The Grain of Dust: A Novel

by David Graham Phillips

  XVIII

  A few days later, Tetlow, having business with Norman, tried to reachhim by telephone. After several failures he went to the hotel, and inthe bar learned enough to enable him to guess that Norman was of on amad carouse. He had no difficulty in finding the trail or in followingit; the difficulty lay in catching up, for Norman was going fast. Notuntil late at night--that is, early in the morning--of the sixth dayfrom the beginning of his search did he get his man.

  He was prepared to find a wreck, haggard, wildly nervous anddisreputably disheveled; for, so far as he could ascertain Norman hadnot been to bed, but had gone on and on from one crowd of revelers toanother, in a city where it is easy to find companions in dissipation atany hour of the twenty-four. Tetlow was even calculating upon having toput off their business many weeks while the crazy man was pullingthrough delirium tremens or some other form of brain fever.

  An astonishing sight met his eyes in the Third Avenue oyster housebefore which the touring car Norman had been using was drawn up. At along table, eating oysters as fast as the opener could work, sat Normanand his friend Gaskill, a fellow member of the Federal Club, and about ascore of broken and battered tramps. The supper or breakfast was goingforward in admirable order. Gaskill, whom Norman had picked up a fewhours before, showed signs of having done some drinking. But not Norman.It is true his clothing might have looked fresher; but hardly the manhimself.

  "Just in time!" he cried out genially, at sight of Tetlow. "Sit downwith us. Waiter, a chair next to mine. Gentlemen, Mr. Tetlow. Mr.Tetlow, gentlemen. What'll you have, old man?"

  Tetlow declined champagne, accepted half a dozen of the huge oysters."I've been after you for nearly a week," said he to Norman.

  "Pity you weren't _with_ me," said Norman. "I've been getting acquaintedwith large numbers of my fellow citizens."

  "From the Bowery to Yonkers."

  "Exactly. Don't fall asleep, Gaskill."

  But Gaskill was snoring with his head on the back of his chair and histhroat presented as if for the as of the executioner. "He's all in,"said Tetlow.

  "That's the way it goes," complained Norman. "I can't find anyone tokeep me company."

  Tetlow laughed. "You look as if you had just started out," said he."Tell me--_where_ have you slept?"

  "I haven't had time to sleep as yet."

  "I dropped in to suggest that a little sleep wouldn't do any harm."

  "Not quite yet. Watch our friends eat. It gives me an appetite. Waiter,another dozen all round--and some more of this carbonated white wineyou've labeled champagne."

  As he called out this order, a grunt of satisfaction ran round the rowof human derelicts. Tetlow shuddered, yet was moved and thrilled, too,as he glanced from face to face--those hideous hairy countenances,begrimed and beslimed, each countenance expressing in its own repulsiveway the one emotion of gratified longing for food and drink. "Where didyou get 'em?" inquired he.

  "From the benches in Madison Square," replied Norman. He laughedqueerly. "Recognize yourself in any of those mugs, Tetlow?" he asked.

  Tetlow shivered. "I should say not!" he exclaimed.

  Norman's eyes gleamed. "I see myself in all of 'em," said he.

  "Poor wretches!" muttered Tetlow.

  "Pity wasted," he rejoined. "You might feel sorry for a man on the wayto where they've got. But once arrived--as well pity a dead man sleepingquietly in his box with three feet of solid earth between him andworries of every kind."

  "Shake this crowd," said Tetlow impatiently. "I want to talk with you."

  "All right, if it bores you." He sent the waiter out for enoughlodging-house tickets to provide for all. He distributed them himself,to make sure that the proprietor of the restaurant did not attempt tograft. Then he roused Gaskill and bundled him into the car and sent itaway to his address. The tramps gathered round and gave Norman threecheers--they pressed close while four of them tried to pick his andTetlow's pockets. Norman knocked them away good-naturedly, and he andTetlow climbed into Tetlow's hansom.

  "To my place," suggested Tetlow.

  "No, to mine--the Knickerbocker," replied Norman.

  "I'd rather you went to my place first," said Tetlow uneasily.

  "My wife isn't with me. She has left me," said Norman calmly.

  Tetlow hesitated, extremely nervous, finally acquiesced. They drove awhile in silence, then Norman said, "What's the business?"

  "Galloway wants to see you."

  "Tell him to come to my office to-morrow--that means to-day--at any timeafter eleven."

  "But that gives you no chance to pull yourself together," objectedTetlow.

  Norman's face, seen in the light of the street lamp they happened to bepassing, showed ironic amusement. "Never mind about me, Billy. Tell himto come."

  Tetlow cleared his throat nervously. "Don't you think, old man, thatyou'd better go to see him? I'll arrange the appointment."

  Norman said quietly: "Tetlow, I've dropped pretty far. But not so farthat I go to my clients. The rule of calls is that the man seeking thefavor goes to the man who can grant it."

  "But it isn't the custom nowadays for a lawyer to deal that way with aman like Galloway."

  "And neither is it the custom for anyone to have any self-respect. DoesGalloway need my brains more than I need his money, or do I need hismoney more than he needs my brains? You know what the answer to that is,Billy. We are partners--you and I. I'm training you for the position."

  "Galloway won't come," said Tetlow curtly.

  "So much the worse for him," retorted Norman placidly. "No--I've notbeen drinking too much, old man--as your worried--old-maid looksuggests. Do a little thinking. If Galloway doesn't get me, whom will heget?"

  "You know very well, Norman, there are scores of lawyers, good ones,who'd crawl at his feet for his business. Nowadays, most lawyers arealways looking round for a pair of rich man's boots to lick."

  "But I am not 'most lawyers,'" said Norman. "Of course, if Gallowaycould make me come to him, he'd be a fool to come to me. But when hefinds I'm not coming, why, he'll behave himself--if his business isimportant enough for me to bother with."

  "But if he doesn't come, Fred?"

  "Then--my Universal Fuel scheme, or some other equally good. But youwill never see me limbering my knees in the anteroom of a rich man, whenhe needs me and I don't need him."

  "Well, we'll see," said Tetlow, with the air of a sober man patient withone who is not sober.

  "By the way," continued Norman, "if Galloway says he's too ill tocome--or anything of that sort--tell him I'd not care to undertake theaffairs of a man too old or too feeble to attend to business, as hemight die in the midst of it."

  Tetlow's face was such a wondrous exhibit of discomfiture that Normanlaughed outright. Evidently he had forestalled his fat friend in ascheme to get him to Galloway in spite of himself. "All right--allright," said Tetlow fretfully. "We'll sleep on this. But I don't see whyyou're so opposed to going to see the man. It looks like snobbishness tome--false pride--silly false pride."

  "It _is_ snobbishness," said Norman. "But you forget that snobbishnessrules the world. The way to rule fools is to make them respect you. Andthe way to make them respect you is by showing them that they are yourinferiors. I want Galloway's respect because I want his money. And I'llnot get his money--as much of it as belongs to me--except by showinghim my value. Not my value as a lawyer, for he knows that already, butmy value as a man. Do you see?"

  "No, I don't," snapped Tetlow.

  "That's what it means to be Tetlow. Now, I do see--and that's why I'mNorman."

  Tetlow looked at him doubtfully, uncertain whether he had been listeningto wisdom put in a jocose form of audacious egotism or to theeffervescings of intoxication. The hint of a smile lurking in thesobriety of the powerful features of his extraordinary friend onlyincreased his doubt. Was Norman mocking him, and himself as well? If so,was it the mockery of sober sense or of drunkenness?

  "You seem to be puzzled, Billy," said Norman, and Te
tlow wondered how hehad seen. "Don't get your brains in a stew trying to understand me. I'macting the way I've always acted--except in one matter. You know that Iknow what I'm about?"

  "I certainly do," replied his admirer.

  "Then, let it go at that. If you could understand me--the sort of man Iam, the sort of thing I do--you'd not need me, but would be the wholeshow yourself--eh? That being true, don't show yourself a commonplacenobody by deriding and denying what your brain is unable to comprehend.Show yourself a somebody by seeing the limitations of your ability. Theworld is full of little people who criticise and judge and laugh at andmisunderstand the few real intelligences. And very tedious interruptionsof the scenery those little people are. Don't be one of them. . . . Didyou know my wife's father?"

  Tetlow startled. "No--that is, yes," he stammered. "That is, I met him afew times."

  "Often enough to find out that he was crazy?"

  "Oh, yes. He explained some of his ideas to me. Yes--he was quite mad,poor fellow."

  Norman gave way to a fit of silent laughter. "I can imagine," hepresently said, "what you'd have thought if Columbus or Alexander orNapoleon or Stevenson or even the chaps who doped out the telephone andthe telegraph--if they had talked to you before they arrived. Or evenafter they arrived, if they had been explaining some still newer andbigger idea not yet accomplished."

  "You don't think Mr. Hallowell was mad?"

  "He was mad, assuming that you are the standard of sanity. Otherwise, hewas a great man. There'll be statues erected and pages of the book offame devoted to the men who carry out his ideas."

  "His death was certainly a great loss to his daughter," said Tetlow inhis heaviest, most bourgeois manner.

  "I said he was a great man," observed Norman. "I didn't say he was agreat father. A great man is never a great father. It takes a small manto be a great father."

  "At any rate, her having no parents or relatives doesn't matter, nowthat she has you," said Tetlow, his manner at once forced andconstrained.

  "Um," muttered Norman.

  Said Tetlow: "Perhaps you misunderstood why I--I acted as I did abouther, toward the last."

  "It was of no importance," said Norman brusquely. "I wish to hearnothing about it."

  "But I must explain, Fred. She piqued me by showing so plainly that shedespised me. I must admit the truth, though I've got as much vanity asthe next man, and don't like to admit it. She despised me, and it mademe mad."

  An expression of grim satire passed over Norman's face. Said he: "Shedespised me, too."

  "Yes, she did," said Tetlow. "And both of us were certainly greatly hersuperiors--in every substantial way. It seemed to me most--most----"

  "Most impertinent of her?" suggested Norman.

  "Precisely. _Most_ impertinent."

  "Rather say, ignorant and small. My dear Tetlow, let me tell yousomething. Anybody, however insignificant, can be loved. To be lovedmeans nothing, except possibly a hallucination in the brain of thelover. But to _love_--that's another matter. Only a great soul is capableof a great love."

  "That is true," murmured Tetlow sentimentally, preening in a quiet,gentle way.

  Said Norman sententiously: "_You_ stopped loving. It was _I_ that kepton."

  Tetlow looked uncomfortable. "Yes--yes," he said. "But we were talkingof her--of her not appreciating the love she got. And I was about tosay--" Earnestly--"Fred, she's not to be blamed for her folly! She'svery, very young--and has all the weaknesses and vanities of youth----"

  "Here we are," interrupted Norman.

  The hansom had stopped in Forty-second Street before the deserted butstill brilliantly lighted entrances to the great hotel. Norman sprangout so lightly and surely that Tetlow wondered how it was possible forthis to be the man who had been racketing and roistering day after day,night after night for nearly a week. He helped the heavy and awkwardTetlow to descend, said:

  "You'll have to pay, Bill. I've got less than a dollar left. And Itouched Gaskill for a hundred and fifty to-night. You can imagine howdrunk he was, to let me have it. How they've been shying off from _me_these last few months!"

  "And you want _Galloway_ to come to _you_," thrust Tetlow, as he countedout the money.

  "Don't go back and chew on that," laughed Norman. "It's settled." Hetook the money, gave it to the driver. "Thanks," he said to Tetlow."I'll pay you to-morrow--that is, later to-day--when you send me anothercheck."

  "Why should you pay for my cab?" rejoined Tetlow.

  "Because it's easier for me to make money than it is for you," repliedNorman. "If you were in my position--the position I've been in formonths--would anybody on earth give you three thousand dollars a month?"

  Tetlow looked sour. His good nature was rubbing thin in spots.

  "Don't lose your temper," laughed Norman. "I'm pounding away at youabout my superiority, partly because I've been drinking, but chiefly foryour own good--so that you'll realize I'm right and not mess things withGalloway."

  They went up to Norman's suite. Norman tried to unlock the door, foundit already unlocked. He turned the knob, threw the door wide for Tetlowto enter first. Then, over Tetlow's shoulder he saw on the marble-toppedcenter table Dorothy's hat and jacket, the one she had worn away, theonly one she had. He stared at them, then at Tetlow. A confused look inthe fat, slow face made him say sharply:

  "What does this mean, Tetlow?"

  "Not so loud, Fred," said Tetlow, closing the door into the public hall."She's in the bedroom--probably asleep. She's been here sinceyesterday."

  "You brought her back?" demanded Norman.

  "She wanted to come. I simply----"

  Norman made a silencing gesture. Tetlow's faltering voice stopped short.Norman stood near the table, his hands deep in his trousers' pockets,his gaze fixed upon the hat and jacket. When Tetlow's agitation couldbear the uncertainties of that silence no longer, he went on:

  "Fred, you mustn't forget how young and inexperienced she is. She's beenfoolish, but nothing more. She's as pure as when she came into theworld. And it's the truth that she wanted to come back. I saw it as soonas I began to talk with her."

  "What are you chattering about?" said Norman fiercely. "Why did youmeddle in my affairs? Why did you bring her back?"

  "I knew she needed you," pleaded Tetlow. "Then, too--I was afraid--Iknew how you acted before, and I thought you'd not get your gait againuntil you had her."

  Norman gave a short sardonic laugh. "If you'd only stop trying tounderstand me!" he said.

  Tetlow was utterly confused. "But, Fred, you don't realize--not all," hecried imploringly. "She discovered--she thinks, I believe--thatis--she--she--that probably--that in a few months you'll be somethingmore than a husband--and she something more than a wife--thatyou--that--you and she will be a father and a mother."

  Tetlow's meaning slowly dawned on Norman. He seated himself in hisfavorite attitude, legs sprawled, fingers interlaced behind his head.

  "Wasn't I right to bring her back--to tell her she needn't fear tocome?" pleaded Tetlow.

  Norman made no reply. After a brief silence he said: "Well, good night,old man. Come round to my office any time after ten." He rose and gaveTetlow his hand. "And arrange for Galloway whenever you like. Goodnight."

  Tetlow hesitated. "Fred--you'll not be harsh to her?" he said.

  Norman smiled--a satirical smile, yet exquisitely gentle. "If you _only_wouldn't try to understand me, Bill," he said.

  When he was alone he sat lost in thought. At last he rang for a bellboy. And when the boy came, he said: "That door there"--indicating onein the opposite wall of the sitting room--"what does it lead into?"

  "Another bedroom, sir."

  "Unlock it, and tell them at the office I wish that room added to mysuite."

  As soon as the additional bedroom was at his disposal, he went in andbegan to undress. When he had taken off coat and waistcoat he paused totelephone to the office a call for eight o'clock. As he finished andhung up the receiver, a sound from the direction of the
sitting roommade him glance in there. On the threshold of the other bedroom stoodhis wife. She was in her nightgown; her hair, done in a single thickbraid, hung down across her bosom. There was in the room and upon herchildish loveliness the strange commingling of lights and shadows thatfalls when the electricity is still on and the early morning light ispushing in at the windows. They looked at each other in silence for sometime. If she was frightened or in the least embarrassed she did not showit. She simply looked at him, while ever so slowly a smile dawned--agleam in the eyes, a flutter round the lips, growing merrier andmerrier. He did not smile. He continued to regard her gravely.

  "I heard you and Mr. Tetlow come in," she said. "Then--you talked solong--I fell asleep again. I only this minute awakened."

  "Well, now you can go to sleep again," said he.

  "But I'm not a bit sleepy. What are you doing in that room?"

  She advanced toward his door. He stood aside. She peeped in. She was soclose to him that her nightgown brushed the bosom of his shirt. "Anotherbedroom!" she exclaimed. "Just like ours."

  "I didn't wish to disturb you," said he, calm and grave.

  "But you wouldn't have been disturbing me," protested she, leaningagainst the door frame, less than two feet away and directly facing him.

  "I'll stay on here," said he.

  She gazed at him with great puzzled eyes. "Aren't you glad I'm back?"she asked.

  "Certainly," said he with a polite smile. "But I must get some sleep."And he moved away.

  "You must let me tell you how I happened to go and why I came----"

  "Please," he interrupted, looking at her with a piercing though not inthe least unfriendly expression that made her grow suddenly pale andthoughtful. "I do not wish to hear about it--not now--not ever. Tetlowtold me all that it's necessary for me to know. You have come to stay, Iassume?"

  "Yes--if"--her lip quivered--"if you'll let me."

  "There can be no question of that," said he with the same polite gravityhe had maintained throughout.

  "You want me to leave you alone?"

  "Please. I need sleep badly--and I've only three hours."

  "You are--angry with me?"

  He looked placidly into her lovely, swimming eyes. "Not in the least."

  "But how can you help being? I acted dreadfully."

  He smiled gently. "But you are back--and the incident is closed."

  She looked down at the carpet, her fingers playing with her braid,twisting and untwisting its strands. He stood waiting to close the door.She said, without lifting her eyes--said in a quiet, expressionless way,"I have killed your love?"

  "I'll not trouble you any more," evaded he. And he laid his handsignificantly upon the knob.

  "I don't understand," she murmured. Then, with a quick apologetic glanceat him, "But I'm very inconsiderate. You want to sleep. Good night."

  "Good night," said he, beginning to close the door.

  She impulsively stood close before him, lifted her small white face, asif for a kiss. "Do you forgive me?" she asked. "I was foolish. I didn'tunderstand--till I went back. Then--nothing was the same. And I knew Iwasn't fitted for that life--and didn't really care for him--and----"

  He kissed her on the brow. "Don't agitate yourself," said he. "And wewill never speak of this again."

  She shrank as if he had struck her. Her head drooped, and her shoulders.When she was clear of the door, he quietly closed it.