He recovered his own poise with an effort because of her obvious terror,

and led her back under the trees. To reassure her he drew his cigar case

from his pocket and pretended to select a cigar. When he saw her

calming, he put it back.

"Are you quieter now, sweet?" he asked, tenderly.

"Yes, but let us go back."

"Listen. I will only go as far as the edge. You go alone. I will watch

you safely to the door."

"Yes," she said peacefully.

"And you really love me, Suzanne?"

"Oh, yes, but don't speak of it. Not tonight. You will frighten me

again. Let us go back."

They strolled on. Then he said: "One kiss, sweet, in parting. One. Life

has opened anew for me. You are the solvent of my whole being. You are

making me over into something different. I feel as though I had never

lived until now. Oh, this experience! It is such a wonderful thing to

have done--to have lived through, to have changed as I have changed. You

have changed me so completely, made me over into the artist again. From

now on I can paint again. I can paint you." He scarcely knew what he was

saying. He felt as though he were revealing himself to himself as in an

apocalyptic vision.

She let him kiss her, but she was too frightened and wrought to even

breathe right. She was intense, emotional, strange. She did not really

understand what it was that he was talking about.

"Tomorrow," he said, "at the wood's edge. Tomorrow. Sweet dreams. I

shall never know peace any more without your love."

And he watched her eagerly, sadly, bitterly, ecstatically, as she walked

lightly from him, disappearing like a shadow through the dark and silent

door.

CHAPTER VII

It would be impossible to describe even in so detailed an account as

this the subtleties, vagaries, beauties and terrors of the emotions

which seized upon him, and which by degrees began also to possess

Suzanne, once he became wholly infatuated with her. Mrs. Dale, was,

after a social fashion, one of Eugene's best friends. She had since she

had first come to know him spread his fame far and wide as an immensely

clever publisher and editor, an artist of the greatest power, and a man

of lovely and delightful ideas and personal worth. He knew from various

conversations with her that Suzanne was the apple of her eye. He had

heard her talk, had, in fact, discussed with her the difficulties of

rearing a simple mannered, innocent-minded girl in present day society.

She had confided to him that it had been her policy to give Suzanne the

widest liberty consistent with good-breeding and current social

theories. She did not want to make her bold or unduly self-reliant, and

yet she wanted her to be free and natural. Suzanne, she was convinced,

from long observation and many frank conversations, was innately honest,

truthful and clean-minded. She did not understand her exactly, for what

mother can clearly understand any child; but she thought she read her

well enough to know that she was in some indeterminate way forceful and

able, like her father, and that she would naturally gravitate to what

was worth while in life.

Had she any talent? Mrs. Dale really did not know. The girl had vague

yearnings toward something which was anything but social in its quality.

She did not care anything at all for most of the young men and women she

met. She went about a great deal, but it was to ride and drive. Games of

chance did not interest her. Drawing-room conversations were amusing to

her, but not gripping. She liked interesting characters, able books,

striking pictures. She had been particularly impressed with those of

Eugene's; she had seen and had told her mother that they were wonderful.

She loved poetry of high order, and was possessed of a boundless

appetite for the ridiculous and the comic. An unexpected faux pas was

apt to throw her into uncontrollable fits of laughter and the funny page

selections of the current newspaper artists, when she could obtain them,

amused her intensely. She was a student of character, and of her own

mother, and was beginning to see clearly what were the motives that were

prompting her mother in her attitude toward herself, quite as clearly as

that person did herself and better. At bottom she was more talented than

her mother, but in a different way. She was not, as yet, as

self-controlled, or as understanding of current theories and beliefs as

her mother, but she was artistic, emotional, excitable, in an

intellectual way, and capable of high flights of fancy and of intense

and fine appreciations. Her really sensuous beauty was nothing to her.

She did not value it highly. She knew she was beautiful, and that men

and boys were apt to go wild about her, but she did not care. They must

not be so silly, she thought. She did not attempt to attract them in any

way. On the contrary, she avoided every occasion of possible

provocation. Her mother had told her plainly how susceptible men were,

how little their promises meant, how careful she must be of her looks

and actions. In consequence, she went her way as gaily and yet as

inoffensively as she could, trying to avoid the sadness of entrancing

anyone hopelessly and wondering what her career was to be. Then Eugene

appeared.

With his arrival, Suzanne had almost unconsciously entered upon a new

phase of her existence. She had seen all sorts of men in society, but

those who were exclusively social were exceedingly wearisome to her. She

had heard her mother say that it was an important thing to marry money

and some man of high social standing, but who this man was to be and

what he was to be like she did not know. She did not look upon the

typical society men she had encountered as answering suitably to the

term high. She had seen some celebrated wealthy men of influential

families, but they did not appear to her really human enough to be

considered. Most of them were cold, self-opinionated, ultra-artificial

to her easy, poetic spirit. In the realms of real distinction were many

men whom the papers constantly talked about, financiers, politicians,

authors, editors, scientists, some of whom were in society, she

understood, but most of whom were not. She had met a few of them as a

girl might. Most of those she met, or saw, were old and cold and paid no

attention to her whatever. Eugene had appeared trailing an atmosphere of

distinction and acknowledged ability and he was young. He was good

looking, too--laughing and gay. It seemed almost impossible at first to

her that one so young and smiling should be so able, as her mother said.

Afterwards, when she came to know him, she began to feel that he was

more than able; that he could do anything he pleased. She had visited

him once in his office, accompanied by her mother, and she had been

vastly impressed by the great building, its artistic finish, Eugene's

palatial surroundings. Surely he was the most remarkable young man she

had ever known. Then came his incandescent attentions to her, his

glowing, radiant presence and then----

Eugene speculated deeply on how he should proceed. All at once, after

this night, the whole problem of his life came before him. He was

married; he was highly placed socially, better than he had ever been

before. He was connected closely with Colfax, so closely that he feared

him, for Colfax, in spite of certain emotional vagaries of which Eugene

knew, was intensely conventional. Whatever he did was managed in the

most offhand way and with no intention of allowing his home life to be

affected or disrupted. Winfield, whom also Mrs. Dale knew, was also

conventional to outward appearances. He had a mistress, but she was held

tightly in check, he understood. Eugene had seen her at the new casino,

or a portion of it, the East Wing, recently erected at Blue Sea, and he

had been greatly impressed with her beauty. She was smart, daring,

dashing. Eugene looked at her then, wondering if the time would ever

come when he could dare an intimacy of that character. So many married

men did. Would he ever attempt it and succeed?

Now that he had met Suzanne, however, he had a different notion of all

this, and it had come over him all at once. Heretofore in his dreams, he

had fancied he might strike up an emotional relationship somewhere which

would be something like Winfield's towards Miss De Kalb, as she was

known, and so satisfy the weary longing that was in him for something

new and delightful in the way of a sympathetic relationship with beauty.

Since seeing Suzanne, he wanted nothing of this, but only some

readjustment or rearrangement of his life whereby he could have Suzanne

and Suzanne only. Suzanne! Suzanne! Oh, that dream of beauty. How was he

to obtain her, how free his life of all save a beautiful relationship

with her? He could live with her forever and ever. He could, he could!

Oh, this vision, this dream!

It was the Sunday following the dance that Suzanne and Eugene managed to

devise another day together, which, though, it was one of those

semi-accidental, semi-voiceless, but nevertheless not wholly thoughtless

coincidences which sometimes come about without being wholly agreed upon

or understood in the beginning, was nevertheless seized upon by them,

accepted silently and semi-consciously, semi-unconsciously worked out

together. Had they not been very strongly drawn to each other by now,

this would not have happened at all. But they enjoyed it none the less.

To begin with, Mrs. Dale was suffering from a sick headache the morning

after. In the next place, Kinroy suggested to his friends to go for a

lark to South Beach, which was one of the poorest and scrubbiest of all

the beaches on Staten Island. In the next place, Mrs. Dale suggested

that Suzanne be allowed to go and that perhaps Eugene would be amused.

She rather trusted him as a guide and mentor.

Eugene said calmly that he did not object. He was eager to be anywhere

alone with Suzanne, and he fancied that some opportunity would present

itself whereby once they were there, they could be together, but he did

not want to show it. Once more the car was called and they departed,

being let off at one end of a silly panorama which stretched its shabby

length for a mile along the shore. The chauffeur took the car back to

the house, it being agreed that they could reach him by phone. The party

started down the plank walk, but almost immediately, because of

different interests, divided. Eugene and Suzanne stopped to shoot at a

shooting gallery. Next they stopped at a cane rack to ring canes.

Anything was delightful to Eugene which gave him an opportunity to

observe his inamorata, to see her pretty face, her smile, and to hear

her heavenly voice. She rung a cane for him. Every gesture of hers was

perfection; every look a thrill of delight. He was walking in some

elysian realm which had nothing to do with the tawdry evidence of life

about him.

They followed the boardwalk southward, after a ride in the Devil's

Whirlpool, for by now Suzanne was caught in the persuasive subtlety of

his emotion and could no more do as her honest judgment would have

dictated than she could have flown. It needed some shock, some discovery

to show her whither she was drifting and this was absent. They came to a

new dance hall, where a few servant girls and their sweethearts were

dancing, and for a lark Eugene proposed that they should enter. They

danced together again, and though the surroundings were so poor and the

music wretched, Eugene was in heaven.

"Let's run away and go to the Terra-Marine," he suggested, thinking of a

hotel farther south along the shore. "It is so pleasant there. This is

all so cheap."

"Where is it?" asked Suzanne.

"Oh, about three miles south of here. We could almost walk there."

He looked down the long hot beach, but changed his mind.

"I don't mind this," said Suzanne. "It's so very bad that it's good, you

know. I like to see how these people enjoy themselves."

"But it is _so_ bad," argued Eugene. "I wish I had your live, healthy

attitude toward things. Still we won't go if you don't want to."

Suzanne paused, thinking. Should she run away with him? The others would

be looking for them. No doubt they were already wondering where they had

gone. Still it didn't make so much difference. Her mother trusted her

with Eugene. They could go.

"Well," she said finally, "I don't care. Let's."

"What will the others think?" he said doubtfully.

"Oh, they won't mind," she said. "When they're ready, they'll call the

car. They know that I am with you. They know that I can get the car when

I want it. Mama won't mind."

Eugene led the way back to a train which ran to Hugenot, their

destination. He was beside himself with the idea of a day all alone with

Suzanne. He did not stay to consider or give ear to a thought concerning

Angela at home or how Mrs. Dale would view it. Nothing would come of it.

It was not an outrageous adventure. They took the train south, and in a

little while were in another world, on the veranda of a hotel that

overlooked the sea. There were numerous autos of idlers like themselves

in a court before the hotel. There was a great grassy lawn with swings

covered by striped awnings of red and blue and green, and beyond that a

pier with many little white launches anchored near. The sea was as

smooth as glass and great steamers rode in the distance trailing lovely

plumes of smoke. The sun was blazing hot, brilliant, but here on the

cool porch waiters were serving pleasure lovers with food and drink. A

quartette of negroes were singing. Suzanne and Eugene seated themselves

in rockers at first to view the perfect day and later went down and sat

in a swing. Unthinkingly, without words, these two were gradually

gravitating toward each other under some spell which had no relationship

to everyday life. Suzanne looked at him in the double seated swing where

they sat facing each other and they smiled or jested aimlessly, voicing

nothing of all the upward welling deep that was stirring within.

"Was there ever such a day?" said Eugene finally, and in a voice that

was filled with extreme yearning. "See that steamer out there. It looks

like a little toy."

"Yes," said Suzanne with a little gasp. She inhaled her breath as she

pronounced this word which gave it an airy breathlessness which had a

touch of demure pathos in it. "Oh, it is perfect."

"Your hair," he said. "You don't know how nice you look. You fit this

scene exactly."

"Don't speak of me," she pleaded. "I look so tousled. The wind in the

train blew my hair so I ought to go the ladies' dressing room and hunt

up a maid."

"Stay here," said Eugene. "Don't go. It is all so lovely."

"I won't now. I wish we might always sit here. You, just as you are

there, and I here."

"Did you ever read the 'Ode on a Grecian Urn'?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember the lines 'Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst

not leave'?"

"Yes, yes," she answered ecstatically.

"'Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss

Though winning near the goal--yet, do not grieve;

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,

For ever wilt thou love and she be fair.'"

"Don't, don't," she pleaded.

He understood. The pathos of that great thought was too much for her. It

hurt her as it did him. What a mind!

They rocked and swung idly, he pushing with his feet at times in which

labor she joined him. They strolled up the beach and sat down on a green

clump of grass overlooking the sea. Idlers approached and passed. He

laid his arm to her waist and held her hand, but something in her mood

stayed him from any expression. Through dinner at the hotel it was the

same and on the way to the train, for she wanted to walk through the

dark. Under some tall trees, though, in the rich moonlight prevailing,

he pressed her hand.

"Oh, Suzanne," he said.

"No, no," she breathed, drawing back.

"Oh, Suzanne," he repeated, "may I tell you?"

"No, no," she answered. "Don't speak to me. Please don't. Let's just

walk. You and I."

He hushed, for her voice, though sad and fearsome, was imperious. He

could not do less than obey this mood.

They went to a little country farmhouse which ranged along the track in

lieu of a depot, and sang a quaint air from some old-time comic opera.

"Do you remember the first time when you came to play tennis with me?"

he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you know I felt a strange vibration before your coming and all

during your playing. Did you?"

"Yes."

"What is that, Suzanne?"

"I don't know."

"Don't you want to know?"

"No, no, Mr. Witla, not now."

"Mr. Witla?"

"It must be so."

"Oh, Suzanne!"

"Let's just think," she pleaded, "it is so beautiful."

They came to a station near Daleview, and walked over. On the way he

slipped his arm about her waist, but, oh, so lightly.

"Suzanne," he asked, with a terrible yearning ache in his heart, "do you

blame me? Can you?"

"Don't ask me," she pleaded, "not now. No, no."

He tried to press her a little more closely.

"Not now. I don't blame you."

He stopped as they neared the lawn and entered the house with a jesting

air. Explanations about mixing in the crowd and getting lost were easy.

Mrs. Dale smiled good naturedly. Suzanne went to her room.

CHAPTER VIII

Having involved himself thus far, seized upon and made his own this

perfect flower of life, Eugene had but one thought, and that was to

retain it. Now, of a sudden, had fallen from him all the weariness of

years. To be in love again. To be involved in such a love, so wonderful,

so perfect, so exquisite, it did not seem that life could really be so

gracious as to have yielded him so much. What did it all mean, his

upward rise during all these years? There had been seemingly but one

triumph after another since the bitter days in Riverwood and after. The

_World_, Summerfield's, The Kalvin Company, The United Magazine

Corporation, Winfield, his beautiful apartment on the drive. Surely the

gods were good. What did they mean? To give him fame, fortune and

Suzanne into the bargain? Could such a thing really be? How could it be

worked out? Would fate conspire and assist him so that he could be free

of Angela--or----

The thought of Angela to him in these days was a great pain. At bottom

Eugene really did not dislike her, he never had. Years of living with

her had produced an understanding and a relationship as strong and as

keen as it might well be in some respects. Angela had always fancied

since the Riverwood days that she really did not love Eugene truly any

more--could not, that he was too self-centered and selfish; but this on

her part was more of an illusion than a reality. She did care for him in

an unselfish way from one point of view, in that she would sacrifice

everything to his interests. From another point of view it was wholly

selfish, for she wanted him to sacrifice everything for her in return.

This he was not willing to do and had never been. He considered that his

life was a larger thing than could be encompassed by any single

matrimonial relationship. He wanted freedom of action and companionship,

but he was afraid of Angela, afraid of society, in a way afraid of

himself and what positive liberty might do to him. He felt sorry for

Angela--for the intense suffering she would endure if he forced her in

some way to release him--and at the same time he felt sorry for himself.

The lure of beauty had never for one moment during all these years of

upward mounting effort been stilled.

It is curious how things seem to conspire at times to produce a climax.

One would think that tragedies like plants and flowers are planted as

seeds and grow by various means and aids to a terrible maturity. Roses

of hell are some lives, and they shine with all the lustre of infernal

fires.

In the first place Eugene now began to neglect his office work

thoroughly, for he could not fix his mind upon it any more than he could

upon the affairs of the Sea Island Company, or upon his own home and

Angela's illness. The morning after his South Beach experience with

Suzanne and her curious reticence, he saw her for a little while upon

the veranda of Daleview. She was not seemingly depressed, or at least,

not noticeably so, and yet there was a gravity about her which indicated

that a marked impression of some kind had been made upon her soul. She

looked at him with wide frank eyes as she came out to him purposely to

tell him that she was going with her mother and some friends to

Tarrytown for the day.

"I have to go," she said. "Mamma has arranged it by phone."

"Then I won't see you any more here?"

"No."

"Do you love me, Suzanne?"

"Oh, yes, yes," she declared, and walked wearily to an angle of the wall

where they could not be seen.

He followed her quickly, cautiously.

"Kiss me," he said, and she put her lips to his in a distraught

frightened way. Then she turned and walked briskly off and he admired

the robust swinging of her body. She was not tall, like himself, or

small like Angela, but middle sized, full bodied, vigorous. He imagined

now that she had a powerful soul in her, capable of great things, full

of courage and strength. Once she was a little older, she would be very

forceful and full of strong, direct thought.

He did not see her again for nearly ten days, and by that time he was

nearly desperate. He was wondering all the time how he was to arrange

this. He could not go on in this haphazard way, seeing her occasionally.

Why she might leave town for the fall a little later and then what would

he do? If her mother heard she would take her off to Europe and then

would Suzanne forget? What a tragedy that would be! No, before that

should happen, he would run away with her. He would realize all his

investments and get away. He could not live without her. He must have

her at any cost. What did the United Magazine Corporation amount to,

anyway? He was tired of that work. Angela might have the Sea Island

Realty Company's stock, if he could not dispose of it advantageously, or

if he could, he would make provision for her out of what he should

receive. He had some ready money--a few thousand dollars. This and his

art--he could still paint--would sustain them. He would go to England

with Suzanne, or to France. They would be happy if she really loved him

and he thought she did. All this old life could go its way. It was a

dreary thing, anyhow, without love. These were his first thoughts.

Later, he came to have different ones, but this was after he had talked

to Suzanne again. It was a difficult matter to arrange. In a fit of

desperation he called up Daleview one day, and asked if Miss Suzanne

Dale was there. A servant answered, and in answer to the "who shall I

say" he gave the name of a young man that he knew Suzanne knew. When she

answered he said: "Listen, Suzanne! Can you hear very well?"

"Yes."

"Do you recognize my voice?"

"Yes."

"Please don't pronounce my name, will you?"

"No."

"Suzanne, I am crazy to see you. It has been ten days now. Are you going

to be in town long?"

"I don't know. I think so."

"If anyone comes near you, Suzanne, simply hang up the receiver, and I

will understand."

"Yes."

"If I came anywhere near your house in a car, could you come out and see

me?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, Suzanne!"

"I'm not sure. I'll try. What time?"

"Do you know where the old fort road is, at Crystal Lake, just below

you?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where the ice house is near the road there?"

"Yes."

"Could you come there?"

"What time?"

"At eleven tomorrow morning or two this afternoon or three."

"I might at two today."

"Oh, thank you for that. I'll wait for you, anyhow."

"All right. Good-bye."

And she hung up the receiver.

Eugene rejoiced at the fortunate outcome of this effort without thinking

at first of the capable manner in which she had handled the situation.

Truly he said afterwards she must be very courageous to think so

directly and act so quickly, for it must have been very trying to her.

This love of his was so new. Her position was so very difficult. And

yet, on this first call when she had been suddenly put in touch with

him, she had shown no signs of trepidation. Her voice had been firm and

even, much more so than his, for he was nervously excited. She had taken

in the situation at once and fallen into the ruse quite readily. Was she

as simple as she seemed? Yes and no. She was simply capable, he thought

and her capability had acted through her simplicity instantly.

At two the same day Eugene was there. He gave as an excuse to his

secretary that he was going out for a business conference with a

well-known author whose book he wished to obtain, and, calling a closed

auto, but one not his own, journeyed to the rendezvous. He asked the man

to drive down the road, making runs of half a mile to and fro while he

sat in the shade of a clump of trees out of view of the road. Presently

Suzanne came, bright and fresh as the morning, beautiful in a light

purple walking costume of masterly design. She had on a large soft

brimmed hat with long feathers of the same shade which became her

exquisitely. She walked with an air of grace and freedom, and yet when

he looked into her eyes, he saw a touch of trouble there.

"At last?" he said signaling her and smiling. "Come in here. My car is

just up the road. Don't you think we had better get in? It's closed. We

might be seen. How long can you stay?"

He took her in his arms and kissed her eagerly while she explained that

she could not stay long. She had said she was going to the library,

which her mother had endowed, for a book. She must be there by half past

three or four at the least.

"Oh, we can talk a great deal by then," he said gaily. "Here comes the

car. Let's get in."

He looked cautiously about, hailed it, and they stepped in quickly as it

drew up.

"Perth Amboy," said Eugene, and they were off at high speed.

Once in the car all was perfect, for they could not be seen. He drew the

shades partially and took her in his arms.

"Oh, Suzanne," he said, "how long it has seemed. How very long. Do you

love me?"

"Yes, you know I do."

"Suzanne, how shall we arrange this? Are you going away soon? I must see

you oftener."

"I don't know," she said. "I don't know what mama is thinking of doing.

I know she wants to go up to Lenox in the fall."

"Oh, Pshaw!" commented Eugene wearily.

"Listen, Mr. Witla," said Suzanne thoughtfully. "You know we are running

a terrible risk. What if Mrs. Witla should find out, or mama? It would

be terrible."

"I know it," said Eugene. "I suppose I ought not to be acting in this

way. But, oh, Suzanne, I am wild about you. I am not myself any longer.

I don't know what I am. I only know that I love you, love you, love

you!"

He gathered her in his arms and kissed her ecstatically. "How sweet you

look. How beautiful you are. Oh, flower face! Myrtle Bloom! Angel Eyes!

Divine Fire!" He hugged her in a long silent embrace, the while the car

sped on.

"But what about us?" she asked, wide-eyed. "You know we are running a

terrible risk. I was just thinking this morning when you called me up.

It's dangerous, you know."

"Are you becoming sorry, Suzanne?"

"No."

"Do you love me?"

"You know I do."

"Then you will help me figure this out?"

"I want to. But listen, Mr. Witla, now listen to me. I want to tell you

something." She was very solemn and quaint and sweet in this mood.

"I will listen to anything, baby mine, but don't call me Mr. Witla. Call

me Eugene, will you?"

"Well, now, listen to me, Mr.--Mr.--Eugene."

"Not Mr. Eugene, just Eugene. Now say it. Eugene," he quoted his own

name to her.

"Now listen to me, Mr.--now, listen to me, Eugene," she at last forced

herself to say, and Eugene stopped her lips with his mouth.

"There," he said.

"Now listen to me," she went on urgently, "you know I am afraid mama

will be terribly angry if she finds this out."

"Oh, will she?" interrupted Eugene jocosely.

Suzanne paid no attention to him.

"We have to be very careful. She likes you so much now that if she

doesn't come across anything direct, she will never think of anything.

She was talking about you only this morning."

"What was she saying?"

"Oh, what a nice man you are, and how able you are."

"Oh, nothing like that," replied Eugene jestingly.

"Yes, she did. And I think Mrs. Witla likes me. I can meet you sometimes

when I'm there, but we must be so careful. I mustn't stay out long

today. I want to think things out, too. You know I'm having a real hard

time thinking about this."

Eugene smiled. Her innocence was so delightful to him, so naive.

"What do you mean by thinking things out, Suzanne?" asked Eugene

curiously. He was interested in the workings of her young mind, which

seemed so fresh and wonderful to him. It was so delightful to find this

paragon of beauty so responsive, so affectionate and helpful and withal

so thoughtful. She was somewhat like a delightful toy to him, and he

held her as reverently in awe as though she were a priceless vase.

"You know I want to think what I'm doing. I have to. It seems so

terrible to me at times and yet you know, you know----"

"I know what?" he asked, when she paused.

"I don't know why I shouldn't if I want to--if I love you."

Eugene looked at her curiously. This attempt at analysis of life,

particularly in relation to so trying and daring a situation as this,

astonished him. He had fancied Suzanne more or less thoughtless and

harmless as yet, big potentially, but uncertain and vague. Here she was

thinking about this most difficult problem almost more directly than he

was and apparently with more courage. He was astounded, but more than

that, intensely interested. What had become of her terrific fright of

ten days before? What was it she was thinking about exactly?

"What a curious girl you are," he said.

"Why am I?" she asked.

"Because you are. I didn't think you could think so keenly yet. I

thought you would some day. But, how have you reasoned this out?"

"Did you ever read 'Anna Karenina'?" she asked him meditatively.

"Yes," he said, wondering that she should have read it at her age.

"What did you think of that?"

"Oh, it shows what happens, as a rule, when you fly in the face of

convention," he said easily, wondering at the ability of her brain.

"Do you think things must happen that way?"

"No, I don't think they must happen that way. There are lots of cases

where people do go against the conventions and succeed. I don't know. It

appears to be all a matter of time and chance. Some do and some don't.

If you are strong enough or clever enough to 'get away with it,' as they

say, you will. If you aren't, you won't. What makes you ask?"

"Well," she said, pausing, her lips parted, her eyes fixed on the floor,

"I was thinking that it needn't necessarily be like that, do you think?

It could be different?"

"Yes, it could be," he said thoughtfully, wondering if it really could.

"Because if it couldn't," she went on, "the price would be too high. It

isn't worth while."

"You mean, you mean," he said, looking at her, "that you would." He was

thinking that she was deliberately contemplating making a sacrifice of

herself for him. Something in her thoughtful, self-debating, meditative

manner made him think so.

Suzanne looked out of the window and slowly nodded her head. "Yes," she

said, solemnly, "if it could be arranged. Why not? I don't see why."

Her face was a perfect blossom of beauty, as she spoke. Eugene wondered

whether he was waking or sleeping. Suzanne reasoning so! Suzanne reading

"Anna Karenina" and philosophizing so! Basing a course of action on

theorizing in connection with books and life, and in the face of such

terrible evidence as "Anna Karenina" presented to the contrary of this

proposition. Would wonders ever cease?

"You know," she said after a time, "I think mama wouldn't mind, Eugene.

She likes you. I've heard her say so lots of times. Besides I've heard

her talk this way about other people. She thinks people oughtn't to

marry unless they love each other very much. I don't think she thinks

it's necessary for people to marry at all unless they want to. We might

live together if we wished, you know."

Eugene himself had heard Mrs. Dale question the marriage system, but

only in a philosophic way. He did not take much stock in her social

maunderings. He did not know what she might be privately saying to

Suzanne, but he did not believe it could be very radical, or at least

seriously so.

"Don't you take any stock in what your mother says, Suzanne," he

observed, studying her pretty face. "She doesn't mean it, at least, she

doesn't mean it as far as you are concerned. She's merely talking. If

she thought anything were going to happen to you, she'd change her mind

pretty quick."

"No, I don't think so," replied Suzanne thoughtfully. "You know, I think

I know mama better than she knows herself. She always talks of me as a

little girl, but I can rule her in lots of things. I've done it."

Eugene stared at Suzanne in amazement. He could scarcely believe his

ears. She was beginning so early to think so deeply on the social and

executive sides of life. Why should her mind be trying to dominate her

mother's?

"Suzanne," he observed, "you must be careful what you do or say. Don't

rush into talking of this pellmell. It's dangerous. I love you, but we

shall have to go slow. If Mrs. Witla should learn of this, she would be

crazy. If your mother should suspect, she would take you away to Europe

somewhere, very likely. Then I wouldn't get to see you at all."

"Oh, no, she wouldn't," replied Suzanne determinedly. "You know, I know

mama better than you think I do. I can rule her, I tell you. I know I

can. I've done it."

She tossed her head in an exquisitely pretty way which upset Eugene's

reasoning faculties. He could not think and look at her.

"Suzanne," he said, drawing her to him. "You are exquisite, extreme, the

last word in womanhood for me. To think of your reasoning so--you,

Suzanne."

"Why, why," she asked, with pretty parted lips and uplifted eyebrows,

"why shouldn't I think?"

"Oh, yes, certainly, we all do, but not so deeply, necessarily, Flower

Face."

"Well, we must think now," she said simply.

"Yes, we must think now," he replied; "would you really share a studio

with me if I were to take one? I don't know of any other way quite at

present."

"I would, if I knew how to manage it," she replied. "Mama is queer.

She's so watchful. She thinks I'm a child and you know I am not at all.

I don't understand mama. She talks one thing and does another. I would

rather do and not talk. Don't you think so?" He stared. "Still, I think

I can fix it. Leave it to me."

"And if you can you'll come to me?"

"Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Suzanne ecstatically, turning to him all at

once and catching his face between her hands. "Oh!"--she looked into his

eyes and dreamed.

"But we must be careful," he cautioned. "We musn't do anything rash."

"I won't," said Suzanne.

"And I won't, of course," he replied.

They paused again while he watched her.

"I might make friends with Mrs. Witla," she observed, after a time. "She

likes me, doesn't she?"

"Yes," said Eugene.

"Mama doesn't object to my going up there, and I could let you know."

"That's all right. Do that," said Eugene. "Oh, please do, if you can.

Did you notice whose name I used today?"

"Yes," she said. "You know Mr. Witla, Eugene, I thought you might call

me up?"

"Did you?" he asked, smiling.

"Yes."

"You give me courage, Suzanne," he said, drawing close to her. "You're

so confident, so apparently carefree. The world hasn't touched your

spirit."

"When I'm away from you, though, I'm not so courageous," she replied.

"I've been thinking terrible things. I get frightened sometimes."

"But you mustn't, sweet, I need you so. Oh, how I need you."

She looked at him, and for the first time smoothed his hair with her

hand.

"You know, Eugene, you're just like a boy to me."

"Do I seem so?" he asked, comforted greatly.

"I couldn't love you as I do if you weren't."

He drew her to him again and kissed her anew.

"Can't we repeat these rides every few days?" he asked.

"Yes, if I'm here, maybe."

"It's all right to call you up if I use another name?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Let's choose new names for each, so that we'll know who's calling. You

shall be Jenny Lind and I Allan Poe." Then they fell to ardent

love-making until the time came when they had to return. For him, so far

as work was concerned, the afternoon was gone.

CHAPTER IX

There followed now a series of meetings contrived with difficulty,

fraught with danger, destructive of his peace of mind, of his recently

acquired sense of moral and commercial responsibility, of the sense of

singleness of purpose and interest in his editorial and publishing

world, which had helped him so much recently. The meetings nevertheless

were full of such intense bliss for him that it seemed as though he were

a thousand times repaid for all the subtlety and folly he was

practicing. There were times when he came to the ice house in a hired

car, others when she notified him by phone or note to his office of

times when she was coming in to town to stay. He took her in his car one

afternoon to Blue Sea when he was sure no one would encounter him. He

persuaded Suzanne to carry a heavy veil, which could be adjusted at odd

moments. Another time--several, in fact she came to the apartment in

Riverside Drive, ostensibly to see how Mrs. Witla was getting along, but

really, of course, to see Eugene. Suzanne did not really care so much

for Angela, although she did not dislike her. She thought she was an

interesting woman, though perhaps not a happy mate for Eugene. The

latter had told her not so much that he was unhappy as that he was out

of love. He loved her now, Suzanne, and only her.

The problem as to where this relationship was to lead to was complicated

by another problem, which Eugene knew nothing of, but which was

exceedingly important. For Angela, following the career of Eugene with

extreme pleasure and satisfaction on the commercial side, and fear and

distrust on the social and emotional sides, had finally decided to risk

the uncertain outcome of a child in connection with Eugene and herself,

and to give him something which would steady his life and make him

realize his responsibilities and offer him something gladdening besides

social entertainment and the lure of beauty in youth. She had never

forgotten the advice which Mrs. Sanifore and her physician had given her

in Philadelphia, nor had she ever ceased her cogitations as to what the

probable effect of a child would be. Eugene needed something of this

sort to balance him. His position in the world was too tenuous, his

temperament too variable. A child--a little girl, she hoped, for he

always liked little girls and made much of them--would quiet him. If she

could only have a little girl now!

Some two months before her illness, while Eugene was becoming, all

unsuspected by her, so frenzied about Suzanne, she had relaxed, or

rather abandoned, her old-time precautions entirely, and had recently

begun to suspect that her fears, or hopes, or both, were about to be

realized. Owing to her subsequent illness and its effect on her heart,

she was not very happy now. She was naturally very uncertain as to the

outcome as well as to how Eugene would take it. He had never expressed a

desire for a child, but she had no thought of telling him as yet, for

she wanted to be absolutely sure. If she were not correct in her

suspicions, and got well, he would attempt to dissuade her for the

future. If she were, he could not help himself. Like all women in that

condition, she was beginning to long for sympathy and consideration and

to note more keenly the drift of Eugene's mind toward a world which did

not very much concern her. His interest in Suzanne had puzzled her a

little, though she was not greatly troubled about her because Mrs. Dale

appeared to be so thoughtful about her daughter. Times were changing.

Eugene had been going out much alone. A child would help. It was high

time it came.

When Suzanne had started coming with her mother, Angela thought nothing

of it; but on the several occasions when Suzanne called during her

illness, and Eugene had been present, she felt as though there might

easily spring up something between them. Suzanne was so charming. Once

as she lay thinking after Suzanne had left the room to go into the

studio for a few moments, she heard Eugene jesting with her and laughing

keenly. Suzanne's laugh, or gurgling giggle, was most infectious. It was

so easy, too, for Eugene to make her laugh, for his type of jesting was

to her the essence of fun. It seemed to her that there was something

almost overgay in the way they carried on. On each occasion when she was

present, Eugene proposed that he take Suzanne home in his car, and this

set her thinking.

There came a time when, Angela being well enough from her rheumatic

attack, Eugene invited a famous singer, a tenor, who had a charming

repertoire of songs, to come to his apartment and sing. He had met him

at a social affair in Brooklyn with which Winfield had something to do.

A number of people were invited--Mrs. Dale, Suzanne, and Kinroy, among

others; but Mrs. Dale could not come, and as Suzanne had an appointment

for the next morning, Sunday, in the city, she decided to stay at the

Witlas. This pleased Eugene immensely. He had bought a sketching book

which he had begun to fill with sketches of Suzanne from memory and

these he wanted to show her. Besides, he wanted her to hear this

singer's beautiful voice.

The company was interesting. Kinroy brought Suzanne early and left.

Eugene and Suzanne, after she had exchanged greetings with Angela, sat

out on the little stone balcony overlooking the river and exchanged

loving thoughts. He was constantly holding her hand when no one was

looking and stealing kisses. After a time the company began to arrive,

and finally the singer himself. The trained nurse, with Eugene's

assistance, helped Angela forward, who listened enraptured to the songs.

Suzanne and Eugene, swept by the charm of some of them, looked at each

other with that burning gaze which love alone understands. To Eugene

Suzanne's face was a perfect flower of hypnotic influence. He could

scarcely keep his eyes off her for a moment at a time. The singer

ceased, the company departed. Angela was left crying over the beauty of

"The Erlking," the last song rendered. She went back to her room, and

Suzanne ostensibly departed for hers. She came out to say a few final

words to Mrs. Witla, then came through the studio to go to her own room

again. Eugene was there waiting. He caught her in his arms, kissing her

silently. They pretended to strike up a conventional conversation, and

he invited her to sit out on the stone balcony for a few last moments.

The moon was so beautiful over the river.

"Don't!" she said, when he gathered her in his arms, in the shadow of

the night outside. "She might come."

"No," he said eagerly.

They listened, but there was no sound. He began an easy pretence to

talk, the while stroking her pretty arm, which was bare. Insanity over

her beauty, the loveliness of the night, the charm of the music, had put

him beside himself. He drew her into his arms in spite of her protest,

only to have Angela suddenly appear at the other end of the room where

the door was. There was no concealing anything she saw. She came rapidly

forward, even as Suzanne jumped up, a sickening rage in her heart, a

sense of her personal condition strong in her mind, a sense of something

terrible and climacteric in the very air, but she was still too ill to

risk a great demonstration or to declare herself fully. It seemed now

once more the whole world had fallen about her ears, for because of her

plans and in spite of all her suspicions, she had not been ready to

believe that Eugene would really trespass again. She had come to

surprise him, if possible, but she had not actually expected to, had

hoped not to. Here was this beautiful girl, the victim of his wiles, and

here was she involved by her own planning, while Eugene, shame-faced,

she supposed, stood by ready to have this ridiculous liaison nipped in

the bud. She did not propose to expose herself to Suzanne if she could

help it, but sorrow for herself, shame for him, pity for Suzanne in a

way, the desire to preserve the shell of appearances, which was now,

after this, so utterly empty for her though so important for the child,

caused her to swell with her old-time rage, and yet to hold it in check.

Six years before she would have raged to his face, but time had softened

her in this respect. She did not see the value of brutal words.

"Suzanne," she said, standing erect in the filtered gloom of the room

which was still irradiated by the light of the moon in the west, "how

could you! I thought so much better of you."

Her face, thinned by her long illness and her brooding over her present

condition, was still beautiful in a spiritual way. She wore a pale

yellow and white flowered dressing gown of filmy, lacy texture, and her

long hair, done in braids by the nurse, was hanging down her back like

the Gretchen she was to him years before. Her hands were thin and pale,

but artistic, and her face drawn in all the wearisome agony of a mater

dolorosa.

"Why, why," exclaimed Suzanne, terribly shaken out of her natural fine

poise for the moment but not forgetful of the dominating thought in her

mind, "I love him; that's why, Mrs. Witla."

"Oh, no, you don't! you only think you love him, as so many women have

before you, Suzanne," said Angela frozenly, the thought of the coming

child always with her. If she had only told him before! "Oh, shame, in

my house, and you a young, supposedly innocent girl! What do you suppose

your mother would think if I should call her up and tell her now? Or

your brother? You knew he was a married man. I might excuse you if it

weren't for that if you hadn't known me and hadn't accepted my

hospitality. As for him, there is no need of my talking to him. This is

an old story with him, Suzanne. He has done this with other women before

you, and he will do it with other women after you. It is one of the

things I have to bear for having married a man of so-called talent.

Don't think, Suzanne, when you tell me you love him, that you tell me

anything new. I have heard that story before from other women. You are

not the first, and you will not be the last."

Suzanne looked at Eugene inquiringly, vaguely, helplessly, wondering if

all this were so.

Eugene hardened under Angela's cutting accusation, but he was not at all

sure at first what he ought to do. He wondered for the moment whether he

ought not to abandon Suzanne and fall back into his old state, dreary as

it might seem to him; but the sight of her pretty face, the sound of

Angela's cutting voice, determined him quickly. "Angela," he began,

recovering his composure the while Suzanne contemplated him, "why do you

talk that way? You know that what you say isn't true. There was one

other woman. I will tell Suzanne about her. There were several before I

married you. I will tell her about them. But my life is a shell, and you

know it. This apartment is a shell. Absolutely it means nothing at all

to me. There has been no love between us, certainly not on my part, for

years, and you know that. You have practically confessed to me from time

to time that you do not care for me. I haven't deceived this girl. I am

glad to tell her now how things stand."

"How things stand! How things stand!" exclaimed Angela, blazing and

forgetting herself for the moment. "Will you tell her what an excellent,

faithful husband you have made me? Will you tell her how honestly you

have kept your word pledged to me at the altar? Will you tell her how I

have worked and sacrificed for you through all these years? How I have

been repaid by just such things as this? I'm sorry for you, Suzanne,

more than anything else," went on Angela, wondering whether she should

tell Eugene here and now of her condition but fearing he would not

believe it. It seemed so much like melodrama. "You are just a silly

little girl duped by an expert man, who thinks he loves you for a little

while, but who really doesn't. He will get over it. Tell me frankly what

do you expect to get out of it all? You can't marry him. I won't give

him a divorce. I can't, as he will know later, and he has no grounds for

obtaining one. Do you expect to be his mistress? You have no hope of

ever being anything else. Isn't that a nice ambition for a girl of your

standing? And you are supposed to be virtuous! Oh, I am ashamed of you,

if you are not! I am sorry for your mother. I am astonished to think

that you would so belittle yourself."

Suzanne had heard the "I can't," but she really did not know how to

interpret it. It had never occurred to her that there could ever be a

child here to complicate matters. Eugene told her that he was unhappy,

that there was nothing between him and Angela and never could be.

"But I love him, Mrs. Witla," said Suzanne simply and rather

dramatically. She was tense, erect, pale and decidedly beautiful. It was

a great problem to have so quickly laid upon her shoulders.

"Don't talk nonsense, Suzanne!" said Angela angrily and desperately.

"Don't deceive yourself and stick to a silly pose. You are acting now.

You're talking as you think you ought to talk, as you have seen people

talk in plays. This is my husband. You are in my home. Come, get your

things. I will call up your mother and tell her how things stand, and

she will send her auto for you."

"Oh, no," said Suzanne, "you can't do that! I can't go back there, if

you tell her. I must go out in the world and get something to do until I

can straighten out my own affairs. I won't be able to go home any more.

Oh, what shall I do?"

"Be calm, Suzanne," said Eugene determinedly, taking her hand and

looking at Angela defiantly. "She isn't going to call up your mother,

and she isn't going to tell your mother. You are going to stay here, as

you intended, and tomorrow you are going where you thought you were

going."

"Oh, no, she isn't!" said Angela angrily, starting for the phone. "She

is going home. I'm going to call her mother."

Suzanne stirred nervously. Eugene put his hand in hers to reassure her.

"Oh, no, you aren't," he said determinedly. "She isn't going home, and

you are not going to touch that phone. If you do, a number of things are

going to happen, and they are going to happen quick."

He moved between her and the telephone receiver, which hung in the hall

outside the studio and toward which she was edging.

Angela paused at the ominous note in his voice, the determined quality

of his attitude. She was surprised and amazed at the almost rough manner

in which he put her aside. He had taken Suzanne's hand, he, her husband,

and was begging her to be calm.

"Oh, Eugene," said Angela desperately, frightened and horrified, her

anger half melted in her fears, "you don't know what you are doing!

Suzanne doesn't. She won't want anything to do with you when she does.

Young as she is, she will have too much womanhood."

"What are you talking about?" asked Eugene desperately. He had no idea

of what Angela was driving at, not the faintest suspicion. "What are you

talking about?" he repeated grimly.

"Let me say just one word to you alone, not here before Suzanne, just

one, and then perhaps you will be willing to let her go home tonight."

Angela was subtle in this, a little bit wicked. She was not using her

advantage in exactly the right spirit.

"What is it?" demanded Eugene sourly, expecting some trick. He had so

long gnawed at the chains which bound him that the thought of any

additional lengths which might be forged irritated him greatly. "Why

can't you tell it here? What difference can it make?"

"It ought to make all the difference in the world. Let me say it to you

alone."

Suzanne, who wondered what it could be, walked away. She was wondering

what it was that Angela had to tell. The latter's manner was not exactly

suggestive of the weighty secret she bore. When Suzanne was gone, Angela

whispered to him.

"It's a lie!" said Eugene vigorously, desperately, hopelessly. "It's

something you've trumped up for the occasion. It's just like you to say

that, to do it! Pah! I don't believe it. It's a lie! It's a lie! You

know it's a lie!"

"It's the truth!" said Angela angrily, pathetically, outraged in her

every nerve and thought by the reception which this fact had received,

and desperate to think that the announcement of a coming child by him

should be received in this manner under such circumstances that it

should be forced from her as a last resort, only to be received with

derision and scorn. "It's the truth, and you ought to be ashamed to say

that to me. What can I expect from a man, though, who would introduce

another woman into his own home as you have tonight?" To think that she

should be reduced to such a situation as this so suddenly! It was

impossible to argue it with him here. She was ashamed now that she had

introduced it at this time. He would not believe her, anyhow now, she

saw that. It only enraged him and her. He was too wild. This seemed to

infuriate him--to condemn her in his mind as a trickster and a sharper,

someone who was using unfair means to hold him. He almost jumped away

from her in disgust, and she realized that she had struck an awful blow

which apparently, to him, had some elements of unfairness in it.

"Won't you have the decency after this to send her away?" she pleaded

aloud, angrily, eagerly, bitterly.

Eugene was absolutely in a fury of feeling. If ever he thoroughly hated

and despised Angela, he did so at that moment. To think that she should

have done anything like this! To think that she should have complicated

this problem of weariness of her with a thing like this! How cheap it

was, how shabby! It showed the measure of the woman, to bring a child

into the world, regardless of the interests of the child, in order to

hold him against his will. Damn! Hell! God damn such a complicated,

rotten world! No, she was lying. She could not hold him that way. It was

a horrible, low, vile trick. He would have nothing to do with her. He

would show her. He would leave her. He would show her that this sort of

thing would not work with him. It was like every other petty thing she

had ever done. Never, never, never, would he let this stand in the way.

Oh, what a mean, cruel, wretched thing to do!

Suzanne came back while they were arguing. She half suspected what it

was all about, but she did not dare to act or think clearly. The events

of this night were too numerous, too complicated. Eugene had said so

forcibly it was a lie whatever it was, that she half believed him. That

was a sign surely of the little affection that existed between him and

Angela. Angela was not crying. Her face was hard, white, drawn.

"I can't stay here," said Suzanne dramatically to Eugene. "I will go

somewhere. I had better go to a hotel for the night. Will you call a

car?"

"Listen to me, Suzanne," said Eugene vigorously and determinedly. "You

love me, don't you?"

"You know I do," she replied.

Angela stirred sneeringly.

"Then you will stay here. I want you to pay no attention to anything she

may say or declare. She has told me a lie tonight. I know why. Don't let

her deceive you. Go to your room and your bed. I want to talk to you

tomorrow. There is no need of your leaving tonight. There is plenty of

room here. It's silly. You're here now--stay."

"But I don't think I'd better stay," said Suzanne nervously.

Eugene took her hand reassuringly.

"Listen to me," he began.

"But she won't stay," said Angela.

"But she will," said Eugene; "and if she don't stay, she goes with me. I

will take her home."

"Oh, no, you won't!" replied Angela.

"Listen," said Eugene angrily. "This isn't six years ago, but now. I'm

master of this situation, and she stays here. She stays here, or she

goes with me and you look to the future as best you may. I love her. I'm

not going to give her up, and if you want to make trouble, begin now.

The house comes down on your head, not mine."

"Oh!" said Angela, half terrified, "what do I hear?"

"Just that. Now you go to your room. Suzanne will go to hers. I will go

to mine. We will not have any more fighting here tonight. The jig is up.

The die is cast. I'm through. Suzanne comes to me, if she will."

Angela walked to her room through the studio, stricken by the turn

things had taken, horrified by the thoughts in her mind, unable to

convince Eugene, unable to depose Suzanne, her throat dry and hot, her

hands shaking, her heart beating fitfully; she felt as if her brain

would burst, her heart break actually, not emotionally. She thought

Eugene had gone crazy, and yet now, for the first time in her married

life, she realized what a terrible mistake she had made in always trying

to drive him. It hadn't worked tonight, her rage, her domineering,

critical attitude. It had failed her completely, and also this scheme,

this beautiful plan, this trump card on which she had placed so much

reliance for a happy life, this child which she had hoped to play so

effectively. He didn't believe her. He wouldn't even admit its

possibility. He didn't admire her for it. He despised her! He looked on

it as a trick. Oh, what an unfortunate thing it had been to mention it!

And yet Suzanne must understand, she must know, she would never

countenance anything like this. But what would he do? He was positively

livid with rage. What fine auspices these were under which to usher a

child into the world! She stared feverishly before her, and finally

began to cry hopelessly.

Eugene stood in the hall beside Suzanne after she had gone. His face was

drawn, his eyes hunted, his hair tousled. He looked grim and determined

in his way, stronger than he had ever looked before.

"Suzanne," he said, taking the latter by her two arms and staring into

her eyes, "she has told me a lie, a lie, a cold, mean, cruel lie. She'll

tell it you shortly. She says she is with child by me. It isn't so. She

couldn't have one. If she did, it would kill her. She would have had one

long ago if she could have. I know her. She thinks this will frighten

me. She thinks it will drive you away. Will it? It's a lie, do you hear

me, whatever she says. It's a lie, and she knows it. Ough!" He dropped

her left arm and pulled at his neck. "I can't stand this. You won't

leave me. You won't believe her, will you?"

Suzanne stared into his distraught face, his handsome, desperate,

significant eyes. She saw the woe there, the agony, and was sympathetic.

He seemed wonderfully worthy of love, unhappy, unfortunately pursued;

and yet she was frightened. Still she had promised to love him.

"No," she said fixedly, her eyes speaking a dramatic confidence.

"You won't leave here tonight?"

"No."

She smoothed his cheek with her hand.

"You will come and walk with me in the morning? I have to talk with

you."

"Yes."

"Don't be afraid. Just lock your door if you are. She won't bother you.

She won't do anything. She is afraid of me. She may want to talk with

you, but I am close by. Do you still love me?"

"Yes."

"Will you come to me if I can arrange it?"

"Yes."

"Even in the face of what she says?"

"Yes; I don't believe her. I believe you. What difference could it make,

anyhow? You don't love her."

"No," he said; "no, no, no! I never have." He drew her into his arms

wearily, relievedly. "Oh, Flower Face," he said, "don't give me up!

Don't grieve. Try not to, anyhow. I have been bad, as she says, but I

love you. I love you, and I will stake all on that. If all this must

fall about our heads, then let it fall. I love you."

Suzanne stroked his cheek with her hands nervously. She was deathly

pale, frightened, but somehow courageous through it all. She caught

strength from his love.

"I love you," she said.

"Yes," he replied. "You won't give me up?"

"No, I won't," she said, not really understanding the depth of her own

mood. "I will be true."

"Things will be better tomorrow," he said, somewhat more quietly. "We

will be calmer. We will walk and talk. You won't leave without me?"

"No."

"Please don't; for I love you, and we must talk and plan."

CHAPTER X

The introduction of this astonishing fact in connection with Angela was

so unexpected, so morally diverting and peculiar that though Eugene

denied it, half believed she was lying, he was harassed by the thought

that she might be telling the truth. It was so unfair, though, was all

he could think, so unkind! It never occurred to him that it was

accidental, as indeed it was not, but only that it was a trick, sharp,

cunning, ill-timed for him, just the thing calculated to blast his

career and tie him down to the old regime when he wanted most to be

free. A new life was dawning for him now. For the first time in his life

he was to have a woman after his own heart, so young, so beautiful, so

intellectual, so artistic! With Suzanne by his side, he was about to

plumb the depths of all the joys of living. Without her, life was to be

dark and dreary, and here was Angela coming forward at the critical

moment disrupting this dream as best she could by the introduction of a

child that she did not want, and all to hold him against his will. If

ever he hated her for trickery and sharp dealing, he did so now. What

would the effect on Suzanne be? How would he convince her that it was a

trick? She must understand; she would. She would not let this miserable

piece of chicanery stand between him and her. He turned in his bed

wearily after he had gone to it, but he could not sleep. He had to say

something, do something. So he arose, slipped on a dressing gown, and

went to Angela's room.

That distraught soul, for all her determination and fighting capacity,

was enduring for the second time in her life the fires of hell. To think

that in spite of all her work, her dreams, this recent effort to bring

about peace and happiness, perhaps at the expense of her own life, she

was compelled to witness a scene like this. Eugene was trying to get

free. He was obviously determined to do so. This scandalous

relationship, when had it begun? Would her effort to hold him fail? It

looked that way, and yet surely Suzanne, when she knew, when she

understood, would leave him. Any woman would.

Her head ached, her hands were hot, she fancied she might be suffering a

terrible nightmare, she was so sick and weak; but, no, this was her

room. A little while ago she was sitting in her husband's studio,

surrounded by friends, the object of much solicitude, Eugene apparently

considerate and thoughtful of her, a beautiful programme being rendered

for their special benefit. Now she was lying here in her room, a

despised wife, an outcast from affection and happiness, the victim of

some horrible sorcery of fate whereby another woman stood in her place

in Eugene's affection. To see Suzanne, proud in her young beauty,

confronting her with bold eyes, holding her husband's hand, saying in

what seemed to her to be brutal, or insane, or silly melodramatic

make-believe, "But I love him, Mrs. Witla," was maddening. Oh, God! Oh,

God! Would her tortures never cease? Must all her beautiful dreams come

to nothing? Would Eugene leave her, as he so violently said a little

while ago? She had never seen him like this. It was terrible to see him

so determined, so cold and brutal. His voice had actually been harsh and

guttural, something she had never known before in him.

She trembled as she thought, and then great flashes of rage swept her

only to be replaced by rushes of fear. She was in such a terrific

position. The woman was with him, young, defiant, beautiful. She had

heard him call to her, had heard them talking. Once she thought that now

would be the time to murder him, Suzanne, herself, the coming life and

end it all; but at this critical moment, having been sick and having

grown so much older, with this problem of the coming life before her,

she had no chart to go by. She tried to console herself with the thought

that he must abandon his course, that he would when the true force of

what she had revealed had had time to sink home; but it had not had time

yet. Would it before he did anything rash? Would it before he had

completely compromised himself and Suzanne? Judging from her talk and

his, he had not as yet, or she thought not. What was he going to do?

What was he going to do?

Angela feared as she lay there that in spite of her revelation he might

really leave her immediately. There might readily spring a terrible

public scandal out of all this. The mockery of their lives laid bare;

the fate of the child jeopardized; Eugene, Suzanne, and herself

disgraced, though she had little thought for Suzanne. Suzanne might get

him, after all. She might accidentally be just hard and cold enough. The

world might possibly forgive him. She herself might die! What an end,

after all her dreams of something bigger, better, surer! Oh, the pity,

the agony of this! The terror and horror of a wrecked life!

And then Eugene came into the room.

He was haggard, stormy-eyed, thoughtful, melancholy, as he entered. He

stood in the doorway first, intent, then clicked a little night-lamp

button which threw on a very small incandescent light near the head of

Angela's bed, and then sat down in a rocking-chair which the nurse had

placed near the medicine table. Angela had so much improved that no

night nurse was needed--only a twelve-hour one.

"Well," he said solemnly but coldly, when he saw her pale, distraught,

much of her old, youthful beauty still with her, "you think you have

scored a splendid trick, don't you? You think you have sprung a trap? I

simply came in here to tell you that you haven't--that you have only

seen the beginning of the end. You say you are going to have a child. I

don't believe it. It's a lie, and you know it's a lie. You saw that

there was an end coming to all this state of weariness some time, and

this is your answer. Well, you've played one trick too many, and you've

played it in vain. You lose. I win this time. I'm going to be free now,

I want to say to you, and I am going to be free if I have to turn

everything upside down. I don't care if there were seventeen prospective

children instead of one. It's a lie, in the first place; but if it

isn't, it's a trick, and I'm not going to be tricked any longer. I've

had all I want of domination and trickery and cheap ideas. I'm through

now, do you hear me? I'm through."

He felt his forehead with a nervous hand. His head ached, he was half

sick. This was such a dreary pit to find himself in, this pit of

matrimony, chained by a domineering wife and a trickily manoeuvred

child. His child! What a mockery at this stage of his life! How he hated

the thought of that sort of thing, how cheap it all seemed!

Angela, who was wide-eyed, flushed, exhausted, lying staring on her

pillow, asked in a weary, indifferent voice: "What do you want me to do,

Eugene, leave you?"

"I'll tell you, Angela," he said sepulchrally, "I don't know what I want

you to do just at this moment. The old life is all over. It's as dead as

dead can be. For eleven or twelve years now I have lived with you,

knowing all the while that I was living a lie. I have never really loved

you since we were married. You know that. I may have loved you in the

beginning, yes, I did, and at Blackwood, but that was a long, long while

ago. I never should have married you. It was a mistake, but I did, and

I've paid for it, inch by inch. You have, too. You have insisted all

along that I ought to love you. You have browbeaten and abused me for

something I could no more do than I could fly. Now, at this last minute,

you introduce a child to hold me. I know why you have done it. You

imagine that in some way you have been appointed by God to be my mentor

and guardian. Well, I tell you now that you haven't. It's all over. If

there were fifty children, it's all over. Suzanne isn't going to believe

any such cheap story as that, and if she did she wouldn't leave me. She

knows why you do it. All the days of weariness are over for me, all the

days of being afraid. I'm not an ordinary man, and I'm not going to live

an ordinary life. You have always insisted on holding me down to the

little, cheap conventions as you have understood them. Out in Wisconsin,

out in Blackwood. Nothing doing. It's all over from now on. Everything's

over. This house, my job, my real estate deal--everything. I don't care

what your condition is. I love this girl in there, and I'm going to have

her. Do you hear me? I love her, and I'm going to have her. She's mine.

She suits me. I love her, and no power under God is going to stay me.

Now you think this child proposition you have fixed up is going to stay

me, but you are going to find out that it can't, that it won't. It's a

trick, and I know it, and you know it. It's too late. It might have last

year, or two years ago, or three, but it won't work now. You have played

your last card. That girl in there belongs to me, and I'm going to have

her."

Again he smoothed his face in a weary way, pausing to sway the least bit

in his chair. His teeth were set, his eyes hard. Consciously he realized

that it was a terrible situation that confronted him, hard to wrestle

with.

Angela gazed at him with the eyes of one who is not quite sure that she

even sees aright. She knew that Eugene had developed. He had become

stronger, more urgent, more defiant, during all these years in which he

had been going upward. He was no more like the Eugene who had clung to

her for companionship in the dark days at Biloxi and elsewhere than a

child is like a grown man. He was harder, easier in his manner, more

indifferent, and yet, until now, there had never been a want of traces

of the old Eugene. What had become of them so suddenly? Why was he so

raging, so bitter? This girl, this foolish, silly, selfish girl, with

her Circe gift of beauty, by tolerance of his suit, by yielding, perhaps

by throwing herself at Eugene's head, had done this thing. She had drawn

him away from her in spite of the fact that they had appeared to be

happily mated. Suzanne did not know that they were not. In this mood he

might actually leave her, even as she was, with child. It depended on

the girl. Unless she could influence her, unless she could bring

pressure to bear in some way, Eugene might readily be lost to her, and

then what a tragedy! She could not afford to have him go now. Why, in

six months----! She shivered at the thought of all the misery a

separation would entail. His position, their child, society, this

apartment. Dear God, it would drive her crazy if he were to desert her

now!

"Oh, Eugene," she said quite sadly and without any wrath in her voice at

this moment, for she was too torn, terrified and disheveled in spirit to

feel anything save a haunting sense of fear, "you don't know what a

terrible mistake you are making. I did do this thing on purpose, Eugene.

It is true. Long ago in Philadelphia with Mrs. Sanifore I went to a

physician to see if it were possible that I might have a child. You know

that I always thought that I couldn't. Well, he told me that I could. I

went because I thought that you needed something like that, Eugene, to

balance you. I knew you didn't want one. I thought you would be angry

when I told you. I didn't act on it for a long while. I didn't want one

myself. I hoped that it might be a little girl if ever there was one,

because I know that you like little girls. It seems silly now in the

face of what has happened tonight. I see what a mistake I have made. I

see what the mistake is, but I didn't mean it evilly, Eugene. I didn't.

I wanted to hold you, to bind you to me in some way, to help you. Do you

utterly blame me, Eugene? I'm your wife, you know."

He stirred irritably, and she paused, scarcely knowing how to go on. She

could see how terribly irritated he was, how sick at heart, and yet she

resented this attitude on his part. It was so hard to endure when all

along she had fancied that she had so many just claims on him, moral,

social, other claims, which he dare not ignore. Here she was now, sick,

weary, pleading with him for something that ought justly be hers--and

this coming child's!

"Oh, Eugene," she said quite sadly, and still without any wrath in her

voice, "please think before you make a mistake. You don't really love

this girl, you only think you do. You think she is beautiful and good

and sweet and you are going to tear everything up and leave me, but you

don't love her, and you are going to find it out. You don't love anyone,

Eugene. You can't. You are too selfish. If you had any real love in you,

some of it would have come out to me, for I have tried to be all that a

good wife should be, but it has been all in vain. I've known you haven't

liked me all these years. I've seen it in your eyes, Eugene. You have

never come very close to me as a lover should unless you had to or you

couldn't avoid me. You have been cold and indifferent, and now that I

look back I see that it has made me so. I have been cold and hard. I've

tried to steel myself to match what I thought was your steeliness, and

now I see what it has done for me. I'm sorry. But as for her, you don't

love her and you won't. She's too young. She hasn't any ideas that agree

with yours. You think she's soft and gentle, and yet big and wise, but

do you think if she had been that she could have stood up there as she

did tonight and looked me in the eyes--me, your wife--and told me that

she loved you--you, my husband? Do you think if she had any shame she

would be in there now knowing what she does, for I suppose you have told

her? What kind of a girl is that, anyway? You call her good? Good! Would

a good girl do anything like that?"

"What is the use of arguing by appearances?" asked Eugene, who had

interrupted her with exclamations of opposition and bitter comments all

through the previous address. "The situation is one which makes anything

look bad. She didn't intend to be put in a position where she would have

to tell you that she loved me. She didn't come here to let me make love

to her in this apartment. I made love to her. She's in love with me, and

I made her love me. I didn't know of this other thing. If I had, it

wouldn't have made any difference. However, let that be as it will. So

it is. I'm in love with her, and that's all there is to it."

Angela stared at the wall. She was half propped up on a pillow, and had

no courage now to speak of and no fighting strength.

"I know what it is with you, Eugene," she said, after a time; "it's the

yoke that galls. It isn't me only; it's anyone. It's marriage. You don't

want to be married. It would be the same with any woman who might ever

have loved and married you, or with any number of children. You would

want to get rid of her and them. It's the yoke that galls you, Eugene.

You want your freedom, and you won't be satisfied until you have it. A

child wouldn't make any difference. I can see that now."

"I want my freedom," he exclaimed bitterly and inconsiderately, "and,

what's more, I'm going to have it! I don't care. I'm sick of lying and

pretending, sick of common little piffling notions of what you consider

right and wrong. For eleven or twelve years now I have stood it. I have

sat with you every morning at breakfast and every evening at dinner,

most of the time when I didn't want to. I have listened to your theories

of life when I didn't believe a word of what you said, and didn't care

anything about what you thought. I've done it because I thought I ought

to do it so as not to hurt your feelings, but I'm through with all that.

What have I had? Spying on me, opposition, searching my pockets for

letters, complaining if I dared to stay out a single evening and did not

give an account of myself.

"Why didn't you leave me after that affair at Riverdale? Why do you hang

on to me when I don't love you? One'd think I was prisoner and you my

keeper. Good Christ! When I think of it, it makes me sick! Well, there's

no use worrying over that any more. It's all over. It's all beautifully

over, and I'm done with it. I'm going to live a life of my own

hereafter. I'm going to carve out some sort of a career that suits me.

I'm going to live with someone that I can really love, and that's the

end of it. Now you run and do anything you want to."

He was like a young horse that had broken rein and that thinks that by

rearing and plunging he shall become forever free. He was thinking of

green fields and delightful pastures. He was free now, in spite of what

she had told him. This night had made him so, and he was going to remain

free. Suzanne would stand by him, he felt it. He was going to make it

perfectly plain to Angela that never again, come what may, would things

be as they were.

"Yes, Eugene," she replied sadly, after listening to his protestations

on this score, "I think that you do want your freedom, now that I see

you. I'm beginning to see what it means to you. But I have made such a

terrible mistake. Are you thinking about me at all? What shall I do? It

is true that there will be a child unless I die. I may die. I'm afraid

of that, or I was. I am not now. The only reason I would care to live

would be to take care of it. I didn't think I was going to be ill with

rheumatism. I didn't think my heart was going to be affected in this

way. I didn't think that you were going to do as you have done, but now

that you have, nothing matters. Oh," she said sadly, hot tears welling

to her eyes, "it is all such a mistake! If I only hadn't done this!"

Eugene stared at the floor. He wasn't softened one bit. He did not think

she was going to die--no such luck! He was thinking that this merely

complicated things, or that she might be acting, but that it could not

stand in his way. Why had she tried to trick him in this way? It was her

fault. Now she was crying, but that was the old hypocrisy of emotion

that she had used so often. He did not intend to desert her absolutely.

She would have plenty to live on. Merely he did not propose to live with

her, if he could help it, or only nominally, anyhow. The major portion

of his time should be given to Suzanne.

"I don't care what it costs," he said finally. "I don't propose to live

with you. I didn't ask you to have a child. It was none of my doing.

You're not going to be deserted financially, but I'm not going to live

with you."

He stirred again, and Angela stared hot-cheeked. The hardness of the man

enraged her for the moment. She did not believe that she would starve,

but their improving surroundings, their home, their social position,

would be broken up completely.

"Yes, yes. I understand," she pleaded, with an effort at controlling

herself, "but I am not the only one to be considered. Are you thinking

of Mrs. Dale, and what she may do and say? She isn't going to let you

take Suzanne if she knows it, without doing something about it. She is

an able woman. She loves Suzanne, however self-willed she may be. She

likes you now, but how long do you think she is going to like you when

she learns what you want to do with her daughter? What are you going to

do with her? You can't marry her under a year even if I were willing to

give you a divorce. You could scarcely get a divorce in that time."

"I'm going to live with her, that's what I'm going to do," declared

Eugene. "She loves me, she's willing to take me just as I am. She

doesn't need marriage ceremonies and rings and vows and chains. She

doesn't believe in them. As long as I love her, all right. When I cease

to love her, she doesn't want me any more. Some difference in that,

isn't there?" he added bitterly. "It doesn't sound exactly like

Blackwood, does it?"

Angela bridled. His taunts were cruel.

"She says that, Eugene," she replied quietly, "but she hasn't had time

to think. You've hypnotized her for the moment. She's fascinated. When

she stops to think later, if she has any sense, any pride---- But, oh,

why should I talk, you won't listen. You won't think." Then she added:

"But what do you propose to do about Mrs. Dale? Don't you suppose she

will fight you, even if I do not? I wish you would stop and think,

Eugene. This is a terrible thing you are doing."

"Think! Think!" he exclaimed savagely and bitterly. "As though I had not

been thinking all these years. Think! Hell! I haven't done anything but

think. I've thought until the soul within me is sick. I've thought until

I wish to God I could stop. I've thought about Mrs. Dale. Don't you

worry about her. I'll settle this matter with her later. Just now I want

to convince you of what I am going to do. I'm going to have Suzanne, and

you're not going to stop me."

"Oh, Eugene," sighed Angela, "if something would only make you see! It

is partially my fault. I have been hard and suspicious and jealous, but

you have given me some cause to be, don't you think? I see now that I

have made a mistake. I have been too hard and too jealous, but I could

reform if you would let me try." (She was thinking now of living, not

dying.) "I know I could. You have so much to lose. Is this change worth

it? You know so well how the world looks at these things. Why, even if

you should obtain your freedom from me under the circumstances, what do

you suppose the world would think? You couldn't desert your child. Why

not wait and see what happens? I might die. There have been such cases.

Then you would be free to do as you pleased. That is only a little way

off."

It was a specious plea, calculated to hold him; but he saw through it.

"Nothing doing!" he exclaimed, in the slang of the day. "I know all

about that. I know what you're thinking. In the first place, I don't

believe you are in the condition you say you are. In the next place,

you're not going to die. I don't propose to wait to be free. I know you,

and I've no faith in you. What I do needn't affect your condition.

You're not going to starve. No one need know, unless you start a row

about it. Suzanne and I can arrange this between ourselves. I know what

you're thinking, but you're not going to interfere. If you do, I'll

smash everything in sight--you, this apartment, my job----" He clenched

his hands desperately, determinedly.

Angela's hands were tingling with nervous pains while Eugene talked. Her

eyes ached and her heart fluttered. She could not understand this dark,

determined man, so savage and so resolute in his manner. Was this Eugene

who was always moving about quietly when he was near her, getting angry

at times, but always feeling sorry and apologizing? She had boasted to

some of her friends, and particularly to Marietta, in a friendly,

jesting way that she could wind Eugene around her little finger. He was

so easy-going in the main, so quiet. Here he was a raging demon almost,

possessed of an evil spirit of desire and tearing up his and hers and

Suzanne's life for that matter, by the roots. She did not care for

Suzanne, though, now, or Mrs. Dale. Her own blighted life, and Eugene's,

looming so straight ahead of her terrified her.

"What do you suppose Mr. Colfax will do when he hears of this?" she

asked desperately, hoping to frighten him.

"I don't care a damn what Mr. Colfax will or can do!" he replied

sententiously. "I don't care a damn what anybody does or says or thinks.

I love Suzanne Dale. She loves me. She wants me. There's an end of that.

I'm going to her now. You stay me if you can."

Suzanne Dale! Suzanne Dale! How that name enraged and frightened Angela!

Never before had she witnessed quite so clearly the power of beauty.

Suzanne Dale was young and beautiful. She was looking at her only

tonight thinking how fascinating she was--how fair her face--and here

was Eugene bewitched by it, completely undone. Oh, the terror of beauty!

The terror of social life generally! Why had she entertained? Why become

friendly with the Dales? But then there were other personalities, almost

as lovely and quite as young--Marjorie McLennan, Florence Reel,

Henrietta Tenman, Annette Kean. It might have been any one of these. She

couldn't have been expected to shut out all young women from Eugene's

life. No; it was Eugene. It was his attitude toward life. His craze

about the beautiful, particularly in women. She could see it now. He

really was not strong enough. Beauty would always upset him at critical

moments. She had seen it in relation to herself--the beauty of her form,

which he admired so, or had admired. "God," she prayed silently, "give

me wisdom now. Give me strength. I don't deserve it, but help me. Help

me to save him. Help me to save myself."

"Oh, Eugene," she said aloud, hopelessly, "I wish you would stop and

think. I wish you would let Suzanne go her way in the morning, and you

stay sane and calm. I won't care about myself. I can forgive and forget.

I'll promise you I'll never mention it. If a child comes, I'll do my

best not to let it annoy you. I'll try yet not to have one. It may not

be too late. I'll change from this day forth. Oh!" She began to cry.

"No! By God!" he said, getting up. "No! No! No! I'm through now. I'm

through! I've had enough of fake hysterics and tears. Tears one minute,

and wrath and hate the next. Subtlety! Subtlety! Subtlety! Nothing

doing. You've been master and jailer long enough. It's my turn now. I'll

do a little jailing and task-setting for a change. I'm in the saddle,

and I'm going to stay there. You can cry if you want to, you can do what

you please about the child. I'm through. I'm tired, and I'm going to

bed, but this thing is going to stand just as it does. I'm through, and

that's all there is to it."

He strode out of the room angrily and fiercely, but nevertheless, when

he reached it, he sat in his own room, which was on the other side of

the studio from Angelas, and did not sleep. His mind was on fire with

the thought of Suzanne; he thought of the old order which had been so

quickly and so terribly broken. Now, if he could remain master, and he

could, he proposed to take Suzanne. She would come to him, secretly no

doubt, if necessary. They would open a studio, a second establishment.

Angela might not give him a divorce. If what she said was true, she

couldn't. He wouldn't want her to, but he fancied from this conversation

that she was so afraid of him that she would not stir up any trouble.

There was nothing she could really do. He was in the saddle truly, and

would stay there. He would take Suzanne, would provide amply for Angela,

would visit all those lovely public resorts he had so frequently seen,

and he and Suzanne would be happy together.

Suzanne! Suzanne! Oh, how beautiful she was! And to think how nobly and

courageously she had stood by him tonight. How she had slipped her hand

into his so sweetly and had said, "But I love him, Mrs. Witla." Yes, she

loved him. No doubt of that. She was young, exquisite, beautifully

rounded in her budding emotion and feeling. She was going to develop

into a wonderful woman, a real one. And she was so young. What a pity it

was he was not free now! Well, wait, this would right all things, and,

meanwhile, he would have her. He must talk to Suzanne. He must tell her

how things stood. Poor little Suzanne! There she was in her room

wondering what was to become of her, and here was he. Well, he couldn't

go to her tonight. It did not look right, and, besides, Angela might

fight still. But tomorrow! Tomorrow! Oh, tomorrow he would walk and talk

with her, and they would plan. Tomorrow he would show her just what he

wanted to do and find out what she could do.

CHAPTER XI

This night passed without additional scenes, though as it stood it was

the most astonishing and tremendous in all Eugene's experience. He had,

not up to the time Angela walked into the room, really expected anything

so dramatic and climacteric to happen, though what he did expect was

never really very clear to him. At times as he lay and thought now he

fancied that he might eventually have to give Suzanne up, though how, or

when, or why, he could not say. He was literally crazed by her, and

could not think that such a thing could really be. At other moments he

fancied that powers outside of this visible life, the life attested by

the five senses, had arranged this beautiful finish to his career for

him so that he might be perfectly happy. All his life he had fancied

that he was leading a more or less fated life, principally more. He

thought that his art was a gift, that he had in a way been sent to

revolutionize art in America, or carry it one step farther forward and

that nature was thus constantly sending its apostles or special

representatives over whom it kept watch and in whom it was well pleased.

At other times he fancied he might be the sport or toy of untoward and

malicious powers, such as those which surrounded and accomplished

Macbeth's tragic end, and which might be intending to make an

illustration of him. As he looked at life at times, it seemed to do this

with certain people. The fates lied. Lovely, blandishing lures were held

out only to lead men to destruction. He had seen other men who seemed to

have been undone in this way. Was he to be so treated?

Angela's unexpected and peculiar announcement made it look that way.

Still he did not believe it. Life had sent Suzanne across his path for a

purpose. The fates or powers had seen he was miserable and unhappy.

Being a favorite child of Heaven, he was to be rewarded for his

sufferings by having her. She was here now--quickly, forcefully thrust

into his arms, so to speak, so that perhaps he might have her all the

more quickly. How silly it seemed to him now to have brought her into

his own apartment to make love to her and get caught, and yet how

fortunate, too, the hand of fate! No doubt it was intended. Anyhow, the

shame to him, the shame to Angela and Suzanne, the terrific moments and

hours that each was enduring now--these were things which were

unfortunately involved in any necessarily great readjustment. It was

probable that it had to come about this way. It was better so than to go

on living an unhappy life. He was really fitted for something better, he

thought--a great career. He would have to adjust this thing with Angela

in some way now, either leave her, or make some arrangement whereby he

could enjoy the company of Suzanne uninterrupted. There must be no

interference. He did not propose to give her up. The child might come.

Well and good. He would provide for it, that would be all. He recalled

now the conversation he had had with Suzanne in which she had said that

she would live with him if she could. The time had come. Their plan for

a studio should now be put into effect. It must be secret. Angela would

not care. She could not help herself. If only the events of this night

did not terrorize Suzanne into retracing her steps! He had not explained

to her how he was to get rid of Angela apart from what she had heard

this night. She was thinking, he knew, that they could go on loving each

other in this tentative fashion, occupying a studio together, perhaps,

not caring what the world thought, not caring what her mother thought,

ignoring her brother and sister and Angela, and being happy with Eugene

only. He had never tried to disillusion her. He was not thinking clearly

himself. He was rushing forward in an aimless way, desiring the

companionship of her beautiful mind and body. Now he saw he must act or

lose her. He must convince her in the face of what Angela had said, or

let her go. She would probably be willing to come to him rather than

leave him entirely. He must talk, explain, make her understand just what

a trick this all was.

Angela had not slept, but lay staring at the ceiling in the dark, her

eyes a study in despair. When morning came they were none of them

further along in their conclusions than they were the night before, save

to know, each separately and distinctly, that a great tragedy or change

was at hand. Suzanne had thought and thought, or tried to, but the

impulse of blood and passion in her were Eugeneward and she could only

see the situation from their own point of view. She loved him, she

thought--must love him, since he was so ready to sacrifice so much for

her; yet at the same time there was a strange, disconcerting nebulosity

about her which, had Eugene fully realized it at this moment, would have

terrified him. In her state, which was one of wondering delight at the

beauty of life and love--a fatalistic security in the thought that joy

was to come to her throughout life--much joy. She could not see the

grimness of Eugene's position. She could not understand the agony of a

soul that had never really tasted supreme bliss in love, and had wanted,

however foolishly, the accessories of wealth, and had never had them.

Terrorized lest after the first sip of so wonderful a joy it should be

removed forever, Eugene was tingling in the dark of his own

room--tingling and yet reaching, almost with outstretched hands, to the

splendor of the life that was seemingly before him. Suzanne, however, to

whom life had given so much, was resting in a kind of still ease, like

that which might fill a drowsy poppyland of joy where all the pleasures

had been attained and were being tasted at leisure. Life at its worst to

her was not so bad. Witness this storm which had been quelled in part by

Eugene and was like to blow over as nothing at all. Things came round of

their own accord in time, if one let them. She had always felt so sure

that whatever happened no ill would befall her, and here she was courted

and protected by Eugene even in his own home!

In this situation, therefore, she was not grieving either for Eugene,

for Angela, or for herself. She could not. Some dispositions are so.

Eugene was able to take care of himself and her and Angela financially,

she thought. She was really looking forward to that better day when this

misalliance should be broken up, and Eugene and presumably Angela would

be really happier. She wanted Eugene to be much happier, and Angela, for

that matter--and through her, if possible, since Eugene's happiness

seemed to depend on her. But unlike Eugene, she was already thinking

that she could live well enough without him, if it must be. She did not

want to. She felt that her greatest happiness would be in repaying him

for past ills and pains; but if they must part for a time, for instance,

it would not make so much difference. Time would bring them together.

But if it didn't---- But it would. Why think otherwise? But how

wonderful it was that her beauty, her mere physical beauty, which seemed

unimportant to her, made him so wild. She could not know of the actual

physical pain gnawing at his vitals, but it was so plain that he was

madly stricken with her. His whole face and his burning black eyes

riveted on her in intense delight and almost agony proved it. Was she so

beautiful? Surely not! Yet he yearned over her so. And it was so

delightful.

She arose at dawn and began silently to dress, thinking that she might

take a walk, leaving a note for Eugene as to where to come and find her

if he could. She had one appointment for the day. Later she would have

to go home, but things would come out all right. Since Eugene had

compelled Angela to relinquish her determination to inform her mother,

all must be well. They would meet, she and Eugene. She would leave her

home and be his and they would go anywhere, anywhere Eugene desired,

only she would prefer to persuade her mother to see things from her

point of view and later countenance some understanding between them

here. Because of Angela's and Eugene's position here, she preferred

this. Because of her youth and her poetic, erratic conception of life,

she assumed that she could overcome her mother and that she and Eugene

could live together somewhere in peace. Her friends might either be

unaware of the situation, or they could be told, some of them, and they

might countenance it because it was so beautiful and natural!

Eugene heard her stirring after a time, and rose and went to her room

and knocked. When she opened the door almost fully dressed a thrill of

pain passed over his heart, for he thought that she had been intending

to slip away without seeing him any more--so little they really knew

each other. But as she stood there, a little cool or still or sober from

much thought and the peculiar nature of her position, she seemed more

beautiful than ever.

"You're not going, are you?" he asked, as she looked up at him with

inquiring eyes.

"I thought I'd go for a walk."

"Without me?"

"I intended to see you, if I could, or leave a note for you to come to

me. I thought you would."

"Will you wait for me?" he asked, feeling as though he must hold her

close forever in order to live. "Just a little bit. I want to change my

clothes." He took her in his arms.

"Yes," she said softly.

"You won't go without me?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I love you so!" he replied, and pushed her head back and looked

yearningly into her eyes.

She took his tired face between her hands and studied his eyes. She was

so enrapt by him now in this first burst of affection that she could see

nothing but him. He seemed so beautiful, so hungry! It did not matter to

her now that she was in the home of his wife or that his love was

complicated with so much that was apparently evil. She loved him. She

had thought all night about him, not sleeping. Being so young, it was

hard for her to reason clearly as yet, but somehow it seemed to her that

he was very unhappily placed, terribly ill-mated, and that he needed

her. He was so fine, so clean, so capable! If he did not want Angela,

why should she want him? She would not be suffering for anything save

his company, and why should she want to hold him? She, Suzanne, would

not, if she were in Angela's place. If there were a child, would that

make any real difference? He did not love her.

"Don't worry about me," she said reassuringly. "I love you. Don't you

know I do? I have to talk to you. We have to talk. How is Mrs. Witla?"

She was thinking about what Mrs. Witla would do, whether she would call

up her mother, whether her struggle to have Eugene would begin at once.

"Oh, she's about the same!" he said wearily. "We've had a long argument.

I've told her just what I propose to do, but I'll tell you about that

later."

He went away to change his clothes, and then stepped into Angela's room.

"I'm going to walk with Suzanne," he said dominantly, when he was ready.

"All right," said Angela, who was so tired she could have fainted. "Will

you be back for dinner?"

"I don't know," he replied. "What difference does it make?"

"Only this: that the maid and cook need not stay unless you are coming.

I want nothing."

"When will the nurse be here?"

"At seven."

"Well, you can prepare dinner, if you wish," he said. "I will try and be

back by four."

He walked toward the studio where Suzanne was, and found her waiting,

white-faced, slightly hollow-eyed, but strong and confident. Now, as so

often before, he noticed that spirit of self-sufficiency and reliance

about her young body which had impressed him so forcibly and

delightfully in the past. She was a wonderful girl, this Suzanne, full

of grit and ability, although raised under what might have been deemed

enervating circumstances. Her statement, made under pressure the night

before, that she must go to a hotel and not go home until she could

straighten out her affairs, had impressed him greatly. Why had she

thought of going out in the world to work for herself unless there were

something really fine about her? She was heir to a fortune under her

father's will, he had heard her mother say once. This morning her glance

was so assured. He did not use the phone to call a car, but strolled out

into the drive with her walking along the stone wall which commanded the

river northward toward Grant's Tomb. It occurred to him that they might

go to Claremont Inn for breakfast, and afterwards take a car

somewhere--he did not know quite where. Suzanne might be recognized. So

might he.

"What shall we do, sweet?" he asked, as the cool morning air brushed

their faces. It was a glorious day.

"I don't care," replied Suzanne. "I promised to be at the Almerdings

some time today, but I didn't say when. They won't think anything of it

if I don't get there till after dinner. Will Mrs. Witla call up mama?"

"I don't think so. In fact, I'm sure she won't." He was thinking of his

last conversation with Angela, when she said she would do nothing. "Is

your mother likely to call you up?"

"I think not. Mama doesn't usually bother when she knows where I am

going. If she does, they'll simply say I haven't come yet. Will

Mrs. Witla tell her, if she calls up there?"

"I think not," he said. "No, I'm sure she won't. Angela wants time to

think. She isn't going to do anything. She told me that this morning.

She's going to wait until she sees what I am going to do. It all depends

now on how we play our cards."

He strolled on, looking at the river and holding Suzanne's hand. It was

only a quarter to seven and the drive was comparatively empty.

"If she tells mama, it will make things very bad," said Suzanne

thoughtfully. "Do you really think she won't?"

"I'm sure she won't. I'm positive. She doesn't want to do anything yet.

It's too dangerous. I think she thinks that maybe I will come round. Oh,

what a life I've led! It seems like a dream, now that I have your love.

You are so different, so generous! Your attitude is so unselfish! To

have been ruled all these years in every little thing. This last trick

of hers!"

He shook his head woefully. Suzanne looked at his weary face, her own as

fresh as the morning.

"Oh, if I might only have had you to begin with!" he added.

"Listen, Eugene," said Suzanne. "You know I feel sorry for Mrs. Witla.

We shouldn't have done what we did last night, but you made me. You know

you will never listen to me, until it's too late. You're so headstrong!

I don't want you to leave Mrs. Witla unless you want to. You needn't for

me. I don't want to marry you; not now, anyhow. I'd rather just give

myself to you, if you want me to. I want time though, to think and plan.

If mama should hear today, there would be a terrible time. If we have

time to think, we may bring her round. I don't care anything about what

Mrs. Witla told you last night. I don't want you to leave her. If we

could just arrange some way. It's mama, you know."

She swung his hand softly in hers, pressing his fingers. She was deep in

thought, for her mother presented a real problem.

"You know," she went on, "mama isn't narrow. She doesn't believe much in

marriage unless it's ideal. Mrs. Witla's condition wouldn't make so much

difference if only the child were here. I've been thinking about that.

Mama might sanction some arrangement if she thought it would make me

happy and there was no scandal. But I'll have to have time to talk to

her. It can't be done right away."

Eugene listened to this with considerable surprise, as he did to

everything Suzanne volunteered. She seemed to have been thinking about

these questions a long time. She was not free with her opinions. She

hesitated and halted between words and in her cogitations, but when they

were out this was what they came to. He wondered how sound they were.

"Suzanne," he said, "you take my breath away! How you think! Do you know

what you're talking about? Do you know your mother at all well?"

"Mama? Oh, yes, I think I understand mama. You know she's very peculiar.

Mama is literary and romantic. She talks a great deal about liberty, but

I don't take in everything she says. I think mama is different from most

women--she's exceptional. She likes me, not so much as a daughter as a

person. She's anxious about me. You know, I think I'm stronger than

mama. I think I could dominate her if I tried. She leans on me now a

lot, and she can't make me do anything unless I want to. I can make her

come to my way of thinking, I believe. I have, lots of times. That's

what makes me think I might now, if I have time. It will take time to

get her to do what I want."

"How much time?" asked Eugene thoughtfully.

"Oh, I don't know. Three months. Six months. I can't tell. I would like

to try, though."

"And if you can't, then what?"

"Why, then--why, then I'll defy her, that's all. I'm not sure, you know.

But I think I can."

"And if you can't?"

"But I can. I'm sure I can." She tossed her head gaily.

"And come to me?"

"And come to you."

They were near One Hundredth Street, under the trees. There was a lone

man some distance away, walking from them. Eugene caught Suzanne in his

arms and implanted a kiss upon her mouth. "Oh, you divinity!" he

exclaimed. "Helen! Circe!"

"No," she replied, with smiling eyes. "No, not here. Wait till we get a

car."

"Shall we go to Claremont?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Then we might as well call a car and ride."

They hunted a garage and sped northward, the wonderful wind of the

morning cooling and refreshing their fevered senses. Both he and Suzanne

were naturally depressed at moments, at other moments preternaturally

gay, for he was varying between joy and fear, and she was buoying him

up. Her attitude was calmer, surer, braver, than his. She was like a

strong mother to him.

"You know," he said, "I don't know what to think at times. I haven't any

particular charge against Mrs. Witla except that I don't love her. I

have been so unhappy. What do you think of cases of this kind, Suzanne?

You heard what she said about me."

"Yes, I heard."

"It all comes from that. I don't love her. I never have really from the

beginning. What do you think where there is no love? It is true, part of

what she said. I have been in love with other women, but it has always

been because I have been longing for some sort of temperament that was

congenial to me. I have, Suzanne, too, since I have been married. I

can't say that I was really in love with Carlotta Wilson, but I did like

her. She was very much like myself. The other was a girl somewhat like

you. Not so wise. That was years ago. Oh, I could tell you why! I love

youth. I love beauty. I want someone who is my companion mentally. You

are that, Suzanne, and yet see what a hell it is creating. Do you think

it is so bad where I am so very unhappy? Tell me, what do you think?"

"Why, why," said Suzanne, "I don't think anyone ought to stick by a bad

bargain, Eugene."

"Just what do you mean by that, Suzanne?"

"Well, you say you don't love her. You're not happy with her. I

shouldn't think it would be good for her or you to have you stay with

her. She can live. I wouldn't want you to stay with me if you didn't

love me. I wouldn't want you at all if you didn't. I wouldn't want to

stay with you if I didn't love you, and I wouldn't. I think marriage

ought to be a happy bargain, and if it isn't you oughtn't to try to stay

together just because you thought you could stay together once."

"What if there were children?"

"Well, that might be different. Even then, one or the other could take

them, wouldn't you think? The children needn't be made very unhappy in

such a case."

Eugene looked at Suzanne's lovely face. It seemed so strange to hear her

reasoning so solemnly--this girl!

"But you heard what she said about me, Suzanne, and about her

condition?"

"I know," she said. "I've thought about it. I don't see that it makes so

very much difference. You can take care of her."

"You love me just as much?"

"Yes."

"Even if all she says is true?"

"Yes."

"Why, Suzanne?"

"Well, all her charges concerned years gone by, and that isn't now. And

I know you love me now. I don't care about the past. You know, Eugene, I

don't care anything about the future, either. I want you to love me only

so long as you want to love me. When you are tired of me, I want you to

leave me. I wouldn't want you to live with me if you didn't love me. I

wouldn't want to live with you if I didn't love you."