The next day, after wavering whether they would not spend a few
days here in billing and cooing and listening to Mrs. Dale's veiled
pleas as to what the servants might think, or what they might know
already or suspect from what the station master at Three Rivers
might say, they decided to return, Eugene to New York, Suzanne to
Lenox. All the way back to Albany, Eugene and Suzanne sat together
in one seat in the Pullman like two children rejoicing in each
other's company. Mrs. Dale sat one seat away, turning over her
promises and pondering whether, after all, she had not yet better
go at once and try to end all by an appeal to Colfax, or whether
she had better wait a little while and see if the affair might not
die down of its own accord.
At Albany the following morning, Suzanne and Mrs. Dale
transferred to the Boston and Albany, Eugene going on to New York.
He went to the office feeling much relieved, and later in the day
to his apartment. Angela, who had been under a terrific strain,
stared at him as if he were a ghost, or one come back to life from
the dead. She had not known where he had gone. She had not known
whether he would ever come back. There was no use in reproaching
him—she had realized that long since. The best she could do was to
make an appeal. She waited until after dinner, at which they had
discussed the mere commonplaces of life, and then came to his room,
where he was unpacking.
"Did you go to find Suzanne?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Is she with you?"
"No."
"Oh, Eugene, do you know where I have spent the last three
days?" she asked.
He did not answer.
"On my knees. On my knees," she declared, "asking God to save
you from yourself."
"Don't talk rot, Angela," he returned coldly. "You know how I
feel about this thing. How much worse am I now than I was before? I
tried to get you on the phone to tell you. I went to find her and
bring her back, and I did as far as Lenox. I am going to win this
fight. I am going to get Suzanne, either legally or otherwise. If
you want to give me a divorce, you can. I will provide amply for
you. If you don't I'm going to take her, anyhow. That's understood
between me and her. Now what's the use of hysterics?"
Angela looked at him tearfully. Could this be the Eugene she had
known? In each scene with him, after each plea, or through it, she
came to this adamantine wall. Was he really so frantic about this
girl? Was he going to do what he said? He outlined to her quite
calmly his plans as recently revised, and at one point Angela,
speaking of Mrs. Dale, interrupted him—"she will never give her up
to you—you will see. You think she will. She says she will. She is
only fooling you. She is fighting for time. Think what you are
doing. You can't win."
"Oh, yes, I can," said Eugene, "I practically have already. She
will come to me."
"She may, she may, but at what a cost. Look at me, Eugene. Am I
not enough? I am still good looking. You have declared to me time
and again that I have a beautiful form. See, see"—she tore open her
dressing gown and the robe de nuit, in which she had come in. She
had arranged this scene, especially thought it out, and hoped it
would move him. "Am I not enough? Am I not still all that you
desire?"
Eugene turned his head away in disgust—wearily—sick of their
melodramatic appeals. This was the last rôle Angela should have
played. It was the most ineffectual, the least appropriate at the
moment. It was dramatic, striking, but totally ineffective under
the circumstances.
"It's useless acting in that way to me, Angela," he said. "I'm
no longer to be moved in that way by you. All marital affection
between us is dead—terribly so. Why plead to me with something that
has no appeal. I can't help it. It's dead. Now what are we going to
do about it?"
Once more Angela turned wearily. Although she was nerve worn and
despairing, she was still fascinated by the tragedy which was being
played out under her eyes. Would nothing make him see?
They went their separate ways for the night, and the next day he
was at his desk again. Word came from Suzanne that she was still in
Lenox, and then that her mother had gone to Boston for a day or two
on a visit. The fifth day Colfax stepped into his office, and,
hailing him pleasantly, sat down.
"Well, how are things with you, old man?" he asked.
"Oh, about the same," said Eugene. "I can't complain."
"Everything going all right with you?"
"Yes, moderately so."
"People don't usually butt in on you here when I'm here, do
they?" he asked curiously.
"I've given orders against anything like that, but I'll make it
doubly sure in this case," said Eugene, alert at once. Could Colfax
be going to talk to him about anything in connection with his case?
He paled a little.
Colfax looked out of the window at the distant panorama of the
Hudson. He took out a cigar, and cut the end, but did not light
it.
"I asked you about not being interrupted," he began
thoughtfully, "because I have a little something I want to talk to
you about, which I would rather no one else heard. Mrs. Dale came
to me the other day," he said quietly. Eugene started at the
mention of her name and paled still more, but gave no other outward
sign. "And she told me a long story about something that you were
trying to do in connection with her daughter—run away with her, or
go and live with her without a license or a divorce, or desert your
wife, or something to that effect, which I didn't pay much
attention to, but which I have to talk to you about just the same.
Now, I never like to meddle with a man's personal affairs. I don't
think that they concern me. I don't think they concern this
business, except in so far as they may affect it unfavorably, but I
would like to know if it is true. Is it?"
"Yes," said Eugene.
"Mrs. Dale is an old friend of mine. I've known her for years. I
know Mrs. Witla, of course, but not quite in the same way. I
haven't seen as much of her as I have of you. I didn't know that
you were unhappily married, but that is neither here nor there. The
point is, that she seems to be on the verge of making a great
scandal out of this—she seems a little distracted to me—and I
thought I'd better come up and have a little talk with you before
anything serious really happened. You know it would be a rather
damaging thing to this business if any scandal were started in
connection with you just at present."
He paused, expecting some protest or explanation, but Eugene
merely held his peace. He was tense, pale, harried. So she had gone
to Colfax, after all. Instead of going to Boston; instead of
keeping her word, she had come down here to New York and gone to
Colfax. Had she told him the full story? Very likely Colfax, in
spite of all his smooth words, would be inclined to sympathize with
her. What must he think of him? He was rather conservative in a
social way. Mrs. Dale could be of service to him in her world in
one way and another. He had never seen Colfax quite so cool and
deliberate as he was now. He seemed to be trying to maintain an
exceedingly judicial and impartial tone, which was not
characteristic.
"You have always been an interesting study to me, Witla, ever
since I first met you," he went on, after a time. "You're a genius,
I fancy, if there ever was one, but like all geniuses you are
afflicted with tendencies which are erratic. I used to think for a
little while that maybe you sat down and planned the things which
you have carried through so successfully, but I have since
concluded that you don't. You attract some forms of force and
order. Also, I think you have various other faculties—it would be
hard for me to say just what they are. One is vision. I know you
have that. Another is appreciation of ability. I know you have
that. I have seen you pick some exceptional people. You plan in a
way, but you don't plan logically or deliberately, unless I am
greatly mistaken. The matter of this Dale girl now is an
interesting case in point, I think."
"Let's not talk of her," said Eugene frigidly and bridling
slightly. Suzanne was a sore point with him. A dangerous subject.
Colfax saw it. "That's something I can't talk about very well."
"Well, we won't," put in the other calmly, "but the point can be
established in other ways. You'll admit, I think, that you haven't
been planning very well in connection with this present situation,
for if you had been, you would see that in doing what you have been
doing you have been riding straight for a fall. If you were going
to take the girl, and she was willing, as she appears to be, you
should have taken her without her mother's knowledge, old man. She
might have been able to adjust things afterward. If not, you would
have had her, and I suppose you would have been willing to suffer
the consequences, if you had been caught. As it is, you have let
Mrs. Dale in on it, and she has powerful friends. You can't ignore
her. I can't. She is in a fighting mood, and it looks as though she
were going to bring considerable pressure to bear to make you let
go."
He paused again, waiting to see if Eugene would say something,
but the latter made no comment.
"I want to ask one question, and I don't want you to take any
offense at it, for I don't mean anything by it, but it will help to
clear this matter up in my own mind, and probably in yours later,
if you will. Have you had anything to do in a compromising way with
Miss——?"
"No," said Eugene before he could finish.
"How long has this fight been going on?"
"Oh, about four weeks, or a little less."
Colfax bit at the end of his cigar.
"You have powerful enemies here, you know, Witla. Your rule
hasn't been very lenient. One of the things I have noticed about
you is your utter inability to play politics. You have picked men
who would be very glad to have your shoes, if they could. If they
could get the details of this predicament, your situation wouldn't
be tenable more than fifteen minutes. You know that, of course. In
spite of anything I might do you would have to resign. You couldn't
maintain yourself here. I couldn't let you. You haven't thought of
that in this connection, I suppose. No man in love does. I know
just how you feel. From having seen Mrs. Witla, I can tell in a way
just what the trouble is. You have been reined in too close. You
haven't been master in your own home. It's irritated you. Life has
appeared to be a failure. You have lost your chance, or thought you
had on this matrimonial game, and it's made you restless. I know
this girl. She's beautiful. But just as I say, old man, you haven't
counted the cost—you haven't calculated right—you haven't planned.
If anything could prove to me what I have always faintly suspected
about you, it is this: You don't plan carefully enough——" and he
looked out of the window.
Eugene sat staring at the floor. He couldn't make out just what
it was that Colfax intended to do about it. He was calmer in his
thinking than he had ever seen him before—less dramatic. As a rule,
Colfax yelled things—demonstrated, performed—made excited motions.
This morning, he was slow, thoughtful, possibly emotional.
"In spite of the fact that I like you personally, Witla—and
every man owes a little something to friendship—it can't be worked
out in business, though—I have been slowly coming to the conclusion
that perhaps, after all, you aren't just the ideal man for this
place. You're too emotional, I fancy—too erratic. White has been
trying to tell me that for a long time, but I wouldn't believe it.
I'm not taking his judgment now. I don't know that I would ever
have acted on that feeling or idea, if this thing hadn't come up. I
don't know that I am going to do so finally, but it strikes me that
you are in a very ticklish position—one rather dangerous to this
house, and you know that this house could never brook a scandal.
Why the newspapers would never get over it. It would do us infinite
harm. I think, viewing it all in all, that you had better take a
year off and see if you can't straighten this out quietly. I don't
think you had better try to take this girl unless you can get a
divorce and marry her, and I don't think you had better try to get
a divorce unless you can do it quietly. I mean so far as your
position here is concerned only. Apart from that, you can do what
you please. But remember! a scandal would affect your usefulness
here. If things can be patched up, well and good. If not, well then
they can't. If this thing gets talked about much, you know that
there will be no hope of your coming back here. I don't suppose you
would be willing to give her up?"
"No," said Eugene.
"I thought as much. I know just how you take a thing of this
kind. It hits your type hard. Can you get a divorce from Mrs.
Witla?"
"I'm not so sure," said Eugene. "I haven't any suitable grounds.
We simply don't agree, that's all—my life has been a hollow
shell."
"Well," said Colfax, "it's a bad mix up all around. I know how
you feel about the girl. She's very beautiful. She's just the sort
to bring about a situation of this kind. I don't want to tell you
what to do. You are your own best judge, but if you will take my
advice, you won't try to live with her without first marrying her.
A man in your position can't afford to do it. You're too much in
the public eye. You know you have become fairly conspicuous in New
York during the last few years, don't you?"
"Yes," said Eugene. "I thought I had arranged that matter with
Mrs. Dale."
"It appears not. She tells me that you are trying to persuade
her daughter to live with you; that you have no means of obtaining
a divorce within a reasonable time; that your wife is in a—pardon
me, and that you insist on associating with her daughter,
meanwhile, which isn't possible, according to her. I'm inclined to
think she's right. It's hard, but it can't be helped. She says that
you say that if you are not allowed to do that, you will take her
and live with her."