The longer he thought of it the stronger grew his doubt that the little
Hallowell girl could be so indifferent to him as she seemed. Not that
she was a fraud--that is, a conscious fraud--even so much of a fraud as
the sincerest of the other women he had known. Simply that she was
carrying out a scheme of coquetry. Could it be in human nature, even in
the nature of the most indiscriminating of the specimens of young
feminine ignorance and folly, not to be flattered by the favor of such a
man as he? Common sense answered that it could not be--but neglected to
point out to him that almost any vagary might be expected of human
nature, when it could produce such a deviation from the recognized types
as a man of his position agitated about such an unsought obscurity as
Miss Hallowell. He continued to debate the state of her mind as if it
were an affair of mightiest moment--which, indeed, it was to him. And
presently his doubt strengthened into conviction. She must be secretly
pleased, flattered, responsive. She had been in the office long enough
to be impressed by his position. Yes, there must be more or less
pretense in her apparently complete indifference--more or less pretense,
more or less coquetry, probably not a little timidity.
She would come down from her high horse--with help and encouragement
from him. He was impatient to get to the office and see just how she
would do it--what absurd, amusing attractive child's trick she would
think out, imagining she could fool him, as lesser intelligences are
ever fatuously imagining they can outwit greater.
He rather thought she would come in to see him on some pretext, would
maneuver round like a bird pretending to flutter away from the trap it
has every intention of entering. But eleven o'clock of a wasted morning
came and she did not appear. He went out to see if she was there--she
must be sick; she could not be there or he would have heard from her. . . .
Yes, she was at her desk, exactly as always. No, not exactly the same.
She was obviously attractive now; the air of insignificance had gone,
and not the dullest eyes in that office could fail to see at least
something of her beauty. And Tetlow was hanging over her, while the
girls and boys grinned and whispered. Clearly, the office was "on to"
Tetlow. . . . Norman, erect and coldly infuriate, called out:
"Mr. Tetlow--one moment, please."
He went back to his den, Tetlow startling and following like one on the
way to the bar for sentence. "Mr. Tetlow," he said, when they were shut
in together, "you are making a fool of yourself before the whole
office."
"Be a little patient with me, Mr. Norman," said the head clerk humbly.
"I've got another place for her. She's going to take it to-morrow.
Then--there'll be no more trouble."
Norman paled. "She wishes to leave?" he contrived to articulate.
"She spoke to me about leaving before I told her I had found her another
job."
Norman debated--but for only a moment. "I do not wish her to leave," he
said coldly. "I find her useful and most trustworthy."
Tetlow's eyes were fixed strangely upon him.
"What's the matter with you?" asked Norman, the under-note of danger but
thinly covered.
"Then she was right," said Tetlow slowly. "I thought she was mistaken. I
see that she is right."
"What do you mean?" said Norman--a mere inquiry, devoid of bluster or
any other form of nervousness.
"You know very well what I mean, Fred Norman," said Tetlow. "And you
ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"Don't stand there scowling and grimacing like an idiot," said Norman
with an amused smile. "What do you mean?"
"She told me--about your coming to see her--about your offer to do
something for her father--about your acting in a way that made her
uneasy."
For an instant Norman was panic-stricken. Then his estimate of her
reassured him. "I took your advice," said he. "I went to see for myself.
How did I act that she was made uneasy?"
"She didn't say. But a woman can tell what a man has in the back of his
head--when it concerns her. And she is a good woman--so innocent that
you ought to be ashamed of yourself for even thinking of her in that
way. God has given innocence instincts, and she felt what you were
about."
Norman laughed--a deliberate provocation. "Love has made a fool of you,
old man," he said.
"I notice you don't deny," retorted Tetlow shrewdly.
"Deny what? There's nothing to deny." He felt secure now that he knew
she had been reticent with Tetlow as to the happenings in the cottage.
"Maybe I'm wronging you," said Tetlow, but not in the tone of belief.
"However that may be, I know you'll not refuse to listen to my appeal. I
love her, Norman. I'm going to make her my wife if I can. And I ask
you--for the sake of our old friendship--to let her alone. I've no
doubt you could dazzle her. You couldn't make a bad woman of her. But
you could make her very miserable."
Norman pushed about the papers before him. His face wore a cynical
smile; but Tetlow, who knew him in all his moods, saw that he was deeply
agitated.
"I don't know that I can win her, Fred," he pleaded. "But I feel that I
might if I had a fair chance."
"You think she'd refuse _you_?" said Norman.
"Like a flash, unless I'd made her care for me. That's the kind she is."
"That sounds absurd. Why, there isn't a woman in New York who would
refuse a chance to take a high jump up."
"I'd have said so, too. But since I've gotten acquainted with her I've
learned better. She may be spoiled some day, but she hasn't been yet.
God knows, I wish I could tempt her. But I can't."
"You're entirely too credulous, old man. She'll make a fool of you."
"I know better," Tetlow stubbornly maintained. "Anyhow, I don't care. I
love her, and I'd marry her, no matter what her reason for marrying me
was."
What pitiful infatuation!--worse than his own. Poor Tetlow!--he deserved
a better fate than to be drawn into this girl's trap--for, of course,
she never could care for such a heavy citizen--heavy and homely--the
loosely fat kind of homely that is admired by no one, not even by a
woman with no eye at all for the physical points of the male. It would
be a real kindness to save worthy Tetlow. What a fool she'd make of
him!--how she'd squander his money--and torment him with jealousy--and
unfit him for his career. Poor Tetlow! If he could get what he wanted,
he'd be well punished for his imprudence in wanting it. Really, could
friendship do him a greater service than to save him?
Norman gave Tetlow a friendly, humorous glance. "You're a hopeless case,
Billy," he said. "But at least don't rush into trouble. Take your time.
You can always get in, you know; and you may not get in quite so deep."
"You promise to let her alone?" said Tetlow eagerly.
Again his distinguished friend laughed. "Don't be an ass, old man. Why
imagine that, just because you've taken a fancy to a girl, everyone
wants her?" He clapped him on the shoulder, gave him a push toward the
door. "I've wasted enough time on this nonsense."
Tetlow did not venture to disregard a hint so plain. He went with his
doubt still unsolved--his doubt whether his jealousy was right or his
high opinion of his hero friend whose series of ever-mounting successes
had filled him with adoration. He knew the way of success, knew no man
could tread it unless he had, or acquired, a certain hardness of heart
that made him an uncomfortable not to say dangerous associate. He
regretted his own inability to acquire that indispensable hardness, and
envied and admired it in Fred Norman. But, at the same time that he
admired, he could not help distrusting.
Norman battled with his insanity an hour, then sent for Miss Hallowell.
The girl had lost her look of strength and vitality. She seemed frail
and dim--so unimportant physically that he wondered why her charm for
him persisted. Yet it did persist. If he could take her in his arms,
could make her drooping beauty revive!--through love for him if
possible; if not, then through anger and hate! He must make her feel,
must make her acknowledge, that he had power. It seemed to him another
instance of the resistless fascination which the unattainable, however
unworthy, has ever had for the conqueror temperament.
"You are leaving?" he said curtly, both a question and an affirmation.
"Yes."
"You are making a mistake--a serious mistake."
She stood before him listlessly, as if she had no interest either in
what he was saying or in him. That maddening indifference!
"It was a mistake to tattle your trouble to Tetlow."
"I did not tattle," said she quietly, colorlessly. "I said only enough
to make him help me."
"And what did he say about me?"
"That I had misjudged you--that I must be mistaken."
Norman laughed. "How seriously the little people of the world do take
themselves!"
She looked at him. His amused eyes met hers frankly. "You didn't mean
it?" she said.
He beamed on her. "Certainly I did. But I'm not a lunatic or a wild
beast. Do you think I would take advantage of a girl in your position?"
Her eyes seemed to grow large and weary, and an expression of experience
stole over her young face, giving it a strange appearance of
age-in-youth. "It has been done," said she.
How reconcile such a look with the theory of her childlike innocence?
But then how reconcile any two of the many varied personalities he had
seen in her? He said: "Yes--it has been done. But not by me. I shall
take from you only what you gladly give."
"You will get nothing else," said she with quiet strength.
"That being settled--" he went on, holding up a small package of papers
bound together by an elastic--"Here are the proposed articles of
incorporation of the Chemical Research Company. How do you like the
name?"
"What is it?"
"The company that is to back your father. Capital stock, twenty-five
thousand dollars, one half paid up. Your father to be employed as
director of the laboratories at five thousand a year, with a fund of ten
thousand to draw upon. You to be employed as secretary and treasurer at
fifteen hundred a year. I will take the paid-up stock, and your father
and you will have the privilege of buying it back at par within five
years. Do you follow me?"
"I think I understand," was her unexpected reply. Her replies were
usually unexpected, like the expressions of her face and figure; she was
continually comprehending where one would have said she would not, and
not comprehending where it seemed absurd that she should not. "Yes, I
understand. . . . What else?"
"Nothing else."
She looked intently at him, and her eyes seemed to be reading his soul
to the bottom.
"Nothing else," he repeated.
"No obligation--for money--or--for anything?"
"No obligation. A hope perhaps." He was smiling with the gayest good
humor. "But not the kind of hope that ever becomes a disagreeable demand
for payment."
She seated herself, her hands in her lap, her eyes down--a lovely
picture of pensive repose. He waited patiently, feasting his senses upon
her delicate, aromatic loveliness. At last she said:
"I accept."
He had anticipated an argument. This promptness took him by surprise. He
felt called upon to explain, to excuse her acceptance. "I am taking a
little flyer--making a gamble," said he. "Your father may turn up
nothing of commercial value. Again the company may pay big----"
She gave him a long look through half-closed eyes, a queer smile
flitting round her lips. "I understand perfectly why you are doing it,"
she said. "Do you understand why I am accepting?"
"Why should you refuse?" rejoined he. "It is a good business prop----"
"You know very well why I should refuse. But--" She gave a quiet laugh
of experience; it made him feel that she was making a fool of him--"I
shall not refuse. I am able to take care of myself. And I want father to
have his chance. Of course, I shan't explain to him." She gave him a
mischievous glance. "And I don't think _you_ will."
He contrived to cover his anger, doubt, chagrin, general feeling of
having been outwitted. "No, I shan't tell him," laughed he. "You are
making a great fool of me."
"Do you want to back out?"
What audacity! He hesitated--did not dare. Her indifference to him--her
personal, her physical indifference gave her the mastery. His teeth
clenched and his passion blazed in his eyes as he said: "No--you witch!
I'll see it through."
She smiled lightly. "I suppose you'll come to the offices of the
company--occasionally?" She drew nearer, stood at the corner of the
desk. Into her exquisite eyes came a look of tenderness. "And I shall be
glad to see you."
"You mean that?" he said, despising himself for his humble eagerness,
and hating her even as he loved her.
"Indeed I do." She smiled bewitchingly. "You are a lot better man than
you think."
"I am an awful fool about you," retorted he. "You see, I play my game
with all my cards on the table. I wish I could say the same of you."
"I am not playing a game," replied she. "You make a mystery where there
isn't any. And--all your cards aren't on the table." She laughed
mockingly. "At least, you think there's one that isn't--though, really,
it is."
"Yes?"
"About your engagement."
He covered superbly. "Oh," said he in the most indifferent tone. "Tetlow
told you."
"As soon as I heard that," she went on, "I felt better about you. I
understand how it is with men--the passing fancies they have for
women."
"How did you learn?" demanded he.
"Do you think a girl could spend several years knocking about down town
in New York without getting experience?"
He smiled--a forced smile of raillery, hiding sudden fierce suspicion
and jealousy. "I should say not. But you always pretend innocence."
"I can't be held responsible for what you read into my looks and into
what I say," observed she with her air of a wise old infant. "But I was
so glad to find out that you were seriously in love with a nice girl up
town."
He burst out laughing. She gazed at him in childlike surprise. "Why are
you laughing at me?" she asked.
"Nothing--nothing," he assured her. He would have found it difficult to
explain why he was so intensely amused at hearing the grand Josephine
Burroughs called "a nice girl up town."
"You are in love with her? You are engaged to her?" she inquired, her
grave eyes upon him with an irresistible appeal for truth in them.
"Tetlow didn't lie to you," evaded he. "You don't know it, but Tetlow is
going to ask you to marry him."
"Yes, I knew," replied she indifferently.
"How? Did he tell you?"
"No. Just as I knew you were not going to ask me to marry you."
The mere phrase, even when stated as a negation, gave him a sensation of
ice suddenly laid against the heart.
"It's quite easy to tell the difference between the two kinds of
men--those that care for me more than they care for themselves and those
that care for themselves more than they care for me."
"That's the way it looks to you--is it?"
"That's the way it is," said she.
"There are some things you don't understand. This is one of them."
"Maybe I don't," said she. "But I've my own idea--and I'm going to stick
to it."
This amused him. "You are a very opinionated and self-confident young
lady," said he.