Chapter VIII

Having involved himself thus far, seized upon and made his own this perfect flower of life, Eugene had but one thought, and that was to retain it. Now, of a sudden, had fallen from him all the weariness of years. To be in love again. To be involved in such a love, so wonderful, so perfect, so exquisite, it did not seem that life could really be so gracious as to have yielded him so much. What did it all mean, his upward rise during all these years? There had been seemingly but one triumph after another since the bitter days in Riverwood and after. The World, Summerfield's, The Kalvin Company, The United Magazine Corporation, Winfield, his beautiful apartment on the drive. Surely the gods were good. What did they mean? To give him fame, fortune and Suzanne into the bargain? Could such a thing really be? How could it be worked out? Would fate conspire and assist him so that he could be free of Angela—or——

The thought of Angela to him in these days was a great pain. At bottom Eugene really did not dislike her, he never had. Years of living with her had produced an understanding and a relationship as strong and as keen as it might well be in some respects. Angela had always fancied since the Riverwood days that she really did not love Eugene truly any more—could not, that he was too self-centered and selfish; but this on her part was more of an illusion than a reality. She did care for him in an unselfish way from one point of view, in that she would sacrifice everything to his interests. From another point of view it was wholly selfish, for she wanted him to sacrifice everything for her in return. This he was not willing to do and had never been. He considered that his life was a larger thing than could be encompassed by any single matrimonial relationship. He wanted freedom of action and companionship, but he was afraid of Angela, afraid of society, in a way afraid of himself and what positive liberty might do to him. He felt sorry for Angela—for the intense suffering she would endure if he forced her in some way to release him—and at the same time he felt sorry for himself. The lure of beauty had never for one moment during all these years of upward mounting effort been stilled.

It is curious how things seem to conspire at times to produce a climax. One would think that tragedies like plants and flowers are planted as seeds and grow by various means and aids to a terrible maturity. Roses of hell are some lives, and they shine with all the lustre of infernal fires.

In the first place Eugene now began to neglect his office work thoroughly, for he could not fix his mind upon it any more than he could upon the affairs of the Sea Island Company, or upon his own home and Angela's illness. The morning after his South Beach experience with Suzanne and her curious reticence, he saw her for a little while upon the veranda of Daleview. She was not seemingly depressed, or at least, not noticeably so, and yet there was a gravity about her which indicated that a marked impression of some kind had been made upon her soul. She looked at him with wide frank eyes as she came out to him purposely to tell him that she was going with her mother and some friends to Tarrytown for the day.

"I have to go," she said. "Mamma has arranged it by phone."

"Then I won't see you any more here?"

"No."

"Do you love me, Suzanne?"

"Oh, yes, yes," she declared, and walked wearily to an angle of the wall where they could not be seen.

He followed her quickly, cautiously.

"Kiss me," he said, and she put her lips to his in a distraught frightened way. Then she turned and walked briskly off and he admired the robust swinging of her body. She was not tall, like himself, or small like Angela, but middle sized, full bodied, vigorous. He imagined now that she had a powerful soul in her, capable of great things, full of courage and strength. Once she was a little older, she would be very forceful and full of strong, direct thought.

He did not see her again for nearly ten days, and by that time he was nearly desperate. He was wondering all the time how he was to arrange this. He could not go on in this haphazard way, seeing her occasionally. Why she might leave town for the fall a little later and then what would he do? If her mother heard she would take her off to Europe and then would Suzanne forget? What a tragedy that would be! No, before that should happen, he would run away with her. He would realize all his investments and get away. He could not live without her. He must have her at any cost. What did the United Magazine Corporation amount to, anyway? He was tired of that work. Angela might have the Sea Island Realty Company's stock, if he could not dispose of it advantageously, or if he could, he would make provision for her out of what he should receive. He had some ready money—a few thousand dollars. This and his art—he could still paint—would sustain them. He would go to England with Suzanne, or to France. They would be happy if she really loved him and he thought she did. All this old life could go its way. It was a dreary thing, anyhow, without love. These were his first thoughts.

Later, he came to have different ones, but this was after he had talked to Suzanne again. It was a difficult matter to arrange. In a fit of desperation he called up Daleview one day, and asked if Miss Suzanne Dale was there. A servant answered, and in answer to the "who shall I say" he gave the name of a young man that he knew Suzanne knew. When she answered he said: "Listen, Suzanne! Can you hear very well?"

"Yes."

"Do you recognize my voice?"

"Yes."

"Please don't pronounce my name, will you?"

"No."

"Suzanne, I am crazy to see you. It has been ten days now. Are you going to be in town long?"

"I don't know. I think so."

"If anyone comes near you, Suzanne, simply hang up the receiver, and I will understand."

"Yes."

"If I came anywhere near your house in a car, could you come out and see me?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, Suzanne!"

"I'm not sure. I'll try. What time?"

"Do you know where the old fort road is, at Crystal Lake, just below you?"

"Yes."

"Do you know where the ice house is near the road there?"

"Yes."

"Could you come there?"

"What time?"

"At eleven tomorrow morning or two this afternoon or three."

"I might at two today."

"Oh, thank you for that. I'll wait for you, anyhow."

"All right. Good-bye."

And she hung up the receiver.

Eugene rejoiced at the fortunate outcome of this effort without thinking at first of the capable manner in which she had handled the situation. Truly he said afterwards she must be very courageous to think so directly and act so quickly, for it must have been very trying to her. This love of his was so new. Her position was so very difficult. And yet, on this first call when she had been suddenly put in touch with him, she had shown no signs of trepidation. Her voice had been firm and even, much more so than his, for he was nervously excited. She had taken in the situation at once and fallen into the ruse quite readily. Was she as simple as she seemed? Yes and no. She was simply capable, he thought and her capability had acted through her simplicity instantly.

At two the same day Eugene was there. He gave as an excuse to his secretary that he was going out for a business conference with a well-known author whose book he wished to obtain, and, calling a closed auto, but one not his own, journeyed to the rendezvous. He asked the man to drive down the road, making runs of half a mile to and fro while he sat in the shade of a clump of trees out of view of the road. Presently Suzanne came, bright and fresh as the morning, beautiful in a light purple walking costume of masterly design. She had on a large soft brimmed hat with long feathers of the same shade which became her exquisitely. She walked with an air of grace and freedom, and yet when he looked into her eyes, he saw a touch of trouble there.

"At last?" he said signaling her and smiling. "Come in here. My car is just up the road. Don't you think we had better get in? It's closed. We might be seen. How long can you stay?"

He took her in his arms and kissed her eagerly while she explained that she could not stay long. She had said she was going to the library, which her mother had endowed, for a book. She must be there by half past three or four at the least.

"Oh, we can talk a great deal by then," he said gaily. "Here comes the car. Let's get in."

He looked cautiously about, hailed it, and they stepped in quickly as it drew up.

"Perth Amboy," said Eugene, and they were off at high speed.

Once in the car all was perfect, for they could not be seen. He drew the shades partially and took her in his arms.

"Oh, Suzanne," he said, "how long it has seemed. How very long. Do you love me?"

"Yes, you know I do."

"Suzanne, how shall we arrange this? Are you going away soon? I must see you oftener."

"I don't know," she said. "I don't know what mama is thinking of doing. I know she wants to go up to Lenox in the fall."

"Oh, Pshaw!" commented Eugene wearily.

"Listen, Mr. Witla," said Suzanne thoughtfully. "You know we are running a terrible risk. What if Mrs. Witla should find out, or mama? It would be terrible."

"I know it," said Eugene. "I suppose I ought not to be acting in this way. But, oh, Suzanne, I am wild about you. I am not myself any longer. I don't know what I am. I only know that I love you, love you, love you!"

He gathered her in his arms and kissed her ecstatically. "How sweet you look. How beautiful you are. Oh, flower face! Myrtle Bloom! Angel Eyes! Divine Fire!" He hugged her in a long silent embrace, the while the car sped on.

"But what about us?" she asked, wide-eyed. "You know we are running a terrible risk. I was just thinking this morning when you called me up. It's dangerous, you know."

"Are you becoming sorry, Suzanne?"

"No."

"Do you love me?"

"You know I do."

"Then you will help me figure this out?"

"I want to. But listen, Mr. Witla, now listen to me. I want to tell you something." She was very solemn and quaint and sweet in this mood.

"I will listen to anything, baby mine, but don't call me Mr. Witla. Call me Eugene, will you?"

"Well, now, listen to me, Mr.—Mr.—Eugene."

"Not Mr. Eugene, just Eugene. Now say it. Eugene," he quoted his own name to her.

"Now listen to me, Mr.—now, listen to me, Eugene," she at last forced herself to say, and Eugene stopped her lips with his mouth.

"There," he said.

"Now listen to me," she went on urgently, "you know I am afraid mama will be terribly angry if she finds this out."

"Oh, will she?" interrupted Eugene jocosely.

Suzanne paid no attention to him.

"We have to be very careful. She likes you so much now that if she doesn't come across anything direct, she will never think of anything. She was talking about you only this morning."

"What was she saying?"

"Oh, what a nice man you are, and how able you are."

"Oh, nothing like that," replied Eugene jestingly.

"Yes, she did. And I think Mrs. Witla likes me. I can meet you sometimes when I'm there, but we must be so careful. I mustn't stay out long today. I want to think things out, too. You know I'm having a real hard time thinking about this."

Eugene smiled. Her innocence was so delightful to him, so naïve.

"What do you mean by thinking things out, Suzanne?" asked Eugene curiously. He was interested in the workings of her young mind, which seemed so fresh and wonderful to him. It was so delightful to find this paragon of beauty so responsive, so affectionate and helpful and withal so thoughtful. She was somewhat like a delightful toy to him, and he held her as reverently in awe as though she were a priceless vase.

"You know I want to think what I'm doing. I have to. It seems so terrible to me at times and yet you know, you know——"

"I know what?" he asked, when she paused.

"I don't know why I shouldn't if I want to—if I love you."

Eugene looked at her curiously. This attempt at analysis of life, particularly in relation to so trying and daring a situation as this, astonished him. He had fancied Suzanne more or less thoughtless and harmless as yet, big potentially, but uncertain and vague. Here she was thinking about this most difficult problem almost more directly than he was and apparently with more courage. He was astounded, but more than that, intensely interested. What had become of her terrific fright of ten days before? What was it she was thinking about exactly?

"What a curious girl you are," he said.

"Why am I?" she asked.

"Because you are. I didn't think you could think so keenly yet. I thought you would some day. But, how have you reasoned this out?"

"Did you ever read 'Anna Karénina'?" she asked him meditatively.

"Yes," he said, wondering that she should have read it at her age.

"What did you think of that?"

"Oh, it shows what happens, as a rule, when you fly in the face of convention," he said easily, wondering at the ability of her brain.

"Do you think things must happen that way?"

"No, I don't think they must happen that way. There are lots of cases where people do go against the conventions and succeed. I don't know. It appears to be all a matter of time and chance. Some do and some don't. If you are strong enough or clever enough to 'get away with it,' as they say, you will. If you aren't, you won't. What makes you ask?"

"Well," she said, pausing, her lips parted, her eyes fixed on the floor, "I was thinking that it needn't necessarily be like that, do you think? It could be different?"

"Yes, it could be," he said thoughtfully, wondering if it really could.

"Because if it couldn't," she went on, "the price would be too high. It isn't worth while."

"You mean, you mean," he said, looking at her, "that you would." He was thinking that she was deliberately contemplating making a sacrifice of herself for him. Something in her thoughtful, self-debating, meditative manner made him think so.

Suzanne looked out of the window and slowly nodded her head. "Yes," she said, solemnly, "if it could be arranged. Why not? I don't see why."

Her face was a perfect blossom of beauty, as she spoke. Eugene wondered whether he was waking or sleeping. Suzanne reasoning so! Suzanne reading "Anna Karénina" and philosophizing so! Basing a course of action on theorizing in connection with books and life, and in the face of such terrible evidence as "Anna Karénina" presented to the contrary of this proposition. Would wonders ever cease?

"You know," she said after a time, "I think mama wouldn't mind, Eugene. She likes you. I've heard her say so lots of times. Besides I've heard her talk this way about other people. She thinks people oughtn't to marry unless they love each other very much. I don't think she thinks it's necessary for people to marry at all unless they want to. We might live together if we wished, you know."

Eugene himself had heard Mrs. Dale question the marriage system, but only in a philosophic way. He did not take much stock in her social maunderings. He did not know what she might be privately saying to Suzanne, but he did not believe it could be very radical, or at least seriously so.

"Don't you take any stock in what your mother says, Suzanne," he observed, studying her pretty face. "She doesn't mean it, at least, she doesn't mean it as far as you are concerned. She's merely talking. If she thought anything were going to happen to you, she'd change her mind pretty quick."

"No, I don't think so," replied Suzanne thoughtfully. "You know, I think I know mama better than she knows herself. She always talks of me as a little girl, but I can rule her in lots of things. I've done it."

Eugene stared at Suzanne in amazement. He could scarcely believe his ears. She was beginning so early to think so deeply on the social and executive sides of life. Why should her mind be trying to dominate her mother's?

"Suzanne," he observed, "you must be careful what you do or say. Don't rush into talking of this pellmell. It's dangerous. I love you, but we shall have to go slow. If Mrs. Witla should learn of this, she would be crazy. If your mother should suspect, she would take you away to Europe somewhere, very likely. Then I wouldn't get to see you at all."

"Oh, no, she wouldn't," replied Suzanne determinedly. "You know, I know mama better than you think I do. I can rule her, I tell you. I know I can. I've done it."

She tossed her head in an exquisitely pretty way which upset Eugene's reasoning faculties. He could not think and look at her.

"Suzanne," he said, drawing her to him. "You are exquisite, extreme, the last word in womanhood for me. To think of your reasoning so—you, Suzanne."

"Why, why," she asked, with pretty parted lips and uplifted eyebrows, "why shouldn't I think?"

"Oh, yes, certainly, we all do, but not so deeply, necessarily, Flower Face."

"Well, we must think now," she said simply.

"Yes, we must think now," he replied; "would you really share a studio with me if I were to take one? I don't know of any other way quite at present."

"I would, if I knew how to manage it," she replied. "Mama is queer. She's so watchful. She thinks I'm a child and you know I am not at all. I don't understand mama. She talks one thing and does another. I would rather do and not talk. Don't you think so?" He stared. "Still, I think I can fix it. Leave it to me."

"And if you can you'll come to me?"

"Oh, yes, yes," exclaimed Suzanne ecstatically, turning to him all at once and catching his face between her hands. "Oh!"—she looked into his eyes and dreamed.

"But we must be careful," he cautioned. "We musn't do anything rash."

"I won't," said Suzanne.

"And I won't, of course," he replied.

They paused again while he watched her.

"I might make friends with Mrs. Witla," she observed, after a time. "She likes me, doesn't she?"

"Yes," said Eugene.

"Mama doesn't object to my going up there, and I could let you know."

"That's all right. Do that," said Eugene. "Oh, please do, if you can. Did you notice whose name I used today?"

"Yes," she said. "You know Mr. Witla, Eugene, I thought you might call me up?"

"Did you?" he asked, smiling.

"Yes."

"You give me courage, Suzanne," he said, drawing close to her. "You're so confident, so apparently carefree. The world hasn't touched your spirit."

"When I'm away from you, though, I'm not so courageous," she replied. "I've been thinking terrible things. I get frightened sometimes."

"But you mustn't, sweet, I need you so. Oh, how I need you."

She looked at him, and for the first time smoothed his hair with her hand.

"You know, Eugene, you're just like a boy to me."

"Do I seem so?" he asked, comforted greatly.

"I couldn't love you as I do if you weren't."

He drew her to him again and kissed her anew.

"Can't we repeat these rides every few days?" he asked.

"Yes, if I'm here, maybe."

"It's all right to call you up if I use another name?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Let's choose new names for each, so that we'll know who's calling. You shall be Jenny Lind and I Allan Poe." Then they fell to ardent love-making until the time came when they had to return. For him, so far as work was concerned, the afternoon was gone.