Chapter 8

Norman had ceased to listen. The girl was moving toward the door by which they had entered--was in the doorway--was gone! He stood in an attitude of attention; Hallowell talked on and on, passing from one thing to another, forgetting his caller and himself, thinking only of the subject, the beloved science, that has brought into the modern world a type of men like those who haunted the deserts and mountain caves in the days when Rome was falling to pieces. With those saintly hermits of the Dark Ages religion was the all-absorbing subject. And seeking their own salvation was the goal upon which their ardent eyes were necessarily bent. With these modern devotees, science--the search for the truth about the world in which they live--is their religion; and their goal is the redemption of the world. They are resolved--step by step, each worker contributing his mite of discovery--to transform the world from a hell of discomfort and pain and death to a heaven where men and women, free and enlightened and perhaps immortal, shall live in happiness. They even dream that perhaps this race of gods shall learn to construct the means to take them to another and younger planet, when this Earth has become too old and too cold and too nakedly clad in atmosphere properly to sustain life.

From time to time Norman caught a few words of what Hallowell said--words that made him respect the intelligence that had uttered them. But he neither cared nor dared to listen. He refused to be deflected from his one purpose. When he was as old as Hallowell, it would be time to think of these matters. When he had snatched the things he needed, it would be time to take the generous, wide, philosopher view of life. But not yet. He was still young; he could--and he would!--drink of the sparkling heady life of the senses, typefied now for him in this girl. How her loveliness flamed in his blood--flamed as fiercely when he could not see the actual, tangible charms as when they were radiating their fire into his eyes and through his skin! First he must live that glorious life of youth, of nerves aquiver with ecstasy. Also, he must shut out the things of the intellect--must live in brain as well as in body the animal life--in brain the life of cunning and strategy. For the intellectual life would make it impossible to pursue such ignoble things. First, material success and material happiness. Then, in its own time, this intellectual life to which such men as Hallowell ever beckon, from their heights, such men as Norman, deep in the wallow that seems to them unworthy of them, even as they roll in it.

As soon as there came a convenient pause in Hallowell's talk, Norman said, "And you devote your whole life to these things?"

Hallowell's countenance lost its fine glow of enthusiasm. "I have to make a living. I do chemical analyses for doctors and druggists. That takes most of my time."

"But you can dispatch those things quickly."

Hallowell shook his head. "There's only one way to do things. My clients trust me. I can't shirk."

Norman smiled. He admired this simplicity. But it amused him, too; in a world of shirking and shuffling, not to speak of downright dishonesty, it struck the humorous note of the incongruous. He said:

"But if you could give all your time you would get on faster."

"Yes--if I had the time--_and_ the money. To make the search exhaustive would take money--five or six thousand a year, at the least. A great deal more than I shall ever have."

"Have you tried to interest capitalists?"

Hallowell smiled ironically. "There is much talk about capitalists and capital opening up things. But I have yet to learn of an instance of their touching anything until they were absolutely sure of large profits. Their failed enterprises are not miscarriage of noble purpose but mistaken judgment, judgment blinded by hope and greed."

"I see that a philosopher can know life without living it," said Norman. "But couldn't you put your scheme in such a way that some capitalist would be led to hope?"

"I'd have to tell them the truth. Possibly I might discover something with commercial value, but I couldn't promise. I don't think it is likely."

Norman's eyes were on the door. His thoughts were reaching out to the distant and faint sound of a piano. "Just what do you propose to search for?" inquired he.

He tried to listen, because it was necessary that he have some knowledge of Hallowell's plans. But he could not fix his attention. After a few moments he glanced at his watch, interrupted with, "I think I understand enough for the present. I've stayed longer than I intended. I must go now. When I come again I may perhaps have some plan to propose."

"Plan?" exclaimed Hallowell, his eyes lighting up.

"I'm not sure--not at all sure," hastily added Norman. "I don't wish to give you false hopes. The matter is extremely difficult. But I'll try. I've small hope of success, but I'll try."

"My daughter didn't explain to me," said the scientist. "She simply said one of the gentlemen for whom she worked was coming to look at my place. I thought it was mere curiosity."

"So it was, Mr. Hallowell," said Norman. "But I have been interested. I don't as yet see what can be done. I'm only saying that I'll think it over."

"I understand," said Hallowell. He was trying to seem calm and indifferent. But his voice had the tremulous note of excitement in it and his hands fumbled nervously, touching evidence of the agitated gropings of his mind in the faint, perhaps illusory, light of a new-sprung hope. "Yes, I understand perfectly. Still--it is pleasant to think about such a thing, even if there's no chance of it. I am very fond of dreaming. That has been my life, you know."

Norman colored, moved uneasily. The fineness of this man's character made him uncomfortable. He could pity Hallowell as a misguided failure. He could dilate himself as prosperous, successful, much the more imposing and important figure in the contrast. Yet there was somehow a point of view at which, if one looked carefully, his own sort of man shriveled and the Hallowell sort towered.

"I _must_ be going," Norman said. "No--don't come with me. I know the way. I've interrupted you long enough." And he put out his hand and, by those little clevernesses of manner which he understood so well, made it impossible for Hallowell to go with him to Dorothy.

He was glad when he shut the door between him and her father. He paused in the hall to dispel the vague, self-debasing discomfort--and listening to _her_ voice as she sang helped wonderfully. There is no more trying test of a personality than to be estimated by the voice alone. That test produces many strange and startling results. Again and again it completely reverses our judgment of the personality, either destroys or enhances its charm. The voice of this girl, floating out upon the quiet of the cottage--the voice, soft and sweet, full of the virginal passion of dreams unmarred by experience--It was while listening to her voice, as he stood there in the dimly lighted hall, that Frederick Norman passed under the spell in all its potency. In taking an anaesthetic there is the stage when we reach out for its soothing effects; then comes the stage when we half desire, half fear; then a stage in which fear is dominant, and we struggle to retain our control of the senses. Last comes the stage when we feel the full power of the drug and relax and yield or are beaten down into quiet. Her voice drew him into the final stage, was the blow of the overwhelming wave's crest that crushed him into submission.

She glanced toward the door. He was leaning there, an ominous calm in his pale, resolute face. She gazed at him with widening eyes. And her look was the look of helplessness before a force that may, indeed must, be struggled against, but with the foregone certainty of defeat.

A gleam of triumph shone in his eyes. Then his expression changed to one more conventional. "I stopped a moment to listen, on my way out," said he.

Her expression changed also. The instinctive, probably unconscious response to his look faded into the sweet smile, serious rather than merry, that was her habitual greeting. "Mr. Tetlow didn't get away from father so soon."

"I stayed longer than I intended. I found it even more interesting than I had expected. . . . Would you be glad if your father could be free to do as he likes and not be worried about anything?"

"That is one of my dreams."

"Well, it's certainly one that might come true. . . . And you--It's a shame that you should have to do so much drudgery--both here and in New York."

"Oh, I don't mind about myself. It's all I'm fit for. I haven't any talent--except for dreaming."

"And for making--_some_ man's dreams come true."

Her gaze dropped. And as she hid herself she looked once more almost as insignificant and colorless as he had once believed her to be.

"What are you thinking about?"

She shook her head slowly without raising her eyes or emerging from the deep recess of her reserve.

"You are a mystery to me. I can't decide whether you are very innocent or very--concealing."

She glanced inquiringly at him. "I don't understand," she said.

He smiled. "No more do I. I've seen so much of faking--in women as well as in men--that it's hard for me to believe anyone is genuine."

"Do you think I am trying to deceive you? About what?"

He made an impatient gesture--impatience with his credulity where she was concerned. "No matter. I want to make you happy--because I want you to make me happy."

Her eyes became as grave as a wondering child's. "You are laughing at me," she said.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I could not make you happy."

"Why not?"

"What could a serious man like you find in me?"

His intense, burning gaze held hers. "Some time I will tell you."

She shut herself within herself like a flower folding away its beauty and leaving exposed only the underside of its petals. It was impossible to say whether she understood or was merely obeying an instinct.

He watched her a moment in silence. Then he said:

"I am mad about you--mad. You _must_ understand. I can think only of you. I am insane with jealousy of you. I want you--I must have you."

He would have seized her in his arms, but the look of sheer amazement she gave him protected her where no protest or struggle would. "You?" she said. "Did you really mean it? I thought you were just talking."

"Can't you see that I mean it?"

"Yes--you look as if you did. But I can't believe it. I could never think of you in that way."

Once more that frank statement of indifference infuriated him. He _must_ compel her to feel--he must give that indifference the lie--and at once! He caught her in his arms. He rained kisses upon her pale face. She made not the least resistance, but seemed dazed. "I will teach you to love me," he cried, drunk now with the wine of her lips, with the perfume of her exquisite youth. "I will make you happy. We shall be mad with happiness."

She gently freed herself. "I don't believe I could ever think of you in that way."

"Yes, darling--you will. You can't help loving where you are loved so utterly."

She gazed at him wonderingly--the puzzled wonder of a child. "You--love--me?" she said slowly.

"Call it what you like. I am mad about you. I have forgotten everything--pride--position--things you can't imagine--and I care for nothing but you."

And again he was kissing her with the soft fury of fire; and again she was submitting with the passive, dazed expression that seemed to add to his passion. To make her feel! To make her respond! He, whom so many women had loved--women of position, of fame for beauty, of social distinction or distinction as singers, players--women of society and women of talent all kinds of worth-while women--they had cared, had run after him, had given freely all he had asked and more. And this girl--nobody at all--she had nothing for him.

He held her away from him, cried angrily: "What is the matter with you? What is the matter with me?"

"I don't understand," she said. "I wish you wouldn't kiss me so much."

He released her, laughed satirically. "Oh--you are playing a game. I might have known."

"I don't understand," said she. "A while ago you said you loved me. Now you act as if you didn't like me at all." And she smiled gayly at him, pouting her lips a little. Once more her beauty was shining. It made his nerves quiver to see the color in her pure white skin where he had kissed her.

"I don't care whether it is a game or not," he cried. And he was about to seize her again, when she repulsed him. He crushed her resistance, held her tight in his arms.

"You frighten me," she murmured. "You--hurt me."

He released her. "What do you want?" he cried. "Don't you care at all?"

"Oh, yes. I like you--very much. I have from the first time I saw you. But you seem older--and more serious."

"Never mind about that. We are going to love each other--and I am going to make you and your father happy."

"If you make father happy I will do anything for you. I don't want anything myself--but he is getting old and sometimes his despair is terrible." There were tears in her voice--tears and the most touching tenderness. "He has some great secret that he wants to discover, and he is afraid he will die without having had the chance."

"You will love me if I make your father happy?"

He knew it was the question of a fool, but he so longed to hear from her lips some word to give him hope that he could not help asking it. She said:

"Love you as--as you seem to love me? Not that same way. I don't feel that way toward you. But I will love you in my own way."

He observed her with penetrating eyes. Was this speech of hers innocence or calculation? He could get no clue to the truth. He saw nothing but innocence; the teaching of experience warned him to believe in nothing but guile. He hid his doubt and chagrin behind a mocking smile. "As you please," said he. "I will do my part. Then--we'll see. . . . Do you care about anyone else--in _my_ way of loving, I mean?"

It was again the question of an infatuated fool, and put in an infatuated fool's way. For, if she were a "deep one," how could he hope to get the truth? But her answer reassured him. "No," she said--her simple, direct negation that had a convincing power he had never seen equaled.

"If I ever knew of another man's touching you," he said, "I'd feel like strangling him." He laughed at himself. "Not that I should strangle him. That sort of thing isn't done any more. But I'd do something devilish."

"But I haven't promised not to kiss anyone else," she said. "Why should I? I don't love you."

He looked at her strangely. "But you're going to love me," he said.

She shrank within herself again. She looked at him with uneasy eyes. "You won't kiss me any more until I tell you that I do love you?" she asked with the gravity and pathos and helplessness of a child.

"Don't you want to learn to love me?--to learn to love?"

She was silent--a silence that maddened him.

"Don't be afraid to speak," he said irritably. "What are you thinking?"

"That I don't want you to kiss me--and that I do want father to be happy."

Was this guile? Was it innocence? He put his arms round her. "Look at me," he said.

She gazed at him frankly.

"You like me?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you want me to kiss you?"

"I don't know. It makes me--dislike you."

He released her. She laid her hand on his arm eagerly. "Please--" she implored. "I don't mean to hurt you. I wouldn't offend you for anything. Only--when you ask me a question--mustn't I tell you the truth?"

"Always," he said, believing in her, in spite of the warnings of cynical worldliness. "I don't know whether you are sincere or not--as yet. So for the present I'll give you the benefit of the doubt." He stood back and looked at her from head to foot. "You are beautiful!--perfect," he said in a low voice. He laughed. "I'll resist the temptation to kiss you again. I must go now. About your father--I'll see what can be done."

She stood with her hands behind her back, looking up at him with an expression he could not fathom. Suddenly she advanced, put up her lips and said gravely,

"Won't you kiss me?"

He eyed her quizzically. "Oh--you've changed your mind?"

She shook her head.

"Then why do you ask me to kiss you?"

"Because of what you said about father."

He laughed and kissed her. And then she, too, laughed. He said, "Not for my own sake--not a little bit?"

"Oh, yes," she cried, "when you kiss me that way. I like to be kissed. I am very affectionate."

He laughed again. "You _are_ a queer one. If it's a game, it's a good one. Is it a game?"

"I don't know," said she gayly. "Good night. This is dreadfully late for me."

"Good night," he said, and they shook hands. "Do you like me better--or less?"

"Better," was her prompt, apparently honest reply.

"Curiously enough, I'm beginning to _like_ you," said he. "Now don't ask me what I mean by that. If you don't know already, you'll not find out from me."

"Oh, but I do know," cried she. "The way you kissed me--that was one thing. The way you feel toward me now--that's a different thing. Isn't it so?"

"Exactly. I see we are going to get on."

"Yes, indeed."

They shook hands again in friendliest fashion, and she opened the front door for him. And her farewell smile was bright and happy.

VII

In the cold clear open he proceeded to take the usual account of stock--with dismal results. She had wound him round her fingers, had made him say only the things he should not have said, and leave unsaid the things that might have furthered his purposes. He had conducted the affair ridiculously--"just what is to be expected of an infatuated fool." However, there was no consolation in the discovery that he was reduced, after all these years of experience, to the common level--man weak and credulous in his dealings with woman. He hoped that his disgust with himself would lead on to disgust, or, rather, distaste for her. It is the primal instinct of vanity to dislike and to shun those who have witnessed its humiliation.

"I believe I am coming to my senses," he said. And he ventured to call her up before him for examination and criticism. This as he stood upon the forward deck of the ferry with the magnificent panorama of New York before him. New York! And he, of its strong men, of the few in all that multitude who had rank and power--he who had won as his promised wife the daughter of one of the dozen mighty ones of the nation! What an ill-timed, what an absurd, what a crazy step down this excursion of his! And for what? There he summoned her before him. And at the first glance of his fancy at her fair sweet face and lovely figure, he quailed. He was hearing her voice again. He was feeling the yield of her smooth, round form to his embrace, the yield of her smooth white cheek to his caress. In his nostrils was the fragrance of her youth, the matchless perfume of nature, beyond any of the distillations of art in its appeal to his normal and healthy nerves. And he burned with the fire only she could quench. "I must--I must.--My God, I _must_!" he muttered.

When he reached home, he asked whether his sister was in. The butler said that Mrs. Fitzhugh had just come from the theater. In search of her, he went to the library, found her seated there with a book and a cigarette, her wrap thrown back upon her chair. "Come out to supper with me, Ursula," he said. "I'm starved and bored."

"Why, you're not dressed!" exclaimed his sister. "I thought you were at the Cameron dance with Josephine."

"Had to cut it out," replied he curtly. "Will you come?"

"I can't eat, but I'll drink. Yes, let's have a spree. It's been years since we had one--not since we were poor. Let's not go to a _deadly_ respectable place. Let's go where there are some of the other kind, too."

"But I must have food. Why not the Martin?"

"That'll do--though I'd prefer something a little farther up Broadway."

"The Martin is gay enough. The truth is, there's nothing really gay any more. There's too much money. Money suffocates gayety."

To the Martin they went, and he ordered an enormous supper--one of those incredible meals for which he was famous. They dispatched a quart of champagne before the supper began to come, he drinking at least two thirds of it. He drank as much while he was eating--and called for a third bottle when the coffee was served. He had eaten half a dozen big oysters, a whole guinea hen, a whole portion of salad, another of Boniface cheese, with innumerable crackers.

"If I could eat as you do!" sighed Ursula enviously. "Yet it's only one of your accomplishments."

"I'm not eating much nowadays," said he gloomily. "I'm losing my appetite." And he lit a long black cigar and swallowed half a large glass of the champagne. "Nothing tastes good--not even champagne."

"There _is_ something wrong with you," said Ursula. "Did you ask me out for confidences, or for advice--or for both?"

"None of them," replied he. "Only for company. I knew I'd not be able to sleep for hours, and I wanted to put off the time when I'd be alone."

"I wish I had as much influence with you as you have with me," said Ursula, by way of preparation for confidences.

"Influence? Don't I do whatever you say?"

She laughed. "Nobody has influence over you," she said.

"Not even myself," replied he morosely.

"Well--that talking-to you gave me has had its effect," proceeded Mrs. Fitzhugh. "It set me to thinking. There are other things besides love--man and woman love. I've decided to--to behave myself and give poor Clayton a chance to rest." She smiled, a little maliciously. "He's had a horrible fright. But it's over now. What a fine thing it is for a woman to have a sensible brother!"

Norman grunted, took another liberal draught of the champagne.

"If I had a mind like yours!" pursued Ursula. "Now, you simply couldn't make a fool of yourself."

He looked at her sharply. He felt as if she had somehow got wind of his eccentric doings.

"I've always resented your rather contemptuous attitude toward women," she went on. "But you are right--really you are. We're none of us worth the excitement men make about us."

"It isn't the woman who makes a fool of the man," said Norman. "It's the man who makes a fool of himself. A match can cause a terrific explosion if it's in the right place--but not if it isn't."

She nodded. "That's it. We're simply matches--and most of us of the poor sputtering kind that burns with a bad odor and goes out right away. A very inferior quality of matches."

"Yes," repeated Norman, "it's the man who does the whole business."

A mocking smile curled her lips. "I knew you weren't in love with Josephine."

He stared gloomily at his cigar.

"But you're going to marry her?"

"I'm in love with her," he said angrily. "And I'm going to marry her."

She eyed him shrewdly. "Fred--are you in love with some one else?"

He did not answer immediately. When he did it was with a "No" that seemed the more emphatic for the delay.

"Oh, just one of your little affairs." And she began to poke fun at him. "I thought you had dropped that sort of thing for good and all. I hope Josie won't hear of it. She'd not understand. Women never do--unless they don't care a rap about the man. . . . Is she on the stage? I know you'll not tell me, but I like to ask."

Her brother looked at her rather wildly. "Let's go home," he said. He was astounded and alarmed by the discovery that his infatuation had whirled him to the lunacy of longing to confide--and he feared lest, if he should stay on, he would blurt out his disgraceful secret. "Waiter, the bill."

"Don't let's go yet," urged his sister. "The most interesting people are beginning to come. Besides, I want more champagne."