"But I thought he might influence you," pleaded Mrs. Dale. "I
thought you would listen to him. Oh, dear, oh, dear. I'm so tired
of it all. I wish I were dead. I wish I had never lived to see
this."
"Now there you go, mama," said Suzanne confidently. "I can't see
why you are so distressed about what I am going to do. It is my
life that I am planning to arrange, not yours. I have to live my
life, mama, not you."
"Oh, yes, but it is just that that distresses me. What will it
be after you do this—after you throw it away? Oh, if you could only
see what you are contemplating doing—what a wretched thing it will
be when it is all over with. You will never live with him—he is too
old for you, too fickle, too insincere. He will not care for you
after a little while, and then there you will be, unmarried,
possibly with a child on your hands, a social outcast! Where will
you go?"
"Mama," said Suzanne calmly, her lips parted in a rosy, baby
way, "I have thought of all this. I see how it is. But I think you
and everybody else make too much ado about these things. You think
of everything that could happen, but it doesn't all happen that
way. People do these things, I'm sure, and nothing much is thought
of it."
"Yes, in books," put in Mrs. Dale. "I know where you get all
this from. It's your reading."
"Anyhow, I'm going to. I have made up my mind," added Suzanne.
"I have decided that by September fifteenth I will go to Mr. Witla,
and you might just as well make up your mind to it now." This was
August tenth.
"Suzanne," said her mother, staring at her, "I never imagined
you could talk in this way to me. You will do nothing of the kind.
How can you be so hard? I did not know that you had such a terrible
will in you. Doesn't anything I have said about Adele and Ninette
or Kinroy appeal to you? Have you no heart in you? Why don't you
wait, as Dr. Woolley suggests, six months or a year? Why do you
talk about jumping into this without giving yourself time to think?
It is such a wild, rash experiment. You haven't thought anything
about it, you haven't had time."
"Oh, yes, I have, mama!" replied Suzanne. "I've thought a great
deal about it. I'm fully convinced. I want to do it then because I
told Eugene that I would not keep him waiting long; and I won't. I
want to go to him. That will make a clear two months since we first
talked of this."
Mrs. Dale winced. She had no idea of yielding to her daughter,
or letting her do this, but this definite conclusion as to the time
brought matters finally to a head. Her daughter was out of her
mind, that was all. It gave her not any too much time to turn round
in. She must get Suzanne out of the city—out of the country, if
possible, or lock her up, and she must do it without antagonizing
her too much.
Mrs. Dale's next step in this struggle was to tell Kinroy, who
wanted, of course, in a fit of boyish chivalry, to go immediately
and kill Eugene. This was prevented by Mrs. Dale, who had more
control over him than she had over Suzanne, pointing out to him
what a terrifically destructive scandal would ensue and urging
subtlety and patience. Kinroy had a sincere affection for his
sisters, particularly Suzanne and Adele, and he wanted to protect
all of them. He decided in a pompous, ultra chivalrous spirit that
he must help his mother plan, and together they talked of
chloroforming her some night, of carrying her thus, as a sick girl,
in a private car to Maine or the Adirondacks or somewhere in
Canada.
It would be useless to follow all these strategic details in
their order. There were, after the five days agreed upon by
Suzanne, attempted phone messages by Eugene, which were frustrated
by Kinroy, who was now fulfilling the rôle of private detective.
Suzanne resolved to have Eugene summoned to the house for a
discussion, but to this her mother objected. She felt that
additional meetings would simply strengthen their bond of union.
Kinroy wrote to Eugene of his own accord that he knew all, and that
if he attempted to come near the place he would kill him at sight.
Suzanne, finding herself blocked and detained by her mother, wrote
Eugene a letter which Elizabeth, her maid, secretly conveyed to the
mail for her, telling him how things stood. Her mother had told Dr.
Woolley and Kinroy. She had decided that September fifteenth was
the time she would leave home, unless their companionship was
quietly sanctioned. Kinroy had threatened to kill him to her, but
she did not think he had anything to fear. Kinroy was just excited.
Her mother wanted her to go to Europe for six months and think it
over, but this she would not do. She was not going to leave the
city, and he need not fear, if he did not hear anything for a few
days at a time, that anything was wrong with her. They must wait
until the storm subsided a little. "I shall be here, but perhaps it
is best for you not to try to see me just now. When the time comes,
I will come to you, and if I get a chance, I will see you
before."
Eugene was both pained and surprised at the turn things had
taken, but still encouraged to hope for the best by the attitude
Suzanne took toward it all. Her courage strengthened him. She was
calm, so purposeful! What a treasure she was!
So began a series of daily love notes for a few days, until
Suzanne advised him to cease. There were constant arguments between
her, her mother and Kinroy. Because she was being so obviously
frustrated, she began to grow bitter and hard, and short
contradictory phrases passed between her and her mother,
principally originating in Suzanne.
"No, no, no!" was her constantly reiterated statement. "I won't
do it! What of it? It's silly! Let me alone! I won't talk!" So it
went.
Mrs. Dale was planning hourly how to abduct her. Chloroforming
and secret removal after the fashion she had in her mind was not so
easy of accomplishment. It was such a desperate thing to do to
Suzanne. She was afraid she might die under its influence. It could
not be administered without a doctor. The servants would think it
strange. She fancied there were whispered suspicions already.
Finally she thought of pretending to agree with Suzanne, removing
all barriers, and asking her to come to Albany to confer with her
guardian, or rather the legal representative of the Marquardt Trust
Company, which held her share of her father the late Westfield
Dale's estate in trust for her, in regard to some property in
western New York, which belonged to her. Mrs. Dale decided to
pretend to be obliged to go to Albany in order to have Suzanne sign
a waiver of right to any share in her mother's private estate,
after which, supposedly, she would give Suzanne her freedom, having
also disinherited her in her will. Suzanne, according to this
scheme, was then to come back to New York and go her way and her
mother was not to see her any more.
To make this more effective, Kinroy was sent to tell her of her
mother's plan and beg her for her own and her family's sake not to
let the final separation come about. Mrs. Dale changed her manner.
Kinroy acted his part so effectively that what with her mother's
resigned look and indifferent method of address, Suzanne was partly
deceived. She imagined her mother had experienced a complete change
of heart and might be going to do what Kinroy said.
"No," she replied to Kinroy's pleadings, "I don't care whether
she cuts me off. I'll be very glad to sign the papers. If she wants
me to go away, I'll go. I think she has acted very foolishly
through all this, and so have you."
"I wish you wouldn't let her do that," observed Kinroy, who was
rather exulting over the satisfactory manner in which this bait was
being swallowed. "Mama is broken hearted. She wants you to stay
here, to wait six months or a year before you do anything at all,
but if you won't, she's going to ask you to do this. I've tried to
persuade her not to. I'd hate like anything to see you go. Won't
you change your mind?"
"I told you I wouldn't, Kinroy. Don't ask me."
Kinroy went back to his mother and reported that Suzanne was
stubborn as ever, but that the trick would in all probability work.
She would go aboard the train thinking she was going to Albany.
Once aboard, inside a closed car, she would scarcely suspect until
the next morning, and then they would be far in the Adirondack
Mountains.
The scheme worked in part. Her mother, as had Kinroy, went
through this prearranged scene as well as though she were on the
stage. Suzanne fancied she saw her freedom near at hand. Only a
travelling bag was packed, and Suzanne went willingly enough into
the auto and the train, only stipulating one thing—that she be
allowed to call up Eugene and explain. Both Kinroy and her mother
objected, but, when finally she refused flatly to go without, they
acceded. She called him up at the office—it was four o'clock in the
afternoon, and they were leaving at five-thirty—and told him. He
fancied at once it was a ruse, and told her so, but she thought
not. Mrs. Dale had never lied to her before, neither had her
brother. Their words were as bonds.
"Eugene says this is a trap, mama," said Suzanne, turning from
the phone to her mother, who was near by. "Is it?"
"You know it isn't," replied her mother, lying unblushingly.
"If it is, it will come to nothing," she replied, and Eugene
heard her. He was strengthened into acquiescence by the tone of her
voice. Surely she was a wonderful girl—a master of men and women in
her way.
"Very well, if you think it's all right," said Eugene; "but I'll
be very lonely. I've been so already. I shall be more so, Flower
Face, unless I see you soon. Oh, if the time were only up!"
"It will be, Eugene," she replied, "in a very few days now. I'll
be back Thursday, and then you can come down and see me."
"Thursday afternoon?"
"Yes. We're to be back Thursday morning."
She finally hung up the receiver and they entered the automobile
and an hour later the train.
It was a Montreal, Ottawa and Quebec express, and it ran without
stopping to Albany. By the time it was nearing the latter place
Suzanne was going to bed—and because it was a private car—Mrs. Dale
explained that the president of the road had lent it to her—no
announcement of its arrival, which would have aroused Suzanne, was
made by the porter. When it stopped there shortly after ten o'clock
it was the last car at the south end of the train, and you could
hear voices calling, but just what it was was not possible to say.
Suzanne, who had already gone to bed, fancied it might be
Poughkeepsie or some wayside station. Her mother's statement was
that since they arrived so late, the car would be switched to a
siding, and they would stay aboard until morning. Nevertheless, she
and Kinroy were alert to prevent any untoward demonstration or
decision on Suzanne's part, and so, as the train went on, she slept
soundly until Burlington in the far northern part of Vermont was
reached the next morning. When she awoke and saw that the train was
still speeding on, she wondered vaguely but not clearly what it
could mean. There were mountains about, or rather tall,
pine-covered hills, mountain streams were passed on high trestles
and sections of burned woodlands were passed where forest fires had
left lonely, sad charred stretches of tree trunks towering high in
the air. Suddenly it occurred to Suzanne that this was peculiar,
and she came out of the bath to ask why.
"Where are we, mama?" she asked. Mrs. Dale was leaning back in a
comfortable willow chair reading, or pretending to read a book.
Kinroy was out on the observation platform for a moment. He came
back though shortly, for he was nervous as to what Suzanne would do
when she discovered her whereabouts. A hamper of food had been put
aboard the night before, unknown to Suzanne, and Mrs. Dale was
going shortly to serve breakfast. She had not risked a maid on this
journey.
"I don't know," replied her mother indifferently, looking out at
a stretch of burnt woods.
"I thought we were to be in Albany a little after midnight?"
said Suzanne.
"So we were," replied Mrs. Dale, preparing to confess. Kinroy
came back into the car.
"Well, then," said Suzanne, pausing, looking first out of the
windows and then fixedly at her mother. It came to her as she saw
the unsettled, somewhat nervous expression in her mother's face and
eyes and in Kinroy's that this was a trick and that she was being
taken somewhere—where?—against her will.
"This is a trick, mama," she said to her mother grandly. "You
have lied to me—you and Kinroy. We are not going to Albany at all.
Where are we going?"
"I don't want to tell you now, Suzanne," replied Mrs. Dale
quietly. "Have your bath and we'll talk about it afterwards. It
doesn't matter. We're going up into Canada, if you want to know. We
are nearly there now. You'll know fast enough when we get
there."
"Mama," replied Suzanne, "this is a despicable trick! You are
going to be sorry for this. You have lied to me—you and Kinroy. I
see it now. I might have known, but I didn't believe you would lie
to me, mama. I can't do anything just now, I see that very plainly.
But when the time comes, you are going to be sorry. You can't
control me this way. You ought to know better. You yourself are
going to take me back to New York." And she fixed her mother with a
steady look which betokened a mastership which her mother felt
nervously and wearily she might eventually be compelled to
acknowledge.
"Now, Suzanne, what's the use of talking that way?" pleaded
Kinroy. "Mama is almost crazy, as it is. She couldn't think of any
other way or thing to do."
"You hush, Kinroy," replied Suzanne. "I don't care to talk to
you. You have lied to me, and that is more than I ever did to you.
Mama, I am astonished at you," she returned to her mother. "My
mother lying to me! Very well, mama. You have things in your hands
today. I will have them in mine later. You have taken just the
wrong course. Now you wait and see."
Mrs. Dale winced and quailed. This girl was the most
unterrified, determined fighter she had ever known. She wondered
where she got her courage—from her late husband, probably. She
could actually feel the quietness, grit, lack of fear, which had
grown up in her during the last few weeks under the provocation
which antagonism had provided. "Please don't talk that way,
Suzanne," she pleaded. "I have done it all for your own good. You
know I have. Why will you torture me? You know I won't give you up
to that man. I won't. I'll move heaven and earth first. I'll die in
this struggle, but I won't give you up."
"Then you'll die, mama, for I'm going to do what I said. You can
take me to where this car stops, but you can't take me out of it.
I'm going back to New York. Now, a lot you have accomplished,
haven't you?"
"Suzanne, I am convinced almost that you are out of your mind.
You have almost driven me out of mine, but I am still sane enough
to see what is right."
"Mama, I don't propose to talk to you any more, or to Kinroy.
You can take me back to New York, or you can leave me, but you will
not get me out of this car. I am done with listening to nonsense
and pretences. You have lied to me once. You will not get a chance
to do it again."
"I don't care, Suzanne," replied her mother, as the train sped
swiftly along. "You have forced me to do this. It is your own
attitude that is causing all the trouble. If you would be
reasonable and take some time to think this all over, you would not
be where you are now. I won't let you do this thing that you want
to do. You can stay in the car if you wish, but you cannot be taken
back to New York without money. I will speak to the station agent
about that."
Suzanne thought of this. She had no money, no clothes, other
than those she had on. She was in a strange country and not so very
used to travelling alone. She had really gone to very few places in
times past by herself. It took the edge off her determination to
resist, but she was not conquered by any means.
"How are you going to get back?" asked her mother, after a time,
when Suzanne paid no attention to her. "You have no money. Surely,
Suzanne, you are not going to make a scene? I only want you to come
up here for a few weeks so that you will have time to think away
from that man. I don't want you to go to him on September the
fifteenth. I just won't let you do that. Why won't you be
reasonable? You can have a pleasant time up here. You like to ride.
You are welcome to do that. I will ride with you. You can invite
some of your friends up here, if you choose. I will send for your
clothes. Only stay here a while and think over what you are going
to do."
Suzanne refused to talk. She was thinking what she could do.
Eugene was back in New York. He would expect her Thursday.
"Yes, Suzanne," put in Kinroy. "Why not take ma's advice? She's
trying to do the best thing by you. This is a terrible thing you
are trying to do. Why not listen to common sense and stay up here
three or four months?"
"Don't talk like a parrot, Kinroy! I'm hearing all this from
mama."
When her mother reproached her, she said: "Oh, hush, mama, I
don't care to hear anything more. I won't do anything of the sort.
You lied to me. You said you were going to Albany. You brought me
out here under a pretence. Now you can take me back. I won't go to
any lodge. I won't go anywhere, except to New York. You might just
as well not argue with me."
The train rolled on. Breakfast was served. The private car was
switched to the tracks of the Canadian Pacific at Montreal. Her
mother's pleas continued. Suzanne refused to eat. She sat and
looked out of the window, meditating over this strange dénouement.
Where was Eugene? What was he doing? What would he think when she
did not come back? She was not enraged at her mother. She was
merely contemptuous of her. This trick irritated and disgusted her.
She was not thinking of Eugene in any wild way, but merely that she
would get back to him. She conceived of him much as she did of
herself though her conception of her real self was still vague as
strong, patient, resourceful, able to live without her a little
while if he had to. She was eager to see him, but really more eager
that he should see her if he wanted to. What a creature he must
take her mother to be!
By noon they had reached Juinata, by two o'clock they were fifty
miles west of Quebec. At first, Suzanne thought she would not eat
at all to spite her mother. Later she reasoned that that was silly
and ate. She made it exceedingly unpleasant for them by her manner,
and they realized that by bringing her away from New York they had
merely transferred their troubles. Her spirit was not broken as
yet. It filled the car with a disturbing vibration.
"Suzanne," questioned her mother at one point, "won't you talk
to me? Won't you see I'm trying to do this for your own good? I
want to give you time to think. I really don't want to coerce you,
but you must see."
Suzanne merely stared out of the window at the green fields
speeding by.
"Suzanne! Don't you see this will never do? Can't you see how
terrible it all is?"
"Mama, I want you to let me alone. You have done what you
thought was the right thing to do. Now let me alone. You lied to
me, mama. I don't want to talk to you. I want you to take me back
to New York. You have nothing else to do. Don't try to explain. You
haven't any explanation."
Mrs. Dale's spirit fairly raged, but it was impotent in the
presence of this her daughter. She could do nothing.
Still more hours, and at one small town Suzanne decided to get
off, but both Mrs. Dale and Kinroy offered actual physical
opposition. They felt intensely silly and ashamed, though, for they
could not break the spirit of the girl. She ignored their
minds—their mental attitude in the most contemptuous way. Mrs. Dale
cried. Then her face hardened. Then she pleaded. Her daughter
merely looked loftily away.
At Three Rivers Suzanne stayed in the car and refused to move.
Mrs. Dale pleaded, threatened to call aid, stated that she would
charge her with insanity. It was all without avail. The car was
uncoupled after the conductor had asked Mrs. Dale if she did not
intend to leave it. She was beside herself, frantic with rage,
shame, baffled opposition.
"I think you are terrible!" she exclaimed to Suzanne. "You are a
little demon. We will live in this car, then. We will see."
She knew that this could not be, for the car was only leased for
the outward trip and had to be returned the next day.
The car was pushed on to a siding.
"I beg of you, Suzanne. Please don't make a mockery of us. This
is terrible. What will people think?"
"I don't care what they think," said Suzanne.
"But you can't stay here."
"Oh, yes, I can!"
"Come, get off, please do. We won't stay up here indefinitely.
I'll take you back. Promise me to stay a month and I'll give you my
solemn word I'll take you back at the end of that time. I'm getting
sick of this. I can't stand it. Do what you like after that. Only
stay a month now."
"No, mama," replied Suzanne. "No, you won't. You lied to me.
You're lying to me now, just as you did before."
"I swear to you I'm not. I lied that once, but I was frantic.
Oh, Suzanne, please, please. Be reasonable. Have some
consideration. I will take you back, but wait for some clothes to
arrive. We can't go this way."
She sent Kinroy for the station master, to whom was explained
the need of a carriage to take them to Mont Cecile and also for a
doctor—this was Mrs. Dale's latest thought—to whom she proposed to
accuse Suzanne of insanity. Help to remove her was to be called.
She told this to Suzanne, who simply glared at her.
"Get the doctor, mama," she said. "We will see if I have to go
that way. But you will rue every step of this. You will be
thoroughly sorry for every silly step you have taken."
When the carriage arrived, Suzanne refused to get out. The
country driver, a French habitant, reported its presence at the
car. Kinroy tried to soothe his sister by saying that he would help
straighten matters out if she would only go peacefully.
"I'll tell you, Susie, if it isn't all arranged to suit you
within a month, and you still want to go back, I'll send you the
money. I have to go back tomorrow, or next day for ma, but I'll
give you my word. In fact, I'll persuade mother to bring you back
in two weeks. You know I never lied to you before. I never will
again. Please come. Let's go over there. We can be comfortable,
anyhow."
Mrs. Dale had leased the lodge from the Cathcarts by phone. It
was all furnished—ready to live in—even wood fires prepared for
lighting in the fireplaces. It had hot and cold water controlled by
a hot-water furnace system; acetylene gas, a supply of staples in
the kitchen. The service to take care of it was to be called
together by the caretaker, who could be reached by phone from the
depot. Mrs. Dale had already communicated with him by the time the
carriage arrived. The roads were so poor that the use of an
automobile was impossible. The station agent, seeing a fat fee in
sight, was most obliging.
Suzanne listened to Kinroy, but she did not believe him. She did
not believe anyone now, save Eugene, and he was nowhere near to
advise her. Still, since she was without money and they were
threatening to call a doctor, she thought it might be best perhaps
to go peacefully. Her mother was most distracted. Her face was
white and thin and nervous, and Kinroy was apparently strained to
the breaking point.
"Do you promise me faithfully," she asked her mother, who had
begun her pleadings anew, corroborating Kinroy in a way, "that you
will take me back to New York in two weeks if I promise to stay
that long?" This was still within the date in which she had
promised to go to Witla, and as long as she got back by that time,
she really did not care, provided she could write to her lover. It
was a silly arbitrary thing for her mother to have done, but it
could be endured. Her mother, seeing no reasonable way to obtain
peace, promised. If she could only keep her there two weeks
quietly, perhaps that would help. Suzanne could think here under
different conditions. New York was so exciting. Out at this lodge
all would be still. There was more argument, and, finally, Suzanne
agreed to enter the hack, and they drove over toward Mont Cecile
and the Cathcarts' Lodge, now vacant and lonely, which was known as
"While-a-Way."