The Genius (45 page)

The hells of love are bitter and complete. There were days after
that when she watched him, followed him down the pleasant lane from
the house to the water's edge, slipping out unceremoniously after
he had gone not more than eight hundred feet. She watched the
bridge at Riverwood at one and six, expecting that Eugene and his
paramour might meet there. It just happened that Carlotta was
compelled to leave town for ten days with her husband, and so
Eugene was safe. On two occasions he went downtown—into the heart
of the great city, anxious to get a breath of the old life that so
fascinated him, and Angela followed him only to lose track of him
quickly. He did nothing evil, however, merely walked, wondering
what Miriam Finch and Christina Channing and Norma Whitmore were
doing these days and what they were thinking of him in his long
absence. Of all the people he had known, he had only seen Norma
Whitmore once and that was not long after he returned to New York.
He had given her a garbled explanation of his illness, stated that
he was going to work now and proposed to come and see her. He did
his best to avoid observation, however, for he dreaded explaining
the reason of his non-productive condition. Miriam Finch was almost
glad that he had failed, since he had treated her so badly.
Christina Channing was in opera, as he quickly discovered, for he
saw her name blazoned one day the following November in the
newspapers. She was a star of whose talent great hopes were
entertained, and was interested almost exclusively in her career.
She was to sing in "Bohème" and "Rigoletto."

Another thing, fortunate for Eugene at this time, was that he
changed his work. There came to the shop one day an Irish foreman,
Timothy Deegan, master of a score of "guineas," as he called the
Italian day laborers who worked for him, who took Eugene's fancy
greatly. He was of medium height, thick of body and neck, with a
cheerful, healthy red face, a keen, twinkling gray eye, and stiff,
closely cropped gray hair and mustache. He had come to lay the
foundation for a small dynamo in the engine room at Speonk, which
was to supply the plant with light in case of night work, and a car
of his had been backed in, a tool car, full of boards, barrows,
mortar boards, picks and shovels. Eugene was amused and astonished
at his insistent, defiant attitude and the brisk manner in which he
was handing out orders to his men.

"Come, Matt! Come, Jimmie! Get the shovels now! Get the picks!"
he heard him shout. "Bring some sand here! Bring some stone!
Where's the cement now? Where's the cement? Jasus Christ! I must
have some cement. What arre ye all doing? Hurry now, hurry! Bring
the cement."

"Well, he knows how to give orders," commented Eugene to Big
John, who was standing near. "He certainly does," replied the
latter.

To himself Eugene observed, hearing only the calls at first,
"the Irish brute." Later he discovered a subtle twinkle in Deegan's
eyes as he stood brazenly in the door, looking defiantly about.
There was no brutality in it, only self-confidence and a hearty
Irish insistence on the necessity of the hour.

"Well, you're a dandy!" commented Eugene boldly after a time,
and laughed.

"Ha! ha! ha!" mocked Deegan in return. "If you had to work as
harred as these men you wouldn't laugh."

"I'm not laughing at them. I'm laughing at you," explained
Eugene.

"Laugh," said Deegan. "Shure you're as funny to me as I am to
you."

Eugene laughed again. The Irishman agreed with himself that
there was humor in it. He laughed too. Eugene patted his big rough
shoulder with his hands and they were friends immediately. It did
not take Deegan long to find out from Big John why he was there and
what he was doing.

"An arrtist!" he commented. "Shewer he'd better be outside than
in. The loikes of him packin' shavin's and him laughin' at me."

Big John smiled.

"I believe he wants to get outside," he said.

"Why don't he come with me, then? He'd have a foine time workin'
with the guineas. Shewer 'twould make a man av him—a few months of
that"—and he pointed to Angelo Esposito shoveling clay.

Big John thought this worth reporting to Eugene. He did not
think that he wanted to work with the guineas, but he might like to
be with Deegan. Eugene saw his opportunity. He liked Deegan.

"Would you like to have an artist who's looking for health come
and work for you, Deegan?" Eugene asked genially. He thought Deegan
might refuse, but it didn't matter. It was worth the trial.

"Shewer!" replied the latter.

"Will I have to work with the Italians?"

"There'll be plenty av work for ye to do without ever layin' yer
hand to pick or shovel unless ye want to. Shewer that's no work fer
a white man to do."

"And what do you call them, Deegan? Aren't they white?"

"Shewer they're naat."

"What are they, then? They're not black."

"Nagurs, of coorse."

"But they're not negroes."

"Will, begad, they're naat white. Any man kin tell that be
lookin' at thim."

Eugene smiled. He understood at once the solid Irish temperament
which could draw this hearty conclusion. There was no malice in it.
Deegan did not underestimate these Italians. He liked his men, but
they weren't white. He didn't know what they were exactly, but they
weren't white. He was standing over them a moment later shouting,
"Up with it! Up with it! Down with it! Down with it!" as though his
whole soul were intent on driving the last scrap of strength out of
these poor underlings, when as a matter of fact they were not
working very hard at all. His glance was roving about in a general
way as he yelled and they paid little attention to him. Once in a
while he would interpolate a "Come, Matt!" in a softer key—a key so
soft that it was entirely out of keeping with his other voice.
Eugene saw it all clearly. He understood Deegan.

"I think I'll get Mr. Haverford to transfer me to you, if you'll
let me come," he said at the close of the day when Deegan was
taking off his overalls and the "Eyetalians," as he called them,
were putting the things back in the car.

"Shewer!" said Deegan, impressed by the great name of Haverford.
If Eugene could accomplish that through such a far-off, wondrous
personality, he must be a remarkable man himself. "Come along. I'll
be glad to have ye. Ye can just make out the O. K. blanks and the
repoarts and watch over the min sich times as I'll naat be there
and—well—all told, ye'll have enough to keep ye busy."

Eugene smiled. This was a pleasant prospect. Big John had told
him during the morning that Deegan went up and down the road from
Peekskill on the main line, Chatham on the Midland Division, and
Mt. Kisco on a third branch to New York City. He built wells,
culverts, coal bins, building piers—small brick buildings—anything
and everything, in short, which a capable foreman-mason ought to be
able to build, and in addition he was fairly content and happy in
his task. Eugene could see it. The atmosphere of the man was
wholesome. He was like a tonic—a revivifying dynamo to this sickly
overwrought sentimentalist.

That night he went home to Angela full of the humor and romance
of his new situation. He liked the idea of it. He wanted to tell
her about Deegan—to make her laugh. He was destined unfortunately
to another kind of reception.

For Angela, by this time, had endured the agony of her discovery
to the breaking point. She had listened to his pretences, knowing
them to be lies, until she could endure it no longer. In following
him she had discovered nothing, and the change in his work would
make the chase more difficult. It was scarcely possible for anyone
to follow him, for he himself did not know where he would be from
day to day. He would be here, there, and everywhere. His sense of
security as well as of his unfairness made him sensitive about
being nice in the unimportant things. When he thought at all he was
ashamed of what he was doing—thoroughly ashamed. Like the drunkard
he appeared to be mastered by his weakness, and the psychology of
his attitude is so best interpreted. He caressed her
sympathetically, for he thought from her drawn, weary look that she
was verging on some illness. She appeared to him to be suffering
from worry for him, overwork, or approaching malady.

But Eugene in spite of his unfaithfulness did sympathize with
Angela greatly. He appreciated her good qualities—her truthfulness,
economy, devotion and self-sacrifice in all things which related to
him. He was sorry that his own yearning for freedom crossed with
her desire for simple-minded devotion on his part. He could not
love her as she wanted him to, that he knew, and yet he was at
times sorry for it, very. He would look at her when she was not
looking at him, admiring her industry, her patience, her pretty
figure, her geniality in the face of many difficulties, and wish
that she could have had a better fate than to have met and married
him.

Because of these feelings on his part for her he could not bear
to see her suffer. When she appeared to be ill he could not help
drawing near to her, wanting to know how she was, endeavoring to
make her feel better by those sympathetic, emotional demonstrations
which he knew meant so much to her. On this particular evening,
noting the still drawn agony of her face, he was moved to insist.
"What's the matter with you, Angelface, these days? You look so
tired. You're not right. What's troubling you?"

"Oh, nothing," replied Angela wearily.

"But I know there is," he replied. "You can't be feeling well.
What's ailing you? You're not like yourself at all. Won't you tell
me, sweet? What's the trouble?"

He was thinking because Angela said nothing that it must be a
real physical illness. Any emotional complaint vented itself
quickly.

"Why should you care?" she asked cautiously, breaking her
self-imposed vow of silence. She was thinking that Eugene and this
woman, whoever she was, were conspiring to defeat her and that they
were succeeding. Her voice had changed from one of weary
resignation to subtle semi-concealed complaint and offense, and
Eugene noted it. Before she could add any more, he had observed,
"Why shouldn't I? Why, how you talk! What's the matter now?"

Angela really did not intend to go on. Her query was dragged out
of her by his obvious sympathy. He was sorry for her in some
general way. It made her pain and wrath all the greater. And his
additional inquiry irritated her the more.

"Why should you?" she asked weepingly. "You don't want me. You
don't like me. You pretend sympathy when I look a little bad, but
that's all. But you don't care for me. If you could get rid of me,
you would. That is so plain."

"Why, what are you talking about?" he asked, astonished. Had she
found out anything? Was the incident of the scraps of paper really
closed? Had anybody been telling her anything about Carlotta?
Instantly he was all at sea. Still he had to pretend.

"You know I care," he said. "How can you say that?"

"You don't. You know you don't!" she flared up suddenly. "Why do
you lie? You don't care. Don't touch me. Don't come near me. I'm
sick of your hypocritical pretences! Oh!" And she straightened up
with her finger nails cutting into her palms.

Eugene at the first expression of disbelief on her part had laid
his hand soothingly on her arm. That was why she had jumped away
from him. Now he drew back, nonplussed, nervous, a little defiant.
It was easier to combat rage than sorrow; but he did not want to do
either.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked, assuming a look of
bewildered innocence. "What have I done now?"

"What haven't you done, you'd better ask. You dog! You coward!"
flared Angela. "Leaving me to stay out in Wisconsin while you go
running around with a shameless woman. Don't deny it! Don't dare to
deny it!"—this apropos of a protesting movement on the part of
Eugene's head—"I know all! I know more than I want to know. I know
how you've been acting. I know what you've been doing. I know how
you've been lying to me. You've been running around with a low,
vile wretch of a woman while I have been staying out in Blackwood
eating my heart out, that's what you've been doing. Dear Angela!
Dear Angelface! Dear Madonna Doloroso! Ha! What have you been
calling her, you lying, hypocritical coward! What names have you
for her, Hypocrite! Brute! Liar! I know what you've been doing. Oh,
how well I know! Why was I ever born?—oh, why, why?"

Her voice trailed off in a wail of agony. Eugene stood there
astonished to the point of inefficiency. He could not think of a
single thing to do or say. He had no idea upon what evidence she
based her complaint. He fancied that it must be much more than had
been contained in that little note which he had torn up. She had
not seen that—of that he was reasonably sure—or was he? Could she
have taken it out of the box while he was in the bath and then put
it back again? This sounded like it. She had looked very bad that
night. How much did she know? Where had she secured this
information? Mrs. Hibberdell? Carlotta? No! Had she seen her?
Where? When?

"You're talking through your hat," he said aimlessly and largely
in order to get time. "You're crazy! What's got into you, anyhow? I
haven't been doing anything of the sort."

"Oh, haven't you!" she sneered. "You haven't been meeting her at
bridges and road houses and street cars, have you? You liar! You
haven't been calling her 'Ashes of Roses' and 'River Nymph' and
'Angel Girl.'" Angela was making up names and places out of her own
mind. "I suppose you used some of the pet names on her that you
gave to Christina Channing, didn't you? She'd like those, the vile
strumpet! And you, you dog, pretending to me—pretending sympathy,
pretending loneliness, pretending sorrow that I couldn't be here! A
lot you cared what I was doing or thinking or suffering. Oh, I hate
you, you horrible coward! I hate her! I hope something terrible
happens to you. If I could get at her now I would kill her and you
both—and myself. I would! I wish I could die! I wish I could
die!"