"Go ahead," he said calmly, "but in the end you lose. Suzanne
comes to me. I know it. I feel it. I may lose many other things,
but I get her. She's mine."
"Oh," sighed Mrs. Dale wearily, half believing him and moving
towards the door. "Is this your last word?"
"It is positively."
"Then I must be going."
"Good-bye," he said solemnly.
"Good-bye," she answered, white faced, her eyes staring.
She went out and Eugene took up the telephone; but he remembered
that Suzanne had warned him not to call, but to depend on her. So
he put it down again.
The fire and pathos of Mrs. Dale's appeal should have given
Eugene pause. He thought once of going after her and making a
further appeal, saying that he would try and get a divorce
eventually and marry Suzanne, but he remembered that peculiar
insistency of Suzanne on the fact that she did not want to get
married. Somehow, somewhere, somewhy, she had formulated this
peculiar ideal or attitude, which whatever the world might think of
it, was possible of execution, providing he and she were tactful
enough. It was not such a wild thing for two people to want to come
together in this way, if they chose, he thought. Why was it? Heaven
could witness there were enough illicit and peculiar relationships
in this world to prevent society from becoming excited about one
more, particularly when it was to be conducted in so circumspect
and subtle a way. He and Suzanne did not intend to blazon their
relationship to the world. As a distinguished artist, not active,
but acknowledged and accomplished, he was entitled to a studio
life. He and Suzanne could meet there. Nothing would be thought of
it. Why had she insisted on telling her mother? It could all have
been done without that. There was another peculiar ideal of hers,
her determination to tell the truth under all circumstances. And
yet she had really not told it. She had deceived her mother a long
time about him simply by saying nothing. Was this some untoward
trick of fate's, merely devised to harm him? Surely not. And yet
Suzanne's headstrong determination seemed almost a fatal mistake
now. He sat down brooding over it. Was this a terrific blunder?
Would he be sorry? All his life was in the balance. Should he turn
back?
No! No! No! Never! It was not to be. He must go on. He must! He
must! So he brooded.
The next of Mrs. Dale's resources was not quite so unavailing as
the others, though it was almost so. She had sent for Dr. Latson
Woolley, her family physician—an old school practitioner of great
repute, of rigid honor and rather Christian principles himself, but
also of a wide intellectual and moral discernment, so far as others
were concerned.
"Well, Mrs. Dale," he observed, when he was ushered into her
presence in the library on the ground floor, and extending his hand
cordially, though wearily, "what can I do for you this
morning?"
"Oh, Dr. Woolley," she began directly, "I am in so much trouble.
It isn't a case of sickness. I wish it were. It is something so
much worse. I have sent for you because I know I can rely on your
judgment and sympathy. It concerns my daughter, Suzanne."
"Yes, yes," he grunted, in a rather crusty voice, for his vocal
cords were old, and his eyes looked out from under shaggy, gray
eyebrows which somehow bespoke a world of silent observation.
"What's the matter with her? What has she done now that she ought
not to do?"
"Oh, doctor," exclaimed Mrs. Dale nervously, for the experiences
of the last few days had almost completely dispelled her normal
composure, "I don't know how to tell you, really. I don't know how
to begin. Suzanne, my dear precious Suzanne, in whom I have placed
so much faith and reliance has, has——"
"Well, tell me," interrupted Dr. Woolley laconically.
When she had told him the whole story, and answered some of his
incisive questions, he said:
"Well, I am thinking you have a good deal to be grateful for.
She might have yielded without your knowledge and told you
afterwards—or not at all."
"Not at all. Oh, doctor! My Suzanne!"
"Mrs. Dale, I looked after you and your mother before you and
Suzanne. I know something about human nature and your family
characteristics. Your husband was a very determined man, as you
will remember. Suzanne may have some of his traits in her. She is a
very young girl, you want to remember, very robust and vigorous.
How old is this Witla man?"
"About thirty-eight or nine, doctor."
"Um! I suspected as much. The fatal age. It's a wonder you came
through that period as safely as you did. You're nearly forty,
aren't you?"
"Yes, doctor, but you're the only one that knows it."
"I know, I know. It's the fatal age. You say he is in charge of
the United Magazines Corporation. I have probably heard of him. I
know of Mr. Colfax of that company. Is he very emotional in his
temperament?"
"I had never thought so before this."
"Well, he probably is. Thirty-eight to thirty-nine and eighteen
or nineteen—bad combination. Where is Suzanne?"
"Upstairs in her room, I fancy."
"It might not be a bad thing if I talked to her myself a little,
though I don't believe it will do any good."
Mrs. Dale disappeared and was gone for nearly three-quarters of
an hour. Suzanne was stubborn, irritable, and to all preliminary
entreaties insisted that she would not. Why should her mother call
in outsiders, particularly Dr. Woolley, whom she knew and liked.
She suspected at once when her mother said Dr. Woolley wanted to
see her that it had something to do with her case, and demanded to
know why. Finally, after much pleading, she consented to come down,
though it was with the intention of showing her mother how
ridiculous all her excitement was.
The old doctor who had been meditating upon the inexplicable
tangle, chemical and physical, of life—the blowing hither and
thither of diseases, affections, emotions and hates of all kinds,
looked up quizzically as Suzanne entered.
"Well, Suzanne," he said genially, rising and walking slowly
toward her, "I'm glad to see you again. How are you this
morning?"
"Pretty well, doctor, how are you?"
"Oh, as you see, as you see, a little older and a little
fussier, Suzanne, making other people's troubles my own. Your
mother tells me you have fallen in love. That's an interesting
thing to do, isn't it?"
"You know, doctor," said Suzanne defiantly, "I told mama that I
don't care to discuss this, and I don't think she has any right to
try to make me. I don't want to and I won't. I think it is all in
rather poor taste."
"Poor taste, Suzanne?" asked Mrs. Dale. "Do you call our
discussion of what you want to do poor taste, when the world will
think that what you want to do is terrible when you do it?"
"I told you, mama, that I was not coming down here to discuss
this thing, and I'm not!" said Suzanne, turning to her mother and
ignoring Dr. Woolley. "I'm not going to stay. I don't want to
offend Dr. Woolley, but I'm not going to stay and have you argue
this all over again."
She turned to go.
"There, there, Mrs. Dale, don't interrupt," observed Dr.
Woolley, holding Suzanne by the very tone of his voice. "I think
myself that very little is to be gained by argument. Suzanne is
convinced that what she is planning to do is to her best interest.
It may be. We can't always tell. I think the best thing that could
be discussed, if anything at all in this matter can be discussed,
is the matter of time. It is my opinion that before doing this
thing that Suzanne wants to do, and which may be all right, for all
I know, it would be best if she would take a little time. I know
nothing of Mr. Witla. He may be a most able and worthy man. Suzanne
ought to give herself a little time to think, though. I should say
three months, or six months. A great many after effects hang on
this decision, as you know," he said, turning to Suzanne. "It may
involve responsibilities you are not quite ready to shoulder. You
are only eighteen or nineteen, you know. You might have to give up
dancing and society, and travel, and a great many things, and
devote yourself to being a mother and ministering to your husband's
needs. You expect to live with him permanently, don't you?"
"I don't want to discuss this, Dr. Woolley."
"But you do expect that, don't you?"
"Only as long as we love each other."
"Um, well, you might love him for some little time yet. You
rather expect to do that, don't you?"
"Why, yes, but what is the good of this, anyhow? My mind is made
up."
"Just the matter of thinking," said Dr. Woolley, very soothingly
and in a voice which disarmed Suzanne and held her. "Just a little
time in which to be absolutely sure. Your mother is anxious not to
have you do it at all. You, as I understand it, want to do this
thing right away. Your mother loves you, and at bottom, in spite of
this little difference, I know you love her. It just occurred to me
that for the sake of good feeling all around, you might like to
strike a balance. You might be willing to take, say six months, or
a year and think about it. Mr. Witla would probably not object. You
won't be any the less delightful to him at the end of that time,
and as for your mother, she would feel a great deal better if she
thought that, after all, what you decided to do you had done after
mature deliberation."
"Yes," exclaimed Mrs. Dale, impulsively, "do take time to think,
Suzanne. A year won't hurt you."
"No," said Suzanne unguardedly. "It is all a matter of whether I
want to or not. I don't want to."
"Precisely. Still this is something you might take into
consideration. The situation from all outside points of view is
serious. I haven't said so, but I feel that you would be making a
great mistake. Still, that is only my opinion. You are entitled to
yours. I know how you feel about it, but the public is not likely
to feel quite the same. The public is a wearisome thing, Suzanne,
but we have to take it into consideration."
Suzanne stared stubbornly and wearily at her tormentors. Their
logic did not appeal to her at all. She was thinking of Eugene and
her plan. It could be worked. What did she care about the world?
During all this talk, she drew nearer and nearer the door and
finally opened it.
"Well, that is all," said Dr. Woolley, when he saw she was
determined to go. "Good morning, Suzanne. I am glad to have seen
you again."
"Good morning, Dr. Woolley," she replied.
She went out and Mrs. Dale wrung her hands. "I wish I knew what
was to be done," she exclaimed, gazing at her counselor.
Dr. Woolley brooded over the folly of undesired human
counsel.
"There is no need for excitement," he observed after a time. "It
is obvious to me that if she is handled rightly, she will wait. She
is in a state of high strung opposition and emotion for some reason
at present. You have driven her too hard. Relax. Let her think this
thing out for herself. Counsel for delay, but don't irritate. You
cannot control her by driving. She has too stern a will. Tears
won't help. Emotion seems a little silly to her. Ask her to think,
or better yet, let her think and plead only for delay. If you could
get her away for two or three weeks or months, off by herself
undisturbed by your pleadings and uninfluenced by his—if she would
ask him of her own accord to let her alone for that time, all will
be well. I don't think she will ever go to him. She thinks she
will, but I have the feeling that she won't. However, be calm. If
you can, get her to go away."
"Would it be possible to lock her up in some sanatorium or
asylum, doctor, until she has had time to think?"
"All things are possible, but I should say it would be the most
inadvisable thing you could do. Force accomplishes nothing in these
cases."
"I know, but suppose she won't listen to reason?"
"You really haven't come to that bridge yet. You haven't talked
calmly to her yet. You are quarreling with her. There is very
little in that. You will simply grow further and further
apart."
"How practical you are, doctor," observed Mrs. Dale, in a
mollified and complimentary vein.
"Not practical, but intuitional. If I were practical, I would
never have taken up medicine."
He walked to the door, his old body sinking in somewhat upon
itself. His old, gray eyes twinkled slightly as he turned.
"You were in love once, Mrs. Dale," he said.
"Yes," she replied.
"You remember how you felt then?"
"Yes."
"Be reasonable. Remember your own sensations—your own attitude.
You probably weren't crossed in your affair. She is. She has made a
mistake. Be patient. Be calm. We want to stop it and no doubt can.
Do unto others as you would be done by."
He ambled shufflingly across the piazza and down the wide steps
to his car.
"Mama," she said, when after Dr. Woolley had gone her mother
came to her room to see if she might not be in a mellower mood, and
to plead with her further for delay, "it seems to me you are making
a ridiculous mess of all this. Why should you go and tell Dr.
Woolley about me! I will never forgive you for that. Mama, you have
done something I never thought you would do. I thought you had more
pride—more individuality."
One should have seen Suzanne, in her spacious boudoir, her back
to her oval mirrored dressing table, her face fronting her mother,
to understand her fascination for Eugene. It was a lovely, sunny,
many windowed chamber, and Suzanne in a white and blue morning
dress was in charming accord with the gay atmosphere of the
room.
"Well, Suzanne, you know," she said, rather despondently, "I
just couldn't help it. I had to go to someone. I am quite alone
apart from you and Kinroy and the children"—she referred to Adele
and Ninette as the children when talking to either Suzanne or
Kinroy—"and I didn't want to say anything to them. You have been my
only confidant up to now, and since you have turned against
me——"
"I haven't turned against you, mama."
"Oh, yes you have. Let's not talk about it, Suzanne. You have
broken my heart. You are killing me. I just had to go to someone.
We have known Dr. Woolley so long. He is so good and kind."
"Oh, I know, mama, but what good will it do? How can anything he
might say help matters? He isn't going to change me. You're only
telling it to somebody who oughtn't to know anything about it."