Eugene's feelings on this occasion were of reasonable duration. It is
always possible under such circumstances to take the victim of our
brutalities in our arms and utter a few sympathetic or repentant words.
The real kindness and repentance which consists in reformation is quite
another matter. One must see with eyes too pure to behold evil to do
that. Eugene was not to be reformed by an hour or many hours of agony on
anyone's part. Angela was well within the range of his sympathetic
interests. He suffered with her keenly, but not enough to outrun or
offset his own keen desire for what he considered his spiritual right to
enjoy beauty. What harm did it do, he would have asked himself, if he
secretly exchanged affectionate looks and feelings with Carlotta or any
other woman who fascinated him and in turn was fascinated by him? Could
an affinity of this character really be called evil? He was not giving
her any money which Angela ought to have, or very little. He did not
want to marry her--and she really did not want to marry him, he
thought--there was no chance of that, anyhow. He wanted to associate
with her. And what harm did that do Angela? None, if she did not know.
Of course, if she knew, it was very sad for her and for him. But, if the
shoe were on the other foot, and Angela was the one who was acting as he
was acting now he would not care, he thought. He forgot to add that if
he did not care it would be because he was not in love, and Angela was
in love. Such reasoning runs in circles. Only it is not reasoning. It is
sentimental and emotional anarchy. There is no will toward progress in
it.
When Angela recovered from her first burst of rage and grief it was only
to continue it further, though not in quite the same vein. There can
only be one superlative in any field of endeavor. Beyond that may be
mutterings and thunderings or a shining after-glow, but no second
superlative. Angela charged him with every weakness and evil tendency,
only to have him look at her in a solemn way, occasionally saying: "Oh,
no! You know I'm not as bad as that," or "Why do you abuse me in that
way? That isn't true," or "Why do you say that?"
"Because it is so, and you know it's so," Angela would declare.
"Listen, Angela," he replied once, with a certain amount of logic,
"there is no use in brow-beating me in this way. It doesn't do any good
to call me names. You want me to love you, don't you? That's all that
you want. You don't want anything else. Will calling me names make me do
it? If I can't I can't, and if I can I can. How will fighting help
that?"
She listened to him pitifully, for she knew that her rage was useless,
or practically so. He was in the position of power. She loved him. That
was the sad part of it. To think that tears and pleadings and wrath
might not really avail, after all! He could only love her out of a
desire that was not self-generated. That was something she was beginning
to see in a dim way as a grim truth.
Once she folded her hands and sat white and drawn, staring at the floor.
"Well, I don't know what to do," she declared. "I suppose I ought to
leave you. If it just weren't for my family! They all think so highly of
the marriage state. They are so naturally faithful and decent. I suppose
these qualities have to be born in people. They can't be acquired. You
would have to be made over."
Eugene knew she would not leave him. He smiled at the superior
condescension of the last remark, though it was not intended as such by
her. To think of his being made over after the model Angela and her
relatives would lay down!
"I don't know where I'd go or what I'd do," she observed. "I can't go
back to my family. I don't want to go there. I haven't been trained in
anything except school teaching, and I hate to think of that again. If I
could only study stenography or book-keeping!" She was talking as much
to clear her own mind as his. She really did not know what to do.
Eugene listened to this self-demonstrated situation with a shamed face.
It was hard for him to think of Angela being thrown out on the world as
a book-keeper or a stenographer. He did not want to see her doing
anything like that. In a way, he wanted to live with her, if it could be
done in his way--much as the Mormons might, perhaps. What a lonely life
hers would be if she were away from him! And she was not suited to it.
She was not suited to the commercial world--she was too homey, too
housewifely. He wished he could assure her now that she would not have
further cause for grief and mean it, but he was like a sick man wishing
he could do the things a hale man might. There was no self-conviction in
his thoughts, only the idea that if he tried to do right in this matter
he might succeed, but he would be unhappy. So he drifted.
In the meanwhile Eugene had taken up his work with Deegan and was going
through a very curious experience. At the time Deegan had stated that he
would take him he had written to Haverford, making a polite request for
transfer, and was immediately informed that his wishes would be granted.
Haverford remembered Eugene kindly. He hoped he was improving. He
understood from inquiry of the Superintendent of Buildings that Deegan
was in need of a capable assistant, anyhow, and that Eugene could well
serve in that capacity. The foreman was always in trouble about his
reports. An order was issued to Deegan commanding him to receive Eugene,
and another to Eugene from the office of the Superintendent of Buildings
ordering him to report to Deegan. Eugene went, finding him working on
the problem of constructing a coal bin under the depot at Fords Centre,
and raising as much storm as ever. He was received with a grin of
satisfaction.
"So here ye arre. Will, ye're just in time. I want ye to go down to the
ahffice."
Eugene laughed. "Sure," he said. Deegan was down in a freshly excavated
hole and his clothes were redolent of the freshly turned earth which
surrounded him. He had a plumb bob in his hand and a spirit level, but
he laid them down. Under the neat train shed to which he crawled when
Eugene appeared and where they stood, he fished from a pocket of his old
gray coat a soiled and crumpled letter which he carefully unfolded with
his thick and clumsy fingers. Then he held it up and looked at it
defiantly.
"I want ye to go to Woodlawn," he continued, "and look after some bolts
that arre theyer--there's a keg av thim--an' sign the bill fer thim, an'
ship thim down to me. They're not miny. An' thin I waant ye to go down
to the ahffice an' take thim this O. K." And here he fished around and
produced another crumpled slip. "It's nonsinse!" he exclaimed, when he
saw it. "It's onraisonable! They're aalways yillen fer thim
O. K. blanks. Ye'd think, begad, I was goin' to steal thim from thim.
Ye'd think I lived on thim things. O. K. blanks, O. K. blanks. From
mornin' 'til night O. K. blanks. It's nonsinse! It's onraisonable!"
And his face flushed a defiant red.
Eugene could see that some infraction of the railroad's rules had
occurred and that Deegan had been "called down," or "jacked up" about
it, as the railroad men expressed it. He was in a high state of
dudgeon--as defiant and pugnacious as his royal Irish temper would
allow.
"I'll fix it," said Eugene. "That's all right. Leave it to me."
Deegan showed some signs of approaching relief. At last he had a man of
"intilligence," as he would have expressed it. He flung a parting shot
though at his superior as Eugene departed.
"Tell thim I'll sign fer thim when I git thim and naat before!" he
rumbled.
Eugene laughed. He knew no such message would be accepted, but he was
glad to give Deegan an opportunity to blow off steam. He entered upon
his new tasks with vim, pleased with the out-of-doors, the sunshine, the
opportunity for brief trips up and down the road like this. It was
delightful. He would soon be all right now, that he knew.
He went to Woodlawn and signed for the bolts; went to the office and met
the chief clerk (delivering the desired O. K. blanks in person) who
informed him of the chief difficulty in Deegan's life. It appeared that
there were some twenty-five of these reports to be made out monthly, to
say nothing of endless O. K. blanks to be filled in with acknowledgments
of material received. Everything had to be signed for in this way,
it mattered not whether it was a section of a bridge or a single bolt
or a pound of putty. If a man could sit down and reel off a graphic report
of what he was doing, he was the pride of the chief clerk's heart. His
doing the work properly was taken as a matter of course. Deegan was not
efficient at this, though he was assisted at times by his wife and all
three of his children, a boy and two girls. He was constantly in hot
water.
"My God!" exclaimed the chief clerk, when Eugene explained that Deegan
had thought that he might leave the bolts at the station where they
would be safe until he needed them and then sign for them when he took
them out. He ran his hands distractedly through his hair. "What do you
think of that?" he exclaimed. "He'll leave them there until he needs
them, will he? What becomes of my reports? I've got to have those
O. K.'s. You tell Deegan he ought to know better than that; he's been
long enough on the road. You tell him that I said that I want a signed
form for everything consigned to him the moment he learns that it's
waiting for him. And I want it without fail. Let him go and get it. The
gall! He's got to come to time about this, or something's going to drop.
I'm not going to stand it any longer. You'd better help him in this.
I've got to make out my reports on time."
Eugene agreed that he would. This was his field. He could help Deegan.
He could be really useful.
Time passed. The weather grew colder, and while the work was interesting
at first, like all other things it began after a time to grow
monotonous. It was nice enough when the weather was fine to stand out
under the trees, where some culvert was being built to bridge a small
rivulet or some well to supply the freight engines with water, and
survey the surrounding landscape; but when the weather grew colder it
was not so nice. Deegan was always interesting. He was forever raising a
ruction. He lived a life of hard, narrow activity laid among boards,
wheelbarrows, cement, stone, a life which concerned construction and had
no particular joy in fruition. The moment a thing was nicely finished
they had to leave it and go where everything would be torn up again.
Eugene used to look at the wounded ground, the piles of yellow mud, the
dirty Italians, clean enough in their spirit, but soiled and gnarled by
their labor, and wonder how much longer he could stand it. To think that
he, of all men, should be here working with Deegan and the _guineas_! He
became lonesome at times--terribly, and sad. He longed for Carlotta,
longed for a beautiful studio, longed for a luxurious, artistic life. It
seemed that life had wronged him terribly, and yet he could do nothing
about it. He had no money-making capacity.
About this time the construction of a rather pretentious machine shop,
two hundred by two hundred feet and four storeys high was assigned to
Deegan, largely because of the efficiency which Eugene contributed to
Deegan's work. Eugene handled his reports and accounts with rapidity and
precision, and this so soothed the division management that they had an
opportunity to see Deegan's real worth. The latter was beside himself
with excitement, anticipating great credit and distinction for the work
he was now to be permitted to do.
"'Tis the foine time we'll have, Eugene, me bye," he exclaimed, "puttin'
up that buildin'. 'Tis no culvert we'll be afther buildin' now. Nor no
coal bin. Wait till the masons come. Then ye'll see somethin'."
Eugene was pleased that their work was progressing so successfully, but
of course there was no future in it for him. He was lonely and
disheartened.
Besides, Angela was complaining, and rightfully enough, that they were
leading a difficult life--and to what end, so far as she was concerned?
He might recover his health and his art (by reason of his dramatic
shake-up and changes he appeared to be doing so), but what would that
avail her? He did not love her. If he became prosperous again it might
be to forsake her, and at best he could only give her money and position
if he ever attained these, and how would that help? It was love that she
wanted--his love. And she did not have that, or only a mere shadow of
it. He had made up his mind after this last fatal argument that he would
not pretend to anything he did not feel in regard to her, and this made
it even harder. She did believe that he sympathized with her in his way,
but it was an intellectual sympathy and had very little to do with the
heart. He was sorry for her. Sorry! Sorry! How she hated the thought of
that! If he could not do any better than that, what was there in all the
years to come but misery?
A curious fact to be noted about this period was that suspicion had so
keyed up Angela's perceptions that she could almost tell, and that
without knowing, when Eugene was with Carlotta or had been. There was
something about his manner when he came in of an evening, to say nothing
of those subtler thought waves which passed from him to her when he was
with Carlotta, which told her instantly where he had been and what he
had been doing. She would ask him where he had been and he would say:
"Oh, up to White Plains" or "out to Scarborough," but nearly always when
he had been with Carlotta she would flare up with, "Yes, I know where
you've been. You've been out again with that miserable beast of a woman.
Oh, God will punish her yet! You will be punished! Wait and see."
Tears would flood her eyes and she would berate him roundly.
Eugene stood in profound awe before these subtle outbreaks. He could not
understand how it was that Angela came to know or suspect so accurately.
To a certain extent he was a believer in spiritualism and the mysteries
of a subconscious mind or self. He fancied that there must be some way
of this subconscious self seeing or apprehending what was going on and
of communicating its knowledge in the form of fear and suspicion to
Angela's mind. If the very subtleties of nature were in league against
him, how was he to continue or profit in this career? Obviously it could
not be done. He would probably be severely punished for it. He was half
terrified by the vague suspicion that there might be some laws which
tended to correct in this way all the abuses in nature. There might be
much vice and crime going seemingly unpunished, but there might also be
much correction going on, as the suicides and deaths and cases of
insanity seemed to attest. Was this true? Was there no escape from the
results of evil except by abandoning it entirely? He pondered over this
gravely.
Getting on his feet again financially was not such an easy thing. He had
been out of touch now so long with things artistic--the magazine world
and the art agencies--that he felt as if he might not readily be able to
get in touch again. Besides he was not at all sure of himself. He had
made sketches of men and things at Speonk, and of Deegan and his gang on
the road, and of Carlotta and Angela, but he felt that they were weak in
their import--lacking in the force and feeling which had once
characterized his work. He thought of trying his hand at newspaper work
if he could make any sort of a connection--working in some obscure
newspaper art department until he should feel himself able to do better;
but he did not feel at all confident that he could get that. His severe
breakdown had made him afraid of life--made him yearn for the sympathy
of a woman like Carlotta, or of a larger more hopeful, more tender
attitude, and he dreaded looking for anything anywhere. Besides he hated
to spare the time unless he were going to get somewhere. His work was so
pressing. But he knew he must quit it. He thought about it wearily,
wishing he were better placed in this world; and finally screwed up his
courage to leave this work, though it was not until something else was
quite safely in his hands.