I want to see you.
I want to see you.
He made no sort of answer; he went on all day as if she didn’t exist; he wouldn’t even meet her eye. When he wasn’t going out in the motor to make speeches for the Friends of France, he was sitting in Polly’s room, telling her what hehad said at the last meeting and what he was going to say at the next one.
But Angelica was not to be disposed of so simply. She made up her mind that he would have to speak, he would have to tell her outright that he didn’t love her.
"He won’t find it hard to get rid of me!" she thought, bitterly. "But he’s got tosay. I want to understand. What does he write me a letter like that for, and then be this way?"
She had a feeble little hope that perhaps it was only his feeling of duty that kept him from her, that he loved her and didn’t dare to see her. She felt that if he would just say that he loved her, but that they must give up all thought of each other, she would be satisfied. She could go on living, if she had that knowledge.Something, however, he must say.
On the third evening she lay in wait for him. Polly and Mrs. Russell had gone to bed, and he hadn’t returned yet from a lecture he was giving in the village; so she turned out the light in her room and sat in the dark, with the door open, waiting.
It was a melancholy October night. The leaves from the linden rustled against her window as they were blown from the branches, and a constant, monotonous, low wind blew, with a sound like rain. She sat as still as a spider in a web, grim, unhappy, filled with apprehension.
In the course of time he came in. She saw him hurry down the hall in his wet ulster and cap, and go into his own room. She was after him before he had time to close the door.
"I want to speak to you!" she said. "Why didn’t you let me? Don’t you want to see me?"
"No," he said. "No, Angelica, I don’t." He hadn’t even removed his cap. He put his hand on the knob of the door. "You shouldn’t have come here," he said. "Some one might see you."
"I don’t care! I want to know. What’s the matter? What’s happened?"
"I hoped," he said quietly, "that you’d let it drop without an explanation which is bound to be painful for both of us."
"I want to know where I stand. I want you tosay."
"Sit down," he said. "I suppose we’ll have to have it out."
She did sit down, and waited while he took off his wet things, brushed his hair, and put on a smoking-jacket. She was interested by his room; for a few moments it distracted her unhappy heart. It was a curious room splendidly furnished in black and gold enamel. There was a sort of Chinese idea about it, shockingly adulterated by European luxury; long mirrors, armchairs upholstered in purple, great bookcases, a black and gray velvet rug on the polished floor, a marvelous lacquer screen concealing the bed, a little stand on which was a tea-set of pale gray porcelain with an odd black design. There were pictures on the wall—shocking, startling things, obscene subjects in brilliant colours; and in the corner a great ebony crucifix.
This exotic and voluptuous setting dismayed her. It proclaimed a Vincent of whom she knew nothing, and whom she could never comprehend. How in Heaven’s name was she to understand the poetic side of the man, she so unpoetic, so crude? A man with tea-sets and crucifixes and such pictures!
He sat down opposite to her in a low, cushioned chair, his head bent, his hands clasped between his knees. Her foolish eyes could see, with tears, that rough, bright hair, those fine, strong hands.
"Angelica," he began, not looking at her, "I’ve been a coward with you. I’ve shirked this, because it is so intolerably hard to do."
She waited in anguish, with no idea of what she was to hear.
"You see, Angelica, the war has opened my eyes. I was—just going on, lost in your beauty and loveliness, not thinking—drifting, drifting to hell, and taking you with me. And then came this thing, this deafening, colossal call to self-sacrifice, this monstrous revealment of the glory and holiness of duty. I’m not callous. I couldn’t help but heed it. I couldn’t go on in my old gross self-indulgence. Angelica!" he said, looking up and meeting her eyes. "This war has brought me back to God!"
"But," she faltered, "what does——”
"It means that I must give you up. My love for you is a sin. For me, a poet, slave and servant of beauty, you are temptation incarnate. You can’t understand that. You are as cold, as pure, as an angel. You don’t realize what love like mine is."
"I’m not!" she cried, pitifully. "I do understand! I’m not cold!"
"Compared to me you are. My love for you was madness. I couldn’t think of anything else. It wasn’t the gentle affection you felt."
"I didn’t feel a gentle affection!" she cried, in tears. "Youcouldn’tlove me more than I love you!"
"Do you?" he asked, in a sort of stealthy triumph.
She didn’t see that. She was utterly sincere; and her beautiful sincerity, her tears, suddenly moved him to one of those tempests of remorse to which he was so prone.
"Oh, God!" he cried. "What a brute I am! I talk about giving you up, and all the time I’m watching your face for signs of love. How can I find the strength to let you go?"
"Don’t!" said Angelica, with streaming eyes. "Don’t let me go, Vincent darling! Oh, if only we have each other!"
"We can’t have each other. It’s a sin!" he said. "Don’t yousee? Oh, Angelica! Beautiful Angelica! Why don’t you help me? Why do you try to draw me down, and ruin me, and destroy me?" He sprang up, his fine face distorted with grief and passion. "You don’t know!" he cried. "Oh, my God! I have sinned! I have sinned! You don’t know after what sufferings, what weary wanderings, I have come back to God! You cannot imagine! There is nothing I have not done; no infamy I have not committed!"
And then he began his awful catalogue. He told her of his sins, his vices—vile enough in reality, but exaggerated by his hysteria. He had no medium between ingenious self-excuse and the wildest self-accusation. He took a monstrous sort of joy in his horrible recital. He remembered incidents from his boyhood, of cruelty, bestiality, lust, drunkenness, theft, every sort of dishonour.
"I’ve been in prison," he said. "No one knows. They thought I was in Canada that year. I’ve stolen from my own wife and spent the money on vile women. I’ve been kicked out of disreputable hotels."
It went on and on, a nightmare, things that Angelica had never imagined, all told in his coarse and vivid language which impressed his images upon her mind forever.
"Good God!" he cried. "I’m appalled! How can even the God of mercy forgive such things? Angelica! I amlost!"
He threw himself on his knees before her and buried his head in her lap.
"I have been in hell!" he cried. "What am I to do? God, who sees my heart, knows that I repent; but is it enough?"
A feeling new to Angelica came over her, a divine kindliness and pity. She stroked his ruffled hair, and tried, in her blindness, her bewilderment, to find words to comfort him.
"Of course!" she said. "If you’re sorry, it’ll be all right. You can start all over again."
With his head still buried, he flung his arms about her waist and began to sob, hoarse, terrible sobs. She couldn’t bear it.
"Oh, don’t! Don’t, darling!" she cried.
He raised his head.
"I must be mad!" he said. "I’m so tortured. I long so, I yearn so, after God. I want to be alone with Him, to contemplate Him forever, in solitude—in a desert—to pray to Him—to make my songs to Him. Almost all my verses are of God, Angelica. And then I see a lovely face—I drinkanother glass of wine—I read a line of voluptuous beauty—and I am lost again. How will it end? Oh, my merciful God, how will it end?"
She spent almost all the night trying to quiet and console Vincent. She drew his head against her breast and kissed his forehead while she talked to him. She found, almost miraculously, words and ideas which gave him comfort, but with an effort which was torment for her. She had a sensation of fishing in the depths of her mind, and painfully hauling out some thought which she had not been conscious of having there. Her love lent her insight; she discerned the grain of terror that lay beneath the chaff of his theatrical eloquence. She was able to talk to him with piety—she who had no religion, and had never given a thought to such matters. She assured him that his repentance would wipe out his sins.
"Why, Vincent!" she said. "Icould forgive anything you did; and you know God must be more forgiving than me."
Steadfast, gentle, patient as an angel, she sat with him, listened to his confessions, his self-accusations, and absolved him in her love. Who could hold the man to blame for those faults which were his essence? Not God—not she!
The clock had struck four. They were sitting side by side on the sofa, both exhausted, pale, quite calm now. Vincent began to talk again, more in his usual voice.
"Angelica," he said, "Eddie told me that he asked you to marry him, and that you refused him."
"Of course I did, Vincent."
"It was a mistake, my dear. It’s the very best thing you could do—both for yourself and for me."
"Oh, Vincent!" she cried. "I couldn’t! You know I couldn’t!"
"Angelica," he said, solemnly, "do it for my sake. Be my sister. I swear to you that all base and sensual feelings have left my heart. I am purged of all my lust."
Well, so he was, for the moment; but by weariness, not by religion. He had talked himself into exhaustion.
"You couldn’t do better," he went on. "I’m not selfish, not jealous. My wish is to see you happy, and you would be happy with Eddie. He’s a good man."
He was, in fact, so worn out after his outburst that he felt compelled to get rid of Angelica, not only for the present, but forever. He didn’t recognize the feeling. He was conscious only of a great desire to dispose of her, which he fancied was concern for her welfare.
"I want to see your life happy and blessed," he said. "I want to see you with your children about you, you with your beautiful Madonna face. I want always to be near you, but only to worship you. I will be your brother, your friend. I long to see this, Angelica!"
"No," she said, "I don’t want to. It wouldn’t suit me. I’m not so crazy about getting married, anyway."
"For me, Angelica! I beg you!"
"No, not even for you. I don’t want to, and that’s enough. I’m young, Vincent. I have all my life before me. You needn’t worry about me." A mortal weariness assailed her. "I guess I’ll go now," she said. "I’m pretty tired. Good night, Vincent!"
He kissed her solemnly on the brow and opened the door for her. She shut herself into her own room.
"Oh, Gawd!" she sighed. "Nowwhat? This is getting too much for me. Can’t even think any more. I don’t know——”
She undressed and got into bed, though the sky had grown gray in the east. She felt obliged to sleep, even if it were only for an hour; but before she closed her eyes——
"One thing’s certain," she said. "I’m going away from here, right away. I can’t stand any more of this!"
This one idea remained with her when she got up from her brief sleep—this determination to get away. Except for this, she was drained quite dry of all ideas, all feelings. She was not poetic; she hadn’t the astounding variations of a poetic soul such as Vincent’s. She was not at all easy to move, and when she was thoroughly aroused—to pity, to love, to grief, to whatever it might be—it took a very long time for the tempest to calm. She wanted now simply to get away alone, where she might examine this turmoil in her heart.
She packed her bag, put on her hat and coat, and went to Polly’s room.
Polly was dressing in her very leisurely fashion, going to and fro in the room, and stopping now and then before the table where her coffee and rolls were laid. She was in petticoat and under-bodice, with her thin, sallow arms and neck bare and her black hair hanging about her face. She had a forlorn and jaded look—for which, however, Angelica had no eyes.
"Mrs. Geraldine," she said, "I got to go. I want to go right away—to-day. I don’t feel well."
"I’m very sorry, my dear! What’s the trouble?"
"I’m just tired. I’ve just got to get away. I want to go home."
"But if you’re not very well, wouldn’t you be more comfortable here?"
"No. I want to go home. I—you know how it is, Mrs. Geraldine, when you feel youjustgot to go home!"
Indeed Polly knew!
"For how long?" she asked. "You don’t think you’re really seriously ill, do you? You think a little rest at home will set you up in a very short time?"
Angelica hesitated a moment.
"I don’t think——” she began. "I don’t guess I’ll come back."
"Never?"
"No."
"But aren’t you happy here? Aren’t you comfortable? Tell me what’s wrong, and perhaps we can arrange it."
"You couldn’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t stay—not for anything."
There was no mistaking Angelica’s tone. Polly saw that the girl was absolutely determined and not to be turned—not without a long argument, anyway, and that she had no desire to undertake. What is more, she had too much sense to ask questions. She had a suspicion that her husband was somehow concerned in Angelica’s going; there was probably a great deal in this thing of which she decidedly preferred to remain ignorant.
She wasn’t jealous; that had worn off on that first evening of Vincent’s home-coming. It had hurt her dreadfully, then, to see his glance turn always away from her and toward this younger and lovelier face; but now she didn’t care whether he was infatuated with Angelica or any one else. She was pleased simply to be on friendly terms with him, to have him agreeable instead of contemptuous, and she knew that was the best she could expect.
She had not the slightest hope of winning him back; she didn’t even want to very much. She was so tired; she dreaded the necessity which love brings for effort—for keeping up, in appearances, in spirits. She preferred that Vincent should never look at her at all, rather than to have to endure his old critical glance. She was only too conscious of her sad decline.
So there was nothing in her heart but real regret that Angelica was going. She liked her very much, and was used to her.
"I’m very sorry to lose you," she said. "I’d hoped you were quite settled here. I’ll miss you more than I can say."
"You’ve been very nice to me," said Angelica.
"And you must always remember me as a friend. If there is ever anything that I can do for you, come to me. I mean it!"
She held out her hand, and Angelica gripped it.
"Good-by!" said Polly again. "And good luck! I hope you’ll let me know how you get on."
"Yes, I will. But listen, Mrs. Geraldine—can I have my money?"
"Certainly! You’ll have to get it from Mr. Geraldine, though. He’s in the library, writing."
Angelica was dismayed.
"No," she faltered. "I don’t want to bother him. If you’ll just give me my train fare, you could send me the rest."
"My dear, I don’t think I have even enough for your fare. Mr. Geraldine handles all my money for me."
She was a little ashamed of this arrangement, to which she had eagerly agreed when she and Vincent were first married. It humiliated her to be thus, without a penny.
"You needn’t mind disturbing him," she said. "He expects to do such things for me. Come up and say good-by to me the last thing before you go, won’t you?"
Angelica said "Yes," quite absently. She was thinking how this interview with Vincent might be avoided. It was the thing above all others she most desired to avoid. She had meant to go off quickly, toget home, where she could think in peace, where she could try a little to remember and to comprehend what had happened. She didn’t attempt to decide whether or not she would ever see Vincent again; she knew only that she did not want to see himnow. But shewas too well-trained in poverty, and had too much common sense, to go off penniless, without even her train fare, when there was honestly earned money due to her.
"Shall I wait for Eddie to come home?" she reflected.
No, that wouldn’t do at all. She wouldn’t know what to say to Eddie, how to explain her leaving. She felt absolutely afraid to see him.
"I’ll just have to go to Vincent," she decided. "ButI’m going! He can’t stop me—I don’t care what he says!"
It took all her courage. She went down-stairs and into the library. There he sat, writing, as Polly had said. He didn’t look up. She stood in the doorway, waiting, for a few minutes; then she said:
"Mr. Geraldine!"
"Yes?" he asked, not looking up from his writing.
"Mrs. Geraldine told me to come to you and get my money."
"I can’t be bothered now!" he said irritably. "I’m busy. Can’t you see?"
"I’m sorry, but I’ve got to have it. I’m going."
"Going, Angelica?" he said, looking up at last.
"Yes. I want to catch the ten-forty. So if you’ll just give me my money, I’ll go right away."
He resumed his writing.
"Too bad!" he said. "I really haven’t got it."
"Please don’t be so mean!" she cried. "For Gawd’s sake, give it to me, and let me go!" Her fatigue and her distress at his callousness were unnerving her. She felt ready to burst into tears. "Just give it to me and let me go!" she said again.
"I haven’t it," said Vincent.
"You haven’t got any money?"
"Not a sou."
"But you can get it for me?"
He shook his head.
"No, my dear, dear girl. You’ll have to wait."
"How long—an hour?"
"I can’t say."
"But what do you mean?"
"I mean that I haven’t any money. I said so before."
"But Mrs. Geraldine said you had all her money."
"Then Mrs. Geraldine will have to be informed, very kindly, that her income is mortgaged for the next two years. I had to do it. You see, she has a little annuity, which she lets me collect. Well, I was embarrassed. I had to borrow money against it. So, you see, that’sthat! She hasn’t anything; and I—I’m penniless as a gipsy. Now you comprehend, I hope."
And to her amazement he began to write again.
"Say!" she cried. "This won’t do!"
"Don’t bother me, my dear girl. I’m at work," he said, frowning. "On a poem."
"But you can’t put me off like this!"
"I’m writing!" he cried, in a sudden rage. "I don’t care about you and your money. Let me alone!"
"You’ve got to stop writing, then.Idon’t care about you and your writing. You’ve got to pay me!"
He sprang to his feet.
"Get out!" he shouted. "How dare you trouble me about your dirty money? Good God! Lines such as I had, ready to put down, and to have them ruined by a greedy, good-for-nothing little servant girl! Ihaveno money. If I had, I wouldn’t give it to you. You don’t deserve it. Idling away your time, aping your betters, draggling about in their cast-off finery! If they weren’t both of them lazy and worthless themselves, they’d have turned you out long ago. Get out!"
And he caught her by the arm and thrust her into the hall, slamming the door behind her.
Angelica rushed up-stairs like a whirlwind and into Polly’s room, panting, quite beside herself with fury.
"Him!" she cried. "He turned me out! Took me by the arm and shoved me out into the hall! He——”
Polly had been putting on her hat before the mirror, but she threw it down in haste, to give all her attention to this frantic young thing.
"What were you saying to him?" she asked, mildly.
"Nothing! Not a blame thing! Only just asking him for my money, like you told me. Ah, he’s a fine feller, he is! The names he called me—and just last night crying and saying he couldn’t live away from me!"
And she told all the story to Polly—even showed her Vincent’s letter.
"Now!" she said. "Give me my carfare, and I’ll go."
"I have nothing. Perhaps Mrs. Russell——”
But Mrs. Russell was out. Polly was in misery. There was this terrible girl, demanding her money, implacably waiting for it, this girl whom her husband had treated so shockingly. Her only wish in life was to be rid of her.
"Take my ring," she said. "It’s worth ten times what you want."
"I can’t buy a ticket with it. I don’t believe you have any money, the lot of you!"
Paradise was lost, her hopes destroyed, her pride mortally wounded; so, having nothing to lose, she let herself go. She threw off all restraint; she was as coarse, as fierce, as she wished to be.
Polly was wonderfully patient with the girl.
"You shall be paid," she said. "I’ll go down with you to Mr. Geraldine. If he hasn’t any ready money, he’ll write you a cheque."
He still sat there writing. He paid no attention to them as they opened the door and went in.
"Vincent!" said Polly. "Will you please write a cheque for Angelica at once?"
Then he laid down his pen and looked at them for a long time in contemptuous silence.
"I told her," he said, "just what I shall tell you. I have no money."
"But, Vincent, a cheque——”
He smiled, pulled a cheque-book out of his pocket, and wrote. Tearing out a leaf, he handed it to Angelica. She stared at it.
"What do you mean?" she cried.
Polly looked over her shoulder.
"Please don’t joke, Vincent," she said. "Please give her what is due her."
For he had drawn a cheque for ten thousand dollars.
"My dear Polly, any cheque I wrote would be equally ridiculous. There’s nothing in the bank."
"Then where is it, Vincent?"
"I’ve told you. My investments——”
"But my income? Surely that——”
He began to show irritability.
"I tell you," he said, "that it’s all gone. Now, for God’s sake, my dear soul, go away! Can’t you see I’m trying to write?"
"But my income——”
"Oh, you and your damned income!" he shouted. "You women and your beastly greed! Haven’t you any soul? Can’t you think of anything but money?"
"No, I can’t, Vincent, just now. It’s a very serious matter," said Polly, gravely.
He jumped up with an oath.
"It’s disposed of for the next two years," he cried. "You left it to my judgment. I’ve used my judgment. And now you come whining and sniveling about your handful of pennies. By God, I’m entitled to it! The whole thing doesn’t amount to what you cost me in a month—your clothes and your——”
"Never mind that, please. Do you mean that we can’t pay Angelica?"
"Good God! Is your head made of wood? Or are you getting senile?"
Polly went on, as unheeding of his gross rudeness as arock is of the spray that dashes over it. Quiet and resolute, she pursued her investigations. Her money was her life, her peace, her freedom, her dignity; she knew that she could not earn any more, and that there was no other man to give it to her. She must have it!
Angelica observed her with profound admiration. Even to further her own best interests, even, she fancied, to save her own life, she couldn’t have remained so calm, so self-controlled.
"Do you mean," she went on, "that we have nothing?"
"I do not! We have all sorts of things—paintings, books, your jewelry. Simply we have nomoney. Now let me alone!"
"But what do you propose doing?" she asked. "We can’t go on, like this, without a penny. How do you propose to pay Angelica?"
He raised his upper lip in a brutal sort of sneer.
"Oh, you don’t know, do you? Of course not! You’re perfectly innocent, aren’t you? You never suspected, did you, who it was paid for the clothes on your back? It’ll be such a shock to you, dear soul! In our need we shall have to turn to Eddie! He’ll pay Angelica, he’ll pay me, and he’ll pay you. God bless Eddie!"
That blow told. Polly winced under it. She turned away slowly and went out of the room. Angelica followed her, and, looking back from the doorway, she saw Vincent writing again.
Angelica had started an avalanche. She was deeply impressed and interested. She had no desire to go now; she wished to see the tremendous end.
Events moved with satisfactory speed. Polly went at once to Mrs. Russell’s room, to find her just arrived at homefrom a Stricken Belgium card-party. They closed the door; they were shut in there a long time together. They must, of course, have summoned by telephone the two unhappy and disturbed gentlemen who came in a motor-car later in the afternoon.
When these came, they all went into the library, where Vincent still sat. There was a dreadful scene. The newcomers were Polly’s lawyer and the trustee of her first husband’s estate, and they at once attacked Vincent. The trustee was non-legal and devoid of wise caution; he shouted threats at Vincent, and Vincent cursed him in the voice of a bull. He was beside himself with fury. The lawyer tried to frighten them both into silence, but he was himself so appalled and outraged by their ignorance of what was and what wasn’t libelous that his arguments were weak.
Polly was distressed, but resolute.
"No!" she implored the raging trustee. "No, Frank,don’t, please! Only find out just what has happened and see what you can save for me. Don’t trouble to quarrel with him."
Vincent turned on her.
"Yes!" he screamed in a high, hysterical voice. "Yes! You’ll fight to defend yourmoney, at least! You don’t care about anything else. It never pierced your damned self-satisfaction when I was off with other women——”
"Vincent!" said his mother in a low, shocked voice.
"Very well! Very well!" he cried. "I don’t mind them knowing. I did take her miserable little income and spend it on other women. For God’s sake, who wouldn’t? Look at her! Do you thinkshe——”
"Just tell him, please," said Polly to the lawyer, "that I intend to leave him immediately and to obtain a divorce, and that he must give up any authority he ever got from me."
"That will be arranged, Mrs. Geraldine," said the lawyer.
Suddenly Mrs. Russell began to cry.
"Oh, Polly!" she said. "Don’t give the poor boy up! Give him another chance! Oh, do, do, do!"
She stopped suddenly. Vincent, too, stopped his violence and his curses. Eddie had come in.
Eddie’s peculiar power had never before been so unmistakably demonstrated. He had never before had such an opportunity for showing how much of a man he was. He was master of the situation, master of every one. He brushed aside the clamour, the furious arguments; he wished only for information, and he knew how to get it.
He addressed himself chiefly to the lawyer, with now and then a question to Polly. He listened carefully, and one could almost read in his face the functioning of his just and clear mind.
Angelica watched him through the keyhole. This wasn’therEddie, who stammered in her presence, who could be roused by a single look from her black eyes. Here was a man quite beyond her influence, immeasurably superior to her, a man undeniably fine.
She listened to him speaking. He addressed Vincent with a quiet, dispassionate sort of contempt; he told him that he would return to Polly what Vincent had stolen from her.
"And I will apologize to you, too," he said to Angelica, when he came out of the library, "for all this that you’ve had to go through here in my house. I think you’re quite right to leave. If you’ll go up-stairs now, I’ll talk the matter over with these gentlemen. You and I can discuss it later."
So it was over. The house was quiet again, and they were all shut in their several rooms. Angelica went to Polly’s door and knocked.
"It’s Angelica," she said. "Anything I can do for you?"
Polly’s voice came, after a long interval, faint and mournful:
"No, thank you!"
So then where should she turn but, naturally, to Eddie? She was very unhappy. She felt ashamed of herself now, terribly lonely, banished, and disgraced. Of course Polly would tell Eddie—perhaps already had told him—all that Angelica had told her, all about that disgraceful affair with Vincent, and she would lose, or perhaps already had lost, Eddie’s regard. Just when she needed it so, when she had been so cruelly repudiated by Vincent!
"Well, anyway, I want to see him," she said to herself. "Anyway, he won’t fly out at me, even if he thinks I’ve been awful!"
She couldn’t find him for a long time. She wandered about the house like a lost soul; and then at last she came across him on the veranda, sitting there smoking, in the chilly October evening.
"Mr. Eddie!" she said softly, from the doorway.
"Oh! Yes?" he answered pleasantly. "Is it you, Angelica? Do you want anything?"
"I just wanted to speak to you——”
"Shall I come in?"
"I’ll come out," she suggested, glad of the chance to talk in the dark, and groped her way to the corner where she saw the light of his cigar.
"It’s a dark night," he said.
"It’s—sad out here," said Angelica. "So—damp, and all."
"There’s a big storm coming. I wanted to speak to you, Angelica. I’m very glad you came. I wanted—I’ve some money that’s due you. You see, I’m going away to-morrow."
"Going where?"
"To a training-camp—before I go to France, you know."
"Oh, dear!" she cried, with quite genuine dismay. "Oh, Mr. Eddie, Iamsorry! I hate to have you gone!"
"I don’t like to go," he admitted, simply. "And especiallyI don’t like to leave you like this. I wish that it could have been different."
She waited a moment.
"I suppose I better be going to-morrow, too," she said.
"I suppose so. There’s nothing more for you here, Angelica. Polly’s going away, you know, and——”
"Mr. Eddie!" she cried. "Tell me! Tell me, honestly, do you think I—it was my fault? If you’d only please tell me everything they told you—Mrs. Geraldine, and all! What did she say about me—and—that?"
"Polly?" he asked. "She didn’t say anything about you at all, except that she liked you very much, and that she thought Vincent had behaved very badly toward you."
"My Gawd!" said Angelica under her breath. "She never told him! He don’t know a thing!"
"I don’t blame you at all," he said. "Not in any way. You lost your temper—perhaps you lost your head a little—but you had great provocation. You see, Angelica, Vincent came to me and explained the whole thing. I must say he was very candid—and fine about it. He told me frankly that he had tried to—mislead you, and that you refused to listen to him; and that that was the reason he behaved so badly to you. Of course, hehasbehaved badly, all around,—shamefully; but still—he has good points. I thought it was a—a plucky sort of thing to do, you know, especially when we were on such bad terms. He said he couldn’t bear to think of your being blamed in any sort of way."
Angelica was amazed and delighted that she had been made into a persecuted heroine. She was filled with admiration for Vincent’s nobility; and yet she could dimly perceive that there was something behind it, that he gained something he wanted by this false confession. It seemed a miracle that Eddie had been spared, both by him and by Polly, those very facts which Angelica was so anxious for him not to know.
"He said he was sorry for the whole thing," Eddie wenton. "He begged me to try to influence Polly to give him another chance. I couldn’t do that. I simply said I’d tell her exactly what he had said, and what he’d done. I did. I had a long talk with her; but she’s finished with him. She didn’t say a word against him, but—she’s finished with him."
"But is it that—about me? Is that the reason she’s leaving him?" Angelica asked, with anxiety.
"No! As far as that goes, there are plenty of things far worse—in thatline, you know. No! I think it’s chiefly about the money. She says she couldn’t trust him again. She says it’s impossible to live with him under such conditions. I suppose it is. Anyway, she’s absolutely determined to leave him."
Angelica sat in silence, more utterly wretched than ever. Had Vincent just sacrificed himself for her? Did he really love her? And for his love was he to be utterly cast out?
"No!" she said suddenly, aloud.
"No what?" asked Eddie.
"Nothing. I was just thinking. There comes the rain!" she cried. "Gosh, what a storm!"
They both got up, to push back their chairs against the wall of the house, but even there it reached them—the spray from the rain falling in straight, heavy lines, dashing against the earth with a fierce drumming noise that filled the air and confused the senses. The smell of the soil, the dead leaves, the grass, came to them with its own invigorating freshness; and in spite of the chilly sprinkle in their faces they lingered; fascinated by the noise, the wet odours, the great black, uproarious void before them. They stood close together, their shoulders touching, their backs against the wall.
"Angelica!" said Eddie’s voice in her ear, curiously flat and faint in the surrounding din. "Angelica,can’tyou? Just think—if I could only know—while I’m away—that you—that you were waiting for me!"
"Eddie," she replied, "I couldn’t. Not now, anyway. Perhaps—later.Idon’t know."
"You mean—you think some day—it’s notimpossible? Youcould, then? I mean—I’m not repulsive to you?"
"Deary boy!" she protested. "Of course you’re not."
"Do you think you could—kiss me?" he asked. "I’m going away to-morrow."
She turned, put a hand upon his shoulder, and kissed him on the cheek.
"There!" she said. "Now you see!"
He didn’t move; stood there like a statue.
"I guess we’d better go in," she said. "We’re getting wet; and I’ve got to pack up my things."
To go home! She began for the first time to imagine her home-coming, to think of her future. This was all over; she would never get another such job, never again be in a house like this, never again have a chance like this!
She began to think of the kitchen, of the factory, of their suppers of tea and bread and margarine, of her mother, listless and hopeless—all of it hopeless—even Vincent. What could he ever do for her, even if he had the inclination? Who was there on earth who cared to do anything for her, who could give her in any way the things she craved? Panic overwhelmed her.
"Eddie!" she cried. "I—could!"
He was suddenly galvanized into life.
"Could?" he cried. "Could what?"
"If you want—I’ll marry you!"
His arms went around her, pressing her tightly against his coat. A smell of damp tweed and cigar-smoke filled her nostrils; she couldn’t see or move at all, her head was so buried in his clumsy embrace.
"Oh, my darling!" he cried. "Oh, Angelica, to think that I have to gonow!"
"But I’ll be waiting for you," she said.
She stood on the front steps long after he was out of sight, lost in a painful reverie. The rain was still falling steadily and violently, without wind, from a pale gray sky. She watched it, absently, churning the gravel walk, splashing up again from the puddles. What a desolate and tremendous world that morning!
Eddie was really gone. She had said good-by to that generous and loyal friend, had pressed his hand and tried to smile brightly after him. He hadn’t wanted her to go to the railway-station with him.
"No," he had said. "Let’s say good-by here, in the place that’s going to be our home."
He was in a bad state. He did all he knew to conceal it, but it was none the less apparent to her that he was deeply troubled by the thought of what lay before him, that he was most reluctant to go, unhappy, alarmed, and a little puzzled. He was ashamed of all this, he wished to be a man, like Vincent, and he naïvely believed that a true man was practically devoid of any emotion, except love and anger.
Nevertheless, disturbed as he was, he didn’t for a moment neglect his beloved Angelica’s interests. He wished to know how she was to get on.
"I’ll find another job," she said.
He didn’t object; he really considered that it would be best for her to remain sturdily independent, under no obligation to him.
"I’ve made a will," he said hurriedly, "so that if I don’t come back, you’ll be all right. In the mean time, if you do need anything, here’s my lawyer’s address. I’ve told him to give you anything you ask for without question."
Mrs. Russell, too, had gone. She had felt so upset by Eddie’s departure and Polly’s cruel behaviour that she was obliged to take a ten-day motor-trip with the doctor and Courtland. She hadn’t remembered to bid Angelica good-by.
Polly, however, had been very, very kind. She had given Angelica several little presents, which wasn’t her way, and she had spoken to her with a sincere kindliness.
"My dear girl," she had said, "this has been a wretched thing for you. I only hope it won’t really harm you. You mustn’t let it. Try to forget it. Just now, perhaps, there’s a sort of glamour—but after you’ve been gone for a while, I think you’ll see it all more clearly"—meaning Vincent all the time, of course. "If only you could find some work that you could put your heart into, Angelica—something you are suited to! What do you think you’d like?"
"Well, I guess I’m going to marry Eddie——”
"Yes," said Polly, who didn’t think that would ever come to pass. "But he may be gone for a long time; and meanwhile you’d like to show him, wouldn’t you, what you can do?"
"I guess I’d like dressmaking and millinery," said Angelica.
"Very likely I can find some sort of opening for you. I know quite a number of self-supporting girls. Keep in touch with me, be sure!"
The house was very quiet. There was nothing to distract her, and Angelica was able to meditate at her leisure. She thought first of herself and her return to her mother, of that "going back" which was so difficult to this ardent spirit always eager to go forward.
She suffered under a terrible discontent and restlessness. She was ashamed of the past, disgusted with the future. She felt that life, real life, was ended; the adventure finished, the mysterious charm lost.
Try as she would, she could not keep her mind from straying to Vincent. He was adventure and charm, life itself, forher. She told herself that she was going to forget him. He had treated her very badly, and she was done with him. She was going to marry Eddie and be done with Vincentforever.
But she knew that she could not. Wouldn’t she see forever in her dreams that big, arrogant man with his hawk-like face and his bright hair? He had hurt her, but he had made her happy, too. He had come upon her with violence. Everything about his brief love-making had been startling and disturbing. She had often hated him, but she had always loved him—always, from that moment when she had seen him standing in the doorway of Mrs. Russell’s room.
Then she gave her attention to Eddie, with a queer soreness of heart. She felt that she was taking advantage of Eddie; that he was too good for her. She was so sorry for him, so full of affection and respect for him—and so disinclined to think about him!
She fancied she saw coming the taxi which was to take her to the station, and she ran up-stairs to fetch her bag. Her familiar room was neat and desolate, with the green blinds pulled half-way down, the bureau and dressing-table stripped bare, the bed covered over with a sheet. All trace of her was obliterated. It saddened her; she took a last glance at herself in the darkened mirror and went out, closing the door behind her.
She almost ran into Annie, who had been on the point of knocking on her door.
"Mr. Vincent says he’d like to see you in the music-room for a few minutes," the maid said curtly.
"No!" said Angelica, and then, almost immediately: "Yes!"
After all, she ought to see him, after what he had done. She ought to thank him. Even if she were going to marry Eddie, there was no harm in that. In fact, Eddie would doubtless have approved of it.
"He won’t eat me," she said. "Let’s see what he’s got to say!"
She tried to prepare herself for anything, whether she found him pleading, passionate, brutal, or depressed. She felt herself quite strong enough to withstand any of his moods—stronger than he was.
She entered again that little music-room where Mrs. Russell had interviewed her so long ago; but to-day it had taken on quite a new character. He had pulled the shades up to the top of the windows, so that the cold light of the rainy day came in to destroy the charm and romance of the armour, the harp, and the orange-shaded lamp that had so delighted her.
Vincent sat on the piano-stool, writing on the closed piano. He was without a coat, in a gray flannel shirt and old blue trousers. His hair was all on end, in wildest disorder, and his face, when he turned to Angelica, was troubled and ecstatic. He looked boyish, very touching, and his manner was altogether unstudied.
"Angelica!" he said. "Please listen to this! Just tell me—these few lines—do you get a picture at all? I mean—just tell me exactly how it makes you feel—not what you think of it, you know, but how youfeel. Sit down, please, and keep quiet. Now, you know, this is almost the end of the thing—the chap’s losing his faith—before he has the vision. It’s free verse, of course—an impression: