Suzanne, please, please. Be reasonable. Have some consideration. I will
take you back, but wait for some clothes to arrive. We can't go this
way."
She sent Kinroy for the station master, to whom was explained the need
of a carriage to take them to Mont Cecile and also for a doctor--this
was Mrs. Dale's latest thought--to whom she proposed to accuse Suzanne
of insanity. Help to remove her was to be called. She told this to
Suzanne, who simply glared at her.
"Get the doctor, mama," she said. "We will see if I have to go that way.
But you will rue every step of this. You will be thoroughly sorry for
every silly step you have taken."
When the carriage arrived, Suzanne refused to get out. The country
driver, a French habitant, reported its presence at the car. Kinroy
tried to soothe his sister by saying that he would help straighten
matters out if she would only go peacefully.
"I'll tell you, Susie, if it isn't all arranged to suit you within a
month, and you still want to go back, I'll send you the money. I have to
go back tomorrow, or next day for ma, but I'll give you my word. In
fact, I'll persuade mother to bring you back in two weeks. You know I
never lied to you before. I never will again. Please come. Let's go over
there. We can be comfortable, anyhow."
Mrs. Dale had leased the lodge from the Cathcarts by phone. It was all
furnished--ready to live in--even wood fires prepared for lighting in
the fireplaces. It had hot and cold water controlled by a hot-water
furnace system; acetylene gas, a supply of staples in the kitchen. The
service to take care of it was to be called together by the caretaker,
who could be reached by phone from the depot. Mrs. Dale had already
communicated with him by the time the carriage arrived. The roads were
so poor that the use of an automobile was impossible. The station agent,
seeing a fat fee in sight, was most obliging.
Suzanne listened to Kinroy, but she did not believe him. She did not
believe anyone now, save Eugene, and he was nowhere near to advise her.
Still, since she was without money and they were threatening to call a
doctor, she thought it might be best perhaps to go peacefully. Her
mother was most distracted. Her face was white and thin and nervous, and
Kinroy was apparently strained to the breaking point.
"Do you promise me faithfully," she asked her mother, who had begun her
pleadings anew, corroborating Kinroy in a way, "that you will take me
back to New York in two weeks if I promise to stay that long? This was
still within the date in which she had promised to go to Witla, and as
long as she got back by that time, she really did not care, provided she
could write to her lover. It was a silly arbitrary thing for her mother
to have done, but it could be endured. Her mother, seeing no reasonable
way to obtain peace, promised. If she could only keep her there two
weeks quietly, perhaps that would help. Suzanne could think here under
different conditions. New York was so exciting. Out at this lodge all
would be still. There was more argument, and, finally, Suzanne agreed to
enter the hack, and they drove over toward Mont Cecile and the
Cathcarts' Lodge, now vacant and lonely, which was known as
"While-a-Way."
CHAPTER XVIII
The Cathcart Lodge, a long, two-story affair, half-way up a fine covered
mountain slope, was one of those summer conveniences of the rich,
situated just near enough to the primeval wilds to give one a sense of
the unexplored and dangerous in raw nature, and yet near enough to the
comforts of civilization, as represented by the cities of Quebec and
Montreal, to make one feel secure in the possession of those material
joys, otherwise so easily interrupted. It was full of great rooms
tastefully furnished with simple summery things--willow chairs, box
window-seats, structural book shelves, great open fireplaces, surmounted
by handsome mantels, outward swinging leaded casements, settees,
pillow-strewn rustic couches, great fur rugs and robes and things of
that character. The walls were ornamented with trophies of the
chase--antlers, raw fox skins, mounted loons and eagles, skins of bears
and other animals. This year the Cathcarts were elsewhere, and the lodge
was to be had by a woman of Mrs. Dale's standing for the asking.
When they reached While-a-Way, the caretaker, Pierre, an old habitant of
musty log-hut origin, who spoke broken English and was dressed in
earth-brown khaki over Heaven knows what combination of clothes beneath,
had lighted the fires and was bestirring himself about warming the house
generally with the furnaces. His wife, a small, broad-skirted,
solid-bodied woman, was in the kitchen preparing something to eat. There
was plenty of meat to be had from the larder of the habitant himself, to
say nothing of flour, butter, and the like. A girl to serve was called
from the family of a neighboring trapper. She had worked in the lodge as
maid to the Cathcarts. They settled down to make themselves comfortable,
but the old discussion continued. There was no cessation to it, and
through it all, actually, Suzanne was having her way.
Meanwhile, Eugene back in New York was expecting word from Suzanne on
Thursday, and none came. He called up the house only to learn that
Mrs. Dale was out of the city and was not expected back soon. Friday
came, and no word; and Saturday. He tried a registered letter "for
personal delivery only, return signature demanded" but it came back
marked "not there." Then he realized that his suspicions were correct
and that Suzanne had fallen into a trap. He grew gloomy, fearful,
impatient and nervous by turn, and all at the same time. He drummed on
his desk at the office, tried almost in vain to fix his mind on the
scores of details which were ever before him, wandered aimlessly about
the streets at times, thinking. He was asked for his opinion on art
plans, and books, and advertising and circulation propositions, but he
could not fix his mind closely on what was being said.
"The chief has certainly got something on his mind which is troubling
him these days," said Carter Hayes, the advertising man, to the
circulation head. "He's not himself. I don't believe he hears what I'm
telling him."
"I've noticed that," replied the latter. They were in the reception room
outside Eugene's door, and strolled arm in arm down the richly carpeted
hall to the elevator. "There's certainly something wrong. He ought to
take a rest. He's trying to do too much."
Hayes did not believe Eugene was trying to do too much. In the last four
or five months it had been almost impossible to get near him. He came
down at ten or ten-thirty in the morning, left frequently at two and
three, had lunch engagements which had nothing to do with office work,
and at night went into the social world to dinner or elsewhere, where he
could not be found. Colfax had sent for him on a number of occasions
when he was not present, and on several other occasions, when he had
called on his floor and at his office, Eugene was out. It did not strike
him as anything to complain of--Eugene had a right to be about--but as
inadvisable, in the managing publisher's own interest. He knew that he
had a vast number of things to take care of. It would take an
exceptionally efficient man to manage them and not give all his time to
them. He would not have thought this if Eugene had been a partner with
himself, as were other men in other ventures in which he was interested,
but not being so, he could not help viewing him as an employee, one who
ought to give all his time to his work.
White never asked anything much save the privilege of working, and was
always about the place, alert, earnest at his particular duties, not
haughty, but calm and absolutely efficient in every way. He was never
weary of consulting with Colfax, whereas Eugene was indifferent, not at
all desirous of running to him with every little proposition, but
preferring to act on his own initiative, and carrying himself constantly
with very much of an air.
In other ways there were other things which were and had been militating
against him. By degrees it had come to be rumored about the office that
Eugene was interested in the Blue Sea or Sea Island Development and
Construction Company, of which there was a good deal of talk about the
city, particularly in financial and social circles. Colfax had heard of
the corporation. He had been interested in the scheme because it
promised so much in the way of luxury. Not much of the panoramic whole
so beautifully depicted in the colored insets of a thirty-two-page
literary prospectus fathered by Eugene was as yet accomplished, but
there was enough to indicate that it was going to be a great thing.
Already somewhat over a mile and a quarter of the great sea walk and
wall were in place. A dining and dancing pavilion had been built, and
one of the smaller hotels--all in accordance with the original
architectural scheme. There were a number of houses--something like
twenty or thirty on plots one hundred and fifty by one hundred and fifty
feet, built in the most ornate fashion on ground which had formerly been
wet marsh grown high with grass. Three or four islands had been filled
in and the club house of a minor yacht club had been constructed, but
still the Sea Island Development Company had a long way to go before
even a third of its total perfection would be in sight.
Eugene did not know the drift of the company's financial affairs, except
in a general way. He had tried to keep out of it so far as public notice
of him was concerned, though he was constantly lunching with Winfield,
Willebrand, and others, and endeavoring to direct as much attention to
the wonders and prospects of the new resort as was possible for him to
do. It was an easy thing for him to say to one person and another whom
he met that Blue Sea was rapidly becoming the most perfect thing in the
way of a summer resort that he had ever seen, and this did good; so did
the comments of all the other people who were interested in it, but it
did not make it anything of a success as yet. As a matter of fact, the
true success of Blue Sea depended on the investment of much more than
the original ten millions for which it had been capitalized. It depended
on a truly solid growth, which could not be rapid.
The news which came to the United Magazines Corporation and eventually
to Colfax and White was that Eugene was heavily interested in this
venture, that he was secretary or held some other office in connection
with it, and that he was giving a great deal of his time to its
development, which might better be employed in furthering the interests
of the United Magazines Corporation.
"What do you think of that?" asked Colfax of White, on hearing the news
one morning. It had come through the head of the printing department
under White, who had mentioned it to Colfax in White's presence by the
latter's directions.
"It's just what I've been telling you all along," said the latter
blandly. "He isn't interested in this business any more than he is in
any other. He's using it as a stepping-stone, and when he's through with
it, good-bye. Now that's all right from his point of view. Every man has
a right to climb up, but it isn't so good from yours. You'd be better
off if you had a man who wanted to stay here. You'd be better off really
if you were handling it yourself. You may not want to do that, but with
what you know now you can get someone who will work under you quite
well. That's the one satisfactory thing about it--you really can get
along without him if it comes right down to it now. With a good man in
there, it can be handled from your office."
It was about this time that the most ardent phase of Eugene's love
affair with Suzanne began. All through the spring and summer Eugene had
been busy with thoughts of Suzanne, ways of meeting her, pleasurable
rides with her, thinking of things she had done and said. As a rule now,
his thoughts were very far from the interests of his position, and in
the main it bored him greatly. He began to wish earnestly that his
investment in the Sea Island Corporation would show some tangible return
in the way of interest, so that he could have means to turn round with.
It struck him after Angela's discovery of his intrigue with Suzanne as a
most unfortunate thing that he had tied up all his means in this Blue
Sea investment. If it had been fated that he was to go on living with
Angela, it would have been all right. Then he could have waited in
patience and thought nothing of it. Now it simply meant that if he
wanted to realize it, it would all be tied up in the courts, or most
likely so, for Angela could sue him; and at any rate he would wish to
make reasonable provision for her, and that would require legal
adjustment. Apart from this investment, he had nothing now save his
salary, and that was not accumulating fast enough to do him much good in
case Mrs. Dale went to Colfax soon, and the latter broke with him. He
wondered if Colfax really would break with him. Would he ask him to give
up Suzanne, or simply force him to resign? He had noticed that for some
time Colfax had not been as cordial to and as enthusiastic about him as
he had formerly been, but this might be due to other things besides
opposition. Moreover, it was natural for them to become a little tired
of each other. They did not go about so much together, and when they did
Colfax was not as high-flown and boyish in his spirits as he had
formerly been. Eugene fancied it was White who was caballing against
him, but he thought if Colfax was going to change, he was going to
change, and there was no help for it. There were no grounds, he fancied,
in so far as the affairs of the corporation were concerned. His work was
successful.
The storm broke one day out of a clear sky, in so far as the office was
concerned, but not until there had been much heartache and misery in
various directions--with the Dales, with Angela, and with Eugene
himself.
Suzanne's action was the lightning bolt which precipitated the storm. It
could only come from that quarter. Eugene was frantic to hear from her,
and for the first time in his life began to experience those
excruciating and gnawing pangs which are the concomitants of uncertain
and distraught love. It manifested itself in an actual pain in his
vitals--in the region of the solar plexus, or what is commonly known as
the pit of the stomach. He suffered there very much, quite as the
Spartan boy may have done who was gnawed by the fox concealed under his
belt. He would wonder where Suzanne was, what she was doing, and then,
being unable to work, would call his car and ride, or take his hat and
walk. It did him no good to ride, for the agony was in sitting still. At
night he would go home and sit by one or the other of his studio
windows, principally out on the little stone balcony, and watch the
changing panorama of the Hudson, yearning and wondering where she was.
Would he ever see her again? Would he be able to win this battle if he
did? Oh, her beautiful face, her lovely voice, her exquisite lips and
eyes, the marvel of her touch and beautiful fancy!
He tried to compose poetry to her, and wrote a series of sonnets to his
beloved, which were not at all bad. He worked on his sketch book of
pencil portraits of Suzanne seeking a hundred significant and delightful
expressions and positions, which could afterwards be elaborated into his
gallery of paintings of her, which he proposed to paint at some time. It
did not matter to him that Angela was about, though he had the
graciousness to conceal these things from her. He was ashamed, in a way,
of his treatment of her, and yet the sight of her now was not so much
pitiable as objectionable and unsatisfactory. Why had he married her? He
kept asking himself that.
They sat in the studio one night. Angela's face was a picture of
despair, for the horror of her situation was only by degrees coming to
her, and she said, seeing him so moody and despondent:
"Eugene, don't you think you can get over this? You say Suzanne has been
spirited away. Why not let her go? Think of your career, Eugene. Think
of me. What will become of me? You can get over it, if you try. Surely
you won't throw me down after all the years I have been with you. Think
how I have tried. I have been a pretty good wife to you, haven't I? I
haven't annoyed you so terribly much, have I? Oh, I feel all the time as
though we were on the brink of some terrible catastrophe! If only I
could do something; if only I could say something! I know I have been
hard and irritable at times, but that is all over now. I am a changed
woman. I would never be that way any more."
"It can't be done, Angela," he replied calmly. "It can't be done. I
don't love you. I've told you that. I don't want to live with you. I
can't. I want to get free in some way, either by divorce, or a quiet
separation, and go my way. I'm not happy. I never will be as long as I
am here. I want my freedom and then I will decide what I want to do."
Angela shook her head and sighed. She could scarcely believe that this
was she wandering around in her own apartment wondering what she was
going to do in connection with her own husband. Marietta had gone back
to Wisconsin before the storm broke. Myrtle was in New York, but she
hated to confess to her. She did not dare to write to any member of her
own family but Marietta, and she did not want to confess to her.
Marietta had fancied while she was here that they were getting along
nicely. She had fits of crying, which alternated with fits of anger, but
the latter were growing weak. Fear, despondency, and grief were becoming
uppermost in her soul again--the fear and despondency that had weighed
her down in those lonely days before she married Eugene, the grief that
she was now actually and finally to lose the one man whom, in spite of
everything, she loved still.
CHAPTER XIX
It was three days later when he was at his office that a telegram came
from Mrs. Dale, which read, "I depend on you, on the honor of a
gentleman, to ignore any message which may come from my daughter until I
see you."
Eugene was puzzled, but fancied that there must be a desperate quarrel
on between Suzanne and her mother, wherever they were, and that it was
probable that he would hear from her now. It was his first inkling as to
her whereabouts, for the telegram was sent off from Three Rivers, in
Canada, and he fancied they must be near there somewhere. The place of
despatch did him no good from a material point of view, for he could
neither write nor pursue Suzanne on the strength of this. He would not
know where to find her. He could only wait, conscious that she was
having a struggle, perhaps as severe, or possibly more so, than his own.
He wandered about with this telegram in his pocket wondering when he
should hear--what a day should bring forth, and all those who came in
contact with him noticed that there was something wrong.
Colfax saw him, and asked: "What's the matter, old man? You're not
looking as chipper as you might." He fancied it might be something in
connection with the Blue Sea Corporation. He had heard, after he had
learned that Eugene was in it, that it would take much more money than
had been invested to date to make it a really successful seaside
proposition according to the original outlines, and that it would be
years before it could possibly yield an adequate return. If Eugene had
put much money in it, he had probably lost it or tied it up in a most
unsatisfactory way. Well, it served him right for trifling with things
he knew nothing about.
"Oh, nothing," replied Eugene abstractedly. "I'm all right. I'm just a
little run down physically. I'll come round."
"You'd better take a month or so off and brace up, if you're not in
shape."
"Oh, not at all! Not now, anyhow."
It occurred to Eugene that he might use the time to advantage a little
later and that he would claim it.
They proceeded to business, but Colfax noticed that Eugene's eyes were
specially hollow and weary and that he was noticeably restless. He
wondered whether he might be going to break down physically.
Suzanne had drifted along peacefully enough considering the nature of
the feeling between her and her mother at this time. After a few days of
desultory discussion, however, along the lines now so familiar, she
began to see that her mother had no intention of terminating their stay
at the time agreed upon, particularly since their return to New York
meant, so far as Suzanne was concerned, her immediate departure to
Witla. Mrs. Dale began at first to plead for additional delay, and later
that Suzanne should agree not to go to New York but to Lenox for a
season. It was cold up here already now, though there were still spells
of bright warm summery or autumn weather between ten and four in the
day, and sometimes in the evening. The nights usually were cold.
Mrs. Dale would gladly have welcomed a compromise, for it was terribly
lonely, just herself and Suzanne--after the gaieties of New York. Four
days before the time of her proposed departure, Mrs. Dale was still
obdurate or parleying in a diplomatic way, and Suzanne, disgusted, made
the threat which caused Mrs. Dale to wire distractedly to Eugene. Later,
she composed the following, which she gave to Gabrielle:
"Dear Eugene--
If you love me, come and get me. I have told mama that if she did not
keep her word to return with me to New York by the fifteenth, I would
write to you and she is still obstinate. I am at the Cathcart Lodge,
While-a-Way, eighteen miles north of Three Rivers, here in Canada.
Anyone can show you. I will be here when you come. Do not try to write
to me as I am afraid I should not get it. But I will be at the Lodge.
"With love,
"Suzanne."
Eugene had never before received a love appeal, nor indeed any such
appeal from any woman in his life.
This letter reached him thirty-six hours after the telegram arrived, and
set him to planning at once. The hour had struck. He must act. Perhaps
this old world was now behind him forever. Could he really get Suzanne,
if he went to Canada to find her? How was she surrounded? He thrilled
with delight when he realized that it was Suzanne who was calling him
and that he was going to find her. "If you love me, come and get me."
Would he?
Watch!
He called for his car, telephoned his valet to pack his bag and bring it
to the Grand Central Station, first ascertaining for himself the time of
departure, asked to talk to Angela, who had gone to Myrtle's apartment
in upper Seventh Avenue, ready at last to confess her woes to Eugene's
sister. Her condition did not appeal to Eugene in this situation. The
inevitable result, which he thought of frequently, was still far away.
He notified Colfax that he was going to take a few days rest, went to
the bank where he had over four thousand dollars on deposit, and drew it
all. He then went to a ticket office and purchased a one-way ticket,
uncertain where his actions would take him once he saw Suzanne. He tried
once more to get Angela, intending boldly to tell her that he was going
to seek Suzanne, and to tell her not to worry, that he would communicate
with her, but she had not returned. Curiously, through all this, he was
intensely sorry for her, and wondered how she would take it, if he did
not return. How would the child be arranged for? He felt he must go.
Angela was heartsick, he knew that, and frightened. Still he could not
resist this call. He could not resist anything in connection with this
love affair. He was like a man possessed of a devil or wandering in a
dream. He knew that his whole career was at stake, but it did not make
any difference. He must get her. The whole world could go hang if he
could only obtain her--her, the beautiful, the perfect!
At five-thirty the train departed, and then he sat as it rolled
northward speculating on what he was to do when he got there. If Three
Rivers were much of a place, he could probably hire an automobile. He
could leave it some distance from the lodge and then see if he could not
approach unobserved and signal Suzanne. If she were about, she would no
doubt be on the lookout. At a sign she would run to him. They would
hurry to the automobile. The pursuit might quickly follow, but he would
arrange it so that his pursuers would not know which railroad station he
was going to. Quebec was the nearest big city, he found by studying the
map, though he might return to Montreal and New York or Buffalo, if he
chose to go west he would see how the train ran.
It is curious what vagaries the human mind is subject to, under
conditions of this kind. Up to the time of Eugene's arrival in Three
Rivers and after, he had no plan of campaign, or of future conduct
beyond that of obtaining Suzanne. He did not know that he would return
to New York--he did not know that he would not. If Suzanne wished, and
it were best, and they could, they would go to England from Montreal, or
France. If necessary, they could go to Portland and sail. Mrs. Dale, on
the evidence that he had Suzanne and that of her own free will and
volition, might yield and say nothing, in which case he could return to
New York and resume his position. This courageous stand on his part if
he had only followed it might have solved the whole problem quickly. It
might have been the sword that would have cut the Gordian Knot. On the
train was a heavy black-bearded man, which was always good luck to him.
At Three Rivers, when he dismounted from the train, he found a
horseshoe, which was also a lucky sign. He did not stop to think what he
would do if he really lost his position and had to live on the sum he
had with him. He was really not thinking logically. He was dreaming. He
fancied that he would get Suzanne and have his salary, and that somehow
things would be much as they were. Of such is the logic of dreams.
When he arrived at Three Rivers, of course the conditions were not what
he anticipated. It is true that at times, after a long continued period
of dry weather, the roads were passable for automobiles, at least as far
as While-a-Way, but the weather had not recently been entirely dry.
There had been a short period of cold rain and the roads were
practically impassable, save for horses and carryalls. There was a
carryall which went as far as St. Jacques, four miles from While-a-Way,
where the driver told him he could get a horse, if he wanted one. The
owner of this hack line had a stable there.
This was gratifying to him, and he decided to make arrangements for two
horses at St. Jacques, which he would take to within a reasonable
distance of the lodge and tie in some spot where they would not be seen.
Then he could consider the situation and signal Suzanne; if she were
there on the lookout. How dramatic the end would be! How happy they
would be flying together! Judge then his astonishment on reaching St.
Jacques to find Mrs. Dale waiting for him. Word had been telephoned by
her faithful representative, the station agent at Three Rivers, that a
man of Eugene's description had arrived and departed for While-a-Way.
Before this a telegram had come from New York from Kinroy to the effect
that Eugene had gone somewhere. His daily habits since Mrs. Dale had
gone away had been under observation. Kinroy, on his return, had called
at the United Magazines Corporation and asked if Eugene was in the city.
Heretofore he had been reported in. When on this day he was reported as
having gone, Kinroy called up Angela to inquire. She also stated that he
had left the city. He then wired his mother and she, calculating the
time of his arrival, and hearing from the station agent of his taking
the carryall, had gone down to meet him. She had decided to fight every
inch of the way with all the strategy at her command. She did not want
to kill him--had not really the courage to do that--but she still hoped
to dissuade him. She had not been able to bring herself to resort to
guards and detectives as yet. He could not be as hard as he looked and
acted. Suzanne was bedeviling him by her support and communications. She
had not been able to govern there, she saw. Her only hope was to talk
him out of it, or into an additional delay. If necessary, they would all
go back to New York together and she would appeal to Colfax and
Winfield. She hoped they would persuade him to reason. Anyhow, she would
never leave Suzanne for one moment until this thing had been settled in
her favor, or brutally against her.
When Eugene appeared she greeted him with her old social smile and
called to him affably: "Come, get in."
He looked at her grimly and obeyed, but changed his manner when he saw
that she was really kindly in her tone and greeted her sociably.
"How have you been?" he asked.
"Oh, quite well, thank you!"
"And how is Suzanne?"
"All right, I fancy. She isn't here, you know."
"Where is she?" asked Eugene, his face a study in defeat.
"She went with some friends to visit Quebec for ten days. Then she is
going from there to New York. I don't expect to see her here any more."
Eugene choked with a sense of repugnance to her airy taradiddles. He did
not believe what she was saying--saw at once that she was fencing with
him.
"That's a lie," he said roughly, "and it's out of the whole cloth! She's
here, and you know it. Anyhow, I am going to see for myself."
"How polite you are!" she laughed diplomatically. "That isn't the way
you usually talk. Anyhow, she isn't here. You'll find that out, if you
insist. I wouldn't advise you to insist, for I've sent for counsel since
I heard you were coming, and you will find detectives as well as guards
waiting to receive you. She isn't here, though, even at that, and you
might just as well turn round and go back. I will drive you over to
Three Rivers, if you wish. Why not be reasonable, now, and avoid a
scene? She isn't here. You couldn't have her if she were. The people I
have employed will prevent that. If you make trouble, you will simply be
arrested and then the newspapers will have it. Why not be reasonable
now, Mr. Witla, and go on back? You have everything to lose. There is a
train through Three Rivers from Quebec for New York at eleven tonight.
We can make it. Don't you want to do that? I will agree, if you come to
your senses now, and cause me no trouble here, to bring Suzanne back to
New York within a month. I won't let you have her unless you get a
divorce and straighten things out with your wife, but if you can do that
within six months, or a year, and she still wants you, you can have her.
I will promise in writing to withdraw all objection, and see that her
full share of her property comes to her uncontested. I will help you and
her socially all I can. You know I am not without influence."
"I want to see her first," replied Eugene grimly and disbelievingly.
"I won't say that I will forget everything," went on Mrs. Dale, ignoring
his interpolated remark. "I can't--but I will pretend to. You can have
the use of my country place at Lenox. I will buy out the lease at
Morristown, or the New York House, and you can live in either place. I
will set aside a sum of money for your wife, if you wish. That may help
you obtain your release. Surely you do not want to take her under the
illegal condition which you propose, when you can have her outright in
this brilliant manner by waiting a little while. She says she does not
want to get married, but that is silly talk, based on nothing except
erratic reading. She does, or she will, the moment she comes to think
about it seriously. Why not help her? Why not go back now and let me
bring her to New York a little later and then we will talk this all
over. I shall be very glad to have you in my family. You are a brilliant
man. I have always liked you. Why not be reasonable? Come now and let's
drive over to Three Rivers and you take the train back to New York, will
you?"
While Mrs. Dale had been talking, Eugene had been surveying her calmly.
What a clever talker she was! How she could lie! He did not believe her.
He did not believe one word that she said. She was fighting to keep him
from Suzanne, why he could readily understand. Suzanne was somewhere,
here, he fancied, though, as in the case of her recent trip to Albany,
she might have been spirited away.
"Absurd!" said Eugene easily, defiantly, indifferently. "I'll not do
anything of the sort. In the first place, I don't believe you. If you
are so anxious to be nice to me, let me see her, and then you can say
all this in front of her. I've come up here to see her, and I'm going
to. She's here. I know she is. You needn't lie. You needn't talk. I know
she's here. Now I'm going to see her, if I have to stay here a month and
search."
Mrs. Dale stirred nervously. She knew that Eugene was desperate. She
knew that Suzanne had written to him. Talk might be useless. Strategy
might not avail, but she could not help using it.
"Listen to me," she said excitedly. "I tell you Suzanne is not here.
She's gone. There are guards up there--lots of them. They know who you
are. They have your description. They have orders to kill you, if you
try to break in. Kinroy is there. He is desperate. I have been having a
struggle to prevent his killing you already. The place is watched. We
are watched at this moment. Won't you be reasonable? You can't see her.
She's gone. Why make all this fuss? Why take your life in your hands?"
"Don't talk," said Eugene. "You're lying. I can see it in your face.
Besides, my life is nothing. I am not afraid. Why talk? She's here. I'm
going to see her."
He stared before him and Mrs. Dale ruminated as to what she was to do.
There were no guards or detectives, as she said. Kinroy was not there.
Suzanne was not away. This was all palaver, as Eugene suspected, for she
was too anxious to avoid publicity to give any grounds for it, before
she was absolutely driven.
It was a rather halcyon evening after some days of exceeding chill. A
bright moon was coming up in the east, already discernible in the
twilight, but which later would shine brilliantly. It was not cold but
really pleasantly warm, and the rough road along which they were driving
was richly odorous. Eugene was not unconscious of its beauty, but
depressed by the possibility of Suzanne's absence.
"Oh, do be generous," pleaded Mrs. Dale, who feared that once they saw
each other, reason would disappear. Suzanne would demand, as she had
been continually demanding, to be taken back to New York. Eugene with or
without Suzanne's consent or plea, would ignore her overtures of
compromise and there would be immediate departure or defiant union here.
She thought she would kill them if need be, but in the face of Eugene's
defiant persistence on one side, and Suzanne's on the other, her courage
was failing. She was frightened by the daring of this man. "I will keep
my word," she observed distractedly. "Honestly she isn't here. She's in
Quebec, I tell you. Wait a month. I will bring her back then. We will
arrange things together. Why can't you be generous?"
"I could be," said Eugene, who was considering all the brilliant
prospects which her proposal involved and being moved by them, "but I
can't believe you. You're not telling me the truth. You didn't tell the
truth to Suzanne when you took her from New York. That was a trick, and
this is another. I know she isn't away. She's right up there in the
lodge, wherever it is. You take me to her and then we will talk this
thing out together. By the way, where are you going?"
Mrs. Dale had turned into a bypath or half-formed road closely lined
with small trees and looking as though it might be a woodchoppers' path.
"To the lodge."
"I don't believe it," replied Eugene, who was intensely suspicious.
"This isn't a main road to any such place as that."
"I tell you it is."
Mrs. Dale was nearing the precincts of the lodge and wanted more time to
talk and plead.
"Well," said Eugene, "you can go this way if you want to. I'm going to
get out and walk. You can't throw me off by driving me around in some
general way. I'm going to stay here a week, a month, two months, if
necessary, but I'm not going back without seeing Suzanne. She's here,
and I know it. I'll go up alone and find her. I'm not afraid of your
guards."
He jumped out and Mrs. Dale gave up in despair. "Wait," she pleaded.
"It's over two miles yet. I'll take you there. She isn't home tonight,
anyhow. She's over at the cottage of the caretaker. Oh, why won't you be
reasonable? I'll bring her to New York, I tell you. Are you going to
throw aside all those fine prospects and wreck your life and hers and
mine? Oh, if Mr. Dale were only alive! If I had a man on whom I could
rely! Come, get in, and I'll drive you up there, but promise me you
won't ask to see her tonight. She isn't there, anyway. She's over at the
caretaker's. Oh, dear, if only something would happen to solve this!"
"I thought you said she was in Quebec?"
"I only said that to gain time. I'm so unstrung. It wasn't true, but she
isn't at the lodge, truly. She's away tonight. I can't let you stay
there. Let me take you back to St. Jacques and you can stay with old
Pierre Gaine. You can come up in the morning. The servants will think it
so strange. I promise you you shall see Suzanne. I give you my word."
"Your word. Why, Mrs. Dale, you're going around in a ring! I can't
believe anything you say," replied Eugene calmly. He was very much
collected and elated now since he knew that Suzanne was here. He was
going to see her--he felt it. He had Mrs. Dale badly worsted, and he
proposed to drive her until, in the presence of Suzanne, he and his
beloved dictated terms.
"I'm going there tonight and you are going to bring her to me. If she
isn't there, you know where to find her. She's here, and I'm going to
see her tonight. We'll talk of all this you're proposing in front of
her. It's silly to twist things around this way. The girl is with me,
and you know it. She's mine. You can't control her. Now we two will talk
to you together."
He sat back in the light vehicle and began to hum a tune. The moon was
getting clearer.
"Promise me just one thing," urged Mrs. Dale despairingly. "Promise me
that you will urge Suzanne to accept my proposition. A few months won't
hurt. You can see her in New York as usual. Go about getting a divorce.
You are the only one who has any influence with her. I admit it. She
won't believe me. She won't listen to me. You tell her. Your future is
in it. Persuade her to wait. Persuade her to stay up here or at Lenox
for a little while and then come down. She will obey you. She will
believe anything you say. I have lied. I have lied terribly all through
this, but you can't blame me. Put yourself in my place. Think of my
position. Please use your influence. I will do all that I say and more."
"Will you bring Suzanne to me tonight?"
"Yes, if you promise."
"Will you bring her to me tonight, promise or no promise? I don't want
to say anything to you which I can't say in front of her."
"Won't you promise me that you will accept my proposition and urge her
to?"
"I think I will, but I won't say. I want her to hear what you have to
say. I think I will."
Mrs. Dale shook her head despondently.
"You might as well acquiesce," went on Eugene. "I'm going to see her
anyhow, whether you will or no. She's there, and I'll find her if I have
to search the house room by room. She can hear my voice."
He was carrying things with a high hand.
"Well," replied Mrs. Dale, "I suppose I must. Please don't let on to the
servants. Pretend you're my guest. Let me take you back to St. Jacques
tonight, after you see her. Don't stay with her more than half an hour."
She was absolutely frightened out of her wits at this terrific
denouement.
Eugene sat grimly congratulating himself as they jogged on in the
moonlight. He actually squeezed her arm cheerfully and told her not to
be so despairing--that all would come out all right. They would talk to
Suzanne. He would see what she would have to say.
"You stay here," she said, as they reached a little wooded knoll in a
bend of the road--a high spot commanding a vast stretch of territory now
lit by a glistening northern moon. "I'll go right inside and get her. I
don't know whether she's there, but if she isn't, she's over at the
caretaker's, and we'll go over there. I don't want the servants to see
you meet her. Please don't be demonstrative. Oh, be careful!"
Eugene smiled. How excited she was! How pointless, after all her
threats! So this was victory. What a fight he had made! Here he was
outside this beautiful lodge, the lights of which he could see gleaming
like yellow gold through the silvery shadows. The air was full of field
fragrances. You could smell the dewy earth, soon to be hard and covered
deep in snow. There was still a bird's voice here and there and faint
stirrings of the wind in the leaves. "On such a night," came back
Shakespeare's lines. How fitting that Suzanne should come to him under
such conditions! Oh, the wonder of this romance--the beauty of it! From
the very beginning it had been set about with perfections of scenery and
material environment. Obviously, nature had intended this as the
crowning event of his life. Life recognized him as a genius--the fates
it was heaping posies in his lap, laying a crown of victory upon his
brow.
He waited while Mrs. Dale went to the lodge, and then after a time, true
enough, there appeared in the distance the swinging, buoyant, girlish
form of Suzanne. She was plump, healthful, vigorous. He could detect her
in the shadows under the trees and behind her a little way Mrs. Dale.
Suzanne came eagerly on--youthful, buoyant, dancing, determined,
beautiful. Her skirts were swinging about her body in ripples as she
strode. She looked all Eugene had ever thought her. Hebe--a young Diana,
a Venus at nineteen. Her lips were parted in a welcoming smile as she
drew near and her eyes were as placid as those dull opals which still
burn with a hidden lustre of gold and flame.
She held out her arms to him as she came, running the last few steps.
"Suzanne!" called her mother. "For shame!"
"Hush, mama!" declared Suzanne defiantly. "I don't care. I don't care.
It's your fault. You shouldn't have lied to me. He wouldn't have come if
I hadn't sent for him. I'm going back to New York. I told you I was."
She did not say, "Oh, Eugene!" as she came close, but gathered his face
in her hands and looked eagerly into his eyes. His burned into hers. She
stepped back and opened wide her arms only to fold them tightly about
him.
"At last! At last!" he said, kissing her feverishly. "Oh, Suzanne! Oh,
Flower Face!"
"I knew you would come," she said. "I told her you would. I'll go back
with you."
"Yes, yes," said Eugene. "Oh, this wonderful night! This wonderful
climax! Oh, to have you in my arms again!"
Mrs. Dale stood by, white, intense. To think a daughter of hers should
act like this, confound her so, make her a helpless spectator of her
iniquity. What an astounding, terrible, impossible thing!
"Suzanne!" she cried. "Oh, that I should have lived to see this day!"
"I told you, mama, that you would regret bringing me up here," declared
Suzanne. "I told you I would write to him. I knew you would come," she
said to Eugene, and she squeezed his hand affectionately.
Eugene inhaled a deep breath and stared at her. The night, the stars
swung around him in a gorgeous orbit. Thus it was to be victorious. It
was too beautiful, too wonderful! To think he should have triumphed in
this way! Could any other man anywhere ever have enjoyed such a victory?
"Oh, Suzanne," he said eagerly, "this is like a dream; it's like heaven!
I can scarcely believe I am alive."
"Yes, yes," she replied, "it is beautiful, perfect!" And together they
strolled away from her mother, hand in hand.
CHAPTER XX
The flaw in this situation was that Eugene, after getting Suzanne in his
arms once more, had no particular solution to offer. Instead of at once
outlining an open or secret scheme of escape, or taking her by main
force and walking off with her, as she more than half expected him to
do, here he was repeating to her what her mother had told him, and
instead of saying "Come!" he was asking her advice.
"This is what your mother proposed to me just now, Suzanne," he began,
and entered upon a full explanation. It was a vision of empire to him.
"I said to her," he said, speaking of her mother, who was near by, "that
I would decide nothing. She wanted me to say that I would do this, but I
insisted that it must be left to you. If you want to go back to New
York, we will go, tonight or tomorrow. If you want to accept this plan
of your mother's, it's all right, so far as I am concerned. I would
rather have you now, but if I can see you, I am willing to wait."
He was calm now, logical, foolishly speculative. Suzanne wondered at
this. She had no advice to offer. She had expected some dramatic climax,
but since it had not come about, she had to be content. The truth was
that she had been swept along by her desire to be with Eugene. It had
seemed to her in the beginning that it was not possible for him to get a
divorce. It had seemed also from her reading and youthful philosophizing
that it was really not necessary. She did not want to be mean to Angela.
She did not want Eugene to mortify her by openly leaving her. She had
fancied since Eugene had said that Angela was not satisfactory to him
and that there was no real love between them, that Angela really did not
care she had practically admitted as much in her letter--that it would
not make so much difference if she shared him with her. What was he
explaining now--a new theory as to what they were to do? She thought he
was coming for her to take her away like a god, whereas here he was
presenting a new theory to her in anything but a god-like way. It was
confusing. She did not know how it was that Eugene did not want to leave
at once.
"Well, I don't know whatever you think," she said. "If you want me to
stay here another month----"
"No, no!" exclaimed Eugene quickly, conscious of a flaw in the
arrangement, and anxious to make it seem right. "I didn't mean that. Not
that. I want you to come back with me now, if possible, tonight, only I
wanted to tell you this. Your mother seems sincere. It seems a shame if
we can keep friends with her and still have our way, not to do so. I
don't want to do any greater harm than I can help unless you are
perfectly willing and----" He hesitated over his own thoughts.
At this moment Suzanne could scarcely have told what she felt. The crux
of the situation was being put to her for her decision, and it should
not be. She was not strong enough, not experienced enough. Eugene should
decide, and whatever he decided would be right.
The truth was that after getting her in his arms again, and that in the
presence of her mother, Eugene did not feel that he was quite so much
the victor as he had imagined, or that the whole problem of his life was
solved. He could not very well ignore, he thought, what Mrs. Dale had to
offer, if she was offering it seriously. She had said to him just before
he came into the presence of Suzanne that unless he accepted these terms
she would go on fighting--that she would telegraph to Colfax and ask him
to come up here. Although Eugene had drawn his money and was ready to
fly if he could, still the thought of Colfax and the desire to keep his
present state of social security and gain all Mrs. Dale had to offer
besides were deterrents. He hesitated. Wasn't there some way to smooth
everything out?
"I don't want you to decide finally," he said, "but what do you think?"
Suzanne was in a simmering, nebulous state, and could not think. Eugene
was here. This was Arcady and the moon was high.
It was beautiful to have him with her again. It was wonderful to feel
his caresses. But he was not flying with her. They were not defying the
world; they were not doing what she fancied they would be doing, rushing
to victory, and that was what she had sent for him for. Mrs. Dale was
going to help Eugene get a divorce, so she said. She was going to help
subsidize Angela, if necessary. Suzanne was going to get married, and
actually settle down after a time. What a curious thought. Why that was
not what she had wanted to do. She had wanted to flout convention in
some way; to do original things as she had planned, as she had dreamed.
It might be disastrous, but she did not think so. Her mother would have
yielded. Why was Eugene compromising? It was curious. Such thoughts as
these formulated in her mind at this time were the most disastrous
things that could happen to their romance. Union should have followed
his presence. Flight should have been a portion of it. As it was she was
in his arms, but she was turning over vague, nebulous thoughts.
Something--a pale mist before an otherwise brilliant moon; a bit of
spindrift; a speck of cloud, no bigger than a man's hand that might
possibly portend something and might not, had come over the situation.
Eugene was as desirable as ever, but he was not flying with her. They
were talking about going back to New York afterwards, but they were not
going together at once. How was that?
"Do you think mama can really damage you with Mr. Colfax?" she asked
curiously at one point, after Eugene had mentioned her mother's threat.
"I don't know," he replied solemnly. "Yes, I think she could. I don't
know what he'd do, though. It doesn't matter much one way or the other,"
he added. Suzanne puzzled.
"Well, if you want to wait, it's all right," she said. "I want to do
whatever you think best. I don't want you to lose your position. If you
think we ought to wait, we will."
"Not if I'm not to be with you regularly," replied Eugene, who was
wavering. He was not your true champion of victory--your administrative
leader. Foolishly he was spelling over an arrangement whereby he could
eat his cake and have it--see Suzanne, drive with her, dance with her,
all but live with her in New York until such time as the actual union
could be arranged secretly or openly. Mrs. Dale was promising to receive
him as a son, but she was merely plotting for time--time to think, act,
permit Suzanne, under argument, to come to her senses. Time would solve
everything, she thought, and tonight as she hung about, keeping close
and overhearing some of Eugene's remarks, she felt relieved. Either he
was coming to his senses and beginning to regret his folly or he was
being deluded by her lies. If she could keep him and Suzanne apart one
more week, and get to New York herself, she would go to Colfax now, and
to Winfield, and see if they could not be induced to use their good
offices. Eugene must be broken. He was erratic, insane. Her lies were
apparently plausible enough to gain her this delay, and that was all she
wanted.
"Well, I don't know. Whatever you think," said Suzanne again, after a
time between embraces and kisses, "do you want me to come back with you
tomorrow, or----"
"Yes, yes," he replied quickly and vigorously, "tomorrow, only we must
try and argue your mother into the right frame of mind. She feels that
she has lost now since we are together, and we must keep her in that
mind. She talks compromise and that's just what we want. If she is
willing to have us make some arrangement, why not? I would be willing to
let things rest for a week or so, just to give her a chance if she
wishes. If she doesn't change then we can act. You could come as far as
Lenox for a week, and then come on."
He talked like one who had won a great victory, whereas he had really
suffered a great defeat. He was not taking Suzanne.
Suzanne brooded. It was not what she expected--but----
"Yes," she said, after a time.
"Will you return with me tomorrow?"
"Yes."
"As far as Lenox or New York?"
"We'll see what mama says. If you can agree with her--anything you
want--I am willing."
After a time Eugene and Suzanne parted for the night. It was agreed that
they should see each other in the morning, that they should go back as
far as Lenox together. Mrs. Dale was to help Eugene get a divorce. It
was a delightfully affectionate and satisfactory situation, but somehow
Eugene felt that he was not handling it right. He went to bed in one
part of the house--Suzanne in another--Mrs. Dale, fearful and watchful,
staying near by, but there was no need. He was not desperate. He went to
sleep thinking that the near future was going to adjust everything for
him nicely, and that he and Suzanne were eventually going to get
married.
CHAPTER XXI
The next day, after wavering whether they would not spend a few days
here in billing and cooing and listening to Mrs. Dale's veiled pleas as
to what the servants might think, or what they might know already or
suspect from what the station master at Three Rivers might say, they
decided to return, Eugene to New York, Suzanne to Lenox. All the way
back to Albany, Eugene and Suzanne sat together in one seat in the
Pullman like two children rejoicing in each other's company. Mrs. Dale
sat one seat away, turning over her promises and pondering whether,
after all, she had not yet better go at once and try to end all by an
appeal to Colfax, or whether she had better wait a little while and see
if the affair might not die down of its own accord.
At Albany the following morning, Suzanne and Mrs. Dale transferred to
the Boston and Albany, Eugene going on to New York. He went to the
office feeling much relieved, and later in the day to his apartment.
Angela, who had been under a terrific strain, stared at him as if he
were a ghost, or one come back to life from the dead. She had not known
where he had gone. She had not known whether he would ever come back.
There was no use in reproaching him--she had realized that long since.
The best she could do was to make an appeal. She waited until after
dinner, at which they had discussed the mere commonplaces of life, and
then came to his room, where he was unpacking.
"Did you go to find Suzanne?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Is she with you?"
"No."
"Oh, Eugene, do you know where I have spent the last three days?" she
asked.
He did not answer.
"On my knees. On my knees," she declared, "asking God to save you from
yourself."
"Don't talk rot, Angela," he returned coldly. "You know how I feel about
this thing. How much worse am I now than I was before? I tried to get
you on the phone to tell you. I went to find her and bring her back, and
I did as far as Lenox. I am going to win this fight. I am going to get
Suzanne, either legally or otherwise. If you want to give me a divorce,
you can. I will provide amply for you. If you don't I'm going to take
her, anyhow. That's understood between me and her. Now what's the use of
hysterics?"
Angela looked at him tearfully. Could this be the Eugene she had known?
In each scene with him, after each plea, or through it, she came to this
adamantine wall. Was he really so frantic about this girl? Was he going
to do what he said? He outlined to her quite calmly his plans as
recently revised, and at one point Angela, speaking of Mrs. Dale,
interrupted him--"she will never give her up to you--you will see. You
think she will. She says she will. She is only fooling you. She is
fighting for time. Think what you are doing. You can't win."
"Oh, yes, I can," said Eugene, "I practically have already. She will
come to me."
"She may, she may, but at what a cost. Look at me, Eugene. Am I not
enough? I am still good looking. You have declared to me time and again
that I have a beautiful form. See, see"--she tore open her dressing gown
and the robe de nuit, in which she had come in. She had arranged this
scene, especially thought it out, and hoped it would move him. "Am I not
enough? Am I not still all that you desire?"
Eugene turned his head away in disgust--wearily--sick of their
melodramatic appeals. This was the last role Angela should have played.
It was the most ineffectual, the least appropriate at the moment. It was
dramatic, striking, but totally ineffective under the circumstances.
"It's useless acting in that way to me, Angela," he said. "I'm no longer
to be moved in that way by you. All marital affection between us is
dead--terribly so. Why plead to me with something that has no appeal. I
can't help it. It's dead. Now what are we going to do about it?"
Once more Angela turned wearily. Although she was nerve worn and
despairing, she was still fascinated by the tragedy which was being
played out under her eyes. Would nothing make him see?
They went their separate ways for the night, and the next day he was at
his desk again. Word came from Suzanne that she was still in Lenox, and
then that her mother had gone to Boston for a day or two on a visit. The
fifth day Colfax stepped into his office, and, hailing him pleasantly,
sat down.
"Well, how are things with you, old man?" he asked.
"Oh, about the same," said Eugene. "I can't complain."
"Everything going all right with you?"
"Yes, moderately so."
"People don't usually butt in on you here when I'm here, do they?" he
asked curiously.
"I've given orders against anything like that, but I'll make it doubly
sure in this case," said Eugene, alert at once. Could Colfax be going to
talk to him about anything in connection with his case? He paled a
little.
Colfax looked out of the window at the distant panorama of the Hudson.
He took out a cigar, and cut the end, but did not light it.
"I asked you about not being interrupted," he began thoughtfully,
"because I have a little something I want to talk to you about, which I
would rather no one else heard. Mrs. Dale came to me the other day," he
said quietly. Eugene started at the mention of her name and paled still
more, but gave no other outward sign. "And she told me a long story
about something that you were trying to do in connection with her
daughter--run away with her, or go and live with her without a license
or a divorce, or desert your wife, or something to that effect, which I
didn't pay much attention to, but which I have to talk to you about just
the same. Now, I never like to meddle with a man's personal affairs. I
don't think that they concern me. I don't think they concern this
business, except in so far as they may affect it unfavorably, but I
would like to know if it is true. Is it?"
"Yes," said Eugene.
"Mrs. Dale is an old friend of mine. I've known her for years. I know
Mrs. Witla, of course, but not quite in the same way. I haven't seen as
much of her as I have of you. I didn't know that you were unhappily
married, but that is neither here nor there. The point is, that she
seems to be on the verge of making a great scandal out of this--she
seems a little distracted to me--and I thought I'd better come up and
have a little talk with you before anything serious really happened. You
know it would be a rather damaging thing to this business if any scandal
were started in connection with you just at present."
He paused, expecting some protest or explanation, but Eugene merely held
his peace. He was tense, pale, harried. So she had gone to Colfax, after
all. Instead of going to Boston; instead of keeping her word, she had
come down here to New York and gone to Colfax. Had she told him the full
story? Very likely Colfax, in spite of all his smooth words, would be
inclined to sympathize with her. What must he think of him? He was
rather conservative in a social way. Mrs. Dale could be of service to
him in her world in one way and another. He had never seen Colfax quite
so cool and deliberate as he was now. He seemed to be trying to maintain
an exceedingly judicial and impartial tone, which was not
characteristic.
"You have always been an interesting study to me, Witla, ever since I
first met you," he went on, after a time. "You're a genius, I fancy, if
there ever was one, but like all geniuses you are afflicted with
tendencies which are erratic. I used to think for a little while that
maybe you sat down and planned the things which you have carried through
so successfully, but I have since concluded that you don't. You attract
some forms of force and order. Also, I think you have various other
faculties--it would be hard for me to say just what they are. One is
vision. I know you have that. Another is appreciation of ability. I know
you have that. I have seen you pick some exceptional people. You plan in
a way, but you don't plan logically or deliberately, unless I am greatly
mistaken. The matter of this Dale girl now is an interesting case in
point, I think."
"Let's not talk of her," said Eugene frigidly and bridling slightly.
Suzanne was a sore point with him. A dangerous subject. Colfax saw it.
"That's something I can't talk about very well."
"Well, we won't," put in the other calmly, "but the point can be
established in other ways. You'll admit, I think, that you haven't been
planning very well in connection with this present situation, for if you
had been, you would see that in doing what you have been doing you have
been riding straight for a fall. If you were going to take the girl, and
she was willing, as she appears to be, you should have taken her without
her mother's knowledge, old man. She might have been able to adjust
things afterward. If not, you would have had her, and I suppose you
would have been willing to suffer the consequences, if you had been
caught. As it is, you have let Mrs. Dale in on it, and she has powerful
friends. You can't ignore her. I can't. She is in a fighting mood, and
it looks as though she were going to bring considerable pressure to bear
to make you let go."
He paused again, waiting to see if Eugene would say something, but the
latter made no comment.
"I want to ask one question, and I don't want you to take any offense at
it, for I don't mean anything by it, but it will help to clear this
matter up in my own mind, and probably in yours later, if you will. Have
you had anything to do in a compromising way with Miss----?"
"No," said Eugene before he could finish.
"How long has this fight been going on?"
"Oh, about four weeks, or a little less."
Colfax bit at the end of his cigar.
"You have powerful enemies here, you know, Witla. Your rule hasn't been
very lenient. One of the things I have noticed about you is your utter
inability to play politics. You have picked men who would be very glad
to have your shoes, if they could. If they could get the details of this
predicament, your situation wouldn't be tenable more than fifteen
minutes. You know that, of course. In spite of anything I might do you
would have to resign. You couldn't maintain yourself here. I couldn't
let you. You haven't thought of that in this connection, I suppose. No
man in love does. I know just how you feel. From having seen Mrs. Witla,
I can tell in a way just what the trouble is. You have been reined in
too close. You haven't been master in your own home. It's irritated you.
Life has appeared to be a failure. You have lost your chance, or thought
you had on this matrimonial game, and it's made you restless. I know
this girl. She's beautiful. But just as I say, old man, you haven't
counted the cost--you haven't calculated right--you haven't planned. If
anything could prove to me what I have always faintly suspected about
you, it is this: You don't plan carefully enough----" and he looked out
of the window.
Eugene sat staring at the floor. He couldn't make out just what it was
that Colfax intended to do about it. He was calmer in his thinking than
he had ever seen him before--less dramatic. As a rule, Colfax yelled
things--demonstrated, performed--made excited motions. This morning, he
was slow, thoughtful, possibly emotional.
"In spite of the fact that I like you personally, Witla--and every man
owes a little something to friendship--it can't be worked out in
business, though--I have been slowly coming to the conclusion that
perhaps, after all, you aren't just the ideal man for this place. You're
too emotional, I fancy--too erratic. White has been trying to tell me
that for a long time, but I wouldn't believe it. I'm not taking his
judgment now. I don't know that I would ever have acted on that feeling
or idea, if this thing hadn't come up. I don't know that I am going to
do so finally, but it strikes me that you are in a very ticklish
position--one rather dangerous to this house, and you know that this
house could never brook a scandal. Why the newspapers would never get
over it. It would do us infinite harm. I think, viewing it all in all,
that you had better take a year off and see if you can't straighten this
out quietly. I don't think you had better try to take this girl unless
you can get a divorce and marry her, and I don't think you had better
try to get a divorce unless you can do it quietly. I mean so far as your
position here is concerned only. Apart from that, you can do what you
please. But remember! a scandal would affect your usefulness here. If
things can be patched up, well and good. If not, well then they can't.
If this thing gets talked about much, you know that there will be no
hope of your coming back here. I don't suppose you would be willing to
give her up?"
"No," said Eugene.
"I thought as much. I know just how you take a thing of this kind. It
hits your type hard. Can you get a divorce from Mrs. Witla?"
"I'm not so sure," said Eugene. "I haven't any suitable grounds. We
simply don't agree, that's all--my life has been a hollow shell."
"Well," said Colfax, "it's a bad mix up all around. I know how you feel
about the girl. She's very beautiful. She's just the sort to bring about
a situation of this kind. I don't want to tell you what to do. You are
your own best judge, but if you will take my advice, you won't try to
live with her without first marrying her. A man in your position can't
afford to do it. You're too much in the public eye. You know you have
become fairly conspicuous in New York during the last few years, don't
you?"
"Yes," said Eugene. "I thought I had arranged that matter with
Mrs. Dale."
"It appears not. She tells me that you are trying to persuade her
daughter to live with you; that you have no means of obtaining a divorce
within a reasonable time; that your wife is in a--pardon me, and that
you insist on associating with her daughter, meanwhile, which isn't
possible, according to her. I'm inclined to think she's right. It's
hard, but it can't be helped. She says that you say that if you are not
allowed to do that, you will take her and live with her."
He paused again. "Will you?"
"Yes," said Eugene.
Colfax twisted slowly in his chair and looked out of the window. What a
man! What a curious thing love was! "When is it," he asked finally,
"that you think you might do this?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'm all tangled up now. I'll have to think."
Colfax meditated.
"It's a peculiar business. Few people would understand this as well as I
do. Few people would understand you, Witla, as I do. You haven't
calculated right, old man, and you'll have to pay the price. We all do.
I can't let you stay here. I wish I could, but I can't. You'll have to
take a year off and think this thing out. If nothing happens--if no
scandal arises--well, I won't say what I'll do. I might make a berth for
you here somewhere--not exactly in the same position, perhaps, but
somewhere. I'll have to think about that. Meanwhile"--he stopped and
thought again.
Eugene was seeing clearly how it was with him. All this talk about
coming back meant nothing. The thing that was apparent in Colfax's mind
was that he would have to go, and the reason that he would have to go
was not Mrs. Dale or Suzanne, or the moral issue involved, but the fact
that he had lost Colfax's confidence in him. Somehow, through White,
through Mrs. Dale, through his own actions day in and day out, Colfax
had come to the conclusion that he was erratic, uncertain, and, for that
reason, nothing else, he was being dispensed with now. It was
Suzanne--it was fate, his own unfortunate temperament. He brooded
pathetically, and then he said: "When do you want this to happen?"
"Oh, any time, the quicker, the better, if a public scandal is to grow
out of it. If you want you can take your time, three weeks, a month, six
weeks. You had better make it a matter of health and resign for your own
good.--I mean the looks of the thing. That won't make any difference in
my subsequent conclusions. This place is arranged so well now, that it
can run nicely for a year without much trouble. We might fix this up
again--it depends----"
Eugene wished he had not added the last hypocritical phrase.
He shook hands and went to the door and Eugene strolled to the window.
Here was all the solid foundation knocked from under him at one fell
stroke, as if by a cannon. He had lost this truly magnificent position,
$25,000 a year. Where would he get another like it? Who else--what other
company could pay any such salary? How could he maintain the Riverside
Drive apartment now, unless he married Suzanne? How could he have his
automobile--his valet? Colfax said nothing about continuing his
income--why should he? He really owed him nothing. He had been
exceedingly well paid--better paid than he would have been anywhere
else.
He regretted his fanciful dreams about Blue Sea--his silly enthusiasm in
tying up all his money in that. Would Mrs. Dale go to Winfield? Would
her talk do him any real harm there? Winfield had always been a good
friend to him, had manifested a high regard. This charge, this talk of
abduction. What a pity it all was. It might change Winfield's attitude,
and still why should it? He had women; no wife, however. He hadn't, as
Colfax said, planned this thing quite right. That was plain now. His
shimmering world of dreams was beginning to fade like an evening sky. It
might be that he had been chasing a will-o'-the-wisp, after all. Could
this really be possible? Could it be?
CHAPTER XXII
One would have thought that this terrific blow would have given Eugene
pause in a way, and it did. It frightened him. Mrs. Dale had gone to
Colfax in order to persuade him to use his influence to make Eugene
behave himself, and, having done so much, she was actually prepared to
go further. She was considering some scheme whereby she could blacken
Eugene, have his true character become known without in any way
involving Suzanne. Having been relentlessly pursued and harried by
Eugene, she was now as relentless in her own attitude. She wanted him to
let go now, entirely, if she could, not to see Suzanne any more and she
went, first to Winfield, and then back to Lenox with the hope of
preventing any further communication, or at least action on Suzanne's
part, or Eugene's possible presence there.
In so far as her visit to Winfield was concerned, it did not amount to
so much morally or emotionally in that quarter, for Winfield did not
feel that he was called upon to act in the matter. He was not Eugene's
guardian, nor yet a public censor of morals. He waived the whole
question grandly to one side, though in a way he was glad to know of it,
for it gave him an advantage over Eugene. He was sorry for him a
little--what man would not be? Nevertheless, in his thoughts of
reorganizing the Blue Sea Corporation, he did not feel so bad over what
might become of Eugene's interests. When the latter approached him, as
he did some time afterward, with the idea that he might be able to
dispose of his holdings, he saw no way to do it. The company was really
not in good shape. More money would have to be put in. All the treasury
stock would have to be quickly disposed of, or a reorganization would
have to be effected. The best that could be promised under these
circumstances was that Eugene's holdings might be exchanged for a
fraction of their value in a new issue by a new group of directors. So
Eugene saw the end of his dreams in that direction looming up quite
clearly.
When he saw what Mrs. Dale had done, he saw also that it was necessary
to communicate the situation clearly to Suzanne. The whole thing pulled
him up short, and he began to wonder what was to become of him. With his
twenty-five thousand a year in salary cut off, his prospect of an
independent fortune in Blue Sea annihilated, the old life closed to him
for want of cash, for who can go about in society without money? he saw
that he was in danger of complete social and commercial extinction. If
by any chance a discussion of the moral relation between him and Suzanne
arose, his unconscionable attitude toward Angela, if White heard of it
for instance, what would become of him? The latter would spread the fact
far and wide. It would be the talk of the town, in the publishing world
at least. It would close every publishing house in the city to him. He
did not believe Colfax would talk. He fancied that Mrs. Dale had not,
after all, spoken to Winfield, but if she had, how much further would it
go? Would White hear of it through Colfax? Would he keep it a secret if
he knew? Never! The folly of what he had been doing began to dawn upon
him dimly. What was it that he had been doing? He felt like a man who
had been cast into a deep sleep by a powerful opiate and was now slowly
waking to a dim wondering sense of where he was. He was in New York. He
had no position. He had little ready money--perhaps five or six thousand
all told. He had the love of Suzanne, but her mother was still fighting
him, and he had Angela on his hands, undivorced. How was he to arrange
things now? How could he think of going back to her? Never!
He sat down and composed the following letter to Suzanne, which he
thought would make clear to her just how things stood and give her an
opportunity to retract if she wished, for he thought he owed that much
to her now:
"Flower Face:
I had a talk with Mr. Colfax this morning and what I feared might happen
has happened. Your mother, instead of going to Boston as you thought,
came to New York and saw him and, I fancy, my friend Winfield, too. She
cannot do me any harm in that direction, for my relationship with that
company does not depend on a salary, or a fixed income of any kind, but
she has done me infinite harm here. Frankly, I have lost my position. I
do not believe that would have come about except for other pressure with
which she had nothing to do, but her charges and complaints, coming on
top of opposition here on the part of someone else, has done what she
couldn't have done alone. Flower Face, do you know what that means? I
told you once that I had tied up all my spare cash in Blue Sea, which I
hoped would come to so much. It may, but the cutting off my salary here
means great changes for me there, unless I can make some other business
engagement immediately. I shall probably have to give up my apartment in
Riverside Drive and my automobile, and in other ways trim my sails to
meet the bad weather. It means that if you come to me, we should have to
live on what I can earn as an artist unless I should decide and be able
to find something else. When I came to Canada for you, I had some such
idea in mind, but since this thing has actually happened, you may think
differently. If nothing happens to my Blue Sea investment, there may be
an independent fortune some day in that. I can't tell, but that is a
long way off, and meanwhile, there is only this, and I don't know what
else your mother may do to my reputation. She appears to be in a very
savage frame of mind. You heard what she said at While-a-Way. She has
evidently gone back on that completely.
"Flower Face, I lay this all before you so that you may see how things
are. If you come to me it may be in the face of a faded reputation. You
must realize that there is a great difference between Eugene Witla,
Managing Publisher of the United Magazines Corporation, and Eugene
Witla, Artist. I have been very reckless and defiant in my love for you.
Because you are so lovely--the most perfect thing that I have ever
known, I have laid all on the altar of my affection. I would do it
again, gladly--a thousand times. Before you came, my life was a gloomy
thing. I thought I was living, but I knew in my heart that it was all a
dusty shell--a lie. Then you came, and oh, how I have lived! The nights,
the days of beautiful fancy. Shall I ever forget White Wood, or Blue
Sea, or Briarcliff, or that wonderful first day at South Beach? Little
girl, our ways have been the ways of perfectness and peace. This has
been an intensely desperate thing to do, but for my sake, I am not
sorry. I have been dreaming a wonderfully sweet and perfect dream. It
may be when you know all and see how things stand, and stop and think,
as I now ask you to do, you may be sorry and want to change your mind.
Don't hesitate to do so if you feel that way. You know I told you to
think calmly long ago before you told your mother. This is a bold,
original thing we have been planning. It is not to be expected that the
world would see it as we have. It is quite to be expected that trouble
would follow in the wake of it, but it seemed possible to me, and still
seems so. If you want to come to me, say so. If you want me to come to
you, speak the word. We will go to England or Italy, and I will try my
hand at painting again. I can do that I am sure. Or, we can stay here,
and I can see if some engagement cannot be had.
"You want to remember, though, that your mother may not have finished
fighting. She may go to much greater lengths than she has gone. You
thought you might control her, but it seems not. I thought we had won in
Canada, but it appears not. If she attempts to restrain you from using
your share of your father's estate, she may be able to cause you trouble
there. If she attempts to incarcerate you, she might be successful. I
wish I could talk to you. Can't I see you at Lenox? Are you coming home
next week? We ought to think and plan and act now if at all. Don't let
any consideration for me stand in your way, though, if you are doubtful.
Remember that conditions are different now. Your whole future hangs on
your decision. I should have talked this way long ago, perhaps, but I
did not think your mother could do what she has succeeded in doing. I
did not think my financial standing would play any part in it.
"Flower Face, this is the day of real trial for me. I am unhappy, but
only at the possible prospect of losing you. Nothing of all these other
things really matters. With you, everything would be perfect, whatever
my condition might be. Without you, it will be as dark as night. The
decision is in your hands and you must act. Whatever you decide, that I
will do. Don't, as I say, let consideration for me stand in the way. You
are young. You have a social career before you. After all, I am twice
your age. I talk thus sanely because if you come to me now, I want you
to understand clearly how you come.
"Oh, I wonder sometimes if you really understand. I wonder if I have
been dreaming a dream. You are so beautiful. You have been such an
inspiration to me. Has this been a lure--a will-o'-the wisp? I wonder. I
wonder. And yet I love you, love you, love you. A thousand kisses,
Divine Fire, and I wait for your word.
"Eugene."
Suzanne read this letter at Lenox, and for the first time in her life
she began to think and ponder seriously. What had she been doing? What
was Eugene doing? This denouement frightened her. Her mother was more
purposeful than she imagined. To think of her going to Colfax--of her
lying and turning so in her moods. She had not thought this possible of
her mother. Had not thought it possible that Eugene could lose his
position. He had always seemed so powerful to her; so much a law unto
himself. Once when they were out in an automobile together, he had asked
her why she loved him, and she said, "because you are a genius and can
do anything you please."
"Oh, no," he answered, "nothing like that. I can't really do very much
of anything. You just have an exaggerated notion of me."
"Oh, no, I haven't," she replied. "You can paint, and you can
write"--she was judging by some of the booklets about Blue Sea and
verses about herself and clippings of articles done in his old Chicago
newspaper days, which he showed her once in a scrapbook in his
apartment--"and you can run that office, and you were an advertising
manager and an art director."
She lifted up her face and looked into his eyes admiringly.
"My, what a list of accomplishments!" he replied. "Well whom the gods
would destroy they first make mad." He kissed her.
"And you love so beautifully," she added by way of climax.
Since then, she had thought of this often, but now, somehow, it received
a severe setback. He was not quite so powerful. He could not prevent her
mother from doing this, and could she really conquer her mother?
Whatever Suzanne might think of her deceit, she was moving Heaven and
earth to prevent this. Was she wholly wrong? After that climacteric
night at St. Jacques, when somehow the expected did not happen, Suzanne
had been thinking. Did she really want to leave home, and go with
Eugene? Did she want to fight her mother in regard to her estate? She
might have to do that. Her original idea had been that she and Eugene
would meet in some lovely studio, and that she would keep her own home,
and he would have his. It was something very different, this talk of
poverty, and not having an automobile, and being far away from home.
Still she loved him. Maybe she could force her mother to terms yet.
There were more struggles in the two or three succeeding days, in which
the guardian of the estate--Mr. Herbert Pitcairn, of the Marquardt Trust
Company, and, once more, Dr. Woolley, were called in to argue with her.
Suzanne, unable to make up her mind, listened to her mother's insidious
plea, that if she would wait a year, and then say she really wanted him,
she could have him; listened to Mr. Pitcairn tell her mother that he
believed any court would on application adjudge her incompetent and tie
up her estate; heard Dr. Woolley say in her presence to her mother that
he did not deem a commission in lunacy advisable, but if her mother
insisted, no doubt a judge would adjudge her insane, if no more than to
prevent this unhallowed consummation. Suzanne became frightened. Her
iron nerve, after Eugene's letter, was weakening. She was terribly
incensed against her mother, but she began now for the first time to
think what her friends would think. Supposing her mother did lock her
up. Where would they think she was? All these days and weeks of strain,
which had worn her mother threadbare had told something on her own
strength, or rather nerve. It was too intense, and she began to wonder
whether they had not better do as Eugene suggested, and wait a little
while. He had agreed up at St. Jacques to wait, if she were willing.
Only the provision was that they were to see each other. Now her mother
had changed front again, pleading danger, undue influence, that she
ought to have at least a year of her old kind of life undisturbed to see
whether she really cared.
"How can you tell?" she insisted to Suzanne, in spite of the girl's
desire not to talk. "You have been swept into this, and you haven't
given yourself time to think. A year won't hurt. What harm will it do
you or him?"
"But, mama," asked Suzanne over and over at different times, and in
different places, "why did you go and tell Mr. Colfax? What a mean,
cruel thing that was to do!"
"Because I think he needs something like that to make him pause and
think. He isn't going to starve. He is a man of talent. He needs
something like that to bring him to his senses. Mr. Colfax hasn't
discharged him. He told me he wouldn't. He said he would make him take a
year off and think about it, and that's just what he has done. It won't
hurt him. I don't care if it does. Look at the way he has made me
suffer."
She felt exceedingly bitter toward Eugene, and was rejoicing that at
last she was beginning to have her innings.
"Mama," said Suzanne, "I am never going to forgive you for this. You are
acting horribly--I will wait, but it will come to the same thing in the
end. I am going to have him."
"I don't care what you do after a year," said Mrs. Dale cheerfully and
subtly. "If you will just wait that long and give yourself time to think
and still want to marry him, you can do so. He can probably get a
divorce in that time, anyhow." She did not mean what she was saying, but
any argument was good for the situation, if it delayed matters.
"But I don't know that I want to marry him," insisted Suzanne, doggedly,
harking back to her original idea. "That isn't my theory of it."
"Oh, well," replied Mrs. Dale complaisantly, "you will know better what
to think of that after a year. I don't want to coerce you, but I'm not
going to have our home and happiness broken up in this way without
turning a hand, and without your stopping to think about it. You owe it
to me--to all these years I have cared for you, to show me some
consideration. A year won't hurt you. It won't hurt him. You will find
out then whether he really loves you or not. This may just be a passing
fancy. He has had other women before you. He may have others after you.
He may go back to Mrs. Witla. It doesn't make any difference what he
tells you. You ought to test him before you break up his home and mine.
If he really loves you, he will agree readily enough. Do this for me,
Suzanne, and I will never cross your path any more. If you will wait a
year you can do anything you choose. I can only hope you won't go to him
without going as his wife, but if you insist, I will hush the matter up
as best I can. Write to him and tell him that you have decided that you
both ought to wait a year. You don't need to see him any more. It will
just stir things all up afresh. If you don't see him, but just write, it
will be better for him, too. He won't feel so badly as he will if you
see him again and go all over the ground once more."
Mrs. Dale was terribly afraid of Eugene's influence, but she could not
accomplish this.
"I won't do that," said Suzanne, "I won't do it. I'm going back to New
York, that's all there is about it!" Mrs. Dale finally yielded that
much. She had to.
There was a letter from Suzanne after three days, saying that she
couldn't answer his letter in full, but that she was coming back to New
York and would see him, and subsequently a meeting between Suzanne and
Eugene at Daleview in her mother's presence--Dr. Woolley and
Mr. Pitcairn were in another part of the house at the time--in which the
proposals were gone over anew.
Eugene had motored down after Mrs. Dale's demands had been put before
him in the gloomiest and yet more feverish frame of mind in which he had
ever been,--gloomy because of heavy forebodings of evil and his own dark
financial condition--while inspirited at other moments by thoughts of
some splendid, eager revolt on the part of Suzanne, of her rushing to
him, defying all, declaring herself violently and convincingly, and so
coming off a victor with him. His faith in her love was still so great.
The night was one of those cold October ones with a steely sky and a
sickle moon, harbinger of frost, newly seen in the west, and pointed
stars thickening overhead. As he sat in his car on the Staten Island
ferry boat, he could see a long line of southward bound ducks, homing to
those reedy marshes which Bryant had in mind when he wrote "To a
Waterfowl." They were honking as they went, their faint "quacks" coming
back on the thin air and making him feel desperately lonely and bereft.
When he reached Daleview, speeding past October trees, and entered the
great drawing-room where a fire was blazing and where once in spring he
had danced with Suzanne, his heart leaped up, for he was to see her, and
the mere sight of her was as a tonic to his fevered body--a cool drink
to a thirsting man.
Mrs. Dale stared at Eugene defiantly when he came, but Suzanne welcomed
him to her embrace. "Oh!" she exclaimed, holding him close for a few
moments and breathing feverishly. There was complete silence for a time.
"Mama insists, Eugene," she said after a time, "that we ought to wait a
year, and I think since there is such a fuss about it, that perhaps it
might be just as well. We may have been just a little hasty, don't you
think? I have told mama what I think about her action in going to
Mr. Colfax, but she doesn't seem to care. She is threatening now to have
me adjudged insane. A year won't make any real difference since I am
coming to you, anyhow, will it? But I thought I ought to tell you this
in person, to ask you about it"--she paused, looking into his eyes.
"I thought we settled all this up in St. Jacques?" said Eugene, turning
to Mrs. Dale, but experiencing a sinking sensation of fear.
"We did, all except the matter of not seeing her. I think it is highly
inadvisable that you two should be together. It isn't possible the way
things stand. People will talk. Your wife's condition has to be
adjusted. You can't be running around with her and a child coming to
you. I want Suzanne to go away for a year where she can be calm and
think it all out, and I want you to let her. If she still insists that
she wants you after that, and will not listen to the logic of the
situation in regard to marriage, then I propose to wash my hands of the
whole thing. She may have her inheritance. She may have you if she wants
you. If you have come to your senses by that time, as I hope you will
have, you will get a divorce, or go back to Mrs. Witla, or do whatever
you do in a sensible way."
She did not want to incense Eugene here, but she was very bitter.
Eugene merely frowned.
"Is this your decision, Suzanne, too?" he asked wearily.
"I think mama is terrible, Eugene," replied Suzanne evasively, or
perhaps as a reply to her mother. "You and I have planned our lives, and
we will work them out. We have been a little selfish, now that I think
of it. I think a year won't do any harm, perhaps, if it will stop all
this fussing. I can wait, if you can."
An inexpressible sense of despair fell upon Eugene at the sound of this,
a sadness so deep that he could scarcely speak. He could not believe
that it was really Suzanne who was saying that to him. Willing to wait a
year! She who had declared so defiantly that she would not. It would do
no harm? To think that life, fate, her mother were triumphing over him
in this fashion, after all. What then was the significance of the
black-bearded men he had seen so often of late? Why had he been finding
horseshoes? Was fate such a liar? Did life in its dark, subtle chambers
lay lures and traps for men? His position gone, his Blue Sea venture
involved in an indefinite delay out of which might come nothing, Suzanne
going for a whole year, perhaps for ever, most likely so, for what could
not her mother do with her in a whole year, having her alone? Angela
alienated--a child approaching. What a climax!
"Is this really your decision, Suzanne?" he asked, sadly, a mist of woe
clouding his whole being.
"I think it ought to be, perhaps, Eugene," she replied, still evasively.
"It's very trying. I will be faithful to you, though. I promise you that
I will not change. Don't you think we can wait a year? We can, can't
we?"
"A whole year without seeing you, Suzanne?"
"Yes, it will pass, Eugene."
"A whole year?"
"Yes, Eugene."
"I have nothing more to say, Mrs. Dale," he said, turning to her mother
solemnly, a sombre, gloomy light in his eye, his heart hardening towards
Suzanne for the moment. To think she should treat him so--throw him
down, as he phrased it. Well, such was life. "You win," he added. "It
has been a terrible experience for me. A terrible passion. I love this
girl. I love her with my whole heart. Sometimes I have vaguely suspected
that she might not know."
He turned to Suzanne, and for the first time he thought that he did not
see there that true understanding which he had fancied had been there
all the time. Could fate have been lying to him also in this? Was he
mistaken in this, and had he been following a phantom lure of beauty?
Was Suzanne but another trap to drag him down to his old nothingness?
God! The prediction of the Astrologer of a second period of defeat after
seven or eight years came back.
"Oh, Suzanne!" he said, simply and unconsciously dramatic. "Do you
really love me?"
"Yes, Eugene," she replied.
"Really?"
"Yes."
He held out his arms and she came, but for the life of him he could not
dispel this terrible doubt. It took the joy out of his kiss--as if he
had been dreaming a dream of something perfect in his arms and had
awaked to find it nothing--as if life had sent him a Judas in the shape
of a girl to betray him.
"Do let us end this, Mr. Witla," said Mrs. Dale coldly, "there is
nothing to be gained by delaying. Let us end it for a year, and then
talk."
"Oh, Suzanne," he continued, as mournful as a passing bell, "come to the
door with me."
"No, the servants are there," put in Mrs. Dale. "Please make your
farewells here."
"Mama," said Suzanne angrily and defiantly, moved by the pity of it, "I
won't have you talk this way. Leave the room, or I shall go to the door
with him and further. Leave us, please."
Mrs. Dale went out.
"Oh, Flower Face," said Eugene pathetically, "I can't believe it. I
can't. I can't! This has been managed wrong. I should have taken you
long ago. So it is to end this way. A year, a whole year, and how much
longer?"
"Only a year," she insisted. "Only a year, believe me, can't you? I
won't change, I won't!"
He shook his head, and Suzanne as before took his face in her hands. She
kissed his cheeks, his lips, his hair.
"Believe me, Eugene. I seem cold. You don't know what I have gone
through. It is nothing but trouble everywhere. Let us wait a year. I
promise you I will come to you. I swear. One year. Can't we wait one
year?"
"A year," he said. "A year. I can't believe it. Where will we all be in
a year? Oh, Flower Face, Myrtle Bloom, Divine Fire. I can't stand this.
I can't. It's too much. I'm the one who is paying now. Yes, I pay."
He took her face and looked at it, all its soft, enticing features, her
eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her hair.
"I thought, I thought," he murmured.
Suzanne only stroked the back of his head with her hands.
"Well, if I must, I must," he said.
He turned away, turned back to embrace her, turned again and then,
without looking back, walked out into the hall. Mrs. Dale was there
waiting.
"Good night, Mrs. Dale," he said gloomily.
"Good night, Mr. Witla," she replied frigidly, but with a sense of
something tragic in her victory at that.
He took his hat and walked out.
Outside the bright October stars were in evidence by millions. The Bay
and Harbor of New York were as wonderfully lit as on that night when
Suzanne came to him after the evening at Fort Wadsworth on her own
porch. He recalled the spring odours, the wonderful feel of youth and
love--the hope that was springing then. Now, it was five or six months
later, and all that romance was gone. Suzanne, sweet voice, accomplished
shape, light whisper, delicate touch. Gone. All gone--
"Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise."
Gone were those bright days in which they had ridden together, dined
together, walked in sylvan places beside their car. A little way from
here he first played tennis with her. A little way from here he had come
so often to meet her clandestinely. Now she was gone--gone.
He had come in his car, but he really did not want it. Life was
accursed. His own was a failure. To think that all his fine dreams
should crumble this way. Shortly he would have no car, no home on
Riverside Drive, no position, no anything.
"God, I can't stand this!" he exclaimed, and a little later--"By God, I
can't! I can't!"
He dismissed his car at the Battery, telling his chauffeur to take it to
the garage, and walking gloomily through all the tall dark streets of
lower New York. Here was Broadway where he had often been with Colfax
and Winfield. Here was this great world of finance around Wall Street in
which he had vaguely hoped to shine. Now these buildings were high and
silent--receding from him in a way. Overhead were the clear bright
stars, cool and refreshing, but without meaning to him now. How was he
to settle it? How adjust it? A year! She would never come back--never!
It was all gone. A bright cloud faded. A mirage dissolved into its
native nothingness. Position, distinction, love, home--where were they?
Yet a little while and all these things would be as though they had
never been. Hell! Damn! Curse the brooding fates that could thus plot to
destroy him!
Back in her room in Daleview Suzanne had locked herself in. She was not
without a growing sense of the tragedy of it. She stared at the floor,
recalled his face.
"Oh, oh," she said, and for the first time in her life felt as though
she could cry from a great heartache--but she could not.
And in Riverside Drive was another woman brooding, lonely, despondently,
desperately, over the nature of the tragedy that was upon her. How were
things to be adjusted? How was she to be saved? Oh! oh! her life, her
child! If Eugene could be made to understand! If he could only be made
to see!
CHAPTER XXIII
During the weeks which followed Colfax's talk with him, and Suzanne's
decision, which amounted practically to a dismissal, Eugene tried to
wind up his affairs at the United Magazines Corporation, as well as
straighten out his relationship with Angela. It was no easy task. Colfax
helped him considerably by suggesting that he should say he was going
abroad for the company, for the time being, and should make it appear
imperative that he go at once. Eugene called in his department heads,
and told them what Colfax suggested, but added that his own interests
elsewhere, of which they knew, or suspected, were now so involved that
he might possibly not return, or only for a little while at best. He put
forward an air of great sufficiency and self-satisfaction, considering
the difficulties he was encountering, and the thing passed off as a
great wonder, but with no suspicion of any immediate misfortune
attaching to him. As a matter of fact, it was assumed that he was
destined to a much higher estate--the control of his private interests.
In his talk with Angela he made it perfectly plain that he was going to
leave her. He would not make any pretence about this. She ought to know.
He had lost his position; he was not going to Suzanne soon; he wanted
her to leave him, or he would leave her. She should go to Wisconsin or
Europe or anywhere, for the time being, and leave him to fight this
thing out alone. He was not indispensable to her in her condition. There
were nurses she could hire--maternity hospitals where she could stay. He
would be willing to pay for that. He would never live with her any more,
if he could help it--he did not want to. The sight of her in the face of
his longing for Suzanne would be a wretched commentary--a reproach and a
sore shame. No, he would leave her and perhaps, possibly, sometime when
she obtained more real fighting courage, Suzanne might come to him. She
ought to. Angela might die. Yes, brutal as it may seem, he thought this.
She might die, and then--and then---- No thought of the child that might
possibly live, even if she died, held him. He could not understand that,
could not grasp it as yet. It was a mere abstraction.
Eugene took a room in an apartment house in Kingsbridge, where he was
not known for the time being, and where he was not likely to be seen.
Then there was witnessed that dreary spectacle of a man whose life has
apparently come down in a heap, whose notions, emotions, tendencies and
feelings are confused and disappointed by some untoward result. If
Eugene had been ten or fifteen years older, the result might have been
suicide. A shade of difference in temperament might have resulted in
death, murder, anything. As it was, he sat blankly at times among the
ruins of his dreams speculating on what Suzanne was doing, on what
Angela was doing, on what people were saying and thinking, on how he
could gather up the broken pieces of his life and make anything out of
them at all.
The one saving element in it all was his natural desire to work, which,
although it did not manifest itself at first, by degrees later on began
to come back. He must do something, if it was not anything more than to
try to paint again. He could not be running around looking for a
position. There was nothing for him in connection with Blue Sea. He had
to work to support Angela, of whom he was now free, if he did not want
to be mean; and as he viewed it all in the light of what had happened,
he realized that he had been bad enough. She had not been
temperamentally suited to him, but she had tried to be. Fundamentally it
was not her fault. How was he to work and live and be anything at all
from now on?
There were long arguments over this situation between him and
Angela--pleas, tears, a crashing downward of everything which was worth
while in life to Angela, and then, in spite of her pathetic situation,
separation. Because it was November and the landlord had heard of
Eugene's financial straits, or rather reverse of fortune, it was
possible to relinquish the lease, which had several years to run, and
the apartment was given up. Angela, distraught, scarcely knew which way
to turn. It was one of those pitiless, scandalous situations in life
which sicken us of humanity. She ran helplessly to Eugene's sister,
Myrtle, who first tried to conceal the scandal and tragedy from her
husband, but afterward confessed and deliberated as to what should be
done. Frank Bangs, who was a practical man, as well as firm believer in
Christian Science because of his wife's to him miraculous healing from a
tumor several years before, endeavored to apply his understanding of the
divine science--the omnipresence of good to this situation.
"There is no use worrying about it, Myrtle," he said to his wife, who,
in spite of her faith, was temporarily shaken and frightened by the
calamities which seemingly had overtaken her brother. "It's another
evidence of the workings of mortal mind. It is real enough in its idea
of itself, but nothing in God's grace. It will come out all right, if we
think right. Angela can go to a maternity hospital for the time being,
or whenever she's ready. We may be able to persuade Eugene to do the
right thing."
Angela was persuaded to consult a Christian Science practitioner, and
Myrtle went to the woman who had cured her and begged her to use her
influence, or rather her knowledge of science to effect a rehabilitation
for her brother. She was told that this could not be done without his
wish, but that she would pray for him. If he could be persuaded to come
of his own accord, seeking spiritual guidance or divine aid, it would be
a different matter. In spite of his errors, and to her they seemed
palpable and terrible enough at present, her faith would not allow her
to reproach him, and besides she loved him. He was a strong man, she
said, always strange. He and Angela might not have been well mated. But
all could be righted in _Science_. There was a dreary period of packing
and storing for Angela, in which she stood about amid the ruins of her
previous comfort and distinction and cried over the things that had
seemed so lovely to her. Here were all Eugene's things, his paintings,
his canes, his pipes, his clothes. She cried over a handsome silk
dressing gown in which he had been wont to lounge about--it smacked so
much, curiously, of older and happier days. There were hard, cold and
determined conferences also in which some of Angela's old fighting,
ruling spirit would come back, but not for long. She was beaten now, and
she knew it--wrecked. The roar of a cold and threatening sea was in her
ears.
It should be said here that at one time Suzanne truly imagined she loved
Eugene. It must be remembered, however, that she was moved to affection
for him by the wonder of a personality that was hypnotic to her. There
was something about the personality of Eugene that was subversive of
conventionality. He approached, apparently a lamb of conventional
feelings and appearances; whereas, inwardly, he was a ravening wolf of
indifference to convention. All the organized modes and methods of life
were a joke to him. He saw through to something that was not material
life at all, but spiritual, or say immaterial, of which all material
things were a shadow. What did the great forces of life care whether
this system which was maintained here with so much show and fuss was
really maintained at all or not? How could they care? He once stood in a
morgue and saw human bodies apparently dissolving into a kind of
chemical mush and he had said to himself then how ridiculous it was to
assume that life meant anything much to the forces which were doing
these things. Great chemical and physical forces were at work, which
permitted, accidentally, perhaps, some little shadow-play, which would
soon pass. But, oh, its presence--how sweet it was!
Naturally Suzanne was cast down for the time being, for she was capable
of suffering just as Eugene was. But having given her word to wait, she
decided to stick to that, although she had not stuck to her other. She
was between nineteen and twenty now--Eugene was nearing forty. Life
could still soothe her in spite of herself. In Eugene's case it could
only hurt the more. Mrs. Dale went abroad with Suzanne and the other
children, visiting with people who could not possibly have heard, or
ever would except in a vague, uncertain way for that matter. If it
became evident, as she thought it might, that there was to be a scandal,
Mrs. Dale proposed to say that Eugene had attempted to establish an
insidious hold on her child in defiance of reason and honor, and that
she had promptly broken it up, shielding Suzanne, almost without the
latter's knowledge. It was plausible enough.
What was he to do now? how live? was his constant thought. Go into a
wee, small apartment in some back street with Angela, where he and she,
if he decided to stay with her, could find a pretty outlook for a little
money and live? Never. Admit that he had lost Suzanne for a year at
least, if not permanently, in this suddenly brusque way? Impossible. Go
and confess that he had made a mistake, which he still did not feel to
be true? or that he was sorry and would like to patch things up as
before? Never. He was not sorry. He did not propose to live with Angela
in the old way any more. He was sick of her, or rather of that
atmosphere of repression and convention in which he had spent so many
years. He was sick of the idea of having a child thrust on him against
his will. He would not do it. She had no business to put herself in this
position. He would die first. His insurance was paid up to date. He had
carried during the last five years a policy for something over eighteen
thousand in her favor, and if he died she would get that. He wished he
might. It would be some atonement for the hard knocks which fate had
recently given her, but he did not wish to live with her any more.
Never, never, child or no child. Go back to the apartment after this
night--how could he? If he did, he must pretend that nothing had
happened--at least, nothing untoward between him and Suzanne. She might
come back. Might! Might! Ah, the mockery of it--to leave him in this way
when she really could have come to him--should have--oh, the bitterness
of this thrust of fate!
There was a day when the furniture was sent away and Angela went to live
with Myrtle for the time being. There was another tearful hour when she
left New York to visit her sister Marietta at Racine, where they now
were, intending to tell her before she came away, as a profound secret,
the terrible tragedy which had overtaken her. Eugene went to the train
with her, but with no desire to be there. Angela's one thought, in all
this, was that somehow time would effect a reconciliation. If she could
just wait long enough; if she could keep her peace and live and not die,
and not give him a divorce, he might eventually recover his sanity and
come to think of her as at least worth living with. The child might do
it, its coming would be something that would affect him surely. He was
bound to see her through it. She told herself she was willing and
delighted to go through this ordeal, if only it brought him back to her.
This child--what a reception it was to receive, unwanted, dishonored
before its arrival, ignored; if by any chance she should die, what would
he do about it? Surely he would not desert it. Already in her nervous,
melancholy way, she was yearning toward it.
"Tell me," she said to Eugene one day, when they were alternately
quarreling and planning, "if the baby comes, and I--and I--die, you
won't absolutely desert it? You'll take it, won't you?"
"I'll take it," he replied. "Don't worry. I'm not an absolute dog. I
didn't want it. It's a trick on your part, but I'll take it. I don't
want you to die. You know that."
Angela thought if she lived that she would be willing to go through a
period of poverty and depression with him again, if only she could live
to see him sane and moral and even semi-successful. The baby might do
it. He had never had a child. And much as he disliked the idea now,
still, when it was here, he might change his mind. If only she could get
through that ordeal. She was so old--her muscles so set. Meanwhile she
consulted a lawyer, a doctor, a fortune teller, an astrologer and the
Christian Science practitioner to whom Myrtle had recommended her. It
was an aimless, ridiculous combination, but she was badly torn up, and
any port seemed worth while in this storm.
The doctor told her that her muscles were rather set, but with the
regimen he prescribed, he was satisfied she would be all right. The
astrologer told her that she and Eugene were fated for this storm by the
stars--Eugene, particularly, and that he might recover, in which case,
he would be successful again in a measure. As for herself, he shook his
head. Yes, she would be all right. He was lying. The fortune teller laid
the cards to see if Eugene would ever marry Suzanne, and Angela was
momentarily gratified to learn that she would never enter his life--this
from a semi-cadaverous, but richly dressed and bejeweled lady whose
ante-room was filled with women whose troubles were of the heart, the
loss of money, the enmity of rivals, or the dangers of childbirth. The
Christian Science practitioner declared all to be divine
mind--omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient good, and that evil could not
exist in it--only the illusion of it. "It is real enough to those who
give it their faith and believe," said the counselor, "but without
substance or meaning to those who know themselves to be a perfect,
indestructible reflection of an idea in God. God is a principle. When
the nature of that principle is realized and yourself as a part of it,
evil falls away as the troublesome dream that it is. It has no reality."
She assured her that no evil could befall her in the true understanding
of Science. God is love.
The lawyer told her, after listening to a heated story of Eugene's
misconduct, that under the laws of the State of New York, in which these
misdeeds were committed, she was not entitled to anything more than a
very small fraction of her husband's estate, if he had any. Two years
was the shortest time in which a divorce could be secured. He would
advise her to sue if she could establish a suitable condition of
affluence on Eugene's part, not otherwise. Then he charged her
twenty-five dollars for this advice.
CHAPTER XXIV
To those who have followed a routine or system of living in this
world--who have, by slow degrees and persistent effort, built up a
series of habits, tastes, refinements, emotions and methods of conduct,
and have, in addition, achieved a certain distinction and position, so
that they have said to one "Go!" and he goes, and to another "Come!" and
he comes, who have enjoyed without stint or reserve, let or hindrance,
those joys of perfect freedom of action, and that ease and deliberation
which comes with the presence of comparative wealth, social position,
and comforts, the narrowing that comes with the lack of means, the fear
of public opinion, or the shame of public disclosure, is one of the most
pathetic, discouraging and terrifying things that can be imagined. These
are the hours that try men's souls. The man who sits in a seat of the
mighty and observes a world that is ruled by a superior power, a
superior force of which he by some miraculous generosity of fate has
been chosen apparently as a glittering instrument, has no conception of
the feelings of the man who, cast out of his dignities and emoluments,
sits in the dark places of the world among the ashes of his splendor and
meditates upon the glory of his bygone days. There is a pathos here
which passes the conception of the average man. The prophets of the Old
Testament discerned it clearly enough, for they were forever pronouncing
the fate of those whose follies were in opposition to the course of
righteousness and who were made examples of by a beneficent and yet
awful power. "Thus saith the Lord: Because thou hast lifted thyself up
against the God of Heaven, and they have brought the vessels of His
house before thee, and thou and thy Lords, thy wives and concubines,
have drank wine in them, and thou hast praised the gods of silver and
gold, of brass, iron, wood, and stone ... God hath numbered thy Kingdom
and finished it. Thou art weighed in the balance and found wanting; thy
Kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and the Persians."
Eugene was in a minor way an exemplification of this seeming course of
righteousness. His Kingdom, small as it was, was truly at an end. Our
social life is so organized, so closely knit upon a warp of instinct,
that we almost always instinctively flee that which does not accord with
custom, usage, preconceived notions and tendencies--those various things
which we in our littleness of vision conceive to be dominant. Who does
not run from the man who may because of his deeds be condemned of that
portion of the public which we chance to respect? Walk he ever so
proudly, carry himself with what circumspectness he may, at the first
breath of suspicion all are off--friends, relations, business
acquaintances, the whole social fabric in toto. "Unclean!" is the cry.
"Unclean! Unclean!" And it does not matter how inwardly shabby we may
be, what whited sepulchres shining to the sun, we run quickly. It seems
a tribute to that providence which shapes our ends, which continues
perfect in tendency however vilely we may overlay its brightness with
the rust of our mortal corruption, however imitative we may be.
Angela had gone home by now to see her father, who was now quite old and
feeble, and also down to Alexandria to see Eugene's mother, who was also
badly deteriorated in health.
"I keep hoping against hope that your attitude will change toward me,"
wrote Angela. "Let me hear from you if you will from time to time. It
can't make any difference in your course. A word won't hurt, and I am so
lonely. Oh, Eugene, if I could only die--if I only could!" No word as to
the true state of things was given at either place. Angela pretended
that Eugene had long been sick of his commercial career and was, owing
to untoward conditions in the Colfax Company, glad to return to his art
for a period. He might come home, but he was very busy. So she lied. But
she wrote Myrtle fully of her hopes and, more particularly, her fears.
There were a number of conferences between Eugene and Myrtle, for the
latter, because of their early companionship, was very fond of him. His
traits, the innocent ones, were as sweet to her as when they were boy
and girl together. She sought him out in his lovely room at Kingsbridge.
"Why don't you come and stay with us, Eugene?" she pleaded. "We have a
comfortable apartment. You can have that big room next to ours. It has a
nice view. Frank likes you. We have listened to Angela, and I think you
are wrong, but you are my brother, and I want you to come. Everything is
coming out right. God will straighten it out. Frank and I are praying
for you. There is no evil, you know, according to the way we think.
Now"--and she smiled her old-time girlish smile--"don't stay up here
alone. Wouldn't you rather be with me?"
"Oh, I'd like to be there well enough, Myrtle, but I can't do it now. I
don't want to. I have to think. I want to be alone. I haven't settled
what I want to do. I think I will try my hand at some pictures. I have a
little money and all the time I want now. I see there are some nice
houses over there on the hill that might have a room with a north window
that would serve as a studio. I want to think this thing out first. I
don't know what I'll do."
He had now that new pain in his groin, which had come to him first when
her mother first carried Suzanne off to Canada and he was afraid that he
should never see her any more. It was a real pain, sharp, physical, like
a cut with a knife. He wondered how it was that it could be physical and
down there. His eyes hurt him and his finger tips. Wasn't that queer,
too?