The Grain of Dust Part 39

But it chanced that Norman met her in the street about an hour after Tetlow's call.

He was on the way to lunch at the Lawyer's Club--one of those apparent luxuries that are the dire and pitiful necessities of men in New York fighting to maintain the semblance and the reputation of prosperity. It must not be imagined by those who are here let into Norman's inmost secrets that his appearance betrayed the depth to which he had fallen.

At least to the casual eye he seemed the same rich and powerful personage. An expert might have got at a good part of the truth from his somber eyes and haggard face, from the subtle transformation of the former look of serene pride into the bravado of pretense. And as, in a general way, the facts of his fall were known far and wide, all his acquaintances understood that his seeming of undiminished success was simply the familiar "bluff." Its advantage to him with them lay in its raising a doubt as to just what degree of disaster it hid--no small advantage. Nor was this "bluff" altogether for the benefit of the outside world. It made his fall less hideously intolerable to himself.

In the bottom of his heart he knew that when drink and no money should finally force him to release his relaxing hold upon his fas.h.i.+onable clubs, upon luxurious attire and habits, he would suddenly and with accelerated speed drop into the abyss--We have all caught glimpses of that abyss--frayed fine linen cheaply laundered, a tie of one time smartness showing signs of too long wear, a suit from the best kind of tailor with s.h.i.+ny spot glistening here, patch peeping there, a queer unkemptness about the hair and skin--these the beginnings of a road that leads straight and short to the barrel-house, the park bench, and the police station. Because, when a man strikes into that stretch of the road to perdition, he ceases to be one of our friends, pa.s.ses from view entirely, we have the habit of _saying_ that such things rarely if ever happen. But we _know_ better. Many's the man now high who has had the sort of drop Norman was taking. We remember when he was making a bluff such as Norman was making in those days; but we think now that we were mistaken in having suspected it of being bluff.

Norman, dressed with more than ordinary care--how sensitive a man becomes about those things when there is neither rustle nor jingle in his pockets, and his smallest check would be returned with the big black stamp "No Funds"--Norman, groomed to the last b.u.t.ton, was in Broadway near Rector Street. Ahead of him he saw the figure of a girl--a trim, attractive figure, slim and charmingly long of line. A second glance, and he recognized her. What was the change that had prevented his recognizing her at once? He had not seen that particular lightish-blue dress before--nor the coquettish harmonizing hat. But that was not the reason. No, it was the coquetry in her toilet--the effort of the girl to draw attention to her charms by such small devices as are within the reach of extremely modest means. He did not like this change. It offended his taste; it alarmed his jealousy.

He quickened his step, and when almost at her side spoke her name--"Miss Hallowell."

She stopped, turned. As soon as she recognized him there came into her quiet, lovely face a delightful smile. He could not conceal his amazement. She was glad to see him! Instantly, following the invariable habit of an experienced a.n.a.lytical mind, he wondered for what unflattering reason this young woman who did not like him was no longer showing it, was seeming more than a little pleased to see him. "Why, how d'ye do, Mr. Norman?" said she. And her friendliness and a.s.surance of manner jarred upon him. There was not a suggestion of forwardness; but he, used to her old-time extreme reserve, felt precisely as if she were bold and gaudy, after the fas.h.i.+on of so many of the working girls who were popular with the men.

This unfavorable impression disappeared--or, rather, retired to the background--even as it became definite. And once more he was seeing the charms of physical loveliness, of physical--and moral, and mental--mystery that had a weird power over him. As they shook hands, a quiver shot through him as at the shock of a terrific stimulant; and he stood there longing to take her in his arms, to feel the delicate yet perfect and vividly vital life of that fascinating form--longing to kiss that sensitive, slightly pouted rosy mouth, to try to make those clear eyes grow soft and dreamy----

She was saying: "I've been wondering what had become of you."

"I saw Tetlow," he said. "He promised to send me your address."

At Tetlow's name she frowned slightly; then a gleam of ridicule flitted into her eyes. "Oh, that silly, squeamish old maid! How sick I got of him!"

Norman winced, and his jealousy stirred. "Why?" he asked.

"Always warning me against everybody. Always giving me advice. It was too tiresome. And at last he began to criticize me--the way I dressed--the way I talked--said I was getting too free in my manner. The impudence of him!"

Norman tried to smile.

"He'd have liked me to stay a silly little mouse forever."

"So you've been--blossoming out?" said Norman.

"In a quiet way," replied she, with a smile of self-content, so lovely as a smile that no one would have minded its frank egotism. "There isn't much chance for fun--unless a girl goes too far. But at the same time I don't intend life to be Sunday when it isn't work. I got very cross with him--Mr. Tetlow, I mean. And I took another position. It didn't pay quite so well--only fifteen a week. But I couldn't stand being watched--and guyed by all the other girls and boys for it."

"Where are you working?"

"With an old lawyer named Brans...o...b... It's awful slow, as I'm the only one, and he's old and does everything in an old-fas.h.i.+oned way. But the hours are easy, and I don't have to get down till nine--which is nice when you've been out at a dance the night before."

Norman kept his eyes down to hide from her the legion of devils of jealousy. "You _have_ changed," he said.

"I'm growing up," replied she with a charming toss of her small head--what beautiful effects the sunlight made in among those wavy strands and strays!

"And you're as lovely as ever--lovelier," he said--and his eyes were the eyes of the slave she had spurned.

She did not spurn him now--and it inflamed his jealousy that she did not. She said: "Oh, what's the good of looks? The town's full of pretty girls. And so many of them have money--which I haven't. To make a hit in New York a girl's got to have both looks and dress. But I must be going.

I've an engagement to lunch--" She gave a proud little smile--"at the Astor House. It's nice upstairs there."

"With Bob Culver?"

She laughed. "I haven't seen him since I left his office. You know, Mr.

Tetlow took me with him--back to your old firm. I didn't like Mr.

Culver. I don't care for those black men. They are bad-tempered and two-faced. Anyhow, I'd not have anything to do with a man who wanted to slip round with me as if he were ashamed of me."

She was looking at Norman pleasantly enough. He wasn't sure that the hit was for him as well as for Culver, but he flushed deeply. "Will you lunch with me at the Astor House at one to-morrow?"

"I've got an engagement," said she. "And I must be going. I'm awfully late." He had an instinct that her engagement on both days was with the same man. "I'm glad to have seen you----"

"Won't you let me call on you?" he said imploringly, but with the suggestion that he had no hope of being permitted to come.

"Certainly," responded she with friendly promptness. She opened the shopping bag swinging on her arm. "Here is one of my cards."

"When? This evening?"

Her laugh showed the beautiful deep pink and dazzling white behind her lips. "No--I'm going to a party."

"Let me take you."

She shook her head. "You wouldn't like it. Only young people."

"But I'm not so old."

She looked at him critically. "No--you're not. It always puzzled me. You aren't old--you look like a boy lots of the time. But you always _seem_ old to me."

"I'll try to do better. To-night?"

"Not to-night," laughed she. "Let's see--to-morrow's Sunday. Come to-morrow--about half past two."

"Thank you," he said so gratefully that he cursed himself for his folly as he heard his voice--the idiotic folly of so plainly betraying his feelings. No wonder she despised him! Beginning again--and beginning; wrong.

"Good-by." Her eyes, her smile flashed and he was alone, watching her slender grace glide through the throngs of lower Broadway.

At his office again at three, he found a note from Tetlow inclosing another of Dorothy's cards and also the promised check. Into his face came the look that always comes into the faces of the prisoners of despair when the bolts slide back and the heavy door swings and hope stands on the threshold instead of the familiar grim figure of the jailer. "This looks like the turn of the road," he muttered. Yes, a turn it certainly was--but was it _the_ turn? "I'll know more as to that," said he with a glance at the clock, "about this time to-morrow."

It was a boarding house on the west side. And when the slovenly, smelly maid said, "Go right up to her room," he knew it was--probably respectable, but not rigidly respectable. However, working girls must receive, and they cannot afford parlors and chaperons. Still--It was no place for a lovely young girl, full of charm and of love of life--and not brought up in the cla.s.s where the women are trained from babyhood to protect themselves.

He ascended two flights, knocked at the door to the rear. "Come!" called a voice, and he entered. It was a small neat room, arranged comfortably and with some taste. He recognized at first glance many little things from her room in the Jersey City house--things he had provided for her.

On the chimney piece was a large photograph of her father--Norman's eyes hastily s.h.i.+fted from that. The bed was folded away into a couch--for s.p.a.ce and for respectability. At first he did not see her. But when he advanced a step farther, she was disclosed in the doorway of a deep closet that contained a stationary washstand.

He had never seen her when she was not fully dressed. He was now seeing her in a kind of wrapper--of pale blue, clean but not fresh. It was open at the throat; its sleeves fell away from her arms. And, to cap the climax of his agitation, her hair, her wonderful hair, was flowing loosely about her face and shoulders.

"What's the matter with you?" she cried laughingly. Her eyes sparkled and danced; the waves of her hair, each hair standing out as if it were alive, sparkled and danced. It was a smile never to be forgotten. "Why are you so embarra.s.sed?"

He was embarra.s.sed. He was thrilled. He was enraged--enraged because, if she would thus receive him whom she did not like, she would certainly thus receive any man.

"I don't mind you," she went on, mockingly. "I'd have to be careful if it was one of the boys."

"Do you receive the--boys--here?" demanded he glumly, his voice arrogant with the possessive rights a man feels when he cares for a woman, whether she cares for him or not.

"Why not?" scoffed she. "Where else would I see them? I don't make street corner dates, thank you. You're as bad as fat, foolish Mr.