wake me? You must be nearly starved."

  "Yes, I am hungry," said she.

  Her patient, passive resignation irritated him. "I'm ravenous," he said."I'll dress--and you dress, too. We'll go downstairs to supper."

  When he reappeared in the sitting room, in a dinner jacket, she wasagain seated near the window, hands listless in her lap and eyes gazingdreamily into vacancy. But she was now dressed in the black chiffon andthe big black hat. He laughed. "You are prompt and obedient," said he."Nothing like hunger to subdue."

  A faint flush tinged her lovely skin; the look of the child that hasbeen struck appeared in her eyes.

  He cast about in his mind for the explanation. Did she think he meant itwas need that had brought her meekly back to him? That was true enough,but he had not intended to hint it. In high good humor because he was sodelightfully hungry and was about to get food, he cried: "Do cheer up!There's nothing to be sad about--nothing."

  She lifted her large eyes and gazed at him timidly. "What are you goingto do with me?"

  "Take you downstairs and feed you."

  "But I mean--afterward?"

  "Bring--or send--you up here to go to bed."

  "Are you going away?"

  "Where?"

  "Away from me."

  He looked at her with amused eyes. She was exquisitely lovely; never hadhe seen her lovelier. It delighted him to note her charms--the charmsthat had enslaved him--not a single charm missing--and to feel that hewas no longer their slave, was his own master again.

  A strange look swept across her uncannily mobile face--a look of wonder,of awe, of fear, of dread. "You don't even like me any more," she saidin her colorless way.

  "What have I done to make you think I dislike you?" said he pleasantly.

  She gazed down in silence.

  "You need have no fear," said he. "You are my wife. You will be welltaken care of, and you will not be annoyed. What more can I say?"

  "Thank you," she murmured.

  He winced. She had made him feel like an unpleasant cross between analms-giver and a bully. "Now," said he, with forced but resolutecheerfulness, "we will eat, drink and be merry."

  On the way down in the elevator he watched her out of the corner of hiseye. When they reached the hall leading to the supper room he touchedher arm and halted her. "My dear," said he in the pleasant voice whichyet somehow never failed to secure attention and obedience, "there willbe some of my acquaintances in there at supper. I don't want them to seeyou with that whipped dog look. There's no occasion for it."

  Her lip trembled. "I'll do my best," said she.

  "Let's see you smile," laughed he. "You have often shown me that youknow the woman's trick of wearing what feelings you choose on theoutside. So don't pretend that you've got to look as if you were aboutto be hung for a crime you didn't commit. There!--that's better."

  And indeed to a casual glance she looked the happy bride trying--notvery successfully--to seem used to her husband and her new status.

  "Hold it!" he urged gayly. "I've no fancy for leading round a lovelymartyr in chains. Especially as you're about as healthy and well placeda person as I know. And you'll feel as well as you look when you've hadsomething to eat."

  Whether it was obedience or the result of a decision to drop anunprofitable pose he could not tell, but as soon as they were seated andshe had a bill of fare before her and was reading it, her expression ofhappiness lost its last suggestion of being forced. "Crab meat!" shesaid. "I love it!"

  "Two portions of crab meat," he said to the waiter with pad and pencilat attention.

  "Oh, I don't want that much," she protested.

  "You forget that I am hungry," rejoined he. "And when I am hungry, theprice of food begins to go up." He addressed himself to the waiter:"After that a broiled grouse--with plenty of hominy--and grilled sweetpotatoes--and a salad of endive and hothouse tomatoes--and I know thedifference between hothouse tomatoes and the other kinds.
Next--somecheese--Coullomieres--yes, you have it--I got the steward to get it--andtoasted crackers--the round kind, not the square--and not the hard onesthat unsettle the teeth--and--what kind of ice, my dear?--or would youprefer a fresh peach flambee?"

  "Yes--I think so," said Dorothy.

  "You hear, waiter?--and a bottle of--there's the head waiter--askhim--he knows the champagne I like."

  As Norman had talked, in the pleasant, insistent voice, the waiter hadroused from the air of mindless, mechanical sloth characteristic of theNew York waiter--unless and until a fee below his high expectation isoffered. When he said the final "very good, sir," it was with the accentof real intelligence.

  Dorothy was smiling, with the amusement of youth and inexperience. "Whata lot of trouble you took about it," said she.

  He shrugged his shoulders. "Anything worth doing at all is worth takingtrouble about. You will see. We shall get results. The supper will bethe best this house can put together."

  "You can have anything you want in this world, if you only can pay forit," said she.

  "That's what most people think," replied he. "But the truth is, thepaying is only a small part of the art of getting what one wants."

  She glanced nervously at him. "I'm beginning to realize that I'mdreadfully inexperienced," said she.

  "There's nothing discouraging in that," said he. "Lack of experience canbe remedied. But not lack of judgment. It takes the great gift ofjudgment to enable one to profit by mistakes, to decide what is the reallesson of an experience."

  "I'm afraid I haven't any judgment, either," confessed she.

  "That remains to be seen."

  She hesitated--ventured: "What do you think is my worst fault?"

  He shook his head laughingly. "We are going to have a happy supper."

  "Do you think I am very vain?" persisted she.

  "Who's been telling you so?"

  "Mr. Tetlow. He gave me an awful talking to, just before I--" She pausedat the edge of the forbidden ground. "He didn't spare me," she went on."He said I was a vain, self-centered little fool."

  "And what did you say?"

  "I was very angry. I told him he had no right to accuse me of that. Ireminded him that he had never heard me say a word about myself."

  "And did he say that the vainest people were just that way--neverspeaking of themselves, never thinking of anything else?"

  "Oh, he told you what he said," cried she.

  "No," laughed he.

  She reddened. "_You_ think I'm vain?"

  He made a good-humoredly satirical little bow. "I think you arecharming," said he. "It would be a waste of time to look at or to thinkof anyone else when oneself is the most charming and interesting personin the world. Still--" He put into his face and voice a suggestion ofgravity that caught her utmost attention--"if one is to get anywhere, isto win consideration from others--and happiness for oneself--one simplymust do a little thinking about others--occasionally."

  Her eyes lowered. A faint color tinged her cheeks.

  "The reason most of us are so uncomfortable--downright unhappy most ofthe time--is that we never really take our thoughts off our preciousfascinating selves. The result is that some day we find that theliking--and friendship--and love--of those around us has limits--and weare left severely alone. Of course, if one has a great deal of money,one can buy excellent imitations of liking and friendship and evenlove--I ought to say, especially love----"

  The color flamed in her face.

  "But," he went on, "if one is in modest circumstances or poor, one hasto take care."

  "Or dependent," she said, with one of those unexpected flashes of subtleintelligence that so complicated the study of her character. He had beentalking to amuse himself rather than with any idea of her understanding.Her sudden bright color and her two words--"or dependent"--roused him tosee that she thought he was deliberately giving her a savage lecturefrom the cover of general remarks. "With the vanity of the typicalwoman," he said to himself, "she always imagines _she_ is the subject ofeveryone's thought and talk."

  "Or dependent," said he to her, easily. "I wasn't thinking of you, butyours _is_ a case in point. Come, now--nothing to look blue about! Here'ssomething to eat. No, it's for the next table."

  "You won't let me explain," she protested, between the prudence ofreproach and the candor of anger.

  "There's nothing to explain," replied he. "Don't bother about themistakes of yesterday. Remember them--yes. If one has a good memory, toforget is impossible--not to say unwise. But there ought to be no moreheat or sting in the memory of past mistakes than in the memory of lastyear's mosquito bites."

  The first course of the supper arrived. Her nervousness vanished, and hegot far away from the neighborhood of the subjects that, even inremotest hint, could not but agitate her. And as the food and the wineasserted their pacific and beatific sway, she and he steadily moved intobetter and better humor with each other. Her beauty grew until it hadhim thinking that never, not in the most spiritual feminine conceptionsof the classic painters, had he seen a loveliness more ethereal. Herskin was so exquisite, the coloring of her hair and eyes and of her lipswas so delicately fine that it gave her the fragility of thingsbordering upon the supernal--of rare exotics, of sunset and moonbeameffects. No, he had been under no spell of illusion as to her beauty. Itwas a reality--the more fascinating because it waxed and waned not withregularity of period but capriciously.

  He began to look round furtively, to see what effect this wife of hiswas producing on others. These last few months, through prudence as muchas through pride, he had been cultivating the habit of ignoring hissurroundings; he would not invite cold salutations or obvious avoidanceof speaking. He now discovered many of his former associates--and hisvanity dilated as he noted how intensely they were interested in hiswife.

  Some men of ability have that purest form of egotism which makes oneprofoundly content with himself, genuinely indifferent to the approvalor the disapproval of others. Norman's vanity had a certain amount ofalloy. He genuinely disdained his fellow-men--their timidity, theirhypocrisy, their servility, their limited range of ideas. He wasindifferent to the verge of insensibility as to their adverse criticism.But at the same time it was necessary to his happiness that he get fromthem evidences of their admiration and envy. With that amusing hypocrisywhich tinges all human nature, he concealed from himself thesatisfaction, the joy even, he got out of the showy side of hisposition. And no feature of his infatuation for Dorothy surprised him somuch as the way it rode rough shod and reckless over his snobbishness.

  With the fading of infatuation had come many reflections upon thepractical aspects of what he had done. It pleased him with himself tofind that, in this first test, he had not the least regret, but on thecontrary a genuine pride in the courageous independence he hadshown--another and strong support to his conviction of his superiorityto his fellow-men. He might be somewhat snobbish--who was not?--who elsein his New York was less than supersaturated with snobbishness? Butsnobbishness, the determining quality in the natures of all the womenand most of the men he knew, had shown itself one of the incidentalqualities in his own nature. After all, reflected he, it took a man, agood deal of a man, to do what he had done, and not to regret it, evenin the hour of disillusionment. And it must be said for this egotisticself-approval of his that like all his judgments there was sound meritof truth in it. The vanity of the nincompoop is ridiculous. The vanityof the man of ability is amusing and no doubt due to a defective pointof view upon the proportions of the universe; but it is not withoutexcuse, and those who laugh might do well to discriminate even as theyguffaw.

  Looking discreetly about, Norman was suddenly confronted by the face ofJosephine Burroughs, only two tables away.

  Until their eyes squarely met he did not know she was there, or even inAmerica. Before he could make a beginning of glancing away, she gave himher sweetest smile and her friendliest bow. And Dorothy, looking to seeto whom he was speaking, was astonished to receive the same
radiance ofcordiality. Norman was pleased at the way his wife dealt with thesituation. She returned both bow and smile in her own quiet, slightlyreserved way of gentle dignity.

  "Who was that, speaking?" asked she.

  "Miss Burroughs. You must remember her."

  He noted it as characteristic that she said, quite sincerely: "Oh, so itis. I didn't remember her. That is the girl you were engaged to."

  "Yes--'the nice girl uptown,'" said he.

  "I didn't like her," said Dorothy, with evident small interest in thesubject. "She was vain."

  "You mean you didn't like her way of being vain," suggested Norman."Everyone is vain; so, if we disliked for vanity we should dislikeeveryone."

  "Yes, it was her way. And just now she spoke to us both, as if she weredoing us a favor."

  "Gracious, it's called," said he. "What of it? It does us no harm andgives her about the only happiness she's got."

  "At Josephine's right sat a handsome young foreigner."]

  Norman, without seeming to do so, noted the rest of the Burroughs party.At Josephine's right sat a handsome young foreigner, and it took smallexperience of the world to discover that he was paying court to her, andthat she was pleased and flattered. Norman asked the waiter who he was,and learned that he came from the waiter's own province of France, wasthe Duc de Valdome. At first glance Norman had thought himdistinguished. Afterward he discriminated. There are several kinds ordegrees of distinction. There is distinction of race, of class, offamily, of dress, of person. As Frenchman, as aristocrat, as a scion ofthe ancient family of Valdome, as a specimen of tailoring and valeting,Miss Burroughs's young man was distinguished. But in his own properperson he was rather insignificant. The others at the table wereAmericans. Following Miss Burroughs's cue, they sought an opportunity tospeak friendlily to Norman--and he gave it them. His acknowledgment ofthose effusive salutations was polite but restrained.

  "They are friends of yours?" said Dorothy.

  "They were," said he. "And they may be again--when they are friends of_ours_."

  "I'm not very good at making friends," she warned him. "I don't likemany people." This time her unconscious and profound egotism pleasedhim. Evidently it did not occur to her that she should be eager to befriends with those people on any terms, that the only question waswhether they would receive her.

  She asked: "Why was Miss--Miss Burroughs so friendly?"

  "Why shouldn't she be?"

  "But I thought you threw her over."

  He winced at this crude way of putting it. "On the contrary, she threwme over."

  Dorothy laughed incredulously. "I know better. Mr. Tetlow told me."

  "She threw me over," repeated he coldly. "Tetlow was repeating maliciousand ignorant gossip."

  Dorothy laughed again--it was her second glass of champagne. "You saythat because it's the honorable thing to say. But I know."

  "I say it because it's true," said he.

  He spoke quietly, but if she had drunk many more than two glasses of anunaccustomed and heady liquor she would have felt his intonation. Shepaled and shrank and her slim white fingers fluttered nervously at thecollar of her dress. "I was only joking," she murmured.

  He laughed good-naturedly. "Don't look as if I had given you awhipping," said he. "Surely you're not afraid of me."

  She glanced shyly at him, a smile dancing in her eyes and upon her lips."Yes," she said. And after a pause she added: "I didn't used to be. Butthat was because I didn't know you--or much of anything." The smileirradiated her whole face. "You used to be afraid of me. But you aren't,any more."

  "No," said he, looking straight at her. "No, I'm not."

  "I always told you you were mistaken in what you thought of me. I reallydon't amount to much. A man as serious and as important as you arecouldn't--couldn't care about me."

  "It's true you don't amount to much, as yet," said he. "And if you neverdo amount to much, you'd be no less than most women and most men. ButI've an idea--at times--that you _could_ amount to something."

  He saw that he had wounded her vanity, that her protestations ofhumility were precisely what he had suspected. He laughed at her: "I seeyou thought I'd contradict you. But I can't afford to be so amiable now.And the first thing you've got to get rid of is the part of your vanitythat prevents you from growing. Vanity of belief in one's possibilitiesis fine. No one gets anywhere without it. But vanity of belief in one'spresent perfection--no one but a god could afford that luxury."

  Observing her closely he was amused--and pleased--to note that she wasstruggling to compose herself to endure his candors as a necessary partof the duties and obligations she had taken on herself when she gave upand returned to him.

  "What _you_ thought of _me_ used to be the important thing in ourrelations," he went on, in his way of raillery that took all or nearlyall the sting out of what he said, but none of its strength. "Now, theimportant thing is what I think of you. You are much younger than I,especially in experience. You are going to school to life with me asteacher. You'll dislike the teacher for the severity of the school. Thatisn't just, but it's natural--perhaps inevitable. And please--my dear--whenyou are bitterest over what _you_ have to put up with from _me_--don'tforget what _I_ have to put up with from _you_."

  She was fighting bravely against angry tears. As for him, he hadsuddenly become indifferent to what the people around them might bethinking. With all his old arrogance come back in full flood, he wasfeeling that he would live his own life in his own way and that thosewho didn't approve--yes, including Dorothy--might do as they saw fit.She said:

  "I don't blame you for regretting that you didn't marry Miss Burroughs."

  "But I don't regret it," replied he. "On the contrary, I'm glad."

  She glanced hopefully at him. But the hopeful expression faded as hewent on:

  "Whether or not I made a mistake in marrying you, I certainly had anescape from disaster when she decided she preferred a foreigner and atitle. There's a good sensible reason why so many girls of herclass--more and more all the time--marry abroad. They are not fit to bethe wives of hard-working American husbands. In fact I've about reachedthe conclusion that of the girls growing up nowdays very few in anyclass are fit to be American wives. They're not big enough. They're toocoarse and crude in their tastes. They're only fit for the shallow,showy sort of thing--and the European aristocracy is their hope--andtheir place."

  Her small face had a fascinating expression of achild trying to understand things far beyond its depth. He wasinterested in his own thoughts, however, and went on--for, if he hadbeen in the habit of stopping when his hearers failed to understand, orwhen they misunderstood, either he would have been silent most of thetime in company or his conversation would have been as petty and narrowand devoid of originality or imagination as is the mentality of mosthuman beings--as is the talk and reading that impress them asinteresting--and profound!

  "The American man of the more ambitious sort," he went on, "either hasto live practically if not physically apart from his wife or else has toeducate some not too difficult woman to be his wife."

  She understood that. "You are really going to educate me?" she said,with an arch smile. Now that Norman had her attention, now that she wascentering upon him instead of upon herself, she was interested in him,and in what he said, whether she understood it or not, whether itpleased her vanity or wounded it. The intellects of women work to anunsuspected extent only through the sex charm. Their appreciations ofbooks, of art, of men are dependant, often in the most curious indirectways, upon the fact that the author, the artist, the politician or whatnot is betrousered. Thus, Dorothy was patient, respectful, attentive,was not offended by Norman's didactic way of giving her the lessons inlife. Her smile was happy as well as coquettish, as she asked him toeducate her.

  He returned her smile. "That depends," answered he.

  "You're not sure I'm worth the trouble?"

  "You may put it that way, if you like. But I'd say, rather, I'm not sureI can spare the tim
e--and you're not sure you care to fit yourself forthe place."

  "Oh, but I do!" cried she.

  "We'll see--in a few weeks or months," replied he.

  The Burroughs party were rising. Josephine had choice of two ways to thedoor. She chose the one that took her past Norman and his bride. Sheadvanced, beaming. Norman rose, took her extended hand. Said she:

  "So glad to see you." Then, turning the radiant smile upon Dorothy, "Andis this your wife? Is this the pretty little typewriter girl?"

  Dorothy nodded--a charming, ingenuous bend of the head. Norman felt athrill of pride in her, so beautifully unconscious of the treacherousattempt at insult. It particularly delighted him that she had not madethe mistake of rising to return Josephine's greeting but had remainedseated. Surely this wife of his had the right instincts that never failto cause right manners. For Josephine's benefit, he gazed down atDorothy with the proudest, fondest eyes. "Yes--this is she," said he."Can you blame me?"

  Josephine paled and winced visibly, as if the blow she had aimed at himhad, after glancing off harmlessly, returned to crush her. She touchedDorothy's proffered hand, murmured a few stammering phrases of vaguecompliment, rejoined her friends. Said Dorothy, when she and Norman weresettled again:

  "I shall never like her. Nor she me."

  "But you do like this cheese? Waiter, another bottle of that same."

  "Why did she put you in such a good humor?" inquired his wife.

  "It wasn't she. It was you!" replied he. But he refused to explain.