The Grain of Dust: A Novel

by David Graham Phillips

  VII

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

  "I believe I am coming to my senses," he said. And he ventured to callher up before him for examination and criticism. This as he stood uponthe forward deck of the ferry with the magnificent panorama of New Yorkbefore him. New York! And he, of its strong men, of the few in all thatmultitude who had rank and power--he who had won as his promised wifethe daughter of one of the dozen mighty ones of the nation! What anill-timed, what an absurd, what a crazy step down this excursion ofhis! And for what? There he summoned her before him. And at the firstglance of his fancy at her fair sweet face and lovely figure, hequailed. He was hearing her voice again. He was feeling the yield of hersmooth, round form to his embrace, the yield of her smooth white cheekto his caress. In his nostrils was the fragrance of her youth, thematchless perfume of nature, beyond any of the distillations of art inits appeal to his normal and healthy nerves. And he burned with the fireonly 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 butlersaid that Mrs. Fitzhugh had just come from the theater. In search ofher, he went to the library, found her seated there with a book and acigarette, her wrap thrown back upon her chair. "Come out to supper withme, Ursula," he said. "I'm starved and bored."

  "Why, you're not dressed!" exclaimed his sister. "I thought you were atthe 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 yearssince 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 anymore. There's too much money. Money suffocates gayety."

  To the Martin they went, and he ordered an enormous supper--one of thoseincredible meals for which he was famous. They dispatched a quart ofchampagne before the supper began to come, he drinking at least twothirds of it. He drank as much while he was eating--and called for athird bottle when the coffee was served. He had eaten half a dozen bigoysters, a whole guinea hen, a whole portion of salad, another ofBoniface cheese, with innumerable crackers.

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

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

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

  "None of them," replied he. "Only for company. I knew I'd not be able tosleep 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," saidUrsula, 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 besideslove--man and woman love. I've decided to--to behave myself and givepoor Clayton a chance to rest." She smiled, a little maliciously. "He'shad a horrible fright. But it's over now. What a fine thing it is for awoman 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'tmake a fool of yourself."

  He looked at her sharply. He felt as if she had somehow got wind of hiseccentric 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 worththe excitement men make about us."

  "It isn't the woman who makes a fool of the man," said Norman. "It's theman who makes a fool of himself. A match can cause a terrific explosionif 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 thepoor 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 withJosephine."

  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" thatseemed 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 hopeJosie won't hear of it. She'd not understand. Women never do--unlessthey don't care a rap about the man. . . . Is she on the stage? I knowyou'll not tell me, but I like to ask."

  Her brother looked at her rather wildly. "Let's go home," he said. Hewas astounded and alarmed by the discovery that his infatuation hadwhirled him to the lunacy of longing to confide--and he feared lest, ifhe 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 arebeginning to come. Besides, I want more champagne."

  He yielded. While she gazed round with the air of a visitor to a Zoothat is affected by fashionable people, and commented on the faces,figures, and clothes of the women, he stared at his plate and smoked anddrank. Finally she said, "I'd give anything to see you make a fool ofyourself, just once."

  He grinned. "Things are in the way to having your wish gratified," hesaid. "It looks to me as if my time had come."

  She tried to conceal her anxiety. "Are you serious?" she asked. Thenadded: "Of course not. You simply couldn't. Especially now--whenJosephine might hear. I suppose you've noticed how Joe Culver is hanginground her?"

  He nodded.

  "There's no danger--unless----"

  "I shall marry Josephine."

  "Not if she hears."

  "She's not going to hear."

  "Don't be too sure. Women love to boast. It tickles their vanity to havea man. Yes, they pretend to be madly in love simply to give themselvesthe excuse for tattling."

  "She'll not hear."

  "You can't be sure."

  "I want you to help me out. I'm going to tell her I'm tremendously busythese few next days--or weeks."

  "Weeks!" Ursula Fitzhugh laughed. "My, it must be serious!"

  "Weeks," repeated her brother. "And I want you to say things that'llhelp out--and to see a good deal of her." He flung down his cigar. "Youwomen don't understand how it is with a man."

  "Don't we though! Why, it's a very ordinary occurrence for a woman to bereally in love with several men at once."

  His eyes gleamed jealously. "I don't believe it," he cried.

  "Not Josephine," she said reassuringly. "She's one of thosesingle-hearted, untemperamental women. They concentrate. They have noimagination."

  "I wasn't thinking of Josephin
e," said he sullenly. "To go back to whatI was saying, I am in love with Josephine and with no one else. I can'texplain to you how or why I'm entangled. But I'll get myself untangledall right--and very shortly."

  "I know that, Fred. You aren't the permanent damn-fool sort."

  "I should say not!" exclaimed he. "It's a hopeful sign that I knowexactly how big a fool I am."

  She shook her head in strong dissent. "On the contrary," said she,"it's a bad sign. I didn't realize I was making a fool of myself untilyou pointed it out to me. That stopped me. If I had been doing it withmy eyes open, your jacking me up would only have made me go ahead."

  "A woman's different. It doesn't take much to stop a woman. She's abouthalf stopped when she begins."

  Ursula was thoroughly alarmed. "Fred," she said earnestly, "you'rerunning bang into danger. The time to stop is right now."

  "Can't do it," he said. "Let's not talk about it."

  "Can't? That word from _you_?"

  "From me," replied he. "Don't forget helping out with Josephine. Let'sgo."

  And he refused to be persuaded to stay on--or to be cajoled or baitedinto talking further of this secret his sister saw was weighing heavily.

  * * * * *

  He was down town half an hour earlier than usual the next morning. Butno one noted it because his habit had always been to arrive among thefirst--not to set an example but to give his prodigious industry thefullest swing. There was in Turkey a great poet of whom it is said thathe must have written twenty-five hours a day. Norman's accomplishmentbulked in that same way before his associates. He had not slept thewhole night. But, thanks to his enormous vitality, no trace of thisserious dissipation showed. The huge supper he had eaten--and drunk--thesleepless night and the giant breakfast of fruit and cereal and chopsand wheat cakes and coffee he had laid in to stay him until lunch time,would together have given pause to any but such a physical organizationas his. The only evidence of it was a certain slight irritability--butthis may have been due to his state of intense self-dissatisfaction.

  As he entered the main room his glance sought the corner where MissHallowell was ensconced. She happened to look up at that instant. With aradiant smile she bowed to him in friendliest fashion. He coloreddeeply, frowned with annoyance, bowed coldly and strode into his room.He fussed and fretted about with his papers for a few minutes, then rangthe bell.

  "Send in Miss Pritchard--no, Mr. Gowdy--no, Miss Hallowell," he said tothe office boy. And then he looked sharply at the pert young face forpossible signs of secret cynical amusement. He saw none such, but wasnot convinced. He knew too well how by a sort of occult process theservants, all the subordinates, round a person like himself discover themost intimate secrets, almost get the news before anything has reallyoccurred.

  Miss Hallowell appeared, and very cold and reserved she looked as shestood waiting.

  "I sent for you because--" he began. He glanced at the door to make surethat it was closed--"because I wanted to hear your voice." And helaughed boyishly. He was in high good humor now.

  "Why did you speak to me as you did when you came in?" said she.

  There was certainly novelty in this direct attack, this equal to equalcriticism of his manners. He was not pleased with the novelty; but atthe same time he felt a lack of the courage to answer her as shedeserved, even if she was playing a clever game. "It isn't necessarythat the whole office should know our private business," said he.

  She seemed astonished. "What private business?"

  "Last night," said he, uncertain whether she was trifling with him orwas really the innocent she pretended to be. "If I were you, I'd notspeak as friendlily as you did this morning--not before people."

  "Why?" inquired she, her sweet young face still more perplexed.

  "This isn't a small town out West," explained he. "It's New York. Peoplemisunderstand--or rather--" He gave her a laughing, mischievousglance--"or rather--they don't."

  "I can't see anything to make a mystery about," declared the girl. "Why,you act as if there were something to be ashamed of in coming to seeme."

  He was observing her sharply. How could a girl live in the New Yorkatmosphere several years without getting a sensible point of view? Yet,so far as he could judge, this girl was perfectly honest in herignorance. "Don't be foolish," said he. "Please accept the fact as Igive it to you. You mustn't let people see everything."

  She made no attempt to conceal her dislike for this. "I won't be mixedup in anything like that," said she, quite gently and without asuggestion of pique or anger. "It makes me feel low--and it's horriblycommon. Either we are going to be friends or we aren't. And if we are,why, we're friends whenever we meet. I'm not ashamed of you. And if youare ashamed of me, you can cut me out altogether."

  His color deepened until his face was crimson. His eyes avoided hers. "Iwas thinking chiefly of you," he said--and he honestly thought he wasspeaking the whole truth.

  "Then please don't do so any more," said she, turning to go. "Iunderstand about New York snobbishness. I want nothing to do with it."

  He disregarded the danger of the door being opened at any moment. Herushed to her and took her reluctant hand. "You mustn't blame me for theways of the world. I can't change them. Do be sensible, dearest. You'reonly going to be here a few days longer. I've got that plan for you andyour father all thought out. I'll put it through at once. I don't wantthe office talking scandal about us--do you?"

  She looked at him pityingly. His eyes fell before hers. "I know it's aweakness," he said, giving up trying to deceive her and himself. "But Ican't help it. I was brought up that way."

  "Well--I wasn't. I see we can never be friends."

  What a mess he had made of this affair! This girl must be playing uponhim. In his folly he had let her see how completely he was in her power,and she was using that power to establish relations between them thatwere the very opposite of what he desired--and must have. He mustcontrol himself. "As you please," he said coldly, dropping her hand."I'm sorry, but unless you are reasonable I can do nothing for you." Andhe went to his desk.

  She hesitated a moment; as her back was toward him, he could not see herexpression. Without looking round she went out of his office. It tookall his strength to let her go. "She's bluffing," he muttered. "Andyet--perhaps she isn't. There may be people like that left in New York."Whatever the truth, he simply must make a stand. He knew women; no womanhad the least respect for a man who let her rule--and this woman,relying upon his weakness for her, was bent upon ruling. If he did notmake a stand, she was lost to him. If he did make a stand, he could nomore than lose her. Lose her! That thought made him sick at heart. "Whata fool I am about her!" he cried. "I must hurry things up. I must getenough of her--must get through it and back to my sober senses."

  That was a time of heavy pressure of important affairs. He furiouslyattacked one task after another, only to abandon each in turn. His mind,which had always been his obedient, very humble servant, absolutelyrefused to obey. He turned everything over to his associates or tosubordinates, fighting all morning against the longing to send for her.At half past twelve he strode out of the office, putting on the air ofthe big man absorbed in big affairs. He descended to the street. Butinstead of going up town to keep an appointment at a business lunch hehung round the entrance to the opposite building.

  She did not appear until one o'clock. Then out she came--with the headoffice boy!--the good-looking, young head office boy.

  Norman's contempt for himself there reached its lowest ebb. For hisblood boiled with jealousy--jealousy of his head office boy!--and aboutan obscure little typewriter! He followed the two, keeping to the otherside of the street. Doubtless those who saw and recognized him fanciedhim deep in thought about some mighty problem of corporate law orpolicy, as he moved from and to some meeting with the great men whodictated to a nation of ninety millions what they should buy and howmuch they should pay for it. He saw the two enter a quick-lunchrestaurant--struggled with a crack-brai
ned impulse to join them--draggedhimself away to his appointment.

  He was never too amiable in dealing with his clients, because he hadfound that, in self-protection, to avoid being misunderstood and largelyincreasing the difficulties of amicable intercourse, he must keep thefeel of iron very near the surface. That day he was for the first timeirascible. If the business his clients were engaged in had been lessperilous and his acute intelligence not indispensable, he would havecost the firm dear. But in business circles, where every considerationyields to that of material gain, the man with the brain may conducthimself as he pleases--and usually does so, when he has strength ofcharacter.

  All afternoon he wrestled with himself to keep away from the office. Hewon, but it was the sort of victory that gives the winner the chagrinand despondency of defeat. At home, late in the afternoon, he foundJosephine in the doorway, just leaving. "You'll walk home with me--won'tyou?" she said. And, taken unawares and intimidated by guilt, he couldthink of no excuse.

  Some one--probably a Frenchman--has said that there are always in aman's life three women--the one on the way out, the one that is, and theone that is to be. Norman--ever the industrious trafficker with thefeminine that the man of the intense vitality necessary to a greatcareer of action is apt to be--was by no means new to the situation inwhich he now found himself. But never before had the circumstances beenso difficult. Josephine in no way resembled any woman with whom he hadbeen involved; she was the first he had taken seriously. Nor did theother woman resemble the central figure in any of his affairs. He didnot know what she was like, how to classify her; but he did know thatshe was unlike any woman he had ever known and that his feeling for herwas different--appallingly different--from any emotion any other womanhad inspired in him. So--a walk alone with Josephine--a first talk withher after his secret treachery--was no light matter. "Deeper anddeeper," he said to himself. "Where is this going to end?"

  She began by sympathizing with him for having so much to do--"and fathersays you can get through more work than any man he ever knew, notexcluding himself." She was full of tenderness and compliment, of a kindof love that made him feel as the dirt beneath his feet. She respectedhim so highly; she believed in him so entirely. The thought of herdiscovering the truth, or any part of it, gave him a sensation ofnausea. He was watching her out of the corner of his eye. Never had heseen her more statelily beautiful. If he should lose her! "I'mmad--_mad_!" he said to himself.

  "Josephine is as high above her as heaven above earth. What is there toher, anyhow? Not brains--nor taste--nor such miraculous beauty. Why doI make an ass of myself about her? I ought to go to my doctor."

  "I don't believe you're listening to what I'm saying," laughedJosephine.

  "My head's in a terrible state," replied he. "I can't think ofanything."

  "Don't try to talk or to listen, dearest," said she in the sweet andsoothing tone that is neither sweet nor soothing to a man in a certainspecies of unresponsive mood. "This air will do you good. It doesn'tannoy you for me to talk to you, does it?"

  The question was one of those which confidently expects, even demands, asincere and strenuous negative for answer. It fretted him, thismatter-of-course assumption of hers that she could not but be altogetherpleasing, not to say enchanting to him. Her position, her wealth, theattentions she had received, the flatteries--In her circumstances couldit be in human nature not to think extremely well of oneself? And headmitted that she had the right so to think. Still--For the first timeshe scraped upon his nerves. His reply, "Annoy me? The contrary," wasdistinctly crisp. To an experienced ear there would have sounded thefaint warning under-note of sullenness.

  But she, believing in his love and in herself, saw nothing, suspectednothing. "We know each other so thoroughly," she went on, "that we don'tneed to make any effort. How congenial we are! I always understand you.I feel such a sense of the perfect freedom and perfect frankness betweenus. Don't you?"

  "You have wonderful intuitions," said he.

  It was the time to alarm him by coldness, by capriciousness. But howcould she know it? And she was in love--really in love--not withherself, not with love, but with him. Thus, she made the mistake of alltrue lovers in those difficult moments. She let him see how absolutelyshe was his. Nor did the spectacle of her sincerity, of her belief inhis sincerity put him in any better humor with himself.

  The walk was a mere matter of a dozen blocks. He thought it would neverend. "You are sure you aren't ill?" she said, when they were at herdoor--a superb bronze door it was, opening into a house of the splendorthat for the acclimated New Yorker quite conceals and more thancompensates absence of individual taste. "You don't look ill. But youact queerly."

  "I'm often this way when they drive me too hard down town."

  She looked at him with fond admiration; he might have been betterpleased had there not been in the look a suggestion of the possessive."How they do need you! Father says--But I mustn't make you any vainerthan you are."

  He usually loved compliment, could take it in its rawest form with finehuman gusto. Now, he did not care enough about that "father says" torise to her obvious bait. "I'm horribly tired," he said. "Shall I seeyou to-morrow? No, I guess not--not for several days. You understand?"

  "Perfectly," replied she. "I'll miss you dreadfully, but my father hastrained me well. I know I mustn't be selfish--and tempt you to neglectthings."

  "Thank you," said he. "I must be off."

  "You'll come in--just a moment?" Her eyes sparkled. "The butler willhave sense enough to go straight away--and the small reception room willbe quite empty as usual."

  He could not escape. A few seconds and he was alone with her in thelittle room--how often had he--they--been glad of its quiet andseclusion on such occasions! She laid her hand upon his shoulders, gazedat him proudly. "It was here," said she, "that you first kissed me. Doyou remember?"

  To take her gaze from his face and to avoid seeing her look of lovingtrust, he put his arms round her. "I don't deserve you," he said--one ofthose empty pretenses of confession that yet give the human soul a senseof truthfulness.

  "You'd not say that if you knew how happy you make me," murmured she.

  The welcome sound of a step in the hall give him his release. When hewas in the street, he wiped his hot face with his handkerchief. "And Ithought I had no moral sense left!" he reflected--not the first man, inthis climax day of the triumph of selfish philosophies, to be astonishedby the discovery that the dead hands of heredity and tradition have apower that can successfully defy reason.

  He started to walk back home, on impulse took a passing taxi and went tohis club. It was the Federal. They said of it that no man who amountedto anything in New York could be elected a member, because any man onhis way up could not but offend one or more of the important persons incontrol. Most of its members were nominated at birth or in childhood andelected as soon as they were twenty-one. Norman was elected after hebecame a man of consequence. He regarded it as one of the signaltriumphs of his career; and beyond question it was proof of his power,of the eagerness of important men, despite their jealousy, to please himand to be in a position to get the benefit of his brains should needarise. Norman's whole career, like every career great and small, in thearena of action, was a derision of the ancient moralities, ademonstration of the value of fear as an aid to success. Even hisfriends--and he had as many as he cared to have--had been drawn to himby the desire to placate him, to stand well where there was danger instanding ill.

  Until dinner time he stood at the club bar, drinking one cocktail afteranother with that supreme indifference to consequences to health whichmade his fellow men gape and wonder--and cost an occasional imitatorhealth, and perhaps life. Nor did the powerful liquor have the leasteffect upon him, apparently. Possibly he was in a better humor, but notnoticeably so. He dined at the club and spent the evening at bridge,winning several hundred dollars. He enjoyed the consideration hereceived at that club, for his fellow members being men of both socialand financial cons
equence, their conspicuous respect for him was aconcentrated essence of general adulation. He lingered on, eating agreat supper with real appetite. He went home in high good humor withhimself. He felt that he was a conqueror born, that such things of hisdesire as did not come could be forced to come. He no longer regardedhis passion for the nebulous girl of many personalities as a descentfrom dignity. Was he not king? Did not his favor give her whatever rankhe pleased? Might not a king pick and choose, according to his fancy?Let the smaller fry grow nervous about these matters of caste. They didwell to take care lest they should fall. But not he! He had won thus farby haughtiness, never by cringing. His mortal day would be that in whichhe should abandon his natural tactics for the modes of lesser men. True,only a strong head could remain steady in these giddy altitudes ofself-confidence. But was not his head strong?

  And without hesitation he called up the vision that made himdelirious-and detained it and reveled in it until sleep came.