"Oh, how are you?" she asked, with that same inconsequent air,
her hand held out to him at a high angle. "I saw you last in Fifth
Avenue, didn't I? Mama was having her chair fixed. Ha, ha! She's
such a slow rider! I've left her miles behind. Are you going to be
here long?"
"Just today and tomorrow."
He looked at her, pretending gaiety and indifference.
"Is Mrs. Witla here?"
"No, she couldn't come. A relative of hers is in the city."
"I need a bath terribly," said the desire of his eyes, and
passed on, calling back: "I'll see you again before dinner, very
likely."
Eugene sighed.
She came down after an hour, dressed in a flowered organdie, a
black silk band about her throat, a low collar showing her pretty
neck. She picked up a magazine, passing a wicker table, and came
down the veranda where Eugene was sitting alone. Her easy manner
interested him, and her friendliness. She liked him well enough to
be perfectly natural with him and to seek him out where he was
sitting once she saw he was there.
"Oh, here you are!" she said, and sat down, taking a chair which
was near him.
"Yes, here I am," he said, and began teasing her as usual, for
it was the only way in which he knew how to approach her. Suzanne
responded vivaciously, for Eugene's teasing delighted her. It was
the one kind of humor she really enjoyed.
"You know, Mr. Witla," she said to him once, "I'm not going to
laugh at any of your jokes any more. They're all at my
expense."
"That makes it all the nicer," he said. "You wouldn't want me to
make jokes at my expense, would you? That would be a terrible
joke."
She laughed and he smiled. They looked at a golden sunset
filtering through a grove of tender maples. The spring was young
and the leaves just budding.
"Isn't it lovely tonight?" he asked.
"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, in a mellow, meditative voice, the
first ring of deep sincerity in it that he ever noticed there.
"Do you like nature?" he asked.
"Do I?" she returned. "I can't get enough of the woods these
days. I feel so queer sometimes, Mr. Witla. As though I were not
really alive at all, you know. Just a sound, or a color in the
woods."
He stopped and looked at her. The simile caught him quite as any
notable characteristic in anyone would have caught him. What was
the color and complexity of this girl's mind? Was she so wise, so
artistic and so emotional that nature appealed to her in a deep
way? Was this wonderful charm that he felt the shadow or radiance
of something finer still?
"So that's the way it is, is it?" he asked.
"Yes," she said quietly.
He sat and looked at her, and she eyed him as solemnly.
"Why do you look at me so?" she asked.
"Why do you say such curious things?" he answered.
"What did I say?"
"I don't believe you really know. Well, never mind. Let us walk,
will you? Do you mind? It's still an hour to dinner. I'd like to go
over and see what's beyond those trees."
They went down a little path bordered with grass and under green
budding twigs. It came to a stile finally and looked out upon a
stony green field where some cows were pasturing.
"Oh, the spring! The spring!" exclaimed Eugene, and Suzanne
answered: "You know, Mr. Witla, I think we must be something alike
in some ways. That's just the way I feel."
"How do you know how I feel?"
"I can tell by your voice," she said.
"Can you, really?"
"Why, yes. Why shouldn't I?"
"What a strange girl you are!" he said thoughtfully. "I don't
think I understand you quite."
"Why, why, am I so different from everyone else?"
"Quite, quite," he said; "at least to me. I have never seen
anyone quite like you before."
It was after this meeting that vague consciousness came to
Suzanne that Mr. Witla, as she always thought of him to herself,
was just a little more than very nice to her. He was so gentle, so
meditative, and withal so gay when he was near her! He seemed
fairly to bubble whenever he came into her presence, never to have
any cause for depression or gloom such as sometimes seized on her
when she was alone. He was always immaculately dressed, and had
great affairs, so her mother said. They discussed him once at table
at Daleview, and Mrs. Dale said she thought he was charming.
"He's one of the nicest fellows that comes here, I think," said
Kinroy. "I don't like that stick, Woodward."
He was referring to another man of about Eugene's age who
admired his mother.
"Mrs. Witla is such a queer little woman," said Suzanne. "She's
so different from Mr. Witla. He's so gay and good-natured, and
she's so reserved. Is she as old as he is, mama?"
"I don't think so," said Mrs. Dale, who was deceived by Angela's
apparent youth. "What makes you ask?"
"Oh, I just wondered!" said Suzanne, who was vaguely curious
concerning things in connection with Eugene.
There were several other meetings, one of which Eugene
engineered, once when he persuaded Angela to invite Suzanne and her
mother to a spring night revel they were having at the studio, and
the other when he and Angela were invited to the Willebrands, where
the Dales were also.
Angela was always with him. Mrs. Dale almost always with
Suzanne. There were a few conversations, but they were merely gay,
inconsequent make-believe talks, in which Suzanne saw Eugene as one
who was forever happy. She little discerned the brooding depths of
longing that lay beneath his gay exterior.
The climax was brought about, however, when one July day after a
short visit to one of the summer resorts, Angela was taken ill. She
had always been subject to colds and sore throats, and these
peculiar signs, which are associated by medical men with latent
rheumatism, finally culminated in this complaint. Angela had also
been pronounced to have a weak heart, and this combined with a
sudden, severe rheumatic attack completely prostrated her. A
trained nurse had to be called, and Angela's sister Marietta was
sent for. Eugene's sister Myrtle, who now lived in New York, was
asked by him to come over and take charge, and under her
supervision, pending Marietta's arrival, his household went forward
smoothly enough. The former, being a full-fledged Christian
Scientist, having been instantly cured, as she asserted, of a
long-standing nervous complaint, was for calling a Christian
Science practitioner, but Eugene would have none of it. He could
not believe that there was anything in this new religious theory,
and thought Angela needed a doctor. He sent for a specialist in her
complaint. He pronounced that six weeks at the least, perhaps two
months, must elapse before Angela would be able to sit up
again.
"Her system is full of rheumatism," said her physician. "She is
in a very bad way. Rest and quiet, and constant medication will
bring her round."
Eugene was sorry. He did not want to see her suffer, but her
sickness did not for one minute alter his mental attitude. In fact,
he did not see how it could. It did not change their relative
mental outlook in any way. Their peculiar relationship of guardian
and restless ward was quite unaffected.
All social functions of every kind were now abandoned and Eugene
stayed at home every evening, curious to see what the outcome would
be. He wanted to see how the trained nurse did her work and what
the doctor thought would be the next step. He had a great deal to
do at all times, reading, consulting, and many of those who wished
to confer with him came to the apartment of an evening. All those
who knew them socially at all intimately called or sent messages of
condolence, and among those who came were Mrs. Dale and Suzanne.
The former because Eugene had been so nice to her in a publishing
way and was shortly going to bring out her first attempt at a novel
was most assiduous. She sent flowers and came often, proffering the
services of Suzanne for any day that the nurse might wish to be off
duty or Myrtle could not be present. She thought Angela might like
to have Suzanne read to her. At least the offer sounded courteous
and was made in good faith.
Suzanne did not come alone at first, but after a time, when
Angela had been ill four weeks and Eugene had stood the heat of the
town apartment nightly for the chance of seeing her, she did. Mrs.
Dale suggested that he should run down to her place over Saturday
and Sunday. It was not far. They were in close telephone
communication. It would rest him.
Eugene, though Angela had suggested it a number of times before,
had refused to go to any seaside resort or hotel, even for Saturday
and Sunday, his statement being that he did not care to go alone at
this time. The truth was he was becoming so interested in Suzanne
that he did not care to go anywhere save somewhere that he might
see her again.
Mrs. Dale's offer was welcome enough, but having dissembled so
much he had to dissemble more. Mrs. Dale insisted. Angela added her
plea. Myrtle thought he ought to go. He finally ordered the car to
take him down one Friday afternoon and leave him. Suzanne was out
somewhere, but he sat on the veranda and basked in the magnificent
view it gave of the lower bay. Kinroy and some young friend,
together with two girls, were playing tennis on one of the courts.
Eugene went out to watch them, and presently Suzanne returned,
ruddy from a walk she had taken to a neighbor's house. At the sight
of her every nerve in Eugene's body tingled—he felt a great
exaltation, and it seemed as though she responded in kind, for she
was particularly gay and laughing.
"They have a four," she called to him, her white duck skirt
blowing. "Let's you and I get rackets and play single."
"I'm not very good, you know," he said.
"You couldn't be worse than I am," she replied. "I'm so bad
Kinroy won't let me play in any game with him. Ha, ha!"
"Such being the case——" Eugene said lightly, and followed her to
get the rackets.
They went to the second court, where they played practically
unheeded. Every hit was a signal for congratulation on the part of
one or the other, every miss for a burst of laughter or a jest.
Eugene devoured Suzanne with his eyes, and she looked at him
continually, in wide-eyed sweetness, scarcely knowing what she was
doing. Her own hilarity on this occasion was almost inexplicable to
her. It seemed as though she was possessed of some spirit of joy
which she couldn't control. She confessed to him afterward that she
had been wildly glad, exalted, and played with freedom and abandon,
though at the same time she was frightened and nervous. To Eugene
she was of course ravishing to behold. She could not play, as she
truly said, but it made no difference. Her motions were
beautiful.
Mrs. Dale had long admired Eugene's youthful spirit. She watched
him now from one of the windows, and thought of him much as one
might of a boy. He and Suzanne looked charming playing together. It
occurred to her that if he were single he would not make a bad
match for her daughter. Fortunately he was sane, prudent, charming,
more like a guardian to Suzanne than anything else. Her friendship
for him was rather a healthy sign.
After dinner it was proposed by Kinroy that he and his friends
and Suzanne go to a dance which was being given at a club house,
near the government fortifications at The Narrows, where they
spread out into the lower bay. Mrs. Dale, not wishing to exclude
Eugene, who was depressed at the thought of Suzanne's going and
leaving him behind, suggested that they all go. She did not care so
much for dancing herself, but Suzanne had no partner and Kinroy and
his friend were very much interested in the girls they were taking.
A car was called, and they sped to the club to find it dimly
lighted with Chinese lanterns, and an orchestra playing softly in
the gloom.
"Now you go ahead and dance," said her mother to Suzanne. "I
want to sit out here and look at the water a while. I'll watch you
through the door."
Eugene held out his hand to Suzanne, who took it, and in a
moment they were whirling round. A kind of madness seized them
both, for without a word or look they drew close to each other and
danced furiously, in a clinging ecstasy of joy.
"Oh, how lovely!" Suzanne exclaimed at one turn of the room,
where, passing an open door, they looked out and saw a full lighted
ship passing silently by in the distant dark. A sail boat; its one
great sail enveloped in a shadowy quiet, floated wraith-like,
nearer still.
"Do scenes like that appeal to you so?" asked Eugene.
"Oh, do they!" she pulsated. "They take my breath away. This
does, too, it's so lovely!"
Eugene sighed. He understood now. Never, he said to himself, was
the soul of an artist so akin to his own and so enveloped in
beauty. This same thirst for beauty that was in him was in her, and
it was pulling her to him. Only her soul was so exquisitely set in
youth and beauty and maidenhood that it overawed and frightened
him. It seemed impossible that she should ever love him. These
eyes, this face of hers—how they enchanted him! He was drawn as by
a strong cord, and so was she—by an immense, terrible magnetism. He
had felt it all the afternoon. Keenly. He was feeling it intensely
now. He pressed her to his bosom, and she yielded, yearningly,
suiting her motions to his subtlest moods. He wanted to exclaim:
"Oh, Suzanne! Oh, Suzanne!" but he was afraid. If he said anything
to her it would frighten her. She did not really dream as yet what
it all meant.
"You know," he said, when the music stopped, "I'm quite beside
myself. It's narcotic. I feel like a boy."
"Oh, if they would only go on!" was all she said. And together
they went out on the veranda, where there were no lights but only
chairs and the countless stars.
"Well?" said Mrs. Dale.
"I'm afraid you don't love to dance as well as I do?" observed
Eugene calmly, sitting down beside her.
"I'm afraid I don't, seeing how joyously you do it. I've been
watching you. You two dance well together. Kinroy, won't you have
them bring us ices?"
Suzanne had slipped away to the side of her brother's friends.
She talked to them cheerily the while Eugene watched her, but she
was intensely conscious of his presence and charm. She tried to
think what she was doing, but somehow she could not—she could only
feel. The music struck up again, and for looks' sake he let her
dance with her brother's friend. The next was his, and the next,
for Kinroy preferred to sit out one, and his friend also. Suzanne
and Eugene danced the major portions of the dances together,
growing into a wild exaltation, which, however, was wordless except
for a certain eagerness which might have been read into what they
said. Their hands spoke when they touched and their eyes when they
met. Suzanne was intensely shy and fearsome. She was really half
terrified by what she was doing—afraid lest some word or thought
would escape Eugene, and she wanted to dwell in the joy of this. He
went once between two dances, when she was hanging over the rail
looking at the dark, gurgling water below, and leaned over beside
her.
"How wonderful this night is!" he said.
"Yes, yes!" she exclaimed, and looked away.
"Do you wonder at all at the mystery of life?"
"Oh, yes; oh, yes! All the time."
"And you are so young!" he said passionately, intensely.
"Sometimes, you know, Mr. Witla," she sighed, "I do not like to
think."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know; I just can't tell you! I can't find words. I
don't know."
There was an intense pathos in her phrasing which meant
everything to his understanding. He understood how voiceless a
great soul really might be, new born without an earth-manufactured
vocabulary. It gave him a clearer insight into a thought he had had
for a long while and that was that we came, as Wordsworth expressed
it, "trailing clouds of glory." But from where? Her soul must be
intensely wise—else why his yearning to her? But, oh, the pathos of
her voicelessness!
They went home in the car, and late that night, while he was
sitting on the veranda smoking to soothe his fevered brain, there
was one other scene. The night was intensely warm everywhere except
on this hill, where a cool breeze was blowing. The ships on the sea
and bay were many—twinkling little lights—and the stars in the sky
were as a great army. "See how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid
with patines of bright gold," he quoted to himself. A door opened
and Suzanne came out of the library, which opened on to the
veranda. He had not expected to see her again, nor she him. The
beauty of the night had drawn her.
"Suzanne!" he said, when the door opened.
She looked at him, poised in uncertainty, her lovely white face
glowing like a pale phosphorescent light in the dark.
"Isn't it beautiful out here? Come, sit down."
"No," she said. "I mustn't stay. It is so beautiful!" She looked
about her vaguely, nervously, and then at him. "Oh, that breeze!"
She turned up her nose and sniffed eagerly.
"The music is still whirling in my head," he said, coming to
her. "I cannot get over tonight." He spoke softly—almost in a
whisper—and threw his cigar away. Suzanne's voice was low.
She looked at him and filled her deep broad chest with air.
"Oh!" she sighed, throwing back her head, her neck curving
divinely.
"One more dance," he said, taking her right hand and putting his
left upon her waist.
She did not retreat from him, but looked half distrait, half
entranced in his eyes.
"Without music?" she asked. She was almost trembling.