eugene carried home with him not only a curiously deepened feeling for angela, due to their altered and more intimate relationship, but moreover a growing respect for her family. old jotham was so impressive a figure of a man; his wife so kindly and earnest. their attitude toward their children and to each other was so sound, and their whole relationship to society so respectable. another observer might have been repelled by the narrowness and frugality of their lives. but eugene had not known enough of luxury to be scornful of the material simplicity of such existence. here he had found character, poetry of location, poetry of ambition, youth and happy prospects. these boys, so sturdy and independent, were sure to make for themselves such places in the world as they desired. marietta, so charming a girl, could not but make a good marriage. samuel was doing well in his position with the railroad company; benjamin was studying to be a lawyer and david was to be sent to west point. he liked them for their familiar, sterling worth. and they all treated him as the destined husband of angela. by the end of his stay he had become as much en rapport with the family as if he had known it all his life.
before going back to new york he had stopped in chicago, where he had seen howe and mathews grinding away at their old tasks, and then for a few days in alexandria, where he found his father busy about his old affairs. sewing machines were still being delivered by him in person, and the long roads of the country were as briskly traversed by his light machine-carrying buggy as in his earliest days. eugene saw him now as just a little futile, and yet he admired him, his patience, his industry. the brisk sewing machine agent was considerably impressed by his son's success, and was actually trying to take an interest in art. one evening coming home from the post office he pointed out a street scene in alexandria as a subject for a painting. eugene knew that art had only been called to his father's attention by his own efforts. he had noticed these things all his life, no doubt, but attached no significance to them until he had seen his son's work in the magazines. "if you ever paint country things, you ought to paint cook's mill, over here by the falls. that's one of the prettiest things i know anywhere," he said to him one evening, trying to make his son feel the interest he took. eugene knew the place. it was attractive, a little branch of bright water running at the base of a forty foot wall of red sandstone and finally tumbling down a fifteen foot declivity of grey mossy stones. it was close to a yellow road which carried a good deal of traffic and was surrounded by a company of trees which ornamented it and sheltered it on all sides. eugene had admired it in his youth as beautiful and peaceful.
"it is nice," he replied to his father. "i'll take a look at it some day."
witla senior felt set up. his son was doing him honor. mrs. witla, like her husband, was showing the first notable traces of the flight of time. the crow's-feet at the sides of her eyes were deeper, the wrinkles in her forehead longer. at the sight of eugene the first night she fairly thrilled, for he was so well developed now, so self-reliant. he had come through his experiences to a kind of poise which she realized was manhood. her boy, requiring her careful guidance, was gone. this was someone who could guide her, tease her as a man would a child.
"you've got so big i hardly know you," she said, as he folded her in his arms.
"no, you're just getting little, ma. i used to think i'd never get to the point where you couldn't shake me, but that's all over, isn't it?"
"you never did need much shaking," she said fondly.
myrtle, who had married frank bangs the preceding year, had gone with her husband to live in ottumwa, iowa, where he had taken charge of a mill, so eugene did not see her, but he spent some little time with sylvia, now the mother of two children. her husband was the same quiet, conservative plodder eugene had first noted him to be. revisiting the office of the appeal he found that john summers had recently died. otherwise things were as they had been. jonas lyle and caleb williams were still in charge—quite the same as before. eugene was glad when his time was up, and took the train back to chicago with a light heart.
again as on his entrance to chicago from the east, and on his return to it from blackwood, he was touched keenly by the remembrance of ruby. she had been so sweet to him. his opening art experiences had in a way been centred about her. but in spite of all, he did not want to go out and see her. or did he? he asked himself this question with a pang of sorrow, [pg 136] for in a way he cared. he cared for her as one might care for a girl in a play or book. she had the quality of a tragedy about her. she—her life, her surroundings, her misfortune in loving him, constituted an artistic composition. he thought he might be able to write a poem about it some time. he was able to write rather charming verse which he kept to himself. he had the knack of saying things in a simple way and with feeling—making you see a picture. the trouble with his verse was that it lacked as yet any real nobility of thought—was not as final in understanding as it might have been.
