Angela was quick to act upon her thought. No sooner had Eugene entered
the bath than she gathered up the pieces, threw other bits of paper like
them in their place and tried quickly to piece them together on the
ironing board where she was. It was not difficult; the scraps were not
small. On one triangular bit were the words, "Oh, Genie!" with a colon
after it; on another the words, "The bridge," and on another "Roses."
There was no doubt in her mind from this preliminary survey that this
was a love note, and every nerve in her body tingled to the terrible
import of it. Could it really be true? Could Eugene have found someone
else? Was this the cause of his coolness and his hypocritical pretence
of affection? and of his not wanting her to come to him? Oh, God! Would
her sufferings never cease! She hurried into the front room, her face
white, her hand clenching the tell-tale bits, and there set to work to
complete her task. It did not take her long. In four minutes it was all
together, and then she saw it all. A love note! From some demon of a
woman. No doubt of it! Some mysterious woman in the background. "Ashes
of Roses!" Now God curse her for a siren, a love thief, a hypnotizing
snake, fascinating men with her evil eyes. And Eugene! The dog! The
scoundrel! The vile coward! The traitor! Was there no decency, no
morality, no kindness, no gratitude in his soul? After all her patience,
all her suffering, all her loneliness, her poverty. To treat her like
this! Writing that he was sick and lonely and unable to have her with
him, and at the same time running around with a strange woman. "Ashes of
Roses!" Oh, curses, curses, curses on her harlot's heart and brain!
Might God strike her dead for her cynical, brutal seizing upon that
sacred possession which belonged to another. She wrung her hands
desperately.
Angela was fairly beside herself. Through her dainty little head ran a
foaming torrent of rage, hate, envy, sorrow, self-commiseration, brutal
desire for revenge. If she could only get at this woman! If she could
only denounce Eugene now to his face! If she could only find them
together and kill them! How she would like to strike her on the mouth!
How tear her hair and her eyes out! Something of the forest cat's cruel
rage shone in her gleaming eyes as she thought of her, for if she could
have had Carlotta there alone she would have tortured her with hot
irons, torn her tongue and teeth from their roots, beaten her into
insensibility and an unrecognizable mass. She was a real tigress now,
her eyes gleaming, her red lips wet. She would kill her! kill her!! kill
her!!! As God was judge, she would kill her if she could find her, and
Eugene and herself. Yes, yes, she would. Better death than this agony of
suffering. Better a thousand times to be dead with this beast of a woman
dead beside her and Eugene than to suffer this way. She didn't deserve
it. Why did God torture her so? Why was she made to bleed at every step
by this her sacrificial love? Had she not been a good wife? Had she not
laid every tribute of tenderness, patience, self-abnegation,
self-sacrifice and virtue on the altar of love? What more could God ask?
What more could man want? Had she not waited on Eugene in sickness and
health? She had gone without clothes, gone without friends, hidden
herself away in Blackwood the seven months while he was here frittering
away his health and time in love and immorality, and what was her
reward? In Chicago, in Tennessee, in Mississippi, had she not waited on
him, sat up with him of nights, walked the floor with him when he was
nervous, consoled him in his fear of poverty and failure, and here she
was now, after seven long months of patient waiting and watching--eating
her lonely heart out--forsaken. Oh, the inconceivable inhumanity of the
human heart! To think anybody could be so vile, so low, so unkind, so
cruel! To think that Eugene with his black eyes, his soft hair, his
smiling face, could be so treacherous, so subtle, so dastardly! Could he
really be as mean as this note proved him to be? Could he be as brutal,
as selfish? Was she awake or asleep? Was this a dream? Ah, God! no, no
it was not a dream. It was a cold, bitter, agonizing reality. And the
cause of all her suffering was there in the bathroom now shaving
himself.
For one moment she thought she would go in and strike him where he
stood. She thought she could tear his heart out, cut him up, but then
suddenly the picture of him bleeding and dead came to her and she
recoiled. No, no, she could not do that! Oh, no, not Eugene--and yet and
yet----
"Oh, God, let me get my hands on that woman!" she said to herself. "Let
me get my hands on her. I'll kill her, I'll kill her! I'll kill her!"
This torrent of fury and self-pity was still raging in her heart when
the bathroom knob clicked and Eugene came out. He was in his undershirt,
trousers and shoes, looking for a clean white shirt. He was very nervous
over the note which had been thrown in scraps into the box, but looking
in the kitchen and seeing the pieces still there he was slightly
reassured. Angela was not there; he could come back and get them when he
found out where she was. He went on into the bedroom, looking into the
front room as he did so. She appeared to be at the window waiting for
him. After all, she was probably not as suspicious as he thought. It was
his own imagination. He was too nervous and sensitive. Well, he would
get those pieces now if he could and throw them out of the window.
Angela should not have a chance to examine them if she wanted to. He
slipped out into the kitchen, made a quick grab for the little heap, and
sent the pieces flying. Then he felt much better. He would never bring
another letter home from anybody, that was a certainty. Fate was too
much against him.
Angela came out after a bit, for the click of the bathroom knob had
sobered her a little. Her rage was high, her pulse abnormal, her whole
being shaken to its roots, but still she realized that she must have
time to think. She must see who this woman was first. She must have time
to find her. Eugene mustn't know. Where was she now? Where was this
bridge? Where did they meet? Where did she live? She wondered for the
moment why she couldn't think it all out, why it didn't come to her in a
flash, a revelation. If she could only know!
In a few minutes Eugene came in, clean-shaven, smiling, his equanimity
and peace of mind fairly well restored. The letter was gone. Angela
could never know. She might suspect, but this possible burst of jealousy
had been nipped in the bud. He came over toward her to put his arm round
her, but she slipped away from him, pretending to need the sugar. He let
this effort at love making go--the will for the deed, and sat down at
the snow-white little table, set with tempting dishes and waited to be
served. The day had been very pleasant, being early in October, and he
was pleased to see a last lingering ray of light falling on some red and
yellow leaves. This yard was very beautiful. This little flat, for all
their poverty, very charming. Angela was neat and trim in a dainty house
dress of mingled brown and green. A dark blue studio apron shielded her
bosom and skirt. She was very pale and distraught-looking, but Eugene
for the time was almost unconscious of it--he was so relieved.
"Are you very tired, Angela?" he finally asked sympathetically.
"Yes, I'm not feeling so well today," she replied.
"What have you been doing, ironing?"
"Oh, yes, and cleaning. I worked on the cupboard."
"You oughtn't to try to do so much," he said cheerfully. "You're not
strong enough. You think you're a little horse, but you are only a colt.
Better go slow, hadn't you?"
"I will after I get everything straightened out to suit me," she
replied.
She was having the struggle of her life to conceal her real feelings.
Never at any time had she undergone such an ordeal as this. Once in the
studio, when she discovered those two letters, she thought she was
suffering--but that, what was that to this? What were her suspicions
concerning Frieda? What were the lonely longings at home, her grieving
and worrying over his illness? Nothing, nothing! Now he was actually
faithless to her. Now she had the evidence. This woman was here. She was
somewhere in the immediate background. After these years of marriage and
close companionship he was deceiving her. It was possible that he had
been with this woman today, yesterday, the day before. The letter was
not dated. Could it be that she was related to Mrs. Hibberdell? Eugene
had said that there was a married daughter, but never that she was
there. If she was there, why should he have moved? He wouldn't have. Was
it the wife of the man he was last living with? No; she was too homely.
Angela had seen her. Eugene would never associate with her. If she could
only know! "Ashes of Roses!" The world went red before her eyes. There
was no use bursting into a storm now, though. If she could only be calm
it would be better. If she only had someone to talk to--if there were a
minister or a bosom friend! She might go to a detective agency. They
might help her. A detective could trace this woman and Eugene. Did she
want to do this? It cost money. They were very poor now. Paugh! Why
should she worry about their poverty, mending her dresses, going without
hats, going without decent shoes, and he wasting his time and being upon
some shameless strumpet! If he had money, he would spend it on her.
Still, he had handed her almost all the money he had brought East with
him intact. How was that?
All the time Eugene was sitting opposite her eating with fair
heartiness. If the trouble about the letter had not come out so
favorably he would have been without appetite, but now he felt at ease.
Angela said she was not hungry and could not eat. She passed him the
bread, the butter, the hashed brown potatoes, the tea, and he ate
cheerfully.
"I think I am going to try and get out of that shop over there," he
volunteered affably.
"Why?" asked Angela mechanically.
"I'm tired of it. The men are not so interesting to me now. I'm tired of
them. I think Mr. Haverford will transfer me if I write to him. He said
he would. I'd rather be outside with some section gang if I could. It's
going to be very dreary in the shop when they close it up."
"Well, if you're tired you'd better," replied Angela. "Your mind needs
diversion, I know that. Why don't you write to Mr. Haverford?"
"I will," he said, but he did not immediately. He went into the front
room and lit the gas eventually, reading a paper, then a book, then
yawning wearily. Angela came in after a time and sat down pale and
tired. She went and secured a little workbasket in which were socks
undarned and other odds and ends and began on those, but she revolted at
the thought of doing anything for him and put them up. She got out a
skirt of hers which she was making. Eugene watched her a little while
lazily, his artistic eye measuring the various dimensions of her
features. She had a well-balanced face, he finally concluded. He noted
the effect of the light on her hair--the peculiar hue it gave it--and
wondered if he could get that in oil. Night scenes were harder than
those of full daylight. Shadows were so very treacherous. He got up
finally.
"Well, I'm going to turn in," he said. "I'm tired. I have to get up at
six. Oh, dear, this darn day labor business gives me a pain. I wish it
were over."
Angela did not trust herself to speak. She was so full of pain and
despair that she thought if she spoke she would cry. He went out,
saying: "Coming soon?" She nodded her head. When he was gone the storm
burst and she broke into a blinding flood of tears. They were not only
tears of sorrow, but of rage and helplessness. She went out on a little
balcony which was there and cried alone, the night lights shining
wistfully about. After the first storm she began to harden and dry up
again, for helpless tears were foreign to her in a rage. She dried her
eyes and became white-faced and desperate as before.
The dog, the scoundrel, the brute, the hound! she thought. How could she
ever have loved him? How could she love him now? Oh, the horror of life,
its injustice, its cruelty, its shame! That she should be dragged
through the mire with a man like this. The pity of it! The shame! If
this was art, death take it! And yet hate him as she might--hate this
hellish man-trap who signed herself "Ashes of Roses"--she loved him,
too. She could not help it. She knew she loved him. Oh, to be crossed by
two fevers like this! Why might she not die? Why not die, right now?