The Genius by Theodore Dreiser

The action was sincere, unstudied. It hurt him, for it was like that of a little child.

“Oh, hush! Don’t say that,” he pleaded. “You know I do. Don’t look so gloomy. I love you—don’t you know I do?” and he kissed her.

“No, no!” said Angela. “I know! You don’t. Oh, dear; oh, dear; I feel so bad!”

Eugene was dreading another display of the hysteria with which he was familiar, but it did not come. She conquered her mood, inasmuch as she had no real basis for suspicion, and went about the work of getting him his dinner. She was depressed, though, and he was fearful. What if she should ever find out!

More days passed. Carlotta called him up at the shop occasionally, for there was no phone where he lived, and she would not have risked it if there had been. She sent him registered notes to be signed for, addressed to Henry Kingsland and directed to the post office at Speonk. Eugene was not known there as Witla and easily secured these missives, which were usually very guarded in their expressions and concerned appointments—the vaguest, most mysterious directions, which he understood. They made arrangements largely from meeting to meeting, saying, “If I can’t keep it Thursday at two it will be Friday at the same time; and if not then, Saturday. If anything happens I’ll send you a registered special.” So it went on.

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.