the dust-第51章

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e　life；　as　in　the　case　of　Frederick　Normanpassion　in　itself　is　not　a　form　of　mental　derangement　in　the　medical　sense。　　And　it　does　not　produce　acute　selfishness；　paranoiac　egotism；　but　a　generous　and　beautiful　kind　of　unselfishness。　　Not　from　the　first　moment　of　Fred　Norman's　possession　did　he　wish　to　injure　or　in　any　way　to　make　unhappy　the　girl　he　loved。　　He　longed　to　be　happy　with　her；　to　have　her　happy　with　and　through　him。　　He　represented　his　plotting　to　himself　as　a　plan　to　make　her　happier　than　she　ever　had　been；　as　for　ultimate　consequences；　he　refused　to　consider　them。　The　most　hardened　rake；　when　passion　possesses　him；　wishes　all　happiness　to　the　woman　of　his　pursuit。　Indifference；　coldnessthe　natural　hard…heartedness　of　the　normal　manreturns　only　when　the　inspiration　and　elevation　of　passion　disappear　in　satiety。　　The　man　or　the　woman　who　continues　to　inspire　passion　continues　to　inspire　tenderness　and　considerateness。

So　when　Norman　left　Dorothy　that　Sunday　afternoon；　he；　being　a　normal　if　sore　beset　human　being；　was　soon　in　the　throes　of　an　agonized　remorse。　　There　may　have　been　some　hypocrisy　in　it；　some　struggling　to　cover　up　the　baser　elements　in　his　infatuation　for　her。　　What　human　emotion　of　upward　tendency　has　not　at　least　a　little　of　the　varnish　of　hypocrisy　on　certain　less　presentable　spots　in　it？　　But　in　the　main　it　was　a　creditable；　a　manly　remorse；　and　not　altogether　the　writhings　of　jealousy　and　jealous　fear　of　losing　her。

He　saw　clearly　that　she　was　telling　the　truth；　and　telling　it　too　gently；　when　she　said　he　was　responsible　for　her　having　standards　of　living　which　she　could　not　unaided　hope　to　attain。　　It　is　a　dreadful　thing　to　interfere　in　the　destiny　of　a　fellow　being。　　We　do　it　all　the　time；　we　do　it　lightly。　　Nevertheless；　it　is　a　dreadful　thingnot　one　that　ought　not　to　be　done；　but　one　that　ought　to　be　done　only　under　imperative　compulsion；　and　then　with　every　precaution。　　He　had　interfered　in　Dorothy　Hallowell's　destiny。　　He　had　lifted　her　out　of　the　dim　obscure　niche　where　she　was　ensconced　in　comparative　contentment。　　He　had　lifted　her　up　where　she　had　seen　and　felt　the　pleasures　of　a　life　of　luxury。

〃But　for　me；〃　he　said　to　himself；　〃she　would　now　be　marrying　this　poor　young　lawyer；　or　some　chap　of　the　same　sort；　and　would　be　looking　forward　to　a　life　of　happiness　in　a　little　flat　or　suburban　cottage。〃

If　she　should　refuse　his　offerwhat　then？　　Clearly　he　ought　to　do　his　best　to　help　her　to　happiness　with　the　other　man。　　He　smiled　cynically　at　the　moral　height　to　which　his　logic　thus　pointed　the　way。　　Nevertheless；　he　did　not　turn　away　but　surveyed　itand　there　formed　in　his　mind　an　impulse　to　make　an　effort　to　attempt　that　height；　if　Fate　should　rule　against　him　with　her。　〃If　I　were　a　really　decent　man；〃　thought　he；　〃I'd　sit　down　now　and　write　her　that　I　would　not　marry　her　but　would　give　her　young　man　a　friendly　hand　in　the　law　if　she　wished　to　marry　him。〃　　But　he　knew　that　such　utter　generosity　was　far　beyond　him。　　〃Only　a　hero　could　do　it；〃　said　he；　he　added　with　what　a　sentimentalist　might　have　called　a　return　of　his　normal　cynicism；　〃only　a　hero　who　really　in　the　bottom　of　his　heart　didn't　especially　want　the　girl。〃　　And　a　candid　person　of　experience　might　possibly　admit　that　there　was　more　truth　than　cynicism　in　his　look　askance　at　the　grand　army　of　martyrs　of　renunciation；　most　of　whom　have　simply　given　up　something　they　didn't　really　want。

〃If　she　accepts　me；　I'll　make　it　impossible　for　her　not　to　be　happy；〃　he　said　to　himself；　in　all　the　fine　unselfishness　of　passionnot　divine　unselfishness　but　humannot　the　kind　we　read　about　and　pretend　to　have　and　get　a　savage　attack　of　bruised　vanity　if　we　are　accused　of　not　having　itno；　but　just　the　kind　we　have　and　show　in　our　daily　livesthe　unselfishness　of　longing　to　make　happy　those　whom　it　would　make　us　happier　to　see　happy。　　〃She　may　think　she　cares　for　this　young　clerk〃　so　ran　his　thoughts〃but　she　doesn't　know　her　own　mind。　　When　she　is　mine；　I'll　take　her　in　hand　as　a　gardener　does　a　delicate　rare　flower　and；　by　Heaven；　how　I　shall　make　her　blossom　and　bloom！〃

It　would　hardly　be　possible　for　a　human　being　to　pass　a　stormier　night　than　was　that　night　of　his。　Alternations　between　hope　and　despairfantastic　pictures　of　future　with　and　without　her；　wild　pleadings　with　herthose　delirious　transports　to　which　our　imaginations　give　way　if　we　happen　to　be　blessed　and　cursed　with　imaginationsin　the　security　of　the　darkness　and　aloneness　of　night　and　bed。　　And　through　it　all　he　was　tormented　body　and　soul　by　her　lovelinessher　hair；　her　skin；　her　eyes；　the　shy；　slender　graces　of　her　form　He　tossed　about　until　his　bed　was　so　wildly　disheveled　that　he　had　to　rise　and　remake　it。

When　day　came　and　the　first　mail；　there　was　her　letter　on　the　salver　of　the　boy　entering　the　room。　He　reached　for　it　with　eager；　trembling　arm；　drew　back。　〃Put　it　on　the　table；〃　he　said。

The　boy　left。　　He　was　alone。　　Leaning　upon　his　elbow　in　the　bed　he　stared　at　the　letter　with　hollow；　terrified　eyes。　　It　contained　his　destiny。　　If　she　accepted；　he　would　go　up；　for　his　soul　sickness　would　be　cured。　If　she　refused；　he　would　cease　to　struggle。　　He　rose；　took　from　a　locked　drawer　a　bottle　of　rye　whisky。　　He　poured　a　tall　glassthe　kind　called　a　bar　glasshalf　full；　drank　it　straight　down　without　a　pause　or　a　quiver。　The　shock　brought　him　up　standing。　　He　looked　and　acted　like　his　former　self　as　he　went　to　the　table；　took　the　letter；　opened　it；　and　read：


〃I　am　willing　to　marry　you；　if　you　really　want　me。　I　am　so　tired　of　struggling；　and　I　don't　see　anything　but　dark　ahead。D。　H。〃


Norman　struggled　over　to　the　bed；　threw　himself　down；　flat　upon　his　back；　arms　and　legs　extended　wide　and　whole　body　relaxed。　　He　felt　the　blood　whirl　up　into　his　brain　like　the　great　red　and　black　tongues　of　flame　and　smoke　in　a　conflagration；　and　then　he　slept　soundly　until　nearly　one　o'clock。

To　an　outsider　there　would　have　been　a　world　of　homely　commonplace　pathos　in　that　little　letter　of　the　girl's　if　read　aright；　that　is　to　say；　if　read　with　what　was　between　the　lines　supplied。　　It　is　impossible　to　live　in　cities　any　length　of　time　and　with　any　sort　of　eyes　without　learning　the　bitter　unromantic　truths　about　povertycity　poverty。　　In　quiet；　desolate　places　one　may　be　poor；　very　poor；　without　much　conscious　suffering。　　There　are　no　teasing　contrasts；　no　torturing　temptations。　　But　in　a　city；　if　one　knows　anything　at　all　of　the　possibilities　of　civilized　life；　of　the　joys　and　comforts　of　good　food；　clothing；　and　shelter；　of　theater　and　concert　and　excursion；　of　entertaining　and　being　entertained；　poverty　becomes　a　hell。　　In　the　country；　in　the　quiet　towns；　the　innocent　people　wonder　at　the　greediness　of　the　more　comfortable　kinds　of　city　people；　at　their　love　of　money；　their　incessant　dwelling　upon　it；　their　reverence　for　those　who　have　it；　their　panic…　like　flight　from　those　who　have　it　not。　　They　wonder　how　folk；　apparently　human；　can　be　so　inhuman。　　Let　them　be　careful　how　they　judge。　　If　you　discover　any　human　being　anywhere　acting　as　you　think　a　human　being　should　not；　investigate　all　the　circumstances；　look　thoroughly　into　all　the　causes　of　his　or　her　conduct；　before　you　condemn　him　or　her　as　inhuman；　unworthy　of　your　kinship　and　your　sympathy。

In　her　brief　letter　the　girl　showed　that；　young　though　she　was　and　not　widely　experienced　in　life；　she　yet　had　seen　the　horrors　of　city　poverty；　how　it　poisons　and　kills　all　the　fine　emotions。　　She　had　seen　many　a　loving　young　couple　start　out　confidently；　with　a　few　hundred　dollars　of　debt　for　furniturehad　seen　the　love　fade　and　wither；　shrivel；　diehad　seen　appear　peevishness　and　hatred　and　unfaithfulness　and　all　the　huge；　foul　weeds　that　choke　the　flowers　of　married　life。　　She　knew　what　her　lover's　salary　would　buyand　what　it　would　not　buyfor　two。　　She　could　imagine　their　fate　if　there　should　be　three　or　more。　　She　showed　frankly　her　selfishness　of　renunciation。　　But　there　could　be　read　between　the　linesconcealed　instead　of　vauntedperhaps　unsuspectedher　unselfishness　of　renunciation　for　the　sake　of　her　lover　and　for　the　sake　of　the　child　or　the　children　that　might　be。　　In　our　love　of　moral　sham　and　glitter；　we　overlook　the　re