It was three days later when he was at his office that a telegram came from Mrs. Dale, which read, “I depend on you, on the honor of a gentleman, to ignore any message which may come from my daughter until I see you.”

Eugene was puzzled, but fancied that there must be a desperate quarrel on between Suzanne and her mother, wherever they were, and that it was probable that he would hear from her now.  It was his first inkling as to her whereabouts, for the telegram was sent off from Three Rivers, in Canada, and he fancied they must be near there somewhere.  The place of despatch did him no good from a material point of view, for he could neither write nor pursue Suzanne on the strength of this.  He would not know where to find her.  He could only wait, conscious that she was having a struggle, perhaps as severe, or possibly more so, than his own.  He wandered about with this telegram in his pocket wondering when he should hear-what a day should bring forth, and all those who came in contact with him noticed that there was something wrong.

Colfax saw him, and asked:  “What’s the matter, old man?  You’re not looking as chipper as you might.”  He fancied it might be something in connection with the Blue Sea Corporation.  He had heard, after he had learned that Eugene was in it, that it would take much more money than had been invested to date to make it a really successful seaside proposition according to the original outlines, and that it would be years before it could possibly yield an adequate return.  If Eugene had put much money in it, he had probably lost it or tied it up in a most unsatisfactory way.  Well, it served him right for trifling with things he knew nothing about.

“Oh, nothing,” replied Eugene abstractedly.  “I’m all right.  I’m just a little run down physically.  I’ll come round.”

“You’d better take a month or so off and brace up, if you’re not in shape.”

“Oh, not at all!  Not now, anyhow.”

It occurred to Eugene that he might use the time to advantage a little later and that he would claim it.

They proceeded to business, but Colfax noticed that Eugene’s eyes were specially hollow and weary and that he was noticeably restless.  He wondered whether he might be going to break down physically.

Suzanne had drifted along peacefully enough considering the nature of the feeling between her and her mother at this time.  After a few days of desultory discussion, however, along the lines now so familiar, she began to see that her mother had no intention of terminating their stay at the time agreed upon, particularly since their return to New York meant, so far as Suzanne was concerned, her immediate departure to Witla.  Mrs. Dale began at first to plead for additional delay, and later that Suzanne should agree not to go to New York but to Lenox for a season.  It was cold up here already now, though there were still spells of bright warm summery or autumn weather between ten and four in the day, and sometimes in the evening.  The nights usually were cold.  Mrs. Dale would gladly have welcomed a compromise, for it was terribly lonely, just herself and Suzanne-after the gaieties of New York.  Four days before the time of her proposed departure, Mrs. Dale was still obdurate or parleying in a diplomatic way, and Suzanne, disgusted, made the threat which caused Mrs. Dale to wire distractedly to Eugene.  Later, she composed the following, which she gave to Gabrielle: 

Dear Eugene-

If you love me, come and get me.  I have told mama that if she did not keep her word to return with me to New York by the fifteenth, I would write to you and she is still obstinate.  I am at the Cathcart Lodge, While-a-Way, eighteen miles north of Three Rivers, here in Canada.  Anyone can show you.  I will be here when you come.  Do not try to write to me as I am afraid I should not get it.  But I will be at the Lodge.

   “With love,

      “Suzanne.”

Eugene had never before received a love appeal, nor indeed any such appeal from any woman in his life.

This letter reached him thirty-six hours after the telegram arrived, and set him to planning at once.  The hour had struck.  He must act.  Perhaps this old world was now behind him forever.  Could he really get Suzanne, if he went to Canada to find her?  How was she surrounded?  He thrilled with delight when he realized that it was Suzanne who was calling him and that he was going to find her.  “If you love me, come and get me.”

Would he?

Watch!

He called for his car, telephoned his valet to pack his bag and bring it to the Grand Central Station, first ascertaining for himself the time of departure, asked to talk to Angela, who had gone to Myrtle’s apartment in upper Seventh Avenue, ready at last to confess her woes to Eugene’s sister.  Her condition did not appeal to Eugene in this situation.  The inevitable result, which he thought of frequently, was still far away.  He notified Colfax that he was going to take a few days rest, went to the bank where he had over four thousand dollars on deposit, and drew it all.  He then went to a ticket office and purchased a one-way ticket, uncertain where his actions would take him once he saw Suzanne.  He tried once more to get Angela, intending boldly to tell her that he was going to seek Suzanne, and to tell her not to worry, that he would communicate with her, but she had not returned.  Curiously, through all this, he was intensely sorry for her, and wondered how she would take it, if he did not return.  How would the child be arranged for?  He felt he must go.  Angela was heartsick, he knew that, and frightened.  Still he could not resist this call.  He could not resist anything in connection with this love affair.  He was like a man possessed of a devil or wandering in a dream.  He knew that his whole career was at stake, but it did not make any difference.  He must get her.  The whole world could go hang if he could only obtain her-her, the beautiful, the perfect!

At five-thirty the train departed, and then he sat as it rolled northward speculating on what he was to do when he got there.  If Three Rivers were much of a place, he could probably hire an automobile.  He could leave it some distance from the lodge and then see if he could not approach unobserved and signal Suzanne.  If she were about, she would no doubt be on the lookout.  At a sign she would run to him.  They would hurry to the automobile.  The pursuit might quickly follow, but he would arrange it so that his pursuers would not know which railroad station he was going to.  Quebec was the nearest big city, he found by studying the map, though he might return to Montreal and New York or Buffalo, if he chose to go west he would see how the train ran.

It is curious what vagaries the human mind is subject to, under conditions of this kind.  Up to the time of Eugene’s arrival in Three Rivers and after, he had no plan of campaign, or of future conduct beyond that of obtaining Suzanne.  He did not know that he would return to New York-he did not know that he would not.  If Suzanne wished, and it were best, and they could, they would go to England from Montreal, or France.  If necessary, they could go to Portland and sail.  Mrs. Dale, on the evidence that he had Suzanne and that of her own free will and volition, might yield and say nothing, in which case he could return to New York and resume his position.  This courageous stand on his part if he had only followed it might have solved the whole problem quickly.  It might have been the sword that would have cut the Gordian Knot.  On the train was a heavy black-bearded man, which was always good luck to him.  At Three Rivers, when he dismounted from the train, he found a horseshoe, which was also a lucky sign.  He did not stop to think what he would do if he really lost his position and had to live on the sum he had with him.  He was really not thinking logically.  He was dreaming.  He fancied that he would get Suzanne and have his salary, and that somehow things would be much as they were.  Of such is the logic of dreams.

When he arrived at Three Rivers, of course the conditions were not what he anticipated.  It is true that at times, after a long continued period of dry weather, the roads were passable for automobiles, at least as far as While-a-Way, but the weather had not recently been entirely dry.  There had been a short period of cold rain and the roads were practically impassable, save for horses and carryalls.  There was a carryall which went as far as St. Jacques, four miles from While-a-Way, where the driver told him he could get a horse, if he wanted one.  The owner of this hack line had a stable there.

This was gratifying to him, and he decided to make arrangements for two horses at St. Jacques, which he would take to within a reasonable distance of the lodge and tie in some spot where they would not be seen.  Then he could consider the situation and signal Suzanne; if she were there on the lookout.  How dramatic the end would be!  How happy they would be flying together!  Judge then his astonishment on reaching St. Jacques to find Mrs. Dale waiting for him.  Word had been telephoned by her faithful representative, the station agent at Three Rivers, that a man of Eugene’s description had arrived and departed for While-a-Way.  Before this a telegram had come from New York from Kinroy to the effect that Eugene had gone somewhere.  His daily habits since Mrs. Dale had gone away had been under observation.  Kinroy, on his return, had called at the United Magazines Corporation and asked if Eugene was in the city.  Heretofore he had been reported in.  When on this day he was reported as having gone, Kinroy called up Angela to inquire.  She also stated that he had left the city.  He then wired his mother and she, calculating the time of his arrival, and hearing from the station agent of his taking the carryall, had gone down to meet him.  She had decided to fight every inch of the way with all the strategy at her command.  She did not want to kill him-had not really the courage to do that-but she still hoped to dissuade him.  She had not been able to bring herself to resort to guards and detectives as yet.  He could not be as hard as he looked and acted.  Suzanne was bedeviling him by her support and communications.  She had not been able to govern there, she saw.  Her only hope was to talk him out of it, or into an additional delay.  If necessary, they would all go back to New York together and she would appeal to Colfax and Winfield.  She hoped they would persuade him to reason.  Anyhow, she would never leave Suzanne for one moment until this thing had been settled in her favor, or brutally against her.

When Eugene appeared she greeted him with her old social smile and called to him affably:  “Come, get in.”

He looked at her grimly and obeyed, but changed his manner when he saw that she was really kindly in her tone and greeted her sociably.

“How have you been?” he asked.

“Oh, quite well, thank you!”

“And how is Suzanne?”

“All right, I fancy.  She isn’t here, you know.”

“Where is she?” asked Eugene, his face a study in defeat.

“She went with some friends to visit Quebec for ten days.  Then she is going from there to New York.  I don’t expect to see her here any more.”

Eugene choked with a sense of repugnance to her airy taradiddles.  He did not believe what she was saying-saw at once that she was fencing with him.

“That’s a lie,” he said roughly, “and it’s out of the whole cloth!  She’s here, and you know it.  Anyhow, I am going to see for myself.”

“How polite you are!” she laughed diplomatically.  “That isn’t the way you usually talk.  Anyhow, she isn’t here.  You’ll find that out, if you insist.  I wouldn’t advise you to insist, for I’ve sent for counsel since I heard you were coming, and you will find detectives as well as guards waiting to receive you.  She isn’t here, though, even at that, and you might just as well turn round and go back.  I will drive you over to Three Rivers, if you wish.  Why not be reasonable, now, and avoid a scene?  She isn’t here.  You couldn’t have her if she were.  The people I have employed will prevent that.  If you make trouble, you will simply be arrested and then the newspapers will have it.  Why not be reasonable now, Mr. Witla, and go on back?  You have everything to lose.  There is a train through Three Rivers from Quebec for New York at eleven tonight.  We can make it.  Don’t you want to do that?  I will agree, if you come to your senses now, and cause me no trouble here, to bring Suzanne back to New York within a month.  I won’t let you have her unless you get a divorce and straighten things out with your wife, but if you can do that within six months, or a year, and she still wants you, you can have her.  I will promise in writing to withdraw all objection, and see that her full share of her property comes to her uncontested.  I will help you and her socially all I can.  You know I am not without influence.”

“I want to see her first,” replied Eugene grimly and disbelievingly.

“I won’t say that I will forget everything,” went on Mrs. Dale, ignoring his interpolated remark.  “I can’t-but I will pretend to.  You can have the use of my country place at Lenox.  I will buy out the lease at Morristown, or the New York House, and you can live in either place.  I will set aside a sum of money for your wife, if you wish.  That may help you obtain your release.  Surely you do not want to take her under the illegal condition which you propose, when you can have her outright in this brilliant manner by waiting a little while.  She says she does not want to get married, but that is silly talk, based on nothing except erratic reading.  She does, or she will, the moment she comes to think about it seriously.  Why not help her?  Why not go back now and let me bring her to New York a little later and then we will talk this all over.  I shall be very glad to have you in my family.  You are a brilliant man.  I have always liked you.  Why not be reasonable?  Come now and let’s drive over to Three Rivers and you take the train back to New York, will you?”

While Mrs. Dale had been talking, Eugene had been surveying her calmly.  What a clever talker she was!  How she could lie!  He did not believe her.  He did not believe one word that she said.  She was fighting to keep him from Suzanne, why he could readily understand.  Suzanne was somewhere, here, he fancied, though, as in the case of her recent trip to Albany, she might have been spirited away.

“Absurd!” said Eugene easily, defiantly, indifferently.  “I’ll not do anything of the sort.  In the first place, I don’t believe you.  If you are so anxious to be nice to me, let me see her, and then you can say all this in front of her.  I’ve come up here to see her, and I’m going to.  She’s here.  I know she is.  You needn’t lie.  You needn’t talk.  I know she’s here.  Now I’m going to see her, if I have to stay here a month and search.”

Mrs. Dale stirred nervously.  She knew that Eugene was desperate.  She knew that Suzanne had written to him.  Talk might be useless.  Strategy might not avail, but she could not help using it.

“Listen to me,” she said excitedly.  “I tell you Suzanne is not here.  She’s gone.  There are guards up there-lots of them.  They know who you are.  They have your description.  They have orders to kill you, if you try to break in.  Kinroy is there.  He is desperate.  I have been having a struggle to prevent his killing you already.  The place is watched.  We are watched at this moment.  Won’t you be reasonable?  You can’t see her.  She’s gone.  Why make all this fuss?  Why take your life in your hands?”

“Don’t talk,” said Eugene.  “You’re lying.  I can see it in your face.  Besides, my life is nothing.  I am not afraid.  Why talk?  She’s here.  I’m going to see her.”

He stared before him and Mrs. Dale ruminated as to what she was to do.  There were no guards or detectives, as she said.  Kinroy was not there.  Suzanne was not away.  This was all palaver, as Eugene suspected, for she was too anxious to avoid publicity to give any grounds for it, before she was absolutely driven.

It was a rather halcyon evening after some days of exceeding chill.  A bright moon was coming up in the east, already discernible in the twilight, but which later would shine brilliantly.  It was not cold but really pleasantly warm, and the rough road along which they were driving was richly odorous.  Eugene was not unconscious of its beauty, but depressed by the possibility of Suzanne’s absence.

“Oh, do be generous,” pleaded Mrs. Dale, who feared that once they saw each other, reason would disappear.  Suzanne would demand, as she had been continually demanding, to be taken back to New York.  Eugene with or without Suzanne’s consent or plea, would ignore her overtures of compromise and there would be immediate departure or defiant union here.  She thought she would kill them if need be, but in the face of Eugene’s defiant persistence on one side, and Suzanne’s on the other, her courage was failing.  She was frightened by the daring of this man.  “I will keep my word,” she observed distractedly.  “Honestly she isn’t here.  She’s in Quebec, I tell you.  Wait a month.  I will bring her back then.  We will arrange things together.  Why can’t you be generous?”

“I could be,” said Eugene, who was considering all the brilliant prospects which her proposal involved and being moved by them, “but I can’t believe you.  You’re not telling me the truth.  You didn’t tell the truth to Suzanne when you took her from New York.  That was a trick, and this is another.  I know she isn’t away.  She’s right up there in the lodge, wherever it is.  You take me to her and then we will talk this thing out together.  By the way, where are you going?”

Mrs. Dale had turned into a bypath or half-formed road closely lined with small trees and looking as though it might be a woodchoppers’ path.

“To the lodge.”

“I don’t believe it,” replied Eugene, who was intensely suspicious.  “This isn’t a main road to any such place as that.”

“I tell you it is.”

Mrs. Dale was nearing the precincts of the lodge and wanted more time to talk and plead.

“Well,” said Eugene, “you can go this way if you want to.  I’m going to get out and walk.  You can’t throw me off by driving me around in some general way.  I’m going to stay here a week, a month, two months, if necessary, but I’m not going back without seeing Suzanne.  She’s here, and I know it.  I’ll go up alone and find her.  I’m not afraid of your guards.”

He jumped out and Mrs. Dale gave up in despair.  “Wait,” she pleaded.  “It’s over two miles yet.  I’ll take you there.  She isn’t home tonight, anyhow.  She’s over at the cottage of the caretaker.  Oh, why won’t you be reasonable?  I’ll bring her to New York, I tell you.  Are you going to throw aside all those fine prospects and wreck your life and hers and mine?  Oh, if Mr. Dale were only alive!  If I had a man on whom I could rely!  Come, get in, and I’ll drive you up there, but promise me you won’t ask to see her tonight.  She isn’t there, anyway.  She’s over at the caretaker’s.  Oh, dear, if only something would happen to solve this!”

“I thought you said she was in Quebec?”

“I only said that to gain time.  I’m so unstrung.  It wasn’t true, but she isn’t at the lodge, truly.  She’s away tonight.  I can’t let you stay there.  Let me take you back to St. Jacques and you can stay with old Pierre Gaine.  You can come up in the morning.  The servants will think it so strange.  I promise you you shall see Suzanne.  I give you my word.”

“Your word.  Why, Mrs. Dale, you’re going around in a ring!  I can’t believe anything you say,” replied Eugene calmly.  He was very much collected and elated now since he knew that Suzanne was here.  He was going to see her-he felt it.  He had Mrs. Dale badly worsted, and he proposed to drive her until, in the presence of Suzanne, he and his beloved dictated terms.

“I’m going there tonight and you are going to bring her to me.  If she isn’t there, you know where to find her.  She’s here, and I’m going to see her tonight.  We’ll talk of all this you’re proposing in front of her.  It’s silly to twist things around this way.  The girl is with me, and you know it.  She’s mine.  You can’t control her.  Now we two will talk to you together.”

He sat back in the light vehicle and began to hum a tune.  The moon was getting clearer.

“Promise me just one thing,” urged Mrs. Dale despairingly.  “Promise me that you will urge Suzanne to accept my proposition.  A few months won’t hurt.  You can see her in New York as usual.  Go about getting a divorce.  You are the only one who has any influence with her.  I admit it.  She won’t believe me.  She won’t listen to me.  You tell her.  Your future is in it.  Persuade her to wait.  Persuade her to stay up here or at Lenox for a little while and then come down.  She will obey you.  She will believe anything you say.  I have lied.  I have lied terribly all through this, but you can’t blame me.  Put yourself in my place.  Think of my position.  Please use your influence.  I will do all that I say and more.”

“Will you bring Suzanne to me tonight?”

“Yes, if you promise.”

“Will you bring her to me tonight, promise or no promise?  I don’t want to say anything to you which I can’t say in front of her.”

“Won’t you promise me that you will accept my proposition and urge her to?”

“I think I will, but I won’t say.  I want her to hear what you have to say.  I think I will.”

Mrs. Dale shook her head despondently.

“You might as well acquiesce,” went on Eugene.  “I’m going to see her anyhow, whether you will or no.  She’s there, and I’ll find her if I have to search the house room by room.  She can hear my voice.”

He was carrying things with a high hand.

“Well,” replied Mrs. Dale, “I suppose I must.  Please don’t let on to the servants.  Pretend you’re my guest.  Let me take you back to St. Jacques tonight, after you see her.  Don’t stay with her more than half an hour.”

She was absolutely frightened out of her wits at this terrific denouement.

Eugene sat grimly congratulating himself as they jogged on in the moonlight.  He actually squeezed her arm cheerfully and told her not to be so despairing-that all would come out all right.  They would talk to Suzanne.  He would see what she would have to say.

“You stay here,” she said, as they reached a little wooded knoll in a bend of the road-a high spot commanding a vast stretch of territory now lit by a glistening northern moon.  “I’ll go right inside and get her.  I don’t know whether she’s there, but if she isn’t, she’s over at the caretaker’s, and we’ll go over there.  I don’t want the servants to see you meet her.  Please don’t be demonstrative.  Oh, be careful!”

Eugene smiled.  How excited she was!  How pointless, after all her threats!  So this was victory.  What a fight he had made!  Here he was outside this beautiful lodge, the lights of which he could see gleaming like yellow gold through the silvery shadows.  The air was full of field fragrances.  You could smell the dewy earth, soon to be hard and covered deep in snow.  There was still a bird’s voice here and there and faint stirrings of the wind in the leaves.  “On such a night,” came back Shakespeare’s lines.  How fitting that Suzanne should come to him under such conditions!  Oh, the wonder of this romance-the beauty of it!  From the very beginning it had been set about with perfections of scenery and material environment.  Obviously, nature had intended this as the crowning event of his life.  Life recognized him as a genius-the fates it was heaping posies in his lap, laying a crown of victory upon his brow.

He waited while Mrs. Dale went to the lodge, and then after a time, true enough, there appeared in the distance the swinging, buoyant, girlish form of Suzanne.  She was plump, healthful, vigorous.  He could detect her in the shadows under the trees and behind her a little way Mrs. Dale.  Suzanne came eagerly on-youthful, buoyant, dancing, determined, beautiful.  Her skirts were swinging about her body in ripples as she strode.  She looked all Eugene had ever thought her.  Hebe-a young Diana, a Venus at nineteen.  Her lips were parted in a welcoming smile as she drew near and her eyes were as placid as those dull opals which still burn with a hidden lustre of gold and flame.

She held out her arms to him as she came, running the last few steps.

“Suzanne!” called her mother.  “For shame!”

“Hush, mama!” declared Suzanne defiantly.  “I don’t care.  I don’t care.  It’s your fault.  You shouldn’t have lied to me.  He wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t sent for him.  I’m going back to New York.  I told you I was.”

She did not say, “Oh, Eugene!” as she came close, but gathered his face in her hands and looked eagerly into his eyes.  His burned into hers.  She stepped back and opened wide her arms only to fold them tightly about him.

“At last!  At last!” he said, kissing her feverishly.  “Oh, Suzanne!  Oh, Flower Face!”

“I knew you would come,” she said.  “I told her you would.  I’ll go back with you.”

“Yes, yes,” said Eugene.  “Oh, this wonderful night!  This wonderful climax!  Oh, to have you in my arms again!”

Mrs. Dale stood by, white, intense.  To think a daughter of hers should act like this, confound her so, make her a helpless spectator of her iniquity.  What an astounding, terrible, impossible thing!

“Suzanne!” she cried.  “Oh, that I should have lived to see this day!”

“I told you, mama, that you would regret bringing me up here,” declared Suzanne.  “I told you I would write to him.  I knew you would come,” she said to Eugene, and she squeezed his hand affectionately.

Eugene inhaled a deep breath and stared at her.  The night, the stars swung around him in a gorgeous orbit.  Thus it was to be victorious.  It was too beautiful, too wonderful!  To think he should have triumphed in this way!  Could any other man anywhere ever have enjoyed such a victory?

“Oh, Suzanne,” he said eagerly, “this is like a dream; it’s like heaven!  I can scarcely believe I am alive.”

“Yes, yes,” she replied, “it is beautiful, perfect!” And together they strolled away from her mother, hand in hand.