The Genius (71 page)

"Look at me," she said once when he had dolefully commented upon
the possibility of change. "Look straight into my eyes. What do you
see?"

"Courage and determination," he said.

"What else?"

"Love."

"Do you think I will change?"

"No."

"Surely?"

"No."

"Well, look at me straight, Eugene. I won't. I won't, do you
hear? I'm yours until you don't want me anymore. Now will you be
happy?"

"Yes," he said.

"And when we get our studio," she went on.

"When we get our studio," he said, "we'll furnish it perfectly,
and entertain a little after a while, maybe. You'll be my lovely
Suzanne, my Flower Face, my Myrtle Blossom. Helen, Circe,
Dianeme."

"I'll be your week-end bride," she laughed, "your odd or even
girl, whichever way the days fall."

"If it only comes true," he exclaimed when they parted. "If it
only does."

"Wait and see," she said. "Now you wait and see."

The days passed and Suzanne began what she called her campaign.
Her first move was to begin to talk about the marriage question at
the dinner table, or whenever she and her mother were alone, and to
sound her on this important question, putting her pronouncements on
record. Mrs. Dale was one of those empirical thinkers who love to
philosophize generally, but who make no specific application of
anything to their own affairs. On this marriage question she held
most liberal and philosophic views for all outside her own
immediate family. It was her idea, outside her own family, of
course, that if a girl having reached maturity, and what she
considered a sound intellectual majority, and who was not by then
satisfied with the condition which matrimony offered, if she loved
no man desperately enough to want to marry him and could arrange
some way whereby she could satisfy her craving for love without
jeopardizing her reputation, that was her lookout. So far as Mrs.
Dale was concerned, she had no particular objection. She knew women
in society, who, having made unfortunate marriages, or marriages of
convenience, sustained some such relationship to men whom they
admired. There was a subtle, under the surface understanding
outside the society circles of the most rigid morality in regard to
this, and there was the fast set, of which she was at times a
welcome member, which laughed at the severe conventions of the
older school. One must be careful—very. One must not be caught.
But, otherwise, well, every person's life was a law unto him or
herself.

Suzanne never figured in any of these theories, for Suzanne was
a beautiful girl, capable of an exalted alliance, and her daughter.
She did not care to marry her off to any wretched possessor of
great wealth or title, solely for wealth's or title's sake, but she
was hoping that some eligible young man of excellent social
standing or wealth, or real personal ability, such, for instance,
as Eugene possessed, would come along and marry Suzanne. There
would be a grand wedding at a church of some prominence,—St.
Bartholomew's, very likely; a splendid wedding dinner, oceans of
presents, a beautiful honeymoon. She used to look at Suzanne and
think what a delightful mother she would make. She was so young,
robust, vigorous, able, and in a quiet way, passionate. She could
tell when she danced how eagerly she took life. The young man would
come. It would not be long. These lovely springtimes would do their
work one of these days. As it was, there were a score of men
already who would have given an eye to attract Suzanne's attention,
but Suzanne would none of them. She seemed shy, coy, elusive, but
above all, shy. Her mother had no idea of the iron will all this
concealed any more than she had of the hard anarchic, unsocial
thoughts that were surging in her daughter's brain.

"Do you think a girl ought to marry at all, mama?" Suzanne asked
her one evening when they were alone together, "if she doesn't
regard marriage as a condition she could endure all her days?"

"No-o," replied her mother. "What makes you ask?"

"Well, you see so much trouble among married people that we
know. They're not very happy together. Wouldn't it be better if a
person just stayed single, and if they found someone that they
could really love, well, they needn't necessarily marry to be
happy, need they?"

"What have you been reading lately, Suzanne?" asked her mother,
looking up with a touch of surprise in her eyes.

"Nothing lately. What makes you ask?" said Suzanne wisely,
noting the change in her mother's voice.

"With whom have you been talking?"

"Why, what difference does that make, mama? I've heard you
express precisely the same views?"

"Quite so. I may have. But don't you think you're rather young
to be thinking of things like that? I don't say all that I think
when I'm arguing things philosophically. There are conditions which
govern everything. If it were impossible for a girl to marry well,
or if looks or lack of money interfered,—there are plenty of
reasons—a thing like that might possibly be excusable, but why
should you be thinking of that?"

"Why, it doesn't necessarily follow, mama, that because I am
good looking, or have a little money, or am socially eligible, that
I should want to get married. I may not want to get married at all.
I see just as well as you do how things are with most people. Why
shouldn't I? Do I have to keep away from every man, then?"

"Why, Suzanne! I never heard you argue like this before. You
must have been talking with someone or reading some outré book of
late. I wish you wouldn't. You are too young and too good looking
to entertain any such ideas. Why, you can have nearly any young man
you wish. Surely you can find someone with whom you can live
happily or with whom you would be willing to try. It's time enough
to think about the other things when you've tried and failed. At
least you can give yourself ample time to learn something about
life before you begin to talk such nonsense. You're too young. Why
it's ridiculous."

"Mama," said Suzanne, with the least touch of temper, "I wish
you wouldn't talk to me like that. I'm not a child any more. I'm a
woman. I think like a woman—not like a girl. You forget that I have
a mind of my own and some thoughts. I may not want to get married.
I don't think I do. Certainly not to any of the silly creatures
that are running after me now. Why shouldn't I take some man in an
independent way, if I wish? Other women have before me. Even if
they hadn't, it would be no reason why I shouldn't. My life is my
own."

"Suzanne Dale!" exclaimed her mother, rising, a thrill of terror
passing along her heartstrings. "What are you talking about? Are
you basing these ideas on anything I have said in the past? Then
certainly my chickens are coming home to roost early. You are in no
position to consider whether you want to get married or not. You
have seen practically nothing of men. Why should you reach any such
conclusions now? For goodness' sake, Suzanne, don't begin so early
to meditate on these terrible things. Give yourself a few years in
which to see the world. I don't ask you to marry, but you may meet
some man whom you could love very much, and who would love you. If
you were to go and throw yourself away under some such silly theory
as you entertain now, without stopping to see, or waiting for life
to show you what it has in store, what will you have to offer him.
Suzanne, Suzanne"—Suzanne was turning impatiently to a window—"you
frighten me! There isn't, there couldn't be. Oh, Suzanne, I beg of
you, be careful what you think, what you say, what you do! I can't
know all your thoughts, no mother can, but, oh, if you will stop
and think, and wait a while!"

She looked at Suzanne who walked to a mirror and began to fix a
bow in her hair.

"Mama," she said calmly. "Really, you amuse me. When you are out
with people at dinner, you talk one way, and when you are here with
me, you talk another. I haven't done anything desperate yet. I
don't know what I may want to do. I'm not a child any more, mama.
Please remember that. I'm a woman grown, and I certainly can lay
out my life for myself. I'm sure I don't want to do what you are
doing—talk one thing and do another."

Mrs. Dale recoiled intensely from this stab. Suzanne had
suddenly developed in the line of her argument a note of
determination, frank force and serenity of logic which appalled
her. Where had the girl got all this? With whom had she been
associating? She went over in her mind the girls and men she had
met and known. Who were her intimate companions?—Vera Almerding;
Lizette Woodworth; Cora TenEyck—a half dozen girls who were smart
and clever and socially experienced. Were they talking such things
among themselves? Was there some man or men unduly close to them?
There was one remedy for all this. It must be acted on quickly if
Suzanne were going to fall in with and imbibe any such ideas as
these. Travel—two or three years of incessant travel with her,
which would cover this dangerous period in which girls were so
susceptible to undue influence was the necessary thing. Oh, her own
miserable tongue! Her silly ideas! No doubt all she said was true.
Generally it was so. But Suzanne! Her Suzanne, never! She would
take her away while she had time, to grow older and wiser through
experience. Never would she be permitted to stay here where girls
and men were talking and advocating any such things. She would scan
Suzanne's literature more closely from now on. She would viser her
friendships. What a pity that so lovely a girl must be corrupted by
such wretched, unsocial, anarchistic notions. Why, what would
become of her girl? Where would she be? Dear Heaven!

She looked down in the social abyss yawning at her feet and
recoiled with horror.

Never, never, never! Suzanne should be saved from herself, from
all such ideas now and at once.

And she began to think how she could introduce the idea of
travel easily and nicely. She must lure Suzanne to go without
alarming her—without making her think that she was bringing
pressure to bear. But from now on there must be a new order
established. She must talk differently; she must act differently.
Suzanne and all her children must be protected against themselves
and others also. That was the lesson which this conversation taught
her.

Eugene and Angela had been quarreling between themselves most
bitterly; at other times Angela was attempting to appeal to his
sense of justice and fair play, if not his old-time affection, in
the subtlest of ways. She was completely thrown out of her old
methods of calculation, and having lost those had really no
traditions on which to proceed. Eugene had always heretofore
apparently feared her wrath; now he cared nothing for that. He had
been subject, in times past, to a certain extent to those alluring
blandishments which the married will understand well enough, but
these were as ashes. Her charms meant nothing to him. She had hoped
that the thought of a coming child would move him, but no, it was
apparently without avail. Suzanne seemed a monster to her now since
she did not desert him, and Eugene a raving maniac almost, and yet
she could see how human and natural it all was. He was hypnotized,
possessed. He had one thought, Suzanne, Suzanne, and he would fight
her at every turn for that. He told her so. He told her of her
letter to Suzanne, and the fact that he had read and destroyed it.
It did not help her cause at all. She knew that she had decried
him. He stood his ground solidly, awaiting the will of Suzanne, and
he saw Suzanne frequently, telling her that he had won completely,
and that the fulfilment of their desires now depended upon her.

As has been said, Suzanne was not without passion. The longer
she associated with Eugene, the more eager she became for that
joyous fulfilment which his words, his looks, his emotions
indicated. In her foolish, girlish way, she had built up a fancy
which was capable of realization only by the most ruthless and
desperate conduct. Her theory of telling her mother and overcoming
her by argument or defiance was really vain, for it could not be
settled so easily, or so quickly. Because of her mother's appeal to
her in this first conversation, she fancied she had won a
substantial victory. Her mother was subject to her control and
could not defeat her in argument. By the latter token she felt she
was certain to win. Besides, she was counting heavily on her
mother's regard for Eugene and her deep affection for herself.
Hitherto, her mother had really refused her nothing.

The fact that Eugene did not take her outright at this
time,—postponing until a more imperative occasion an adjustment of
the difficulties which must necessarily flow from their attempted
union without marriage—was due to the fact that he was not as
desperate or as courageous as he appeared to be. He wanted her, but
he was a little afraid of Suzanne herself. She was doubtful,
anxious to wait, anxious to plan things her own way. He was not
truly ruthless ever, but good natured and easy going. He was no
subtle schemer and planner, but rather an easy natured soul, who
drifted here and there with all the tides and favorable or
unfavorable winds of circumstance. He might have been ruthless if
he had been eager enough for any one particular thing on this
earth, money, fame, affection, but at bottom, he really did not
care as much as he thought he did. Anything was really worth
fighting for if you had to have it, but it was not worth fighting
for to the bitter end, if you could possibly get along without it.
Besides, there was nothing really one could not do without, if one
were obliged. He might long intensely, but he could survive. He was
more absorbed in this desire than in anything else in his history,
but he was not willing to be hard and grasping.

On the other hand, Suzanne was willing to be taken, but needed
to be pressed or compelled. She imagined in a vague way that she
wanted to wait and adjust things in her own way, but she was merely
dreaming, procrastinating because he was procrastinating. If he had
but compelled her at once she would have been happy, but he was
sadly in need of that desperate energy that acts first and thinks
afterward. Like Hamlet, he was too fond of cogitating, too anxious
to seek the less desperate way, and in doing this was jeopardizing
that ideal bliss for which he was willing to toss away all the
material advantages which he had thus far gained.

When Mrs. Dale quite casually within a few days began to suggest
that they leave New York for the fall and winter, she, Suzanne and
Kinroy, and visit first England, then Southern France and then
Egypt, Suzanne immediately detected something intentional about it,
or at best a very malicious plan on the part of fate to destroy her
happiness. She had been conjecturing how, temporarily, she could
avoid distant and long drawn out engagements which her mother not
infrequently accepted for herself and Suzanne outside New York, but
she had not formulated a plan. Mrs. Dale was very popular and much
liked. This easy suggestion, made with considerable assurance by
her mother, and as though it would be just the thing, frightened
and then irritated Suzanne. Why should her mother think of it just
at this time?

"I don't want to go to Europe," she said warily. "We were over
there only three years ago. I'd rather stay over here this winter
and see what's going on in New York."

"But this trip will be so delightful, Suzanne," her mother
insisted. "The Camerons are to be at Callendar in Scotland for the
fall. They have taken a cottage there. I had a note from Louise,
Tuesday. I thought we might run up there and see them and then go
to the Isle of Wight."

"I don't care to go, mama," replied Suzanne determinedly. "We're
settled here comfortably. Why do you always want to be running off
somewhere?"

"Why, I'm not running—how you talk, Suzanne! I never heard you
object very much to going anywhere before. I should think Egypt and
the Riviera would interest you very much. You haven't been to
either of these places."

"I know they're delightful, but I don't care to go this fall.
I'd rather stay here. Why should you suddenly decide that you want
to go away for a year?"

"I haven't suddenly decided," insisted her mother. "I've been
thinking of it for some time, as you know. Haven't I said that we
would spend a winter in Europe soon? The last time I mentioned it,
you were very keen for it."

"Oh, I know, mama, but that was nearly a year ago. I don't want
to go now. I would rather stay here."

"Why would you? More of your friends go away than remain. I
think a particularly large number of them are going this
winter."

"Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho!" laughed Suzanne. "A particularly large number.
How you exaggerate, mama, when you want anything. You always amuse
me. It's a particularly large number now, just because you want to
go," and she laughed again.

Suzanne's defiance irritated her mother. Why should she suddenly
take this notion to stay here? It must be this group of girls she
was in with, and yet, Suzanne appeared to have so few intimate girl
friends. The Almerdings were not going to stay in town all the
winter. They were here now because of a fire at their country
place, but it would only be for a little while. Neither were the
TenEycks. It couldn't be that Suzanne was interested in some man.
The only person she cared much about was Eugene Witla, and he was
married and only friendly in a brotherly, guardian-like way.

"Now, Suzanne," she said determinedly, "I'm not going to have
you talk nonsense. This trip will be a delightful thing for you
once you have started. It's useless for you to let a silly notion
like not wanting to go stand in your way. You are just at the time
when you ought to travel. Now you had better begin to prepare
yourself, for we're going."

"Oh, no, I'm not, mama," said Suzanne. "Why, you talk as though
I were a very little girl. I don't want to go this fall and I'm not
going. You may go if you want to, but I'm not going."

"Why, Suzanne Dale!" exclaimed her mother. "Whatever has come
over you? Of course you'll go. Where would you stay if I went? Do
you think I would walk off and leave you? Have I ever before?"

"You did when I was at boarding school," interrupted
Suzanne.

"That was a different matter. Then you were under proper
supervision. Mrs. Hill was answerable to me for your care. Here you
would be alone. What do you think I would be doing?"

"There you go, mama, talking as though I was a little girl
again. Will you please remember that I am nearly nineteen? I know
how to look after myself. Besides, there are plenty of people with
whom I might stay if I chose."

"Suzanne Dale, you talk like one possessed. I'll listen to
nothing of the sort. You are my daughter, and as such, subject to
my guardianship. Of what are you thinking? What have you been
reading? There's some silly thing at the bottom of all this. I'll
not go away and leave you and you will come with me. I should think
that after all these years of devotion on my part, you would take
my feelings into consideration. How can you stand there and argue
with me in this way?"

"Arguing, mama?" asked Suzanne loftily. "I'm not arguing. I'm
just not going. I have my reasons for not wanting to go, and I'm
not going, that's all! Now you may go if you want to."

Mrs. Dale looked into Suzanne's eyes and saw for the first time
a gleam of real defiance in them. What had brought this about? Why
was her daughter so set—of a sudden, so stubborn and hard? Fear,
anger, astonishment, mingled equally in her feelings.

"What do you mean by reasons?" asked her mother. "What reasons
have you?"

"A very good one," said Suzanne quietly, twisting it to the
singular.

"Well, what is it then, pray?"

Suzanne debated swiftly and yet a little vaguely in her own
mind. She had hoped for a longer process of philosophic discussion
in which to entrap her mother into some moral and intellectual
position from which she could not well recede, and by reason of
which she would have to grant her the license she desired. From one
remark and another dropped in this and the preceding conversation,
she realized that her mother had no logical arrangement in her mind
whereby she included her in her philosophical calculations at all.
She might favor any and every theory and conclusion under the sun,
but it would mean nothing in connection with Suzanne. The only
thing that remained, therefore, was to defy her, or run away, and
Suzanne did not want to do the latter. She was of age. She could
adjust her own affairs. She had money. Her mental point of view was
as good and sound as her mother's. As a matter of fact, the
latter's attitude, in view of Suzanne's recent experience and
feelings, seemed weak and futile. What did her mother know of life
any more than she? They were both in the world, and Suzanne felt
herself to be the stronger—the sounder of the two. Why not tell her
now and defy her. She would win. She must. She could dominate her
mother, and this was the time to do it.

"Because I want to stay near the man I love," she finally
volunteered quietly.

Mrs. Dale's hand, which had been elevated to a position of
gesticulation before her, dropped limp, involuntarily, to her side.
Her mouth opened the least bit. She stared in a surprised,
anguished, semi-foolish way.

"The man you love, Suzanne?" she asked, swept completely from
her moorings, and lost upon a boundless sea. "Who is he?"

"Mr. Witla, mama—Eugene. I love him and he loves me. Don't
stare, mama. Mrs. Witla knows. She is willing that we should have
each other. We love each other. I am going to stay here where I can
be near him. He needs me."

"Eugene Witla!" exclaimed her mother, breathless, a look of
horror in her eyes, cold fright in her tense hands. "You love
Eugene Witla? a married man! He loves you! Are you talking to me?
Eugene Witla!! You love him! Why I can't believe this. I'm not in
my right mind. Suzanne Dale, don't stand there! Don't look at me
like that! Are you telling me, your mother? Tell me it isn't so!
Tell me it isn't so before you drive me mad! Oh, great Heavens,
what am I coming to? What have I done? Eugene Witla of all men! Oh,
God, oh, God, oh, God!"

"Why do you carry on so, mama?" asked Suzanne calmly. She had
expected some such scene as this—not quite so intense, so
hysterical, but something like it, and was, in a way, prepared for
it. A selfish love was her animating, governing impulse—a love also
that stilled self, and put aside as nothing all the world and its
rules. Suzanne really did not know what she was doing. She was
hypnotized by the sense of perfection in her lover, the beauty of
their love. Not practical facts but the beauty of the summer, the
feel of cool winds, the glory of skies and sunlight and moonlight,
were in her mind. Eugene's arms about her, his lips to hers, meant
more than all the world beside. "I love him. Of course, I love him.
What is there so strange about that?"

"What is strange? Are you in your right mind? Oh, my poor, dear
little girl! My Suzanne! Oh, that villain! That scoundrel! To come
into my house and make love to you, my darling child! How should
you know? How could I expect you to understand? Oh, Suzanne! for my
sake, for the love of Heaven, hush! Never breathe it! Never say
that terrible thing to me again! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, dear!!!
That I should live to see this! My child! My Suzanne! My lovely,
beautiful Suzanne! I shall die unless I can stop this! I shall die!
I shall die!"

Suzanne stared at her mother quite astonished at the violent
emotion into which she had cast her. Her pretty eyes were open
wide, her eyebrows elevated, her lips parted sweetly. She was a
picture of intense classic beauty, chiseled, peaceful,
self-possessed. Her brow was as smooth as marble, her lips as
arched as though they had never known one emotion outside joy. Her
look was of a quizzical, slightly amused, but not supercilious
character which made her more striking than ever if possible.

"Why, mama! You think I am a child, don't you? All that I say to
you is true. I love Eugene. He loves me. I am going to live with
him as soon as it can be quietly arranged. I wanted to tell you
because I don't want to do anything secretly, but I propose to do
it. I wish you wouldn't insist on looking on me as a baby, mama. I
know what I am doing. I have thought it all out this long
time."