About half an hour later the door into the bedroom opened and she
appeared on the threshold of the sitting room, ready for the street. He
stared at her in the dazed amazement of a man faced by the impossible,
and uncertain whether it is sight or reason that is tricking him. She
had gone into the bedroom not only homely but commonplace, not only
commonplace but common, a dingy washed-out blonde girl whom it would be
a humiliation to present as his wife. She was standing there, in the
majesty of such proud pale beauty as poets delight to ascribe to a
sorrowful princess. Her wonderful skin was clear and translucent, giving
her an ethereal look. Her hair reminded him again of what marvels he had
seen in the sunlight of Sunday afternoon. And looking at her form and
the small head so gracefully capping it, he could think only of the
simile that had always come to him in his moments of ecstasy--the lily
on its tall stem.
And once more, like a torrent, the old infatuation sprang from its dried
sources and came rushing and overwhelming through vein and nerve. "Am I
mad now?--was I mad a few moments ago?--is it she or is it my own
disordered senses?"
She was drawing on her gloves, was unconscious of his confusion. He
controlled himself and said: "You have a most disconcerting way of
changing your appearance."
She glanced down at her costume. "No, it's the same dress. I've only the
one, you know."
He longed to take her in his arms, but could not trust himself. And this
wonder-girl, his very own, was talking of leaving him! And he--not an
hour before--he, apparently in his right senses had been tolerating
such preposterous talk! Give her up? Never! He must see to it that the
subject did not find excuse for intruding again. "I have frightened
her--have disgusted her. I must restrain myself. I must be patient--and
teach her slowly--and win her gradually."
They spent an interesting and even exciting afternoon, driving from shop
to shop and selecting the first beginnings of her wardrobe. He had only
about three hundred dollars. Some of the things they ordered were ready
for delivery, and so had to be paid for at once. When they returned to
the hotel he had but fifty dollars left--and had contracted debts that
made it necessary for him to raise at least a thousand dollars within a
week. He saw that his freedom with sums of money which terrified her
filled her with awe and admiration--and that he was already more
successful than he had expected to be, in increasing her hesitation
about leaving him. Among the things they had bought were a simple black
chiffon dress and a big plumed black hat to match. These needed no
alterations and were delivered soon after they returned. Some silk
stockings came also and a pair of slippers bought for the dinner toilet.
"You can dress to-night," said he, "and I'll take you to Sherry's, and
to the theater afterwards."
She was delighted. At last she was going to look like the women of whom
she had been dreaming these last few months. She set about dressing
herself, he waiting in the sitting room in a state of acute nervousness.
What would be the effect of such a toilet? Would she look like a
lady--or like--what she had suggested that morning? She was so
changeable, had such a wide range of variability that he dared not hope.
When she finally appeared, he was ready to fall down and worship. He was
about to take her where his world would see her, where every inch of her
would be subjected to the cruelest, most hostile criticism. One glance
at her, and he knew a triumph awaited him. No man and no woman would
wonder that he had lost his head over such beauty as hers. Hat and dress
seemed just what had been needed to bring out the full glory of her
charms.
"You are incredibly beautiful," he said in an awed tone. "I am proud of
you."
A little color came into her cheeks. She looked at herself in the mirror
with her quiet intense secret, yet not covert vanity. He laughed in
boyish pleasure. "This is only the small beginning," said he. "Wait a
few months."
At dinner and in a box at the theater afterwards, he had the most
exquisite pleasure of his life. She had been seen by many of his former
friends, and he was certain they knew who she was. He felt that he would
have no difficulty in putting her in the place his wife should occupy. A
woman with such beauty as hers was a sensation, one fashionable society
would not deny itself. She had good manners, an admirable manner. With a
little coaching she would be as much at home in grandeur as were those
who had always had it.
The last fear of losing her left him. On the way back to the hotel he,
in a delirium of pride and passion, crushed her in his arms and caressed
her with the frenzy that had always terrified her. She resisted only
faintly, was almost passive. "She is mine!" he said to himself,
exultantly. "She is really mine!"
* * * * *
When he awoke in the morning she was still asleep--looked like a tired
lovely child. Several times, while he was dressing, he went in to feast
his eyes upon her beauty. How could he possibly have thought her homely,
in whatever moment of less beauty or charm she might have had? The
crowning charm of infinite variety! She had a delightfully sweet
disposition. He was not sure how much or how little intelligence she
had--probably more than most women. But what did that matter? It would
be impossible ever to grow weary or to be anything but infatuated lover
when she had such changeful beauty.
He kissed her lightly on her thick braids, as he was about to go. He
left a note explaining that he did not wish to disturb her and that it
was necessary for him to be at the office earlier. And that morning in
all New York no man left his home for the day's struggle for dollars
with a freer or happier heart, or readier to play the game boldly,
skillfully, with success.
Certainly he needed all his courage and all his skill.
To most of the people who live in New York and elsewhere throughout the
country--or the world, for that matter--an income of a thousand dollars
a month seems extremely comfortable, to say the least of it. The average
American family of five has to scrape along on about half that sum a
year. But among the comfortable classes in New York--and perhaps in one
or two other cities--a thousand dollars a month is literally genteel
poverty. To people accustomed to what is called luxury nowadays--people
with the habit of the private carriage, the private automobile, and
several servants--to such people a thousand dollars a month is an absurd
little sum. It would not pay for the food alone. It would not buy for a
man and his wife, with no children, clothing enough to enable them to
make a decent appearance.
Norman, living alone and living very quietly indeed, might have got
along for a while on that sum, if he had taken much thought about
expenditures, had persisted in such severe economies as using street
cars instead of taxicabs and drinking whisky at dinner instead of his
customary quart of six-dollar champagne. Norman, the married man, could
not escape disaster for a single month on an income so pitiful.
Probably on the morning on which he set out for downtown in search of
money enough to enable him to live decently, not less than ten thousand
men on Manhattan Island left comfortable or luxurious homes faced with
precisely the same problem. And each and every one of them knew that on
that day or some day soon they must find the money demanded imperiously
by their own and their families' tastes and necessities or be
ruined--flung out, trampled upon, derided as failures, hated by the
"loved ones" they had caused to be humiliated. And every man of that
legion had a fine, an unusually fine brain--resourceful, incessant,
teeming with schemes for wresting from those who had dollars the dollars
they dared not go home without. And those ten thousand quickest and most
energetic brains, by their mode of thought and action, determined the
thought and action of the entire country--gave the mercenary and
unscrupulous cast to the whole social system. Themselves the victims of
conditions, they were the bellwethers to millions of victims compelled
to follow their leadership.
Norman, by the roundabout mode of communication he and Tetlow had
established, summoned his friend and backer to his office. "Tetlow," he
began straight off, "I've got to have more money."
"How much?" said Tetlow.
"More than you can afford to advance me."
"How much?" repeated Tetlow.
"Three thousand a month right away--at the least."
"That's a big sum," said Tetlow.
"Yes, for a man used to dealing in small figures. But in reality it's a
moderate income."
"Few large families spend more."
"Few large or small families in my part of New York pinch along on so
little."
"What has happened to you?" said Tetlow, dropping into a chair and
folding his fat hands on his stomach.
"Why?" asked Norman.
"It's in your voice--in your face--in your cool demand for a big
income."
"Let's start right, old man," said Norman. "Don't _call_ thirty-six
thousand a year big or you'll _think_ it big. And if you think it big, you
will stay little."
Tetlow nodded. "I'm ready to grow," said he. "Now what's happened to
you?"
"I've got married," replied Norman.
"I thought so. To Miss--Hallowell?"
"To Miss Hallowell. So my way's clear, and I'm going to resume the
march."
"Yes?"
"I've two plans. Either will serve. The first is yours--the one you
partly revealed to me the other day."
"Partly?" said Tetlow.
"Partly," repeated Norman, laughing. "I know you, Billy, and that means
I know you're absolutely incapable of plotting as big a scheme as you
suggested to me. It came either from Galloway or from some one of his
clique."
"I said all I'm at liberty to say, Fred."
"I don't wish you to break your promise. All I want to know is, can I
get the three thousand a month and assurance of its lasting and leading
to something bigger?"
"What is your other scheme?" said Tetlow, and it was plain to the
shrewder young lawyer that the less shrewd young lawyer wished to gain
time.
"Simple and sure," replied Norman. "We will buy ten shares of Universal
Fuel Company through a dummy and bring suit to dissolve it. I looked
into the matter for Burroughs once when he was after the Fosdick-Langdon
group. Universal Fuel wouldn't dare defend the action I could bring. We
could get what we pleased for our ten shares to let up on the suit. The
moment their lawyers saw the papers I'd draw, they'd advise it."
Tetlow shook his large, impressively molded head. "Shady," said he.
"Shady."
Norman smiled with good-natured patience. "You sound like Burroughs or
Galloway when they are denouncing a man for trying to get rich by the
same methods they pursued. My dear Bill, don't be one of those lawyers
who will do the queer work for a client but not for themselves. There's
no sense, no morality, no intelligent hypocrisy even, in that. We didn't
create the commercial morality of the present day. For God's sake, let's
not be of the poor fools who practice it but get none of its benefits."
Tetlow shifted uneasily. "I don't like to hear that sort of thing," said
he, apologetic and nervous.
"Is it true?"
"Yes. But--damn it, I don't like to hear it."
"That is to say, you're willing to pay the price of remaining small and
obscure just for the pleasure of indulging in a wretched hypocrisy of a
self-deception. Bill, come out of the small class. Whether you go in
with me or not, come out of the class of understrappers. What's the
difference between the big men and their little followers? Why, the big
men _see_. They don't deceive themselves with the cant they pour out for
the benefit of the ignorant mob."
Tetlow was listening like a pupil to a teacher. That was always his
attitude toward Norman.
"The big men," continued Norman, "know that canting is necessary--that
one must always profess high and disinterested motives, and so on, and
so on. But they don't let their hypocritical talk influence their
actions. How is it with the little fellows? Why, they believe the
flapdoodle the leaders talk. They go into the enterprise, do all the
small dirty work, lie and cheat and steal, and hand over the proceeds to
the big fellows, for the sake of a pat on the back and a noisy 'Honest
fellow! Here are a few crumbs for you.' And crumbs are all that a weak,
silly, hypocritical fool deserves. Can you deny it?"
"No doubt you're right, Fred," conceded Tetlow. "But I'm afraid I
haven't the nerve."
"Come in behind me. I've got nerve for two--_now_!"
At that triumphant "now" Tetlow looked curiously at his friend. "Yes, _it_
has changed you--changed you back to what you were. I don't understand."
"It isn't necessary that you understand," rejoined Norman."
"Do you think you could really carry through that scheme you've just
outlined?"
"I see it fascinates you."
"I've no objection to rising to the class of big men," said Tetlow. "But
aren't you letting your confidence in yourself deceive you?"
"Did I ever let it deceive me?"
"No," confessed Tetlow. "I've often watched you, and thought you'd fall
through it, or stumble at least. But you never did."
"And shall I tell you why? Because I use my self-confidence and my
hopefulness and all my optimistic qualities only to create an atmosphere
of success. But when it comes to planning a move of any kind, when I
assemble my lieutenants round the council board in my brain, I never
permit a single cheerful one to speak, or even to enter. It's a serious,
gloomy circle of faces, Bill."