Whatever were Eugene's secret thoughts, he began his married life with
the outward air of one who takes it seriously enough. Now that he was
married, was actually bound by legal ties, he felt that he might as well
make the best of it. He had once had the notion that it might be
possible to say nothing of his marriage, and keep Angela in the
background, but this notion had been dispelled by the attitude of
MacHugh and Smite, to say nothing of Angela. So he began to consider the
necessity of notifying his friends--Miriam Finch and Norma Whitmore and
possibly Christina Channing, when she should return. These three women
offered the largest difficulty to his mind. He felt the commentary which
their personalities represented. What would they think of him? What of
Angela? Now that she was right here in the city he could see that she
represented a different order of thought. He had opened the campaign by
suggesting that they invite Smite and MacHugh. The thing to do now was
to go further in this matter.
The one thing that troubled him was the thought of breaking the news to
Miriam Finch, for Christina Channing was away, and Norma Whitmore was
not of sufficient importance. He argued now that he should have done
this beforehand, but having neglected that it behoved him to act at
once. He did so, finally, writing to Norma Whitmore and saying, for he
had no long explanation to make--"Yours truly is married. May I bring my
wife up to see you?" Miss Whitmore was truly taken by surprise. She was
sorry at first--very--because Eugene interested her greatly and she was
afraid he would make a mistake in his marriage; but she hastened to make
the best of a bad turn on the part of fate and wrote a note which ran as
follows:
"Dear Eugene and Eugene's Wife:
"This is news as is news. Congratulations. And I am coming right down as
soon as I get my breath. And then you two must come to see me.
"Norma Whitmore."
Eugene was pleased and grateful that she took it so nicely, but Angela
was the least big chagrined secretly that he had not told her before.
Why hadn't he? Was this someone that he was interested in? Those three
years in which she had doubtingly waited for Eugene had whetted her
suspicions and nurtured her fears. Still she tried to make little of it
and to put on an air of joyousness. She would be so glad to meet Miss
Whitmore. Eugene told her how kind she had been to him, how much she
admired his art, how helpful she was in bringing together young literary
and artistic people and how influential with those who counted. She
could do him many a good turn. Angela listened patiently, but she was
just the least bit resentful that he should think so much of any one
woman outside of herself. Why should he, Eugene Witla, be dependent on
the favor of any woman? Of course she must be very nice and they would
be good friends, but--
Norma came one afternoon two days later with the atmosphere of
enthusiasm trailing, as it seemed to Eugene, like a cloud of glory about
her. She was both fire and strength to him in her regard and sympathy,
even though she resented, ever so slightly, his affectional desertion.
"You piggy-wiggy Eugene Witla," she exclaimed. "What do you mean by
running off and getting married and never saying a word. I never even
had a chance to get you a present and now I have to bring it. Isn't this
a charming place--why it's perfectly delightful," and as she laid her
present down unopened she looked about to see where Mrs. Eugene Witla
might be.
Angela was in the bedroom finishing her toilet. She was expecting this
descent and so was prepared, being suitably dressed in the light green
house gown. When she heard Miss Whitmore's familiar mode of address she
winced, for this spoke volumes for a boon companionship of long
endurance. Eugene hadn't said so much of Miss Whitmore in the past as he
had recently, but she could see that they were very intimate. She looked
out and saw her--this tall, not very shapely, but graceful woman, whose
whole being represented dynamic energy, awareness, subtlety of
perception. Eugene was shaking her hand and looking genially into her
face.
"Why should Eugene like her so much?" she asked herself instantly. "Why
did his face shine with that light of intense enthusiasm?" The
"piggy-wiggy Eugene Witla" expression irritated her. It sounded as
though she might be in love with him. She came out after a moment with a
glad smile on her face and approached with every show of good feeling,
but Miss Whitmore could sense opposition.
"So this is Mrs. Witla," she exclaimed, kissing her. "I'm delighted to
know you. I have always wondered what sort of a girl Mr. Witla would
marry. You'll just have to pardon my calling him Eugene. I'll get over
it after a bit, I suppose, now that he's married. But we've been such
good friends and I admire his work so much. How do you like studio
life--or are you used to it?"
Angela, who was taking in every detail of Eugene's old friend, replied
in what seemed an affected tone that no, she wasn't used to studio life:
she was just from the country, you know--a regular farmer
girl--Blackwood, Wisconsin, no less! She stopped to let Norma express
friendly surprise, and then went on to say that she supposed Eugene had
not said very much about her, but he wrote her often enough. She was
rejoicing in the fact that whatever slight Eugene's previous silence
seemed to put upon her, she had the satisfaction that she had won him
after all and Miss Whitmore had not. She fancied from Miss Whitmore's
enthusiastic attitude that she must like Eugene very much, and she could
see now what sort of women might have made him wish to delay. Who were
the others, she wondered?
They talked of metropolitan experiences generally. Marietta came in from
a shopping expedition with a Mrs. Link, wife of an army captain acting
as an instructor at West Point, and tea was served immediately
afterward. Miss Whitmore was insistent that they should come and take
dinner with her some evening. Eugene confided that he was sending a
painting to the Academy.
"They'll hang it, of course," assured Norma, "but you ought to have an
exhibition of your own."
Marietta gushed about the wonder of the big stores and so it finally
came time for Miss Whitmore to go.
"Now you will come up, won't you?" she said to Angela, for in spite of a
certain feeling of incompatibility and difference she was determined to
like her. She thought Angela a little inexperienced and presumptuous in
marrying Eugene. She was afraid she was not up to his standard. Still
she was quaint, piquant. Perhaps she would do very well. Angela was
thinking all the while that Miss Whitmore was presuming on her old
acquaintance with Eugene--that she was too affected and enthusiastic.
There was another day on which Miriam Finch called. Richard Wheeler,
having learned at Smite's and MacHugh's studio of Eugene's marriage and
present whereabouts, had hurried over, and then immediately afterwards
off to Miriam Finch's studio. Surprised himself, he knew that she would
be more so.
"Witla's married!" he exclaimed, bursting into her room, and for the
moment Miriam lost her self-possession sufficiently to reply almost
dramatically: "Richard Wheeler, what are you talking about! You don't
mean that, do you?"
"He's married," insisted Wheeler, "and he's living down in Washington
Square, 61 is the number. He has the cutest yellow-haired wife you ever
saw."
Angela had been nice to Wheeler and he liked her. He liked the air of
this domicile and thought it was going to be a good thing for Eugene. He
needed to settle down and work hard.
Miriam winced mentally at the picture. She was hurt by this deception of
Eugene's, chagrined because he had not thought enough of her even to
indicate that he was going to get married.
"He's been married ten days," communicated Wheeler, and this added force
to her temporary chagrin. The fact that Angela was yellow-haired and
cute was also disturbing.
"Well," she finally exclaimed cheerfully, "he might have said something
to us, mightn't he?" and she covered her own original confusion by a gay
nonchalance which showed nothing of what she was really thinking. This
was certainly indifference on Eugene's part, and yet, why shouldn't he?
He had never proposed to her. Still they had been so intimate mentally.
She was interested to see Angela. She wondered what sort of a woman she
really was. "Yellow-haired! Cute!" Of course, like all men, Eugene had
sacrificed intellect and mental charm for a dainty form and a pretty
face. It seemed queer, but she had fancied that he would not do
that--that his wife, if he ever took one, would be tall perhaps, and
gracious, and of a beautiful mind--someone distinguished. Why would men,
intellectual men, artistic men, any kind of men, invariably make fools
of themselves! Well, she would go and see her.
Because Wheeler informed him that he had told Miriam, Eugene wrote,
saying as briefly as possible that he was married and that he wanted to
bring Angela to her studio. For reply she came herself, gay, smiling,
immaculately dressed, anxious to hurt Angela because she had proved the
victor. She also wanted to show Eugene how little difference it all made
to her.
"You certainly are a secretive young man, Mr. Eugene Witla," she
exclaimed, when she saw him. "Why didn't you make him tell us,
Mrs. Witla?" she demanded archly of Angela, but with a secret dagger
thrust in her eyes. "You'd think he didn't want us to know."
Angela cowered beneath the sting of this whip cord. Miriam made her feel
as though Eugene had attempted to conceal his relationship to her--as
though he was ashamed of her. How many more women were there like Miriam
and Norma Whitmore?
Eugene was gaily unconscious of the real animus in Miriam's
conversation, and now that the first cruel moment was over, was talking
glibly of things in general, anxious to make everything seem as simple
and natural as possible. He was working at one of his pictures when
Miriam came in and was eager to obtain her critical opinion, since it
was nearly done. She squinted at it narrowly but said nothing when he
asked. Ordinarily she would have applauded it vigorously. She did think
it exceptional, but was determined to say nothing. She walked
indifferently about, examining this and that object in a superior way,
asking how he came to obtain the studio, congratulating him upon his
good luck. Angela, she decided, was interesting, but not in Eugene's
class mentally, and should be ignored. He had made a mistake, that was
plain.
"Now you must bring Mrs. Witla up to see me," she said on leaving. "I'll
play and sing all my latest songs for you. I have made some of the
daintest discoveries in old Italian and Spanish pieces."
Angela, who had posed to Eugene as knowing something about music,
resented this superior invitation, without inquiry as to her own
possible ability or taste, as she did Miriam's entire attitude. Why was
she so haughty--so superior? What was it to her whether Eugene had said
anything about her or not?
She said nothing to show that she herself played, but she wondered that
Eugene said nothing. It seemed neglectful and inconsiderate of him. He
was busy wondering what Miriam thought of his picture. Miriam took his
hand warmly at parting, looked cheerfully into his eyes, and said, "I
know you two are going to be irrationally happy," and went out.
Eugene felt the irritation at last. He knew Angela felt something.
Miriam was resentful, that was it. She was angry at him for his seeming
indifference. She had commented to herself on Angela's appearance and to
her disadvantage. In her manner had been the statement that his wife was
not very important after all, not of the artistic and superior world to
which she and he belonged.
"How do you like her?" he asked tentatively after she had gone, feeling
a strong current of opposition, but not knowing on what it might be
based exactly.
"I don't like her," returned Angela petulantly. "She thinks she's sweet.
She treats you as though she thought you were her personal property. She
openly insulted me about your not telling her. Miss Whitmore did the
same thing--they all do! They all will! Oh!!"
She suddenly burst into tears and ran crying toward their bedroom.
Eugene followed, astonished, ashamed, rebuked, guilty minded, almost
terror-stricken--he hardly knew what.
"Why, Angela," he urged pleadingly, leaning over her and attempting to
raise her. "You know that isn't true."
"It is! It is!!" she insisted. "Don't touch me! Don't come near me! You
know it is true! You don't love me. You haven't treated me right at all
since I've been here. You haven't done anything that you should have
done. She insulted me openly to my face."
She was speaking with sobs, and Eugene was at once pained and terrorized
by the persistent and unexpected display of emotion. He had never seen
Angela like this before. He had never seen any woman so.
"Why, Angelface," he urged, "how can you go on like this? You know what
you say isn't true. What have I done?"
"You haven't told your friends--that's what you haven't done," she
exclaimed between gasps. "They still think you're single. You keep me
here hidden in the background as though I were a--were a--I don't know
what! Your friends come and insult me openly to my face. They do! They
do! Oh!" and she sobbed anew.
She knew very well what she was doing in her anger and rage. She felt
that she was acting in the right way. Eugene needed a severe reproof; he
had acted very badly, and this was the way to administer it to him now
in the beginning. His conduct was indefensible, and only the fact that
he was an artist, immersed in cloudy artistic thoughts and not really
subject to the ordinary conventions of life, saved him in her
estimation. It didn't matter that she had urged him to marry her. It
didn't absolve him that he had done so. She thought he owed her that.
Anyhow they were married now, and he should do the proper thing.
Eugene stood there cut as with a knife by this terrific charge. He had
not meant anything by concealing her presence, he thought. He had only
endeavored to protect himself very slightly, temporarily.
"You oughtn't to say that, Angela," he pleaded. "There aren't any more
that don't know--at least any more that I care anything about. I didn't
think. I didn't mean to conceal anything. I'll write to everybody that
might be interested."
He still felt hurt that she should brutally attack him this way even in
her sorrow. He was wrong, no doubt, but she? Was this a way to act, this
the nature of true love? He mentally writhed and twisted.
Taking her up in his arms, smoothing her hair, he asked her to forgive
him. Finally, when she thought she had punished him enough, and that he
was truly sorry and would make amends in the future, she pretended to
listen and then of a sudden threw her arms about his neck and began to
hug and kiss him. Passion, of course, was the end of this, but the whole
thing left a disagreeable taste in Eugene's mouth. He did not like
scenes. He preferred the lofty indifference of Miriam, the gay
subterfuge of Norma, the supreme stoicism of Christina Channing. This
noisy, tempestuous, angry emotion was not quite the thing to have
introduced into his life. He did not see how that would make for love
between them.
Still Angela was sweet, he thought. She was a little girl--not as wise
as Norma Whitmore, not as self-protective as Miriam Finch or Christina
Channing. Perhaps after all she needed his care and affection. Maybe it
was best for her and for him that he had married her.
So thinking he rocked her in his arms, and Angela, lying there, was
satisfied. She had won a most important victory. She was starting right.
She was starting Eugene right. She would get the moral, mental and
emotional upper hand of him and keep it. Then these women, who thought
themselves so superior, could go their way. She would have Eugene and he
would be a great man and she would be his wife. That was all she wanted.