It was in packing the trunks and leaving the studio in
Washington Square (owing to the continued absence of Mr. Dexter
they had never been compelled to vacate it) that Angela came across
the first evidence of Eugene's duplicity. Because of his peculiar
indifference to everything except matters which related to his art,
he had put the letters which he had received in times past from
Christina Channing, as well as the one and only one from Ruby
Kenny, in a box which had formerly contained writing paper and
which he threw carelessly in a corner of his trunk. He had by this
time forgotten all about them, though his impression was that he
had placed them somewhere where they would not be found. When
Angela started to lay out the various things which occupied it she
came across this box and opening it took out the letters.
Curiosity as to things relative to Eugene was at this time the
dominant characteristic of her life. She could neither think nor
reason outside of this relationship which bound her to him. He and
his affairs were truly the sum and substance of her existence. She
looked at the letters oddly and then opened one—the first from
Christina. It was dated Florizel, the summer of three years before
when she was waiting so patiently for him at Blackwood. It began
conservatively enough—"Dear E—," but it concerned itself
immediately with references to an apparently affectionate
relationship. "I went this morning to see if by chance there were
any tell-tale evidences of either Diana or Adonis in Arcady. There
were none of importance. A hairpin or two, a broken mother-of-pearl
button from a summer waist, the stub of a lead-pencil wherewith a
certain genius sketched. The trees seemed just as unconscious of
any nymphs or hamadryads as they could be. The smooth grass was
quite unruffled of any feet. It is strange how much the trees and
forest know and keep their counsel.
"And how is the hot city by now? Do you miss a certain
evenly-swung hammock? Oh, the odor of leaves and the dew! Don't
work too hard. You have an easy future and almost too much
vitality. More repose for you, sir, and considerably more optimism
of thought. I send you good wishes.—Diana."
Angela wondered at once who Diana was, for before she had begun
the letter she had looked for the signature on the succeeding page.
Then after reading this she hurried feverishly from letter to
letter, seeking a name. There was none. "Diana of the Mountains,"
"The Hamadryad," "The Wood-Nymph," "C," "C C"—so they ran,
confusing, badgering, enraging her until all at once it came to
light—her first name at least. It was on the letter from Baltimore
suggesting that he come to Florizel—"Christina."
"Ah," she thought, "Christina! That is her name." Then she
hurried back to read the remaining epistles, hoping to find some
clue to her surname. They were all of the same character, in the
manner of writing she despised,—top-lofty, make-believe, the nasty,
hypocritical, cant and make-believe superiority of the studios. How
Angela hated her from that moment. How she could have taken her by
the throat and beaten her head against the trees she described. Oh,
the horrid creature! How dare she! And Eugene—how could he! What a
way to reward her love! What an answer to make to all her devotion!
At the very time when she was waiting so patiently, he was in the
mountains with this Diana. And here she was packing his trunk for
him like the little slave that she was when he cared so little, had
apparently cared so little all this time. How could he ever have
cared for her and done anything like this! He didn't! He never had!
Dear Heaven!
She began clenching and unclenching her hands dramatically,
working herself into that frenzy of emotion and regret which was
her most notable characteristic. All at once she stopped. There was
another letter in another handwriting on cheaper paper. "Ruby" was
the signature.
"Dear Eugene:"—she read—"I got your note several weeks ago, but
I couldn't bring myself to answer it before this. I know everything
is over between us and that is all right I suppose. It has to be.
You couldn't love any woman long, I think. I know what you say
about having to go to New York to broaden your field is true. You
ought to, but I'm sorry you didn't come out. You might have. Still
I don't blame you, Eugene. It isn't much different from what has
been going on for some time. I have cared, but I'll get over that,
I know, and I won't ever think hard of you. Won't you return me the
notes I have sent you from time to time, and my picture? You won't
want them now.—Ruby."
"I stood by the window last night and looked out on the street.
The moon was shining and those dead trees were waving in the wind.
I saw the moon on that pool of water over in the field. It looked
like silver. Oh, Eugene, I wish that I were dead."
Angela got up (as Eugene had) when she read this. The pathos
struck home, for somehow it matched her own. Ruby! Who was she?
Where had she been concealed while she, Angela, was coming to
Chicago? Was this the fall and winter of their engagement? It
certainly was. Look at the date. He had given her the diamond ring
on her finger that fall! He had sworn eternal affection! He had
sworn there was never another girl like her in all the world and
yet, at that very time, he was apparently paying
court
to
this woman if nothing worse. Heaven! Could anything like this
really be? He was telling her that he loved her and making love to
this Ruby at the same time. He was kissing and fondling her and
Ruby too!! Was there ever such a situation? He, Eugene Witla, to
deceive her this way. No wonder he wanted to get rid of her when he
came to New York. He would have treated her as he had this Ruby.
And Christina! This Christina!! Where was she? Who was she? What
was she doing now? She jumped up prepared to go to Eugene and
charge him with his iniquities, but remembered that he was out of
the studio—that he had gone for a walk. He was sick now, very sick.
Would she dare to reproach him with these reprehensible
episodes?
She came back to the trunk where she was working and sat down.
Her eyes were hard and cold for the time, but at the same time
there was a touch of terror and of agonized affection. A face that,
in the ordinary lines of its repose, was very much like that of a
madonna, was now drawn and peaked and gray. Apparently Christina
had forsaken him, or it might be that they still corresponded
secretly. She got up again at that thought. Still the letters were
old. It looked as though all communication had ceased two years
ago. What had he written to her?—love notes. Letters full of wooing
phrases such as he had written to her. Oh, the instability of men,
the insincerity, the lack of responsibility and sense of duty. Her
father,—what a different man he was; her brothers,—their word was
their bond. And here was she married to a man who, even in the days
of his most ardent wooing, had been deceiving her. She had let him
lead her astray, too,—disgrace her own home. Tears came after a
while, hot, scalding tears that seared her cheeks. And now she was
married to him and he was sick and she would have to make the best
of it. She wanted to make the best of it, for after all she loved
him.
But oh, the cruelty, the insincerity, the unkindness, the
brutality of it all.
The fact that Eugene was out for several hours following her
discovery gave her ample time to reflect as to a suitable course of
action. Being so impressed by the genius of the man, as imposed
upon her by the opinion of others and her own affection, she could
not readily think of anything save some method of ridding her soul
of this misery and him of his evil tendencies, of making him
ashamed of his wretched career, of making him see how badly he had
treated her and how sorry he ought to be. She wanted him to feel
sorry, very sorry, so that he would be a long time repenting in
suffering, but she feared at the same time that she could not make
him do that. He was so ethereal, so indifferent, so lost in the
contemplation of life that he could not be made to think of her.
That was her one complaint. He had other gods before her—the god of
his art, the god of nature, the god of people as a spectacle.
Frequently she had complained to him in this last year—"you don't
love me! you don't love me!" but he would answer, "oh, yes I do. I
can't be talking to you all the time, Angel-face. I have work to
do. My art has to be cultivated. I can't be making love all the
time."
"Oh, it isn't that, it isn't that!" she would exclaim
passionately. "You just don't love me, like you ought to. You just
don't care. If you did I'd feel it."
"Oh, Angela," he answered, "why do you talk so? Why do you carry
on so? You're the funniest girl I ever knew. Now be reasonable. Why
don't you bring a little philosophy to bear? We can't be billing
and cooing all the time!"
"Billing and cooing! That's the way you think of it. That's the
way you talk of it! As though it were something you had to do. Oh,
I hate love! I hate life! I hate philosophy! I wish I could
die."
"Now, Angela, for Heaven's sake, why will you take on so? I
can't stand this. I can't stand these tantrums of yours. They're
not reasonable. You know I love you. Why, haven't I shown it? Why
should I have married you if I didn't? I wasn't obliged to marry
you!"
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" Angela would sob on, wringing her hands.
"Oh, you really don't love me! You don't care! And it will go on
this way, getting worse and worse, with less and less of love and
feeling until after awhile you won't even want to see me any
more—you'll hate me! Oh, dear! oh, dear!"
Eugene felt keenly the pathos involved in this picture of
decaying love. In fact, her fear of the disaster which might
overtake her little bark of happiness was sufficiently well
founded. It might be that his affection would cease—it wasn't even
affection now in the true sense of the word,—a passionate
intellectual desire for her companionship. He never had really
loved her for her mind, the beauty of her thoughts. As he meditated
he realized that he had never reached an understanding with her by
an intellectual process at all. It was emotional, subconscious, a
natural drawing together which was not based on reason and
spirituality of contemplation apparently, but on grosser emotions
and desires. Physical desire had been involved—strong, raging,
uncontrollable. And for some reason he had always felt sorry for
her—he always had. She was so little, so conscious of disaster, so
afraid of life and what it might do to her. It was a shame to wreck
her hopes and desires. At the same time he was sorry now for this
bondage he had let himself into—this yoke which he had put about
his neck. He could have done so much better. He might have married
a woman of wealth or a woman with artistic perceptions and
philosophic insight like Christina Channing, who would be peaceful
and happy with him. Angela couldn't be. He really didn't admire her
enough, couldn't fuss over her enough. Even while he was soothing
her in these moments, trying to make her believe that there was no
basis for her fears, sympathizing with her subconscious intuitions
that all was not well, he was thinking of how different his life
might have been.
"It won't end that way," he would soothe. "Don't cry. Come now,
don't cry. We're going to be very happy. I'm going to love you
always, just as I'm loving you now, and you're going to love me.
Won't that be all right? Come on, now. Cheer up. Don't be so
pessimistic. Come on, Angela. Please do. Please!"
Angela would brighten after a time, but there were spells of
apprehension and gloom; they were common, apt to burst forth like a
summer storm when neither of them was really expecting it.
The discovery of these letters now checked the feeling, with
which she tried to delude herself at times, that there might be
anything more than kindness here. They confirmed her suspicions
that there was not and brought on that sense of defeat and despair
which so often and so tragically overcame her. It did it at a time,
too, when Eugene needed her undivided consideration and feeling,
for he was in a wretched state of mind. To have her quarrel with
him now, lose her temper, fly into rages and compel him to console
her, was very trying. He was in no mood for it; could not very well
endure it without injury to himself. He was seeking for an
atmosphere of joyousness, wishing to find a cheerful optimism
somewhere which would pull him out of himself and make him whole.
Not infrequently he dropped in to see Norma Whitmore, Isadora
Crane, who was getting along very well on the stage, Hedda
Andersen, who had a natural charm of intellect with much vivacity,
even though she was a model, and now and then Miriam Finch. The
latter was glad to see him alone, almost as a testimony against
Angela, though she would not go out of her way to conceal from
Angela the fact that he had been there. The others, though he said
nothing, assumed that since Angela did not come with him he wanted
nothing said and observed his wish. They were inclined to think
that he had made a matrimonial mistake and was possibly
artistically or intellectually lonely. All of them noted his
decline in health with considerate apprehension and sorrow. It was
too bad, they thought, if his health was going to fail him just at
this time. Eugene lived in fear lest Angela should become aware of
any of these visits. He thought he could not tell her because in
the first place she would resent his not having taken her with him;
and in the next, if he had proposed it first, she would have
objected, or set another date, or asked pointless questions. He
liked the liberty of going where he pleased, saying nothing, not
feeling it necessary to say anything. He longed for the freedom of
his old pre-matrimonial days. Just at this time, because he could
not work artistically and because he was in need of diversion and
of joyous artistic palaver, he was especially miserable. Life
seemed very dark and ugly.