Charles made repeated unsuccessful efforts to see Julia. It was a long time before he was willing to be convinced that she was avoiding him. When he finally realized it, he felt that he had been going toward a place which seemed beautiful, but that when he stood in it there was only emptiness. The emptiness was in him, hard, like a light which disclosed nothing but its own brightness. He hated, but the emotion had no particular object, for, by its very intensity, even Julia was obliterated. There was nothing but himself, a thing frozen in a brilliance which blinded its own eyes. If he could have felt anything definite against her it would have been easier. To stop hating the emptiness, he began to drink more heavily. If he permitted himself to seek an object through which his suffering could be expressed he reverted to Catherine. He must keep away from that. I mustn't hurt her. Poor old girl. It's not right.
He found that his repugnance to Catherine had become so acute that, to keep himself from saying and doing irretrievable things, it was necessary to escape the house and her presence. By God, it's rotten! She's stood by me. I've got to be good to her.
In his rejuvenated conception of his wife he exaggerated both her acuteness and her capacity for suffering. It now appeared to him that she had immolated herself on the altar of an ideal of which he was the embodiment. She's loved me. She's always loved me. I don't know what's the matter with me. Christ, what a rotten world this is!
Then her small face rose up before him in all its evasive pleasantness. He hated the faded prettiness of it; the withered look of her throat; the velvet band she wore about her neck to make herself appear younger when she was in evening dress. He hated her delicate characterless hands that were less fresh than her face. The very memory of her rings oppressed him. She was always so richly yet so discreetly dressed. Such perfect taste. She had a way of seeming to call attention to other people's bad breeding. He remembered the glasses she put on when she read and hated the look of them on her small nose. The little grimace she made when she laughed. Her verbal insistence on sensible footgear and the feeling he always had that her shoes were too small for her. The quizzical contempt with which she baffled him. Her sweet severe smile behind which she concealed herself.
My God, I've got to. I've got to. When he realized that the recollection of Julia was coming into his mind he went somewhere and took another drink. It was hot and quieting. Warm sensual dark in which he could hide himself. Julia was something bright and glassy that stabbed his eyes. He put her out like a light. He held fast to his sense of sin. He had to torture himself with reproaches to make it seem worth while to go back to his wife.
Charles tried to immerse himself in business. This was the one province in which he could act without hesitations. He called it, "playing the game". The atmosphere of trade hardened him. He had unconsciously absorbed some of his wife's contempt for the details of money making. Where he was not permitted to be sentimental, he luxuriated in a callousness of which he was incapable in his intimate life.
Day after day, scrupulously dressed, he sat in his office, an expensive cigar between his lips, preserving to his associates what would be called a "poker face". If he were able to get the best of any one—especially through doubtful and unanticipated means—it gave him an illusion of power which tempted him later to prolific benevolence. He had begun life as a telegraph operator in a small town. He deserted this profession to go into trade. At one time he was a small manufacturer. Later he sold mining stock, and promoted a company that ultimately failed. His first success had come when he went into the lumber industry, and he had recently become possessed of some oil fields that were making him rich.
Charles never felt pity for any one who was on a financial equality with himself. He would fleece such a man without a qualm. He distrusted Socialists, tolerated trade unions with suspicion, but was sorry for "the rough necks". Poor devils! I know what it's like. We're all of us poor devils. He loved to think of himself as one who, through sheer force of initiative, had risen despite unusual handicaps. By gosh, before I get through I'm going to be quits with the world! At least we can keep the women out of this—! Damned muck!
In the flush of unscrupulous conquest, his eyes glistened with triumph. His gestures were harshly confident. He looked young and happy. If, at such times, he encountered women, they found his mixture of simplicity and ruthlessness particularly ingratiating.