Mrs. Dale went away toward evening, greatly nonplussed by what
she had seen and heard, but convinced that no possible good could
come of the situation. Angela would never give him a divorce.
Eugene was not a fit man morally for her daughter, anyhow. There
was great scandal on the verge of exposure here in which her
beloved daughter would be irretrievably smirched. In her
desperation, she decided, if she could do no better, she would try
to dissuade Eugene from seeing Suzanne until he could obtain a
divorce, in which case, to avoid something worse, she would agree
to a marriage, but this was only to be a lip promise. The one thing
she wanted to do was to get Suzanne to give him up entirely. If
Suzanne could be spirited away, or dissuaded from throwing herself
away on Eugene, that would be the thing. Still, she proposed to see
what a conversation with Eugene would do.
The next morning as he was sitting in his office wondering what
the delay of five days portended, and what Suzanne was doing, as
well as trying to fix his mind on the multitudinous details which
required his constant attention, and were now being rather markedly
neglected, the card of Mrs. Emily Dale was laid on his table, and a
few moments later, after his secretary had been dismissed, and word
given that no one else was to be allowed to enter, Mrs. Dale was
shown in.
She was pale and weary, but exquisitely dressed in a greenish
blue silk and picture hat of black straw and feathers. She looked
quite young and handsome herself, not too old for Eugene, and
indeed once she had fancied he might well fall in love with her.
What her thoughts were at that time, she was not now willing to
recall, for they had involved the probable desertion or divorce, or
death of Angela, and Eugene's passionate infatuation for her. All
that was over now, of course, and in the excitement and distress,
almost completely obliterated. Eugene had not forgotten that he had
had similar sensations or imaginations at the time, and that Mrs.
Dale had always drawn to him in a sympathetic and friendly way.
Here she was, though, this morning coming upon a desperate mission
no doubt, and he would have to contend with her as best he
could.
The conversation opened by his looking into her set face as she
approached and smiling blandly, though it was something of an
effort. "Well," he said, in quite a business like way, "what can I
do for you?"
"You villain," she exclaimed melodramatically, "my daughter has
told me all."
"Yes, Suzanne phoned me that she told you," he replied, in a
conciliatory tone.
"Yes," she said in a low, tense voice, "and I ought to kill you
where you stand. To think that I should have ever harbored such a
monster as you in my home and near my dear, innocent daughter. It
seems incredible now. I can't believe it. That you should dare. And
you with a dear, sweet wife at home, sick and in the condition she
is in. I should think if you had any manhood at all any sense of
shame! When I think of that poor, dear little woman, and what you
have been doing, or trying to do—if it weren't for the scandal you
would never leave this office alive."
"Oh, bother! Don't talk rot, Mrs. Dale," said Eugene quietly,
though irritably. He did not care for her melodramatic attitude.
"The dear, darling little woman you speak of is not as badly off as
you think, and I don't think she needs as much of your sympathy as
you are so anxious to give. She is pretty well able to take care of
herself, sick as she is. As for killing me, you or anyone else,
well that wouldn't be such a bad idea. I'm not so much in love with
life. This is not fifty years ago, though, but the nineteenth
century, and this is New York City. I love Suzanne. She loves me.
We want each other desperately. Now, an arrangement can be made
which will not interfere with you in any way, and which will adjust
things for us. Suzanne is anxious to make that arrangement. It is
as much her proposition as it is mine. Why should you be so vastly
disturbed? You know a great deal about life."
"Why should I be disturbed? Why should I? Can you sit in this
office, you a man in charge of all this vast public work, and ask
me in cold blood why I should be disturbed? And my daughter's very
life at stake. Why should I be disturbed and my daughter only out
of her short dresses a little while ago and practically innocent of
the world. You dare to tell me that she proposed! Oh, you
impervious scoundrel! To think I could be so mistaken in any human
being. You, with your bland manners and your inconsistent talk of
happy family life. I might have understood, though, when I saw you
so often without your wife. I should have known. I did, God help
me! but I didn't act upon it. I was taken by your bland,
gentlemanly attitude. I don't blame poor, dear little Suzanne. I
blame you, you utterly deceiving villain and myself for being so
silly. I am being justly rewarded, however."
Eugene merely looked at her and drummed with his fingers.
"But I did not come here to bandy words with you," she went on.
"I came to say that you must never see my daughter again, or speak
of her, or appear where she might chance to be, though she won't be
where you may appear, if I have my way, for you won't have a chance
to appear anywhere in decent society very much longer. I shall go,
unless you agree here and now never to see or communicate with her
any more, to Mr. Colfax, whom I know personally, as you are aware,
and lay the whole matter before him. I'm sure with what I know now
of your record, and what you have attempted to do in connection
with my daughter, and the condition of your wife, that he will not
require your services very much longer. I shall go to Mr. Winfield,
who is also an old friend, and lay the matter before him. Privately
you will be drummed out of society and my daughter will be none the
worse for it. She is so very young that when the facts are known,
you are the only one who will bear the odium of this. Your wife has
given me your wretched record only yesterday. You would like to
make my Suzanne your fourth or fifth. Well, you will not. I will
show you something you have not previously known. You are dealing
with a desperate mother. Defy me if you dare. I demand that you
write your farewell to Suzanne here and now, and let me take it to
her."
Eugene smiled sardonically. Mrs. Dale's reference to Angela made
him bitter. She had been there and Angela had talked of him—his
past to her. What a mean thing to do. After all, Angela was his
wife. Only the morning before, she had been appealing to him on the
grounds of love, and she had not told him of Mrs. Dale's visit.
Love! Love! What sort of love was this? He had done enough for her
to make her generous in a crisis like this, even if she did not
want to be.
"Write you a statement of release to Suzanne?" he observed, his
lips curling—"how silly. Of course, I won't. And as for your threat
to run to Mr. Colfax, I have heard that before from Mrs. Witla.
There is the door. His office is twelve flights down. I'll call a
boy, if you wish. You tell it to Mr. Colfax and see how much
farther it goes before you are much older. Run to Mr. Winfield
also. A lot I care about him or Mr. Colfax. If you want a grand,
interesting discussion of this thing, just begin. It will go far
and wide, I assure you. I love your daughter. I'm desperate about
her. I'm literally crazy about her"—he got up—"she loves me, or I
think she does. Anyhow, I'm banking all on that thought. My life
from the point of view of affection has been a failure. I have
never really been in love before, but I am crazy about Suzanne
Dale. I am wild about her. If you had any sympathy for an unhappy,
sympathetic, emotional mortal, who has never yet been satisfied in
a woman, you would give her to me. I love her. I love her. By
God!"—he banged the desk with his fist—"I will do anything for her.
If she will come to me, Colfax can have his position, Winfield can
have his Blue Sea Corporation. You can have her money, if she wants
to give it to you. I can make a living abroad by my art, and I
will. Other Americans have done it before me. I love her! I love
her! Do you hear me? I love her, and what's more, I'm going to have
her! You can't stop me. You haven't the brains; you haven't the
strength; you haven't the resources to match that girl. She's
brighter than you are. She's stronger, she's finer. She's finer
than the whole current day conception of society and life. She
loves me and she wants to give herself to me, willingly, freely,
joyously. Match that in your petty society circles if you can.
Society! You say you will have me drummed out of it, will you? A
lot I care about your society. Hacks, mental light weights, money
grubbers, gamblers, thieves, leeches—a fine lot! To see you sitting
there and talking to me with your grand air makes me laugh. A lot I
care for you. I was thinking of another kind of woman when I met
you, not a narrow, conventional fool. I thought I saw one in you. I
did, didn't I—not? You are like all the rest, a narrow, petty
slavish follower after fashion and convention. Well," he snapped
his fingers in her face, "go on and do your worst. I will get
Suzanne in the long run. She will come to me. She will dominate
you. Run to Colfax! Run to Winfield! I will get her just the same.
She's mine. She belongs to me. She is big enough for me. The Gods
have given her to me, and I will have her if I have to smash you
and your home and myself and everyone else connected with me. I'll
have her! I'll have her! She is mine! She is mine!" He lifted a
tense hand. "Now you run and do anything you want to. Thank God,
I've found one woman who knows how to live and love. She's
mine!"
Mrs. Dale stared at him in amazement, scarcely believing her
ears. Was he crazy? Was he really so much in love? Had Suzanne
turned his brain? What an astonishing thing. She had never seen him
anything like this—never imagined him capable of anything like it.
He was always so quiet, smiling, bland, witty. Here he was
dramatic, impassioned, fiery, hungry. There was a terrible light in
his eyes and he was desperate. He must be in love.
"Oh, why will you do this to me?" she whimpered all at once. The
terror of his mood conveying itself to her for the moment, and
arousing a sympathy which she had not previously felt. "Why will
you come into my home and attempt to destroy it? There are lots of
women who will love you. There are lots more suited to your years
and temperament than Suzanne. She doesn't understand you. She
doesn't understand herself. She is just young, and foolish and
hypnotized. You have hypnotized her. Oh, why will you do this to
me? You are so much older than her, so much more schooled in life.
Why not give her up? I don't want to go to Mr. Colfax. I don't want
to speak to Mr. Winfield. I will, if I have to, but I don't want
to. I have always thought so well of you. I know you are not an
ordinary man. Restore my respect for you, my confidence in you. I
can forgive, if I can't forget. You may not be happily married. I
am sorry for you. I don't want to do anything desperate. I only
want to save poor, little Suzanne. Oh, please! please! I love her
so. I don't think you understand how I feel. You may be in love,
but you ought to be willing to consider others. True love would. I
know that she is hard and wilful and desperate now, but she will
change if you will help her. Why, if you really love her, if you
have any sympathy for me or regard for her future, or your own, you
will renounce your schemes and release her. Tell her you made a
mistake. Write to her now. Tell her you can't do this and not
socially ruin her and me and yourself, and so you won't do it. Tell
her that you have decided to wait until time has made you a free
man, if that is to be, and then let her have a chance of seeing if
she will not be happy in a normal life. You don't want to ruin her
at this age, do you? She is so young, so innocent. Oh, if you have
any judgment of life at all, any regard, any consideration,
anything, I beg of you; I beg as her mother, for I love her. Oh!"
Tears came into her eyes again and she cried weakly in her
handkerchief.
Eugene stared at her. What was he doing? Where was he going? Was
he really as bad as he appeared to be here? Was he possessed? Was
he really so hard-hearted? Through her grief and Angela's and the
threats concerning Colfax and Winfield, he caught a glimpse of the
real heart of the situation. It was as if there had been a great
flash of lightning illuminating a black landscape. He saw
sympathetically, sorrow, folly, a number of things that were
involved, and then the next moment, it was gone. Suzanne's face
came back, smooth, classic, chiseled, perfectly modeled, her beauty
like a tightened bow; her eyes, her lips, her hair, the gaiety and
buoyancy of her motions and her smile. Give her up! Give up Suzanne
and that dream of the studio, and of joyous, continuous, delicious
companionship? Did Suzanne want him to? What had she said over the
phone? No! No! No! Quit now, and her clinging to him. No! No! No!
Never!! He would fight first. He would go down fighting. Never!
Never! Never!
His brain seethed.
"I can't do it," he said, getting up again, for he had sat down
after his previous tirade. "I can't do it. You are asking something
that is utterly impossible. It can never be done. God help me, I'm
insane, I'm wild over her. Go and do anything you want to, but I
must have her and I will. She's mine! She's mine! She's mine!"
His thin, lean hands clenched and he clicked his teeth.
"Mine, mine, mine!" he muttered, and one would have thought him
a villain in a cheap melodrama.
Mrs. Dale shook her head.
"God help us both!" she said. "You shall never, never have her.
You are not worthy of her. You are not right in your mind. I will
fight you with all the means in my power. I am desperate! I am
wealthy. I know how to fight. You shall not have her. Now we will
see which will win." She rose to go and Eugene followed her.