Chapter I

It was when Eugene was at the height of his success that a meeting took place between himself and a certain Mrs. Emily Dale.

Mrs. Dale was a strikingly beautiful and intelligent widow of thirty-eight, the daughter of a well-to-do and somewhat famous New York family of Dutch extraction—the widow of an eminent banker of considerable wealth who had been killed in an automobile accident near Paris some years before. She was the mother of four children, Suzanne, eighteen; Kinroy, fifteen; Adele, twelve, and Ninette, nine, but the size of her family had in no way affected the subtlety of her social personality and the delicacy of her charm and manner. She was tall, graceful, willowy, with a wealth of dark hair, which was used in the most subtle manner to enhance the beauty of her face. She was calm, placid apparently, while really running deep with emotion and fancies, with manners which were the perfection of kindly courtesy and good breeding and with those airs of superiority which come so naturally to those who are raised in a fortunate and exclusive atmosphere.

She did not consider herself passionate in a marked degree, but freely admitted to herself that she was vain and coquettish. She was keen and observing, with a single eye to the main chance socially, but with a genuine love for literature and art and a propensity to write. Eugene met her through Colfax, who introduced him to her. He learned from the latter that she was rather unfortunate in her marriage except from a money point of view, and that her husband's death was no irreparable loss. He also learned from the same source that she was a good mother, trying to bring up her children in the manner most suitable to their station and opportunities. Her husband had been of a much poorer social origin than herself, but her own standing was of the very best. She was a gay social figure, being invited much, entertaining freely, preferring the company of younger men to those of her own age or older and being followed ardently by one fortune hunter and another, who saw in her beauty, wealth and station, an easy door to the heaven of social supremacy.

The Dale home, or homes rather, were in several different places—one at Morristown, New Jersey, another on fashionable Grimes Hill on Staten Island, a third—a city residence, which at the time Eugene met them, was leased for a term of years—was in Sixty-seventh Street, near Fifth Avenue in New York City, and a fourth, a small lodge, at Lenox, Massachusetts, which was also rented. Shortly after he met her the house at Morristown was closed and the lodge at Lenox re-occupied.

For the most part Mrs. Dale preferred to dwell in her ancestral home on Staten Island, which, because of its commanding position on what was known as Grimes Hill, controlled a magnificent view of the bay and harbor of New York. Manhattan, its lower wall of buildings, lay like a cloud at the north. The rocking floor of the sea, blue and gray and slate black by turn, spread to the east. In the west were visible the Kill von Kull with its mass of shipping and the Orange Hills. In a boat club at Tompkinsville she had her motor boat, used mostly by her boy; in her garage at Grimes Hill, several automobiles. She owned several riding horses, retained four family servants permanently and in other ways possessed all those niceties of appointment which make up the comfortable life of wealth and ease.

The two youngest of her girls were in a fashionable boarding school at Tarrytown; the boy, Kinroy, was preparing for Harvard; Suzanne, the eldest, was at home, fresh from boarding school experiences, beginning to go out socially. Her début had already been made. Suzanne was a peculiar girl, plump, beautiful, moody, with, at times, a dreamy air of indifference and a smile that ran like a breath of air over water. Her eyes were large, of a vague blue-gray, her lips rosy and arched; her cheeks full and pink. She had a crown of light chestnut hair, a body at once innocent and voluptuous in its outlines. When she laughed it was a rippling gurgle, and her sense of humor was perfect, if not exaggerated. One of those naturally wise but as yet vague and formless artistic types, which suspect without education, nearly all the subtleties of the world, and burst forth full winged and beautiful, but oh, so fragile, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, the radiance of morning upon its body. Eugene did not see her for a long time after he met Mrs. Dale, but when he did, he was greatly impressed with her beauty.

Life sometimes builds an enigma out of common clay, and with a look from a twelve-year-old girl, sets a Dante singing. It can make a god of a bull, a divinity of an ibis, or a beetle, set up a golden calf to be worshipped of the multitude. Paradox! Paradox! In this case an immature and yet nearly perfect body held a seemingly poetic and yet utterly nebulous appreciation of life—a body so youthful, a soul so fumbling that one would ask, How should tragedy lurk in form like this?

A fool?

Not quite, yet so nebulous, so much a dreamer that difficulty might readily follow in the wake of any thoughtless deed.

As a matter of fact, favored as she was by nature and fortune, her very presence was dangerous—provocative, without thought of being so. If a true artist had painted her, synthesizing her spirit with her body, he might have done so showing her standing erect on a mountain top, her limbs outlined amidst fluttering draperies against the wind, her eyes fixed on distant heights, or a falling star. Out of mystery into mystery again, so she came and went. Her mind was not unlike a cloud of mist through which the morning sun is endeavoring to break, irradiating all with its flushes of pink and gold. Again it was like those impearled shells of the South Sea, without design yet suggestive of all perfections and all beauties. Dreams! dreams!—of clouds, sunsets, colors, sounds which a too articulate world would do its best later to corrupt. What Dante saw in Beatrice, what Abélard saw in Héloïse, Romeo in Juliet, so some wondering swain could have seen in her—and suffered a like fate.

Eugene encountered Mrs. Dale at a house party on Long Island one Saturday afternoon, and their friendship began at once. She was introduced to him by Colfax, and because of the latter's brusque, jesting spirit was under no illusions as to his social state.

"You needn't look at him closely," he observed gaily, "he's married."

"That simply makes him all the more interesting," she rippled, and extended her hand.

Eugene took it. "I'm glad a poor married man can find shelter somewhere," he said, smartly.

"You should rejoice," she replied. "It's at once your liberty and your protection. Think how safe you are!"

"I know, I know," he said. "All the slings and arrows of Miss Fortune hurtling by."

"And you in no danger of being hurt."

He offered her his arm, and they strolled through a window onto a veranda.

The day was just the least bit dull for Mrs. Dale. Bridge was in progress in the card room, a company of women and girls gambling feverishly. Eugene was not good at bridge, not quick enough mentally, and Mrs. Dale did not care much for it.

"I have been trying to stir up enough interest to bring to pass a motor ride, but it doesn't work," she said. "They all have the gambling fever today. Are you as greedy as the others?"

"I'm greedy I assure you, but I can't play. The greediest thing I can do is to stay away from the tables. I save most. That sharp Faraday has cleaned me and two others out of four hundred dollars. It's astonishing the way some people can play. They just look at the cards or make mystic signs and the wretched things range themselves in serried ranks to suit them. It's a crime. It ought to be a penitentiary offense, particularly to beat me. I'm such an inoffensive specimen of the non-bridge playing family."

"A burnt child, you know. Stay away. Let's sit here. They can't come out here and rob you."

They sat down in green willow chairs, and after a time a servant offered them coffee. Mrs. Dale accepted. They drifted conversationally from bridge to characters in society—a certain climber by the name of Bristow, a man who had made a fortune in trunks—and from him to travel and from travel to Mrs. Dale's experiences with fortune hunters. The automobile materialized through the intervention of others, but Eugene found great satisfaction in this woman's company and sat beside her. They talked books, art, magazines, the making of fortunes and reputations. Because he was or seemed to be in a position to assist her in a literary way she was particularly nice to him. When he was leaving she asked, "Where are you in New York?"

"Riverside Drive is our present abode," he said.

"Why don't you bring Mrs. Witla and come down to see us some week-end? I usually have a few people there, and the house is roomy. I'll name you a special day if you wish."

"Do. We'll be delighted. Mrs. Witla will enjoy it, I'm sure."

Mrs. Dale wrote to Angela ten days later as to a particular date, and in this way the social intimacy began.

It was never of a very definite character, though. When Mrs. Dale met Angela she liked her quite well as an individual, whatever she may have thought of her as a social figure. Neither Eugene nor Angela saw Suzanne nor any of the other children on this occasion, all of them being away. Eugene admired the view tremendously and hinted at being invited again. Mrs. Dale was delighted. She liked him as a man entirely apart from his position but particularly because of his publishing station. She was ambitious to write. Others had told her that he was the most conspicuous of the rising figures in the publishing world. Being friendly with him would give her exceptional standing with all his editors. She was only too pleased to be gracious to him. He was invited again and a third time, with Angela, and it seemed as though they were reaching, or might at least reach, something much more definite than a mere social acquaintance.

It was about six months after Eugene had first met Mrs. Dale that Angela gave a tea, and Eugene, in assisting her to prepare the list of invitations, had suggested that those who were to serve the tea and cakes should be two exceptionally pretty girls who were accustomed to come to the Witla apartment, Florence Reel, the daughter of a well-known author of that name and Marjorie Mac Tennan, the daughter of a well-known editor, both beautiful and talented, one with singing and the other with art ambitions. Angela had seen a picture of Suzanne Dale in her mother's room at Daleview on Grimes Hill, and had been particularly taken with her girlish charm and beauty.

"I wonder," she said, "if Mrs. Dale would object to having Suzanne come and help serve that day. She would like it, I'm sure, there are going to be so many clever people here. We haven't seen her, but that doesn't matter. It would be a nice way to introduce herself."

"That's a good idea, I should say," observed Eugene judicially. He had seen the photo of Suzanne and liked it, though he was not over-impressed. Photos to him were usually gross deceivers. He accepted them always with reservations. Angela forthwith wrote to Mrs. Dale, who agreed. She would be glad to come herself. She had seen the Witla apartment, and had been very much pleased with it. The reception day came and Angela begged Eugene to come home early.

"I know you don't like to be alone with a whole roomful of people, but Mr. Goodrich is coming, and Frederick Allen (one of their friends who had taken a fancy to Eugene), Arturo Scalchero is going to sing and Bonavita to play." Scalchero was none other than Arthur Skalger, of Port Jervis, New Jersey, but he assumed this corruption of his name in Italy to help him to success. Bonavita was truly a Spanish pianist of some repute who was flattered to be invited to Eugene's home.

"Well, I don't care much about it," replied Eugene. "But I will come."

He frequently felt that afternoon teas and receptions were ridiculous affairs, and that he had far better be in his office attending to his multitudinous duties. Still he did leave early, and at five-thirty was ushered into a great roomful of chattering, gesticulating, laughing people. A song by Florence Reel had just been concluded. Like all girls of ambition, vivacity and imagination, she took an interest in Eugene, for in his smiling face she found a responsive gleam.

"Oh, Mr. Witla!" she exclaimed. "Now here you are and you just missed my song. And I wanted you to hear it, too."

"Don't grieve, Florrie," he said familiarly, holding her hand and looking momentarily in her eyes. "You're going to sing it again for me. I heard part of it as I came up on the elevator." He relinquished her hand. "Why, Mrs. Dale! Delighted, I'm sure. So nice of you. And Arturo Scalchero—hullo, Skalger, you old frost! Where'd you get the Italian name? Bonavita! Fine! Am I going to hear you play? All over? Alas! Marjorie Mac Tennan! Gee, but you look sweet! If Mrs. Witla weren't watching me, I'd kiss you. Oh, the pretty bonnet! And Frederick Allen! My word! What are you trying to grab off, Allen? I'm on to you. No bluffs! Nix! Nix! Why, Mrs. Schenck—delighted! Angela, why didn't you tell me Mrs. Schenck was coming? I'd have been home at three."

By this time he had reached the east end of the great studio room, farthest from the river. Here a tea table was spread with a silver tea service, and behind it a girl, oval-faced, radiantly healthy, her full lips parted in a ripe smile, her blue-gray eyes talking pleasure and satisfaction, her forehead laid about by a silver filigree band, beneath which her brown chestnut curls protruded. Her hands, Eugene noted, were plump and fair. She stood erect, assured, with the least touch of quizzical light in her eye. A white, pink-bordered dress draped her girlish figure.

"I don't know," he said easily, "but I wager a guess that this is—that this is—this is Suzanne Dale—what?"

"Yes, this is," she replied laughingly. "Can I give you a cup of tea, Mr. Witla? I know you are Mr. Witla from ma-ma´'s description and the way in which you talk to everybody."

"And how do I talk to everybody, may I ask, pleasum?"

"Oh, I can't tell you so easily. I mean, I can't find the words, you know. I know how it is, though. Familiarly, I suppose I mean. Will you have one lump or two?"

"Three an thou pleasest. Didn't your mother tell me you sang or played?"

"Oh, you mustn't believe anything ma-ma´ says about me! She's apt to say anything. Tee! Hee! It makes me laugh"—she pronounced it laaf—"to think of my playing. My teacher says he would like to strike my knuckles. Oh, dear!" (She went into a gale of giggles.) "And sing! Oh, dear, dear! That is too good!"

Eugene watched her pretty face intently. Her mouth and nose and eyes fascinated him. She was so sweet! He noted the configuration of her lips and cheeks and chin. The nose was delicate, beautifully formed, fat, not sensitive. The ears were small, the eyes large and wide set, the forehead naturally high, but so concealed by curls that it seemed low. She had a few freckles and a very small dimple in her chin.

"Now you mustn't laugh like that," he said mock solemnly. "It's very serious business, this laughing. In the first place, it's against the rules of this apartment. No one is ever, ever, ever supposed to laugh here, particularly young ladies who pour tea. Tea, Epictetus well says, involves the most serious conceptions of one's privileges and duties. It is the high-born prerogative of tea servers to grin occasionally, but never, never, never under any circumstances whatsoever——" Suzanne's lips were beginning to part ravishingly in anticipation of a burst of laughter.

"What's all the excitement about, Witla?" asked Skalger, who had drifted to his side. "Why this sudden cessation of progress?"

"Tea, my son, tea!" said Eugene. "Have a cup with me?"

"I will."

"He's trying to tell me, Mr. Skalger, that I should never laaf. I must only grin." Her lips parted and she laughed joyously. Eugene laughed with her. He could not help it. "Ma-ma´ says I giggle all the time. I wouldn't do very well here, would I?"

She always pronounced it "ma-ma´."

She turned to Eugene again with big smiling eyes.

"Exceptions, exceptions. I might make exceptions—one exception—but not more."

"Why one?" she asked archly.

"Oh, just to hear a natural laugh," he said a little plaintively. "Just to hear a real joyous laugh. Can you laugh joyously?"

She giggled again at this, and he was about to tell her how joyously she did laugh when Angela called him away to hear Florence Reel, who was going to sing again for his especial benefit. He parted from Miss Dale reluctantly, for she seemed some delicious figure as delicately colorful as Royal Dresden, as perfect in her moods as a spring evening, as soft, soulful, enticing as a strain of music heard through the night at a distance or over the water. He went over to where Florence Reel was standing, listening in a sympathetic melancholy vein to a delightful rendering of "The Summer Winds Are Blowing, Blowing." All the while he could not help thinking of Suzanne—letting his eyes stray in that direction. He talked to Mrs. Dale, to Henrietta Tenmon, to Luke Severas, Mr. and Mrs. Dula, Payalei Stone, now a writer of special articles, and others, but he couldn't help longing to go back to her. How sweet she was! How very delightful! If he could only, once more in his life, have the love of a girl like that!

The guests began to depart. Angela and Eugene bustled about the farewells. Because of the duties of her daughter, which continued to the end, Mrs. Dale stayed, talking to Arthur Skalger. Eugene was in and out between the studio and cloak room off the entry way. Now and then he caught glimpses of Suzanne demurely standing by her tea cups and samovar. For years he had seen nothing so fresh and young as her body. She was like a new grown wet white lily pod in the dawn of the year. She seemed to have the texture of the water chestnut and the lush, fat vegetables of the spring. Her eyes were as clear as water; her skin as radiant new ivory. There was no sign of weariness about her, nor any care, nor any thought of evil, nor anything except health and happiness. "Such a face!" he thought casually in passing. "She is as sweet as any girl could be. As radiant as light itself."

Incidentally the personality of Frieda Roth came back, and—long before her—Stella Appleton.

"Youth! Youth! What in this world could be finer—more acceptable! Where would you find its equal? After all the dust of the streets and the spectacle of age and weariness—the crow's feet about people's eyes, the wrinkles in their necks, the make-believe of rouge and massage, and powder and cosmetics, to see real youth, not of the body but of the soul also—the eyes, the smile, the voice, the movements—all young. Why try to imitate that miracle? Who could? Who ever had?"

He went on shaking hands, bowing, smiling, laughing, jesting, making believe himself, but all the while the miracle of the youth and beauty of Suzanne Dale was running in his mind.

"What are you thinking about, Eugene?" asked Angela, coming to the window where he had drawn a rocking-chair and was sitting gazing out on the silver and lavender and gray of the river surface in the fading light. Some belated gulls were still flying about. Across the river the great manufactory was sending off a spiral of black smoke from one of its tall chimneys. Lamps were beginning to twinkle in its hundred-windowed wall. A great siren cry broke from its whistle as six o'clock tolled from a neighboring clock tower. It was still late February and cold.

"Oh, I was thinking of the beauty of this scene," he said wearily.

Angela did not believe it. She was conscious of something, but they never quarreled about what he was thinking nowadays. They had come too far along in comfort and solidity. What was it, though, she wondered, that he was thinking about?

Suzanne Dale had no particular thought of him. He was nice—pleasant, good-looking. Mrs. Witla was quite nice and young.

"Ma-ma," she said, "did you look out of the window at Mr. Witla's?"

"Yes, my dear!"

"Wasn't that a beautiful view?"

"Charming."

"I should think you might like to live on the Drive sometime, ma-ma."

"We may sometime."

Mrs. Dale fell to musing. Certainly Eugene was an attractive man—young, brilliant, able. What a mistake all the young men made, marrying so early. Here he was successful, introduced to society, attractive, the world really before him, and he was married to someone who, though a charming little woman, was not up to his possibilities.

"Oh, well," she thought, "so goes the world. Why worry? Everyone must do the best they can."

Then she thought of a story she might write along this line and get Eugene to publish it in one of his magazines.