The hells of love are bitter and complete. There were days after that
when she watched him, followed him down the pleasant lane from the house
to the water's edge, slipping out unceremoniously after he had gone not
more than eight hundred feet. She watched the bridge at Riverwood at one
and six, expecting that Eugene and his paramour might meet there. It
just happened that Carlotta was compelled to leave town for ten days
with her husband, and so Eugene was safe. On two occasions he went
downtown--into the heart of the great city, anxious to get a breath of
the old life that so fascinated him, and Angela followed him only to
lose track of him quickly. He did nothing evil, however, merely walked,
wondering what Miriam Finch and Christina Channing and Norma Whitmore
were doing these days and what they were thinking of him in his long
absence. Of all the people he had known, he had only seen Norma Whitmore
once and that was not long after he returned to New York. He had given
her a garbled explanation of his illness, stated that he was going to
work now and proposed to come and see her. He did his best to avoid
observation, however, for he dreaded explaining the reason of his
non-productive condition. Miriam Finch was almost glad that he had
failed, since he had treated her so badly. Christina Channing was in
opera, as he quickly discovered, for he saw her name blazoned one day
the following November in the newspapers. She was a star of whose talent
great hopes were entertained, and was interested almost exclusively in
her career. She was to sing in "Boheme" and "Rigoletto."
Another thing, fortunate for Eugene at this time, was that he changed
his work. There came to the shop one day an Irish foreman, Timothy
Deegan, master of a score of "guineas," as he called the Italian day
laborers who worked for him, who took Eugene's fancy greatly. He was of
medium height, thick of body and neck, with a cheerful, healthy red
face, a keen, twinkling gray eye, and stiff, closely cropped gray hair
and mustache. He had come to lay the foundation for a small dynamo in
the engine room at Speonk, which was to supply the plant with light in
case of night work, and a car of his had been backed in, a tool car,
full of boards, barrows, mortar boards, picks and shovels. Eugene was
amused and astonished at his insistent, defiant attitude and the brisk
manner in which he was handing out orders to his men.
"Come, Matt! Come, Jimmie! Get the shovels now! Get the picks!" he heard
him shout. "Bring some sand here! Bring some stone! Where's the cement
now? Where's the cement? Jasus Christ! I must have some cement. What
arre ye all doing? Hurry now, hurry! Bring the cement."
"Well, he knows how to give orders," commented Eugene to Big John, who
was standing near. "He certainly does," replied the latter.
To himself Eugene observed, hearing only the calls at first, "the Irish
brute." Later he discovered a subtle twinkle in Deegan's eyes as he
stood brazenly in the door, looking defiantly about. There was no
brutality in it, only self-confidence and a hearty Irish insistence on
the necessity of the hour.
"Well, you're a dandy!" commented Eugene boldly after a time, and
laughed.
"Ha! ha! ha!" mocked Deegan in return. "If you had to work as harred as
these men you wouldn't laugh."
"I'm not laughing at them. I'm laughing at you," explained Eugene.
"Laugh," said Deegan. "Shure you're as funny to me as I am to you."
Eugene laughed again. The Irishman agreed with himself that there was
humor in it. He laughed too. Eugene patted his big rough shoulder with
his hands and they were friends immediately. It did not take Deegan long
to find out from Big John why he was there and what he was doing.
"An arrtist!" he commented. "Shewer he'd better be outside than in. The
loikes of him packin' shavin's and him laughin' at me."
Big John smiled.
"I believe he wants to get outside," he said.
"Why don't he come with me, then? He'd have a foine time workin' with
the guineas. Shewer 'twould make a man av him--a few months of
that"--and he pointed to Angelo Esposito shoveling clay.
Big John thought this worth reporting to Eugene. He did not think that
he wanted to work with the guineas, but he might like to be with Deegan.
Eugene saw his opportunity. He liked Deegan.
"Would you like to have an artist who's looking for health come and work
for you, Deegan?" Eugene asked genially. He thought Deegan might refuse,
but it didn't matter. It was worth the trial.
"Shewer!" replied the latter.
"Will I have to work with the Italians?"
"There'll be plenty av work for ye to do without ever layin' yer hand to
pick or shovel unless ye want to. Shewer that's no work fer a white man
to do."
"And what do you call them, Deegan? Aren't they white?"
"Shewer they're naat."
"What are they, then? They're not black."
"Nagurs, of coorse."
"But they're not negroes."
"Will, begad, they're naat white. Any man kin tell that be lookin' at
thim."
Eugene smiled. He understood at once the solid Irish temperament which
could draw this hearty conclusion. There was no malice in it. Deegan did
not underestimate these Italians. He liked his men, but they weren't
white. He didn't know what they were exactly, but they weren't white. He
was standing over them a moment later shouting, "Up with it! Up with it!
Down with it! Down with it!" as though his whole soul were intent on
driving the last scrap of strength out of these poor underlings, when as
a matter of fact they were not working very hard at all. His glance was
roving about in a general way as he yelled and they paid little
attention to him. Once in a while he would interpolate a "Come, Matt!"
in a softer key--a key so soft that it was entirely out of keeping with
his other voice. Eugene saw it all clearly. He understood Deegan.
"I think I'll get Mr. Haverford to transfer me to you, if you'll let me
come," he said at the close of the day when Deegan was taking off his
overalls and the "Eyetalians," as he called them, were putting the
things back in the car.
"Shewer!" said Deegan, impressed by the great name of Haverford. If
Eugene could accomplish that through such a far-off, wondrous
personality, he must be a remarkable man himself. "Come along. I'll be
glad to have ye. Ye can just make out the O. K. blanks and the repoarts
and watch over the min sich times as I'll naat be there and--well--all
told, ye'll have enough to keep ye busy."
Eugene smiled. This was a pleasant prospect. Big John had told him
during the morning that Deegan went up and down the road from Peekskill
on the main line, Chatham on the Midland Division, and Mt. Kisco on a
third branch to New York City. He built wells, culverts, coal bins,
building piers--small brick buildings--anything and everything, in
short, which a capable foreman-mason ought to be able to build, and in
addition he was fairly content and happy in his task. Eugene could see
it. The atmosphere of the man was wholesome. He was like a tonic--a
revivifying dynamo to this sickly overwrought sentimentalist.
That night he went home to Angela full of the humor and romance of his
new situation. He liked the idea of it. He wanted to tell her about
Deegan--to make her laugh. He was destined unfortunately to another kind
of reception.
For Angela, by this time, had endured the agony of her discovery to the
breaking point. She had listened to his pretences, knowing them to be
lies, until she could endure it no longer. In following him she had
discovered nothing, and the change in his work would make the chase more
difficult. It was scarcely possible for anyone to follow him, for he
himself did not know where he would be from day to day. He would be
here, there, and everywhere. His sense of security as well as of his
unfairness made him sensitive about being nice in the unimportant
things. When he thought at all he was ashamed of what he was
doing--thoroughly ashamed. Like the drunkard he appeared to be mastered
by his weakness, and the psychology of his attitude is so best
interpreted. He caressed her sympathetically, for he thought from her
drawn, weary look that she was verging on some illness. She appeared to
him to be suffering from worry for him, overwork, or approaching malady.
But Eugene in spite of his unfaithfulness did sympathize with Angela
greatly. He appreciated her good qualities--her truthfulness, economy,
devotion and self-sacrifice in all things which related to him. He was
sorry that his own yearning for freedom crossed with her desire for
simple-minded devotion on his part. He could not love her as she wanted
him to, that he knew, and yet he was at times sorry for it, very. He
would look at her when she was not looking at him, admiring her
industry, her patience, her pretty figure, her geniality in the face of
many difficulties, and wish that she could have had a better fate than
to have met and married him.
Because of these feelings on his part for her he could not bear to see
her suffer. When she appeared to be ill he could not help drawing near
to her, wanting to know how she was, endeavoring to make her feel better
by those sympathetic, emotional demonstrations which he knew meant so
much to her. On this particular evening, noting the still drawn agony of
her face, he was moved to insist. "What's the matter with you,
Angelface, these days? You look so tired. You're not right. What's
troubling you?"
"Oh, nothing," replied Angela wearily.
"But I know there is," he replied. "You can't be feeling well. What's
ailing you? You're not like yourself at all. Won't you tell me, sweet?
What's the trouble?"
He was thinking because Angela said nothing that it must be a real
physical illness. Any emotional complaint vented itself quickly.
"Why should you care?" she asked cautiously, breaking her self-imposed
vow of silence. She was thinking that Eugene and this woman, whoever she
was, were conspiring to defeat her and that they were succeeding. Her
voice had changed from one of weary resignation to subtle semi-concealed
complaint and offense, and Eugene noted it. Before she could add any
more, he had observed, "Why shouldn't I? Why, how you talk! What's the
matter now?"
Angela really did not intend to go on. Her query was dragged out of her
by his obvious sympathy. He was sorry for her in some general way. It
made her pain and wrath all the greater. And his additional inquiry
irritated her the more.
"Why should you?" she asked weepingly. "You don't want me. You don't
like me. You pretend sympathy when I look a little bad, but that's all.
But you don't care for me. If you could get rid of me, you would. That
is so plain."
"Why, what are you talking about?" he asked, astonished. Had she found
out anything? Was the incident of the scraps of paper really closed? Had
anybody been telling her anything about Carlotta? Instantly he was all
at sea. Still he had to pretend.
"You know I care," he said. "How can you say that?"
"You don't. You know you don't!" she flared up suddenly. "Why do you
lie? You don't care. Don't touch me. Don't come near me. I'm sick of
your hypocritical pretences! Oh!" And she straightened up with her
finger nails cutting into her palms.
Eugene at the first expression of disbelief on her part had laid his
hand soothingly on her arm. That was why she had jumped away from him.
Now he drew back, nonplussed, nervous, a little defiant. It was easier
to combat rage than sorrow; but he did not want to do either.
"What's the matter with you?" he asked, assuming a look of bewildered
innocence. "What have I done now?"
"What haven't you done, you'd better ask. You dog! You coward!" flared
Angela. "Leaving me to stay out in Wisconsin while you go running around
with a shameless woman. Don't deny it! Don't dare to deny it!"--this
apropos of a protesting movement on the part of Eugene's head--"I know
all! I know more than I want to know. I know how you've been acting. I
know what you've been doing. I know how you've been lying to me. You've
been running around with a low, vile wretch of a woman while I have been
staying out in Blackwood eating my heart out, that's what you've been
doing. Dear Angela! Dear Angelface! Dear Madonna Doloroso! Ha! What have
you been calling her, you lying, hypocritical coward! What names have
you for her, Hypocrite! Brute! Liar! I know what you've been doing. Oh,
how well I know! Why was I ever born?--oh, why, why?"
Her voice trailed off in a wail of agony. Eugene stood there astonished
to the point of inefficiency. He could not think of a single thing to do
or say. He had no idea upon what evidence she based her complaint. He
fancied that it must be much more than had been contained in that little
note which he had torn up. She had not seen that--of that he was
reasonably sure--or was he? Could she have taken it out of the box while
he was in the bath and then put it back again? This sounded like it. She
had looked very bad that night. How much did she know? Where had she
secured this information? Mrs. Hibberdell? Carlotta? No! Had she seen
her? Where? When?
"You're talking through your hat," he said aimlessly and largely in
order to get time. "You're crazy! What's got into you, anyhow? I haven't
been doing anything of the sort."
"Oh, haven't you!" she sneered. "You haven't been meeting her at bridges
and road houses and street cars, have you? You liar! You haven't been
calling her 'Ashes of Roses' and 'River Nymph' and 'Angel Girl.'" Angela
was making up names and places out of her own mind. "I suppose you used
some of the pet names on her that you gave to Christina Channing, didn't
you? She'd like those, the vile strumpet! And you, you dog, pretending
to me--pretending sympathy, pretending loneliness, pretending sorrow
that I couldn't be here! A lot you cared what I was doing or thinking or
suffering. Oh, I hate you, you horrible coward! I hate her! I hope
something terrible happens to you. If I could get at her now I would
kill her and you both--and myself. I would! I wish I could die! I wish I
could die!"
Eugene was beginning to get the measure of his iniquity as Angela
interpreted it. He could see now how cruelly he had hurt her. He could
see now how vile what he was doing looked in her eyes. It was bad
business--running with other women--no doubt of it. It always ended in
something like this--a terrible storm in which he had to sit by and hear
himself called brutal names to which there was no legitimate answer. He
had heard of this in connection with other people, but he had never
thought it would come to him. And the worst of it was that he was guilty
and deserving of it. No doubt of that. It lowered him in his own
estimation. It lowered her in his and her own because she had to fight
this way. Why did he do it? Why did he drag her into such a situation?
It was breaking down that sense of pride in himself which was the only
sustaining power a man had before the gaze of the world. Why did he let
himself into these situations? Did he really love Carlotta? Did he want
pleasure enough to endure such abuse as this? This was a terrible scene.
And where would it end? His nerves were tingling, his brain fairly
aching. If he could only conquer this desire for another type and be
faithful, and yet how dreadful that seemed! To confine himself in all
his thoughts to just Angela! It was not possible. He thought of these
things, standing there enduring the brunt of this storm. It was a
terrible ordeal, but it was not wholly reformatory even at that.
"What's the use of your carrying on like that, Angela?" he said grimly,
after he had listened to all this. "It isn't as bad as you think. I'm
not a liar, and I'm not a dog! You must have pieced that note I threw in
the paper box together and read it. When did you do it?"
He was curious about that and about how much she knew. What were her
intentions in regard to him? What in regard to Carlotta? What would she
do next?
"When did I do it?" she replied. "When did I do it? What has that to do
with it? What right have you to ask? Where is this woman, that's what I
want to know? I want to find her. I want to face her. I want to tell her
what a wretched beast she is. I'll show her how to come and steal
another woman's husband. I'll kill her. I'll kill her and I'll kill you,
too. Do you hear? I'll kill you!" And she advanced on him defiantly,
blazingly.
Eugene was astounded. He had never seen such rage in any woman. It was
wonderful, fascinating, something like a great lightning-riven storm.
Angela was capable of hurling thunderbolts of wrath. He had not known
that. It raised her in his estimation--made her really more attractive
than she would otherwise have been, for power, however displayed, is
fascinating. She was so little, so grim, so determined! It was in its
way a test of great capability. And he liked her for it even though he
resented her abuse.
"No, no, Angela," he said sympathetically and with a keen wish to
alleviate her sorrow. "You would not do anything like that. You
couldn't!"
"I will! I will!" she declared. "I'll kill her and you, too!"
And then having reached this tremendous height she suddenly broke.
Eugene's big, sympathetic understanding was after all too much for her.
His brooding patience in the midst of her wrath, his innate sorrow for
what he could not or would not help (it was written all over his face),
his very obvious presentation of the fact by his attitude that he knew
that she loved him in spite of this, was too much for her. It was like
beating her hands against a stone. She might kill him and this woman,
whoever she was, but she would not have changed his attitude toward her,
and that was what she wanted. A great torrent of heart-breaking sobs
broke from her, shaking her frame like a reed. She threw her arms and
head upon the kitchen table, falling to her knees, and cried and cried.
Eugene stood there contemplating the wreck he had made of her dreams.
Certainly it was hell, he said to himself; certainly it was. He was a
liar, as she said, a dog, a scoundrel. Poor little Angela! Well, the
damage had been done. What could he do now? Anything? Certainly not. Not
a thing. She was broken--heart-broken. There was no earthly remedy for
that. Priests might shrive for broken laws, but for a broken heart what
remedy was there?
"Angela!" he called gently. "Angela! I'm sorry! Don't cry! Angela!!
Don't cry!"
But she did not hear him. She did not hear anything. Lost in the agony
of her situation, she could only sob convulsively until it seemed that
her pretty little frame would break to pieces.