The Grain of Dust Part 33

"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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 friends.h.i.+ps 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 owners.h.i.+p. 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 s.h.i.+ft 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 quant.i.ties 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'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.