Angela thrilled at the invitation, and the use of her new name,
Mrs. Witla, by Eugene's old friends.
"I'd be delighted," she replied, flushing.
"My word, you look nice, Angel-Face," exclaimed Marietta,
catching her about the waist. "You paint her with her hair down in
braids, Mr. MacHugh. She makes a stunning Gretchen."
Angela flushed anew.
"I've been reserving that for myself, Peter," said Eugene, "but
you try your hand at it. I'm not much in portraiture anyhow."
Smite smiled at Marietta. He wished he could paint her, but he
was poor at figure work except as incidental characters in sea
scenes. He could do men better than he could women.
"If you were an old sea captain now, Miss Blue," he said to
Marietta gallantly, "I could make a striking thing out of you."
"I'll try to be, if you want to paint me," she replied gaily.
"I'd look fine in a big pair of boots and a raincoat, wouldn't I,
Eugene?"
"You certainly would, if I'm any judge," replied Smite. "Come
over to the studio and I'll rig you out. I have all those things on
hand."
"I will," she replied, laughing. "You just say the word."
MacHugh felt as if Smite were stealing a march on him. He wanted
to be nice to Marietta, to have her take an interest in him.
"Now, looky, Joseph," he protested. "I was going to suggest
making a study of Miss Blue myself."
"Well, you're too late," replied Smite. "You didn't speak quick
enough."
Marietta was greatly impressed with this atmosphere in which
Angela and Eugene were living. She expected to see something
artistic, but nothing so nice as this particular studio. Angela
explained to her that Eugene did not own it, but that made small
difference in Marietta's estimate of its significance. Eugene had
it. His art and social connections brought it about. They were
beginning excellently well. If she could have as nice a home when
she started on her married career she would be satisfied.
They sat down about the round teak table which was one of
Dexter's prized possessions, and were served by Angela's borrowed
maid. The conversation was light and for the most part pointless,
serving only to familiarize these people with each other. Both
Angela and Marietta were taken with the two artists because they
felt in them a note of homely conservatism. These men spoke easily
and naturally of the trials and triumphs of art life, and the
difficulty of making a good living, and seemed to be at home with
personages of repute in one world and another, its greatest
reward.
During the dinner Smite narrated experiences in his sea-faring
life, and MacHugh of his mountain camping experiences in the West.
Marietta described experiences with her beaux in Wisconsin and
characteristics of her yokel neighbors at Blackwood, Angela joining
in. Finally MacHugh drew a pencil sketch of Marietta followed by a
long train of admiring yokels, her eyes turned up in a very shy,
deceptive manner.
"Now I think that's cruel," she declared, when Eugene laughed
heartily. "I never look like that."
"That's just the way you look and do," he declared. "You're the
broad and flowery path that leadeth to destruction."
"Never mind, Babyette," put in Angela, "I'll take your part if
no one else will. You're a nice, demure, shrinking girl and you
wouldn't look at anyone, would you?"
Angela got up and was holding Marietta's head mock
sympathetically in her arms.
"Say, that's a dandy pet name," called Smite, moved by
Marietta's beauty.
"Poor Marietta," observed Eugene. "Come over here to me and I'll
sympathize with you."
"You don't take my drawing in the right spirit, Miss Blue," put
in MacHugh cheerfully. "It's simply to show how popular you
are."
Angela stood beside Eugene as her guests departed, her slender
arm about his waist. Marietta was coquetting finally with MacHugh.
These two friends of his, thought Eugene, had the privilege of
singleness to be gay and alluring to her. With him that was over
now. He could not be that way to any girl any more. He had to
behave—be calm and circumspect. It cut him, this thought. He saw at
once it was not in accord with his nature. He wanted to do just as
he had always done—make love to Marietta if she would let him, but
he could not. He walked to the fire when the studio door was
closed.
"They're such nice boys," exclaimed Marietta. "I think Mr.
MacHugh is as funny as he can be. He has such droll wit."
"Smite is nice too," replied Eugene defensively.
"They're both lovely—just lovely," returned Marietta.
"I like Mr. MacHugh a little the best—he's quainter," said
Angela, "but I think Mr. Smite is just as nice as he can be. He's
so old fashioned. There's not anyone as nice as my Eugene, though,"
she said affectionately, putting her arm about him.
"Oh, dear, you two!" exclaimed Marietta. "Well, I'm going to
bed."
Eugene sighed.
They had arranged a couch for her which could be put behind the
silver-spangled fish net in the alcove when company was gone.
Eugene thought what a pity that already this affection of
Angela's was old to him. It was not as it would be if he had taken
Marietta or Christina. They went to their bed room to retire and
then he saw that all he had was passion. Must he be satisfied with
that? Could he be? It started a chain of thought which, while
persistently interrupted or befogged, was really never broken.
Momentary sympathy, desire, admiration, might obscure it, but
always fundamentally it was there. He had made a mistake. He had
put his head in a noose. He had subjected himself to conditions
which he did not sincerely approve of. How was he going to remedy
this—or could it ever be remedied?
Whatever were Eugene's secret thoughts, he began his married
life with the outward air of one who takes it seriously enough. Now
that he was married, was actually bound by legal ties, he felt that
he might as well make the best of it. He had once had the notion
that it might be possible to say nothing of his marriage, and keep
Angela in the background, but this notion had been dispelled by the
attitude of MacHugh and Smite, to say nothing of Angela. So he
began to consider the necessity of notifying his friends—Miriam
Finch and Norma Whitmore and possibly Christina Channing, when she
should return. These three women offered the largest difficulty to
his mind. He felt the commentary which their personalities
represented. What would they think of him? What of Angela? Now that
she was right here in the city he could see that she represented a
different order of thought. He had opened the campaign by
suggesting that they invite Smite and MacHugh. The thing to do now
was to go further in this matter.
The one thing that troubled him was the thought of breaking the
news to Miriam Finch, for Christina Channing was away, and Norma
Whitmore was not of sufficient importance. He argued now that he
should have done this beforehand, but having neglected that it
behoved him to act at once. He did so, finally, writing to Norma
Whitmore and saying, for he had no long explanation to make—"Yours
truly is married. May I bring my wife up to see you?" Miss Whitmore
was truly taken by surprise. She was sorry at first—very—because
Eugene interested her greatly and she was afraid he would make a
mistake in his marriage; but she hastened to make the best of a bad
turn on the part of fate and wrote a note which ran as follows:
"Dear Eugene and Eugene's Wife:
"This is news as is news. Congratulations. And I am coming right
down as soon as I get my breath. And then you two must come to see
me."
Norma Whitmore
."
Eugene was pleased and grateful that she took it so nicely, but
Angela was the least big chagrined secretly that he had not told
her before. Why hadn't he? Was this someone that he was interested
in? Those three years in which she had doubtingly waited for Eugene
had whetted her suspicions and nurtured her fears. Still she tried
to make little of it and to put on an air of joyousness. She would
be so glad to meet Miss Whitmore. Eugene told her how kind she had
been to him, how much she admired his art, how helpful she was in
bringing together young literary and artistic people and how
influential with those who counted. She could do him many a good
turn. Angela listened patiently, but she was just the least bit
resentful that he should think so much of any one woman outside of
herself. Why should he, Eugene Witla, be dependent on the favor of
any woman? Of course she must be very nice and they would be good
friends, but—
Norma came one afternoon two days later with the atmosphere of
enthusiasm trailing, as it seemed to Eugene, like a cloud of glory
about her. She was both fire and strength to him in her regard and
sympathy, even though she resented, ever so slightly, his
affectional desertion.
"You piggy-wiggy Eugene Witla," she exclaimed. "What do you mean
by running off and getting married and never saying a word. I never
even had a chance to get you a present and now I have to bring it.
Isn't this a charming place—why it's perfectly delightful," and as
she laid her present down unopened she looked about to see where
Mrs. Eugene Witla might be.
Angela was in the bedroom finishing her toilet. She was
expecting this descent and so was prepared, being suitably dressed
in the light green house gown. When she heard Miss Whitmore's
familiar mode of address she winced, for this spoke volumes for a
boon companionship of long endurance. Eugene hadn't said so much of
Miss Whitmore in the past as he had recently, but she could see
that they were very intimate. She looked out and saw her—this tall,
not very shapely, but graceful woman, whose whole being represented
dynamic energy, awareness, subtlety of perception. Eugene was
shaking her hand and looking genially into her face.
"Why should Eugene like her so much?" she asked herself
instantly. "Why did his face shine with that light of intense
enthusiasm?" The "piggy-wiggy Eugene Witla" expression irritated
her. It sounded as though she might be in love with him. She came
out after a moment with a glad smile on her face and approached
with every show of good feeling, but Miss Whitmore could sense
opposition.
"So this is Mrs. Witla," she exclaimed, kissing her. "I'm
delighted to know you. I have always wondered what sort of a girl
Mr. Witla would marry. You'll just have to pardon my calling him
Eugene. I'll get over it after a bit, I suppose, now that he's
married. But we've been such good friends and I admire his work so
much. How do you like studio life—or are you used to it?"
Angela, who was taking in every detail of Eugene's old friend,
replied in what seemed an affected tone that no, she wasn't used to
studio life: she was just from the country, you know—a regular
farmer girl—Blackwood, Wisconsin, no less! She stopped to let Norma
express friendly surprise, and then went on to say that she
supposed Eugene had not said very much about her, but he wrote her
often enough. She was rejoicing in the fact that whatever slight
Eugene's previous silence seemed to put upon her, she had the
satisfaction that she had won him after all and Miss Whitmore had
not. She fancied from Miss Whitmore's enthusiastic attitude that
she must like Eugene very much, and she could see now what sort of
women might have made him wish to delay. Who were the others, she
wondered?
They talked of metropolitan experiences generally. Marietta came
in from a shopping expedition with a Mrs. Link, wife of an army
captain acting as an instructor at West Point, and tea was served
immediately afterward. Miss Whitmore was insistent that they should
come and take dinner with her some evening. Eugene confided that he
was sending a painting to the Academy.
"They'll hang it, of course," assured Norma, "but you ought to
have an exhibition of your own."
Marietta gushed about the wonder of the big stores and so it
finally came time for Miss Whitmore to go.
"Now you will come up, won't you?" she said to Angela, for in
spite of a certain feeling of incompatibility and difference she
was determined to like her. She thought Angela a little
inexperienced and presumptuous in marrying Eugene. She was afraid
she was not up to his standard. Still she was quaint, piquant.
Perhaps she would do very well. Angela was thinking all the while
that Miss Whitmore was presuming on her old acquaintance with
Eugene—that she was too affected and enthusiastic.
There was another day on which Miriam Finch called. Richard
Wheeler, having learned at Smite's and MacHugh's studio of Eugene's
marriage and present whereabouts, had hurried over, and then
immediately afterwards off to Miriam Finch's studio. Surprised
himself, he knew that she would be more so.
"Witla's married!" he exclaimed, bursting into her room, and for
the moment Miriam lost her self-possession sufficiently to reply
almost dramatically: "Richard Wheeler, what are you talking about!
You don't mean that, do you?"
"He's married," insisted Wheeler, "and he's living down in
Washington Square, 61 is the number. He has the cutest
yellow-haired wife you ever saw."
Angela had been nice to Wheeler and he liked her. He liked the
air of this domicile and thought it was going to be a good thing
for Eugene. He needed to settle down and work hard.
Miriam winced mentally at the picture. She was hurt by this
deception of Eugene's, chagrined because he had not thought enough
of her even to indicate that he was going to get married.
"He's been married ten days," communicated Wheeler, and this
added force to her temporary chagrin. The fact that Angela was
yellow-haired and cute was also disturbing.
"Well," she finally exclaimed cheerfully, "he might have said
something to us, mightn't he?" and she covered her own original
confusion by a gay nonchalance which showed nothing of what she was
really thinking. This was certainly indifference on Eugene's part,
and yet, why shouldn't he? He had never proposed to her. Still they
had been so intimate mentally.
She was interested to see Angela. She wondered what sort of a
woman she really was. "Yellow-haired! Cute!" Of course, like all
men, Eugene had sacrificed intellect and mental charm for a dainty
form and a pretty face. It seemed queer, but she had fancied that
he would not do that—that his wife, if he ever took one, would be
tall perhaps, and gracious, and of a beautiful mind—someone
distinguished. Why would men, intellectual men, artistic men, any
kind of men, invariably make fools of themselves! Well, she would
go and see her.
Because Wheeler informed him that he had told Miriam, Eugene
wrote, saying as briefly as possible that he was married and that
he wanted to bring Angela to her studio. For reply she came
herself, gay, smiling, immaculately dressed, anxious to hurt Angela
because she had proved the victor. She also wanted to show Eugene
how little difference it all made to her.
"You certainly are a secretive young man, Mr. Eugene Witla," she
exclaimed, when she saw him. "Why didn't you make him tell us, Mrs.
Witla?" she demanded archly of Angela, but with a secret dagger
thrust in her eyes. "You'd think he didn't want us to know."
Angela cowered beneath the sting of this whip cord. Miriam made
her feel as though Eugene had attempted to conceal his relationship
to her—as though he was ashamed of her. How many more women were
there like Miriam and Norma Whitmore?
Eugene was gaily unconscious of the real animus in Miriam's
conversation, and now that the first cruel moment was over, was
talking glibly of things in general, anxious to make everything
seem as simple and natural as possible. He was working at one of
his pictures when Miriam came in and was eager to obtain her
critical opinion, since it was nearly done. She squinted at it
narrowly but said nothing when he asked. Ordinarily she would have
applauded it vigorously. She did think it exceptional, but was
determined to say nothing. She walked indifferently about,
examining this and that object in a superior way, asking how he
came to obtain the studio, congratulating him upon his good luck.
Angela, she decided, was interesting, but not in Eugene's class
mentally, and should be ignored. He had made a mistake, that was
plain.
"Now you must bring Mrs. Witla up to see me," she said on
leaving. "I'll play and sing all my latest songs for you. I have
made some of the daintest discoveries in old Italian and Spanish
pieces."
Angela, who had posed to Eugene as knowing something about
music, resented this superior invitation, without inquiry as to her
own possible ability or taste, as she did Miriam's entire attitude.
Why was she so haughty—so superior? What was it to her whether
Eugene had said anything about her or not?
She said nothing to show that she herself played, but she
wondered that Eugene said nothing. It seemed neglectful and
inconsiderate of him. He was busy wondering what Miriam thought of
his picture. Miriam took his hand warmly at parting, looked
cheerfully into his eyes, and said, "I know you two are going to be
irrationally happy," and went out.
Eugene felt the irritation at last. He knew Angela felt
something. Miriam was resentful, that was it. She was angry at him
for his seeming indifference. She had commented to herself on
Angela's appearance and to her disadvantage. In her manner had been
the statement that his wife was not very important after all, not
of the artistic and superior world to which she and he
belonged.
"How do you like her?" he asked tentatively after she had gone,
feeling a strong current of opposition, but not knowing on what it
might be based exactly.
"I don't like her," returned Angela petulantly. "She thinks
she's sweet. She treats you as though she thought you were her
personal property. She openly insulted me about your not telling
her. Miss Whitmore did the same thing—they all do! They all will!
Oh!!"
She suddenly burst into tears and ran crying toward their
bedroom.
Eugene followed, astonished, ashamed, rebuked, guilty minded,
almost terror-stricken—he hardly knew what.
"Why, Angela," he urged pleadingly, leaning over her and
attempting to raise her. "You know that isn't true."
"It is! It is!!" she insisted. "Don't touch me! Don't come near
me! You know it is true! You don't love me. You haven't treated me
right at all since I've been here. You haven't done anything that
you should have done. She insulted me openly to my face."
She was speaking with sobs, and Eugene was at once pained and
terrorized by the persistent and unexpected display of emotion. He
had never seen Angela like this before. He had never seen any woman
so.
"Why, Angelface," he urged, "how can you go on like this? You
know what you say isn't true. What have I done?"
"You haven't told your friends—that's what you haven't done,"
she exclaimed between gasps. "They still think you're single. You
keep me here hidden in the background as though I were a—were a—I
don't know what! Your friends come and insult me openly to my face.
They do! They do! Oh!" and she sobbed anew.
She knew very well what she was doing in her anger and rage. She
felt that she was acting in the right way. Eugene needed a severe
reproof; he had acted very badly, and this was the way to
administer it to him now in the beginning. His conduct was
indefensible, and only the fact that he was an artist, immersed in
cloudy artistic thoughts and not really subject to the ordinary
conventions of life, saved him in her estimation. It didn't matter
that she had urged him to marry her. It didn't absolve him that he
had done so. She thought he owed her that. Anyhow they were married
now, and he should do the proper thing.