When Eugene received this letter he was surprised and
astonished, but also distressed for himself and Angela and Marietta
and the whole situation. The tragedy of this situation appealed to
him perhaps as much from the dramatic as from the personal point of
view. Little Angela, with her yellow hair and classic face. What a
shame that they could not be together as she wished; as really, in
a way, he wished. She was beautiful—no doubt of that. And there was
a charm about her which was as alluring as that of any girl barring
the intellectually exceptional. Her emotions in a way were deeper
than those of Miriam Finch and Christina Channing. She could not
reason about them—that was all. She just felt them. He saw all the
phases of her anguish—the probable attitude of her parents, her own
feelings at being looked at by them, the way her friends wondered.
It was a shame, no doubt of that—a cruel situation. Perhaps he had
better go back. He could be happy with her. They could live in a
studio and no doubt things would work out all right. Had he better
be cruel and not go? He hated to think of it.
Anyhow he did not answer Marietta's letter, and he did tear it
up into a thousand bits, as she requested. "If Angela knew no doubt
she would feel wretched," he thought.
In the meanwhile Angela was thinking, and her brooding led her
to the conclusion that it might be advisable, if ever her lover
came back, to yield herself in order that he might feel compelled
to take her. She was no reasoner about life in any big sense. Her
judgment of affairs was more confused at this time than at a later
period. She had no clear conception of how foolish any trickery of
this sort would be. She loved Eugene, felt that she must have him,
felt that she would be willing to die rather than lose him and the
thought of trickery came only as a last resource. If he refused her
she was determined on one thing—the lake. She would quit this
dreary world where love was crossed with despair in its finest
moments; she would forget it all. If only there were rest and
silence on the other side that would be enough.
The year moved on toward spring and because of some note of
this, reiterated in pathetic phrases, he came to feel that he must
go back. Marietta's letter preyed on his mind. The intensity of
Angela's attitude made him feel that something desperate would
happen. He could not, in cold blood, sit down and write her that he
would not see her any more. The impressions of Blackwood were too
fresh in his mind—the summer incense and green beauty of the world
in which she lived. He wrote in April that he would come again in
June, and Angela was beside herself with joy.
One of the things which helped Eugene to this conclusion was the
fact that Christina Channing was not coming back from Europe that
year. She had written a few times during the winter, but very
guardedly. A casual reader could not have drawn from what she said
that there had ever been anything between them. He had written much
more ardently, of course, but she had chosen to ignore his eager
references, making him feel by degrees that he was not to know much
of her in the future. They were going to be good friends, but not
necessarily lovers nor eventually husband and wife. It irritated
him to think she could be so calm about a thing which to him seemed
so important. It hurt his pride to think she could so deliberately
throw him over. Finally he began to be incensed, and then Angela's
fidelity appeared in a much finer light. There was a girl who would
not treat him so. She really loved him. She was faithful and true.
So his promised trip began to look much more attractive, and by
June he was in a fever to see her.
The beautiful June weather arrived and with it Eugene took his
departure once more for Blackwood. He was in a peculiar mood, for
while he was anxious to see Angela again it was with the thought
that perhaps he was making a mistake. A notion of fatality was
beginning to run through his mind. Perhaps he was destined to take
her! and yet, could anything be more ridiculous? He could decide.
He had deliberately decided to go back there—or had he? He admitted
to himself that his passion was drawing him—in fact he could not
see that there was anything much in love outside of passion.
Desire! Wasn't that all that pulled two people together? There was
some little charm of personality above that, but desire was the
keynote. And if the physical attraction were strong enough, wasn't
that sufficient to hold two people together? Did you really need so
much more? It was logic based on youth, enthusiasm and
inexperience, but it was enough to hold him for the time being—to
soothe him. To Angela he was not drawn by any of the things which
drew him to Miriam Finch and Norma Whitmore, nor was there the
wonderful art of Christina Channing. Still he was going.
His interest in Norma Whitmore had increased greatly as the
winter passed. In this woman he had found an intellect as
broadening and refining as any he had encountered. Her taste for
the exceptional in literature and art was as great as that of
anyone he had ever known and it was just as individual. She ran to
impressive realistic fiction in literature and to the kind of
fresh-from-the-soil art which Eugene represented. Her sense of just
how big and fresh was the thing he was trying to do was very
encouraging, and she was carrying the word about town to all her
friends that he was doing it. She had even gone so far as to speak
to two different art dealers asking them why they had not looked
into what seemed to her his perfectly wonderful drawings.
"Why, they're astonishing in their newness," she told Eberhard
Zang, one of the important picture dealers on Fifth Avenue. She
knew him from having gone there to borrow pictures for
reproduction.
"Witla! Witla!" he commented in his conservative German way,
rubbing his chin, "I doand remember seeing anything by him."
"Of course you don't," replied Norma persistently. "He's new, I
tell you. He hasn't been here so very long. You get
Truth
for some week in last month—I forget which one—and see that picture
of Greeley Square. It will show you what I mean."
"Witla! Witla!" repeated Zang, much as a parrot might fix a
sound in its memory. "Tell him to come in here and see me some day.
I should like to see some of his things."
"I will," said Norma, genially. She was anxious to have Eugene
go, but he was more anxious to get a lot of things done before he
had an exhibition. He did not want to risk an impression with
anything short of a rather extensive series. And his collection of
views was not complete at that time. Besides he had a much more
significant art dealer in mind.
He and Norma had reached the point by this time where they were
like brother and sister, or better yet, two good men friends. He
would slip his arm about her waist when entering her rooms and was
free to hold her hands or pat her on the arm or shoulder. There was
nothing more than strong good feeling on his part, while on hers a
burning affection might have been inspired, but his genial,
brotherly attitude convinced her that it was useless. He had never
told her of any of his other women friends and he was wondering as
he rode west how she and Miriam Finch would take his marriage with
Angela, supposing that he ever did marry her. As for Christina
Channing, he did not want to think—really did not dare to think of
her very much. Some sense of lost beauty came to him out of that
experience—a touch of memory that had a pang in it.
Chicago in June was just a little dreary to him with its hurry
of life, its breath of past experience, the Art Institute, the
Daily Globe
building, the street and house in which Ruby
had lived. He wondered about her (as he had before) the moment he
neared the city, and had a strong desire to go and look her up.
Then he visited the
Globe
offices, but Mathews had gone.
Genial, cheerful Jerry had moved to Philadelphia recently, taking a
position on the Philadelphia
North American
, leaving Howe
alone, more finicky and picayune than ever. Goldfarb, of course,
was gone and Eugene felt out of it. He was glad to take the train
for Blackwood, for he felt lonesome. He left the city with quite an
ache for old times in his heart and the feeling that life was a
jumble of meaningless, strange and pathetic things.
"To think that we should grow old," he pondered, "that things
that were as real as these things were to me, should become mere
memories."
The time just before he reached Blackwood was one of great
emotional stress for Angela. Now she was to learn whether he really
loved her as much as he had. She was to feel the joy of his
presence, the subtle influence of his attitude. She was to find
whether she could hold him or not. Marietta, who on hearing that he
was coming, had rather plumed herself that her letter had had
something to do with it, was afraid that her sister would not make
good use of this opportune occasion. She was anxious that Angela
should look her best, and made suggestions as to things she might
wear, games she might play (they had installed tennis and croquet
as part of the home pleasures since he had been there last) and
places they might go to. Marietta was convinced that Angela was not
artful enough—not sufficiently subtle in her presentation of her
charms. He could be made to feel very keen about her if she dressed
right and showed herself to the best advantage. Marietta herself
intended to keep out of the way as much as possible when Eugene
arrived, and to appear at great disadvantage in the matter of dress
and appearance when seen; for she had become a perfect beauty and
was a breaker of hearts without conscious effort.
"You know that string of coral beads I have, Angel Face," she
asked Angela one morning some ten days before Eugene arrived. "Wear
them with that tan linen dress of mine and your tan shoes some day
for Eugene. You'll look stunning in those things and he'll like
you. Why don't you take the new buggy and drive over to Blackwood
to meet him? That's it. You must meet him."
"Oh, I don't think I want to, Babyette," she replied. She was
afraid of this first impression. She did not want to appear to run
after him. Babyette was a nickname which had been applied to
Marietta in childhood and had never been dropped.
"Oh, pshaw, Angel Face, don't be so backward! You're the shyest
thing I know. Why that's nothing. He'll like you all the better for
treating him just a little smartly. You do that now, will you?"
"I can't," replied Angela. "I can't do it that way. Let him come
over here first; then I'll drive him over some afternoon."
"Oh, Angel Face! Well, anyhow, when he comes you must wear that
little rose flowered house dress and put a wreath of green leaves
in your hair."
"Oh, I won't do anything of the sort, Babyette," exclaimed
Angela.
"Yes, you will," replied her sister. "Now you just have to do
what I tell you for once. That dress looks beautiful on you and the
wreath will make it perfect."
"It isn't the dress. I know that's nice. It's the wreath."
Marietta was incensed by this bit of pointless reserve.
"Oh, Angela," she exclaimed, "don't be so silly. You're older
than I am, but I know more about men in a minute than you'll ever
know. Don't you want him to like you? You'll have to be more
daring—goodness! Lots of girls would go a lot farther than
that."
She caught her sister about the waist and looked into her eyes.
"Now you've got to wear it," she added finally, and Angela
understood that Marietta wanted her to entice Eugene by any means
in her power to make him declare himself finally and set a definite
date or take her back to New York with him.
There were other conversations in which a trip to the lake was
suggested, games of tennis, with Angela wearing her white tennis
suit and shoes, a country dance which might be got up—there were
rumors of one to be given in the new barn of a farmer some seven
miles away. Marietta was determined that Angela should appear
youthful, gay, active, just the things which she knew instinctively
would fascinate Eugene.
Finally Eugene came. He arrived at Blackwood at noon. Despite
her objections Angela met him, dressed smartly and, as urged by
Marietta, carrying herself with an air. She hoped to impress Eugene
with a sense of independence, but when she saw him stepping down
from the train in belted corduroy travelling suit with a grey
English travelling cap, carrying a green leather bag of the latest
design, her heart misgave her. He was so worldly now, so
experienced. You could see by his manner that this country place
meant little or nothing to him. He had tasted of the world at
large.
Angela had stayed in her buggy at the end of the depot platform
and she soon caught Eugene's eye and waved to him. He came briskly
forward.
"Why, sweet," he exclaimed, "here you are. How nice you look!"
He jumped up beside her, surveying her critically and she could
feel his examining glance. After the first pleasant impression he
sensed the difference between his new world and hers and was a
little depressed by it. She was a little older, no doubt of that.
You cannot hope and yearn and worry for three years and not show
it. And yet she was fine and tender and sympathetic and emotional.
He felt all this. It hurt him a little for her sake and his
too.
"Well, how have you been?" he asked. They were in the confines
of the village and no demonstration could be made. Until the quiet
of a country road could be reached all had to be formal.
"Oh, just the same, Eugene, longing to see you."
She looked into his eyes and he felt the impact of that
emotional force which governed her when she was near him. There was
something in the chemistry of her being which roused to blazing the
ordinarily dormant forces of his sympathies. She tried to conceal
her real feeling—to pretend gaiety and enthusiasm, but her eyes
betrayed her. Something roused in him now at her look—a combined
sense of emotion and desire.
"It's so fine to be out in the country again," he said, pressing
her hand, for he was letting her drive. "After the city, to see you
and the green fields!" He looked about at the little one-storey
cottages, each with a small plot of grass, a few trees, a neat
confining fence. After New York and Chicago, a village like this
was quaint.
"Do you love me just as much as ever?"
She nodded her head. They reached a strip of yellow road, he
asking after her father, her mother, her brothers and sisters, and
when he saw that they were unobserved he slipped his arm about her
and drew her head to him.
"Now we can," he said.
She felt the force of his desire but she missed that note of
adoration which had seemed to characterize his first lovemaking.
How true it was he had changed! He must have. The city had made her
seem less significant. It hurt her to think that life should treat
her so. But perhaps she could win him back—could hold him
anyhow.
They drove over toward Okoonee, a little crossroads settlement,
near a small lake of the same name, a place which was close to the
Blue house, and which the Blue's were wont to speak of as "home."
On the way Eugene learned that her youngest brother David was a
cadet at West Point now and doing splendidly. Samuel had become
western freight agent of the Great Northern and was on the way to
desirable promotion. Benjamin had completed his law studies and was
practising in Racine. He was interested in politics and was going
to run for the state legislature. Marietta was still the gay
carefree girl she had always been, not at all inclined to choose
yet among her many anxious suitors. Eugene thought of her letter to
him—wondered if she would look her thoughts into his eyes when he
saw her.
"Oh, Marietta," Angela replied when Eugene asked after her,
"she's just as dangerous as ever. She makes all the men make love
to her."
Eugene smiled. Marietta was always a pleasing thought to him. He
wished for the moment that it was Marietta instead of Angela that
he was coming to see.
She was as shrewd as she was kind in this instance. Her
appearance on meeting Eugene was purposely indifferent and her
attitude anything but coaxing and gay. At the same time she
suffered a genuine pang of feeling, for Eugene appealed to her. If
it were anybody but Angela, she thought, how she would dress and
how quickly she would be coquetting with him. Then his love would
be won by her and she felt that she could hold it. She had great
confidence in her ability to keep any man, and Eugene was a man she
would have delighted to hold. As it was she kept out of his way,
took sly glances at him here and there, wondered if Angela would
truly win him. She was so anxious for Angela's sake. Never, never,
she told herself, would she cross her sister's path.
At the Blue homestead he was received as cordially as before.
After an hour it quite brought back the feeling of three years
before. These open fields, this old house and its lovely lawn, all
served to awaken the most poignant sensations. One of Marietta's
beaux, over from Waukesha, appeared after Eugene had greeted Mrs.
Blue and Marietta, and the latter persuaded him to play a game of
tennis with Angela. She invited Eugene to make it a four with her,
but not knowing how he refused.
Angela changed to her tennis suit and Eugene opened his eyes to
her charms. She was very attractive on the court, quick, flushed,
laughing. And when she laughed she had a charming way of showing
her even, small, white teeth. She quite awakened a feeling of
interest—she looked so dainty and frail. When he saw her afterward
in the dark, quiet parlor, he gathered her to his heart with much
of the old ardour. She felt the quick change of feeling. Marietta
was right. Eugene loved gaiety and color. Although on the way home
she had despaired this was much more promising.