The «Genius» II

THE “GENIUS” II

“Now I think that’s ungallant,” Marietta laughed. “I see I’m all alone here except for Mr. Smite. Never mind. You all will be sorry when I’m gone.”

“I believe that,” replied MacHugh, feelingly.

Smite simply stared. He was lost in admiration of her cream and peach complexion, her fluffy, silky brown hair, her bright blue eyes and plump rounded arms. Such radiant good nature would be heavenly to live with. He wondered what sort of a family this was that Eugene had become connected with. Angela, Marietta, a brother at West Point. They must be nice, conservative, well-to-do western people. Marietta went to help her sister, and Smite, in the absence of Eugene, said: “Say, he’s in right, isn’t he? She’s a peach. She’s got it a little on her sister.”

MacHugh merely stared at the room. He was taken with the complexion and arrangement of things generally. The old furniture, the rugs, the hangings, the pictures, Eugene’s borrowed maid servant in a white apron and cap, Angela, Marietta, the bright table set with colored china and an arrangement of silver candlesticks – Eugene had certainly changed the tenor of his life radically within the last ten days. Why he was marvellously fortunate. This studio was a wonderful piece of luck. Some people – and he shook his head meditatively.

“Well,” said Eugene, coming back after some final touches to his appearance, “what do you think of it, Peter?”

“You’re certainly moving along, Eugene. I never expected to see it. You ought to praise God. You’re plain lucky.”

Eugene smiled enigmatically. He was wondering whether he was. Neither Smite nor MacHugh nor anyone could dream of the conditions under which this came about. What a sham the world was anyhow. It’s surface appearances so ridiculous-

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ly deceptive! If anyone had known of the apparent necessity when he first started to look for an apartment, of his own mood toward it!

Marietta came back, and Angela. The latter had taken kindly to both these men, or boys as she already considered them. Eugene had a talent for reducing everybody to “simply folks,” as he called them. So these two capable and talented men were mere country boys like himself – and Angela caught his attitude.

“I’d like to have you let me make a sketch of you some day, Mrs. Witla,” MacHugh said to Angela when she came back to the fire. He was essaying portraiture as a side line and he was anxious for good opportunities to practice.

Angela thrilled at the invitation, and the use of her new name, Mrs. Witla, by Eugene’s old friends.

“I’d be delighted,” she replied, flushing.

“My word, you look nice, Angel-Face,” exclaimed Marietta, catching her about the waist. “You paint her with her hair down in braids, Mr. MacHugh. She makes a stunning Gretchen.”

Angela flushed anew.

“I’ve been reserving that for myself, Peter,” said Eugene, “but you try your hand at it. I’m not much in portraiture anyhow.”

Smite smiled at Marietta. He wished he could paint her, but he was poor at figure work except as incidental characters in sea scenes. He could do men better than he could women.

“If you were an old sea captain now, Miss Blue,” he said to Marietta gallantly, “I could make a striking thing out of you.” “I’ll try to be, if you want to paint me,” she replied gaily. “I’d look fine in a big pair of boots and a raincoat, wouldn’t I,

Eugene?”

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“You certainly would, if I’m any judge,” replied Smite. “Come over to the studio and I’ll rig you out. I have all those things on hand.”

“I will,” she replied, laughing. “You just say the word.” MacHugh felt as if Smite were stealing a march on him. He

wanted to be nice to Marietta, to have her take an interest in him.

“Now, looky, Joseph,” he protested. “I was going to suggest making a study of Miss Blue myself.”

“Well, you’re too late,” replied Smite. “You didn’t speak quick enough.”

Marietta was greatly impressed with this atmosphere in which Angela and Eugene were living. She expected to see something artistic, but nothing so nice as this particular studio. Angela explained to her that Eugene did not own it, but that made small difference in Marietta’s estimate of its significance. Eugene had it. His art and social connections brought it about. They were beginning excellently well. If she could have as nice a home when she started on her married career she would be satisfied.

They sat down about the round teak table which was one of Dexter’s prized possessions, and were served by Angela’s borrowed maid. The conversation was light and for the most part pointless, serving only to familiarize these people with each other. Both Angela and Marietta were taken with the two artists because they felt in them a note of homely conservatism. These men spoke easily and naturally of the trials and triumphs of art life, and the difficulty of making a good living, and seemed to be at home with personages of repute in one world and another, its greatest reward.

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During the dinner Smite narrated experiences in his seafaring life, and MacHugh of his mountain camping experiences in the West. Marietta described experiences with her beaux in Wisconsin and characteristics of her yokel neighbors at Blackwood, Angela joining in. Finally MacHugh drew a pencil sketch of Marietta followed by a long train of admiring yokels, her eyes turned up in a very shy, deceptive manner.

“Now I think that’s cruel,” she declared, when Eugene laughed heartily. “I never look like that.”

“That’s just the way you look and do,” he declared. “You’re the broad and flowery path that leadeth to destruction.”

“Never mind, Babyette,” put in Angela, “I’ll take your part if no one else will. You’re a nice, demure, shrinking girl and you wouldn’t look at anyone, would you?”

Angela got up and was holding Marietta’s head mock sympathetically in her arms.

“Say, that’s a dandy pet name,” called Smite, moved by Marietta’s beauty.

“Poor Marietta,” observed Eugene. “Come over here to me and I’ll sympathize with you.”

“You don’t take my drawing in the right spirit, Miss Blue,” put in MacHugh cheerfully. “It’s simply to show how popular you are.”

Angela stood beside Eugene as her guests departed, her slender arm about his waist. Marietta was coquetting finally with MacHugh. These two friends of his, thought Eugene, had the privilege of singleness to be gay and alluring to her. With him that was over now. He could not be that way to any girl any more. He had to behave – be calm and circumspect. It cut him, this thought. He saw at once it was not in accord with his

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nature. He wanted to do just as he had always done – make love to Marietta if she would let him, but he could not. He walked to the fire when the studio door was closed.

“They’re such nice boys,” exclaimed Marietta. “I think Mr. MacHugh is as funny as he can be. He has such droll wit.”

“Smite is nice too,” replied Eugene defensively. “They’re both lovely – just lovely,” returned Marietta.

“I like Mr. MacHugh a little the best – he’s quainter,” said Angela, “but I think Mr. Smite is just as nice as he can be. He’s so old fashioned. There’s not anyone as nice as my Eugene, though,” she said affectionately, putting her arm about him.

“Oh, dear, you two!” exclaimed Marietta. “Well, I’m going to bed.”

Eugene sighed.

They had arranged a couch for her which could be put behind the silver-spangled fish net in the alcove when company was gone.

Eugene thought what a pity that already this affection of Angela’s was old to him. It was not as it would be if he had taken Marietta or Christina. They went to their bed room to retire and then he saw that all he had was passion. Must he be satisfied with that? Could he be? It started a chain of thought which, while persistently interrupted or befogged, was really never broken. Momentary sympathy, desire, admiration, might obscure it, but always fundamentally it was there. He had made a mistake. He had put his head in a noose. He had subjected himself to conditions which he did not sincerely approve of. How was he going to remedy this – or could it ever be remedied?

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CHAPTER III

Whatever were Eugene’s secret thoughts, he began his married life with the outward air of one who takes it seriously enough. Now that he was married, was actually bound by legal ties, he felt that he might as well make the best of it. He had once had the notion that it might be possible to say nothing of his marriage, and keep Angela in the background, but this notion had been dispelled by the attitude of MacHugh and Smite, to say nothing of Angela. So he began to consider the necessity of notifying his friends – Miriam Finch and Norma Whitmore and possibly Christina Channing, when she should return. These three women offered the largest difficulty to his mind. He felt the commentary which their personalities represented. What would they think of him? What of Angela? Now that she was right here in the city he could see that she represented a different order of thought. He had opened the campaign by suggesting that they invite Smite and MacHugh. The thing to do now was to go further in this matter.

The one thing that troubled him was the thought of breaking the news to Miriam Finch, for Christina Channing was away, and Norma Whitmore was not of sufficient importance. He argued now that he should have done this beforehand, but having neglected that it behoved him to act at once. He did so, finally, writing to Norma Whitmore and saying, for he

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had no long explanation to make – “Yours truly is married. May I bring my wife up to see you?” Miss Whitmore was truly taken by surprise. She was sorry at first – very – because Eugene interested her greatly and she was afraid he would make a mistake in his marriage; but she hastened to make the best of a bad turn on the part of fate and wrote a note which ran as follows:

“Dear Eugene and Eugene’s Wife:

“This is news as is news. Congratulations. And I am coming right down as soon as I get my breath. And then you two must come to see me.

“Norma Whitmore.”

Eugene was pleased and grateful that she took it so nicely, but Angela was the least big chagrined secretly that he had not told her before. Why hadn’t he? Was this someone that he was interested in? Those three years in which she had doubtingly waited for Eugene had whetted her suspicions and nurtured her fears. Still she tried to make little of it and to put on an air of joyousness. She would be so glad to meet Miss Whitmore. Eugene told her how kind she had been to him, how much she admired his art, how helpful she was in bringing together young literary and artistic people and how influential with those who counted. She could do him many a good turn. Angela listened patiently, but she was just the least bit resentful that he should think so much of any one woman outside of herself. Why should he, Eugene Witla, be dependent on the favor of any woman? Of course she must be very nice and they would be good friends, but –

Norma came one afternoon two days later with the atmosphere of enthusiasm trailing, as it seemed to Eugene, like a

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cloud of glory about her. She was both fire and strength to him in her regard and sympathy, even though she resented, ever so slightly, his affectional desertion.

“You piggy-wiggy Eugene Witla,” she exclaimed. “What do you mean by running off and getting married and never saying a word. I never even had a chance to get you a present and now I have to bring it. Isn’t this a charming place – why it’s perfectly delightful,” and as she laid her present down unopened she looked about to see where Mrs. Eugene Witla might be.

Angela was in the bedroom finishing her toilet. She was expecting this descent and so was prepared, being suitably dressed in the light green house gown. When she heard Miss Whitmore’s familiar mode of address she winced, for this spoke volumes for a boon companionship of long endurance. Eugene hadn’t said so much of Miss Whitmore in the past as he had recently, but she could see that they were very intimate. She looked out and saw her – this tall, not very shapely, but graceful woman, whose whole being represented dynamic energy, awareness, subtlety of perception. Eugene was shaking her hand and looking genially into her face.

“Why should Eugene like her so much?” she asked herself instantly. “Why did his face shine with that light of intense enthusiasm?” The “piggy-wiggy Eugene Witla” expression irritated her. It sounded as though she might be in love with him. She came out after a moment with a glad smile on her face and approached with every show of good feeling, but Miss Whitmore could sense opposition.

“So this is Mrs. Witla,” she exclaimed, kissing her. “I’m delighted to know you. I have always wondered what sort of a girl Mr. Witla would marry. You’ll just have to pardon my calling

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him Eugene. I’ll get over it after a bit, I suppose, now that he’s married. But we’ve been such good friends and I admire his work so much. How do you like studio life – or are you used to it?”

Angela, who was taking in every detail of Eugene’s old friend, replied in what seemed an affected tone that no, she wasn’t used to studio life: she was just from the country, you know – a regular farmer girl – Blackwood, Wisconsin, no less! She stopped to let Norma express friendly surprise, and then went on to say that she supposed Eugene had not said very much about her, but he wrote her often enough. She was rejoicing in the fact that whatever slight Eugene’s previous silence seemed to put upon her, she had the satisfaction that she had won him after all and Miss Whitmore had not. She fancied from Miss Whitmore’s enthusiastic attitude that she must like Eugene very much, and she could see now what sort of women might have made him wish to delay. Who were the others, she wondered?

They talked of metropolitan experiences generally. Marietta came in from a shopping expedition with a Mrs. Link, wife of an army captain acting as an instructor at West Point, and tea was served immediately afterward. Miss Whitmore was insistent that they should come and take dinner with her some evening. Eugene confided that he was sending a painting to the Academy.

“They’ll hang it, of course,” assured Norma, “but you ought to have an exhibition of your own.”

Marietta gushed about the wonder of the big stores and so it finally came time for Miss Whitmore to go.

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“Now you will come up, won’t you?” she said to Angela, for in spite of a certain feeling of incompatibility and difference she was determined to like her. She thought Angela a little inexperienced and presumptuous in marrying Eugene. She was afraid she was not up to his standard. Still she was quaint, piquant. Perhaps she would do very well. Angela was thinking all the while that Miss Whitmore was presuming on her old acquaintance with Eugene – that she was too affected and enthusiastic.

There was another day on which Miriam Finch called. Richard Wheeler, having learned at Smite’s and MacHugh’s studio of Eugene’s marriage and present whereabouts, had hurried over, and then immediately afterwards off to Miriam Finch’s studio. Surprised himself, he knew that she would be more so.

“Witla’s married!” he exclaimed, bursting into her room, and for the moment Miriam lost her self-possession sufficiently to reply almost dramatically: “Richard Wheeler, what are you talking about! You don’t mean that, do you?”

“He’s married,” insisted Wheeler, “and he’s living down in Washington Square, 61 is the number. He has the cutest yellow-haired wife you ever saw.”

Angela had been nice to Wheeler and he liked her. He liked the air of this domicile and thought it was going to be a good thing for Eugene. He needed to settle down and work hard.

Miriam winced mentally at the picture. She was hurt by this deception of Eugene’s, chagrined because he had not thought enough of her even to indicate that he was going to get married.

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