Angela stared at the wall. She was half propped up on a pillow,
and had no courage now to speak of and no fighting strength.
"I know what it is with you, Eugene," she said, after a time;
"it's the yoke that galls. It isn't me only; it's anyone. It's
marriage. You don't want to be married. It would be the same with
any woman who might ever have loved and married you, or with any
number of children. You would want to get rid of her and them. It's
the yoke that galls you, Eugene. You want your freedom, and you
won't be satisfied until you have it. A child wouldn't make any
difference. I can see that now."
"I want my freedom," he exclaimed bitterly and inconsiderately,
"and, what's more, I'm going to have it! I don't care. I'm sick of
lying and pretending, sick of common little piffling notions of
what you consider right and wrong. For eleven or twelve years now I
have stood it. I have sat with you every morning at breakfast and
every evening at dinner, most of the time when I didn't want to. I
have listened to your theories of life when I didn't believe a word
of what you said, and didn't care anything about what you thought.
I've done it because I thought I ought to do it so as not to hurt
your feelings, but I'm through with all that. What have I had?
Spying on me, opposition, searching my pockets for letters,
complaining if I dared to stay out a single evening and did not
give an account of myself.
"Why didn't you leave me after that affair at Riverdale? Why do
you hang on to me when I don't love you? One'd think I was prisoner
and you my keeper. Good Christ! When I think of it, it makes me
sick! Well, there's no use worrying over that any more. It's all
over. It's all beautifully over, and I'm done with it. I'm going to
live a life of my own hereafter. I'm going to carve out some sort
of a career that suits me. I'm going to live with someone that I
can really love, and that's the end of it. Now you run and do
anything you want to."
He was like a young horse that had broken rein and that thinks
that by rearing and plunging he shall become forever free. He was
thinking of green fields and delightful pastures. He was free now,
in spite of what she had told him. This night had made him so, and
he was going to remain free. Suzanne would stand by him, he felt
it. He was going to make it perfectly plain to Angela that never
again, come what may, would things be as they were.
"Yes, Eugene," she replied sadly, after listening to his
protestations on this score, "I think that you do want your
freedom, now that I see you. I'm beginning to see what it means to
you. But I have made such a terrible mistake. Are you thinking
about me at all? What shall I do? It is true that there will be a
child unless I die. I may die. I'm afraid of that, or I was. I am
not now. The only reason I would care to live would be to take care
of it. I didn't think I was going to be ill with rheumatism. I
didn't think my heart was going to be affected in this way. I
didn't think that you were going to do as you have done, but now
that you have, nothing matters. Oh," she said sadly, hot tears
welling to her eyes, "it is all such a mistake! If I only hadn't
done this!"
Eugene stared at the floor. He wasn't softened one bit. He did
not think she was going to die—no such luck! He was thinking that
this merely complicated things, or that she might be acting, but
that it could not stand in his way. Why had she tried to trick him
in this way? It was her fault. Now she was crying, but that was the
old hypocrisy of emotion that she had used so often. He did not
intend to desert her absolutely. She would have plenty to live on.
Merely he did not propose to live with her, if he could help it, or
only nominally, anyhow. The major portion of his time should be
given to Suzanne.
"I don't care what it costs," he said finally. "I don't propose
to live with you. I didn't ask you to have a child. It was none of
my doing. You're not going to be deserted financially, but I'm not
going to live with you."
He stirred again, and Angela stared hot-cheeked. The hardness of
the man enraged her for the moment. She did not believe that she
would starve, but their improving surroundings, their home, their
social position, would be broken up completely.
"Yes, yes. I understand," she pleaded, with an effort at
controlling herself, "but I am not the only one to be considered.
Are you thinking of Mrs. Dale, and what she may do and say? She
isn't going to let you take Suzanne if she knows it, without doing
something about it. She is an able woman. She loves Suzanne,
however self-willed she may be. She likes you now, but how long do
you think she is going to like you when she learns what you want to
do with her daughter? What are you going to do with her? You can't
marry her under a year even if I were willing to give you a
divorce. You could scarcely get a divorce in that time."
"I'm going to live with her, that's what I'm going to do,"
declared Eugene. "She loves me, she's willing to take me just as I
am. She doesn't need marriage ceremonies and rings and vows and
chains. She doesn't believe in them. As long as I love her, all
right. When I cease to love her, she doesn't want me any more. Some
difference in that, isn't there?" he added bitterly. "It doesn't
sound exactly like Blackwood, does it?"
Angela bridled. His taunts were cruel.
"She says that, Eugene," she replied quietly, "but she hasn't
had time to think. You've hypnotized her for the moment. She's
fascinated. When she stops to think later, if she has any sense,
any pride—— But, oh, why should I talk, you won't listen. You won't
think." Then she added: "But what do you propose to do about Mrs.
Dale? Don't you suppose she will fight you, even if I do not? I
wish you would stop and think, Eugene. This is a terrible thing you
are doing."
"Think! Think!" he exclaimed savagely and bitterly. "As though I
had not been thinking all these years. Think! Hell! I haven't done
anything but think. I've thought until the soul within me is sick.
I've thought until I wish to God I could stop. I've thought about
Mrs. Dale. Don't you worry about her. I'll settle this matter with
her later. Just now I want to convince you of what I am going to
do. I'm going to have Suzanne, and you're not going to stop
me."
"Oh, Eugene," sighed Angela, "if something would only make you
see! It is partially my fault. I have been hard and suspicious and
jealous, but you have given me some cause to be, don't you think? I
see now that I have made a mistake. I have been too hard and too
jealous, but I could reform if you would let me try." (She was
thinking now of living, not dying.) "I know I could. You have so
much to lose. Is this change worth it? You know so well how the
world looks at these things. Why, even if you should obtain your
freedom from me under the circumstances, what do you suppose the
world would think? You couldn't desert your child. Why not wait and
see what happens? I might die. There have been such cases. Then you
would be free to do as you pleased. That is only a little way
off."
It was a specious plea, calculated to hold him; but he saw
through it.
"Nothing doing!" he exclaimed, in the slang of the day. "I know
all about that. I know what you're thinking. In the first place, I
don't believe you are in the condition you say you are. In the next
place, you're not going to die. I don't propose to wait to be free.
I know you, and I've no faith in you. What I do needn't affect your
condition. You're not going to starve. No one need know, unless you
start a row about it. Suzanne and I can arrange this between
ourselves. I know what you're thinking, but you're not going to
interfere. If you do, I'll smash everything in sight—you, this
apartment, my job——" He clenched his hands desperately,
determinedly.
Angela's hands were tingling with nervous pains while Eugene
talked. Her eyes ached and her heart fluttered. She could not
understand this dark, determined man, so savage and so resolute in
his manner. Was this Eugene who was always moving about quietly
when he was near her, getting angry at times, but always feeling
sorry and apologizing? She had boasted to some of her friends, and
particularly to Marietta, in a friendly, jesting way that she could
wind Eugene around her little finger. He was so easy-going in the
main, so quiet. Here he was a raging demon almost, possessed of an
evil spirit of desire and tearing up his and hers and Suzanne's
life for that matter, by the roots. She did not care for Suzanne,
though, now, or Mrs. Dale. Her own blighted life, and Eugene's,
looming so straight ahead of her terrified her.
"What do you suppose Mr. Colfax will do when he hears of this?"
she asked desperately, hoping to frighten him.
"I don't care a damn what Mr. Colfax will or can do!" he replied
sententiously. "I don't care a damn what anybody does or says or
thinks. I love Suzanne Dale. She loves me. She wants me. There's an
end of that. I'm going to her now. You stay me if you can."
Suzanne Dale! Suzanne Dale! How that name enraged and frightened
Angela! Never before had she witnessed quite so clearly the power
of beauty. Suzanne Dale was young and beautiful. She was looking at
her only tonight thinking how fascinating she was—how fair her
face—and here was Eugene bewitched by it, completely undone. Oh,
the terror of beauty! The terror of social life generally! Why had
she entertained? Why become friendly with the Dales? But then there
were other personalities, almost as lovely and quite as
young—Marjorie McLennan, Florence Reel, Henrietta Tenman, Annette
Kean. It might have been any one of these. She couldn't have been
expected to shut out all young women from Eugene's life. No; it was
Eugene. It was his attitude toward life. His craze about the
beautiful, particularly in women. She could see it now. He really
was not strong enough. Beauty would always upset him at critical
moments. She had seen it in relation to herself—the beauty of her
form, which he admired so, or had admired. "God," she prayed
silently, "give me wisdom now. Give me strength. I don't deserve
it, but help me. Help me to save him. Help me to save myself."
"Oh, Eugene," she said aloud, hopelessly, "I wish you would stop
and think. I wish you would let Suzanne go her way in the morning,
and you stay sane and calm. I won't care about myself. I can
forgive and forget. I'll promise you I'll never mention it. If a
child comes, I'll do my best not to let it annoy you. I'll try yet
not to have one. It may not be too late. I'll change from this day
forth. Oh!" She began to cry.
"No! By God!" he said, getting up. "No! No! No! I'm through now.
I'm through! I've had enough of fake hysterics and tears. Tears one
minute, and wrath and hate the next. Subtlety! Subtlety! Subtlety!
Nothing doing. You've been master and jailer long enough. It's my
turn now. I'll do a little jailing and task-setting for a change.
I'm in the saddle, and I'm going to stay there. You can cry if you
want to, you can do what you please about the child. I'm through.
I'm tired, and I'm going to bed, but this thing is going to stand
just as it does. I'm through, and that's all there is to it."
He strode out of the room angrily and fiercely, but
nevertheless, when he reached it, he sat in his own room, which was
on the other side of the studio from Angelas, and did not sleep.
His mind was on fire with the thought of Suzanne; he thought of the
old order which had been so quickly and so terribly broken. Now, if
he could remain master, and he could, he proposed to take Suzanne.
She would come to him, secretly no doubt, if necessary. They would
open a studio, a second establishment. Angela might not give him a
divorce. If what she said was true, she couldn't. He wouldn't want
her to, but he fancied from this conversation that she was so
afraid of him that she would not stir up any trouble. There was
nothing she could really do. He was in the saddle truly, and would
stay there. He would take Suzanne, would provide amply for Angela,
would visit all those lovely public resorts he had so frequently
seen, and he and Suzanne would be happy together.
Suzanne! Suzanne! Oh, how beautiful she was! And to think how
nobly and courageously she had stood by him tonight. How she had
slipped her hand into his so sweetly and had said, "But I love him,
Mrs. Witla." Yes, she loved him. No doubt of that. She was young,
exquisite, beautifully rounded in her budding emotion and feeling.
She was going to develop into a wonderful woman, a real one. And
she was so young. What a pity it was he was not free now! Well,
wait, this would right all things, and, meanwhile, he would have
her. He must talk to Suzanne. He must tell her how things stood.
Poor little Suzanne! There she was in her room wondering what was
to become of her, and here was he. Well, he couldn't go to her
tonight. It did not look right, and, besides, Angela might fight
still. But tomorrow! Tomorrow! Oh, tomorrow he would walk and talk
with her, and they would plan. Tomorrow he would show her just what
he wanted to do and find out what she could do.
This night passed without additional scenes, though as it stood
it was the most astonishing and tremendous in all Eugene's
experience. He had, not up to the time Angela walked into the room,
really expected anything so dramatic and climacteric to happen,
though what he did expect was never really very clear to him. At
times as he lay and thought now he fancied that he might eventually
have to give Suzanne up, though how, or when, or why, he could not
say. He was literally crazed by her, and could not think that such
a thing could really be. At other moments he fancied that powers
outside of this visible life, the life attested by the five senses,
had arranged this beautiful finish to his career for him so that he
might be perfectly happy. All his life he had fancied that he was
leading a more or less fated life, principally more. He thought
that his art was a gift, that he had in a way been sent to
revolutionize art in America, or carry it one step farther forward
and that nature was thus constantly sending its apostles or special
representatives over whom it kept watch and in whom it was well
pleased. At other times he fancied he might be the sport or toy of
untoward and malicious powers, such as those which surrounded and
accomplished Macbeth's tragic end, and which might be intending to
make an illustration of him. As he looked at life at times, it
seemed to do this with certain people. The fates lied. Lovely,
blandishing lures were held out only to lead men to destruction. He
had seen other men who seemed to have been undone in this way. Was
he to be so treated?
Angela's unexpected and peculiar announcement made it look that
way. Still he did not believe it. Life had sent Suzanne across his
path for a purpose. The fates or powers had seen he was miserable
and unhappy. Being a favorite child of Heaven, he was to be
rewarded for his sufferings by having her. She was here
now—quickly, forcefully thrust into his arms, so to speak, so that
perhaps he might have her all the more quickly. How silly it seemed
to him now to have brought her into his own apartment to make love
to her and get caught, and yet how fortunate, too, the hand of
fate! No doubt it was intended. Anyhow, the shame to him, the shame
to Angela and Suzanne, the terrific moments and hours that each was
enduring now—these were things which were unfortunately involved in
any necessarily great readjustment. It was probable that it had to
come about this way. It was better so than to go on living an
unhappy life. He was really fitted for something better, he
thought—a great career. He would have to adjust this thing with
Angela in some way now, either leave her, or make some arrangement
whereby he could enjoy the company of Suzanne uninterrupted. There
must be no interference. He did not propose to give her up. The
child might come. Well and good. He would provide for it, that
would be all. He recalled now the conversation he had had with
Suzanne in which she had said that she would live with him if she
could. The time had come. Their plan for a studio should now be put
into effect. It must be secret. Angela would not care. She could
not help herself. If only the events of this night did not
terrorize Suzanne into retracing her steps! He had not explained to
her how he was to get rid of Angela apart from what she had heard
this night. She was thinking, he knew, that they could go on loving
each other in this tentative fashion, occupying a studio together,
perhaps, not caring what the world thought, not caring what her
mother thought, ignoring her brother and sister and Angela, and
being happy with Eugene only. He had never tried to disillusion
her. He was not thinking clearly himself. He was rushing forward in
an aimless way, desiring the companionship of her beautiful mind
and body. Now he saw he must act or lose her. He must convince her
in the face of what Angela had said, or let her go. She would
probably be willing to come to him rather than leave him entirely.
He must talk, explain, make her understand just what a trick this
all was.
Angela had not slept, but lay staring at the ceiling in the
dark, her eyes a study in despair. When morning came they were none
of them further along in their conclusions than they were the night
before, save to know, each separately and distinctly, that a great
tragedy or change was at hand. Suzanne had thought and thought, or
tried to, but the impulse of blood and passion in her were
Eugeneward and she could only see the situation from their own
point of view. She loved him, she thought—must love him, since he
was so ready to sacrifice so much for her; yet at the same time
there was a strange, disconcerting nebulosity about her which, had
Eugene fully realized it at this moment, would have terrified him.
In her state, which was one of wondering delight at the beauty of
life and love—a fatalistic security in the thought that joy was to
come to her throughout life—much joy. She could not see the
grimness of Eugene's position. She could not understand the agony
of a soul that had never really tasted supreme bliss in love, and
had wanted, however foolishly, the accessories of wealth, and had
never had them. Terrorized lest after the first sip of so wonderful
a joy it should be removed forever, Eugene was tingling in the dark
of his own room—tingling and yet reaching, almost with outstretched
hands, to the splendor of the life that was seemingly before him.
Suzanne, however, to whom life had given so much, was resting in a
kind of still ease, like that which might fill a drowsy poppyland
of joy where all the pleasures had been attained and were being
tasted at leisure. Life at its worst to her was not so bad. Witness
this storm which had been quelled in part by Eugene and was like to
blow over as nothing at all. Things came round of their own accord
in time, if one let them. She had always felt so sure that whatever
happened no ill would befall her, and here she was courted and
protected by Eugene even in his own home!
In this situation, therefore, she was not grieving either for
Eugene, for Angela, or for herself. She could not. Some
dispositions are so. Eugene was able to take care of himself and
her and Angela financially, she thought. She was really looking
forward to that better day when this misalliance should be broken
up, and Eugene and presumably Angela would be really happier. She
wanted Eugene to be much happier, and Angela, for that matter—and
through her, if possible, since Eugene's happiness seemed to depend
on her. But unlike Eugene, she was already thinking that she could
live well enough without him, if it must be. She did not want to.
She felt that her greatest happiness would be in repaying him for
past ills and pains; but if they must part for a time, for
instance, it would not make so much difference. Time would bring
them together. But if it didn't—— But it would. Why think
otherwise? But how wonderful it was that her beauty, her mere
physical beauty, which seemed unimportant to her, made him so wild.
She could not know of the actual physical pain gnawing at his
vitals, but it was so plain that he was madly stricken with her.
His whole face and his burning black eyes riveted on her in intense
delight and almost agony proved it. Was she so beautiful? Surely
not! Yet he yearned over her so. And it was so delightful.
She arose at dawn and began silently to dress, thinking that she
might take a walk, leaving a note for Eugene as to where to come
and find her if he could. She had one appointment for the day.
Later she would have to go home, but things would come out all
right. Since Eugene had compelled Angela to relinquish her
determination to inform her mother, all must be well. They would
meet, she and Eugene. She would leave her home and be his and they
would go anywhere, anywhere Eugene desired, only she would prefer
to persuade her mother to see things from her point of view and
later countenance some understanding between them here. Because of
Angela's and Eugene's position here, she preferred this. Because of
her youth and her poetic, erratic conception of life, she assumed
that she could overcome her mother and that she and Eugene could
live together somewhere in peace. Her friends might either be
unaware of the situation, or they could be told, some of them, and
they might countenance it because it was so beautiful and
natural!
Eugene heard her stirring after a time, and rose and went to her
room and knocked. When she opened the door almost fully dressed a
thrill of pain passed over his heart, for he thought that she had
been intending to slip away without seeing him any more—so little
they really knew each other. But as she stood there, a little cool
or still or sober from much thought and the peculiar nature of her
position, she seemed more beautiful than ever.
"You're not going, are you?" he asked, as she looked up at him
with inquiring eyes.
"I thought I'd go for a walk."
"Without me?"
"I intended to see you, if I could, or leave a note for you to
come to me. I thought you would."
"Will you wait for me?" he asked, feeling as though he must hold
her close forever in order to live. "Just a little bit. I want to
change my clothes." He took her in his arms.
"Yes," she said softly.
"You won't go without me?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, I love you so!" he replied, and pushed her head back and
looked yearningly into her eyes.
She took his tired face between her hands and studied his eyes.
She was so enrapt by him now in this first burst of affection that
she could see nothing but him. He seemed so beautiful, so hungry!
It did not matter to her now that she was in the home of his wife
or that his love was complicated with so much that was apparently
evil. She loved him. She had thought all night about him, not
sleeping. Being so young, it was hard for her to reason clearly as
yet, but somehow it seemed to her that he was very unhappily
placed, terribly ill-mated, and that he needed her. He was so fine,
so clean, so capable! If he did not want Angela, why should she
want him? She would not be suffering for anything save his company,
and why should she want to hold him? She, Suzanne, would not, if
she were in Angela's place. If there were a child, would that make
any real difference? He did not love her.
"Don't worry about me," she said reassuringly. "I love you.
Don't you know I do? I have to talk to you. We have to talk. How is
Mrs. Witla?"
She was thinking about what Mrs. Witla would do, whether she
would call up her mother, whether her struggle to have Eugene would
begin at once.
"Oh, she's about the same!" he said wearily. "We've had a long
argument. I've told her just what I propose to do, but I'll tell
you about that later."
He went away to change his clothes, and then stepped into
Angela's room.
"I'm going to walk with Suzanne," he said dominantly, when he
was ready.
"All right," said Angela, who was so tired she could have
fainted. "Will you be back for dinner?"
"I don't know," he replied. "What difference does it make?"
"Only this: that the maid and cook need not stay unless you are
coming. I want nothing."
"When will the nurse be here?"
"At seven."
"Well, you can prepare dinner, if you wish," he said. "I will
try and be back by four."
He walked toward the studio where Suzanne was, and found her
waiting, white-faced, slightly hollow-eyed, but strong and
confident. Now, as so often before, he noticed that spirit of
self-sufficiency and reliance about her young body which had
impressed him so forcibly and delightfully in the past. She was a
wonderful girl, this Suzanne, full of grit and ability, although
raised under what might have been deemed enervating circumstances.
Her statement, made under pressure the night before, that she must
go to a hotel and not go home until she could straighten out her
affairs, had impressed him greatly. Why had she thought of going
out in the world to work for herself unless there were something
really fine about her? She was heir to a fortune under her father's
will, he had heard her mother say once. This morning her glance was
so assured. He did not use the phone to call a car, but strolled
out into the drive with her walking along the stone wall which
commanded the river northward toward Grant's Tomb. It occurred to
him that they might go to Claremont Inn for breakfast, and
afterwards take a car somewhere—he did not know quite where.
Suzanne might be recognized. So might he.
"What shall we do, sweet?" he asked, as the cool morning air
brushed their faces. It was a glorious day.
"I don't care," replied Suzanne. "I promised to be at the
Almerdings some time today, but I didn't say when. They won't think
anything of it if I don't get there till after dinner. Will Mrs.
Witla call up mama?"
"I don't think so. In fact, I'm sure she won't." He was thinking
of his last conversation with Angela, when she said she would do
nothing. "Is your mother likely to call you up?"
"I think not. Mama doesn't usually bother when she knows where I
am going. If she does, they'll simply say I haven't come yet. Will
Mrs. Witla tell her, if she calls up there?"
"I think not," he said. "No, I'm sure she won't. Angela wants
time to think. She isn't going to do anything. She told me that
this morning. She's going to wait until she sees what I am going to
do. It all depends now on how we play our cards."
He strolled on, looking at the river and holding Suzanne's hand.
It was only a quarter to seven and the drive was comparatively
empty.
"If she tells mama, it will make things very bad," said Suzanne
thoughtfully. "Do you really think she won't?"
"I'm sure she won't. I'm positive. She doesn't want to do
anything yet. It's too dangerous. I think she thinks that maybe I
will come round. Oh, what a life I've led! It seems like a dream,
now that I have your love. You are so different, so generous! Your
attitude is so unselfish! To have been ruled all these years in
every little thing. This last trick of hers!"