The Dust [89]
said she, red and hesitating. For, she feared he would think her altogether selfish in her anxiety. He certainly would have been justified in so thinking; he knew how rarely generosity survived in the woman who leads the soft and idle life.
"How long can we keep on as we're living now-- if there's nothing, or little, coming in?"
"I don't know," confessed she. She was as poor at finance as he, and had certainly not been improved by his habit of giving her whatever she happened to think was necessary. "I can't say. Perhaps a few months-- I don't know-- Not long, I'm afraid."
"Six months?"
"Oh, no. You see--the fact is--I've been rather careless about the bills. You're so generous, Fred-- and one is so busy in New York. I guess we owe a good deal--here and there and yonder. And--the last few days some of the tradespeople have been pressing for payment."
"You see!" exclaimed he. "The report is going round that I'm ruined and done for. I've simply got to make good. If you can't keep up a front, shut up the house and go abroad. You can stay till I've got my foot back on its neck."
She believed in him, at bottom. She could not conceive how appearances and her forebodings could be true. Such strength as his could not be overwhelmed thus suddenly. And by so slight a thing!--by an unsatisfied passion for a woman, and an insignificant woman, at that. For, like all women, like all the world for that matter, she measured a passion by the woman who was the object of it, instead of by the man who fabricated it. "Yes--I'll go abroad," said she, hopefully.
"Quietly arrange for a long stay," he advised. "I HOPE it won't be long. But I never plan on hope."
Thus, with his sister and Fitzhugh out of the way and the heaviest of his burdens of expense greatly lightened, he set about rehabitating himself. He took an office, waited for clients. And clients came--excellent clients. Came and precipitately left him.
There were two reasons for it. The first--the one most often heard--was the story going round that he had been, and probably still was, out of his mind. No deadlier or crueler weapon can be used against a man than that same charge as to his sanity. It has been known to destroy, or seriously maim, brilliant and able men with no trace of any of the untrustworthy kinds of insanity. Where the man's own conduct gives color to the report, the attack is usually mortal. And Norman had acted the crazy man. The second reason was the hostility of Burroughs, reinforced by all the hatreds and jealousies Norman's not too respectful way of dealing with his fellow men had been creating through fifteen years.
The worst moment in the life of a man who has always proudly regarded himself as above any need whatever from his fellow men is when he discovers all in a flash, that the timid animal he spurned as it fawned has him upon his back, has its teeth and claws at his helpless throat.
For four months he stood out against the isolation, the suspicion as to his sanity, the patronizing pity of men who but a little while before had felt honored when he spoke to them. For four months he gave battle to unseen and silent foes compassing him on every side. He had no spirit for the fight; his love of Dorothy Hallowell and his complete rout there had taken the spirit out of him--and with it had gone that confidence in himself and in his luck which had won him so many critical battles. Then-- He had been keeping up a large suite of offices, a staff of clerks and stenographers and all the paraphernalia of the great and successful lawyer. He had been spreading out the little business he got in a not unsuccessful effort to make it appear big and growing. He now gave up these offices and the costly pride, pomp and circumstance--left with several thousand dollars owing. He took two small rooms in a building tenanted by beginners and cheap shysters. He continued to live at his club, where even the servants were subtly insolent to him; he could see the time approaching when he might have to let himself be
"How long can we keep on as we're living now-- if there's nothing, or little, coming in?"
"I don't know," confessed she. She was as poor at finance as he, and had certainly not been improved by his habit of giving her whatever she happened to think was necessary. "I can't say. Perhaps a few months-- I don't know-- Not long, I'm afraid."
"Six months?"
"Oh, no. You see--the fact is--I've been rather careless about the bills. You're so generous, Fred-- and one is so busy in New York. I guess we owe a good deal--here and there and yonder. And--the last few days some of the tradespeople have been pressing for payment."
"You see!" exclaimed he. "The report is going round that I'm ruined and done for. I've simply got to make good. If you can't keep up a front, shut up the house and go abroad. You can stay till I've got my foot back on its neck."
She believed in him, at bottom. She could not conceive how appearances and her forebodings could be true. Such strength as his could not be overwhelmed thus suddenly. And by so slight a thing!--by an unsatisfied passion for a woman, and an insignificant woman, at that. For, like all women, like all the world for that matter, she measured a passion by the woman who was the object of it, instead of by the man who fabricated it. "Yes--I'll go abroad," said she, hopefully.
"Quietly arrange for a long stay," he advised. "I HOPE it won't be long. But I never plan on hope."
Thus, with his sister and Fitzhugh out of the way and the heaviest of his burdens of expense greatly lightened, he set about rehabitating himself. He took an office, waited for clients. And clients came--excellent clients. Came and precipitately left him.
There were two reasons for it. The first--the one most often heard--was the story going round that he had been, and probably still was, out of his mind. No deadlier or crueler weapon can be used against a man than that same charge as to his sanity. It has been known to destroy, or seriously maim, brilliant and able men with no trace of any of the untrustworthy kinds of insanity. Where the man's own conduct gives color to the report, the attack is usually mortal. And Norman had acted the crazy man. The second reason was the hostility of Burroughs, reinforced by all the hatreds and jealousies Norman's not too respectful way of dealing with his fellow men had been creating through fifteen years.
The worst moment in the life of a man who has always proudly regarded himself as above any need whatever from his fellow men is when he discovers all in a flash, that the timid animal he spurned as it fawned has him upon his back, has its teeth and claws at his helpless throat.
For four months he stood out against the isolation, the suspicion as to his sanity, the patronizing pity of men who but a little while before had felt honored when he spoke to them. For four months he gave battle to unseen and silent foes compassing him on every side. He had no spirit for the fight; his love of Dorothy Hallowell and his complete rout there had taken the spirit out of him--and with it had gone that confidence in himself and in his luck which had won him so many critical battles. Then-- He had been keeping up a large suite of offices, a staff of clerks and stenographers and all the paraphernalia of the great and successful lawyer. He had been spreading out the little business he got in a not unsuccessful effort to make it appear big and growing. He now gave up these offices and the costly pride, pomp and circumstance--left with several thousand dollars owing. He took two small rooms in a building tenanted by beginners and cheap shysters. He continued to live at his club, where even the servants were subtly insolent to him; he could see the time approaching when he might have to let himself be