The Genius (40 page)

Although she was about the house for ten days and he met her
after the third morning not only at dinner, which was natural
enough, but at breakfast (which surprised him a little), he paid
not so very much attention to her. She was nice, very, but Eugene
was thinking of another type. He thought she was uncommonly
pleasant and considerate and he admired her style of dressing and
her beauty, studying her with interest, wondering what sort of a
life she led, for from various bits of conversation he overheard
not only at table but at other times he judged she was fairly well
to do. There was an apartment in Central Park West, card parties,
automobile parties, theatre parties and a general sense of
people—acquaintances anyhow, who were making money. He heard her
tell of a mining engineer, Dr. Rowland; of a successful coal-mining
speculator, Gerald Woods; of a Mrs. Hale who was heavily interested
in copper mines and apparently very wealthy. "It's a pity Norman
couldn't connect with something like that and make some real
money," he heard her say to her mother one evening. He understood
that Norman was her husband and that he probably would be back
soon. So he kept his distance—interested and curious but hardly
more.

Mrs. Wilson was not so easily baffled, however. A car appeared
one evening at the door immediately after dinner, a great red
touring car, and Mrs. Wilson announced easily, "We're going for a
little spin after dinner, Mr. Witla. Don't you want to come
along?"

Eugene had never ridden in an automobile at that time. "I'd be
very pleased," he said, for the thought of a lonely evening in an
empty house had sprung up when he saw it appear.

There was a chauffeur in charge—a gallant figure in a brown
straw cap and tan duster, but Mrs. Wilson manœuvred for place.

"You sit with the driver, coz," she said to Simpson, and when
her mother stepped in she followed after, leaving Eugene the place
to the right of her.

"There must be a coat and cap in the locker," she said to the
chauffeur; "let Mr. Witla have it."

The latter extracted a spare linen coat and straw cap which
Eugene put on.

"I like automobiling, don't you?" she said to Eugene
good-naturedly. "It's so refreshing. If there is any rest from care
on this earth it's in traveling fast."

"I've never ridden before," replied Eugene simply. Something
about the way he said it touched her. She felt sorry for him
because he appeared lonely and gloomy. His indifference to her
piqued her curiosity and irritated her pride. Why shouldn't he take
an interest in her? As they sped under leafy lanes, up hill and
down dale, she made out his face in the starlight. It was pale,
reflective, indifferent. "These deep thinkers!" she chided him.
"It's terrible to be a philosopher." Eugene smiled.

When they reached home he went to his room as did all the others
to theirs. He stepped out into the hall a few minutes later to go
to the library for a book, and found that her door which he had to
pass was wide open. She was sitting back in a Morris chair, her
feet upon another chair, her skirts slightly drawn up revealing a
trim foot and ankle. She did not stir but looked up and smiled
winningly.

"Aren't you tired enough to sleep?" he asked.

"Not quite yet," she smiled.

He went down stairs and turning on a light in the library stood
looking at a row of books reading the titles. He heard a step and
there she was looking at the books also.

"Don't you want a bottle of beer?" she asked. "I think there is
some in the ice box. I forgot that you might be thirsty."

"I really don't care," he said. "I'm not much for drinks of any
kind."

"That's not very sociable," she laughed.

"Let's have the beer then," he said.

She threw herself back languidly in one of the big dining room
chairs when she had brought the drinks and some Swiss cheese and
crackers, and said: "I think you'll find some cigarettes on the
table in the corner if you like."

He struck her a match and she puffed her cigarette comfortably.
"I suppose you find it lonely up here away from all your friends
and companions," she volunteered.

"Oh, I've been sick so long I scarcely know whether I have
any."

He described some of his imaginary ailments and experiences and
she listened to him attentively. When the beer was gone she asked
him if he would have more but he said no. After a time because he
stirred wearily, she got up.

"Your mother will think we're running some sort of a midnight
game down here," he volunteered.

"Mother can't hear," she said. "Her room is on the third floor
and besides she doesn't hear very well. Dave don't mind. He knows
me well enough by now to know that I do as I please."

She stood closer to Eugene but still he did not see. When he
moved away she put out the lights and followed him to the
stairs.

"He's either the most bashful or the most indifferent of men,"
she thought, but she said softly, "Good-night. Pleasant dreams to
you," and went her way.

Eugene thought of her now as a good fellow, a little gay for a
married woman, but probably circumspect withal. She was simply
being nice to him. All this was simply because, as yet, he was not
very much interested.

There were other incidents. One morning he passed her door. Her
mother had already gone down to breakfast and there was the
spectacle of a smooth, shapely arm and shoulder quite bare to his
gaze as she lay on her pillow apparently unconscious that her door
was open. It thrilled him as something sensuously beautiful for it
was a perfect arm. Another time he saw her of an evening just
before dinner buttoning her shoes. Her dress was pulled
three-quarters of the way to her knees and her shoulders and arms
were bare, for she was still in her corset and short skirts. She
seemed not to know that he was near. One night after dinner he
started to whistle something and she went to the piano to keep him
company. Another time he hummed on the porch and she started the
same song, singing with him. He drew his chair near the window
where there was a couch after her mother had retired for the night,
and she came and threw herself on it. "You don't mind if I lie
here?" she said, "I'm tired tonight."

"Not at all. I'm glad of your company. I'm lonely."

She lay and stared at him, smiling. He hummed and she sang. "Let
me see your palm," she said, "I want to learn something." He held
it out. She fingered it temptingly. Even this did not wake him.

She left for five days because of some necessity in connection
with her engagements and when she returned he was glad to see her.
He had been lonesome, and he knew now that she made the house
gayer. He greeted her genially.

"I'm glad to see you back," he said.

"Are you really?" she replied. "I don't believe it."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Oh, signs, omens and portents. You don't like women very well I
fancy."

"Don't I!"

"No, I think not," she replied.

She was charming in a soft grayish green satin. He noticed that
her neck was beautiful and that her hair looped itself gracefully
upon the back of it. Her nose was straight and fine, sensitive
because of its thin partitioning walls. He followed her into the
library and they went out on the porch. Presently he returned—it
was ten o'clock—and she came also. Davis had gone to his room, Mrs.
Hibberdell to hers.

"I think I'll read," he said, aimlessly.

"Why anything like that?" she jested. "Never read when you can
do anything else."

"What else can I do?"

"Oh, lots of things. Play cards, tell fortunes, read palms,
drink beer—" She looked at him wilfully.

He went to his favorite chair near the window, side by side with
the window-seat couch. She came and threw herself on it.

"Be gallant and fix my pillows for me, will you?" she asked.

"Of course I will," he said.

He took a pillow and raised her head, for she did not deign to
move.

"Is that enough?" he inquired.

"One more."

He put his hand under the first pillow and lifted it up. She
took hold of his free hand to raise herself. When she had it she
held it and laughed a curious excited laugh. It came over him all
at once, the full meaning of all the things she had been doing. He
dropped the pillow he was holding and looked at her steadfastly.
She relaxed her hold and leaned back, languorous, smiling. He took
her left hand, then her right and sat down beside her. In a moment
he slipped one arm under her waist and bending over put his lips to
hers. She twined her arms about his neck tightly and hugged him
close; then looking in his eyes she heaved a great sigh.

"You love me, don't you?" he asked.

"I thought you never would," she sighed, and clasped him to her
again.

The form of Carlotta Wilson was perfect, her passion eager, her
subtlety a match for almost any situation. She had deliberately set
out to win Eugene because he was attractive to her and because, by
his early indifference, he had piqued her vanity and self-love. She
liked him though, liked every one of his characteristics, and was
as proud of her triumph as a child with a new toy. When he had
finally slipped his arm under her waist she had thrilled with a
burning, vibrating thrill throughout her frame and when she came to
him it was with the eagerness of one wild for his caresses. She
threw herself on him, kissed him sensuously scores of times,
whispered her desire and her affection. Eugene thought, now that he
saw her through the medium of an awakened passion, that he had
never seen anything more lovely. For the time being he forgot
Frieda, Angela, his loneliness, the fact that he was working in
supposed prudent self-restraint to effect his recovery, and gave
himself up to the full enjoyment of this situation.

Carlotta was tireless in her attentions. Once she saw that he
really cared, or imagined he did, she dwelt in the atmosphere of
her passion and affection. There was not a moment that she was not
with or thinking of Eugene when either was possible. She lay in
wait for him at every turn, gave him every opportunity which her
skill could command. She knew the movements of her mother and
cousin to the least fraction—could tell exactly where they were,
how long they were likely to remain, how long it would take them to
reach a certain door or spot from where they were standing. Her
step was noiseless, her motions and glances significant and
interpretative. For a month or thereabouts she guided Eugene
through the most perilous situations, keeping her arms about him to
the last possible moment, kissing him silently and swiftly at the
most unexpected times and in the most unexpected surroundings. Her
weary languor, her seeming indifference, disappeared, and she was
very much alive—except in the presence of others. There her old
manner remained, intensified even, for she was determined to throw
a veil of darkness over her mother and her cousin's eyes. She
succeeded admirably for the time being, for she lied to her mother
out of the whole cloth, pretending that Eugene was nice but a
little slow so far as the ways of the world were concerned. "He may
be a good artist," she volunteered, "but he isn't very much of a
ladies' man. He hasn't the first trace of gallantry."

Mrs. Hibberdell was glad. At least there would be no disturbance
here. She feared Carlotta, feared Eugene, but she saw no reason for
complaint. In her presence all was seemingly formal and at times
almost distant. She did not like to say to her daughter that she
should not come to her own home now that Eugene was here, and she
did not like to tell him to leave. Carlotta said she liked him
fairly well, but that was nothing. Any married woman might do that.
Yet under her very eyes was going forward the most disconcerting
license. She would have been astounded if she had known the manner
in which the bath, Carlotta's chamber and Eugene's room were being
used. The hour never struck when they were beyond surveillance but
what they were together.

Eugene grew very indifferent in the matter of his work. From
getting to the point where he was enjoying it because he looked
upon it as a form of exercise which was benefiting him, and feeling
that he might not have to work indefinitely if he kept up physical
rehabilitation at this pace, he grew languid about it and moody
over the time he had to give to it. Carlotta had the privilege of a
certain automobile and besides she could afford to hire one of her
own. She began by suggesting that he meet her at certain places and
times for a little spin and this took him away from his work a good
portion of the time.

"You don't have to work every day, do you?" she asked him one
Sunday afternoon when they were alone. Simpson and Mrs. Hibberdell
had gone out for a walk and they were in her room on the second
floor. Her mother's was on the third.

"I don't have to," he said, "if I don't mind losing the money
they pay. It's fifteen cents an hour and I need that. I'm not
working at my regular profession, you must remember."

"Oh, chuck that," she said. "What's fifteen cents an hour? I'll
give you ten times that to come and be with me."

"No, you won't," he said. "You won't give me anything. We won't
go anywhere on that basis."

"Oh, Eugene, how you talk. Why won't you?" she asked. "I have
lots of it—at least lots more than you have just now. And it might
as well be spent this way as some other. It won't be spent right
anyhow—that is not for any exceptional purpose. Why shouldn't you
have some of it? You can pay it back to me."

"I won't do it," said Eugene. "We won't go anywhere on that
basis. I'd rather go and work. It's all right, though. I can sell a
picture maybe. I expect to hear any day of something being sold.
What is it you want to do?"

"I want you to come automobiling with me tomorrow. Ma is going
over to her sister Ella's in Brooklyn. Has that shop of yours a
phone?"

"Sure it has. I don't think you'd better call me up there
though."

"Once wouldn't hurt."

"Well, perhaps not. But we'd better not begin that, or at least
not make a practice of it. These people are very strict. They have
to be."

"I know," said Carlotta. "I won't. I was just thinking. I'll let
you know. You know that river road that runs on the top of the hill
over there?"

"Yes."

"You be walking along there tomorrow at one o'clock and I'll
pick you up. You can come this once, can't you?"

"Sure," said Eugene. "I can come. I was just joking. I can get
some money." He had still his hundred dollars which he had not used
when he first started looking for work. He had been clinging to it
grimly, but now in this lightened atmosphere he thought he might
spend some of it. He was going to get well. Everything was pointing
that way. His luck was with him.

"Well, I'll get the car. You don't mind riding in that, do
you?"

"No," he said. "I'll wear a good suit to the shop and change
over there."

She laughed gaily, for his scruples and simplicity amused
her.

"You're a prince—my Prince Charming," she said and she flung
herself in his lap. "Oh, you angel man, heaven-born! I've been
waiting for you I don't know how long. Wise man! Prince Charming! I
love you! I love you! I think you're the nicest thing that ever
was."

Eugene caressed her gently.

"And you're my wise girl. But we are no good, neither you nor I.
You're a wastrel and a stray. And I—I hesitate to think what I
am."

"What is a wastrel?" she asked. "That's a new one on me. I don't
remember."

"Something or someone that can be thrown away as useless. A
stray is a pigeon that won't stay with the flock."

"That's me," said Carlotta, holding out her firm, smooth arms
before her and grinning mischievously. "I won't stay with any
flock. Nix for the flocks. I'd rather be off with my wise man. He
is nice enough for me. He's better nor nine or ten flocks." She was
using corrupt English for the joy of it. "Just me and you, Prince
Charming. Am I your lovely wastrel? Do you like strays? Say you do.
Listen! Do you like strays?"

Eugene had been turning his head away, saying "scandalous!
terrible, you're the worst ever," but she stopped his mouth with
her lips.

"Do you?"

"This wastrel, yes. This stray," he replied, smoothing her
cheek. "Ah, you're lovely, Carlotta, you're beautiful. What a
wonderful woman you are."

She gave herself to him completely.

"Whatever I am, I'm yours, wise man," she went on. "You can have
anything you want of me, do anything you please with me. You're
like an opiate to me, Eugene, sweet! You stop my mouth and close my
eyes and seal my ears. You make me forget everything I suppose I
might think now and then but I don't want to. I don't want to! And
I don't care. I wish you were single. I wish I were free. I wish we
had an island somewhere together. Oh, hell! Life is a wearisome
tangle, isn't it? 'Take the cash and let the credit go.'"

By this time Carlotta had heard enough of Eugene's life to
understand what his present condition was. She knew he was sick
though not exactly why. She thought it was due to overwork. She
knew he was out of funds except for certain pictures he had on
sale, but that he would regain his art ability and re-establish
himself she did not doubt. She knew something of Angela and thought
it was all right that she should be away from him, but now she
wished the separation might be permanent. She went into the city
and asking about at various art stores learned something of
Eugene's art history and his great promise. It made him all the
more fascinating in her eyes. One of his pictures on exhibition at
Pottle Frères was bought by her after a little while and the money
sent to Eugene, for she had learned from him how these pictures,
any pictures, were exhibited on sale and the painter paid, minus
the commission, when the sale was made. She took good care to make
it clear to the manager at Pottle Frères that she was doing this so
that Eugene could have the money and saw to it that the check
reached him promptly. If Eugene had been alone this check of three
hundred dollars would have served to bring Angela to him. As it was
it gave him funds to disport himself with in her company. He did
not know that she had been the means of his getting it, or to whom
the picture had been sold. A fictitious name was given. This sale
somewhat restored Eugene's faith in his future, for if one of his
pictures would sell so late in the day for this price, others
would.

There were days thereafter of the most curious composition. In
the morning he would leave dressed in his old working suit and
carrying his lunch box, Carlotta waving him a farewell from her
window, or, if he had an engagement outside with Carlotta, wearing
a good suit, and trusting to his overalls and jumper to protect it,
working all day with John and Bill, or Malachi Dempsey and
Joseph—for there was rivalry between these two groups as to which
should have his company—or leaving the shop early and riding with
her a part of the time, coming home at night to be greeted by
Carlotta as though she had not seen him at all. She watched for his
coming as patiently as a wife and was as eager to see if there was
anything she could do for him. In the shop Malachi and Joseph or
John and Bill and sometimes some of the carpenters up stairs would
complain of a rush of work in order that they might have his
assistance or presence. Malachi and Joseph could always enter the
complaint that they were in danger of being hampered by shavings,
for the latter were constantly piling up in great heaps, beautiful
shavings of ash and yellow pine and walnut which smelled like resin
and frankincense and had the shape of girl's curls or dry breakfast
food, or rich damp sawdust. Or John and Bill would complain that
they were being overworked and needed someone in the car to
receive. Even Big John, the engineer, tried to figure out some
scheme by which he could utilize Eugene as a fireman, but that was
impossible; there was no call for any such person. The foreman
understood well enough what the point was but said nothing, placing
Eugene with the particular group which seemed to need him most.
Eugene was genial enough about the matter. Wherever he was was
right. He liked to be in the cars or on a lumber pile or in the
plane room. He also liked to stand and talk to Big John or Harry
Fornes, his basket under his arm—"kidding," as he called it. His
progress to and fro was marked by endless quips and jests and he
was never weary.

When his work was done at night he would hurry home, following
the right bank of the little stream until he reached a path which
led up to the street whereon was the Hibberdell house. On his way
he would sometimes stop and study the water, its peaceful current
bearing an occasional stick or straw upon its bosom, and
contrasting the seeming peace of its movement with his own troubled
life. The subtlety of nature as expressed in water appealed to him.
The difference between this idyllic stream bank and his shop and
all who were of it, struck him forcefully. Malachi Dempsey had only
the vaguest conception of the beauty of nature. Jack Stix was
scarcely more artistic than the raw piles of lumber with which he
dealt. Big John had no knowledge of the rich emotions of love or of
beauty which troubled Eugene's brain. They lived on another plane,
apparently.

And at the other end of the stream awaiting him was Carlotta,
graceful, sophisticated, eager in her regard for him, lukewarm in
her interest in morals, sybaritic in her moods, representing in a
way a world which lived upon the fruits of this exploited toil and
caring nothing about it. If he said anything to Carlotta about the
condition of Joseph Mews, who carried bundles of wood home to his
sister of an evening to help save the expense of fuel, she merely
smiled. If he talked of the poverty of the masses she said, "Don't
be doleful, Eugene." She wanted to talk of art and luxury and love,
or think of them at least. Her love of the beauty of nature was
keen. There were certain inns they could reach by automobile where
they could sit and dine and drink a bottle of wine or a pitcher of
claret cup, and here she would muse on what they would do if they
were only free. Angela was frequently in Carlotta's thoughts,
persistently in Eugene's, for he could not help feeling that he was
doing her a rank injustice.

She had been so patient and affectionate all this long time
past, had tended him as a mother, waited on him as a servant. Only
recently he had been writing in most affectionate terms, wishing
she were with him. Now all that was dead again. It was hard work to
write. Everything he said seemed a lie and he did not want to say
it. He hated to pretend. Still, if he did not write Angela would be
in a state of mortal agony, he thought, and would shortly come to
look him up. It was only by writing, protesting his affection,
explaining why in his judgment it was unadvisable for her to come
at present, that she could be made to stay where she was. And now
that he was so infatuated with Carlotta this seemed very desirable.
He did not delude himself that he would ever be able to marry her.
He knew that he could not get a divorce, there being no grounds,
and the injustice to Angela being such a bar to his conscience; and
as for Carlotta, her future was very uncertain. Norman Wilson, for
all that he disregarded her at times, did not want to give her up.
He was writing, threatening to come back to New York if she did not
come to him, though the fact that she was in her mother's home,
where he considered her safe, was some consolation to him. Angela
was begging Eugene to let her come. They would get along, she
argued, on whatever he got and he would be better off with her than
alone. She pictured him living in some uncomfortable boarding house
where he was not half attended to and intensely lonely. Her return
meant the leaving of this lovely home—for Mrs. Hibberdell had
indicated that she would not like to keep him and his wife—and so
the end of this perfect romance with Carlotta. An end to lovely
country inns and summer balconies where they were dining together!
An end to swift tours in her automobile, which she guided skilfully
herself, avoiding the presence of a chauffeur. An end to lovely
trysts under trees and by pretty streams where he kissed and
fondled her and where she lingered joyously in his arms!