It was while he was mooning along in this mood, working, dreaming,
wishing, that there came, one day to her mother's house at Riverwood,
Carlotta Wilson--Mrs. Norman Wilson, in the world in which she moved--a
tall brunette of thirty-two, handsome after the English fashion,
shapely, graceful, with a knowledge of the world which was not only
compounded of natural intelligence and a sense of humor, but experiences
fortunate and unfortunate which had shown her both the showy and the
seamy sides of life. To begin with she was the wife of a gambler--a
professional gambler--of that peculiar order which essays the role of a
gentleman, looks the part, and fleeces unmercifully the unwary partakers
of their companionship. Carlotta Hibberdell, living with her mother at
that time in Springfield, Massachusetts, had met him at a local series
of races, which she was attending with her father and mother, where
Wilson happened to be accidentally upon another mission. Her father, a
real estate dealer, and fairly successful at one time, was very much
interested in racing horses, and owned several of worthy records though
of no great fame. Norman Wilson had posed as a real estate speculator
himself, and had handled several fairly successful deals in land, but
his principal skill and reliance was in gambling. He was familiar with
all the gambling opportunities of the city, knew a large circle of those
who liked to gamble, men and women in New York and elsewhere, and his
luck or skill at times was phenomenal. At other times it was very bad.
There were periods when he could afford to live in the most expensive
apartment houses, dine at the best restaurants, visit the most expensive
country pleasure resorts and otherwise disport himself in the
companionship of friends. At other times, because of bad luck, he could
not afford any of these things and though he held to his estate grimly
had to borrow money to do it. He was somewhat of a fatalist in his
interpretation of affairs and would hang on with the faith that his luck
would turn. It did turn invariably, of course, for when difficulties
began to swarm thick and fast he would think vigorously and would
usually evolve some idea which served to help him out. His plan was
always to spin a web like a spider and await the blundering flight of
some unwary fly.
At the time she married him Carlotta Hibberdell did not know of the
peculiar tendencies and subtle obsession of her ardent lover. Like all
men of his type he was suave, persuasive, passionate, eager. There was a
certain cat-like magnetism about him also which fascinated her. She
could not understand him at that time and she never did afterwards. The
license which he subsequently manifested not only with her but with
others astonished and disgusted her. She found him selfish, domineering,
outside his own particular field shallow, not at all artistic,
emotional, or poetic. He was inclined to insist on the last touch of
material refinement in surroundings (so far as he understood them) when
he had money, but she found to her regret that he did not understand
them. In his manner with her and everyone else he was top-lofty,
superior, condescending. His stilted language at times enraged and at
other times amused her, and when her original passion passed and she
began to see through his pretence to his motives and actions she became
indifferent and then weary. She was too big a woman mentally to quarrel
with him much. She was too indifferent to life in its totality to really
care. Her one passion was for an ideal lover of some type, and having
been thoroughly mistaken in him she looked abroad wondering whether
there were any ideal men.
Various individuals came to their apartments. There were gamblers, blase
society men, mining experts, speculators, sometimes with, sometimes
without a wife. From these and from her husband and her own observation
she learned of all sorts of scoundrels, mes-alliances, [sic] queer
manifestations of incompatibility of temper, queer freaks of sex desire.
Because she was good looking, graceful, easy in her manners, there were
no end of proposals, overtures, hints and luring innuendos cast in her
direction. She had long been accustomed to them. Because her husband
deserted her openly for other women and confessed it in a blase way she
saw no valid reason for keeping herself from other men. She chose her
lovers guardedly and with subtle taste, beginning after mature
deliberation with one who pleased her greatly. She was seeking
refinement, emotion, understanding coupled with some ability and they
were not so easy to find. The long record of her liaisons is not for
this story, but their impress on her character was important.
She was indifferent in her manner at most times and to most people. A
good jest or story drew from her a hearty laugh. She was not interested
in books except those of a very exceptional character--the realistic
school--and these she thought ought not to be permitted except to
private subscribers, nevertheless she cared for no others. Art was
fascinating--really great art. She loved the pictures of Rembrandt,
Frans Hals, Correggio, Titian. And with less discrimination, and more
from a sensual point of view the nudes of Cabanel, Bouguereau and
Gerome. To her there was reality in the works of these men, lightened by
great imagination. Mostly people interested her, the vagaries of their
minds, the idiosyncrasies of their characters, their lies, their
subterfuges, their pretences, their fears. She knew that she was a
dangerous woman and went softly, like a cat, wearing a half-smile not
unlike that seen on the lips of Monna Lisa, but she did not worry about
herself. She had too much courage. At the same time she was tolerant,
generous to a fault, charitable. When someone suggested that she overdid
the tolerance, she replied, "Why shouldn't I? I live in such a
magnificent glass house."
The reason for her visit home on this occasion was that her husband had
practically deserted her for the time being. He was in Chicago for some
reason principally because the atmosphere in New York was getting too
hot for him, as she suspected. Because she hated Chicago and was weary
of his company she refused to go with him. He was furious for he
suspected her of liaisons, but he could not help himself. She was
indifferent. Besides she had other resources than those he represented,
or could get them.
A certain wealthy Jew had been importuning her for years to get a
divorce in order that he might marry her. His car and his resources were
at her command but she condescended only the vaguest courtesies. It was
within the ordinary possibilities of the day for him to call her up and
ask if he could not come with his car. He had three. She waved most of
this aside indifferently. "What's the use?" was her pet inquiry. Her
husband was not without his car at times. She had means to drive when
she pleased, dress as she liked, and was invited to many interesting
outings. Her mother knew well of her peculiar attitude, her marital
troubles, her quarrels and her tendency to flirt. She did her best to
keep her in check, for she wanted to retain for her the privilege of
obtaining a divorce and marrying again, the next time successfully.
Norman Wilson, however, would not readily give her a legal separation
even though the preponderance of evidence was against him and, if she
compromised herself, there would be no hope. She half suspected that her
daughter might already have compromised herself, but she could not be
sure. Carlotta was too subtle. Norman made open charges in their family
quarrels, but they were based largely on jealousy. He did not know for
sure.
Carlotta Wilson had heard of Eugene. She did not know of him by
reputation, but her mother's guarded remarks in regard to him and his
presence, the fact that he was an artist, that he was sick and working
as a laborer for his health aroused her interest. She had intended to
spend the period of her husband's absence at Narragansett with some
friends, but before doing so she decided to come home for a few days
just to see for herself. Instinctively her mother suspected curiosity on
her part in regard to Eugene. She threw out the remark that he might not
stay long, in the hope that her daughter might lose interest. His wife
was coming back. Carlotta discerned this opposition--this desire to keep
her away. She decided that she would come.
"I don't know that I want to go to Narragansett just now," she told her
mother. "I'm tired. Norman has just worn my nerves to a frazzle. I think
I'll come up home for a week or so."
"All right," said her mother, "but do be careful how you act now. This
Mr. Witla appears to be a very nice man and he's happily married. Don't
you go casting any looks in his direction. If you do I won't let him
stay here at all."
"Oh, how you talk," replied Carlotta irritably. "Do give me a little
credit for something. I'm not going up there to see him. I'm tired, I
tell you. If you don't want me to come I won't."
"It isn't that, I do want you. But you know how you are. How do you ever
expect to get free if you don't conduct yourself circumspectly? You know
that you--"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, I hope you're not going to start that old
argument again," exclaimed Carlotta defensively. "What's the use
beginning on that? We've been all over it a thousand times. I can't go
anywhere or do anything but what you want to fuss. Now I'm not coming up
there to do anything but rest. Why will you always start in to spoil
everything?"
"Well now, you know well enough, Carlotta--" reiterated her mother.
"Oh, chuck it. I'll not come. To hell with the house. I'll go to
Narragansett. You make me tired!"
Her mother looked at her tall daughter, graceful, handsome, her black
hair parted in rich folds, irritated and yet pleased with her force and
ability. If she would only be prudent and careful, what a figure she
might yet become! Her complexion was like old rose-tinted ivory, her
lips the color of dark raspberries, her eyes bluish grey, wide set,
large, sympathetic, kindly. What a pity she had not married some big,
worthy man to begin with. To be tied up to this gambler, even though
they did live in Central Park West and had a comparatively sumptuous
apartment, was a wretched thing. Still it was better than poverty or
scandal, though if she did not take care of herself both might ensue.
She wanted her to come to Riverwood for she liked her company, but she
wanted her to behave herself. Perhaps Eugene would save the day. He was
certainly restrained enough in his manner and remarks. She went back to
Riverwood, and Carlotta, the quarrel smoothed over, followed her.
Eugene did not see her during the day she arrived, for he was at work;
and she did not see him as he came in at night. He had on his old peaked
hat and carried his handsome leather lunch box jauntily in one hand. He
went to his room, bathed, dressed and then out on the porch to await the
call of the dinner gong. Mrs. Hibberdell was in her room on the second
floor and "Cousin Dave," as Carlotta called Simpson, was in the back
yard. It was a lovely twilight. He was in the midst of deep thoughts
about the beauty of the scene, his own loneliness, the characters at the
shop-work, Angela and what not, when the screen door opened and she
stepped out. She had on a short-sleeved house dress of spotted blue silk
with yellow lace set about the neck and the ends of the sleeves. Her
shapely figure, beautifully proportioned to her height, was set in a
smooth, close fitting corset. Her hair, laid in great braids at the
back, was caught in a brown spangled net. She carried herself with
thoughtfulness and simplicity, seeming naturally indifferent.
Eugene rose. "I'm in your way, I think. Won't you have this chair?"
"No, thanks. The one in the corner will do. But I might as well
introduce myself, since there isn't anyone here to do it. I'm
Mrs. Wilson, Mrs. Hibberdell's daughter. You're Mr. Witla?"
"Yes, I answer to that," said Eugene, smiling. He was not very much
impressed at first. She seemed nice and he fancied intelligent--a little
older than he would have preferred any woman to be who was to interest
him. She sat down and looked at the water. He took his chair and held
his peace. He was not even interested to talk to her. She was nice to
look at, however. Her presence lightened the scene for him.
"I always like to come up here," she volunteered finally. "It's so warm
in the city these days. I don't think many people know of this place.
It's out of the beaten track."
"I enjoy it," said Eugene. "It's such a rest for me. I don't know what I
would have done if your mother hadn't taken me in. It's rather hard to
find any place, doing what I am."
"You've taken a pretty strenuous way to get health, I should say," she
observed. "Day labor sounds rough to me. Do you mind it?"
"Not at all. I like it. The work is interesting and not so very hard.
It's all so new to me, that's what makes it easy. I like the idea of
being a day laborer and associating with laborers. It's only because I'm
run down in health that I worry. I don't like to be sick."
"It is bad," she replied, "but this will probably put you on your feet.
I think we're always inclined to look on our present troubles as the
worst. I know I am."
"Thanks for the consolation," he said.
She did not look at him and he rocked to and fro silently. Finally the
dinner gong struck. Mrs. Hibberdell came down stairs and they went in.
The conversation at dinner turned on his work for a few moments and he
described accurately the personalities of John and Bill and Big John the
engineer, and little Suddsy and Harry Fornes, the blacksmith. Carlotta
listened attentively without appearing to, for everything about Eugene
seemed singular and exceptional to her. She liked his tall, spare body,
his lean hands, his dark hair and eyes. She liked the idea of his
dressing as a laboring man in the morning, working all day in the shop,
and yet appearing so neat and trim at dinner. He was easy in his manner,
apparently lethargic in his movements and yet she could feel a certain
swift force that filled the room. It was richer for his presence. She
understood at a glance that he was an artist, in all probability a good
one. He said nothing of that, avoided carefully all reference to his
art, and listened attentively. She felt though as if he were studying
her and everyone else, and it made her gayer. At the same time she had a
strong leaning toward him. "What an ideal man to be associated with,"
was one of her repeated thoughts.
Although she was about the house for ten days and he met her after the
third morning not only at dinner, which was natural enough, but at
breakfast (which surprised him a little), he paid not so very much
attention to her. She was nice, very, but Eugene was thinking of another
type. He thought she was uncommonly pleasant and considerate and he
admired her style of dressing and her beauty, studying her with
interest, wondering what sort of a life she led, for from various bits
of conversation he overheard not only at table but at other times he
judged she was fairly well to do. There was an apartment in Central Park
West, card parties, automobile parties, theatre parties and a general
sense of people--acquaintances anyhow, who were making money. He heard
her tell of a mining engineer, Dr. Rowland; of a successful coal-mining
speculator, Gerald Woods; of a Mrs. Hale who was heavily interested in
copper mines and apparently very wealthy. "It's a pity Norman couldn't
connect with something like that and make some real money," he heard her
say to her mother one evening. He understood that Norman was her husband
and that he probably would be back soon. So he kept his
distance--interested and curious but hardly more.
Mrs. Wilson was not so easily baffled, however. A car appeared one
evening at the door immediately after dinner, a great red touring car,
and Mrs. Wilson announced easily, "We're going for a little spin after
dinner, Mr. Witla. Don't you want to come along?"
Eugene had never ridden in an automobile at that time. "I'd be very
pleased," he said, for the thought of a lonely evening in an empty house
had sprung up when he saw it appear.
There was a chauffeur in charge--a gallant figure in a brown straw cap
and tan duster, but Mrs. Wilson manoeuvred for place.
"You sit with the driver, coz," she said to Simpson, and when her mother
stepped in she followed after, leaving Eugene the place to the right of
her.
"There must be a coat and cap in the locker," she said to the chauffeur;
"let Mr. Witla have it."
The latter extracted a spare linen coat and straw cap which Eugene put
on.
"I like automobiling, don't you?" she said to Eugene good-naturedly.
"It's so refreshing. If there is any rest from care on this earth it's
in traveling fast."
"I've never ridden before," replied Eugene simply. Something about the
way he said it touched her. She felt sorry for him because he appeared
lonely and gloomy. His indifference to her piqued her curiosity and
irritated her pride. Why shouldn't he take an interest in her? As they
sped under leafy lanes, up hill and down dale, she made out his face in
the starlight. It was pale, reflective, indifferent. "These deep
thinkers!" she chided him. "It's terrible to be a philosopher." Eugene
smiled.
When they reached home he went to his room as did all the others to
theirs. He stepped out into the hall a few minutes later to go to the
library for a book, and found that her door which he had to pass was
wide open. She was sitting back in a Morris chair, her feet upon another
chair, her skirts slightly drawn up revealing a trim foot and ankle. She
did not stir but looked up and smiled winningly.
"Aren't you tired enough to sleep?" he asked.
"Not quite yet," she smiled.
He went down stairs and turning on a light in the library stood looking
at a row of books reading the titles. He heard a step and there she was
looking at the books also.
"Don't you want a bottle of beer?" she asked. "I think there is some in
the ice box. I forgot that you might be thirsty."
"I really don't care," he said. "I'm not much for drinks of any kind."
"That's not very sociable," she laughed.
"Let's have the beer then," he said.
She threw herself back languidly in one of the big dining room chairs
when she had brought the drinks and some Swiss cheese and crackers, and
said: "I think you'll find some cigarettes on the table in the corner if
you like."
He struck her a match and she puffed her cigarette comfortably. "I
suppose you find it lonely up here away from all your friends and
companions," she volunteered.
"Oh, I've been sick so long I scarcely know whether I have any."
He described some of his imaginary ailments and experiences and she
listened to him attentively. When the beer was gone she asked him if he
would have more but he said no. After a time because he stirred wearily,
she got up.
"Your mother will think we're running some sort of a midnight game down
here," he volunteered.
"Mother can't hear," she said. "Her room is on the third floor and
besides she doesn't hear very well. Dave don't mind. He knows me well
enough by now to know that I do as I please."
She stood closer to Eugene but still he did not see. When he moved away
she put out the lights and followed him to the stairs.
"He's either the most bashful or the most indifferent of men," she
thought, but she said softly, "Good-night. Pleasant dreams to you," and
went her way.
Eugene thought of her now as a good fellow, a little gay for a married
woman, but probably circumspect withal. She was simply being nice to
him. All this was simply because, as yet, he was not very much
interested.
There were other incidents. One morning he passed her door. Her mother
had already gone down to breakfast and there was the spectacle of a
smooth, shapely arm and shoulder quite bare to his gaze as she lay on
her pillow apparently unconscious that her door was open. It thrilled
him as something sensuously beautiful for it was a perfect arm. Another
time he saw her of an evening just before dinner buttoning her shoes.
Her dress was pulled three-quarters of the way to her knees and her
shoulders and arms were bare, for she was still in her corset and short
skirts. She seemed not to know that he was near. One night after dinner
he started to whistle something and she went to the piano to keep him
company. Another time he hummed on the porch and she started the same
song, singing with him. He drew his chair near the window where there
was a couch after her mother had retired for the night, and she came and
threw herself on it. "You don't mind if I lie here?" she said, "I'm
tired tonight."
"Not at all. I'm glad of your company. I'm lonely."
She lay and stared at him, smiling. He hummed and she sang. "Let me see
your palm," she said, "I want to learn something." He held it out. She
fingered it temptingly. Even this did not wake him.
She left for five days because of some necessity in connection with her
engagements and when she returned he was glad to see her. He had been
lonesome, and he knew now that she made the house gayer. He greeted her
genially.
"I'm glad to see you back," he said.
"Are you really?" she replied. "I don't believe it."
"Why not?" he asked.
"Oh, signs, omens and portents. You don't like women very well I fancy."
"Don't I!"
"No, I think not," she replied.
She was charming in a soft grayish green satin. He noticed that her neck
was beautiful and that her hair looped itself gracefully upon the back
of it. Her nose was straight and fine, sensitive because of its thin
partitioning walls. He followed her into the library and they went out
on the porch. Presently he returned--it was ten o'clock--and she came
also. Davis had gone to his room, Mrs. Hibberdell to hers.
"I think I'll read," he said, aimlessly.
"Why anything like that?" she jested. "Never read when you can do
anything else."
"What else can I do?"
"Oh, lots of things. Play cards, tell fortunes, read palms, drink
beer--" She looked at him wilfully.
He went to his favorite chair near the window, side by side with the
window-seat couch. She came and threw herself on it.
"Be gallant and fix my pillows for me, will you?" she asked.
"Of course I will," he said.
He took a pillow and raised her head, for she did not deign to move.
"Is that enough?" he inquired.
"One more."
He put his hand under the first pillow and lifted it up. She took hold
of his free hand to raise herself. When she had it she held it and
laughed a curious excited laugh. It came over him all at once, the full
meaning of all the things she had been doing. He dropped the pillow he
was holding and looked at her steadfastly. She relaxed her hold and
leaned back, languorous, smiling. He took her left hand, then her right
and sat down beside her. In a moment he slipped one arm under her waist
and bending over put his lips to hers. She twined her arms about his
neck tightly and hugged him close; then looking in his eyes she heaved a
great sigh.
"You love me, don't you?" he asked.
"I thought you never would," she sighed, and clasped him to her again.