XIV
Than Fred Norman no man ever had better reason to feel securelyentrenched upon the heights of success. It was no silly vaunt ofoptimism for him to tell Lockyer that only loss of life or loss of mindcould dislodge him. And a few days after Dorothy had extinguished thelast spark of hope he got ready to pull himself together and show theworld that it was indulging too soon in its hypocritical headshakingsover his ruin.
"I am going to open an office of my own at once," he said to his sister.
She did not wish to discourage him, but she could not altogether keepher thoughts from her face. She had, in a general way, a clear idea ofthe complete system of tollgates, duly equipped with strong barriers,which the mighty few have established across practically all thehighroads to material success. Also, she felt in her brother's mannerand tone a certain profound discouragement, a lack of the unconquerablespirit which had carried him so far so speedily. It is not a baselessnotion that the man who has never been beaten is often destroyed by hisfirst reverse. Ursula feared the spell of success had been broken forhim.
"You mean," she suggested, with apparent carelessness, "that you willgive up your forty thousand a year?"
He made a disdainful gesture. "I can make more than that," said he."It's a second rate lawyer who can't in this day."
"Of course you can," replied she tactfully. "But why not take a restfirst? Then there's old Burroughs--on the war path. Wouldn't it be wiseto wait till he calms down?"
"If Burroughs or any other man is necessary to me," rejoined Fred, "thesooner I find it out the better. I ought to know just where I--Imyself--stand."
"No one is necessary to you but yourself," said Ursula, proudly andsincerely. "But, Fred--Are you yourself just now?"
"No, I'm not," admitted he. "But the way to become so again isn't bywaiting but by working." An expression of sheer wretchedness came intohis listless, heavy eyes. "Urse, I've got to conquer my weakness now, orgo under."
She was eager to hold on to the secure forty thousand a year--for hissake no less than for her own. She argued with him with all theadroitness of a mind as good in its way as his own. But she could notshake his resolution. And she in prudence, desisted when he saidbitterly: "I see you've lost confidence in me. Well, I don't blameyou. . . . So have I." Then after a moment, violently rather than strongly:"But I've got to get it back. If I don't I'm only putting off thesmash--a complete smash."
"I don't see quite how it's to be arranged," said she, red andhesitating. For, she feared he would think her altogether selfish in heranxiety. He certainly would have been justified in so thinking; he knewhow rarely generosity survived in the woman who leads the soft and idlelife.
"How long can we keep on as we're living now--if there's nothing, orlittle, coming in?"
"I don't know," confessed she. She was as poor at finance as he, and hadcertainly not been improved by his habit of giving her whatever shehappened to think was necessary. "I can't say. Perhaps a few months--Idon't know--Not long, I'm afraid."
"Six months?"
"Oh, no. You see--the fact is--I've been rather careless about thebills. You're so generous, Fred--and one is so busy in New York. Iguess we owe a good deal--here and there and yonder. And--the last fewdays some of the tradespeople have been pressing for payment."
"You see!" exclaimed he. "The report is going round that I'm ruined anddone 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 backon its neck."
She believed in him, at bottom. She could not conceive how appearancesand her forebodings could be true. Such strength as his could not beoverwhelmed thus suddenly. And by so slight a thing!--by an unsatisfiedpassion for a woman, and an insignificant woman, at that. For, like allwomen, like all the world for that matter, she measured a passion by thewoman 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 ofhis burdens of expense greatly lightened, he set about rehabitatinghimself. He took an office, waited for clients. And clientscame--excellent clients. Came and precipitately left him.
There were two reasons for it. The first--the one most often heard--wasthe story going round that he had been, and probably still was, out ofhis mind. No deadlier or crueler weapon can be used against a man thanthat same charge as to his sanity. It has been known to destroy, orseriously maim, brilliant and able men with no trace of any of theuntrustworthy kinds of insanity. Where the man's own conduct gives colorto the report, the attack is usually mortal. And Norman had acted thecrazy man. The second reason was the hostility of Burroughs, reinforcedby all the hatreds and jealousies Norman's not too respectful way ofdealing with his fellow men had been creating through fifteen years.
The worst moment in the life of a man who has always proudly regardedhimself as above any need whatever from his fellow men is when hediscovers all in a flash, that the timid animal he spurned as it fawnedhas 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 tohis sanity, the patronizing pity of men who but a little while beforehad felt honored when he spoke to them. For four months he gave battleto unseen and silent foes compassing him on every side. He had no spiritfor the fight; his love of Dorothy Hallowell and his complete rout therehad taken the spirit out of him--and with it had gone that confidence inhimself 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 ofclerks and stenographers and all the paraphernalia of the great andsuccessful lawyer. He had been spreading out the little business he gotin a not unsuccessful effort to make it appear big and growing. He nowgave up these offices and the costly pride, pomp and circumstance--leftwith several thousand dollars owing. He took two small rooms in abuilding tenanted by beginners and cheap shysters. He continued to liveat his club, where even the servants were subtly insolent to him; hecould see the time approaching when he might have to let himself bedropped for failing to pay dues and bills.
He stared at his ruin in stupid and dazed amazement. Usually, to hear orto read about such a catastrophe as this is to get a vague, ratherimpressive notion of something picturesque and romantic. Ruined, likeall the big fateful words, has a dignified sound. But the historians andnovelists and poets and other keepers of human records have a pleasant,but not very honest way, of omitting practically all the essentials fromtheir records and substituting glittering imaginings that delight thereader--and wofully mislead him as to the truth about life. What wonderthat we learn slowly--and improve slowly. How wofully we have been, andare, misled by all upon whom we have relied as teachers.
Already one of these charming tales of majestic downfall was in processof manufacture, with Frederick Norman as the central figure. It was onlyawaiting his suicide or some other mode of complete submergence for itsfinal glose of glamor. In this manufacture, the truth, as usual, hadbeen almost omitted; such truth as was retained for this artisticversion of a human happening was so perverted that it was falser thanthe simon pure fictions with which it was interwoven. Just as theliteral truth about his success was far from being altogether to hiscredit, so the literal truth as to his fall gave him little of thevesture of the hero, and that little ill fitting, to cover his nakedhumanness. Let him who has risen to material success altogether bymethods approved by the idealists, let him who has fallen from on highwith graceful majesty, without hysterical clutchings and desperateattempts at self-salvation in disregard of the safety of others--leteither of these superhuman beings come forward with the first stone forNorman.
Those at some distance from the falling man could afford to be romanticand piteous over his fate. Those in his dangerous neighborhood were toobusy getting out of the way. "Man falling--stand from under!" was thecry--how
familiar it is!--and acquaintances and friends fled in madskedaddle. He would surely be asking favors--would be trying to borrowmoney. It is no peculiarity of rats to desert a sinking ship; it issimply an inevitable precaution in a social system modeled as yet uponnature's cruel law of the survival of the fittest. A falling man isfirst of all a warning to all other men high enough up to be able tofall--a warning to them to take care lest they fall also where footingis so insecure and precipices and steeps beset every path.
Norman, falling, falling, gazed round him and up and down, in dazedwonder. He had seen many others fall. He had seen just where and justwhy they missed their footing. And he had been confident that with himno such misstep was possible. He could not believe; a little while, andluck would turn, and up he would go again--higher than before. Many alawyer--to look no farther than his own profession--had throughrecklessness or pride or inadvertence got the big men down on him. Butafter a time they had relented or had found an exact use for him; andfall had been succeeded by rise. Was there a single instance where a manof good brain had been permanently downed? No, not one. Stay--Some ofthese unfortunates had failed to reappear on the heights of success.Yes, thinking of the matter, he recalled several such. Had he beenaltogether right in assuming, in his days of confidence and success,that they stayed down because they belonged down? Perhaps he had judgedthem harshly? Yes, he was sure he had judged them harshly. There wassuch a thing as breaking a proud spirit--and he found within himselfapparent proof that precisely this calamity had befallen him.
There came a time--and it came soon--when he had about exhausted hisdesperate ingenuity at cornering acquaintances and former friends and"sticking them up" for loans of five hundred, a hundred, fifty,twenty-five--Because these vulgar and repulsive facts are not found inthe usual records of the men who have dropped and come up again, do notimagine that only the hopeless and never-reappearing failures passthrough such experiences. On the contrary, they are part of the commonhuman lot, and few indeed are the men who have not had them--andworse--if they could but be brought to tell the truth. Destiny rarelypermits any one of us to go from cradle to grave without doing many athing shameful and universally condemned. How could it be otherwiseunder our social system? When Norman was about at the end of all hisresources Tetlow called on him--Tetlow, now a partner in the Lockyerfirm.
He came with an air of stealth. "I don't want anyone to know I'm doingthis," said he frankly. "If it got out, I'd be damaged and you'd notprofit."
Rarely does anyone, however unworthy--and Fred Norman was far fromunworthy, as we humans go--rarely does anyone find himself absolutelywithout a friend. There is a saying that no man ever sunk so low, everbecame so vile and squalid in soul and body, but that if he were dying,and the fact were noised throughout the world, some woman somewherewould come--perhaps from a sense of duty, perhaps from love, perhaps forthe sake of a moment of happiness long past but never equaled, and sonever forgotten--but from whatever motive, she would come. In the samemanner, anyone in dire straits can be sure of some friend. There wereseveral others whom Norman had been expecting--men he had saved by hislegal ingenuity at turning points in their careers. None of these was soimprudent as uselessly to involve himself. It was Tetlow whocame--Tetlow, with whom his accounts were more than balanced, with thebalance against him. Tetlow, whom he did not expect.
Norman did not welcome him effusively. He said at once: "How is--she?"
Tetlow shifted uneasily. "I don't know. She's not with us. I gave her aplace there--to get her away from Culver. But she didn't stay long. Nodoubt she's doing well."
"I thought you cared about her," said Norman, who in estimating Tetlow'spassion had measured it by his own, had neglected to consider that thedesires of most men soon grow short of breath and weary of leg.
"Yes--so I did care for her," said Tetlow, in the voice of a man who hasbeen ill but is now well. "But that's all over. Women aren't worthbothering about much. They're largely vanity. The way they soon take aman for granted if he's at all kind to them discourages any but thepoorest sort of fool. At least that's my opinion."
"Then you don't come from her?" said Norman with complete loss ofinterest in his caller.
"No. I've come--Fred, I hear you're in difficulties."
Norman's now deep-set eyes gleamed humorously in his haggard andfailed-looking face. "_In_ difficulties? Not at all. I'm _under_them--drowned forty fathoms deep."
"Then you'll not resent my coming straight to the point and asking if Ican help you?"
"That's a rash offer, Tetlow. I never suspected rashness was one of yourqualities."
"I don't mean to offer you a loan or anything of that sort," pursuedTetlow. "There's only one thing that can help a man in your position. Hemust either be saved outright or left to drown. I've come with somethingthat may save you."
There was so much of the incongruous in a situation where _he_ waslistening to an offer of salvation from such a man as Billy Tetlow thatNorman smiled.
"Well, what is it?" he said.
"There's a chance that within six months or so--perhapssooner--Burroughs and Galloway may end their truce and declare war oneach other. If so, Galloway will win. Anyhow, the Galloway connectionwould be better than the Burroughs connection."
Norman looked at Tetlow shrewdly. "How do you know this?" he asked.
Tetlow's eyes shifted. "Can't tell you. But I know."
"Galloway hates me."
Tetlow nodded. "You were the one who forced him into a position where hehad to make peace with Burroughs. But Galloway's a big man, big enoughto admire ability wherever he sees it. He has admired you ever since."
"And has given his business to another firm."
"But if the break comes he'll need you. And he's the sort of man whodoesn't hesitate to take what he needs."
"Too remote," said Norman, and his despondent gesture showed how quicklyhope had lighted up. "Besides, Billy, I've lost my nerve. I'm no good."
"But you've gotten over that--that attack of insanity."
Norman shook his head.
"I can't understand it," ejaculated Tetlow.
"Of course you can't," said Norman. "But--there it is."
"You haven't seen her lately?"
"Not since that day ... Billy, she hasn't--" Norman stopped, andTetlow saw that his hands were trembling with agitation, and marveled.
"Oh, no," replied Tetlow. "So far as I know, she's still respectable.But--why don't you go to see her? I think you'd be cured."
"Why do you say that?" demanded Norman, the veins in his foreheadbulging with the fury he was ready to release.
"For no especial reason--on my honor, Fred," replied Tetlow. "Simplybecause time works wonders in all sorts of ways, including infatuations.Also--well, the fact is, it didn't seem to me that young lady improvedon acquaintance. Maybe I got tired, or piqued--I don't know. If shehadn't been a silly little fool, would she have refused you? I know itsounds well--in a novel or a play--for a poor girl to refuse a goodoffer, just from sentiment. But, all the same, only a fool girl doesit--in life--eh? But go to see her. You'll understand what I mean, Ithink. I want you to brace up. That may help."
"What's she doing?"
"I don't know. I'll send you her address. I can get it. AboutGalloway--If that break comes, I propose that we get his business--youand I. I want you for a partner. I always did. I think I know how to getwork out of you. I understand you better, than anyone else. That's whyI'm here."
"It's useless," said Norman.
"I'm willing to take the risk. Now, here's what I propose. I'll stakeyou to the extent of a thousand dollars a month for the next six months,you to keep on as you are and not to tie yourself up to any otherlawyer, or to any client likely to hamper us if we get the Gallowaybusiness."
"I've been borrowing right and left----"
"I know about that," interrupted Tetlow. "I'm not interested. If you'llagree to my proposal, I'll take my chances."
"You are throwing away six thousand dollars."
&
nbsp; "I owe you a position where I make five times that much."
Norman shrugged his shoulders. "Very well. Can I have five hundred atonce?"
"I'll send you a check to-day. I'll send two checks a month--the firstand the fifteenth."
"I am drinking a great deal."
"You always did."
"Not until recently. I never knew what drinking meant until these lastfew months."
"Well, do as you like with the money. Drink it all, if you please. I'mmaking no conditions beyond the two I stated."
"You will send me that address?"
"In the letter with the check."
"Will she see me, do you think?"
"I haven't an idea," replied Tetlow.
"What's the mystery?" asked Norman. "Why do you speak of her soindifferently?"
"It's the way I feel." Then, in answer to the unspoken suspicion oncemore appearing in Norman's eyes, he added: "She's a very nice, sweetgirl, Norman--so far as I know or believe. Beyond that--Go to seeher."
It had been many a week since Norman had heard a friendly voice. Thevery sound of the human voice had become hateful to him, because he wasconstantly detecting the note of nervousness, the scarcely concealedfear of being entangled in his misfortunes. As Tetlow rose to go, Normantried to detain him. The sound of an unconstrained voice, the sight of abelieving face that did not express one or more of the shadings ofcontempt between pity and aversion--the sight and sound of this friendTetlow was acting upon him like one of those secret, unexpected,powerful tonics which nature at times suddenly injects into a dying manto confound the doctors and cheat death.
"Tetlow," said he, "I'm down--probably down for good. But if I ever getup again, I'll not make one mistake--the one that cost me this fall. Doyou know what that mistake was?"
"I suppose you mean Miss Hallowell?"
"No," said Norman, to his surprise. "I mean my lack of money, ofcapital, of a large and secure income. I used to imagine that brainswere the best, the only sure asset. I was guilty of the stupidity ofovervaluing my own possessions."
"Brains are a mighty good asset, Fred."
"Yes--and necessary. But a man of action must have under his brainsanother asset--_must_ have it, Billy. The one secure asset is a bigcapital. Money rules this world. Some men have been lucky enough to riseand stay risen, without money. But not a man of all the men who havebeen knocked out could have been dislodged if he had been armed andarmored with money. My prodigality was my fatal mistake. I shan't makeit again--if I get the chance. You don't know, Tetlow, how hard it is toget money when you are tumbling and must have it. I never dreamed what afactor it is in calamities of _every_ sort. It's _the_ factor."
"I don't like to hear you talk that way, Norman," said Tetlow earnestly."I've always most admired in you the fact that you weren't mercenary."
"And I never shall be," said Norman, with the patient smile of a swift,keen mind at one that is slow and hard to make understand. "It isn't mynature. But, if I'm resurrected, I'll seem to be mercenary until I get afull suit of the only armor that's invulnerable in this world. Why, Ibuilt my fort like a fool. It was impregnable except for one thing--oneobvious thing. It hadn't a supply of water. If I build again it'll beround a spring--an income big enough for my needs and beyond anybody'spower to cut off."
Tetlow showed that he was much cheered by Norman's revived interest inlife. But he went away uneasy; for the last thing Norman said to himwas:
"Don't forget that address!"