XXI
Galloway accepted Norman's terms. He would probably have accepted termsfar less easy. But Norman as yet knew with the thoroughness which mustprecede intelligent plan and action only the legal side of financialoperations; he had been as indifferent to the commercial side as a pilotto the value of the cargo in the ship he engages to steer clear ofshoals and rocks. So with the prudence of the sagacious man's audacitieshe contented himself with a share of this first venture that wouldsimply make a comfortable foundation for the fortune he purposed tobuild. As the venture could not fail outright, even should Galloway die,he rented a largish place at Hempstead, with the privilege of purchase,and installed his wife and himself with a dozen servants and ahousekeeper.
"This housekeeper, this Mrs. Lowell," said he to Dorothy, "is a goodenough person as housekeepers go. But you will have to look sharplyafter her."
Dorothy seemed to fade and shrink within herself, which was her way ofconfessing lack of courage and fitness to face a situation: "I don'tknow anything about those things," she confessed.
"I understand perfectly," said he. "But you learned something at theplace in Jersey City--quite enough for the start. Really, all you needto know just now is whether the place is clean or not, and whether thefood comes on the table in proper condition. The rest you'll pick upgradually."
"I hope so," said she, looking doubtful and helpless; these newmagnitudes were appalling, especially now that she was beginning to geta point of view upon life.
"At any rate, don't bother me for these few next months," said he. "I'mgoing to be very busy--shall leave early in the morning and not be backuntil near dinner time--if I come at all. No, you'll not be annoyed byme. You'll be absolute mistress of your time."
She tried to look as if this contented her. But he could not have failedto see how dissatisfied and disquieted she really was. He had the bestof reasons for thinking that she was living under the same roof with himonly because she preferred the roof he could provide to such a one asshe could provide for herself whether by her own earnings or by marryinga man more to her liking personally. Yet here she was, piqued anddepressed because of his indifference--because he was not thrusting uponher gallantries she would tolerate only through prudence!
"You will be lonely at times, I'm afraid," said he. "But I can't providefriends or even acquaintances for you for several months--until myaffairs are in better order and my sister and her husband come back fromEurope."
"Oh, I shan't be lonely," cried she. "I've never cared for people."
"You've your books, and your music--and riding--and shopping trips totown--and the house and grounds to look after."
"Yes--and my dreams," said she hopefully, her eyes suggesting the duskystar depths.
"Oh--the dreams. You'll have little time for them," said he drily. "Andlittle inclination, I imagine, as you wake up to the sense of how muchthere is to be learned. Dreaming is the pastime of people who haven'tthe intelligence or the energy to accomplish anything. If you wish toplease me--and you do--don't you?"
"Yes," she murmured. She forced her rebellious lips to the laconicassent. She drooped the lids over her rebellious eyes, lest he shoulddetect her wounded feelings and her resentment.
"I assumed so," said he, with a secret smile. "Well, if you wish toplease me, you'll give your time to practical things--things that'llmake you more interesting and make us both more comfortable. It was allvery well to dream, while you had little to do and small opportunity.But now--Try to cut it out."
It is painful to an American girl of any class to find that she has toearn her position as wife. The current theory, a tradition from an earlyand woman-revering day, is that the girl has done her share and morewhen she has consented to the suit of the ardent male and has intrustedher priceless charms to his exclusive keeping. According to that sametheory, it is the husband who must earn his position--must continue toearn it. He is a humble creature, honored by the presence of a wonderfulbeing, a cross between a queen and a goddess. He cannot do enough toshow his gratitude. Perhaps--but only perhaps--had Norman marriedJosephine Burroughs, he might have assented, after a fashion, to thisidea of the relations of the man and the woman. No doubt, had heremained under the spell of Dorothy's mystery and beauty, he would havefelt and acted the slave he had made of himself at the outset. But inthe circumstances he was looking at their prospective life together withsane eyes. And so she had, in addition to all her other reasons forheartache, a sense that she, the goddess-queen, the American woman, withthe birthright of dominion over the male, was being cheated, humbled,degraded.
At first he saw that this sense of being wronged made it impossible forher to do anything at all toward educating herself for her position. Buttime brought about the change he had hoped for. A few weeks, and shebegan to cheer up, almost in spite of herself. What was the use insulking or sighing or in self-pitying, when it brought only unhappinessto oneself? The coarse and brutal male in the case was either unaware orindifferent. There was no one and no place to fly to--unless she wishedto be much worse off than her darkest mood of self-pity represented herto her sorrowing self. The housekeeper, Mrs. Lowell, was a "broken downgentlewoman" who had been chastened by misfortune into a wholesome stateof practical good sense about the relative values of the real and theromantic. Mrs. Lowell diagnosed the case of the young wife--as Normanhad shrewdly guessed she would--and was soon adroitly showing her themany advantages of her lot. Before they had been three months atHempstead, Dorothy had discovered that she, in fact, was without asingle ground for serious complaint. She had a husband who was generousabout money, and left her as absolutely alone as if he were mereoccasional visitor at the house. She had her living--and such aliving!--she had plenty of interesting occupation--she had not a singlesordid care--and perfect health.
The dreams, too--It was curious about those dreams. She would now havefound it an intolerable bore to sit with hands idle in her lap and eyesupon vacancy, watching the dim, luminous shadows flit aimlessly by. Yetthat was the way she used to pass hours--entire days. She used to fightoff sleep at night the longer to enjoy her one source of pure happiness.There was no doubt about it, the fire of romance was burning low, andshe was becoming commonplace, practical, resigned. Well, why not? Wasnot life over for her?--that is, the life a girl's fancy longs for. Inplace of hope of romance, there was an uneasy feeling of a necessity ofpleasing this husband of hers--of making him comfortable. What wouldbefall her if she neglected trying to please him or if she, for all hertrying, failed? She did not look far in that direction. Her uneasinessremained indefinite--yet definite enough to keep her working from wakinguntil bedtime. And she dropped into the habit of watching his face withthe same anxiety with which a farmer watches the weather. When hehappened one day to make a careless, absent-minded remark in disapprovalof something in the domestic arrangements, she was thrown into such anervous flutter that he observed it.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing--nothing," replied she in the hurried tone of one who is tryinghastily to cover his thoughts.
He reflected, understood, burst into a fit of hearty laughter. "So, youare trying to make a bogey of me?"
She colored, protested faintly.
"Don't you know I'm about the least tyrannical, least exacting person inthe world?"
"You've been very patient with me," said she.
"Now--now," cried he in a tone of raillery, "you might as well dropthat. Don't you know there's no reason for being afraid of me?"
"Yes, I _know_ it," replied she. "But I _feel_ afraid, just the same. Ican't help it."
It was impossible for him to appreciate the effect of his personalityupon others--how, without his trying or even wishing, it made them dreada purely imaginary displeasure and its absurdly imaginary consequences.But this confession of hers was not the first time he had heard of theeffect of potential and latent danger he had upon those associated withhim. And, as it was most useful, he was not sorry that he had it. Hemade no further attempt to convince
her that he was harmless. He knewthat he was harmless where she was concerned. Was it not just as wellthat she should not know it, when vaguely dreading him was producingexcellent results? As with a Christian the fear of the Lord was thebeginning of wisdom, so with a wife the fear of her husband was thebeginning of wisdom. In striving to please him, to fit herself for theposition of wife, she was using up the time she would otherwise havespent in making herself miserable with self-pity--that supreme curse ofthe idle both male and female, that most prolific of the breeders ofunhappy wives. Yes, wives were unhappy not because their husbandsneglected them, for busy people have no time to note whether they areneglected or not, but because they gave their own worthless, negligent,incapable selves too much attention.
One evening, she, wearing the look of the timid but resolute intruder,came into his room while he was dressing for dinner and hung about withan air no man of his experience could fail to understand.
"Something wrong about the house?" said he finally. "Need more money?"
"No--nothing," she replied, with a slight flush. He saw that she wasmustering all her courage for some grand effort. He waited, only mildlycurious, as his mind was busy with some new business he and Tetlow hadundertaken. Presently she stood squarely before him, her hands behindher back and her face upturned. "Won't you kiss me?" she said.
"Sure!" said he. And he kissed her on the cheek and resumed operationswith his military brushes.
"I didn't mean that--that kind of a kiss," said she dejectedly.
He paused with a quick characteristic turn of the head, looked keenly ather, resumed his brushing. A quizzical smile played over his face. "Oh,I see," said he. "You've been thinking about duty. And you've decided todo yours. . . . Eh?"
"I think--It seems to me--I don't think--" she stammered, then saiddesperately, "I've not been acting right by you. I want to--to dobetter."
"That's good," said he briskly, with a nod of approval--and never aglance in her direction. "You think you'll let me have a kiss now andthen--eh? All right, my dear."
"Oh, you _won't_ understand me!" she cried, ready to weep with vexation.
"You mean I won't misunderstand you," replied he amiably, as he setabout fixing his tie. "You've been mulling things over in your mind.You've decided I'm secretly pining for you. You've resolved to be goodand kind and dutiful--generous--to feed old dog Tray a few crumbs nowand then. . . . That's nice and sweet of you--" He paused until thecrisis in tying was passed--"very nice and sweet of you--but--There'snothing in it. All I ask of you for myself is to see that I'mcomfortable--that Mrs. Lowell and the servants treat me right. If Idon't like anything, I'll speak out--never fear."
"But--Fred--I want to be your wife--I really do," she pleaded.
He turned on her, and his eyes seemed to pierce into the chamber of herthoughts. "Drop it, my dear," he said quietly. "Neither of us is in lovewith the other. So there's not the slightest reason for pretending. If Iever want to be free of you, I'll tell you so. If you ever want to getrid of me, all you have to do is to ask--and it'll be arranged.Meanwhile, let's enjoy ourselves."
His good humor, obviously unfeigned, would have completely discouraged amore experienced woman, though as vain as Dorothy and with as muchground as he had given her for self-confidence where he was concerned.But Dorothy was depressed rather than profoundly discouraged. A fewmoments and she found courage to plead: "But you used to care for me.Don't I attract you any more?"
"You say that quite pathetically," said he, in good-humored amusement."I'm willing to do anything within reason for your happiness. Butreally--just to please your vanity I can't make myself over again intothe fool I used to be about you. You'd hate it yourself. Why, then, thispathetic air?"
"I feel so useless--and as if I were shirking," she persisted. "And ifyou did care for me, it wouldn't offend me now as it used to. I've grownmuch wiser--more sensible. I understand things--and I look at themdifferently. And--I always did _like_ you."
"Even when you despised me?" mocked he. It irritated him a littlevividly to recall what a consummate fool he had made of himself for her,even though he had every reason to be content with the event of hisfolly.
"A girl always thinks she despises a man when she can do as she pleaseswith him," replied she. "As Mr. Tetlow said, I was a fool."
"_I_ was the fool," said he. "Where did that man of mine lay thehandkerchief?"
"I, too," cried she, eagerly. "You were foolish to bother about a littlesilly like me. But, oh, what a _fool_ I was not to realize----"
"You're not trying to tell me you're in love with me?" said he sharply.
"Oh, no--no, indeed," she protested in haste, alarmed by hisoverwhelming manner. "I'm not trying to deceive you in any way."
"Never do," said he. "It's the one thing I can't stand."
"But I thought--it seemed to me--" she persisted, "that perhaps if wetried to--to care for each other, we'd maybe get to--to caring--more orless. Don't you think so?"
"Perhaps," was his careless reply. He added, "But I, for one, am wellcontent with things as they are. I confess I don't look back with anysatisfaction on those months when I was making an ass of myself aboutyou. I was ruining my career. Now I'm happy, and everything is goingfine in my business. No experiments, if you please." He shook his head,looking at her with smiling raillery. "It might turn out that I'd carefor you in the same crazy way again, and that you didn't like it. Againyou might get excited about me and I'd remain calm about you. That wouldgive me a handsome revenge, but I'm not looking for revenge."
He finished his toilet, she standing quiet and thoughtful in an attitudeof unconscious grace.
"No, my dear," resumed he, as he prepared to descend for dinner, "let'shave a peaceful, cheerful married life, with no crazy excitements.Let's hang on to what we've got, and take no unnecessary risks." Hepatted her on the shoulder. "Isn't that sensible?"
She looked at him with serious, appealing eyes. "You are _sure_ you aren'tunhappy?"
It was amusing to him--though he concealed it--to see how tenaciouslyher feminine egotism held to the idea that she was the important person.And, when women of experience thus deluded themselves, it was not at allstrange that this girl should be unable to grasp the essential truth asto the relations of men and women--that, while a woman who makes her sexher profession must give to a man, to some man, a dominant place in herlife, a man need give a woman--at least, any one woman--little or noplace. But he would not wantonly wound her harmless vanity. "Don't worryabout me, please," said he in the kindest, friendliest way. "I amtelling you the truth."
And they descended to the dining room. Usually he was preoccupied andshe did most of the talking--not a difficult matter for her, as she wasone of those who by nature have much to say, who talk on and on, givinglively, pleasant recitals of commonplace daily happenings. That eveningit was her turn to be abstracted, or, at least, silent. He talkedvolubly, torrentially, like a man of teeming mind in the highestspirits. And he was in high spirits. The Galloway enterprise haddeveloped into a huge success; also, it did not lessen his sense of thepleasantness of life to have learned that his wife was feeling about aswell disposed toward him as he cared to have her feel, had come round tothat state of mind which he, as a practical man, wise in the art oflife, regarded as ideal for a wife.
A successful man, with a quiet and comfortable home, well enough lookedafter by an agreeable wife, exceeding good to look at and interestedonly in her home and her husband--what more could a man ask?
* * * * *
What more could a man ask? Only one thing more--a baby. The months soonpassed and that rounding out of the home side of his life wasconsummated with no mishap. The baby was a girl, which contented him anddelighted Dorothy. He wished it to be named after her, she preferred hissister's name--Ursula. It was Ursula who decided the question. "Shelooks like you, Fred," she declared, after an earnest scanning of theweird little face. "Why not call her Frederica?"
Norman thought this clums
y, but Dorothy instantly assented--and the babywas duly christened Frederica.
Perhaps it was because he was having less pressing business in town, butwhatever the reason, he began to stay at home more--surprisingly more.And, being at home, he naturally fell into the habit of fussing with thebaby, he having the temperament that compels a man to be always atsomething, and the baby being convenient and in the nature of acuriosity. Ursula, who was stopping in the house, did not try to concealher amazement at this extraordinary development of her brother'scharacter.
Said she: "I never before knew you to take the slightest interest in achild."
Said he: "I never before saw a child worth taking the slightest interestin."
"Oh, well," said Ursula, "it won't last. You'll soon grow tired of yourplaything."
"Perhaps you're right," said Norman. "I hope you're wrong." Hereflected, added: "In fact, I'm almost certain you're wrong. I'm tooselfish to let myself lose such a pleasure. If you had observed my lifeclosely, you'd have discovered that I have never given up a single thingI found a source of pleasure. That is good sense. That is why thesuperior sort of men and women retain something of the boy and the girlall their lives. I still like a lot of the games I played as a boy. Forsome years I've had no chance to indulge in them. I'll be glad when Ricais old enough to give me the chance again."
She was much amused. "Who'd have suspected that _you_ were a born father!"
"Not I, for one," confessed he. "We never know what there is in us untilcircumstances bring it out."
"A devoted father and a doting husband," pursued Ursula. "I must say Irather sympathize with you as a doting husband. Of course, I, a woman,can't see her as you do. I can't imagine a man--especially a man of yoursort--going stark mad about a mere woman. But, as women go, I'll admitshe is a good specimen. Not the marvel of intelligence and complexcharacter you imagine, but still a good specimen. And physically--" Shelaughed--"_That's_ what caught you. That's what holds you--and will holdyou as long as it lasts."
"Was there ever a woman who didn't think that?--and didn't like tothink it, though I believe many of them make strong pretense at scorningthe physical." Fred was regarding his sister with a quizzicalexpression. "You approve of her?" he said.
"More than I'd have thought possible. And after I've taken her about inthe world a while she'll be perfect."
"No doubt," said Norman. "But, alas, she'll never be perfect. For,you're not going to take her about."
"So she says when I talk of it to her," replied Ursula. "But I knowyou'll insist. You needn't be uneasy as to how she'll be received."
"I'm not," said Norman dryly.
"You've got back all you lost--and more. How we Americans do worshipsuccess!"
"Don't suggest to Dorothy anything further about society," said Norman."I've no time or taste for it, and I don't wish to be annoyed byintrusions into my home."
"But you'll not be satisfied always with just her," urged his sister."Besides, you've got a position to maintain."
Norman's smile was cynically patient. "I want my home and I want mycareer," said he. "And I don't want any society nonsense. I had the goodluck to marry a woman who knows and cares nothing about it. I don'tpurpose to give up the greatest advantage of my marriage."
Ursula was astounded. She knew the meaning of his various tones andmanners, and his way of rejecting her plans for Dorothy--and,incidentally, for her own amusement--convinced her that he was throughand through in earnest. "It will be dreadfully lonesome for her, Fred,"she pleaded.
"We'll wait till that trouble faces us," replied he, not a bitimpressed. "And don't forget--not a word of temptation to her from you."This with an expression that warned her how well he knew her indirectways of accomplishing what she could not gain directly.
"Oh, I shan't interfere," said she in a tone that made it a bindingpromise. "But you can't expect me to sympathize with your plans for anold-fashioned domestic life."
"Certainly not," said Norman. "You don't understand. Women of your sortnever do. That's why you're not fit to be the wives of men worth while.A serious man and a society woman can't possibly hit it off together.For a serious man the outside world is a place to work, and home is aplace to rest. For a society woman, the world is a place to idle andhome is a work shop, an entertainment factory. It's impossible toreconcile those two opposite ideas."
She saw his point at once, and it appealed to her intelligence. And shehad his own faculty for never permitting prejudice to influencejudgment. She said in a dubious tone, "Do you think Dorothy willsympathize with your scheme?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied he.
"If she doesn't--" Ursula halted there.
Her brother shrugged his shoulders. "If she proves to be the wrong sortof woman for me, she'll go her way and I mine."
"Why, I thought you loved her!"
"What have I said that leads you to change your mind?" said he.
"A man does not take the high hand with the woman he adores."
"So?" said Norman tranquilly.
"Well," said his puzzled sister by way of conclusion, "if you persist inbeing the autocrat----"
"Autocrat?--I?" laughed he. "Am I trying to compel her to do anythingshe doesn't wish to do? Didn't I say she would be free to go if she weredissatisfied with me and my plan--if she didn't adopt it gladly as herown plan, also?"
"But you know very well she's dependent upon you, Fred."
"Is that my fault? Does a man force a woman to become dependent? Andjust because she is dependent, should he therefore yield to her and lether make of his life a waste and a folly?"
"You're far too clever for me to argue with. Anyhow, as I was saying, ifyou persist in what I call tyranny----"
"When a woman cries tyranny, it means she's furious because she is notgetting _her_ autocratic way."
"Maybe so," admitted Ursula cheerfully. "At any rate, if youpersist--unless she loves you utterly, your life will be miserable."
"She may make her own life miserable, but not mine," replied he. "If Iwere the ordinary man--counting himself lucky to have induced any womanto marry him--afraid if he lost his woman he'd not be able to getanother--able to give his woman only an indifferent poor support, and soon--if I were one of those men, what you say might be true. But whatdeep and permanent mischief can a frail woman do a strong man?"
"There's instance after instance in history----"
"Of strong men wrecking _themselves_ through various kinds of madness,including sex madness. But, my dear Ursula, not an instance--notone--where the woman was responsible. If history were truth, instead oflies--you women might have less conceit."
"You--talking this way!" mocked Ursula.
"Meaning, I suppose, my late infatuation?" inquired he, unruffled.
"I never saw or read of a worse case."
"Am I ruined?"
"No. But why not? Because you got her. If you hadn't--" Ursula blew outa large cloud of cigarette smoke with a "Pouf!"
"If I hadn't got her," said Norman, "I'd have got well, just the same,in due time. A sick _weak_ man goes down; a sick _strong_ man gets well.When a man who's reputed to be strong doesn't get well, it's because hemerely seemed strong but wasn't. The poets and novelists and thehistorians and the rest of the nature fakers fail to tell _all_ the facts,dear sister. All the facts would spoil a pretty story."
Ursula thought a few minutes, suddenly burst out with, "Do you thinkDorothy loves you now?"
Norman rose to go out doors. "I don't think about such unprofitablethings," said he. "As long as we suit each other and get alongpleasantly--why bother about a name for it?"
In the French window he paused, stood looking out with an expression sopeculiar that Ursula, curious, came to see the cause. A few yards away,under a big symmetrical maple in full leaf sat Dorothy with the baby onher lap. She was dressed very simply in white. There was a littlesunlight upon her hair, a sheen of gold over her skin. She was lookingdown at the baby. Her expression----
Said Ursula: "Sev
eral of the great painters have tried to catch thatexpression. But they've failed."
Norman made no reply. He had not heard. All in an instant there had beenrevealed to him a whole new world--a view of man and woman--of woman--ofsex--its meaning so different from what he had believed and lived.
"What're you thinking about, Fred?" inquired his sister.
He shook his head, with a mysterious smile, and strolled away.
XXII
The baby grew and thrived, as the habit is with healthy children welltaken care of. Mrs. Norman soon got back her strength, her figure, andperhaps more than her former beauty--as the habit is with healthy womenwell taken care of. Norman's career continued to prosper, likewiseaccording to the habit of all healthy things well taken care of. In aworld where nothing happens by chance, mischance, to be serious, musthave some grave fault as its hidden cause. We mortals, who love to liveat haphazard and to blame God or destiny or "bad luck" for ourcalamities, hate to take this modern and scientific view of the worldand life. But, whether we like it or not, it is the truth--and, as wecan't get round it, why not accept it cheerfully and, so appear a littleless ignorant and ridiculous?
During their first year at the Hempstead place the results in luxury andcomfort had at no time accounted for the money it cost and the servantsit employed--that is to say, paid. But Norman was neither unreasonablenor impatient. Also, in his years of experience with his sister'shousekeeping, and of observation of the other women, he had grownexceedingly moderate in his estimate of the ability of women and in hisexpectations from them. He had reached the conclusion that the women whowere sheltered and pampered by the men of the successful classes wereproficient only in those things that call for no skill or effort beyondthe wagging of the tongue. He saw that Dorothy was making honestendeavor to learn her business, and he knew that learning takestime--much time.
He believed that in the end she would do better than any other wife ofhis acquaintance, at the business of wife and mother.
Before the baby was two years old, his belief was rewarded. Things beganto run better--began to run well, even. Dorothy--a serious person,unhampered of a keen sense of humor, had taught herself the duties ofher new position in much the same slow plodding way in which she hadformerly made of herself a fair stenographer and a tolerable typewriter.Mrs. Lowell had helped--and Ursula, too--and Norman not a little. ButDorothy, her husband discovered, was one of those who thoroughlyassimilate what they take in--who make it over into part of themselves.So, her manner of keeping house, of arranging the gardens, of bringingup the baby, of dressing herself, was peculiarly her own. It was not byany means the best imaginable way. It was even what many energetic,systematic and highly competent persons would speak contemptuously of.But it satisfied Norman--and that was all Dorothy had in mind.
If those who have had any considerable opportunity to observe marriedlife will forget what they have read in novels and will fix their mindson what they have observed at first hand, they will recognize the Normanmarriage, with the husband and wife living together yet apart as notpeculiar but of a rather common type. Neither Fred nor Dorothy had anyespecial reason on any given day to try to alter their relations; so thelaw of inertia asserted itself and matters continued as they had begun.It was, perhaps, a chance remark of Tetlow's that was the remote butefficient cause of a change, as the single small stone slipping high upon the mountain side results in a vast landslide into the valley milesbelow. Tetlow said one day, in connection with some estate they weresettling:
"I've always pitied the only child. It must be miserably lonesome."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he colored violently;for, he remembered that the Normans had but one child and he knew theprobable reason for it. Norman seemed not to have heard or seen. Tetlowhoped he hadn't, but, knowing the man, feared otherwise. And he wasright.
In the press of other matters Norman forgot Tetlow's remark--rememberedit again a few days later when he was taking the baby out for an airingin the motor--forgot it again--finally, when he took a several days'rest at home, remembered it and kept it in mind. He began to think ofDorothy once more in a definite, personal way, began to observe her ashis wife, instead of as mere part of his establishment. An intellectualperson she certainly was not. She had a quaint individual way ofspeaking and of acting. She had the marvelous changeable beauty that hadonce caused him to take the bit in his teeth and run wild. But he wouldno more think of talking with her about the affairs that reallyinterested him than--well, than the other men of large career in hisacquaintance would think of talking those matters to their wives.
But--He was astonished to discover that he liked this slim, quiet,unobtrusive little wife of his better than he liked anyone else in theworld, that he eagerly turned away from the clever and amusingcompanionship he might have at his clubs to come down to the country andbe with her and the baby--not the baby alone, but her also. Why? Hecould not find a satisfactory reason. He saw that she created at thatHempstead place an atmosphere of rest, of tranquility. But this merelythrust the mystery one step back. _How_ did she create thisatmosphere--and for a man of his varied and discriminating tastes? Tothat question he could work out no answer. She had for him now a charmas different from the infatuation of former days as calm sea is fromtempest-racked sea--utterly different, yet fully as potent. As heobserved her and wondered at these discoveries of his, the ghost of adelight he had thought forever dead stirred in his heart, in his fancy.Yes, it was a pleasure, a thrilling pleasure to watch her. There wasmusic in those quiet, graceful movements of hers, in that quiet, sweetvoice. Not the wild, blood-heating music of the former days, but a kindfar more melodious--tender, restful to nerves sorely tried by thetensions of ambition. He made some sort of an attempt to define hisfeeling for her, but could not. It seemed to fit into none of the usualclassifications.
Then, he wondered--"What is _she_ thinking of _me_?"
To find out he resorted to various elaborate round about methods thatdid credit to the ingenuity of his mind. But he made at every cunningcast a barren water-haul. Either she was not thinking of him at all orwhat she thought swam too deep for any casts he knew how to make inthose hidden and unfamiliar waters. Or, perhaps she did not herself knowwhat she thought, being too busy with the baby and the household to havetime for such abstract and not pressing, perhaps not important, matters.He moved slowly in his inquiries into her state of mind because therewas all the time in the world and no occasion for haste. He movedcautiously because he wished to do nothing that might disturb thepresent serenity of their home life. Did she dislike him? Was sheindifferent? Had she developed a habit of having him about that was in away equivalent to liking?
These languid but delightful investigations--not unlike the pastimes onespins out when one has a long, long lovely summer day with hours onhours for luxurious happy idling--these investigations were abruptlysuspended by a suddenly compelled trip to Europe. He arranged forDorothy to send him a cable every day--"about yourself and thebaby"--and he sent an occasional cabled bulletin about himself in reply.But neither wrote to the other; their relationship was not of theletter-exchanging kind--and had no need of pretense at what it was not.
In the third month of his absence, his sister Ursula came over fordresses, millinery and truly aristocratic society. She had little timefor him, or he for her, but they happened to lunch alone about a weekafter his arrival.
"You're looking cross and unhappy," said she. "What's the matter?Business?"
"No--everything's going well."
"Same thing that's troubling Dorothy, then?"
"Is Dorothy ill?" inquired he, suddenly as alert as he had been absent."She hasn't let me know anything about it."
"Ill? Of course not," reassured Ursula. "She's never ill. But--I've notanywhere or ever seen two people as crazy about each other as you andshe."
"Really?" Norman had relapsed into interest in what he was eating.
"You live all alone down there in the country. You treat anyone whoc
omes to see you as intruder. And as soon as darling husband goes away,darling wife wanders about like a damned soul. Honestly, it gave me theblues to look at her eyes. And I used to think she cared more about thebaby than about you."
"She's probably worried about something else," said Norman. "More salad?No? There's no dessert--at least I've ordered none. But if you'd likesome strawberries----"
"I thought of that," replied Ursula, not to be deflected. "I mean of herbeing upset about something beside you. I'm slow to suspect anyone ofreally caring about any _one_ else. But, although she didn't confess, Isoon saw that it was your absence. And she wasn't putting on for mybenefit, either. My maid hears the same thing from all the servants."
"This is pleasant," said Norman in his mocking good-humored way.
"And you're in the same state," she charged with laughing butsympathetic eyes. "Why, Fred, you're as madly in love with her as ever."
"I wonder," said he reflectively.
"Why didn't you bring her with you?"
He stared at his sister like a man who has just discovered that he, withincredible stupidity, had overlooked the obvious. "I didn't think I'dbe away long," evaded he.
He saw Ursula off for the Continent, half promised to join her in a fewweeks at Aix. A day or so after her departure he had a violent fit ofblues, was haunted by a vision of the baby and the comfortable, peacefulhouse on Long Island. He had expected to stay about two months longer."I'm sick of England and of hotels," he said, and closed up his businessand sailed the following week.
* * * * *
She and the baby were at the pier to meet him. He looked for signs ofthe mourning Ursula had described, but he looked in vain. Never had heseen her lovelier, or so sparkling. And how she did talk!--rattling onand on, with those interesting commonplaces of domestic event--the baby,the household, the garden, the baby--the horses, the dogs, thebaby--the servants, her new dresses, the baby--and so on, and so on--andthe baby.
But when they got into the motor at Hempstead station for the drivehome, silence fell upon her--he had been almost silent from the start ofthe little journey. As the motor swung into the grounds, looking theirmost beautiful for his homecoming, an enormous wave of pure delightbegan to surge up in him, to swell, to rush, to break, dashing its sprayof tears into his eyes. He turned his head away to hide the too obviousdisplay of feeling. They went into the house, he carrying the baby. Hegave it to the nurse--and he and she were alone.
"It certainly is good to be home again," he said.
The words were the tamest commonplace. We always speak in the oldstereotyped commonplaces when we speak directly from the heart. His tonemade her glance quickly at him.
"Why, I believe you _are_ glad," said she.
He took her hand. They looked at each other. Suddenly she flung herselfwildly into his arms and clung to him in an agony of joy and fear. "Oh,I missed you so!" she sobbed. "I missed you so!"
"It was frightful," said he. "It shall never happen again."
The Grain of Dust: A Novel Page 21