The Grain of Dust Part 47

"No, I don't," snapped Tetlow.

"That's what it means to be Tetlow. Now, I do see--and that's why I'm Norman."

Tetlow looked at him doubtfully, uncertain whether he had been listening to wisdom put in a jocose form of audacious egotism or to the effervescings of intoxication. The hint of a smile lurking in the sobriety of the powerful features of his extraordinary friend only increased his doubt. Was Norman mocking him, and himself as well? If so, was it the mockery of sober sense or of drunkenness?

"You seem to be puzzled, Billy," said Norman, and Tetlow wondered how he had seen. "Don't get your brains in a stew trying to understand me. I'm acting the way I've always acted--except in one matter. You know that I know what I'm about?"

"I certainly do," replied his admirer.

"Then, let it go at that. If you could understand me--the sort of man I am, the sort of thing I do--you'd not need me, but would be the whole show yourself--eh? That being true, don't show yourself a commonplace n.o.body by deriding and denying what your brain is unable to comprehend.

Show yourself a somebody by seeing the limitations of your ability. The world is full of little people who criticise and judge and laugh at and misunderstand the few real intelligences. And very tedious interruptions of the scenery those little people are. Don't be one of them. . . . Did you know my wife's father?"

Tetlow startled. "No--that is, yes," he stammered. "That is, I met him a few times."

"Often enough to find out that he was crazy?"

"Oh, yes. He explained some of his ideas to me. Yes--he was quite mad, poor fellow."

Norman gave way to a fit of silent laughter. "I can imagine," he presently said, "what you'd have thought if Columbus or Alexander or Napoleon or Stevenson or even the chaps who doped out the telephone and the telegraph--if they had talked to you before they arrived. Or even after they arrived, if they had been explaining some still newer and bigger idea not yet accomplished."

"You don't think Mr. Hallowell was mad?"

"He was mad, a.s.suming that you are the standard of sanity. Otherwise, he was a great man. There'll be statues erected and pages of the book of fame devoted to the men who carry out his ideas."

"His death was certainly a great loss to his daughter," said Tetlow in his heaviest, most bourgeois manner.

"I said he was a great man," observed Norman. "I didn't say he was a great father. A great man is never a great father. It takes a small man to be a great father."

"At any rate, her having no parents or relatives doesn't matter, now that she has you," said Tetlow, his manner at once forced and constrained.

"Um," muttered Norman.

Said Tetlow: "Perhaps you misunderstood why I--I acted as I did about her, toward the last."

"It was of no importance," said Norman brusquely. "I wish to hear nothing about it."

"But I must explain, Fred. She piqued me by showing so plainly that she despised me. I must admit the truth, though I've got as much vanity as the next man, and don't like to admit it. She despised me, and it made me mad."

An expression of grim satire pa.s.sed over Norman's face. Said he: "She despised me, too."

"Yes, she did," said Tetlow. "And both of us were certainly greatly her superiors--in every substantial way. It seemed to me most--most----"

"Most impertinent of her?" suggested Norman.

"Precisely. _Most_ impertinent."

"Rather say, ignorant and small. My dear Tetlow, let me tell you something. Anybody, however insignificant, can be loved. To be loved means nothing, except possibly a hallucination in the brain of the lover. But to _love_--that's another matter. Only a great soul is capable of a great love."

"That is true," murmured Tetlow sentimentally, preening in a quiet, gentle way.

Said Norman sententiously: "_You_ stopped loving. It was _I_ that kept on."

Tetlow looked uncomfortable. "Yes--yes," he said. "But we were talking of her--of her not appreciating the love she got. And I was about to say--" Earnestly--"Fred, she's not to be blamed for her folly! She's very, very young--and has all the weaknesses and vanities of youth----"

"Here we are," interrupted Norman.

The hansom had stopped in Forty-second Street before the deserted but still brilliantly lighted entrances to the great hotel. Norman sprang out so lightly and surely that Tetlow wondered how it was possible for this to be the man who had been racketing and roistering day after day, night after night for nearly a week. He helped the heavy and awkward Tetlow to descend, said:

"You'll have to pay, Bill. I've got less than a dollar left. And I touched Gaskill for a hundred and fifty to-night. You can imagine how drunk he was, to let me have it. How they've been shying off from _me_ these last few months!"

"And you want _Galloway_ to come to _you_," thrust Tetlow, as he counted out the money.

"Don't go back and chew on that," laughed Norman. "It's settled." He took the money, gave it to the driver. "Thanks," he said to Tetlow.

"I'll pay you to-morrow--that is, later to-day--when you send me another check."

"Why should you pay for my cab?" rejoined Tetlow.

"Because it's easier for me to make money than it is for you," replied Norman. "If you were in my position--the position I've been in for months--would anybody on earth give you three thousand dollars a month?"

Tetlow looked sour. His good nature was rubbing thin in spots.

"Don't lose your temper," laughed Norman. "I'm pounding away at you about my superiority, partly because I've been drinking, but chiefly for your own good--so that you'll realize I'm right and not mess things with Galloway."

They went up to Norman's suite. Norman tried to unlock the door, found it already unlocked. He turned the k.n.o.b, threw the door wide for Tetlow to enter first. Then, over Tetlow's shoulder he saw on the marble-topped center table Dorothy's hat and jacket, the one she had worn away, the only one she had. He stared at them, then at Tetlow. A confused look in the fat, slow face made him say sharply:

"What does this mean, Tetlow?"

"Not so loud, Fred," said Tetlow, closing the door into the public hall.

"She's in the bedroom--probably asleep. She's been here since yesterday."

"You brought her back?" demanded Norman.

"She wanted to come. I simply----"

Norman made a silencing gesture. Tetlow's faltering voice stopped short.

Norman stood near the table, his hands deep in his trousers' pockets, his gaze fixed upon the hat and jacket. When Tetlow's agitation could bear the uncertainties of that silence no longer, he went on:

"Fred, you mustn't forget how young and inexperienced she is. She's been foolish, but nothing more. She's as pure as when she came into the world. And it's the truth that she wanted to come back. I saw it as soon as I began to talk with her."

"What are you chattering about?" said Norman fiercely. "Why did you meddle in my affairs? Why did you bring her back?"

"I knew she needed you," pleaded Tetlow. "Then, too--I was afraid--I knew how you acted before, and I thought you'd not get your gait again until you had her."

Norman gave a short sardonic laugh. "If you'd only stop trying to understand me!" he said.

Tetlow was utterly confused. "But, Fred, you don't realize--not all," he cried imploringly. "She discovered--she thinks, I believe--that is--she--she--that probably--that in a few months you'll be something more than a husband--and she something more than a wife--that you--that--you and she will be a father and a mother."

Tetlow's meaning slowly dawned on Norman. He seated himself in his favorite att.i.tude, legs sprawled, fingers interlaced behind his head.