He paused again. "Will you?"
"Yes," said Eugene.
Colfax twisted slowly in his chair and looked out of the window.
What a man! What a curious thing love was! "When is it," he asked
finally, "that you think you might do this?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'm all tangled up now. I'll have to
think."
Colfax meditated.
"It's a peculiar business. Few people would understand this as
well as I do. Few people would understand you, Witla, as I do. You
haven't calculated right, old man, and you'll have to pay the
price. We all do. I can't let you stay here. I wish I could, but I
can't. You'll have to take a year off and think this thing out. If
nothing happens—if no scandal arises—well, I won't say what I'll
do. I might make a berth for you here somewhere—not exactly in the
same position, perhaps, but somewhere. I'll have to think about
that. Meanwhile"—he stopped and thought again.
Eugene was seeing clearly how it was with him. All this talk
about coming back meant nothing. The thing that was apparent in
Colfax's mind was that he would have to go, and the reason that he
would have to go was not Mrs. Dale or Suzanne, or the moral issue
involved, but the fact that he had lost Colfax's confidence in him.
Somehow, through White, through Mrs. Dale, through his own actions
day in and day out, Colfax had come to the conclusion that he was
erratic, uncertain, and, for that reason, nothing else, he was
being dispensed with now. It was Suzanne—it was fate, his own
unfortunate temperament. He brooded pathetically, and then he said:
"When do you want this to happen?"
"Oh, any time, the quicker, the better, if a public scandal is
to grow out of it. If you want you can take your time, three weeks,
a month, six weeks. You had better make it a matter of health and
resign for your own good.—I mean the looks of the thing. That won't
make any difference in my subsequent conclusions. This place is
arranged so well now, that it can run nicely for a year without
much trouble. We might fix this up again—it depends——"
Eugene wished he had not added the last hypocritical phrase.
He shook hands and went to the door and Eugene strolled to the
window. Here was all the solid foundation knocked from under him at
one fell stroke, as if by a cannon. He had lost this truly
magnificent position, $25,000 a year. Where would he get another
like it? Who else—what other company could pay any such salary? How
could he maintain the Riverside Drive apartment now, unless he
married Suzanne? How could he have his automobile—his valet? Colfax
said nothing about continuing his income—why should he? He really
owed him nothing. He had been exceedingly well paid—better paid
than he would have been anywhere else.
He regretted his fanciful dreams about Blue Sea—his silly
enthusiasm in tying up all his money in that. Would Mrs. Dale go to
Winfield? Would her talk do him any real harm there? Winfield had
always been a good friend to him, had manifested a high regard.
This charge, this talk of abduction. What a pity it all was. It
might change Winfield's attitude, and still why should it? He had
women; no wife, however. He hadn't, as Colfax said, planned this
thing quite right. That was plain now. His shimmering world of
dreams was beginning to fade like an evening sky. It might be that
he had been chasing a will-o'-the-wisp, after all. Could this
really be possible? Could it be?
One would have thought that this terrific blow would have given
Eugene pause in a way, and it did. It frightened him. Mrs. Dale had
gone to Colfax in order to persuade him to use his influence to
make Eugene behave himself, and, having done so much, she was
actually prepared to go further. She was considering some scheme
whereby she could blacken Eugene, have his true character become
known without in any way involving Suzanne. Having been
relentlessly pursued and harried by Eugene, she was now as
relentless in her own attitude. She wanted him to let go now,
entirely, if she could, not to see Suzanne any more and she went,
first to Winfield, and then back to Lenox with the hope of
preventing any further communication, or at least action on
Suzanne's part, or Eugene's possible presence there.
In so far as her visit to Winfield was concerned, it did not
amount to so much morally or emotionally in that quarter, for
Winfield did not feel that he was called upon to act in the matter.
He was not Eugene's guardian, nor yet a public censor of morals. He
waived the whole question grandly to one side, though in a way he
was glad to know of it, for it gave him an advantage over Eugene.
He was sorry for him a little—what man would not be? Nevertheless,
in his thoughts of reorganizing the Blue Sea Corporation, he did
not feel so bad over what might become of Eugene's interests. When
the latter approached him, as he did some time afterward, with the
idea that he might be able to dispose of his holdings, he saw no
way to do it. The company was really not in good shape. More money
would have to be put in. All the treasury stock would have to be
quickly disposed of, or a reorganization would have to be effected.
The best that could be promised under these circumstances was that
Eugene's holdings might be exchanged for a fraction of their value
in a new issue by a new group of directors. So Eugene saw the end
of his dreams in that direction looming up quite clearly.
When he saw what Mrs. Dale had done, he saw also that it was
necessary to communicate the situation clearly to Suzanne. The
whole thing pulled him up short, and he began to wonder what was to
become of him. With his twenty-five thousand a year in salary cut
off, his prospect of an independent fortune in Blue Sea
annihilated, the old life closed to him for want of cash, for who
can go about in society without money? he saw that he was in danger
of complete social and commercial extinction. If by any chance a
discussion of the moral relation between him and Suzanne arose, his
unconscionable attitude toward Angela, if White heard of it for
instance, what would become of him? The latter would spread the
fact far and wide. It would be the talk of the town, in the
publishing world at least. It would close every publishing house in
the city to him. He did not believe Colfax would talk. He fancied
that Mrs. Dale had not, after all, spoken to Winfield, but if she
had, how much further would it go? Would White hear of it through
Colfax? Would he keep it a secret if he knew? Never! The folly of
what he had been doing began to dawn upon him dimly. What was it
that he had been doing? He felt like a man who had been cast into a
deep sleep by a powerful opiate and was now slowly waking to a dim
wondering sense of where he was. He was in New York. He had no
position. He had little ready money—perhaps five or six thousand
all told. He had the love of Suzanne, but her mother was still
fighting him, and he had Angela on his hands, undivorced. How was
he to arrange things now? How could he think of going back to her?
Never!
He sat down and composed the following letter to Suzanne, which
he thought would make clear to her just how things stood and give
her an opportunity to retract if she wished, for he thought he owed
that much to her now:
"
Flower Face
:
I had a talk with Mr. Colfax this morning and what I feared might
happen has happened. Your mother, instead of going to Boston as you
thought, came to New York and saw him and, I fancy, my friend
Winfield, too. She cannot do me any harm in that direction, for my
relationship with that company does not depend on a salary, or a
fixed income of any kind, but she has done me infinite harm here.
Frankly, I have lost my position. I do not believe that would have
come about except for other pressure with which she had nothing to
do, but her charges and complaints, coming on top of opposition
here on the part of someone else, has done what she couldn't have
done alone. Flower Face, do you know what that means? I told you
once that I had tied up all my spare cash in Blue Sea, which I
hoped would come to so much. It may, but the cutting off my salary
here means great changes for me there, unless I can make some other
business engagement immediately. I shall probably have to give up
my apartment in Riverside Drive and my automobile, and in other
ways trim my sails to meet the bad weather. It means that if you
come to me, we should have to live on what I can earn as an artist
unless I should decide and be able to find something else. When I
came to Canada for you, I had some such idea in mind, but since
this thing has actually happened, you may think differently. If
nothing happens to my Blue Sea investment, there may be an
independent fortune some day in that. I can't tell, but that is a
long way off, and meanwhile, there is only this, and I don't know
what else your mother may do to my reputation. She appears to be in
a very savage frame of mind. You heard what she said at
While-a-Way. She has evidently gone back on that completely.
"Flower Face, I lay this all before you so that you may see how
things are. If you come to me it may be in the face of a faded
reputation. You must realize that there is a great difference
between Eugene Witla, Managing Publisher of the United Magazines
Corporation, and Eugene Witla, Artist. I have been very reckless
and defiant in my love for you. Because you are so lovely—the most
perfect thing that I have ever known, I have laid all on the altar
of my affection. I would do it again, gladly—a thousand times.
Before you came, my life was a gloomy thing. I thought I was
living, but I knew in my heart that it was all a dusty shell—a lie.
Then you came, and oh, how I have lived! The nights, the days of
beautiful fancy. Shall I ever forget White Wood, or Blue Sea, or
Briarcliff, or that wonderful first day at South Beach? Little
girl, our ways have been the ways of perfectness and peace. This
has been an intensely desperate thing to do, but for my sake, I am
not sorry. I have been dreaming a wonderfully sweet and perfect
dream. It may be when you know all and see how things stand, and
stop and think, as I now ask you to do, you may be sorry and want
to change your mind. Don't hesitate to do so if you feel that way.
You know I told you to think calmly long ago before you told your
mother. This is a bold, original thing we have been planning. It is
not to be expected that the world would see it as we have. It is
quite to be expected that trouble would follow in the wake of it,
but it seemed possible to me, and still seems so. If you want to
come to me, say so. If you want me to come to you, speak the word.
We will go to England or Italy, and I will try my hand at painting
again. I can do that I am sure. Or, we can stay here, and I can see
if some engagement cannot be had.
"You want to remember, though, that your mother may not have
finished fighting. She may go to much greater lengths than she has
gone. You thought you might control her, but it seems not. I
thought we had won in Canada, but it appears not. If she attempts
to restrain you from using your share of your father's estate, she
may be able to cause you trouble there. If she attempts to
incarcerate you, she might be successful. I wish I could talk to
you. Can't I see you at Lenox? Are you coming home next week? We
ought to think and plan and act now if at all. Don't let any
consideration for me stand in your way, though, if you are
doubtful. Remember that conditions are different now. Your whole
future hangs on your decision. I should have talked this way long
ago, perhaps, but I did not think your mother could do what she has
succeeded in doing. I did not think my financial standing would
play any part in it.
"Flower Face, this is the day of real trial for me. I am unhappy,
but only at the possible prospect of losing you. Nothing of all
these other things really matters. With you, everything would be
perfect, whatever my condition might be. Without you, it will be as
dark as night. The decision is in your hands and you must act.
Whatever you decide, that I will do. Don't, as I say, let
consideration for me stand in the way. You are young. You have a
social career before you. After all, I am twice your age. I talk
thus sanely because if you come to me now, I want you to understand
clearly how you come.
"Oh, I wonder sometimes if you really understand. I wonder if I
have been dreaming a dream. You are so beautiful. You have been
such an inspiration to me. Has this been a lure—a will-o'-the wisp?
I wonder. I wonder. And yet I love you, love you, love you. A
thousand kisses, Divine Fire, and I wait for your word."
Eugene.
"
Suzanne read this letter at Lenox, and for the first time in her
life she began to think and ponder seriously. What had she been
doing? What was Eugene doing? This dénouement frightened her. Her
mother was more purposeful than she imagined. To think of her going
to Colfax—of her lying and turning so in her moods. She had not
thought this possible of her mother. Had not thought it possible
that Eugene could lose his position. He had always seemed so
powerful to her; so much a law unto himself. Once when they were
out in an automobile together, he had asked her why she loved him,
and she said, "because you are a genius and can do anything you
please."
"Oh, no," he answered, "nothing like that. I can't really do
very much of anything. You just have an exaggerated notion of
me."
"Oh, no, I haven't," she replied. "You can paint, and you can
write"—she was judging by some of the booklets about Blue Sea and
verses about herself and clippings of articles done in his old
Chicago newspaper days, which he showed her once in a scrapbook in
his apartment—"and you can run that office, and you were an
advertising manager and an art director."
She lifted up her face and looked into his eyes admiringly.
"My, what a list of accomplishments!" he replied. "Well whom the
gods would destroy they first make mad." He kissed her.
"And you love so beautifully," she added by way of climax.
Since then, she had thought of this often, but now, somehow, it
received a severe setback. He was not quite so powerful. He could
not prevent her mother from doing this, and could she really
conquer her mother? Whatever Suzanne might think of her deceit, she
was moving Heaven and earth to prevent this. Was she wholly wrong?
After that climacteric night at St. Jacques, when somehow the
expected did not happen, Suzanne had been thinking. Did she really
want to leave home, and go with Eugene? Did she want to fight her
mother in regard to her estate? She might have to do that. Her
original idea had been that she and Eugene would meet in some
lovely studio, and that she would keep her own home, and he would
have his. It was something very different, this talk of poverty,
and not having an automobile, and being far away from home. Still
she loved him. Maybe she could force her mother to terms yet.
There were more struggles in the two or three succeeding days,
in which the guardian of the estate—Mr. Herbert Pitcairn, of the
Marquardt Trust Company, and, once more, Dr. Woolley, were called
in to argue with her. Suzanne, unable to make up her mind, listened
to her mother's insidious plea, that if she would wait a year, and
then say she really wanted him, she could have him; listened to Mr.
Pitcairn tell her mother that he believed any court would on
application adjudge her incompetent and tie up her estate; heard
Dr. Woolley say in her presence to her mother that he did not deem
a commission in lunacy advisable, but if her mother insisted, no
doubt a judge would adjudge her insane, if no more than to prevent
this unhallowed consummation. Suzanne became frightened. Her iron
nerve, after Eugene's letter, was weakening. She was terribly
incensed against her mother, but she began now for the first time
to think what her friends would think. Supposing her mother did
lock her up. Where would they think she was? All these days and
weeks of strain, which had worn her mother threadbare had told
something on her own strength, or rather nerve. It was too intense,
and she began to wonder whether they had not better do as Eugene
suggested, and wait a little while. He had agreed up at St. Jacques
to wait, if she were willing. Only the provision was that they were
to see each other. Now her mother had changed front again, pleading
danger, undue influence, that she ought to have at least a year of
her old kind of life undisturbed to see whether she really
cared.
"How can you tell?" she insisted to Suzanne, in spite of the
girl's desire not to talk. "You have been swept into this, and you
haven't given yourself time to think. A year won't hurt. What harm
will it do you or him?"
"But, mama," asked Suzanne over and over at different times, and
in different places, "why did you go and tell Mr. Colfax? What a
mean, cruel thing that was to do!"
"Because I think he needs something like that to make him pause
and think. He isn't going to starve. He is a man of talent. He
needs something like that to bring him to his senses. Mr. Colfax
hasn't discharged him. He told me he wouldn't. He said he would
make him take a year off and think about it, and that's just what
he has done. It won't hurt him. I don't care if it does. Look at
the way he has made me suffer."