LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

At twenty she threw over a multi-millionaire and married Clayton Fitzhugh for love—Clayton with only seventeen thousand a year. Of course, from the standpoint of fashionable ambition, seventeen thousand a year in New York is but one remove from tenement house poverty. As Clayton had no more ability at making money than had Ursula herself, there was nothing to do but live with Norman and "take care of him." But for this self-sacrifice of sisterly affection Norman would have been rich at thirty-seven. As he had to make her rich as well as himself, progress toward luxurious independence was slower—and there was the house, costing nearly fifty thousand a year to keep up.

      There had been a time in Norman's career—a brief and very early time—when, with the maternal peasant blood hot in his veins, he had entertained the quixotic idea of going into politics on the poor or people's side and fighting for glory only. The pressure of expensive living had soon driven this notion clean off. Norman had almost forgotten that he ever had it, was no longer aware how strong it had been in the last year at law school. Young men of high intelligence and ardent temperament always pass through this period. With some—a few—its glory lingers long after the fire has flickered out before the cool, steady breath of worldliness.

      All this time Norman has been dressing for dinner. He now leaves the third floor and descends toward the library, as it still lacks twenty minutes of the dinner hour.

      As he walked along the hall of the second floor a woman's voice called to him, "That you, Fred?"

      He turned in at his sister's sitting room. She was standing at a table smoking a cigarette. Her tall, slim figure looked even taller and slimmer in the tight-fitting black satin evening dress. Her features faintly suggested her relationship to Norman. She was a handsome woman, with a voluptuous discontented mouth.

      "What are you worried about, sis?" inquired he.

      "How did you know I was worried?" returned she.

      "You always are."

      "Oh!"

      "But you're unusually worried to-night."

      "How did you know that?"

      "You never smoke just before dinner unless your nerves are ragged. . . . What is it?"

      "Money."

      "Of course. No one in New York worries about anything else."

      "But this is serious," protested she. "I've been thinking—about your marriage—and what'll become of Clayton and me?" She halted, red with embarrassment.

      Norman lit a cigarette himself. "I ought to have explained," said he. "But I assumed you'd understand."

      "Fred, you know Clayton can't make anything. And when you marry—why—what will become of us!"

      "I've been taking care of Clayton's money—and of yours. I'll continue to do it. I think you'll find you're not so badly of. You see, my position enables me to compel a lot of the financiers to let me in on the ground floor—and to warn me in good time before the house falls. You'll not miss me, Ursula."

      She showed her gratitude in her eyes, in a slight quiver of the lips, in an unsteadiness of tone as she said, "You're the real thing, Freddie."

      "You can go right on as you are now. Only—" He was looking at her with meaning directness.

      She moved uneasily, refused to meet his gaze. "Well?" she said, with a suggestion of defiance.

      "It's all very natural to get tired of Clayton," said her brother. "I knew you would when you married him. But—Sis, I mind my own business. Still—why make a fool of yourself?"

      "You don't understand," she exclaimed passionately. And the light in her eyes, the color in her cheeks, restored to her for the moment the beauty of her youth that was almost gone.

      "Understand what?" He inquired in a tone of gentle mockery.

      "Love. You are all ambition—all self-control. You can be affectionate—God knows, you have been to me, Fred. But love you know nothing about—nothing."

      His was the smile a man gives when in earnest and wishing to be thought jesting—or when in jest and wishing to be thought in earnest.

      "You mean Josephine? Oh, yes, I suppose you do care for her in a way—in a nice, conventional way. She is a fine handsome piece—just the sort to fill the position of wife to a man like you. She's sweet and charming, she appreciates, and she flatters you. I'm sure she loves you as much as a girl knows how to love. But it's all so conventional, so proper. Your position—her money. You two are of the regulation type even in that you're suited to each other in height and figure. Everybody'll say, 'What a fine couple—so well matched!'"

      "Maybe you don't understand," said Norman.

      "If Josephine were poor and low-born—weren't one of us—and all that—would you have her?"

      "I'm sure I don't know," was his prompt and amused answer. "I can only say that I know what I want, she being what she is."

      Ursula shook her head. "I have only to see you and her together to know that you at least don't understand love."

      "It might be well if you didn't," said Norman dryly. "You might be less unhappy—and Clayton less uneasy."

      "Ah, but I can't help myself. Don't you see it in me, Fred? I'm not a fool. Yet see what a fool I act."

      "Spoiled child—that's all. No self-control."

      "You despise everyone who isn't as strong as you." She looked at him intently. "I wonder if you are as self-controlled as you imagine. Sometimes I wish you'd get a lesson. Then you'd be more sympathetic. But it isn't likely you will—not through a woman. Oh, they're such pitifully easy game for a man like you. But then men are the same way with you—quite as easy. You get anything you want. . . . You're really going to stick to Josephine?"

      He nodded. "It's time for me to settle down."

      "Yes—I think it is," she went on thoughtfully. "I can hardly believe you're to marry. Of course, she's the grand prize. Still—I never imagined you'd come in and surrender. I guess you do care for her."

      "Why else should I marry?" argued he. "She's got nothing I need—except herself, Ursula."

      "What is it you see in her?"

      "What you see—what everyone sees," replied Fred, with quiet, convincing enthusiasm. "What no one could help seeing? As you say, she's the grand prize."

      "Yes, she is sweet and handsome—and intelligent—very superior, without making others feel that they're outclassed. Still—there's something lacking—not in her perhaps, but in you. You have it for her—she's crazy about you. But she hasn't it for you."

      "What?"

      "I can't tell you. It isn't a thing that can be put into words."

      "Then it doesn't exist."

      "Oh, yes it does," cried Ursula. "If the engagement were to be broken—or if anything were to happen to her—why, you'd get over it—would go on as if nothing had happened. If she didn't fit in with your plans and ambitions, she'd be sacrificed so quick she'd not know what had taken off her head. But if you felt what I mean—then you'd give up everything—do the wildest, craziest things."

      "What nonsense!" scoffed Norman? "I can imagine myself making a fool of myself about a woman as easily as about anything else. But I can't imagine myself playing the fool for anything whatsoever."

      There was mysterious fire in Ursula's absent eyes. "You remember me as a girl—how mercenary I was—how near I came to marrying Cousin Jake?"

      "I saved you from that."

      "Yes—and for what? I fell in love."

      "And out again."

      "I was deceived in Clayton—deceived myself—naturally. How is a woman to know, without experience?"

      "Oh, I'm not criticizing," said the brother.

Скачать книгу