She arose at dawn and began silently to dress, thinking that she might take a walk, leaving a note for Eugene as to where to come and find her if he could. She had one appointment for the day. Later she would have to go home, but things would come out all right. Since Eugene had compelled Angela to relinquish her determination to inform her mother, all must be well. They would meet, she and Eugene. She would leave her home and be his and they would go anywhere, anywhere Eugene desired, only she would prefer to persuade her mother to see things from her point of view and later countenance some understanding between them here. Because of Angela's and Eugene's position here, she preferred this. Because of her youth and her poetic, erratic conception of life, she a.s.sumed that she could overcome her mother and that she and Eugene could live together somewhere in peace. Her friends might either be unaware of the situation, or they could be told, some of them, and they might countenance it because it was so beautiful and natural!

Eugene heard her stirring after a time, and rose and went to her room and knocked. When she opened the door almost fully dressed a thrill of pain pa.s.sed over his heart, for he thought that she had been intending to slip away without seeing him any more--so little they really knew each other. But as she stood there, a little cool or still or sober from much thought and the peculiar nature of her position, she seemed more beautiful than ever.

"You're not going, are you?" he asked, as she looked up at him with inquiring eyes.

"I thought I'd go for a walk."

"Without me?"

"I intended to see you, if I could, or leave a note for you to come to me. I thought you would."

"Will you wait for me?" he asked, feeling as though he must hold her close forever in order to live. "Just a little bit. I want to change my clothes." He took her in his arms.

"Yes," she said softly.

"You won't go without me?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, I love you so!" he replied, and pushed her head back and looked yearningly into her eyes.

She took his tired face between her hands and studied his eyes. She was so enrapt by him now in this first burst of affection that she could see nothing but him. He seemed so beautiful, so hungry! It did not matter to her now that she was in the home of his wife or that his love was complicated with so much that was apparently evil. She loved him. She had thought all night about him, not sleeping. Being so young, it was hard for her to reason clearly as yet, but somehow it seemed to her that he was very unhappily placed, terribly ill-mated, and that he needed her. He was so fine, so clean, so capable! If he did not want Angela, why should she want him? She would not be suffering for anything save his company, and why should she want to hold him? She, Suzanne, would not, if she were in Angela's place. If there were a child, would that make any real difference? He did not love her.

"Don't worry about me," she said rea.s.suringly. "I love you. Don't you know I do? I have to talk to you. We have to talk. How is Mrs. Witla?"

She was thinking about what Mrs. Witla would do, whether she would call up her mother, whether her struggle to have Eugene would begin at once.

"Oh, she's about the same!" he said wearily. "We've had a long argument. I've told her just what I propose to do, but I'll tell you about that later."

He went away to change his clothes, and then stepped into Angela's room.

"I'm going to walk with Suzanne," he said dominantly, when he was ready.

"All right," said Angela, who was so tired she could have fainted. "Will you be back for dinner?"

"I don't know," he replied. "What difference does it make?"

"Only this: that the maid and cook need not stay unless you are coming. I want nothing."

"When will the nurse be here?"

"At seven."

"Well, you can prepare dinner, if you wish," he said. "I will try and be back by four."

He walked toward the studio where Suzanne was, and found her waiting, white-faced, slightly hollow-eyed, but strong and confident. Now, as so often before, he noticed that spirit of self-sufficiency and reliance about her young body which had impressed him so forcibly and delightfully in the past. She was a wonderful girl, this Suzanne, full of grit and ability, although raised under what might have been deemed enervating circ.u.mstances. Her statement, made under pressure the night before, that she must go to a hotel and not go home until she could straighten out her affairs, had impressed him greatly. Why had she thought of going out in the world to work for herself unless there were something really fine about her? She was heir to a fortune under her father's will, he had heard her mother say once. This morning her glance was so a.s.sured. He did not use the phone to call a car, but strolled out into the drive with her walking along the stone wall which commanded the river northward toward Grant's Tomb. It occurred to him that they might go to Claremont Inn for breakfast, and afterwards take a car somewhere--he did not know quite where. Suzanne might be recognized. So might he.

"What shall we do, sweet?" he asked, as the cool morning air brushed their faces. It was a glorious day.

"I don't care," replied Suzanne. "I promised to be at the Almerdings some time today, but I didn't say when. They won't think anything of it if I don't get there till after dinner. Will Mrs. Witla call up mama?"

"I don't think so. In fact, I'm sure she won't." He was thinking of his last conversation with Angela, when she said she would do nothing. "Is your mother likely to call you up?"

"I think not. Mama doesn't usually bother when she knows where I am going. If she does, they'll simply say I haven't come yet. Will Mrs. Witla tell her, if she calls up there?"

"I think not," he said. "No, I'm sure she won't. Angela wants time to think. She isn't going to do anything. She told me that this morning. She's going to wait until she sees what I am going to do. It all depends now on how we play our cards."

He strolled on, looking at the river and holding Suzanne's hand. It was only a quarter to seven and the drive was comparatively empty.

"If she tells mama, it will make things very bad," said Suzanne thoughtfully. "Do you really think she won't?"

"I'm sure she won't. I'm positive. She doesn't want to do anything yet. It's too dangerous. I think she thinks that maybe I will come round. Oh, what a life I've led! It seems like a dream, now that I have your love. You are so different, so generous! Your att.i.tude is so unselfish! To have been ruled all these years in every little thing. This last trick of hers!"

He shook his head woefully. Suzanne looked at his weary face, her own as fresh as the morning.

"Oh, if I might only have had you to begin with!" he added.

"Listen, Eugene," said Suzanne. "You know I feel sorry for Mrs. Witla. We shouldn't have done what we did last night, but you made me. You know you will never listen to me, until it's too late. You're so headstrong! I don't want you to leave Mrs. Witla unless you want to. You needn't for me. I don't want to marry you; not now, anyhow. I'd rather just give myself to you, if you want me to. I want time though, to think and plan. If mama should hear today, there would be a terrible time. If we have time to think, we may bring her round. I don't care anything about what Mrs. Witla told you last night. I don't want you to leave her. If we could just arrange some way. It's mama, you know."

She swung his hand softly in hers, pressing his fingers. She was deep in thought, for her mother presented a real problem.

"You know," she went on, "mama isn't narrow. She doesn't believe much in marriage unless it's ideal. Mrs. Witla's condition wouldn't make so much difference if only the child were here. I've been thinking about that. Mama might sanction some arrangement if she thought it would make me happy and there was no scandal. But I'll have to have time to talk to her. It can't be done right away."

Eugene listened to this with considerable surprise, as he did to everything Suzanne volunteered. She seemed to have been thinking about these questions a long time. She was not free with her opinions. She hesitated and halted between words and in her cogitations, but when they were out this was what they came to. He wondered how sound they were.

"Suzanne," he said, "you take my breath away! How you think! Do you know what you're talking about? Do you know your mother at all well?"

"Mama? Oh, yes, I think I understand mama. You know she's very peculiar. Mama is literary and romantic. She talks a great deal about liberty, but I don't take in everything she says. I think mama is different from most women--she's exceptional. She likes me, not so much as a daughter as a person. She's anxious about me. You know, I think I'm stronger than mama. I think I could dominate her if I tried. She leans on me now a lot, and she can't make me do anything unless I want to. I can make her come to my way of thinking, I believe. I have, lots of times. That's what makes me think I might now, if I have time. It will take time to get her to do what I want."

"How much time?" asked Eugene thoughtfully.

"Oh, I don't know. Three months. Six months. I can't tell. I would like to try, though."

"And if you can't, then what?"

"Why, then--why, then I'll defy her, that's all. I'm not sure, you know. But I think I can."

"And if you can't?"

"But I can. I'm sure I can." She tossed her head gaily.

"And come to me?"

"And come to you."

They were near One Hundredth Street, under the trees. There was a lone man some distance away, walking from them. Eugene caught Suzanne in his arms and implanted a kiss upon her mouth. "Oh, you divinity!" he exclaimed. "Helen! Circe!"

"No," she replied, with smiling eyes. "No, not here. Wait till we get a car."

"Shall we go to Claremont?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Then we might as well call a car and ride."

They hunted a garage and sped northward, the wonderful wind of the morning cooling and refreshing their fevered senses. Both he and Suzanne were naturally depressed at moments, at other moments preternaturally gay, for he was varying between joy and fear, and she was buoying him up. Her att.i.tude was calmer, surer, braver, than his. She was like a strong mother to him.

"You know," he said, "I don't know what to think at times. I haven't any particular charge against Mrs. Witla except that I don't love her. I have been so unhappy. What do you think of cases of this kind, Suzanne? You heard what she said about me."

"Yes, I heard."

"It all comes from that. I don't love her. I never have really from the beginning. What do you think where there is no love? It is true, part of what she said. I have been in love with other women, but it has always been because I have been longing for some sort of temperament that was congenial to me. I have, Suzanne, too, since I have been married. I can't say that I was really in love with Carlotta Wilson, but I did like her. She was very much like myself. The other was a girl somewhat like you. Not so wise. That was years ago. Oh, I could tell you why! I love youth. I love beauty. I want someone who is my companion mentally. You are that, Suzanne, and yet see what a h.e.l.l it is creating. Do you think it is so bad where I am so very unhappy? Tell me, what do you think?"

"Why, why," said Suzanne, "I don't think anyone ought to stick by a bad bargain, Eugene."

"Just what do you mean by that, Suzanne?"

"Well, you say you don't love her. You're not happy with her. I shouldn't think it would be good for her or you to have you stay with her. She can live. I wouldn't want you to stay with me if you didn't love me. I wouldn't want you at all if you didn't. I wouldn't want to stay with you if I didn't love you, and I wouldn't. I think marriage ought to be a happy bargain, and if it isn't you oughtn't to try to stay together just because you thought you could stay together once."

"What if there were children?"

"Well, that might be different. Even then, one or the other could take them, wouldn't you think? The children needn't be made very unhappy in such a case."

Eugene looked at Suzanne's lovely face. It seemed so strange to hear her reasoning so solemnly--this girl!

"But you heard what she said about me, Suzanne, and about her condition?"

"I know," she said. "I've thought about it. I don't see that it makes so very much difference. You can take care of her."

"You love me just as much?"

"Yes."

"Even if all she says is true?"

"Yes."

"Why, Suzanne?"

"Well, all her charges concerned years gone by, and that isn't now. And I know you love me now. I don't care about the past. You know, Eugene, I don't care anything about the future, either. I want you to love me only so long as you want to love me. When you are tired of me, I want you to leave me. I wouldn't want you to live with me if you didn't love me. I wouldn't want to live with you if I didn't love you."

Eugene looked into her face, astonished, pleased, invigorated, and heartened by this philosophy. It was so like Suzanne, he thought. She seemed to have reached definite and effective conclusions so early. Her young mind seemed a solvent for all life's difficulties.

"Oh, you wonderful girl!" he said. "You know you are wiser than I am, stronger. I draw to you, Suzanne, like a cold man to a fire. You are so kindly, so temperate, so understanding!"

They rode on toward Tarrytown and Scarborough, and on the way Eugene told Suzanne some of his plans. He was willing not to leave Angela, if that was agreeable to her. He was willing to maintain this outward show, if that was satisfactory. The only point was, could he stay and have her, too? He did not understand quite how she could want to share him with anybody, but he could not fathom her from any point of view, and he was fascinated. She seemed the dearest, the subtlest, the strangest and most lovable girl. He tried to find out by what process she proposed to overcome the objections of her mother, but Suzanne seemed to have no plans save that of her ability to gradually get the upper hand mentally and dominate her. "You know," she said at one point, "I have money coming to me. Papa set aside two hundred thousand dollars for each of us children when we should come of age, and I am of age now. It is to be held in trust, but I shall have twelve thousand or maybe more from that. We can use that. I am of age now, and I have never said anything about it. Mama has managed all these things."

Here was another thought which heartened Eugene. With Suzanne he would have this additional income, which might be used whatever else might betide. If only Angela could be made to accept his conditions and Suzanne could win in her contest with her mother all would be well. His position need not be jeopardized. Mrs. Dale need hear nothing of it at present. He and Suzanne could go on a.s.sociating in this way until an understanding had been reached. It was all like a delightful courtship which was to bloom into a still more delightful marriage.

The day pa.s.sed in a.s.surances of affection. Suzanne told Eugene of a book she had read in French, "The Blue Bird." The allegory touched Eugene to the quick--its quest for happiness, and he named Suzanne then and there "The Blue Bird." She made him stop the car and go back to get her an exquisite lavender-hued blossom growing wild on a tall stalk which she saw in a field as they sped by. Eugene objected genially, because it was beyond a wire fence and set among thorns, but she said, "Yes, now, you must. You know you must obey me now. I am going to begin to train you now. You've been spoiled. You're a bad boy. Mama says that. I am going to reform you."

"A sweet time you'll have, Flower Face! I'm a bad lot. Have you noticed that?"

"A little."

"And you still like me?"

"I don't mind. I think I can change you by loving you."

Eugene went gladly. He plucked the magnificent bloom and handed it to her "as a sceptre," he said. "It looks like you, you know," he added. "It's regal."

Suzanne accepted the compliment without thought of its flattering import. She loved Eugene, and words had scarcely any meaning to her. She was as happy as a child and as wise in many things as a woman twice her years. She was as foolish as Eugene over the beauty of nature, dwelling in an ecstasy upon morning and evening skies, the feel of winds and the sigh of leaves. The beauties of nature at every turn caught her eye, and she spoke to him of things she felt in such a simple way that he was entranced.

Once when they had left the car and were walking about the grounds of an inn, she found that one of her silk stockings had worn through at the heel. She lifted up her foot and looked at it meditatively. "Now, if I had some ink I could fix that up so quickly," she said, laughing.

"What would you do?" he asked.

"I would black it," she replied, referring to her pink heel, "or you could paint it."

He laughed and she giggled. It was these little, idle simplicities which amused and fascinated him.

"Suzanne," he said dramatically at this time, "you are taking me back into fairyland."

"I want to make you happy," she said, "as happy as I am."

"If I could be! If I only could be!"

"Wait," she said; "be cheerful. Don't worry. Everything will come out all right. I know it will. Things always come right for me. I want you and you will come to me. You will have me just as I will have you. Oh, it is all so beautiful!"

She squeezed his hand in an ecstasy of delight and then gave him her lips.

"What if someone should see?" he asked.

"I don't care! I don't care!" she cried. "I love you!"

CHAPTER XII.

After dining joyously, these two returned to the city. Suzanne, as she neared New York proper, was nervous as to what Angela might have done, for she wanted, in case Angela told her mother, to be present, in order to defend herself. She had reached a rather logical conclusion for her, and that was, in case her mother objected too vigorously, to elope with Eugene. She wanted to see just how her mother would take the intelligence in order that she might see clearly what to do. Previously she had the feeling that she could persuade her mother not to interfere, even in the face of all that had been revealed. Nevertheless, she was nervous, and her fears were bred to a certain extent by Eugene's att.i.tude.

In spite of all his bravado, he really did not feel at all secure. He was not afraid of what he might lose materially so much as he was of losing Suzanne. The thought of the coming child had not affected them at all as yet. He could see clearly that conditions might come about whereby he could not have her, but they were not in evidence as yet. Besides, Angela might be lying. Still at odd moments his conscience troubled him, for in the midst of his intense satisfaction, his keenest thrills of joy, he could see Angela lying in bed, the thought of her wretched future before her, the thought of the coming life troubling her, or he could hear the echo of some of the pleas she had made. It was useless to attempt to shut them out. This was a terrible ordeal he was undergoing, a ruthless thing he was doing. All the laws of life and public sentiment were against him. If the world knew, it would accuse him bitterly. He could not forget that. He despaired at moments of ever being able to solve the tangle in which he had involved himself, and yet he was determined to go on. He proposed accompanying Suzanne to her friends, the Almerdings, but she changed her mind and decided to go home. "I want to see whether mama has heard anything," she insisted.