The Genius (76 page)

The Cathcart Lodge, a long, two-story affair, half-way up a fine
covered mountain slope, was one of those summer conveniences of the
rich, situated just near enough to the primeval wilds to give one a
sense of the unexplored and dangerous in raw nature, and yet near
enough to the comforts of civilization, as represented by the
cities of Quebec and Montreal, to make one feel secure in the
possession of those material joys, otherwise so easily interrupted.
It was full of great rooms tastefully furnished with simple summery
things—willow chairs, box window-seats, structural book shelves,
great open fireplaces, surmounted by handsome mantels, outward
swinging leaded casements, settees, pillow-strewn rustic couches,
great fur rugs and robes and things of that character. The walls
were ornamented with trophies of the chase—antlers, raw fox skins,
mounted loons and eagles, skins of bears and other animals. This
year the Cathcarts were elsewhere, and the lodge was to be had by a
woman of Mrs. Dale's standing for the asking.

When they reached While-a-Way, the caretaker, Pierre, an old
habitant of musty log-hut origin, who spoke broken English and was
dressed in earth-brown khaki over Heaven knows what combination of
clothes beneath, had lighted the fires and was bestirring himself
about warming the house generally with the furnaces. His wife, a
small, broad-skirted, solid-bodied woman, was in the kitchen
preparing something to eat. There was plenty of meat to be had from
the larder of the habitant himself, to say nothing of flour,
butter, and the like. A girl to serve was called from the family of
a neighboring trapper. She had worked in the lodge as maid to the
Cathcarts. They settled down to make themselves comfortable, but
the old discussion continued. There was no cessation to it, and
through it all, actually, Suzanne was having her way.

Meanwhile, Eugene back in New York was expecting word from
Suzanne on Thursday, and none came. He called up the house only to
learn that Mrs. Dale was out of the city and was not expected back
soon. Friday came, and no word; and Saturday. He tried a registered
letter "for personal delivery only, return signature demanded" but
it came back marked "not there." Then he realized that his
suspicions were correct and that Suzanne had fallen into a trap. He
grew gloomy, fearful, impatient and nervous by turn, and all at the
same time. He drummed on his desk at the office, tried almost in
vain to fix his mind on the scores of details which were ever
before him, wandered aimlessly about the streets at times,
thinking. He was asked for his opinion on art plans, and books, and
advertising and circulation propositions, but he could not fix his
mind closely on what was being said.

"The chief has certainly got something on his mind which is
troubling him these days," said Carter Hayes, the advertising man,
to the circulation head. "He's not himself. I don't believe he
hears what I'm telling him."

"I've noticed that," replied the latter. They were in the
reception room outside Eugene's door, and strolled arm in arm down
the richly carpeted hall to the elevator. "There's certainly
something wrong. He ought to take a rest. He's trying to do too
much."

Hayes did not believe Eugene was trying to do too much. In the
last four or five months it had been almost impossible to get near
him. He came down at ten or ten-thirty in the morning, left
frequently at two and three, had lunch engagements which had
nothing to do with office work, and at night went into the social
world to dinner or elsewhere, where he could not be found. Colfax
had sent for him on a number of occasions when he was not present,
and on several other occasions, when he had called on his floor and
at his office, Eugene was out. It did not strike him as anything to
complain of—Eugene had a right to be about—but as inadvisable, in
the managing publisher's own interest. He knew that he had a vast
number of things to take care of. It would take an exceptionally
efficient man to manage them and not give all his time to them. He
would not have thought this if Eugene had been a partner with
himself, as were other men in other ventures in which he was
interested, but not being so, he could not help viewing him as an
employee, one who ought to give all his time to his work.

White never asked anything much save the privilege of working,
and was always about the place, alert, earnest at his particular
duties, not haughty, but calm and absolutely efficient in every
way. He was never weary of consulting with Colfax, whereas Eugene
was indifferent, not at all desirous of running to him with every
little proposition, but preferring to act on his own initiative,
and carrying himself constantly with very much of an air.

In other ways there were other things which were and had been
militating against him. By degrees it had come to be rumored about
the office that Eugene was interested in the Blue Sea or Sea Island
Development and Construction Company, of which there was a good
deal of talk about the city, particularly in financial and social
circles. Colfax had heard of the corporation. He had been
interested in the scheme because it promised so much in the way of
luxury. Not much of the panoramic whole so beautifully depicted in
the colored insets of a thirty-two-page literary prospectus
fathered by Eugene was as yet accomplished, but there was enough to
indicate that it was going to be a great thing. Already somewhat
over a mile and a quarter of the great sea walk and wall were in
place. A dining and dancing pavilion had been built, and one of the
smaller hotels—all in accordance with the original architectural
scheme. There were a number of houses—something like twenty or
thirty on plots one hundred and fifty by one hundred and fifty
feet, built in the most ornate fashion on ground which had formerly
been wet marsh grown high with grass. Three or four islands had
been filled in and the club house of a minor yacht club had been
constructed, but still the Sea Island Development Company had a
long way to go before even a third of its total perfection would be
in sight.

Eugene did not know the drift of the company's financial
affairs, except in a general way. He had tried to keep out of it so
far as public notice of him was concerned, though he was constantly
lunching with Winfield, Willebrand, and others, and endeavoring to
direct as much attention to the wonders and prospects of the new
resort as was possible for him to do. It was an easy thing for him
to say to one person and another whom he met that Blue Sea was
rapidly becoming the most perfect thing in the way of a summer
resort that he had ever seen, and this did good; so did the
comments of all the other people who were interested in it, but it
did not make it anything of a success as yet. As a matter of fact,
the true success of Blue Sea depended on the investment of much
more than the original ten millions for which it had been
capitalized. It depended on a truly solid growth, which could not
be rapid.

The news which came to the United Magazines Corporation and
eventually to Colfax and White was that Eugene was heavily
interested in this venture, that he was secretary or held some
other office in connection with it, and that he was giving a great
deal of his time to its development, which might better be employed
in furthering the interests of the United Magazines
Corporation.

"What do you think of that?" asked Colfax of White, on hearing
the news one morning. It had come through the head of the printing
department under White, who had mentioned it to Colfax in White's
presence by the latter's directions.

"It's just what I've been telling you all along," said the
latter blandly. "He isn't interested in this business any more than
he is in any other. He's using it as a stepping-stone, and when
he's through with it, good-bye. Now that's all right from his point
of view. Every man has a right to climb up, but it isn't so good
from yours. You'd be better off if you had a man who wanted to stay
here. You'd be better off really if you were handling it yourself.
You may not want to do that, but with what you know now you can get
someone who will work under you quite well. That's the one
satisfactory thing about it—you really can get along without him if
it comes right down to it now. With a good man in there, it can be
handled from your office."

It was about this time that the most ardent phase of Eugene's
love affair with Suzanne began. All through the spring and summer
Eugene had been busy with thoughts of Suzanne, ways of meeting her,
pleasurable rides with her, thinking of things she had done and
said. As a rule now, his thoughts were very far from the interests
of his position, and in the main it bored him greatly. He began to
wish earnestly that his investment in the Sea Island Corporation
would show some tangible return in the way of interest, so that he
could have means to turn round with. It struck him after Angela's
discovery of his intrigue with Suzanne as a most unfortunate thing
that he had tied up all his means in this Blue Sea investment. If
it had been fated that he was to go on living with Angela, it would
have been all right. Then he could have waited in patience and
thought nothing of it. Now it simply meant that if he wanted to
realize it, it would all be tied up in the courts, or most likely
so, for Angela could sue him; and at any rate he would wish to make
reasonable provision for her, and that would require legal
adjustment. Apart from this investment, he had nothing now save his
salary, and that was not accumulating fast enough to do him much
good in case Mrs. Dale went to Colfax soon, and the latter broke
with him. He wondered if Colfax really would break with him. Would
he ask him to give up Suzanne, or simply force him to resign? He
had noticed that for some time Colfax had not been as cordial to
and as enthusiastic about him as he had formerly been, but this
might be due to other things besides opposition. Moreover, it was
natural for them to become a little tired of each other. They did
not go about so much together, and when they did Colfax was not as
high-flown and boyish in his spirits as he had formerly been.
Eugene fancied it was White who was caballing against him, but he
thought if Colfax was going to change, he was going to change, and
there was no help for it. There were no grounds, he fancied, in so
far as the affairs of the corporation were concerned. His work was
successful.

The storm broke one day out of a clear sky, in so far as the
office was concerned, but not until there had been much heartache
and misery in various directions—with the Dales, with Angela, and
with Eugene himself.

Suzanne's action was the lightning bolt which precipitated the
storm. It could only come from that quarter. Eugene was frantic to
hear from her, and for the first time in his life began to
experience those excruciating and gnawing pangs which are the
concomitants of uncertain and distraught love. It manifested itself
in an actual pain in his vitals—in the region of the solar plexus,
or what is commonly known as the pit of the stomach. He suffered
there very much, quite as the Spartan boy may have done who was
gnawed by the fox concealed under his belt. He would wonder where
Suzanne was, what she was doing, and then, being unable to work,
would call his car and ride, or take his hat and walk. It did him
no good to ride, for the agony was in sitting still. At night he
would go home and sit by one or the other of his studio windows,
principally out on the little stone balcony, and watch the changing
panorama of the Hudson, yearning and wondering where she was. Would
he ever see her again? Would he be able to win this battle if he
did? Oh, her beautiful face, her lovely voice, her exquisite lips
and eyes, the marvel of her touch and beautiful fancy!

He tried to compose poetry to her, and wrote a series of sonnets
to his beloved, which were not at all bad. He worked on his sketch
book of pencil portraits of Suzanne seeking a hundred significant
and delightful expressions and positions, which could afterwards be
elaborated into his gallery of paintings of her, which he proposed
to paint at some time. It did not matter to him that Angela was
about, though he had the graciousness to conceal these things from
her. He was ashamed, in a way, of his treatment of her, and yet the
sight of her now was not so much pitiable as objectionable and
unsatisfactory. Why had he married her? He kept asking himself
that.

They sat in the studio one night. Angela's face was a picture of
despair, for the horror of her situation was only by degrees coming
to her, and she said, seeing him so moody and despondent:

"Eugene, don't you think you can get over this? You say Suzanne
has been spirited away. Why not let her go? Think of your career,
Eugene. Think of me. What will become of me? You can get over it,
if you try. Surely you won't throw me down after all the years I
have been with you. Think how I have tried. I have been a pretty
good wife to you, haven't I? I haven't annoyed you so terribly
much, have I? Oh, I feel all the time as though we were on the
brink of some terrible catastrophe! If only I could do something;
if only I could say something! I know I have been hard and
irritable at times, but that is all over now. I am a changed woman.
I would never be that way any more."

"It can't be done, Angela," he replied calmly. "It can't be
done. I don't love you. I've told you that. I don't want to live
with you. I can't. I want to get free in some way, either by
divorce, or a quiet separation, and go my way. I'm not happy. I
never will be as long as I am here. I want my freedom and then I
will decide what I want to do."

Angela shook her head and sighed. She could scarcely believe
that this was she wandering around in her own apartment wondering
what she was going to do in connection with her own husband.
Marietta had gone back to Wisconsin before the storm broke. Myrtle
was in New York, but she hated to confess to her. She did not dare
to write to any member of her own family but Marietta, and she did
not want to confess to her. Marietta had fancied while she was here
that they were getting along nicely. She had fits of crying, which
alternated with fits of anger, but the latter were growing weak.
Fear, despondency, and grief were becoming uppermost in her soul
again—the fear and despondency that had weighed her down in those
lonely days before she married Eugene, the grief that she was now
actually and finally to lose the one man whom, in spite of
everything, she loved still.