The Genius (44 page)

One noontime Eugene walked down to the little post office at
Speonk to look for a letter, for Carlotta had not been able to meet
him the previous day and had phoned instead that she would write
the following day. He found it safely enough, and after glancing at
it—it contained but few words—decided to tear it up as usual and
throw the pieces away. A mere expression, "Ashes of Roses," which
she sometimes used to designate herself, and the superscription,
"Oh, Genie!" made it, however, inexpressibly dear to him. He
thought he would hold it in his possession just a little while—a
few hours longer. It was enigmatic enough to anyone but himself, he
thought, even if found. "The bridge, two, Wednesday." The bridge
referred to was one over the Harlem at Morris Heights. He kept the
appointment that day as requested, but by some necromancy of fate
he forgot the letter until he was within his own door. Then he took
it out, tore it up into four or five pieces quickly, put it in his
vest pocket, and went upstairs intending at the first opportunity
to dispose of it.

Meanwhile, Angela, for the first time since they had been living
at Riverwood, had decided to walk over toward the factory about six
o'clock and meet Eugene on his way home. She heard him discourse on
the loveliness of this stream and what a pleasure it was to stroll
along its banks morning and evening. He was so fond of the smooth
water and the overhanging leaves! She had walked with him there
already on several Sundays. When she went this evening she thought
what a pleasant surprise it would be for him, for she had prepared
everything on leaving so that his supper would not be delayed when
they reached home. She heard the whistle blow as she neared the
shop, and, standing behind a clump of bushes on the thither side of
the stream, she waited, expecting to pounce out on Eugene with a
loving "Boo!" He did not come.

The forty or fifty men who worked here trickled out like a
little stream of black ants, and then, Eugene not appearing, Angela
went over to the gate which Joseph Mews in the official capacity of
gateman, after the whistle blew, was closing.

"Is Mr. Witla here?" asked Angela, peering through the bars at
him. Eugene had described Joseph so accurately to her that she
recognized him at sight.

"No, ma'am," replied Joseph, quite taken back by this attractive
arrival, for good-looking women were not common at the shop gate of
the factory. "He left four or five hours ago. I think he left at
one o'clock, if I remember right. He wasn't working with us today.
He was working out in the yard."

"You don't know where he went, do you?" asked Angela, who was
surprised at this novel information. Eugene had not said anything
about going anywhere. Where could he have gone?

"No'm, I don't," replied Joseph volubly. "He sometimes goes off
this way—quite frequent, ma'am. His wife calls him up—er—now, maybe
you're his wife."

"I am," said Angela; but she was no longer thinking of what she
was saying, her words on the instant were becoming mechanical.
Eugene going away frequently? He had never said anything to her!
His wife calling him up! Could there be another woman! Instantly
all her old suspicions, jealousies, fears, awoke, and she was
wondering why she had not fixed on this fact before. That explained
Eugene's indifference, of course. That explained his air of
abstraction. He wasn't thinking of her, the miserable creature! He
was thinking of someone else. Still she could not be sure, for she
had no proof. Two adroit questions elicited the fact that no one in
the shop had ever seen his wife. He had just gone out. A woman had
called up.

Angela took her way home amid a whirling fire of conjecture.
When she reached it Eugene was not there yet, for he sometimes
delayed his coming, lingering, as he said, to look at the water. It
was natural enough in an artist. She went upstairs and hung the
broad-brimmed straw she had worn in the closet, and went into the
kitchen to await his coming. Experience with him and the nature of
her own temperament determined her to enact a rôle of subtlety. She
would wait until he spoke, pretending that she had not been out.
She would ask whether he had had a hard day, and see whether he
disclosed the fact that he had been away from the factory. That
would show her positively what he was doing and whether he was
deliberately deceiving her.

Eugene came up the stairs, gay enough but anxious to deposit the
scraps of paper where they would not be seen. No opportunity came
for Angela was there to greet him.

"Did you have a hard job today?" she asked, noting that he made
no preliminary announcement of any absence.

"Not very," he replied; "no. I don't look tired?"

"No," she said bitterly, but concealing her feelings; she wanted
to see how thoroughly and deliberately he would lie. "But I thought
maybe you might have. Did you stop to look at the water
tonight?"

"Yes," he replied smoothly. "It's very lovely over there. I
never get tired of it. The sun on the leaves these days now that
they are turning yellow is so beautiful. They look a little like
stained glass at certain angles."

Her first impulse after hearing this was to exclaim, "Why do you
lie to me, Eugene?" for her temper was fiery, almost uncontrollable
at times; but she restrained herself. She wanted to find out
more—how she did not know, but time, if she could only wait a
little, would help her. Eugene went to the bath, congratulating
himself on the ease of his escape—the comfortable fact that he was
not catechised very much; but in this temporary feeling of
satisfaction he forgot the scraps of paper in his vest
pocket—though not for long. He hung his coat and vest on a hook and
started into the bedroom to get himself a fresh collar and tie.
While he was in there Angela passed the bathroom door. She was
always interested in Eugene's clothes, how they were wearing, but
tonight there were other thoughts in her mind. Hastily and by
intuition she went through his pockets, finding the torn scraps,
then for excuse took his coat and vest down to clean certain spots.
At the same moment Eugene thought of his letter. He came hurrying
out to get it, or the pieces, rather, but Angela already had them
and was looking at them curiously.

"What was that?" she asked, all her suspicious nature on the
qui vive
for additional proof. Why should he keep the torn
fragments of a letter in his pocket? For days she had had a psychic
sense of something impending. Everything about him seemed strangely
to call for investigation. Now it was all coming out.

"Nothing," he said nervously. "A memorandum. Throw it in the
paper box."

Angela noted the peculiarity of his voice and manner. She was
taken by the guilty expression of his eyes. Something was wrong. It
concerned these scraps of paper. Maybe it was in these she would be
able to read the riddle of his conduct. The woman's name might be
in here. Like a flash it came to her that she might piece these
scraps together, but there was another thought equally swift which
urged her to pretend indifference. That might help her. Pretend now
and she would know more later. She threw them in the paper box,
thinking to piece them together at her leisure. Eugene noted her
hesitation, her suspicion. He was afraid she would do something,
what he could not guess. He breathed more easily when the papers
fluttered into the practically empty box, but he was nervous. If
they were only burned! He did not think she would attempt to put
them together, but he was afraid. He would have given anything if
his sense of romance had not led him into this trap.

Angela was quick to act upon her thought. No sooner had Eugene
entered the bath than she gathered up the pieces, threw other bits
of paper like them in their place and tried quickly to piece them
together on the ironing board where she was. It was not difficult;
the scraps were not small. On one triangular bit were the words,
"Oh, Genie!" with a colon after it; on another the words, "The
bridge," and on another "Roses." There was no doubt in her mind
from this preliminary survey that this was a love note, and every
nerve in her body tingled to the terrible import of it. Could it
really be true? Could Eugene have found someone else? Was this the
cause of his coolness and his hypocritical pretence of affection?
and of his not wanting her to come to him? Oh, God! Would her
sufferings never cease! She hurried into the front room, her face
white, her hand clenching the tell-tale bits, and there set to work
to complete her task. It did not take her long. In four minutes it
was all together, and then she saw it all. A love note! From some
demon of a woman. No doubt of it! Some mysterious woman in the
background. "Ashes of Roses!" Now God curse her for a siren, a love
thief, a hypnotizing snake, fascinating men with her evil eyes. And
Eugene! The dog! The scoundrel! The vile coward! The traitor! Was
there no decency, no morality, no kindness, no gratitude in his
soul? After all her patience, all her suffering, all her
loneliness, her poverty. To treat her like this! Writing that he
was sick and lonely and unable to have her with him, and at the
same time running around with a strange woman. "Ashes of Roses!"
Oh, curses, curses, curses on her harlot's heart and brain! Might
God strike her dead for her cynical, brutal seizing upon that
sacred possession which belonged to another. She wrung her hands
desperately.

Angela was fairly beside herself. Through her dainty little head
ran a foaming torrent of rage, hate, envy, sorrow,
self-commiseration, brutal desire for revenge. If she could only
get at this woman! If she could only denounce Eugene now to his
face! If she could only find them together and kill them! How she
would like to strike her on the mouth! How tear her hair and her
eyes out! Something of the forest cat's cruel rage shone in her
gleaming eyes as she thought of her, for if she could have had
Carlotta there alone she would have tortured her with hot irons,
torn her tongue and teeth from their roots, beaten her into
insensibility and an unrecognizable mass. She was a real tigress
now, her eyes gleaming, her red lips wet. She would kill her! kill
her!! kill her!!! As God was judge, she would kill her if she could
find her, and Eugene and herself. Yes, yes, she would. Better death
than this agony of suffering. Better a thousand times to be dead
with this beast of a woman dead beside her and Eugene than to
suffer this way. She didn't deserve it. Why did God torture her so?
Why was she made to bleed at every step by this her sacrificial
love? Had she not been a good wife? Had she not laid every tribute
of tenderness, patience, self-abnegation, self-sacrifice and virtue
on the altar of love? What more could God ask? What more could man
want? Had she not waited on Eugene in sickness and health? She had
gone without clothes, gone without friends, hidden herself away in
Blackwood the seven months while he was here frittering away his
health and time in love and immorality, and what was her reward? In
Chicago, in Tennessee, in Mississippi, had she not waited on him,
sat up with him of nights, walked the floor with him when he was
nervous, consoled him in his fear of poverty and failure, and here
she was now, after seven long months of patient waiting and
watching—eating her lonely heart out—forsaken. Oh, the
inconceivable inhumanity of the human heart! To think anybody could
be so vile, so low, so unkind, so cruel! To think that Eugene with
his black eyes, his soft hair, his smiling face, could be so
treacherous, so subtle, so dastardly! Could he really be as mean as
this note proved him to be? Could he be as brutal, as selfish? Was
she awake or asleep? Was this a dream? Ah, God! no, no it was not a
dream. It was a cold, bitter, agonizing reality. And the cause of
all her suffering was there in the bathroom now shaving
himself.

For one moment she thought she would go in and strike him where
he stood. She thought she could tear his heart out, cut him up, but
then suddenly the picture of him bleeding and dead came to her and
she recoiled. No, no, she could not do that! Oh, no, not Eugene—and
yet and yet——

"Oh, God, let me get my hands on that woman!" she said to
herself. "Let me get my hands on her. I'll kill her, I'll kill her!
I'll kill her!"

This torrent of fury and self-pity was still raging in her heart
when the bathroom knob clicked and Eugene came out. He was in his
undershirt, trousers and shoes, looking for a clean white shirt. He
was very nervous over the note which had been thrown in scraps into
the box, but looking in the kitchen and seeing the pieces still
there he was slightly reassured. Angela was not there; he could
come back and get them when he found out where she was. He went on
into the bedroom, looking into the front room as he did so. She
appeared to be at the window waiting for him. After all, she was
probably not as suspicious as he thought. It was his own
imagination. He was too nervous and sensitive. Well, he would get
those pieces now if he could and throw them out of the window.
Angela should not have a chance to examine them if she wanted to.
He slipped out into the kitchen, made a quick grab for the little
heap, and sent the pieces flying. Then he felt much better. He
would never bring another letter home from anybody, that was a
certainty. Fate was too much against him.

Angela came out after a bit, for the click of the bathroom knob
had sobered her a little. Her rage was high, her pulse abnormal,
her whole being shaken to its roots, but still she realized that
she must have time to think. She must see who this woman was first.
She must have time to find her. Eugene mustn't know. Where was she
now? Where was this bridge? Where did they meet? Where did she
live? She wondered for the moment why she couldn't think it all
out, why it didn't come to her in a flash, a revelation. If she
could only know!

In a few minutes Eugene came in, clean-shaven, smiling, his
equanimity and peace of mind fairly well restored. The letter was
gone. Angela could never know. She might suspect, but this possible
burst of jealousy had been nipped in the bud. He came over toward
her to put his arm round her, but she slipped away from him,
pretending to need the sugar. He let this effort at love making
go—the will for the deed, and sat down at the snow-white little
table, set with tempting dishes and waited to be served. The day
had been very pleasant, being early in October, and he was pleased
to see a last lingering ray of light falling on some red and yellow
leaves. This yard was very beautiful. This little flat, for all
their poverty, very charming. Angela was neat and trim in a dainty
house dress of mingled brown and green. A dark blue studio apron
shielded her bosom and skirt. She was very pale and
distraught-looking, but Eugene for the time was almost unconscious
of it—he was so relieved.

"Are you very tired, Angela?" he finally asked
sympathetically.

"Yes, I'm not feeling so well today," she replied.

"What have you been doing, ironing?"

"Oh, yes, and cleaning. I worked on the cupboard."

"You oughtn't to try to do so much," he said cheerfully. "You're
not strong enough. You think you're a little horse, but you are
only a colt. Better go slow, hadn't you?"

"I will after I get everything straightened out to suit me," she
replied.

She was having the struggle of her life to conceal her real
feelings. Never at any time had she undergone such an ordeal as
this. Once in the studio, when she discovered those two letters,
she thought she was suffering—but that, what was that to this? What
were her suspicions concerning Frieda? What were the lonely
longings at home, her grieving and worrying over his illness?
Nothing, nothing! Now he was actually faithless to her. Now she had
the evidence. This woman was here. She was somewhere in the
immediate background. After these years of marriage and close
companionship he was deceiving her. It was possible that he had
been with this woman today, yesterday, the day before. The letter
was not dated. Could it be that she was related to Mrs. Hibberdell?
Eugene had said that there was a married daughter, but never that
she was there. If she was there, why should he have moved? He
wouldn't have. Was it the wife of the man he was last living with?
No; she was too homely. Angela had seen her. Eugene would never
associate with her. If she could only know! "Ashes of Roses!" The
world went red before her eyes. There was no use bursting into a
storm now, though. If she could only be calm it would be better. If
she only had someone to talk to—if there were a minister or a bosom
friend! She might go to a detective agency. They might help her. A
detective could trace this woman and Eugene. Did she want to do
this? It cost money. They were very poor now. Paugh! Why should she
worry about their poverty, mending her dresses, going without hats,
going without decent shoes, and he wasting his time and being upon
some shameless strumpet! If he had money, he would spend it on her.
Still, he had handed her almost all the money he had brought East
with him intact. How was that?

All the time Eugene was sitting opposite her eating with fair
heartiness. If the trouble about the letter had not come out so
favorably he would have been without appetite, but now he felt at
ease. Angela said she was not hungry and could not eat. She passed
him the bread, the butter, the hashed brown potatoes, the tea, and
he ate cheerfully.

"I think I am going to try and get out of that shop over there,"
he volunteered affably.

"Why?" asked Angela mechanically.

"I'm tired of it. The men are not so interesting to me now. I'm
tired of them. I think Mr. Haverford will transfer me if I write to
him. He said he would. I'd rather be outside with some section gang
if I could. It's going to be very dreary in the shop when they
close it up."

"Well, if you're tired you'd better," replied Angela. "Your mind
needs diversion, I know that. Why don't you write to Mr.
Haverford?"

"I will," he said, but he did not immediately. He went into the
front room and lit the gas eventually, reading a paper, then a
book, then yawning wearily. Angela came in after a time and sat
down pale and tired. She went and secured a little workbasket in
which were socks undarned and other odds and ends and began on
those, but she revolted at the thought of doing anything for him
and put them up. She got out a skirt of hers which she was making.
Eugene watched her a little while lazily, his artistic eye
measuring the various dimensions of her features. She had a
well-balanced face, he finally concluded. He noted the effect of
the light on her hair—the peculiar hue it gave it—and wondered if
he could get that in oil. Night scenes were harder than those of
full daylight. Shadows were so very treacherous. He got up
finally.

"Well, I'm going to turn in," he said. "I'm tired. I have to get
up at six. Oh, dear, this darn day labor business gives me a pain.
I wish it were over."

Angela did not trust herself to speak. She was so full of pain
and despair that she thought if she spoke she would cry. He went
out, saying: "Coming soon?" She nodded her head. When he was gone
the storm burst and she broke into a blinding flood of tears. They
were not only tears of sorrow, but of rage and helplessness. She
went out on a little balcony which was there and cried alone, the
night lights shining wistfully about. After the first storm she
began to harden and dry up again, for helpless tears were foreign
to her in a rage. She dried her eyes and became white-faced and
desperate as before.

The dog, the scoundrel, the brute, the hound! she thought. How
could she ever have loved him? How could she love him now? Oh, the
horror of life, its injustice, its cruelty, its shame! That she
should be dragged through the mire with a man like this. The pity
of it! The shame! If this was art, death take it! And yet hate him
as she might—hate this hellish man-trap who signed herself "Ashes
of Roses"—she loved him, too. She could not help it. She knew she
loved him. Oh, to be crossed by two fevers like this! Why might she
not die? Why not die, right now?