THE WAY OF A MAN
[Illustration: SHE PAUSED AT THE SOUND OF A FOOTSTEP.
[Page 180]]
THE WAY OF A
MAN
A STORY OF THE NEW WOMAN
BY
THOMAS DIXON
AUTHOR OF
THE CLANSMAN (The Birth of a Nation),
THE SOUTHERNER, ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
STOCKTON MULFORD
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY
THOMAS DIXON
Printed in the United States of America
DEDICATED
TO
DOROTHY DIX
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE FESTIVAL OF EVE 1
II. THE MAN OF MONEY 21
III. THE MAN OF DREAMS 37
IV. TRAPPED 50
V. THE LOVERS 63
VI. THE PROPOSAL 76
VII. THE BATTLE 96
VIII. THE FLESH AND THE DEVIL 115
IX. A BROKEN WING 122
X. THE EAGLE’S NEST 134
XI. THE SECRET 156
XII. PROGRESS 161
XIII. THE QUARREL 170
XIV. AFTERMATH 187
XV. THE NEW TYRANNY 198
XVI. SELF-DEVELOPMENT 208
XVII. ROSE O’NEIL 220
XVIII. THE DISCOVERY 233
XIX. BURIED ALIVE 241
XX. SURRENDER 248
XXI. THE REFUSAL 258
XXII. CONFESSION 269
XXIII. THE COLLAPSE 279
XXIV. THE OLD SOLDIER 283
XXV. COMPROMISE 290
XXVI. EPILOGUE 295
THE WAY OF A MAN
CHAPTER I
THE FESTIVAL OF EVE
THE caterer who furnished the refreshments for Ellen West’s reception
had provided a fat flunkey who stood on the sidewalk, opened the doors
of cabs and automobiles and ushered each guest under the striped awning
to the doorway. It was well for the flunkey that his functions ceased
at the door. His wind would have failed before he reached the fifth
story of the old building on Fifth Avenue overlooking Madison Square.
Ellen prided herself on her ability to climb. Those long flights of
stairs were a daily challenge to her splendid body. It was one of her
favorite amusements to watch the perspiration slowly suffuse the face
of a male escort as he mounted them.
A late admirer who was short, stout and bald, had frankly given out at
the top of the third flight, sat down and mopped his brow and shining
pate.
“Great God--is there another?” he faltered.
“Courage, brother--just one more!” Ellen laughed.
The climb dampened his spirits. He left early without a proposal.
Randolph Field, the author, her next door neighbor of the fifth floor,
was doing the honors below as the guests arrived.
“Take your time, ladies and gentlemen,” he called cheerfully, “just
four flights up and you’ll be nearer heaven than many of you have ever
been before, or will be again, unless you return to do homage to the
goddess who dwells above.”
Lucy Sheldon, the happy little editor of The Woman’s Columns in the
Holt newspapers, was just entering in time to catch this announcement.
She lifted her slender figure in protest.
“If you don’t make Ellen put an elevator in this building, Randy, I’ll
never come again--I solemnly swear it!”
Field fixed her with a quizzical look.
“You really want a lift?”
“I certainly do----”
He glanced out the door with one eye and swept the stairs with the
other.
“There is nobody looking--you shall have it----”
Before she could protest he seized her in his arms and mounted the
stairs as if he were carrying a doll.
Too surprised to struggle the distinguished woman editor could only
laugh and blush.
He placed her squarely on her feet at the top of the last step and
smiled impudently into her scarlet face.
“How was that?”
“Splendid,” she answered, smoothing the wrinkles from her dress. She
had recovered her poise and was studying the slight figure of the man
with new interest.
“I had no idea you were so strong, Randy----” She paused and gazed at
him in frank admiration. “Your muscles must be made of steel----”
He drew his compact figure to its full height, clicked his heels and
saluted military fashion.
“Thanks, Lucy, I appreciate the compliment from you, the most ethereal,
the most daintily spiritual of all the women in the big fight to-day. I
wonder that you knew a man had muscles at all----”
She stopped him with a quick gesture.
“Go back to your work, Mr. Doorman!”
With a wave of his hand and a smile of vanity in his strength Field
rapidly descended the stairs and reached the door in time to see the
big car of Edwin Brown, the young millionaire, stop at the curb.
He scowled at the royal blue vision. What the devil could the man be
doing at this reception? Sylvester, his personal attorney, sat beside
him, the chauffeur and liveried footman in front.
He couldn’t have been invited. Ellen West not only did not know him,
she had expressed the most positive dislike for him and all his breed
of flesh-hunting loafers.
He had, of course, taken advantage of her generous announcement that as
a leader of the new Democracy her doors were always open to every man
and woman on these occasions.
Field’s first impulse was to refuse him admission. On second thought it
would not do. Ellen West would resent his interference. She had made
the announcement of her new code of democracy with unusual emphasis in
the invitation to her reception to-night.
She had given the function in recognition of her election as president
of the New Democracy Club. The organization was but a year old, yet
numbered on its roster the names of hundreds of the men and women who
were making history.
Field recalled with a frown the startling sentences from Ellen’s
sensational articles on marriage in _The New Era_ magazine which
had led to her election as president. These articles had been taken as
the creed of the advanced feminist movement in America. The sensation
which they had created was profound. They were athrob with passion and
revolutionary thought.
“America,” she boldly declared, “is one tremendous leap from ancient
obsession into activity and creative power. The young womanhood of
America dares to dream of a feminine culture which shall give a
positive contribution to the world.
“Sex freedom is the supreme goal of the modern woman’s movement. The
woman who is in earnest, the woman who really thinks and feels, who is
determined to fight for the rights of her sex, must demand freedom and
independence. Freedom from the moral dominion of man she must have. She
must not be smothered by his customs or personality.
“I, too, with my ancestors claim the right to life, liberty and
the pursuit of happiness--the fullest, deepest life--the truest
liberty--happiness that thrills both soul and body with inspiring
uplift.
“The present woman’s struggle is more far-reaching than any in human
history. It means more to humanity. Let us not be surprised if it
surpasses in fanaticism any war of religion or race. The conflict of
the ages is now on between the life of the soul in woman and the life
of the family. Woman must develop a soul if the future man is worthy to
live. The woman of to-day has no soul.
“The woman movement--the last word of the new democracy of the
world--must destroy the family as the organic group of human society
and replace it with the free individual. We aim, therefore, to suppress
legal and sacerdotal marriage and substitute a free alliance. Only thus
can woman develop her personality.”
As Field’s quick mind recalled the final words of Ellen West’s creed he
caught the meaning of Brown’s impudent personal call.
A daring sensualist in a new free democracy of individuals, he would
claim his day in court!
The footman was still fumbling the door of the limousine. His master
was looking at his watch, undecided as to another call before he
honored Ellen with his presence.
“Another call to see one of his prospective woman parasites!” Field
muttered.
The gossip of the Rialto credited him with half a dozen prospective
conquests long before he had tired of the current alliances. At least
he was generous. The women who boasted his friendship--or blushingly
admitted it to a favored few--sang his praises. He spent his money like
a prince and he had a positive genius for pleasing women.
Field hated the sound of his name. He hated him for his successes with
women. He hated him still more cordially for the enormous power he
wielded through his money. A sensualist and materialist himself, he
felt instinctively that such a man could only win a woman’s favor by
his power to buy. On the other hand, as a struggling author he must
depend on the magnetism of his personality, his wit, his keen sense of
woman’s weaknesses and the strength of his mind and compact, powerful,
if small body.
He hated Brown to-night for a more important reason. He was afraid of
him.
Ellen West had stirred him of late as no woman since the days of his
stormy youth. The fact that she had held him at arm’s length, teasing
him at the same time, had only made his determination to win her the
more desperate.
To-night he had planned to take her by storm. He had the advantage over
the entire field until this interloper had suddenly appeared.
Lloyd Bridges, the long-haired poet of passion, had been in love with
her for six months, and had devoted the entire output of his verse to
her praises. In the meantime he had been evicted from his apartment for
default in the rent. Field was sorry for Lloyd. So was Ellen. She liked
his verse, dissecting it as literature, but ignored its personal appeal
with smiling indifference.
Field knew why. Bridges was effeminate. A long-haired man could never
appeal to a real woman.
There was no sort of doubt about Ellen West being a real woman. She was
not only tall and beautiful--she was voluptuously beautiful. Her whole
personality radiated sex and the challenge of sex. And the sparkle in
the deeps of her luminous brown eyes glowed with the consciousness of
her powers.
It was unthinkable that this superb woman with her brilliant mind and
beautiful body could be tempted by a loafer’s millions!
And yet Field was uneasy. He saw Brown end his hesitation in a quick
gesture of command and alight from the car.
An unspeakable rage choked him. At least he wouldn’t show the
flesh-hunter in. The fool could climb the stairs without guidance. He
turned on his heels and rapidly mounted to the top floor.
Bridges was doing the honors at the door of Ellen’s apartment, calling
the name of each guest in his most musical and impressive tones. On
each announcement he would glance over the heads of the crowd to the
hostess in search of her smile.
“Say, for God’s sake, Bridges,” Field whispered as he entered, “stop
grinning like a chessy-cat at Ellen every time you call a name. She’s
grateful. Don’t demand a medal every time you open your big mouth. Have
a heart--have a heart!”
Before Bridges could answer in his slow, good-natured way, Field
continued fiercely:
“The dirty loafer, Edwin Brown, is on the way up. I hope he dies of
apoplexy on the stairs. Don’t announce the pup. His presence here
to-night is an insult to Ellen, which every man should resent. Don’t
announce him.”
Bridges began to stammer in protest.
“Don’t stutter!” Field cried. “Do as I tell you or I’ll gag you!”
The poet drew himself up with sudden decision.
“I don’t agree with you, Randy. Let Brown come by all means. Ellen will
only make of him her footstool. You don’t understand such things with
your gross material view of life.”
Field flung himself into the crowd and moved instinctively toward the
center of the room where Ellen stood by a group of women of the new era
of radical thought.
Lucy Sheldon, her most loyal admirer, though disagreeing on the one
subject of marriage, was assisting her in the formalities of the
evening. Each guest, if personally unknown to the distinguished young
hostess, whispered the name into Lucy Sheldon’s ear and a graceful
introduction followed.
Mary Spalding, the historian, stood watching the eloquent changing
face with keen interest and admiration.
Jane Walton, who had made herself famous in municipal reform work,
was still discussing with her the latest phase of the white slave
traffic when Lucy presented the short stout figure of a fine-looking
grey-haired woman of sixty.
“The Rev. Anna Royce--Miss West.”
“I feel so poor and humble, Dr. Royce,” she cried, “when I look on your
beautiful white hair, grown grey in the service of the great cause.”
The fine eyes of the woman crusader grew dim for a moment as she
pressed the warm hand of the younger leader.
“I am content, dear child,” she slowly replied. “I have fought a good
fight. I have kept the faith. Younger and stronger hands will carry
it on to final victory. I glory in you. I am here to-night to say God
bless you and keep you always strong to do His will in the new uplift
of Humanity.”
Ellen tried in vain to hold her. But she laughed and nodded and passed
on into the throng. Others crowded behind her.
They were all here to-night--the feminine leaders of the new thought
that sweeps the century: Dr. Elizabeth Price, President of the Women’s
Medical College; Emily Willard, the artist; Margaret Moore, the latest
sensation in the dramatic world, with three plays running on Broadway;
the Hon. Martha Mason, the new Mayor of Koskosia; Beatrice Moreland,
the young heiress of millions, whose eloquence in behalf of woman’s
suffrage had stirred the Old and New World; and darting from group to
group with tireless energy was Mrs. Eleanor Bishop, a leader of New
York’s four hundred.
The hour marked the supreme triumph in Ellen West’s eventful life.
Barely twenty-seven years old, she had in five years fought her way
from the poverty and obscurity of Washington Square into fame and
fortune.
Her radiant personality to-night quivered with the consciousness of her
triumph--its strength and solid achievement. Her position as editor
of _The New Era_ was secure--her salary six thousand a year. The
owners of the magazine were a group of modern women leaders, rich in
their own name. Each of them swore by the daring and sensational young
writer, whose brilliant essays, in their opinion, were shaking the
foundations of the old order of society.
Alice Clark, the President of the New Era Publishing Company, had just
paused and whispered:
“You’re glorious to-night, my child! Every woman in America is proud of
you.”
Ellen lifted her graceful head in protest while she flushed with pride.
“Take care you don’t hold a meeting of the Board of Directors soon and
warn me to be more conservative.”
“Not even if we grow as prosperous as the _Ladies’ Home Journal_!”
“God save us from such a fate,” Ellen laughed.
From every quarter of the big brown room admiring eyes were focused
on the heroine of the evening, and from her smiling response it was
easy to guess that she knew the measure of her triumph and prized it
accordingly.
She was conscious not only of the achievement of success from the old
point of view, but the thing that stirred the depths of her being
was the certainty that her mind and personality were creating a new
force in the ferment of American life. The first article of her creed
was that America, freed from the strangling conventions of the old
civilization of Europe, must lead Humanity into new paths of glory--and
woman, the last-born child of world democracy, must become the leader
of this mighty movement.
The dreamy inspiration of the religious fanatic crept into the brown
eyes as she swept the crowd with deliberate calm.
In her inner heart she knew that the calm was partly assumed. She was,
in fact, looking for Randolph Field and mildly wondering why he had
hidden himself in the crowd. There was a feud between them, which she
would have indignantly denied had he accused her of it. Yet in her soul
she knew it was there. She knew that her voluptuous body had dazzled
the materialist who lived next door. It amused her to watch his vain
attempts to conceal this infatuation. The certainty of her domination
of this leader of modern realism was the thing which gave keenest zest
to the evening.
Whatever may have been the secrets of her appeal to the public
imagination, there could be no sort of doubt about the secret of her
appeal to Field. It was the victory of woman over man--not man in the
abstract, but man the individual--strong, insolent in his strength,
conscious of powers that were cruel and merciless in the struggle of
sex.
She had deliberately dressed to-night to accent every point of her
remarkable physical beauty. The low-cut evening dress with its tiny
silver straps across the full shoulders revealed in all their glory the
finely moulded neck and arms. And no daring society leader at the opera
had ever donned a gown which revealed more fully the lines of a perfect
bust.
Ellen West with all her radical views of woman’s work had really no
desire to prove herself a man. She gloried in her womanhood. In her
inmost woman’s soul she had developed the passionate desire to dominate
man by sheer feminine charm.
Her affair with Field had been purely a struggle of personality--of
mind and body in woman against mind and body in man. She was
experimenting with the male animal which Field’s strong character
presented with such persistent challenge.
For the past six months he had been calling her daily from the little
balcony of the fire-escape in the rear. With the agility of a cat he
would spring through his window, perch on the iron rail and call to her.
Against her protest that he reminded her of an undersized tomcat
prowling on a back yard fence, he replied good-naturedly, accepting
the taunt as a compliment, and proceeded to imitate a tomcat with such
accuracy that she laughed to the verge of hysterics.
There was no such thing as insulting him. It simply couldn’t be done.
To every jibe and sneer he replied with a grin and turned the attack to
his own ends. She had ceased to attack him and had begun to enjoy the
tribute to her charm which his persistent admiration implied.
She harbored no delusions about his real character. She knew that he
regarded all women as legitimate game for the male hunter. Nor did he
attempt to conceal or palliate his creed of life.
The day following one of his gay parties he appeared on the iron
balcony earlier than usual to apologize for the noise. He never
apologized for the party. Nor did she reproach him. Her creed of
individual freedom forbade it. She had no right to lecture him on his
personal life--unless he pressed his personal appeal to a point which
gave her this right.
She really expected him to do so to-night. He had told her that he had
something of grave importance to say. Her curiosity was piqued. She
couldn’t help wondering how deeply and seriously he could talk about
the individual sex problem if driven to self-revelation.
She searched the crowded room in vain for Field’s compact figure.
He suddenly appeared at her side, a deep scowl on his usually
imperturbable face.
“Where have you been hiding?” she asked quietly.
“You missed me then?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” he questioned sharply.
“You had something very important to tell me.”
“You hadn’t forgotten that, either,” he mused with a smile.
“What’s on your mind, Randy?”
“Same old trouble--you!”
“But your scowl--isn’t that unusual?”
“I’m not scowling!” he snapped.
“But you were.”
“Say,” he whispered, gently touching her bare arm, “can’t you shake
this mob for a minute?”
“Certainly,” was the quick reply. “You’ve been awfully nice to-night,
Randy. I appreciate your generous services as my doorman. We’ll slip up
to the roof.”
She threaded her way through the throng, smiling and chatting, Field
carelessly following.
At the narrow passage to the roof which led from the outer hall she
paused until he reached her side. Two minutes later they were seated on
the iron settee beside a tiny fountain, with the star-lit skies of a
perfect June night above.
A moment’s silence followed.
Field was gazing at her with a serious intensity unusual to his light
bantering habits with women.
“You know that I’m in love with you, Ellen,” he said at last.
“Don’t make me laugh, Randy,” she protested.
“I mean it!” he whispered.
Ellen laughed outright.
“You don’t know the first meaning of the word love.”
She held his gaze firmly and he slowly lowered his with a quizzical
expression about his full lips.
“I ought to--I’ve had some experience.”
Again she laughed at the audacity of the nimble mind that had leaped
straight to the point she held against him--and met it with a
confession.
“That’s just why I laugh.”
“But you shouldn’t, Ellen,” he pleaded; “that’s why you shouldn’t. I
pay the highest possible tribute. I have known many women in my busy
life----”
“Busy’s the word,” she interrupted.
He smiled in spite of himself and continued:
“Of all the women I have ever known then--you are the queen. I’m
tired of the vapid, the inane, the ignorant, the vain. I glory in the
brilliancy and beauty of your mind----”
“Sure it’s my mind, Randy?”
He hesitated and swept her superb body with an admiring look.
“I’ll be honest, Ellen--mind and body. The body is the soul after
all--at least its supreme expression. And I want _you_--body and
soul--want you with a longing that is pain----”
Ellen laid her hand on his with a gesture of command. His deep
earnestness had evidently surprised and stirred her.
“Stop,” she ordered sharply. “Don’t try to string me, Randy. At least
be honest with me. You know that you had a dinner party with two girls
and a chum in your place night before last. It ended in the wee hours
before dawn.”
She looked him squarely in the eye and again he lowered his head.
“That’s why I’m talking to you seriously to-night, Ellen,” he said with
quiet intensity. “I’m tired of it all--its senseless waste of time
and life; its futility. I’m disgusted with myself for the first time.
You’ve done this. I’m madly in love with you and I’ve tried to forget
it lately in foolish dissipation. But it’s no use. You’ve got me. I’ll
give up every girl I’ve ever known on earth if you’ll be mine. I’ll
work as I’ve never worked, write as I’ve never written the big books of
which I’ve dreamed in the best moments I’ve known--will you?”
A smile played about her full sensitive lips as she looked at him
curiously.
“You would really give up the whole string of your pretty girls for me?”
“On my soul, I swear it!” he cried earnestly.
“Thanks for the compliment,” she answered slowly. “If I didn’t know
that you were a hopeless liar and that it is impossible to teach an old
dog new tricks I could almost love you after that speech.”
“But it’s no use?”
“Not a bit.”
“All right, we’ll let it rest at that point for to-night. I’ll ask you
again to-morrow. In the meantime, I’ve just one favor--a real personal
favor to beg of you to-night.”
“Not again that I kiss you, Randy!”
“No--I’m going to do that by force sooner or later--no; this is more
serious.”
“What on earth?”
He fumbled the lapel of his coat and finally plunged to the point.
“The loafer, Edwin Brown, is here to-night.”
“Brown himself?”
“Yes. I just ask you one favor, Ellen; don’t meet the blackguard.”
“Hoity, toity, man, why should the pot call the kettle black?”
Field drew himself up stiffly.
“You don’t class me with Brown?”
“Not exactly, no;” she answered slowly. “He buys with money. You buy
with wit, superior intelligence, muscle and the charm of personality.”
Field bit his lip and moved uneasily.
“You will see him?” he asked forlornly.
“Certainly,” she laughed. “I’m just a little curious to know if the
secret of his success with women _is_ all due to money.”
“Of course, it’s money.”
“There must be a little more.”
“Why?”
“Otherwise he wouldn’t have the audacity to come to my apartment
to-night in person. And if he has honored me with a personal call,
don’t you think he deserves a hearing?”
“I do not!”
“I do--come--we’ll go down at once.”
In spite of his protests she led the way down the narrow stairs into
the brilliantly lighted room. Brown’s presence had become known in
spite of Bridges’ final decision not to announce him. He stood with
Sylvester the center of a group of curious women to whom he had been
introduced.