Part 26

He talked of the work "they" would do, of the fame "they" would win; she responded with rapidly decreasing enthusiasm, finally listened without comment. Once, when he was expanding upon this subject, with some projected public buildings at Washington as the text, she suddenly threw herself into his arms, and cried, "Oh, let Narcisse take care of those things. We--you and I, dearest--have got only a little while to live. Let us be happy--happy--_happy_!"

"But you forget, you've married a poor man," he protested. "We've got our living to make."

"Oh--of course," said she. "I'd hate for you to be anything but independent."

"If I were, you'd soon lose respect for me, as I should for myself."

"Yes--you must work," she conceded. "But not too hard. You mustn't crowd _me_ aside." She clasped her arms more tightly about his neck. "I'd _hate_ you, if you made me second to anybody or anything. I'm horribly jealous, and I know I'd end by hating you."

The way to reassure her, for the moment, was obvious and easy; and he took it. They talked no more of "our" work until they got back to New York. There, it was hard for him to find time to go to the office; for she was always wanting him to do something with her, and as luck would have it, the things he really couldn't get out of doing without offending her always somehow came in office hours. Sometimes he had a business appointment he dared not break; he would explain to her, and she would try to be "sensible." But she felt irritated--was he not her husband, and is not a husband's first duty to his wife?

"Why do you make so many appointments just when you know I'll need you?" she demanded. "I believe you do it on purpose!"

He showed her how unreasonable this was, and she laughed at herself. But her feeling at bottom was unchanged. After much casting about for some one to blame for this, to her, obvious conspiracy to estrange her husband from her, she fixed upon Narcisse. "She hates me because I took him away from her," she thought; and when she had thought it often enough, she was convinced. Yes, Narcisse was trying to drift them apart. And she ought to be doubly ashamed of herself, because what would the firm of A. & N. Siersdorf amount to but for Alois? Narcisse was, no doubt, clever in a way--but almost anybody who had to work and kept at it for years, could do as well. "Why, I, with no experience at all, did wonders down at Overlook--better than Narcisse ever did anywhere." Indeed, had Narcisse really ever done anything alone? "She has been living off Alois's brains, and she's trying to get him back."

That was all quite clear; also, a loving and watchful wife's duty in the circumstances. She gave Alois no rest until he had agreed to break partnership and take offices alone. "When you've got your own offices," she cried, "what work we shall do! You must go down early and stay late, and I'll have an office there, too."

So weak is man before woman on her knees and worshipful, Alois began dimly to believe that his wife was, in a measure, right; that Narcisse had been something--not much, but something--of a handicap to his genius; that her prudence and everyday practicality had chained down his soaring imagination. He had no illusions as to the help Amy would give him; there, she had not his vanity to aid her in deluding him. But he felt he owed it to himself to free himself from the partnership. Anyhow, something was wrong; something was preventing him from doing good work--and it was just as well to see if that something was his sister. "The sooner I discover just what I am, the better," he reasoned. And he had no misgivings as to the event.

Narcisse made the break easy for him. When she came back from Neva's, she met him in her usual friendly way, and herself opened the subject. "I think we'd better each go it alone," said she, as if she had not penetrated the meaning of his letter. "You've reached the point where you don't want to be bothered with the kind of things I do best. What do you say?"

"I had thought of that, too," confessed he. "But I-- Do you really want it, Cis?"

"No sentiment in business," replied she in her most offhand manner. "If each of us can do better alone, it'd be silly not to separate. Anyhow, where's the harm in trying?"

"I was going to suggest that we take offices a little further uptown," he went on. "We might do that, and keep on as we are for a while."

"No. You move; let me keep these offices. I'm like a cat; I get attached to places."

And so it was settled. "Narcisse Siersdorf, Builder," appeared where "A. & N. Siersdorf, Builders," had been. "Alois Siersdorf, Architect," appeared upon the offices, spacious and most imposing, in a small but extravagantly luxurious bank building in Fifth Avenue, within a few blocks of home--"home" being Josiah Fosdick's house.

Amy insisted on their living "at home" because her father couldn't be left quite alone; and Alois sat rent and food free; he had made a vigorous fight for complete independence in financial matters, but nothing had come of it--he felt that it was ridiculous solemnly to give Amy each month a sum which would hardly pay for her dresses. "You are too funny about money," she said. "Why attach so much importance to it? We put it all in together, and no doubt some months you pay more than our share, other months less--but what of that? You can't expect me to bother my head with horrid accounts. And I simply won't have you talking such matters with the housekeeper--and who else is there?"

Alois grumbled, but gradually yielded. He consoled himself with the reflection that presently his business would pay hugely, and then the equilibrium would be restored. And after a while--an extremely short while--he thought no more about the matter. This, in face of the fact that the business did not expand as he had dreamed. He was offered plenty to do at first, for he had reputation and the rich were eager for his services. But he simply could not find time to attend to business; he had to leave everything, even the making of plans, to assistants. There were all sorts of entertainments to which he must go with Amy--rides, coaching expeditions, luncheons, afternoon bridge parties, week-end visits. And often he was up until very late at balls; she loved to dance, and he found balls amusing, too. Indeed, he was well pleased with all the gayety. Everybody paid court to him; the husband of an heiress, and a distinguished, a successful, a famous man, one whose opinions in professional matters were quoted with respect. And as everybody talked and acted as if he were doing well, were rising steadily higher and higher, he could not but talk and act and feel so, himself--most of the time. He knew, as a matter of theory, that success of any kind, except in being rich, and that exception only for the enormously rich, is harder to keep than to win, must be won all over again each day. But in those surroundings he could not feel this; he seemed secure, permanent.

It was not long before all their world, except only her and him, knew he had practically given up the profession of architect for that of husband. The outward forms of deference to the famous young architect deceived him, enabled him to deceive himself; but his friends, in his very presence, and just out of earshot, often in undertones at his father-in-law's table, were sneering or, what is usually the same thing, moralizing. "Poor Siersdorf! How he has fagged out. Well, was there as much to him as some people said? And they tell me he is living off his wife."

When matters reach this pass, and when the man is really a man, the explosion is not far off. It came with the first bitter quarrel he and Amy had. She wished him to go away with her for two months; he wished to go, and it infuriated him against himself that he had so far lost his pride that he could even consider leaving his business when it needed him imperatively. He curtly refused to go; by degrees their discussion became a wrangle, a quarrel, a pitched battle. She was the first completely to lose control of temper. She cast about for some missile that would hit hard.

"What does this business of yours amount to, anyhow?" she jeered. "Sometimes, I can't help wondering what would have become of you if you hadn't married me."

She didn't mean it; she was hardly conscious that she was saying it until the words were out. She grew white and shrank before the damage she knew she must have done. He did not, could not, answer immediately. When he did, it was a release of all that had been poisoning him for months.

"You think that, do you?" he cried. "I might have known! You dare to think that, when you are responsible!"

"That's manly," she retorted, eager to extricate herself by putting him in the wrong.

He strode to her; he was shaking with fury. "We'll not talk about what's manly or womanly. Let's look at the facts. I loved you, and you took advantage of it to ruin my career, to make it impossible for me to work, to drive away my clients. You have taken my reputation, my brain, my energy. And you dare to taunt me! Men have killed women for less."

"Alois!" she sobbed. "Don't frighten me. Don't look--speak--like that! Oh, I'm not responsible for what I say. I know I've been selfish--it's all my fault. But what does anything matter except our happiness? Forgive me. You know why I'm so bad tempered now--so different from my usual self." And the sobs merged into a flood of hysterical tears.

The reference to her condition, to their expectations, softened him, caused his anger at once to begin to change into bitter shame, a shame to be concealed, to eat, acidlike, in and in and make a wound that would never heal, but would grow in venom until it would torture him without ceasing.

"I don't want you to work," she wept. "I want you all to myself. Ah, Alois, some time you'll appreciate my love; you'll realize that love is better than a career. And for you"--sob--"to reproach me"--sob, sob--"when I thought you were as happy as I!" A wild outburst of grief.

And he was consoling her, had her in his arms, was lulling her and himself in the bright waves of the passion which she could always evoke in him, as he in her. Never again did she speak of his dependent position; it always made her flesh creep and chill to remember what she had said. But from that time she was distinctly conscious that he was a dependent--and she no longer respected him. From that time, he clearly recognized his own position. He thought it out, decided to make a bold stand; but he felt he could not begin at once. In her condition she must not be crossed; he must go away with her, since go she must and go alone she could not. He would make a new beginning as soon as the baby was born.

Meanwhile, his office expenses were heavy, and the money he had saved before he was married was gone. He went into debt fast, terrifyingly fast. He borrowed two thousand dollars of Narcisse; he hoped it would last, as usually Amy's bills were all paid by her father. But they were away from Fosdick's house, and she, thinking and knowing nothing about money, continued to spend as usual. He got everything on credit that did not have to be paid for at once; but in spite of all his contriving, when they reached New York again he was really penniless. He went to Narcisse's office; she was out of town. In desperation he borrowed five hundred dollars from his brother-in-law.

Hugo loaned the money as if the transaction were a trifle that was making no impression on him. Like all those who think of nothing but money, he affected to think nothing of it. He noted Alois's nervousness, then his thin and harassed look. "How do Amy and Alois live?" he asked his father.

"Live? What do you mean?" said Josiah. "Why, they're perfectly happy. What put such nonsense in your head?"

"Oh, bother!" exclaimed Hugo. "Certainly they're happy. Amy'd be a fool not to be happy with as decent a chap as he is. I mean, how do they get along about money?"

"He's got a good business," said Fosdick. "You know it as well as I do."

"He used to have," replied Hugo. "But he's too busy with Amy to be doing much else. He's always standing on her dress. And he has no partner."

"I don't know anything about it," said Fosdick. "If Amy needed money, she'd come to me." Fosdick recalled that he had been paying even heavier bills for her since she was married; but he had no mind to speak of it to Hugo, as he did not wish Hugo to misunderstand. "You attend to your own affairs, boy," he continued. "Those two are all right." And he beamed benevolently. He delighted in Amy's happiness, felt that he was entirely responsible for it.

But Hugo was not to be put off. "Believe me, father, Alois is down to bed-rock. He can't speak to Amy about it, or to you. He's a gentleman. It's up to you to do something for him."

"I guess looking after Amy does keep his time pretty well filled up," chuckled the old man, much amused. "I'll fix him a place in the O.A.D.--something that'll give him a good income and not take his mind entirely off his job."

"Why not get Armstrong to make him supervising architect? A big public institution like that ought to pay more attention to cultivating the artistic side. He could think out and carry out some general plan that'd harmonize to high standards all the buildings, especially the dwelling and apartment houses they own in the provinces." Hugo spoke of the O.A.D. as "they" nowadays, though he still thought of it as "we."

"That's a good idea, Hugo, as good as any other. I'll see Armstrong to-day. I oughtn't to have neglected putting Alois on the pay rolls. I'll give him something in the railway, too. We'll fix him up handsomely. He's a fine young fellow, and he has made Amy happy. You don't appreciate that, you young scoundrel, as we of the older generation do." And Hugo had to listen patiently to a discourse on decaying virtue and honor and family life; for, like all decaying men, Fosdick mistook internal symptoms for an exterior and universal phenomenon, just as a man who is going blind cries, "The light is getting dim!"

Fosdick did not forget. Now that his attention was upon the matter, he reproached himself severely for his oversight. "I've been taking care of scores of people, and neglecting my own. But I'll make up for it." He ordered the president of the railway to put Alois on the pay rolls at once with a salary of twelve thousand a year. "You need somebody to supervise the stations. Everybody's going in for art, nowadays, and we want the best. Mail him his first check to-day, with the notice of his appointment."

In the full glow of generosity, he went up to see Armstrong. They were great friends nowadays. Since the peace, not a trace of cloud had come between them; he was careful to keep his hands entirely off the O.A.D.; Armstrong, on his side, gave the Fosdick railway and industrial enterprises the same "courtesies" they had always enjoyed, except that he charged them the current rate of interest, instead of the old special rate.

"Horace," he began, "I suppose you'll soon be organizing the construction department on broader lines. I've come to put in a good word for my son-in-law. I don't need to say anything about his merits as an architect. As you know, there's none better."

"None," said Armstrong heartily. "Anything we want in his line, he'll get."

"Thanks. Thanks. My idea, though, was a little more definite. I was thinking you might want a man to pass on all buildings, plans, improvements. He could raise the value of the company's property--particularly the dwelling and apartment houses."

"That's a valuable suggestion," said Armstrong. "And Siersdorf would be just the man for the place. But will he take it?"

"I think so."

"But he'd have to be traveling about, most of the time. He'd be in the West and South, where we're trying to get back the ground lost in those big exposes. I shouldn't think he'd care for that sort of life."

Fosdick was disconcerted. "I suppose that could be arranged. You wouldn't expect a man of Siersdorf's caliber to go chasing about the country like a retail drummer. He'd have assistants for that, and drawings and pictures and those sort of things could be forwarded to him here."

"That would hardly do," replied Armstrong, like a man advancing cautiously, but determined to advance. "Then, there's the matter of pay. The work would take all of his time, and we couldn't afford much of a salary. I should say the job was rather for some talented young fellow, trying to get a start."

"You'd simply waste whatever money you paid such a man," Fosdick objected with a restraint of tone and manner that astonished himself. "No, what you want is a high-class, a first-class, man at a good salary--a first-class man's salary."

"Say--how much?" inquired Armstrong.

"I was thinking twenty thousand a year--or, perhaps fifteen." The lower figure was an amendment suggested by the tightening of Armstrong's lips.

Armstrong saw the point. What Fosdick was after was a sinecure; a soft berth for his son-in-law to luxuriate idly in; another and a portly addition to the O.A.D's vast family of "fixed charges." "I'd like to oblige you, Mr. Fosdick," said he, with the reluctance of a man taking a new road where the passage looks doubtful and may be dangerous. "And I hate to deprive the O.A.D. of the chance to get Siersdorf's services at what is undoubtedly a bargain. But, as you may perhaps have heard, I'm directing all my efforts to lopping off expenses. I'm trying to get the O.A.D. on a basis where we can pay the policy holders a larger share of the profits we make on their money. Perhaps, later on, I can take the matter up. But I hope you won't press it at present."

The words were careful, the tone was most courteously regretful. But the refusal was none the less a slap in the face to a man like Fosdick. "As you please, as you please," he said hurriedly, and with averted eyes. "I just thought it was a good arrangement all around.... Everything going smoothly?"

"So-so."

"Well, good day."

And he went, with a friendly nod and handshake that did not deceive Armstrong. He drove to the magnificent Hearth and Home Defender building which Trafford and his pals had built for their own profit out of their stealings from millions of working men and women and children of the poorest, most ignorant class. Trafford received his fellow adept in the art of exploiting as Fosdick loved to be received; he did not let him finish his request before granting it. "An excellent idea, Fosdick," he cried. "I understand perfectly. I'll see that we get Siersdorf at once. Would fifteen thousand be too small?"

"About right, as a starter, I should say," was Fosdick's judicial answer. "You see, the thing's more or less an experiment."

"But certain to succeed," said Trafford confidently. "And, of course, we'll accept any arrangements Mr. Siersdorf may make about assistants. We can't expect him to give us all his time. We'll be quite content with his advice and judgment. You've put me under obligations to you."

Fosdick's eyes sparkled. As he went away, he said to himself, "Now, there's a big man, a gentleman, one who knows how to do business, how to treat another gentleman. I must put him in on something good."

And he did.

*XXIX*

*"IF I MARRIED YOU"*

When Armstrong saw the announcement of Frederic Carlin's death, he assumed Neva would soon be in New York, to escape the loneliness of Battle Field. He let three weeks pass, after her brief but gentle and friendly answer to his telegram of condolence. Then, he wrote her he was going to Chicago and wished to stop at Battle Field; she replied that she would be glad to see him. He took the first Westbound express--the through limited which, at his request, dropped him at the little town it had always before rushed past at disdainful speed. The respect with which he was treated, the deference of those who recognized him at the station, the smallness and simplicity of the old town, all combined to put the now triumphant and autocratic president of the mighty O.A.D. in the mood to appreciate every inch of the dizzy depth down from where he now blazed in glory to where he had begun, a barefoot boy in jeans, delivering groceries at back doors and alley gates. It was not in Armstrong to condescend; but it is in the sanest of us poor mortals, with our dim sense of proportion and our feeble sense of humor where we ourselves are the joke, to build up a grandiose mood upon less foundation of vanity of achievement than had Armstrong. The mood gave him a feeling of confidence, of conquest impending, as he strode in at the gate beside the drive into the Carlin place a full hour before he was expected. Memory was busy--not by any means altogether unpleasantly--as he went more slowly up the narrow walk to the old square stone house, with its walls all but hidden under the ivy, with its verandas draped in honeysuckle, and its peaceful, dignified foreground of primeval elms. The past was not quite forgotten; but he felt that it was completely expiated. He had paid for his ingratitude, his selfishness, his blindness, his folly--had paid in full, with interest.

He ascended to the veranda before the big oak front doors. The only life in view was a hummingbird flitting and balancing like a sprite among the honeysuckle blooms. The doors, the windows on either side, were open wide; he looked in with the future-focused eyes of the practical man of affairs. His past did not advance from those familiar rooms to abash him. On the contrary his eager gaze entered, searching for his future.

"We must have, will have, a place like this near New York," thought he. "Why not in New York? I can afford it."

He rang several times at long intervals; it was Neva herself who finally came--Neva, all in black and, so it seemed to him, more beautiful than ever. That she was glad, more than glad, at sight of him was plain to be seen in the color which submerged her pallor, in the swift lighting up of her eyes, like the first flash of stars in the night sky. But there was in her manner, as well as in her garb, a denial of the impulse of his impetuous passion; the doubts that had tormented him began to bore into his mood of self-confidence. She took him to the west veranda, with its luminous green curtains of morning-glory. She made him seat himself in the largest and laziest chair there, all the while covering the constraint with the neutral conversation which women command the more freely, the more difficult the situation. When the pause came he felt that she had permitted it, that she was ready to hear--and to speak. The doubts had made such inroads upon his assurance that his tone was less conclusive than he would have liked, as he began:

"Neva, I've come to take you back to New York."

Her expression, her manner brought vividly back to him that crucial talk of theirs at the lake shore. Only, now the advantage was wholly with her, where then it had been so distinctly on his side that he had pitied her, had felt almost cowardly. He looked at her impassive face, impossible to read, and there rose in him a feeling of fear--the fear every man at times has of the woman into whose hands his love has given his destiny.

"Everything is waiting on you," he went on. "The way lies smooth before us. You have brought me good fortune, Neva. My future--our future--is secure. With you to help me I shall go to the top. So--come, Neva!" And his heart filled his eyes.

She waited a moment before answering. "If we should fail this time, it would be the end, wouldn't it?" she said.

"But we can't fail!" he protested. He was strong in his assurance once more; did not her question imply that she loved him?