The Genius (66 page)

"Oh, Suzanne," he said.

"No, no," she breathed, drawing back.

"Oh, Suzanne," he repeated, "may I tell you?"

"No, no," she answered. "Don't speak to me. Please don't. Let's
just walk. You and I."

He hushed, for her voice, though sad and fearsome, was
imperious. He could not do less than obey this mood.

They went to a little country farmhouse which ranged along the
track in lieu of a depot, and sang a quaint air from some old-time
comic opera.

"Do you remember the first time when you came to play tennis
with me?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you know I felt a strange vibration before your coming and
all during your playing. Did you?"

"Yes."

"What is that, Suzanne?"

"I don't know."

"Don't you want to know?"

"No, no, Mr. Witla, not now."

"Mr. Witla?"

"It must be so."

"Oh, Suzanne!"

"Let's just think," she pleaded, "it is so beautiful."

They came to a station near Daleview, and walked over. On the
way he slipped his arm about her waist, but, oh, so lightly.

"Suzanne," he asked, with a terrible yearning ache in his heart,
"do you blame me? Can you?"

"Don't ask me," she pleaded, "not now. No, no."

He tried to press her a little more closely.

"Not now. I don't blame you."

He stopped as they neared the lawn and entered the house with a
jesting air. Explanations about mixing in the crowd and getting
lost were easy. Mrs. Dale smiled good naturedly. Suzanne went to
her room.

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?"