It was in the course of his final upward progress that Eugene came once more into contact with Kenyon C. Winfield, Ex-State Senator of New York, President of the Long Island Realty Company, land developer, real estate plunger, financier, artist, what not—a man very much of Eugene's own type and temperament, who at this time was doing rather remarkable things in a land speculative way. Winfield was tall and thin, black haired, black eyed, slightly but not offensively hook nosed, dignified, gracious, intellectual, magnetic, optimistic. He was forty-eight years of age. Winfield was a very fair sample of your man of the world who has ideas, dreams, fancies, executive ability, a certain amount of reserve and judgment, sufficient to hold his own in this very complicated mortal struggle. He was not really a great man, but he was so near it that he gave the impression to many of being so. His deep sunken black eyes burned with a peculiar lustre, one might almost have fancied a tint of red in them. His pale, slightly sunken face had some of the characteristics of your polished Mephisto, though not too many. He was not at all devilish looking in the true sense of the word, but keen, subtle, artistic. His method was to ingratiate himself with men who had money in order to get from them the vast sums which he found it necessary to borrow to carry out the schemes or rather dreams he was constantly generating. His fancies were always too big for his purse, but he had such lovely fancies that it was a joy to work with them and him.
Primarily Winfield was a real estate speculator, secondarily he was a dreamer of dreams and seer of visions. His visions consisted of lovely country areas near some city stocked with charming country houses, cut up with well paved, tree shaded roads, provided with sewers, gas, electricity, suitable railway service, street cars and all the comforts of a well organized living district which should be at once retired, exclusive, pleasing, conservative and yet bound up tightly with the great Metropolitan heart of New York which he so greatly admired. Winfield had been born and raised in Brooklyn. He had been a politician, orator, insurance dealer, contractor, and so on. He had succeeded in organizing various suburban estates—Winfield, Sunnyside, Ruritania, The Beeches—little forty, fifty, one hundred andtwo hundred acre flats which with the help of "O. P. M." as he always called other people's money he had divided off into blocks, laying out charmingly with trees and sometimes a strip of green grass running down the centre, concrete sidewalks, a set of noble restrictions, and so forth. Anyone who ever came to look at a lot in one of Winfield's perfect suburbs always found the choicest piece of property in the centre of this latest burst of improvement set aside for the magnificent house which Mr. Kenyon C. Winfield, the president of the company, was to build and live in. Needless to say they were never built. He had been round the world and seen a great many things and places, but Winfield or Sunnyside or Ruritania or The Beeches, so the lot buyers in these places were told, had been finally selected by him deliberately as the one spot in all the world in which he hoped to spend the remainder of his days.
At the time Eugene met him, he was planning Minetta Water on the shores of Gravesend Bay, which was the most ambitious of all his projects so far. He was being followed financially, by a certain number of Brooklyn politicians and financiers who had seen him succeed in small things, taking a profit of from three to four hundred per cent, out of ten, twenty and thirty acre flats, but for all his brilliance it had been slow work. He was now worth between three and four hundred thousand dollars and, for the first time in his life, was beginning to feel that freedom in financial matters which made him think that he could do almost anything. He had met all sorts of people, lawyers, bankers, doctors, merchants, the "easy classes" he called them, all with a little money to invest, and he had succeeded in luring hundreds of worth-while people into his projects. His great dreams had never really been realized, however, for he saw visions of a great warehouse and shipping system to be established on Jamaica Bay, out of which he was to make millions, if it ever came to pass, and also a magnificent summer resort of some kind, somewhere, which was not yet clearly evolved in his mind. His ads were scattered freely through the newspapers: his signs, or rather the signs of his towns, scattered broadcast over Long Island.
Eugene had met him first when he was working with the Summerfield Company, but he met him this time quite anew at the home of the W. W. Willebrand on the North Shore of Long Island near Hempstead. He had gone down there one Saturday afternoon at the invitation of Mrs. Willebrand, whom he had met at another house party and with whom he had danced. She had been pleased with his gay, vivacious manner and had askedhim if he wouldn't come. Winfield was here as a guest with his automobile.
"Oh, yes," said Winfield pleasantly. "I recall you very well. You are now with the United Magazines Corporation,—I understand—someone was telling me—a most prosperous company, I believe. I know Mr. Colfax very well. I once spoke to Summerfield about you. A most astonishing fellow, that, tremendously able. You were doing that series of sugar plantation ads for them or having them done. I think I copied the spirit of those things in advertising Ruritania, as you may have noticed. Well, you certainly have improved your condition since then. I once tried to tell Summerfield that he had an exceptional man in you, but he would have nothing of it. He's too much of an egoist. He doesn't know how to work with a man on equal terms."
Eugene smiled at the thought of Summerfield.
"An able man," he said simply. "He did a great deal for me."
Winfield liked that. He thought Eugene would criticize him. He liked Eugene's genial manner and intelligent, expressive face. It occurred to him that when next he wanted to advertise one of his big development projects, he would go to Eugene or the man who had done the sugar plantation series of pictures and get him to give him the right idea for advertising.
Affinity is such a peculiar thing. It draws people so easily, apart from volition or consciousness. In a few moments Eugene and Winfield, sitting side by side on the veranda, looking at the greenwood before them, the long stretch of open sound, dotted with white sails and the dim, distant shore of Connecticut, were talking of real estate ventures in general, what land was worth, how speculations of this kind turned out, as a rule. Winfield was anxious to take Eugene seriously, for he felt drawn to him and Eugene studied Winfield's pale face, his thin, immaculate hands, his suit of soft, gray cloth. He looked as able as his public reputation made him out to be—in fact, he looked better than anything he had ever done. Eugene had seen Ruritania and The Beeches. They did not impress him vastly as territorial improvements, but they were pretty, nevertheless. For middle-class people, they were quite the thing he thought.
"I should think it would be a pleasure to you to scheme out a new section," he said to him once. "The idea of a virgin piece of land to be converted into streets and houses or a village appeals to me immensely. The idea of laying it out and sketching houses to fit certain positions, suits my temperament exactly. I wish sometimes I had been born an architect."
"It is pleasant and if that were all it would be ideal," returned Winfield. "The thing is more a matter of financing than anything else. You have to raise money for land and improvements. If you make exceptional improvements they are expensive. You really can't expect to get much, if any, of your money back, until all your work is done. Then you have to wait. If you put up houses you can't rent them, for the moment you rent them, you can't sell them as new. When you make your improvements your taxes go up immediately. If you sell a piece of property to a man or woman who isn't exactly in accord with your scheme, he or she may put up a house which destroys the value of a whole neighborhood for you. You can't fix the details of a design in a contract too closely. You can only specify the minimum price the house is to cost and the nature of the materials to be used. Some people's idea of beauty will vary vastly from others. Taste in sections may change. A whole city like New York may suddenly decide that it wants to build west when you are figuring on its building east. So—well, all these things have to be taken into consideration."
"That sounds logical enough," said Eugene, "but wouldn't the right sort of a scheme just naturally draw to itself the right sort of people, if it were presented in the right way? Don't you fix the conditions by your own attitude?"
"You do, you do," replied Winfield, easily. "If you give the matter sufficient care and attention it can be done. The pity is you can be too fine at times. I have seen attempts at perfection come to nothing. People with taste and tradition and money behind them are not moving into new additions and suburbs, as a rule. You are dealing with the new rich and financial beginners. Most people strain their resources to the breaking point to better their living conditions and they don't always know. If they have the money, it doesn't always follow that they have the taste to grasp what you are striving for, and if they have the taste they haven't the money. They would do better if they could, but they can't. A man in my position is like an artist and a teacher and a father confessor and financier and everything all rolled into one. When you start to be a real estate developer on a big scale you must be these things. I have had some successes and some notable failures. Winfield is one of the worst. It's disgusting to me now."
"I have always wished I could lay out a seaside resort or a suburb," said Eugene dreamily. "I've never been to but one or two of the resorts abroad, but it strikes me that none of the resorts here—certainly none near New York—are right. The opportunitiesare so wonderful. The things that have been done are horrible. There is no plan, no detail anywhere."
"My views exactly," said Winfield. "I've been thinking of it for years. Some such place could be built, and I suppose if it were done right it would be successful. It would be expensive, though, very, and those who come in would have a long wait for their money."
"It would be a great opportunity to do something really worth while, though," said Eugene. "No one seems to realize how beautiful a thing like that could be made."
Winfield said nothing, but the thought stuck in his mind. He was dreaming a seaside improvement which should be the most perfect place of its kind in the world—a monument to himself if he did it. If Eugene had this idea of beauty he might help. At least he might talk to him about it when the time came. Perhaps Eugene might have a little money to invest. It would take millions to put such a scheme through, but every little would help. Besides Eugene might have ideas which should make money both for himself and for Winfield. It was worth thinking about. So they parted, not to meet again for weeks and months, but they did not forget each other.
It was when Eugene was at the height of his success that a meeting took place between himself and a certain Mrs. Emily Dale.
Mrs. Dale was a strikingly beautiful and intelligent widow of thirty-eight, the daughter of a well-to-do and somewhat famous New York family of Dutch extraction—the widow of an eminent banker of considerable wealth who had been killed in an automobile accident near Paris some years before. She was the mother of four children, Suzanne, eighteen; Kinroy, fifteen; Adele, twelve, and Ninette, nine, but the size of her family had in no way affected the subtlety of her social personality and the delicacy of her charm and manner. She was tall, graceful, willowy, with a wealth of dark hair, which was used in the most subtle manner to enhance the beauty of her face. She was calm, placid apparently, while really running deep with emotion and fancies, with manners which were the perfection of kindly courtesy and good breeding and with those airs of superiority which come so naturally to those who are raised in a fortunate and exclusive atmosphere.
She did not consider herself passionate in a marked degree, but freely admitted to herself that she was vain and coquettish. She was keen and observing, with a single eye to the main chance socially, but with a genuine love for literature and art and a propensity to write. Eugene met her through Colfax, who introduced him to her. He learned from the latter that she was rather unfortunate in her marriage except from a money point of view, and that her husband's death was no irreparable loss. He also learned from the same source that she was a good mother, trying to bring up her children in the manner most suitable to their station and opportunities. Her husband had been of a much poorer social origin than herself, but her own standing was of the very best. She was a gay social figure, being invited much, entertaining freely, preferring the company of younger men to those of her own age or older and being followed ardently by one fortune hunter and another, who saw in her beauty, wealth and station, an easy door to the heaven of social supremacy.
The Dale home, or homes rather, were in several different places—one at Morristown, New Jersey, another on fashionableGrimes Hill on Staten Island, a third—a city residence, which at the time Eugene met them, was leased for a term of years—was in Sixty-seventh Street, near Fifth Avenue in New York City, and a fourth, a small lodge, at Lenox, Massachusetts, which was also rented. Shortly after he met her the house at Morristown was closed and the lodge at Lenox re-occupied.
For the most part Mrs. Dale preferred to dwell in her ancestral home on Staten Island, which, because of its commanding position on what was known as Grimes Hill, controlled a magnificent view of the bay and harbor of New York. Manhattan, its lower wall of buildings, lay like a cloud at the north. The rocking floor of the sea, blue and gray and slate black by turn, spread to the east. In the west were visible the Kill von Kull with its mass of shipping and the Orange Hills. In a boat club at Tompkinsville she had her motor boat, used mostly by her boy; in her garage at Grimes Hill, several automobiles. She owned several riding horses, retained four family servants permanently and in other ways possessed all those niceties of appointment which make up the comfortable life of wealth and ease.
The two youngest of her girls were in a fashionable boarding school at Tarrytown; the boy, Kinroy, was preparing for Harvard; Suzanne, the eldest, was at home, fresh from boarding school experiences, beginning to go out socially. Her début had already been made. Suzanne was a peculiar girl, plump, beautiful, moody, with, at times, a dreamy air of indifference and a smile that ran like a breath of air over water. Her eyes were large, of a vague blue-gray, her lips rosy and arched; her cheeks full and pink. She had a crown of light chestnut hair, a body at once innocent and voluptuous in its outlines. When she laughed it was a rippling gurgle, and her sense of humor was perfect, if not exaggerated. One of those naturally wise but as yet vague and formless artistic types, which suspect without education, nearly all the subtleties of the world, and burst forth full winged and beautiful, but oh, so fragile, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, the radiance of morning upon its body. Eugene did not see her for a long time after he met Mrs. Dale, but when he did, he was greatly impressed with her beauty.
Life sometimes builds an enigma out of common clay, and with a look from a twelve-year-old girl, sets a Dante singing. It can make a god of a bull, a divinity of an ibis, or a beetle, set up a golden calf to be worshipped of the multitude. Paradox! Paradox! In this case an immature and yet nearly perfect body held a seemingly poetic and yet utterly nebulous appreciationof life—a body so youthful, a soul so fumbling that one would ask, How should tragedy lurk in form like this?
A fool?
Not quite, yet so nebulous, so much a dreamer that difficulty might readily follow in the wake of any thoughtless deed.
As a matter of fact, favored as she was by nature and fortune, her very presence was dangerous—provocative, without thought of being so. If a true artist had painted her, synthesizing her spirit with her body, he might have done so showing her standing erect on a mountain top, her limbs outlined amidst fluttering draperies against the wind, her eyes fixed on distant heights, or a falling star. Out of mystery into mystery again, so she came and went. Her mind was not unlike a cloud of mist through which the morning sun is endeavoring to break, irradiating all with its flushes of pink and gold. Again it was like those impearled shells of the South Sea, without design yet suggestive of all perfections and all beauties. Dreams! dreams!—of clouds, sunsets, colors, sounds which a too articulate world would do its best later to corrupt. What Dante saw in Beatrice, what Abélard saw in Héloïse, Romeo in Juliet, so some wondering swain could have seen in her—and suffered a like fate.
Eugene encountered Mrs. Dale at a house party on Long Island one Saturday afternoon, and their friendship began at once. She was introduced to him by Colfax, and because of the latter's brusque, jesting spirit was under no illusions as to his social state.
"You needn't look at him closely," he observed gaily, "he's married."
"That simply makes him all the more interesting," she rippled, and extended her hand.
Eugene took it. "I'm glad a poor married man can find shelter somewhere," he said, smartly.
"You should rejoice," she replied. "It's at once your liberty and your protection. Think how safe you are!"
"I know, I know," he said. "All the slings and arrows of Miss Fortune hurtling by."
"And you in no danger of being hurt."
He offered her his arm, and they strolled through a window onto a veranda.
The day was just the least bit dull for Mrs. Dale. Bridge was in progress in the card room, a company of women and girls gambling feverishly. Eugene was not good at bridge, not quick enough mentally, and Mrs. Dale did not care much for it.
"I have been trying to stir up enough interest to bring topass a motor ride, but it doesn't work," she said. "They all have the gambling fever today. Are you as greedy as the others?"
"I'm greedy I assure you, but I can't play. The greediest thing I can do is to stay away from the tables. I save most. That sharp Faraday has cleaned me and two others out of four hundred dollars. It's astonishing the way some people can play. They just look at the cards or make mystic signs and the wretched things range themselves in serried ranks to suit them. It's a crime. It ought to be a penitentiary offense, particularly to beat me. I'm such an inoffensive specimen of the non-bridge playing family."
"A burnt child, you know. Stay away. Let's sit here. They can't come out here and rob you."
They sat down in green willow chairs, and after a time a servant offered them coffee. Mrs. Dale accepted. They drifted conversationally from bridge to characters in society—a certain climber by the name of Bristow, a man who had made a fortune in trunks—and from him to travel and from travel to Mrs. Dale's experiences with fortune hunters. The automobile materialized through the intervention of others, but Eugene found great satisfaction in this woman's company and sat beside her. They talked books, art, magazines, the making of fortunes and reputations. Because he was or seemed to be in a position to assist her in a literary way she was particularly nice to him. When he was leaving she asked, "Where are you in New York?"
"Riverside Drive is our present abode," he said.
"Why don't you bring Mrs. Witla and come down to see us some week-end? I usually have a few people there, and the house is roomy. I'll name you a special day if you wish."
"Do. We'll be delighted. Mrs. Witla will enjoy it, I'm sure."
Mrs. Dale wrote to Angela ten days later as to a particular date, and in this way the social intimacy began.
It was never of a very definite character, though. When Mrs. Dale met Angela she liked her quite well as an individual, whatever she may have thought of her as a social figure. Neither Eugene nor Angela saw Suzanne nor any of the other children on this occasion, all of them being away. Eugene admired the view tremendously and hinted at being invited again. Mrs. Dale was delighted. She liked him as a man entirely apart from his position but particularly because of his publishing station. She was ambitious to write. Others had told her that he wasthe most conspicuous of the rising figures in the publishing world. Being friendly with him would give her exceptional standing with all his editors. She was only too pleased to be gracious to him. He was invited again and a third time, with Angela, and it seemed as though they were reaching, or might at least reach, something much more definite than a mere social acquaintance.
It was about six months after Eugene had first met Mrs. Dale that Angela gave a tea, and Eugene, in assisting her to prepare the list of invitations, had suggested that those who were to serve the tea and cakes should be two exceptionally pretty girls who were accustomed to come to the Witla apartment, Florence Reel, the daughter of a well-known author of that name and Marjorie Mac Tennan, the daughter of a well-known editor, both beautiful and talented, one with singing and the other with art ambitions. Angela had seen a picture of Suzanne Dale in her mother's room at Daleview on Grimes Hill, and had been particularly taken with her girlish charm and beauty.
"I wonder," she said, "if Mrs. Dale would object to having Suzanne come and help serve that day. She would like it, I'm sure, there are going to be so many clever people here. We haven't seen her, but that doesn't matter. It would be a nice way to introduce herself."
"That's a good idea, I should say," observed Eugene judicially. He had seen the photo of Suzanne and liked it, though he was not over-impressed. Photos to him were usually gross deceivers. He accepted them always with reservations. Angela forthwith wrote to Mrs. Dale, who agreed. She would be glad to come herself. She had seen the Witla apartment, and had been very much pleased with it. The reception day came and Angela begged Eugene to come home early.
"I know you don't like to be alone with a whole roomful of people, but Mr. Goodrich is coming, and Frederick Allen (one of their friends who had taken a fancy to Eugene), Arturo Scalchero is going to sing and Bonavita to play." Scalchero was none other than Arthur Skalger, of Port Jervis, New Jersey, but he assumed this corruption of his name in Italy to help him to success. Bonavita was truly a Spanish pianist of some repute who was flattered to be invited to Eugene's home.
"Well, I don't care much about it," replied Eugene. "But I will come."
He frequently felt that afternoon teas and receptions were ridiculous affairs, and that he had far better be in his office attendingto his multitudinous duties. Still he did leave early, and at five-thirty was ushered into a great roomful of chattering, gesticulating, laughing people. A song by Florence Reel had just been concluded. Like all girls of ambition, vivacity and imagination, she took an interest in Eugene, for in his smiling face she found a responsive gleam.
"Oh, Mr. Witla!" she exclaimed. "Now here you are and you just missed my song. And I wanted you to hear it, too."
"Don't grieve, Florrie," he said familiarly, holding her hand and looking momentarily in her eyes. "You're going to sing it again for me. I heard part of it as I came up on the elevator." He relinquished her hand. "Why, Mrs. Dale! Delighted, I'm sure. So nice of you. And Arturo Scalchero—hullo, Skalger, you old frost! Where'd you get the Italian name? Bonavita! Fine! Am I going to hear you play? All over? Alas! Marjorie Mac Tennan! Gee, but you look sweet! If Mrs. Witla weren't watching me, I'd kiss you. Oh, the pretty bonnet! And Frederick Allen! My word! What are you trying to grab off, Allen? I'm on to you. No bluffs! Nix! Nix! Why, Mrs. Schenck—delighted! Angela, why didn't you tell me Mrs. Schenck was coming? I'd have been home at three."
By this time he had reached the east end of the great studio room, farthest from the river. Here a tea table was spread with a silver tea service, and behind it a girl, oval-faced, radiantly healthy, her full lips parted in a ripe smile, her blue-gray eyes talking pleasure and satisfaction, her forehead laid about by a silver filigree band, beneath which her brown chestnut curls protruded. Her hands, Eugene noted, were plump and fair. She stood erect, assured, with the least touch of quizzical light in her eye. A white, pink-bordered dress draped her girlish figure.
"I don't know," he said easily, "but I wager a guess that this is—that this is—this is Suzanne Dale—what?"
"Yes, this is," she replied laughingly. "Can I give you a cup of tea, Mr. Witla? I know you are Mr. Witla from ma-ma´'s description and the way in which you talk to everybody."
"And how do I talk to everybody, may I ask, pleasum?"
"Oh, I can't tell you so easily. I mean, I can't find the words, you know. I know how it is, though. Familiarly, I suppose I mean. Will you have one lump or two?"
"Three an thou pleasest. Didn't your mother tell me you sang or played?"
"Oh, you mustn't believe anything ma-ma´ says about me! She's apt to say anything. Tee! Hee! It makes me laugh"—shepronounced it laaf—"to think of my playing. My teacher says he would like to strike my knuckles. Oh, dear!" (She went into a gale of giggles.) "And sing! Oh, dear, dear! That is too good!"
Eugene watched her pretty face intently. Her mouth and nose and eyes fascinated him. She was so sweet! He noted the configuration of her lips and cheeks and chin. The nose was delicate, beautifully formed, fat, not sensitive. The ears were small, the eyes large and wide set, the forehead naturally high, but so concealed by curls that it seemed low. She had a few freckles and a very small dimple in her chin.
"Now you mustn't laugh like that," he said mock solemnly. "It's very serious business, this laughing. In the first place, it's against the rules of this apartment. No one is ever, ever, ever supposed to laugh here, particularly young ladies who pour tea. Tea, Epictetus well says, involves the most serious conceptions of one's privileges and duties. It is the high-born prerogative of tea servers to grin occasionally, but never, never, never under any circumstances whatsoever——" Suzanne's lips were beginning to part ravishingly in anticipation of a burst of laughter.
"What's all the excitement about, Witla?" asked Skalger, who had drifted to his side. "Why this sudden cessation of progress?"
"Tea, my son, tea!" said Eugene. "Have a cup with me?"
"I will."
"He's trying to tell me, Mr. Skalger, that I should never laaf. I must only grin." Her lips parted and she laughed joyously. Eugene laughed with her. He could not help it. "Ma-ma´ says I giggle all the time. I wouldn't do very well here, would I?"
She always pronounced it "ma-ma´."
She turned to Eugene again with big smiling eyes.
"Exceptions, exceptions. I might make exceptions—one exception—but not more."
"Why one?" she asked archly.
"Oh, just to hear a natural laugh," he said a little plaintively. "Just to hear a real joyous laugh. Can you laugh joyously?"
She giggled again at this, and he was about to tell her how joyously she did laugh when Angela called him away to hear Florence Reel, who was going to sing again for his especial benefit. He parted from Miss Dale reluctantly, for she seemed some delicious figure as delicately colorful as Royal Dresden, as perfect in her moods as a spring evening, as soft, soulful, enticing as a strain of music heard through the night at a distance or over the water. He went over to where Florence Reel was standing,listening in a sympathetic melancholy vein to a delightful rendering of "The Summer Winds Are Blowing, Blowing." All the while he could not help thinking of Suzanne—letting his eyes stray in that direction. He talked to Mrs. Dale, to Henrietta Tenmon, to Luke Severas, Mr. and Mrs. Dula, Payalei Stone, now a writer of special articles, and others, but he couldn't help longing to go back to her. How sweet she was! How very delightful! If he could only, once more in his life, have the love of a girl like that!
The guests began to depart. Angela and Eugene bustled about the farewells. Because of the duties of her daughter, which continued to the end, Mrs. Dale stayed, talking to Arthur Skalger. Eugene was in and out between the studio and cloak room off the entry way. Now and then he caught glimpses of Suzanne demurely standing by her tea cups and samovar. For years he had seen nothing so fresh and young as her body. She was like a new grown wet white lily pod in the dawn of the year. She seemed to have the texture of the water chestnut and the lush, fat vegetables of the spring. Her eyes were as clear as water; her skin as radiant new ivory. There was no sign of weariness about her, nor any care, nor any thought of evil, nor anything except health and happiness. "Such a face!" he thought casually in passing. "She is as sweet as any girl could be. As radiant as light itself."
Incidentally the personality of Frieda Roth came back, and—long before her—Stella Appleton.
"Youth! Youth! What in this world could be finer—more acceptable! Where would you find its equal? After all the dust of the streets and the spectacle of age and weariness—the crow's feet about people's eyes, the wrinkles in their necks, the make-believe of rouge and massage, and powder and cosmetics, to see real youth, not of the body but of the soul also—the eyes, the smile, the voice, the movements—all young. Why try to imitate that miracle? Who could? Who ever had?"
He went on shaking hands, bowing, smiling, laughing, jesting, making believe himself, but all the while the miracle of the youth and beauty of Suzanne Dale was running in his mind.
"What are you thinking about, Eugene?" asked Angela, coming to the window where he had drawn a rocking-chair and was sitting gazing out on the silver and lavender and gray of the river surface in the fading light. Some belated gulls were still flying about. Across the river the great manufactory was sending off a spiral of black smoke from one of its tall chimneys. Lamps were beginning to twinkle in its hundred-windowed wall.A great siren cry broke from its whistle as six o'clock tolled from a neighboring clock tower. It was still late February and cold.
"Oh, I was thinking of the beauty of this scene," he said wearily.
Angela did not believe it. She was conscious of something, but they never quarreled about what he was thinking nowadays. They had come too far along in comfort and solidity. What was it, though, she wondered, that he was thinking about?
Suzanne Dale had no particular thought of him. He was nice—pleasant, good-looking. Mrs. Witla was quite nice and young.
"Ma-ma," she said, "did you look out of the window at Mr. Witla's?"
"Yes, my dear!"
"Wasn't that a beautiful view?"
"Charming."
"I should think you might like to live on the Drive sometime, ma-ma."
"We may sometime."
Mrs. Dale fell to musing. Certainly Eugene was an attractive man—young, brilliant, able. What a mistake all the young men made, marrying so early. Here he was successful, introduced to society, attractive, the world really before him, and he was married to someone who, though a charming little woman, was not up to his possibilities.
"Oh, well," she thought, "so goes the world. Why worry? Everyone must do the best they can."
Then she thought of a story she might write along this line and get Eugene to publish it in one of his magazines.
While these various events were occurring the work of the United Magazines Corporation had proceeded apace. By the end of the first year after Eugene's arrival it had cleared up so many of its editorial and advertising troubles that he was no longer greatly worried about them, and by the end of the second year it was well on the way toward real success. Eugene had become so much of a figure about the place that everyone in the great building, in which there were over a thousand employed, knew him at sight. The attendants were most courteous and obsequious, as much so almost as they were to Colfax and White, though the latter with the improvement of the general condition of the company had become more dominating and imposing than ever. White with his large salary of twenty-five thousand a year and his title of vice-president was most anxious that Eugene should not become more powerful than he had already. It irritated him greatly to see the airs Eugene gave himself, for the latter had little real tact, and instead of dissembling his importance before his superiors was inclined to flaunt it. He was forever retailing to Colfax some new achievement in the advertising, circulation, and editorial fields, and that in White's presence, for he did not take the latter very seriously, telling of a new author of importance captured for the book department; a new manuscript feature secured for one or another of the magazines, a new circulation scheme or connection devised, or a new advertising contract of great money value manipulated. His presence in Colfax's office was almost invariably a signal for congratulation or interest, for he was driving things hard and Colfax knew it. White came to hate the sight of him.
"Well, what's the latest great thing you've done?" Colfax said once to Eugene jovially in White's presence, for he knew that Eugene was as fond of praise as a child and so could be bantered with impunity. White concealed a desire to sneer behind a deceptive smile.
"No latest great thing, only Hayes has turned that Hammond Packing Company trick. That means eighteen thousand dollars' worth more of new business for next year. That'll help a little, won't it?"
"Hayes! Hayes! I'll be switched if I don't think he comes pretty near being a better advertising man than you are, Witla.You picked him, I'll have to admit that, but he certainly knows all about the game. If anything ever happened to you, I think I'd like to keep him right there." White pretended not to hear this, but it pleased him. Hayes should be aided as much as possible by him.
Eugene's face fell, for this sudden twisting of the thread of interest from his to his assistant's achievements damped his enthusiasm. It wasn't pleasant to have his inspirational leadership questioned or made secondary to the work of those whom he was managing. He had brought all these men here and keyed the situation up. Was Colfax going to turn on him? "Oh, very well," he said sweetly.
"Don't look so hurt," returned Colfax easily. "I know what you're thinking. I'm not going to turn on you. You hired this man. I'm simply telling you that if anything should happen to you I'd like to keep him right where he is."
Eugene thought this remark over seriously. It was tantamount to serving notice on him that he could not discharge Hayes. Colfax did not actually so mean it at the moment, though it was the seed of such a thought. He simply left the situation open for consideration, and Eugene went away thinking what an extremely unfavorable twist this gave to everything. If he was to go on finding good men and bringing them in here but could not discharge them, and if then, later, they became offensive to him, where would he be? Why, if they found that out, as they might through White, they could turn on him as lions on a tamer and tear him to pieces! This was a bad and unexpected twist to things, and he did not like it.
On the other hand, while it had never occurred to Colfax before in this particular connection, for he liked Eugene, it fitted in well with certain warnings and suggestions which had been issuing from White who was malevolently opposed to Eugene. His success in reorganizing the place on the intellectual and artistic sides was too much. Eugene's work was giving him a dignity and a security which was entirely disproportionate to what he was actually doing and which was threatening to overshadow and put in the limbo of indifference that of every other person connected with the business. This must be broken. Colfax, for the time being, was so wrapped up in what he considered Eugene's shining intellectual and commercial qualities that he was beginning to ignore White. The latter did not propose that any such condition should continue. It was no doubt a rare thing to find a man who could pick good men and make the place successful, but what of himself? Colfax was naturallyvery jealous, he knew, and suspicious. He did not want to be overshadowed in any way by any of his employees. He did not feel that he was, so far. But now White thought it would be a fine thing to stir him up on this score if he could—to arouse his jealousy. He knew that Colfax did not care so much about the publishing world, though now that he was in it, and was seeing that it could be made profitable, he was rather gratified by the situation. His wife liked it, for people were always talking to her about the United Magazines Corporation, its periodicals, its books, its art products and that was flattering. While it might not be as profitable as soap and woolens and railway stocks with which her husband was identified, it was somewhat more distinguished. She wanted him to keep it directly under his thumb and to shine by its reflected light.
In looking about for a club wherewith to strike Eugene, White discovered this. He sounded Colfax on various occasions by innuendo, and noted his sniffing nostrils. If he could first reach Eugene's advertising, circulation and editorial men and persuade them to look to him instead of to Eugene, he might later reach and control Eugene through Colfax. He might humble Eugene by curbing his power, making him see that he, White, was still the power behind the throne.
"What do you think of this fellow Witla?" Colfax would ask White from time to time, and when these occasions offered he was not slow to drive in a wedge.
"He's an able fellow," he said once, apparently most open-mindedly. "It's plain that he's doing pretty well with those departments, but I think you want to look out for his vanity. He's just the least bit in danger of getting a swelled head. You want to remember that he's still pretty young for the job he holds (White was eight years older). These literary and artistic people are all alike. The one objection that I have to them is that they never seem to have any real practical judgment. They make splendid second men when well governed, and you can do almost anything with them, if you know how to handle them, but you have to govern them. This fellow, as I see him, is just the man you want. He's picking some good people and he's getting some good results, but unless you watch him he's apt to throw them all out of here sometime or go away and take them all with him. I shouldn't let him do that if I were you. I should let him get just the men you think are right, and then I should insist that he keep them. Of course, a man has got to have authority in his own department, but it can be carried too far. You're treating him pretty liberally, you know."
This sounded very sincere and logical to Colfax, who admired White for it, for in spite of the fact that he liked Eugene greatly and went about with him a great deal, he did not exactly trust him. The man was in a way too brilliant, he thought. He was a little too airy and light on his feet.
Under pretext of helping his work and directing his policy without actually interfering so that it might eventually prove a failure, White was constantly making suggestions. He made suggestions which he told Colfax Eugene ought to try in the circulation department. He made suggestions which he thought he might find advisable to try in the advertising department. He had suggestions, gathered from Heaven knows where, for the magazines and books, and these he invariably sent through Colfax, taking good care, however, that the various department heads knew from what source they had originally emanated. It was his plan to speak to Hayes or Gillmore, who was in charge of circulation, or one of the editors about some thought that was in his mind and then have that same thought come as an order via Eugene. The latter was so anxious to make good, so good-natured in his interpretation of suggestions, that it did not occur to him, for a long time, that he was being played. The men under him, however, realized that something was happening, for White was hand and glove with Colfax, and the two were not always in accord with Eugene. He was not quite as powerful as White, was the first impression, and later the idea got about that Eugene and White did not agree temperamentally and that White was the stronger and would win.
It is not possible to go into the long, slow multitudinous incidents and details which go to make up office politics, but anyone who has ever worked in a large or small organization anywhere will understand. Eugene was not a politician. He knew nothing of the delicate art of misrepresentation as it was practised by White and those who were of his peculiarly subtle mental tendencies. White did not like Eugene, and he proposed to have his power curbed. Some of Eugene's editors, after a time, began to find it difficult to get things as they wanted them from the printing department, and, when they complained, it was explained that they were of a disorderly and quarrelsome disposition. Some of his advertising men made mistakes in statement or presentation, and curiously these errors almost invariably came to light. Eugene found that his strong men were most quickly relieved of their difficulties if they approached White, but if they came to him it was not quite so easy. Instead of ignoring these petty annoyances and going his way about the big things, he stoppedoccasionally to fight these petty battles and complaints, and these simply put him in the light of one who was not able to maintain profound peace and order in his domain. White was always bland, helpful, ready with a suave explanation.
"It's just possible that he may not know how to handle these fellows, after all," he said to Colfax, and then if anyone was discharged it was a sign of an unstable policy.
Colfax cautioned Eugene occasionally in accordance with White's suggestions, but Eugene was now so well aware of what was going on that he could see where they came from. He thought once of accusing White openly in front of Colfax, but he knew that this would not be of any advantage for he had no real evidence to go on. All White's protestations to Colfax were to the effect that he was trying to help him. So the battle lay.
In the meantime, Eugene, because of this or the thought rather that he might not always remain as powerful as he was, having no stock in the concern and not being able to buy any, had been interesting himself in a proposition which had since been brought to him by Mr. Kenyon C. Winfield, who, since that memorable conversation at the home of the Willebrands on Long Island, had not forgotten him. Winfield had thought of him for a long time in connection with a plan he had of establishing on the South Shore of Long Island, some thirty-five miles from New York, a magnificent seaside resort which should outrival Palm Beach and the better places of Atlantic City, and give to New York, close at hand, such a dream of beauty and luxury as would turn the vast tide of luxury-loving idlers and successful money grubbers from the former resorts to this. Considerable thought had been given by him as to just what its principal characteristics should be, but he had not worked it out to suit himself exactly, and he thought Eugene might be interested from the outlining point of view.
Unfortunately, on the face of it, this was just the sort of scheme which made an appeal to Eugene from all points of view, in spite of the fact that he already had his hands as full as they could be. Nothing interested him quite so much as beauty and luxury in some artistic combination. A summer resort of really imposing proportions, with hotels, casinos, pagodas, resident sections, club houses, a wide board or stone walk along the ocean, and possibly a gambling center which should outrival Monte Carlo, had long since occurred to him as something which might well spring up near New York. He and Angela had visited Palm Beach, Old Point Comfort, Virginia Hot Springs, Newport, Shelter Island, Atlantic City, and Tuxedo, and his impressionsof what constituted luxury and beauty had long since widened to magnificent proportions. He liked the interiors of the Chamberlain at Old Point Comfort, and the Royal Ponciana at Palm Beach. He had studied with artistic curiosity the development of the hotel features at Atlantic City and elsewhere. It had occurred to him that a restricted territory might be had out on the Atlantic Ocean near Gravesend Bay possibly, which would include among other things islands, canals or inland waterways, a mighty sea beach, two or three great hotels, a casino for dancing, dining, gambling, a great stone or concrete walk to be laid out on a new plan parallel with the ocean, and at the back of all these things and between the islands and the ocean a magnificent seaside city where the lots should sell at so expensive a rate that only the well-to-do could afford to live there. His thought was of something so fine that it would attract all the prominent pleasure-lovers he had recently met. If they could be made to understand that such a place existed; that it was beautiful, showy, exclusive in a money sense, they would come there by the thousands.
"Nothing is so profitable as a luxury, if the luxury-loving public want it," Colfax had once said to him; and he believed it. He judged this truth by the things he had recently seen. People literally spent millions to make themselves comfortable. He had seen gardens, lawns, walks, pavilions, pergolas, laid out at an expense of thousands and hundreds of thousands of dollars, where few would ever see them. In St. Louis he had seen a mausoleum built upon the lines of the Taj Mahal, the lawn about which was undermined by a steam-heating plant in order that the flowers and shrubs displayed there might bloom all winter long. It had never occurred to him that the day would come when he would have anything to do with such a dream as this or its ultimate fruition, but his was the kind of mind that loved to dwell on things of the sort.
The proposition which Winfield now genially laid before him one day was simple enough. Winfield had heard that Eugene was making a good deal of money, that his salary was twenty-five thousand a year, if not more, that he had houses and lots and some nice stock investments, and it occurred to him, as it would have to anyone, that Eugene might be able to shoulder a comfortable investment in some kind of land speculation, particularly if he could see his way to make much more money in the long run. The idea Winfield had was as follows: He was going to organize a corporation to be known as The Sea Island Development Company, to be capitalized at ten million dollars,some two or three hundred thousand dollars of which was to be laid down or paid into the treasury at the start. Against this latter sum stock to the value of one million dollars, or five shares of one hundred dollars par value each, was to be issued. That is, whoever laid down one hundred dollars in cash was to receive in return three shares of common stock and two of preferred, valued at one hundred dollars each, bearing eight per cent. interest. This ratio was to be continued until $200,000 in cash was in the treasury. Then those who came afterward and were willing to buy were only to receive two shares of common and one of preferred, until one million in cash was in the treasury. After that the stock was to be sold at its face value, or more, as the situation might dictate.
The original sum of two hundred thousands dollars was to go to purchase for the corporation an undeveloped tract of land, half swamp, half island, and facing the Atlantic Ocean beyond Gravesend Bay, now owned by Winfield himself, where a beautiful rolling beach of white sand stretched some three miles in length and without flaw or interruption. This would clear Winfield of a piece of property which was worth, say $60,000, but at present unsaleable, and give him magnificent holdings in the new company besides. He proposed to take a mortgage on this and all improvements the company might make in order to protect himself. At the west end of this tract—inland from the sea—was a beautiful bay, which, though shallow, gave access to a series of inlets and a network of waterways, embracing nine small islands. These waterways, when dredged, would be amply deep enough for yachts and small craft of all descriptions, and the first important thought which occurred to Winfield was that the mud and sand so dredged could be used to fill in the low, marshy levels of soil between them and the sea and so make it all into high, dry, and valuable land. The next thing was to devise a beautiful scheme of improvement, and it was for this that he wished to talk to Eugene.
The matter was not difficult to arrange. Before Winfield had gone ten sentences, Eugene began to take the ideas out of his mind.
"I know something of that property," he said, studying a little outline map which Winfield had prepared. "I've been out there duck shooting with Colfax and some others. It's fine property, there's no doubt of it. How much do they want for it?"
"Well, as a matter of fact, I already own it," said Winfield. "It cost me sixty thousand dollars five years ago when it was a vast, inaccessible swamp. Nothing has been done to it since, but I will turn it over to the company for what it is worth now—two hundred thousand dollars—and take a mortgage for my protection. Then the company can do what it pleases with it; but as president, of course, I should direct the line of development. If you want to make a fortune and have fifty thousand dollars to spare, here is your chance. This land has increased in value from sixty to two hundred thousand dollars in five years. What do you fancy it will be worth in ten years from now the way New York is growing? It has pretty near four million people now. In twenty-five years it is safe to say that there will be fourteen or fifteen millions scattered over this territory which lies within twenty-five miles. Of course, this is thirty-two miles away on a direct line, but what of it? The Long Island Railroad will be glad to put a spur in there which would bring this territory within one hour of the city. Think of it—one of the finest beaches on the Atlantic Ocean within one hour of New York! I expect to interest Mr. Wiltsie, the President of the Long Island, very heavily in this property. I come to you now because I think your advertising and artistic advice are worth something. You can take it or leave it, but before you do anything, I want you to come out and look over the property with me."
All told, in stocks, land, free money in the banks, and what he might save in a year or two, Eugene had about fifty thousand dollars of good hard cash which he could lay his hands on at a pinch. He was well satisfied that Winfield was putting before him one of those golden opportunities which, prudently managed, would make him a rich man. Nevertheless, his fifty thousand was fifty thousand, and he had it. Never again, however,once this other thing was under way, if it were true, would he have to worry about a position, or whether he would be able to maintain his present place in society. One could not possibly say what an investment like this might not lead to. Winfield, so he told Eugene, expected eventually to clear six or eight million dollars himself. He was going to take stock in some of the hotels, casinos, and various other enterprises, which would be organized. He could clearly see how, later, once this land was properly drained and laid out, it would be worth from three to fifteen thousand dollars per lot of one hundred by one hundred feet—the smallest portions to be sold. There were islands which for clubs or estates should bring splendid returns. Think of the leases to yacht and boat clubs alone! The company would own all the land.
"I would develop this myself if I had the capital," said Winfield, "but I want to see it done on a gigantic scale, and I haven't the means. I want something here which will be a monument to me and to all connected with it. I am willing to take my chances pro rata with those who now enter, and to prove my good faith I am going to buy as many shares as I possibly can on the five-for-one basis. You or anyone else can do the same thing. What do you think?"
"It's a great idea," said Eugene. "It seems as though a dream which had been floating about in the back of my head for years had suddenly come to life. I can scarcely believe that it is true, and yet I know that it is, and that you will get away with it just as you are outlining it here. You want to be very careful how you lay out this property, though. You have the chance of a lifetime. For goodness' sake, don't make any mistakes! Let's have one resort that will be truly, beautifully right."
"That's precisely the way I feel about it," answered Winfield, "and that's why I am talking to you. I want you to come in on this, for I think your imagination will be worth something. You can help me lay this thing out right and advertise it right."
They talked on about one detail and another until finally Eugene, in spite of all his caution, saw his dreams maturing in this particular proposition. Fifty thousand dollars invested here would give him two thousand five hundred shares—one thousand preferred, and fifteen hundred common—whose face value, guaranteed by this magnificent piece of property, would be $250,000. Think of it, $250,000—a quarter of a million and that subject to a natural increase which might readily carry him into the millionaire class! His own brains would be of some value here, for Winfield was anxious to have him lay this out, and thiswould bring him in touch with not only one of the best real estate men in the city, but would bring him into contact with a whole host of financiers in business, people who would certainly become interested in this venture. Winfield talked easily of architects, contractors, railroad men, presidents of construction companies, all of whom would take stock for the business opportunities it would bring to them later and also of the many strings to be pulled which later would bring great gains to the company and save it from expenditures which would otherwise mean millions in outlay. Thus this proposed extension by the Long Island which would cost that railroad two hundred thousand dollars would cost the Sea Island Company nothing and would bring thousands of lovers of beauty there the moment conveniences were established to receive them. This was true of hotels to be built. Each would bring business for everything else. The company would lease the ground. The great hotel men would do their own building according to restrictions and plans laid down by the Sea Island Company. The only real expenditure would be for streets, sewers, lights, water, walks, trees, and the great one hundred foot wide boardwalk with concrete ornaments which would be the finest sea stroll in the world. But these could be undertaken by degrees.
Eugene saw it all. It was a vision of empire. "I don't know about this," he said cautiously. "It's a great thing, but I may not have the means to dip into it. I want to think it over. Meanwhile, I'll be glad to go out there and look over the ground with you."
Winfield could see that he had Eugene fascinated. It would be an easy matter to land him once he had his plans perfected. Eugene would be the type of man who would build a house and come and live there in the summer. He would interest many people whom he knew. He went away feeling that he had made a good start, and he was not mistaken.
Eugene talked the matter over with Angela—his one recourse in these matters—and as usual she was doubtful, but not entirely opposed. Angela had considerable caution, but no great business vision. She could not really tell him what he ought to do. Thus far his judgment, or rather his moves, had been obviously successful. He had been going up apparently because he was valuable as an assistant, not because he was a born leader.
"You'll have to judge for yourself, Eugene," Angela finally said. "I don't know. It looks fine. You certainly don't want to work for Mr. Colfax all your life, and if, as you say, they are beginning to plot against you, you had better prepare to getout sometime. We have enough now, really, to live on, if you want to return to your art."
Eugene smiled. "My art. My poor old art! A lot I've done to develop my art."
"I don't think it needs developing. You have it. I'm sorry sometimes I ever let you leave it. We have lived better, but your work hasn't counted for as much. What good has it done you outside the money to be a successful publisher? You were as famous as you are now before you ever started in on this line, and more so. More people know you even now as Eugene Witla, the artist, than as Eugene Witla, the magazine man."
Eugene knew this to be so. His art achievements had never forsaken him. They had grown in fame always. Pictures that he had sold for two hundred and four hundred had gone up to as high as three and four thousand in value, and they were still rising. He was occasionally approached by an art dealer to know if he never intended to paint any more. In social circles it was a constant cry among the elect, "Why don't you paint any longer?" "What a shame you ever left the art world!" "Those pictures of yours, I can never forget them."
"My dear lady," Eugene once said solemnly, "I can't live by painting pictures as I am living by directing magazines. Art is very lovely. I am satisfied to believe that I am a great painter. Nevertheless, I made little out of it, and since then I have learned to live. It's sad, but it's true. If I could see my way to live in half the comfort I am living in now and not run the risk of plodding the streets with a picture under my arm, I would gladly return to art. The trouble is the world is always so delightfully ready to see the other fellow make the sacrifice for art or literature's sake. Selah! I won't do it. So there!"
"It's a pity! It's a pity!" said this observer, but Eugene was not vastly distressed. Similarly Mrs. Dale had reproached him, for she had seen and heard of his work.
"Some time. Some time," he said grandly; "wait."
Now at length this land proposition seemed to clear the way for everything. If Eugene embarked upon it, he might gradually come to the point at which he could take some official position in connection with it. Anyhow, think of a rising income from $250,000! Think of the independence, the freedom! Surely then he could paint or travel, or do as he pleased.
As a matter of fact, after two automobile rides to the nearest available position on the site of the future resort and a careful study of the islands and the beach, Eugene devised a scheme which included four hotels of varying sizes, one dining anddancing casino, one gambling resort after the pattern of Monte Carlo, a summer theatre, a music pavilion, three lovely piers, motor and yacht club houses, a park with radiating streets, and other streets arranged in concentric rings to cross them. There was a grand plaza about which the four hotels were ranged, a noble promenade, three miles in length, to begin with, a handsome railway station, plots for five thousand summer homes, ranging from five to fifteen thousand in price. There were islands for residences, islands for clubs, islands for parks. One of the hotels sat close to an inlet over which a dining veranda was to be built—stairs were to be laid down to the water so that one could step into gondolas or launches and be carried quickly to one of the music pavilions on one of the islands. Everything that money wanted was to be eventually available here, and all was to be gone about slowly but beautifully, so that each step would only make more sure each additional step.
Eugene did not enter on this grand scheme until ten men, himself included, had pledged themselves to take stock up to $50,000 each. Included in these were Mr. Wiltsie, President of the Long Island; Mr. Kenyon C. Winfield, and Milton Willebrand, the very wealthy society man at whose home he had originally met Winfield. The Sea Island Company was then incorporated, and on a series of dates agreed upon between them and which were dependent upon a certain amount of work being accomplished by each date, the stock was issued to them in ten-thousand-dollar lots and then cash taken and deposited in the treasury. By the end of two years after Eugene had first been approached by Winfield he had a choice collection of gold-colored certificates in the Sea Island Realty and Construction Company, which was building the now widely heralded seaside resort—"Blue Sea"—which, according to those interested, was to be the most perfect resort of its kind in the world. His certificates stated that they were worth $250,000, and potentially they were. Eugene and Angela looking at them, thinking of the initiative and foresight of Mr. Kenyon C. Winfield and the men he was associated with, felt sure that some day, and that not so very far distant, they would yield their face value and much more.