Ursula smiled with fine mockery. "Almost, but not quite. I know you men.
Women do that sort of fool thing. But men--never--at least not the
ambitious, snobbish New York men."
"She almost won," he repeated. "At least, I almost did it. If I had
stayed a minute longer I'd have done it."
"You like to think you would," mocked Ursula. "But if you had tried to
say the words your lungs would have collapsed, your vocal chords snapped
and your tongue shriveled."
"I am not so damn sure I shan't do it yet," he burst out fiercely.
"But I am," said Ursula, calm, brisk, practical. "What's she going to
do?"
"Going to work."
Ursula laughed joyously. "What a joke! A woman go to work when she
needn't!"
"She is going to work."
"To work another man."
"She meant it."
"How easily women fool men!--even the wise men like you."
"She meant it."
"She still hopes to marry you--or she has heard of your marriage----"
Norman lifted his head. Into his face came the cynical, suspicious
expression.
"And has fastened on some other man. Or perhaps she's found some good
provider who's willing to marry her."
Norman sprang up, his eyes blazing, his mouth working cruelly. "By God!"
he cried. "If I thought that!"
His sister was alarmed. Such a man--in such a delirium--might commit any
absurdity. He flung himself down in despair. "Urse, why can't I get rid
of this thing? It's ruining me. It's killing me!"
"Your good sense tells you if you had her you'd be over it--" She
snapped her fingers--"like that."
"Yes--yes--I know it! But--" He groaned--"she has broken with me."
Ursula went to him and kissed him and took his head in her arms. "What a
_boy_-boy it is!" she said tenderly. "Oh, it must be dreadful to have
always had whatever one wanted and then to find something one can't
have. We women are used to it--and the usual sort of man. But not your
sort, Freddy--and I'm so sorry for you."
"I want her, Urse--I want her," he groaned, and he was almost sobbing.
"My God, I _can't_ get on without her."
"Now, Freddy dear, listen to me. You know she's 'way, 'way beneath
you--that she isn't at all what you've got in the habit of picturing
her--that it's all delusion and nonsense----"
"I want her," he repeated. "I want her."
"You'd be ashamed if you had her as a wife--wouldn't you?"
He was silent.
"She isn't a _lady_."
"I don't know," replied he.
"She hasn't any sense. A low sort of cunning, yes. But not brains--not
enough to hold you."
"I don't know," replied he. "She's got enough for a woman. And--I _want_
her."
"She isn't to be compared with Josephine."
"But I don't want Josephine. I want _her_."
"But which do you want to _marry_?--to bring forward as your wife?--to
spend your life with?"
"I know. I'm a mad fool. But, Urse, I can't help it." He stood up
suddenly. "I've used every weapon I've got. Even pride--and it skulked
away. My sense of humor--and it weakened. My will--and it snapped."
"Is she so wonderful?"
"She is so--elusive. I can't understand her--I can't touch her. I can't
find her. She keeps me going like a man chasing an echo."
"Like a man chasing an echo," repeated Ursula reflectively. "I
understand. It is maddening. She must be clever--in her way."
"Or very simple. God knows which; I don't--and sometimes I think she
doesn't, either." He made a gesture of dismissal. "Well, it's finished.
I must pull myself together--or try to."
"You will," said his sister confidently. "A fortnight from now you'll be
laughing at yourself."
"I am now. I have been all along. But--it does no good."
She had to go and dress. But she could not leave until she had tried to
make him comfortable. He was drinking brandy and soda and staring at his
feet which were stretched straight out toward the fire. "Where's your
sense of humor?" she demanded. "Throw yourself on your sense of humor.
It's a friend that sticks when all others fail."
"It's my only hope," he said with a grim smile. "I can see myself. No
wonder she despises me."
"Despises you?" scoffed Ursula. "A _woman_ despise _you_! She's crazy
about you, I'll bet anything you like. Before you're through with this
you'll find out I'm right. And then--you'll have no use for her."
"She despises me."
"Well--what of it? Really, Fred, it irritates me to see you absolutely
unlike yourself. Why, you're as broken-spirited as a henpecked old
husband."
"Just that," he admitted, rising and looking drearily about. "I don't
know what the devil to do next. Everything seems to have stopped."
"Going to see Josephine this evening?"
"I suppose so," was his indifferent reply.
"You'll have to dress after dinner. There's no time now."
"Dress?" he inquired vaguely. "Why dress? Why do anything?"
She thought he would not go to Josephine but would hide in his club and
drink. But she was mistaken. Toward nine o'clock he, in evening dress,
with the expression of a horse in a treadmill, rang the bell of
Josephine's house and passed in at the big bronze doors. The butler must
have particularly admired the way he tossed aside his coat and hat. As
soon as he was in the presence of his fiancee he saw that she was again
in the throes of some violent agitation.
She began at once: "I've just had the most frightful scene with father,"
she said. "He's been hearing a lot of stuff about you down town and it
set him wild."
"Do you mind if I smoke a cigar?" said he, looking at her unseeingly
with haggard, cold eyes. "And may I have some whisky?"
She rang. "I hope the servants didn't hear him," she said. Then, as a
step sounded outside she put on an air of gayety, as if she were still
laughing at some jest he had made. In the doorway appeared her father
one of those big men who win half the battle in advance on personal
appearance of unconquerable might. Burroughs was noted for his
generosity and for his violent temper. As a rule men of the largeness
necessary to handling large affairs are free from petty vindictiveness.
They are too busy for hatred. They do not forgive; they are most careful
not to forget; they simply stand ready at any moment to do whatever it
is to their interest to do, regardless of friendships or animosities.
Burroughs was an exception in that he got his highest pleasure out of
pursuing his enemies. He enjoyed this so keenly that several times--so
it was said--he had sacrificed real money to satisfy a revenge. But
these rumors may have wronged him. It is hardly probable that a man who
would let a weakness carry him to that pitch of folly could have escaped
destruction. For of all the follies revenge is the most dangerous--as
well as the most fatuous.
Burroughs had a big face. Had he looked less powerful the bigness of his
features, the spread of cheek and jowl, would have been grotesque. As it
was, the face was impressive, especially when one recalled how many,
many millions he owned and how many more he controlled. The control was
better than the ownership. The millions he owned made him a coward--he
was afraid he might lose them. The millions he controlled, and of course
used for his own enrichment, made him brave, for if they were lost in
the daring ventures in which he freely staked them, why, the loss was
not his, and he could shift the blame. Usually Norman treated him with
great respect, for his business gave the firm nearly half its total
income, and it was his daughter and his wealth, prestige and power, that
Norman was marrying. But this evening he looked at the great man with a
superciliousness that was peculiarly disrespectful from so young a man
to one well advanced toward old age. Norman had been feeling relaxed,
languid, exhausted. The signs of battle in that powerful face nerved
him, keyed him up at once. He waited with a joyful impatience while the
servant was bringing cigars and whisky. The enormous quantities of
liquor he had drunk in the last few days had not been without effect.
Alcohol, the general stimulant, inevitably brings out in strong relief a
man's dominant qualities. The dominant quality of Norman was love of
combat.
"Josephine tells me you are in a blue fury," said Norman pleasantly when
the door was closed and the three were alone. "No--not a blue fury. A
black fury."
At the covert insolence of his tone Josephine became violently agitated.
"Father," she said, with the imperiousness of an only and indulged
child, "I have asked you not to interfere between Fred and me. I thought
I had your promise."
"I said I'd think about it," replied her father. He had a heavy voice
that now and then awoke some string of the lower octaves of the piano in
the corner to a dismal groan. "I've decided to speak out."
"That's right, sir," said Norman. "Is your quarrel with me?"
Josephine attempted an easy laugh. "It's that silly story we were
talking about the other day, Fred."
"I supposed so," said he. "You are not smoking, Mr. Burroughs--" He
laughed amiably--"at least not a cigar."
"The doctor only allows me one, and I've had it," replied Burroughs, his
eyes sparkling viciously at this flick of the whip. "What is the truth
about that business, Norman?"
Norman's amused glance encountered the savage glare mockingly. "Why do
you ask?" he inquired.
"Because my daughter's happiness is at stake. Because I cannot but
resent a low scandal about a man who wishes to marry my daughter."
"Very proper, sir," said Norman graciously.
"My daughter," continued Burroughs with accelerating anger, "tells me
you have denied the story."
[Illustration: "'Father ... I have asked you not to interfere between
Fred and me.'"]
Norman interrupted with an astonished look at Josephine. She colored,
gazed at him imploringly. His face terrified her. When body and mind are
in health and at rest the fullness of the face hides the character to a
great extent. But when a human being is sick or very tired the
concealing roundness goes and in the clearly marked features the true
character is revealed. In Norman's face, haggard by his wearing
emotions, his character stood forth--the traits of strength, of
tenacity, of inevitable purpose. And Josephine saw and dreaded.
"But," Burroughs went on, "I have it on the best authority that it is
true."
Norman, looking into the fascinating face of danger, was thrilled. "Then
you wish to break off the engagement?" he said in the gentlest,
smoothest tone.
Burroughs brought his fist down on the table--and Norman recognized the
gesture of the bluffer. "I wish you to break off with that woman!" he
cried. "I insist upon it--upon positive assurances from you."
"Fred!" pleaded Josephine. "Don't listen to him. Remember, I have said
nothing."
He had long been looking for a justifying grievance against her. It now
seemed to him that he had found it. "Why should you?" he said genially
but with subtle irony, "since you are getting your father to speak for
you."
There was just enough truth in this to entangle her and throw her into
disorder. She had been afraid of the consequences of her father's
interfering with a man so spirited as Norman, but at the same time she
had longed to have some one put a check upon him. Norman's suave remark
made her feel that he could see into her inmost soul--could see the
anger, the jealousy, the doubt, the hatred-tinged love, the
love-saturated hate seething and warring there.
Burroughs was saying: "If we had not committed ourselves so deeply, I
should deal very differently with this matter."
"Why should that deter you?" said Norman--and Josephine gave a piteous
gasp. "If this goes much farther, I assure you I shall not be deterred."
Burroughs, firmly planted in a big leather chair, looked at the young
man in puzzled amazement. "I see you think you have us in your power,"
he said at last. "But you are mistaken."
"On the contrary," rejoined the young man, "I see you believe you have
me in your power. And in a sense you are _not_ mistaken."
"Father, he is right," cried Josephine agitatedly. "I shouldn't love and
respect him as I do if he would submit to this hectoring."
"Hectoring!" exclaimed Burroughs. "Josephine, leave the room. I cannot
discuss this matter properly before you."
"I hope you will not leave, Josephine," said Norman. "There is nothing
to be said that you cannot and ought not to hear."
"I'm not an infant, father," said Josephine. "Besides, it is as Fred
says. He has done nothing--improper."
"Then why does he not say so?" demanded Burroughs, seeing a chance to
recede from his former too advanced position. "That's all I ask."
"But I told you all about it, father," said Josephine angrily. "They've
been distorting the truth, and the truth is to his credit."
Norman avoided the glance she sent to him; it was only a glance and
away, for more formidably than ever his power was enthroned in his
haggard face. He stood with his back to the fire and it was plain that
the muscles of his strong figure were braced to give and to receive a
shock. "Mr. Burroughs," he said, "your daughter is mistaken. Perhaps it
is my fault--in having helped her to mislead herself. The plain truth
is, I have become infatuated with a young woman. She cares nothing about
me--has repulsed me. I have been and am making a fool of myself about
her. I've been hoping to cure myself. I still hope. But I am not cured."
There was absolute silence in the room. Norman stole a glance at
Josephine. She was sitting erect, a greenish pallor over her ghastly
face.
He said: "If she will take me, now that she knows the truth, I shall be
grateful--and I shall make what effort I can to do my best."
He looked at her and she at him. And for an instant her eyes softened.
There was the appeal of weak human heart to weak human heart in his
gaze. Her lip quivered. A brief struggle between vanity and love--and
vanity, the stronger, the strongest force in her life, dominating it
since earliest babyhood and only seeming to give way to love when love
came--it was vanity that won. She stiffened herself and her mouth curled
with proud scorn. She laughed--a sneer of jealous rage. "Father," she
said, "the lady in the case is a common typewriter in his office."
But to men--especially to practical men--differences of rank and
position among women are not fundamentally impressive. Man is in the
habit of taking what he wants in the way of womankind wherever he finds
it, and he understands that habit in other men. He was furious with
Norman, but he did not sympathize with his daughter's extreme attitude.
He said to Norman sharply:
"You say you have broken with the woman?"
"She has broken with me," replied Norman.
"At any rate, everything is broken off."
"Apparently."
"Then there is no reason why the marriage should not go on." He turned
to his daughter. "If you understood men, you would attach no importance
to this matter. As you yourself said, the woman isn't a lady--isn't in
our class. That sort of thing amounts to nothing. Norman has acted well.
He has shown the highest kind of honesty--has been truthful where most
men would have shifted and lied. Anyhow, things have gone too far." Not
without the soundest reasons had Burroughs accepted Norman as his
son-in-law; and he had no fancy for giving him up, when men of his
pre-eminent fitness were so rare.
There was another profound silence. Josephine looked at Norman. Had he
returned her gaze, the event might have been different; for within her
there was now going on a struggle between two nearly evenly matched
vanities--the vanity of her own outraged pride and the vanity of what
the world would say and think, if the engagement were broken off at that
time and in those circumstances. But he did not look at her. He kept his
eyes fixed upon the opposite wall, and there was no sign of emotion of
any kind in his stony features. Josephine rose, suppressed a sob, looked
arrogant scorn from eyes shining with tears--tears of self-pity. "Send
him away, father," she said. "He has tried to degrade _me_! I am done with
him." And she rushed from the room, her father half starting from his
chair to detain her.
He turned angrily on Norman. "A hell of a mess you've made!" he cried.
"A hell of a mess," replied the young man.
"Of course she'll come round. But you've got to do your part."
"It's settled," said Norman. And he threw his cigar into the fireplace.
"Good night."
"Hold on!" cried Burroughs. "Before you go, you must see Josie alone and
talk with her."
"It would be useless," said Norman. "You know her."
Burroughs laid his hand friendlily but heavily upon the young man's
shoulder. "This outburst of nonsense might cost you two young people
your happiness for life. This is no time for jealousy and false pride.
Wait a moment."
"Very well," said Norman. "But it is useless." He understood Josephine
now--he who had become a connoisseur of love. He knew that her
vanity-founded love had vanished.
Burroughs disappeared in the direction his daughter had taken. Norman
waited several minutes--long enough slowly to smoke a cigarette. Then he
went into the hall and put on his coat with deliberation. No one
appeared, not even a servant. He went out into the street.
In the morning papers he found the announcement of the withdrawal of the
invitations--and from half a column to several columns of comment, much
of it extremely unflattering to him.