The «Genius» III

THE “GENIUS” III

hope of ever being anything else. Isn’t that a nice ambition for a girl of your standing? And you are supposed to be virtuous! Oh, I am ashamed of you, if you are not! I am sorry for your mother. I am astonished to think that you would so belittle yourself.”

Suzanne had heard the “I can’t,” but she really did not know how to interpret it. It had never occurred to her that there could ever be a child here to complicate matters. Eugene told her that he was unhappy, that there was nothing between him and Angela and never could be.

“But I love him, Mrs. Witla,” said Suzanne simply and rather dramatically. She was tense, erect, pale and decidedly beautiful. It was a great problem to have so quickly laid upon her shoulders.

“Don’t talk nonsense, Suzanne!” said Angela angrily and desperately. “Don’t deceive yourself and stick to a silly pose. You are acting now. You’re talking as you think you ought to talk, as you have seen people talk in plays. This is my husband. You are in my home. Come, get your things. I will call up your mother and tell her how things stand, and she will send her auto for you.”

“Oh, no,” said Suzanne, “you can’t do that! I can’t go back there, if you tell her. I must go out in the world and get something to do until I can straighten out my own affairs. I won’t be able to go home any more. Oh, what shall I do?”

“Be calm, Suzanne,” said Eugene determinedly, taking her hand and looking at Angela defiantly. “She isn’t going to call up your mother, and she isn’t going to tell your mother. You are going to stay here, as you intended, and tomorrow you are going where you thought you were going.”

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“Oh, no, she isn’t!” said Angela angrily, starting for the phone. “She is going home. I’m going to call her mother.”

Suzanne stirred nervously. Eugene put his hand in hers to reassure her.

“Oh, no, you aren’t,” he said determinedly. “She isn’t going home, and you are not going to touch that phone. If you do, a number of things are going to happen, and they are going to happen quick.”

He moved between her and the telephone receiver, which hung in the hall outside the studio and toward which she was edging.

Angela paused at the ominous note in his voice, the determined quality of his attitude. She was surprised and amazed at the almost rough manner in which he put her aside. He had taken Suzanne’s hand, he, her husband, and was begging her to be calm.

“Oh, Eugene,” said Angela desperately, frightened and horrified, her anger half melted in her fears, “you don’t know what you are doing! Suzanne doesn’t. She won’t want anything to do with you when she does. Young as she is, she will have too much womanhood.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Eugene desperately. He had no idea of what Angela was driving at, not the faintest suspicion. “What are you talking about?” he repeated grimly.

“Let me say just one word to you alone, not here before Suzanne, just one, and then perhaps you will be willing to let her go home tonight.”

Angela was subtle in this, a little bit wicked. She was not using her advantage in exactly the right spirit.

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“What is it?” demanded Eugene sourly, expecting some trick. He had so long gnawed at the chains which bound him that the thought of any additional lengths which might be forged irritated him greatly. “Why can’t you tell it here? What difference can it make?”

“It ought to make all the difference in the world. Let me say it to you alone.”

Suzanne, who wondered what it could be, walked away. She was wondering what it was that Angela had to tell. The latter’s manner was not exactly suggestive of the weighty secret she bore. When Suzanne was gone, Angela whispered to him.

“It’s a lie!” said Eugene vigorously, desperately, hopelessly. “It’s something you’ve trumped up for the occasion. It’s just like you to say that, to do it! Pah! I don’t believe it. It’s a lie! It’s a lie! You know it’s a lie!”

“It’s the truth!” said Angela angrily, pathetically, outraged in her every nerve and thought by the reception which this fact had received, and desperate to think that the announcement of a coming child by him should be received in this manner under such circumstances that it should be forced from her as a last resort, only to be received with derision and scorn. “It’s the truth, and you ought to be ashamed to say that to me. What can I expect from a man, though, who would introduce another woman into his own home as you have tonight?” To think that she should be reduced to such a situation as this so suddenly! It was impossible to argue it with him here. She was ashamed now that she had introduced it at this time. He would not believe her, anyhow now, she saw that. It only enraged him and her. He was too wild. This seemed to infuriate him – to condemn her in his mind as a trickster and a sharper,

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someone who was using unfair means to hold him. He almost jumped away from her in disgust, and she realized that she had struck an awful blow which apparently, to him, had some elements of unfairness in it.

“Won’t you have the decency after this to send her away?” she pleaded aloud, angrily, eagerly, bitterly.

Eugene was absolutely in a fury of feeling. If ever he thoroughly hated and despised Angela, he did so at that moment. To think that she should have done anything like this! To think that she should have complicated this problem of weariness of her with a thing like this! How cheap it was, how shabby! It showed the measure of the woman, to bring a child into the world, regardless of the interests of the child, in order to hold him against his will. Damn! Hell! God damn such a complicated, rotten world! No, she was lying. She could not hold him that way. It was a horrible, low, vile trick. He would have nothing to do with her. He would show her. He would leave her. He would show her that this sort of thing would not work with him. It was like every other petty thing she had ever done. Never, never, never, would he let this stand in the way. Oh, what a mean, cruel, wretched thing to do!

Suzanne came back while they were arguing. She half suspected what it was all about, but she did not dare to act or think clearly. The events of this night were too numerous, too complicated. Eugene had said so forcibly it was a lie whatever it was, that she half believed him. That was a sign surely of the little affection that existed between him and Angela. Angela was not crying. Her face was hard, white, drawn.

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“I can’t stay here,” said Suzanne dramatically to Eugene. “I will go somewhere. I had better go to a hotel for the night. Will you call a car?”

“Listen to me, Suzanne,” said Eugene vigorously and determinedly. “You love me, don’t you?”

“You know I do,” she replied. Angela stirred sneeringly.

“Then you will stay here. I want you to pay no attention to anything she may say or declare. She has told me a lie tonight. I know why. Don’t let her deceive you. Go to your room and your bed. I want to talk to you tomorrow. There is no need of your leaving tonight. There is plenty of room here. It’s silly. You’re here now – stay.”

“But I don’t think I’d better stay,” said Suzanne nervously. Eugene took her hand reassuringly.

“Listen to me,” he began.

“But she won’t stay,” said Angela.

“But she will,” said Eugene; “and if she don’t stay, she goes with me. I will take her home.”

“Oh, no, you won’t!” replied Angela.

“Listen,” said Eugene angrily. “This isn’t six years ago, but now. I’m master of this situation, and she stays here. She stays here, or she goes with me and you look to the future as best you may. I love her. I’m not going to give her up, and if you want to make trouble, begin now. The house comes down on your head, not mine.”

“Oh!” said Angela, half terrified, “what do I hear?”

“Just that. Now you go to your room. Suzanne will go to hers. I will go to mine. We will not have any more fighting

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here tonight. The jig is up. The die is cast. I’m through. Suzanne comes to me, if she will.”

Angela walked to her room through the studio, stricken by the turn things had taken, horrified by the thoughts in her mind, unable to convince Eugene, unable to depose Suzanne, her throat dry and hot, her hands shaking, her heart beating fitfully; she felt as if her brain would burst, her heart break actually, not emotionally. She thought Eugene had gone crazy, and yet now, for the first time in her married life, she realized what a terrible mistake she had made in always trying to drive him. It hadn’t worked tonight, her rage, her domineering, critical attitude. It had failed her completely, and also this scheme, this beautiful plan, this trump card on which she had placed so much reliance for a happy life, this child which she had hoped to play so effectively. He didn’t believe her. He wouldn’t even admit its possibility. He didn’t admire her for it. He despised her! He looked on it as a trick. Oh, what an unfortunate thing it had been to mention it! And yet Suzanne must understand, she must know, she would never countenance anything like this. But what would he do? He was positively livid with rage. What fine auspices these were under which to usher a child into the world! She stared feverishly before her, and finally began to cry hopelessly.

Eugene stood in the hall beside Suzanne after she had gone. His face was drawn, his eyes hunted, his hair tousled. He looked grim and determined in his way, stronger than he had ever looked before.

“Suzanne,” he said, taking the latter by her two arms and staring into her eyes, “she has told me a lie, a lie, a cold, mean, cruel lie. She’ll tell it you shortly. She says she is with child by

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me. It isn’t so. She couldn’t have one. If she did, it would kill her. She would have had one long ago if she could have. I know her. She thinks this will frighten me. She thinks it will drive you away. Will it? It’s a lie, do you hear me, whatever she says. It’s a lie, and she knows it. Ough!” He dropped her left arm and pulled at his neck. “I can’t stand this. You won’t leave me. You won’t believe her, will you?”

Suzanne stared into his distraught face, his handsome, desperate, significant eyes. She saw the woe there, the agony, and was sympathetic. He seemed wonderfully worthy of love, unhappy, unfortunately pursued; and yet she was frightened. Still she had promised to love him.

“No,” she said fixedly, her eyes speaking a dramatic confidence.

“You won’t leave here tonight?” “No.”

She smoothed his cheek with her hand.

“You will come and walk with me in the morning? I have to talk with you.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be afraid. Just lock your door if you are. She won’t bother you. She won’t do anything. She is afraid of me. She may want to talk with you, but I am close by. Do you still love me?”

“Yes.”

“Will you come to me if I can arrange it?” “Yes.”

“Even in the face of what she says?”

“Yes; I don’t believe her. I believe you. What difference could it make, anyhow? You don’t love her.”

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“No,” he said; “no, no, no! I never have.” He drew her into his arms wearily, relievedly. “Oh, Flower Face,” he said, “don’t give me up! Don’t grieve. Try not to, anyhow. I have been bad, as she says, but I love you. I love you, and I will stake all on that. If all this must fall about our heads, then let it fall. I love you.”

Suzanne stroked his cheek with her hands nervously. She was deathly pale, frightened, but somehow courageous through it all. She caught strength from his love.

“I love you,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied. “You won’t give me up?”

“No, I won’t,” she said, not really understanding the depth of her own mood. “I will be true.”

“Things will be better tomorrow,” he said, somewhat more quietly. “We will be calmer. We will walk and talk. You won’t leave without me?”

“No.”

“Please don’t; for I love you, and we must talk and plan.”

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CHAPTER X

The introduction of this astonishing fact in connection with Angela was so unexpected, so morally diverting and peculiar that though Eugene denied it, half believed she was lying, he was harassed by the thought that she might be telling the truth. It was so unfair, though, was all he could think, so unkind! It never occurred to him that it was accidental, as indeed it was not, but only that it was a trick, sharp, cunning, ill-timed for him, just the thing calculated to blast his career and tie him down to the old régime when he wanted most to be free. A new life was dawning for him now. For the first time in his life he was to have a woman after his own heart, so young, so beautiful, so intellectual, so artistic! With Suzanne by his side, he was about to plumb the depths of all the joys of living. Without her, life was to be dark and dreary, and here was Angela coming forward at the critical moment disrupting this dream as best she could by the introduction of a child that she did not want, and all to hold him against his will. If ever he hated her for trickery and sharp dealing, he did so now. What would the effect on Suzanne be? How would he convince her that it was a trick? She must understand; she would. She would not let this miserable piece of chicanery stand between him and her. He turned in his bed wearily after he had gone to it, but he

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could not sleep. He had to say something, do something. So he arose, slipped on a dressing gown, and went to Angela’s room.

That distraught soul, for all her determination and fighting capacity, was enduring for the second time in her life the fires of hell. To think that in spite of all her work, her dreams, this recent effort to bring about peace and happiness, perhaps at the expense of her own life, she was compelled to witness a scene like this. Eugene was trying to get free. He was obviously determined to do so. This scandalous relationship, when had it begun? Would her effort to hold him fail? It looked that way, and yet surely Suzanne, when she knew, when she understood, would leave him. Any woman would.

Her head ached, her hands were hot, she fancied she might be suffering a terrible nightmare, she was so sick and weak; but, no, this was her room. A little while ago she was sitting in her husband’s studio, surrounded by friends, the object of much solicitude, Eugene apparently considerate and thoughtful of her, a beautiful programme being rendered for their special benefit. Now she was lying here in her room, a despised wife, an outcast from affection and happiness, the victim of some horrible sorcery of fate whereby another woman stood in her place in Eugene’s affection. To see Suzanne, proud in her young beauty, confronting her with bold eyes, holding her husband’s hand, saying in what seemed to her to be brutal, or insane, or silly melodramatic make-believe, “But I love him, Mrs. Witla,” was maddening. Oh, God! Oh, God! Would her tortures never cease? Must all her beautiful dreams come to nothing? Would Eugene leave her, as he so violently said a little while ago? She had never seen him like this. It was terrible to see him so determined, so cold and brutal. His voice had

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