He shook his head woefully. Suzanne looked at his weary face,
her own as fresh as the morning.
"Oh, if I might only have had you to begin with!" he added.
"Listen, Eugene," said Suzanne. "You know I feel sorry for Mrs.
Witla. We shouldn't have done what we did last night, but you made
me. You know you will never listen to me, until it's too late.
You're so headstrong! I don't want you to leave Mrs. Witla unless
you want to. You needn't for me. I don't want to marry you; not
now, anyhow. I'd rather just give myself to you, if you want me to.
I want time though, to think and plan. If mama should hear today,
there would be a terrible time. If we have time to think, we may
bring her round. I don't care anything about what Mrs. Witla told
you last night. I don't want you to leave her. If we could just
arrange some way. It's mama, you know."
She swung his hand softly in hers, pressing his fingers. She was
deep in thought, for her mother presented a real problem.
"You know," she went on, "mama isn't narrow. She doesn't believe
much in marriage unless it's ideal. Mrs. Witla's condition wouldn't
make so much difference if only the child were here. I've been
thinking about that. Mama might sanction some arrangement if she
thought it would make me happy and there was no scandal. But I'll
have to have time to talk to her. It can't be done right away."
Eugene listened to this with considerable surprise, as he did to
everything Suzanne volunteered. She seemed to have been thinking
about these questions a long time. She was not free with her
opinions. She hesitated and halted between words and in her
cogitations, but when they were out this was what they came to. He
wondered how sound they were.
"Suzanne," he said, "you take my breath away! How you think! Do
you know what you're talking about? Do you know your mother at all
well?"
"Mama? Oh, yes, I think I understand mama. You know she's very
peculiar. Mama is literary and romantic. She talks a great deal
about liberty, but I don't take in everything she says. I think
mama is different from most women—she's exceptional. She likes me,
not so much as a daughter as a person. She's anxious about me. You
know, I think I'm stronger than mama. I think I could dominate her
if I tried. She leans on me now a lot, and she can't make me do
anything unless I want to. I can make her come to my way of
thinking, I believe. I have, lots of times. That's what makes me
think I might now, if I have time. It will take time to get her to
do what I want."
"How much time?" asked Eugene thoughtfully.
"Oh, I don't know. Three months. Six months. I can't tell. I
would like to try, though."
"And if you can't, then what?"
"Why, then—why, then I'll defy her, that's all. I'm not sure,
you know. But I think I can."
"And if you can't?"
"But I can. I'm sure I can." She tossed her head gaily.
"And come to me?"
"And come to you."
They were near One Hundredth Street, under the trees. There was
a lone man some distance away, walking from them. Eugene caught
Suzanne in his arms and implanted a kiss upon her mouth. "Oh, you
divinity!" he exclaimed. "Helen! Circe!"
"No," she replied, with smiling eyes. "No, not here. Wait till
we get a car."
"Shall we go to Claremont?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Then we might as well call a car and ride."
They hunted a garage and sped northward, the wonderful wind of
the morning cooling and refreshing their fevered senses. Both he
and Suzanne were naturally depressed at moments, at other moments
preternaturally gay, for he was varying between joy and fear, and
she was buoying him up. Her attitude was calmer, surer, braver,
than his. She was like a strong mother to him.
"You know," he said, "I don't know what to think at times. I
haven't any particular charge against Mrs. Witla except that I
don't love her. I have been so unhappy. What do you think of cases
of this kind, Suzanne? You heard what she said about me."
"Yes, I heard."
"It all comes from that. I don't love her. I never have really
from the beginning. What do you think where there is no love? It is
true, part of what she said. I have been in love with other women,
but it has always been because I have been longing for some sort of
temperament that was congenial to me. I have, Suzanne, too, since I
have been married. I can't say that I was really in love with
Carlotta Wilson, but I did like her. She was very much like myself.
The other was a girl somewhat like you. Not so wise. That was years
ago. Oh, I could tell you why! I love youth. I love beauty. I want
someone who is my companion mentally. You are that, Suzanne, and
yet see what a hell it is creating. Do you think it is so bad where
I am so very unhappy? Tell me, what do you think?"
"Why, why," said Suzanne, "I don't think anyone ought to stick
by a bad bargain, Eugene."
"Just what do you mean by that, Suzanne?"
"Well, you say you don't love her. You're not happy with her. I
shouldn't think it would be good for her or you to have you stay
with her. She can live. I wouldn't want you to stay with me if you
didn't love me. I wouldn't want you at all if you didn't. I
wouldn't want to stay with you if I didn't love you, and I
wouldn't. I think marriage ought to be a happy bargain, and if it
isn't you oughtn't to try to stay together just because you thought
you could stay together once."
"What if there were children?"
"Well, that might be different. Even then, one or the other
could take them, wouldn't you think? The children needn't be made
very unhappy in such a case."
Eugene looked at Suzanne's lovely face. It seemed so strange to
hear her reasoning so solemnly—this girl!
"But you heard what she said about me, Suzanne, and about her
condition?"
"I know," she said. "I've thought about it. I don't see that it
makes so very much difference. You can take care of her."
"You love me just as much?"
"Yes."
"Even if all she says is true?"
"Yes."
"Why, Suzanne?"
"Well, all her charges concerned years gone by, and that isn't
now. And I know you love me now. I don't care about the past. You
know, Eugene, I don't care anything about the future, either. I
want you to love me only so long as you want to love me. When you
are tired of me, I want you to leave me. I wouldn't want you to
live with me if you didn't love me. I wouldn't want to live with
you if I didn't love you."
Eugene looked into her face, astonished, pleased, invigorated,
and heartened by this philosophy. It was so like Suzanne, he
thought. She seemed to have reached definite and effective
conclusions so early. Her young mind seemed a solvent for all
life's difficulties.
"Oh, you wonderful girl!" he said. "You know you are wiser than
I am, stronger. I draw to you, Suzanne, like a cold man to a fire.
You are so kindly, so temperate, so understanding!"
They rode on toward Tarrytown and Scarborough, and on the way
Eugene told Suzanne some of his plans. He was willing not to leave
Angela, if that was agreeable to her. He was willing to maintain
this outward show, if that was satisfactory. The only point was,
could he stay and have her, too? He did not understand quite how
she could want to share him with anybody, but he could not fathom
her from any point of view, and he was fascinated. She seemed the
dearest, the subtlest, the strangest and most lovable girl. He
tried to find out by what process she proposed to overcome the
objections of her mother, but Suzanne seemed to have no plans save
that of her ability to gradually get the upper hand mentally and
dominate her. "You know," she said at one point, "I have money
coming to me. Papa set aside two hundred thousand dollars for each
of us children when we should come of age, and I am of age now. It
is to be held in trust, but I shall have twelve thousand or maybe
more from that. We can use that. I am of age now, and I have never
said anything about it. Mama has managed all these things."
Here was another thought which heartened Eugene. With Suzanne he
would have this additional income, which might be used whatever
else might betide. If only Angela could be made to accept his
conditions and Suzanne could win in her contest with her mother all
would be well. His position need not be jeopardized. Mrs. Dale need
hear nothing of it at present. He and Suzanne could go on
associating in this way until an understanding had been reached. It
was all like a delightful courtship which was to bloom into a still
more delightful marriage.
The day passed in assurances of affection. Suzanne told Eugene
of a book she had read in French, "The Blue Bird." The allegory
touched Eugene to the quick—its quest for happiness, and he named
Suzanne then and there "The Blue Bird." She made him stop the car
and go back to get her an exquisite lavender-hued blossom growing
wild on a tall stalk which she saw in a field as they sped by.
Eugene objected genially, because it was beyond a wire fence and
set among thorns, but she said, "Yes, now, you must. You know you
must obey me now. I am going to begin to train you now. You've been
spoiled. You're a bad boy. Mama says that. I am going to reform
you."
"A sweet time you'll have, Flower Face! I'm a bad lot. Have you
noticed that?"
"A little."
"And you still like me?"
"I don't mind. I think I can change you by loving you."
Eugene went gladly. He plucked the magnificent bloom and handed
it to her "as a sceptre," he said. "It looks like you, you know,"
he added. "It's regal."
Suzanne accepted the compliment without thought of its
flattering import. She loved Eugene, and words had scarcely any
meaning to her. She was as happy as a child and as wise in many
things as a woman twice her years. She was as foolish as Eugene
over the beauty of nature, dwelling in an ecstasy upon morning and
evening skies, the feel of winds and the sigh of leaves. The
beauties of nature at every turn caught her eye, and she spoke to
him of things she felt in such a simple way that he was
entranced.
Once when they had left the car and were walking about the
grounds of an inn, she found that one of her silk stockings had
worn through at the heel. She lifted up her foot and looked at it
meditatively. "Now, if I had some ink I could fix that up so
quickly," she said, laughing.
"What would you do?" he asked.
"I would black it," she replied, referring to her pink heel, "or
you could paint it."
He laughed and she giggled. It was these little, idle
simplicities which amused and fascinated him.
"Suzanne," he said dramatically at this time, "you are taking me
back into fairyland."
"I want to make you happy," she said, "as happy as I am."
"If I could be! If I only could be!"
"Wait," she said; "be cheerful. Don't worry. Everything will
come out all right. I know it will. Things always come right for
me. I want you and you will come to me. You will have me just as I
will have you. Oh, it is all so beautiful!"
She squeezed his hand in an ecstasy of delight and then gave him
her lips.
"What if someone should see?" he asked.
"I don't care! I don't care!" she cried. "I love you!"
After dining joyously, these two returned to the city. Suzanne,
as she neared New York proper, was nervous as to what Angela might
have done, for she wanted, in case Angela told her mother, to be
present, in order to defend herself. She had reached a rather
logical conclusion for her, and that was, in case her mother
objected too vigorously, to elope with Eugene. She wanted to see
just how her mother would take the intelligence in order that she
might see clearly what to do. Previously she had the feeling that
she could persuade her mother not to interfere, even in the face of
all that had been revealed. Nevertheless, she was nervous, and her
fears were bred to a certain extent by Eugene's attitude.
In spite of all his bravado, he really did not feel at all
secure. He was not afraid of what he might lose materially so much
as he was of losing Suzanne. The thought of the coming child had
not affected them at all as yet. He could see clearly that
conditions might come about whereby he could not have her, but they
were not in evidence as yet. Besides, Angela might be lying. Still
at odd moments his conscience troubled him, for in the midst of his
intense satisfaction, his keenest thrills of joy, he could see
Angela lying in bed, the thought of her wretched future before her,
the thought of the coming life troubling her, or he could hear the
echo of some of the pleas she had made. It was useless to attempt
to shut them out. This was a terrible ordeal he was undergoing, a
ruthless thing he was doing. All the laws of life and public
sentiment were against him. If the world knew, it would accuse him
bitterly. He could not forget that. He despaired at moments of ever
being able to solve the tangle in which he had involved himself,
and yet he was determined to go on. He proposed accompanying
Suzanne to her friends, the Almerdings, but she changed her mind
and decided to go home. "I want to see whether mama has heard
anything," she insisted.
Eugene had to escort her to Staten Island and then order the
chauffeur to put on speed so as to reach Riverside by four. He was
somewhat remorseful, but he argued that his love-life was so long
over, in so far as Angela was concerned, that it could not really
make so very much difference. Since Suzanne wanted to wait a little
time and proceed slowly, it was not going to be as bad for Angela
as he had anticipated. He was going to give her a choice of going
her way and leaving him entirely, either now, or after the child
was born, giving her the half of his property, stocks, ready money,
and anything else that might be divisible, and all the furniture,
or staying and tacitly ignoring the whole thing. She would know
what he was going to do, to maintain a separate ménage, or secret
rendezvous for Suzanne. He proposed since Suzanne was so generous
not to debate this point, but to insist. He must have her, and
Angela must yield, choosing only her conditions.
When he came to the house, a great change had come over Angela.
In the morning when he left she was hard and bitter in her mood.
This afternoon she was, albeit extremely sad, more soft and melting
than he had ever seen her. Her hard spirit was temporarily broken,
but in addition she had tried to resign herself to the inevitable
and to look upon it as the will of God. Perhaps she had been, as
Eugene had often accused her of being, hard and cold. Perhaps she
had held him in too tight leading strings. She had meant it for the
best. She had tried to pray for light and guidance, and after a
while something softly sad, like a benediction, settled upon her.
She must not fight any more, she thought. She must yield. God would
guide her. Her smile, kindly and wan, when Eugene entered the room,
took him unawares.
Her explanation of her mood, her prayers, her willingness to
give him up if need be, even in the face of what was coming to her,
moved him more than anything that had ever passed between them. He
sat opposite her at dinner, looking at her thin hands and face, and
her sad eyes, trying to be cheerful and considerate, and then,
going back into her room and hearing her say she would do whatever
he deemed best, burst into tears. He cried from an excess of
involuntary and uncontrolled emotion. He hardly knew why he cried,
but the sadness of everything—life, the tangle of human emotions,
the proximity of death to all, old age, Suzanne, Angela,
all—touched him, and he shook as though he would rend his sides.
Angela, in turn, was astonished and grieved for him. She could
scarcely believe her eyes. Was he repenting? "Come to me, Eugene!"
she pleaded. "Oh, I'm so sorry!
Are you as much in love as
that?
Oh, dear, dear, if I could only do something! Don't cry
like that, Eugene. If it means so much to you, I will give you up.
It tears my heart to hear you. Oh, dear, please don't cry."
He laid his head on his knees and shook, then seeing her getting
up, came over to the bed to prevent her.
"No, no," he said, "it will pass. I can't help it. I'm sorry for
you. I'm sorry for myself. I'm sorry for life. God will punish me
for this. I can't help it, but you are a good woman."
He laid his head down beside her and sobbed, great, aching sobs.
After a time he recovered himself, only to find that he had given
Angela courage anew. She would think now that his love might be
recovered since he had seemed so sympathetic; that Suzanne might be
displaced. He knew that could not be, and so he was sorry that he
had cried.
They went on from that to discussion, to argument, to
ill-feeling, to sympathetic agreement again by degrees, only to
fall out anew. Angela could not resign herself to the thought of
giving him up. Eugene could not see that he was called upon to do
anything, save divide their joint possessions. He was most anxious
to have nothing to do with Angela anymore in any way. He might live
in the same house, but that would be all. He was going to have
Suzanne. He was going to live for her only. He threatened Angela
with dire consequences if she tried to interfere in any way. If she
communicated with Mrs. Dale, or said anything to Suzanne, or
attempted to injure him commercially, he would leave her.
"Here is the situation," he would insist. "You can maintain it
as I say, or break it. If you break it, you lose me and everything
that I represent. If you maintain it, I will stay here. I think I
will. I am perfectly willing to keep up appearances, but I want my
freedom."
Angela thought and thought of this. She thought once of sending
for Mrs. Dale and communicating with her secretly, urging her to
get Suzanne out of the way without forewarning either the girl or
Eugene, but she did not do this. It was the one thing she should
have done and a thing Mrs. Dale would have agreed to, but fear and
confusion deterred her. The next thing was to write or talk to
Suzanne, and because she mistrusted her mood in Suzanne's presence
she decided to write. She lay in bed on Monday when Eugene was away
at the office and composed a long letter in which she practically
gave the history of Eugene's life reiterating her own condition and
stating what she thought Eugene ought to do.
"How can you think, Suzanne," she asked in one place, "that he
will be true to you when he can ignore me, in this condition? He
has not been true to anyone else. Are you going to throw your life
away? Your station is assured now. What can he add to you that you
have not already? If you take him, it is sure to become known. You
are the one who will be injured, not he. Men recover from these
things, particularly from an infatuation of this character, and the
world thinks nothing of it; but the world will not forgive you. You
will be 'a bad woman' after this, irretrievably so if a child is
born. You think you love him. Do you really love him this much?
Read this and stop and think. Think of his character. I am used to
him. I made my mistakes in the beginning, and it is too late for me
to change. The world can give me nothing. I may have sorrow and
disgust, but at least I shall not be an outcast and our friends and
the world will not be scandalized. But you—you have everything
before you. Some man will come to you whom you will love and who
will not ask and willingly make a sacrifice of you. Oh, I beg you
to think! You do not need him. After all, sorry as I am to confess
it, I do. It is as I tell you. Can you really afford to ignore this
appeal?"
Suzanne read this and was greatly shocked. Angela painted him in
a wretched light, as fickle, deceitful, dishonest in his relations
with women. She debated this matter in her own room, for it could
not help but give her pause. After a time, Eugene's face came back
to her, however, his beautiful mind, the atmosphere of delight and
perfection that seemed to envelop all that surrounded him. It was
as though Eugene were a mirage of beauty, so soft, so sweet, so
delightful! Oh, to be with him; to hear his beautiful voice; to
feel his intense caresses! What could life offer her equal to that?
And, besides, he needed her. She decided to talk it out with him,
show him the letter, and then decide.
Eugene came in a day or two, having phoned Monday and Tuesday
mornings. He made a rendezvous of the ice house, and then appeared
as eager and smiling as ever. Since returning to the office and
seeing no immediate sign of a destructive attitude on Angela's
part, he had recovered his courage. He was hopeful of a perfect
dénouement to all this—of a studio and his lovely Suzanne. When
they were seated in the auto, she immediately produced Angela's
letter and handed it to him without comment. Eugene read it
quietly.
He was greatly shocked at what he read, for he thought that
Angela was more kindly disposed toward him. Still he knew it to be
true, all of it, though he was not sure that Suzanne would suffer
from his attentions. The fates might be kind. They might be happy
together. Anyhow, he wanted her now.
"Well," he said, giving it back, "what of it? Do you believe all
she says?"
"It may be so, but somehow when I am with you I don't seem to
care. When I am away from you, it's different. I'm not so
sure."
"You can't tell whether I am as good as you think I am?"
"I don't know what to think. I suppose all she says about you is
true. I'm not sure. When you're away, it's different. When you are
here, I feel as though everything must come out right. I love you
so. Oh, I know it will!" She threw her arms around him.
"Then the letter doesn't really make any difference?"
"No."
She looked at him with big round eyes, and it was the old story,
bliss in affection without thought. They rode miles, stopped at an
inn for something to eat—Mrs. Dale was away for the day—looked at
the sea where the return road skirted it, and kissed and kissed
each other. Suzanne grew so ecstatic that she could see exactly how
it was all coming out.
"Now you leave it to me," she said. "I will sound mama. If she
is at all logical, I think I can convince her. I would so much
rather do it that way. I hate deception. I would rather just tell
her, and then, if I have to, defy her. I don't think I shall have
to, though. She can't do anything."
"I don't know about that," said Eugene cautiously. He had come
to have great respect for Suzanne's courage, and he was rather
relying on Mrs. Dale's regard for him to stay her from any
desperate course, but he did not see how their end was to be
achieved.
He was for entering on an illicit relationship after a time
without saying anything at all. He was in no hurry, for his feeling
for Suzanne was not purely physical, though he wanted her. Because
of her strange reading and philosophy, she was defying the world.
She insisted that she did not see how it would hurt her.
"But, my dear, you don't know life," said Eugene. "It will hurt
you. It will grind you to pieces in all places outside of New York.
This is the Metropolis. It is a world city. Things are not quite
the same here, but you will have to pretend, anyhow. It is so much
easier."
"Can you protect me?" she asked significantly, referring to the
condition Angela pleaded. "I wouldn't want—I couldn't, you know,
not yet, not yet."
"I understand," he said. "Yes, I can, absolutely."
"Well, I want to think about it," she said again. "I prefer so
much to be honest about it. I would so much rather just tell mama,
and then go and do it. It would be so much nicer. My life is my own
to do with as I please. It doesn't concern anybody, not even mama.
You know, if I want to waste it, I may, only I don't think that I
am doing so. I want to live as I choose. I don't want to get
married yet."
Eugene listened to her with the feeling that this was the most
curious experience of his life. He had never heard, never seen,
never experienced anything like it. The case of Christina Channing
was different. She had her art to consider. Suzanne had nothing of
the sort. She had a lovely home, a social future, money, the chance
of a happy, stable, normal life. This was love surely, and yet he
was quite at sea. Still so many favorable things had happened,
consciously favorable, that he was ready to believe that all this
was intended for his benefit by a kind, governing providence.
Angela had practically given in already. Why not Suzanne's
mother? Angela would not tell her anything. Mrs. Dale was not any
stronger than Angela apparently. Suzanne might be able to control
her as she said. If she was so determined to try, could he really
stop her? She was headstrong in a way and wilful, but developing
rapidly and reasoning tremendously. Perhaps she could do this
thing. Who could tell? They came flying back along lovely lanes
where the trees almost swept their faces, past green stretches of
marsh where the wind stirred in ripples the tall green cat grass,
past pretty farm yards, with children and ducks in the foreground,
beautiful mansions, playing children, sauntering laborers. All the
while they were reassuring each other, vowing perfect affection,
holding each other close. Suzanne, as Angela had, loved to take
Eugene's face between her hands and look into his eyes.