"I don't know," he said easily, "but I wager a guess that this
is—that this is—this is Suzanne Dale—what?"
"Yes, this is," she replied laughingly. "Can I give you a cup of
tea, Mr. Witla? I know you are Mr. Witla from ma-ma´'s description
and the way in which you talk to everybody."
"And how do I talk to everybody, may I ask, pleasum?"
"Oh, I can't tell you so easily. I mean, I can't find the words,
you know. I know how it is, though. Familiarly, I suppose I mean.
Will you have one lump or two?"
"Three an thou pleasest. Didn't your mother tell me you sang or
played?"
"Oh, you mustn't believe anything ma-ma´ says about me! She's
apt to say anything. Tee! Hee! It makes me laugh"—she pronounced it
laaf—"to think of my playing. My teacher says he would like to
strike my knuckles. Oh, dear!" (She went into a gale of giggles.)
"And sing! Oh, dear, dear! That is too good!"
Eugene watched her pretty face intently. Her mouth and nose and
eyes fascinated him. She was so sweet! He noted the configuration
of her lips and cheeks and chin. The nose was delicate, beautifully
formed, fat, not sensitive. The ears were small, the eyes large and
wide set, the forehead naturally high, but so concealed by curls
that it seemed low. She had a few freckles and a very small dimple
in her chin.
"Now you mustn't laugh like that," he said mock solemnly. "It's
very serious business, this laughing. In the first place, it's
against the rules of this apartment. No one is ever, ever, ever
supposed to laugh here, particularly young ladies who pour tea.
Tea, Epictetus well says, involves the most serious conceptions of
one's privileges and duties. It is the high-born prerogative of tea
servers to grin occasionally, but never, never, never under any
circumstances whatsoever——" Suzanne's lips were beginning to part
ravishingly in anticipation of a burst of laughter.
"What's all the excitement about, Witla?" asked Skalger, who had
drifted to his side. "Why this sudden cessation of progress?"
"Tea, my son, tea!" said Eugene. "Have a cup with me?"
"I will."
"He's trying to tell me, Mr. Skalger, that I should never laaf.
I must only grin." Her lips parted and she laughed joyously. Eugene
laughed with her. He could not help it. "Ma-ma´ says I giggle all
the time. I wouldn't do very well here, would I?"
She always pronounced it "ma-ma´."
She turned to Eugene again with big smiling eyes.
"Exceptions, exceptions. I might make exceptions—one
exception—but not more."
"Why one?" she asked archly.
"Oh, just to hear a natural laugh," he said a little
plaintively. "Just to hear a real joyous laugh. Can you laugh
joyously?"
She giggled again at this, and he was about to tell her how
joyously she did laugh when Angela called him away to hear Florence
Reel, who was going to sing again for his especial benefit. He
parted from Miss Dale reluctantly, for she seemed some delicious
figure as delicately colorful as Royal Dresden, as perfect in her
moods as a spring evening, as soft, soulful, enticing as a strain
of music heard through the night at a distance or over the water.
He went over to where Florence Reel was standing, listening in a
sympathetic melancholy vein to a delightful rendering of "The
Summer Winds Are Blowing, Blowing." All the while he could not help
thinking of Suzanne—letting his eyes stray in that direction. He
talked to Mrs. Dale, to Henrietta Tenmon, to Luke Severas, Mr. and
Mrs. Dula, Payalei Stone, now a writer of special articles, and
others, but he couldn't help longing to go back to her. How sweet
she was! How very delightful! If he could only, once more in his
life, have the love of a girl like that!
The guests began to depart. Angela and Eugene bustled about the
farewells. Because of the duties of her daughter, which continued
to the end, Mrs. Dale stayed, talking to Arthur Skalger. Eugene was
in and out between the studio and cloak room off the entry way. Now
and then he caught glimpses of Suzanne demurely standing by her tea
cups and samovar. For years he had seen nothing so fresh and young
as her body. She was like a new grown wet white lily pod in the
dawn of the year. She seemed to have the texture of the water
chestnut and the lush, fat vegetables of the spring. Her eyes were
as clear as water; her skin as radiant new ivory. There was no sign
of weariness about her, nor any care, nor any thought of evil, nor
anything except health and happiness. "Such a face!" he thought
casually in passing. "She is as sweet as any girl could be. As
radiant as light itself."
Incidentally the personality of Frieda Roth came back, and—long
before her—Stella Appleton.
"Youth! Youth! What in this world could be finer—more
acceptable! Where would you find its equal? After all the dust of
the streets and the spectacle of age and weariness—the crow's feet
about people's eyes, the wrinkles in their necks, the make-believe
of rouge and massage, and powder and cosmetics, to see real youth,
not of the body but of the soul also—the eyes, the smile, the
voice, the movements—all young. Why try to imitate that miracle?
Who could? Who ever had?"
He went on shaking hands, bowing, smiling, laughing, jesting,
making believe himself, but all the while the miracle of the youth
and beauty of Suzanne Dale was running in his mind.
"What are you thinking about, Eugene?" asked Angela, coming to
the window where he had drawn a rocking-chair and was sitting
gazing out on the silver and lavender and gray of the river surface
in the fading light. Some belated gulls were still flying about.
Across the river the great manufactory was sending off a spiral of
black smoke from one of its tall chimneys. Lamps were beginning to
twinkle in its hundred-windowed wall. A great siren cry broke from
its whistle as six o'clock tolled from a neighboring clock tower.
It was still late February and cold.
"Oh, I was thinking of the beauty of this scene," he said
wearily.
Angela did not believe it. She was conscious of something, but
they never quarreled about what he was thinking nowadays. They had
come too far along in comfort and solidity. What was it, though,
she wondered, that he was thinking about?
Suzanne Dale had no particular thought of him. He was
nice—pleasant, good-looking. Mrs. Witla was quite nice and
young.
"Ma-ma," she said, "did you look out of the window at Mr.
Witla's?"
"Yes, my dear!"
"Wasn't that a beautiful view?"
"Charming."
"I should think you might like to live on the Drive sometime,
ma-ma."
"We may sometime."
Mrs. Dale fell to musing. Certainly Eugene was an attractive
man—young, brilliant, able. What a mistake all the young men made,
marrying so early. Here he was successful, introduced to society,
attractive, the world really before him, and he was married to
someone who, though a charming little woman, was not up to his
possibilities.
"Oh, well," she thought, "so goes the world. Why worry? Everyone
must do the best they can."
Then she thought of a story she might write along this line and
get Eugene to publish it in one of his magazines.
While these various events were occurring the work of the United
Magazines Corporation had proceeded apace. By the end of the first
year after Eugene's arrival it had cleared up so many of its
editorial and advertising troubles that he was no longer greatly
worried about them, and by the end of the second year it was well
on the way toward real success. Eugene had become so much of a
figure about the place that everyone in the great building, in
which there were over a thousand employed, knew him at sight. The
attendants were most courteous and obsequious, as much so almost as
they were to Colfax and White, though the latter with the
improvement of the general condition of the company had become more
dominating and imposing than ever. White with his large salary of
twenty-five thousand a year and his title of vice-president was
most anxious that Eugene should not become more powerful than he
had already. It irritated him greatly to see the airs Eugene gave
himself, for the latter had little real tact, and instead of
dissembling his importance before his superiors was inclined to
flaunt it. He was forever retailing to Colfax some new achievement
in the advertising, circulation, and editorial fields, and that in
White's presence, for he did not take the latter very seriously,
telling of a new author of importance captured for the book
department; a new manuscript feature secured for one or another of
the magazines, a new circulation scheme or connection devised, or a
new advertising contract of great money value manipulated. His
presence in Colfax's office was almost invariably a signal for
congratulation or interest, for he was driving things hard and
Colfax knew it. White came to hate the sight of him.
"Well, what's the latest great thing you've done?" Colfax said
once to Eugene jovially in White's presence, for he knew that
Eugene was as fond of praise as a child and so could be bantered
with impunity. White concealed a desire to sneer behind a deceptive
smile.
"No latest great thing, only Hayes has turned that Hammond
Packing Company trick. That means eighteen thousand dollars' worth
more of new business for next year. That'll help a little, won't
it?"
"Hayes! Hayes! I'll be switched if I don't think he comes pretty
near being a better advertising man than you are, Witla. You picked
him, I'll have to admit that, but he certainly knows all about the
game. If anything ever happened to you, I think I'd like to keep
him right there." White pretended not to hear this, but it pleased
him. Hayes should be aided as much as possible by him.
Eugene's face fell, for this sudden twisting of the thread of
interest from his to his assistant's achievements damped his
enthusiasm. It wasn't pleasant to have his inspirational leadership
questioned or made secondary to the work of those whom he was
managing. He had brought all these men here and keyed the situation
up. Was Colfax going to turn on him? "Oh, very well," he said
sweetly.
"Don't look so hurt," returned Colfax easily. "I know what
you're thinking. I'm not going to turn on you. You hired this man.
I'm simply telling you that if anything should happen to you I'd
like to keep him right where he is."
Eugene thought this remark over seriously. It was tantamount to
serving notice on him that he could not discharge Hayes. Colfax did
not actually so mean it at the moment, though it was the seed of
such a thought. He simply left the situation open for
consideration, and Eugene went away thinking what an extremely
unfavorable twist this gave to everything. If he was to go on
finding good men and bringing them in here but could not discharge
them, and if then, later, they became offensive to him, where would
he be? Why, if they found that out, as they might through White,
they could turn on him as lions on a tamer and tear him to pieces!
This was a bad and unexpected twist to things, and he did not like
it.
On the other hand, while it had never occurred to Colfax before
in this particular connection, for he liked Eugene, it fitted in
well with certain warnings and suggestions which had been issuing
from White who was malevolently opposed to Eugene. His success in
reorganizing the place on the intellectual and artistic sides was
too much. Eugene's work was giving him a dignity and a security
which was entirely disproportionate to what he was actually doing
and which was threatening to overshadow and put in the limbo of
indifference that of every other person connected with the
business. This must be broken. Colfax, for the time being, was so
wrapped up in what he considered Eugene's shining intellectual and
commercial qualities that he was beginning to ignore White. The
latter did not propose that any such condition should continue. It
was no doubt a rare thing to find a man who could pick good men and
make the place successful, but what of himself? Colfax was
naturally very jealous, he knew, and suspicious. He did not want to
be overshadowed in any way by any of his employees. He did not feel
that he was, so far. But now White thought it would be a fine thing
to stir him up on this score if he could—to arouse his jealousy. He
knew that Colfax did not care so much about the publishing world,
though now that he was in it, and was seeing that it could be made
profitable, he was rather gratified by the situation. His wife
liked it, for people were always talking to her about the United
Magazines Corporation, its periodicals, its books, its art products
and that was flattering. While it might not be as profitable as
soap and woolens and railway stocks with which her husband was
identified, it was somewhat more distinguished. She wanted him to
keep it directly under his thumb and to shine by its reflected
light.
In looking about for a club wherewith to strike Eugene, White
discovered this. He sounded Colfax on various occasions by
innuendo, and noted his sniffing nostrils. If he could first reach
Eugene's advertising, circulation and editorial men and persuade
them to look to him instead of to Eugene, he might later reach and
control Eugene through Colfax. He might humble Eugene by curbing
his power, making him see that he, White, was still the power
behind the throne.
"What do you think of this fellow Witla?" Colfax would ask White
from time to time, and when these occasions offered he was not slow
to drive in a wedge.
"He's an able fellow," he said once, apparently most
open-mindedly. "It's plain that he's doing pretty well with those
departments, but I think you want to look out for his vanity. He's
just the least bit in danger of getting a swelled head. You want to
remember that he's still pretty young for the job he holds (White
was eight years older). These literary and artistic people are all
alike. The one objection that I have to them is that they never
seem to have any real practical judgment. They make splendid second
men when well governed, and you can do almost anything with them,
if you know how to handle them, but you have to govern them. This
fellow, as I see him, is just the man you want. He's picking some
good people and he's getting some good results, but unless you
watch him he's apt to throw them all out of here sometime or go
away and take them all with him. I shouldn't let him do that if I
were you. I should let him get just the men you think are right,
and then I should insist that he keep them. Of course, a man has
got to have authority in his own department, but it can be carried
too far. You're treating him pretty liberally, you know."
This sounded very sincere and logical to Colfax, who admired
White for it, for in spite of the fact that he liked Eugene greatly
and went about with him a great deal, he did not exactly trust him.
The man was in a way too brilliant, he thought. He was a little too
airy and light on his feet.
Under pretext of helping his work and directing his policy
without actually interfering so that it might eventually prove a
failure, White was constantly making suggestions. He made
suggestions which he told Colfax Eugene ought to try in the
circulation department. He made suggestions which he thought he
might find advisable to try in the advertising department. He had
suggestions, gathered from Heaven knows where, for the magazines
and books, and these he invariably sent through Colfax, taking good
care, however, that the various department heads knew from what
source they had originally emanated. It was his plan to speak to
Hayes or Gillmore, who was in charge of circulation, or one of the
editors about some thought that was in his mind and then have that
same thought come as an order via Eugene. The latter was so anxious
to make good, so good-natured in his interpretation of suggestions,
that it did not occur to him, for a long time, that he was being
played. The men under him, however, realized that something was
happening, for White was hand and glove with Colfax, and the two
were not always in accord with Eugene. He was not quite as powerful
as White, was the first impression, and later the idea got about
that Eugene and White did not agree temperamentally and that White
was the stronger and would win.
It is not possible to go into the long, slow multitudinous
incidents and details which go to make up office politics, but
anyone who has ever worked in a large or small organization
anywhere will understand. Eugene was not a politician. He knew
nothing of the delicate art of misrepresentation as it was
practised by White and those who were of his peculiarly subtle
mental tendencies. White did not like Eugene, and he proposed to
have his power curbed. Some of Eugene's editors, after a time,
began to find it difficult to get things as they wanted them from
the printing department, and, when they complained, it was
explained that they were of a disorderly and quarrelsome
disposition. Some of his advertising men made mistakes in statement
or presentation, and curiously these errors almost invariably came
to light. Eugene found that his strong men were most quickly
relieved of their difficulties if they approached White, but if
they came to him it was not quite so easy. Instead of ignoring
these petty annoyances and going his way about the big things, he
stopped occasionally to fight these petty battles and complaints,
and these simply put him in the light of one who was not able to
maintain profound peace and order in his domain. White was always
bland, helpful, ready with a suave explanation.
"It's just possible that he may not know how to handle these
fellows, after all," he said to Colfax, and then if anyone was
discharged it was a sign of an unstable policy.
Colfax cautioned Eugene occasionally in accordance with White's
suggestions, but Eugene was now so well aware of what was going on
that he could see where they came from. He thought once of accusing
White openly in front of Colfax, but he knew that this would not be
of any advantage for he had no real evidence to go on. All White's
protestations to Colfax were to the effect that he was trying to
help him. So the battle lay.
In the meantime, Eugene, because of this or the thought rather
that he might not always remain as powerful as he was, having no
stock in the concern and not being able to buy any, had been
interesting himself in a proposition which had since been brought
to him by Mr. Kenyon C. Winfield, who, since that memorable
conversation at the home of the Willebrands on Long Island, had not
forgotten him. Winfield had thought of him for a long time in
connection with a plan he had of establishing on the South Shore of
Long Island, some thirty-five miles from New York, a magnificent
seaside resort which should outrival Palm Beach and the better
places of Atlantic City, and give to New York, close at hand, such
a dream of beauty and luxury as would turn the vast tide of
luxury-loving idlers and successful money grubbers from the former
resorts to this. Considerable thought had been given by him as to
just what its principal characteristics should be, but he had not
worked it out to suit himself exactly, and he thought Eugene might
be interested from the outlining point of view.
Unfortunately, on the face of it, this was just the sort of
scheme which made an appeal to Eugene from all points of view, in
spite of the fact that he already had his hands as full as they
could be. Nothing interested him quite so much as beauty and luxury
in some artistic combination. A summer resort of really imposing
proportions, with hotels, casinos, pagodas, resident sections, club
houses, a wide board or stone walk along the ocean, and possibly a
gambling center which should outrival Monte Carlo, had long since
occurred to him as something which might well spring up near New
York. He and Angela had visited Palm Beach, Old Point Comfort,
Virginia Hot Springs, Newport, Shelter Island, Atlantic City, and
Tuxedo, and his impressions of what constituted luxury and beauty
had long since widened to magnificent proportions. He liked the
interiors of the Chamberlain at Old Point Comfort, and the Royal
Ponciana at Palm Beach. He had studied with artistic curiosity the
development of the hotel features at Atlantic City and elsewhere.
It had occurred to him that a restricted territory might be had out
on the Atlantic Ocean near Gravesend Bay possibly, which would
include among other things islands, canals or inland waterways, a
mighty sea beach, two or three great hotels, a casino for dancing,
dining, gambling, a great stone or concrete walk to be laid out on
a new plan parallel with the ocean, and at the back of all these
things and between the islands and the ocean a magnificent seaside
city where the lots should sell at so expensive a rate that only
the well-to-do could afford to live there. His thought was of
something so fine that it would attract all the prominent
pleasure-lovers he had recently met. If they could be made to
understand that such a place existed; that it was beautiful, showy,
exclusive in a money sense, they would come there by the
thousands.