Jove, I’m entitled to _some_ consideration! He’s got to come out and
tell me what he did."

"Do wait!" cried Polly.

He looked at her in anger and distress.

"Don’t you _understand_?" he demanded. "It’s important. I’ve got to find
out what he’s done with my letter. I’ve got to know at once--even," he
added with irony, "at the risk of disturbing Vincent. I haven’t seen him
for three days."

"Oh, do wait!" cried Mrs. Russell.

"I won’t!" he answered.

Striding out of the room, he began to run up-stairs. To Angelica’s great
amusement, the two women followed him. She followed, too, of course.

"Oh, Eddie!" implored Mrs. Russell. "Don’t be so headstrong! Wait! I’m
sure he’s asleep."

"He can wake up, then. It’s only eight o’clock."

"Or maybe he’s working, and if you interrupt him he’ll be so vexed!"

"_He_ vexed!" cried Eddie, outraged. "It seems to me that I’m the one to
be vexed!"

Proceeding at once to his brother’s room, he knocked at the door,
waited, and then knocked again.

"Vincent!" he called. "Open the door! I want to speak to you!"

He knocked louder and louder. Polly again touched his arm.

"Eddie!" she said, in a low voice. "You’re making a dreadful noise. Why
_don’t_ you wait? To please me!"

"It can’t really matter," said Mrs. Russell. "You couldn’t really do
much at this time of night."

"No," said Eddie. "I could have waited, but now I won’t. There’s
something damned queer about it. He can’t help hearing this row."

"But you know how peculiar he is," said Mrs. Russell. "He wouldn’t
answer if he didn’t feel like it."

"I’ll make him. I won’t put up with this!"

He had turned away and was starting down-stairs.

"Where are you going?" called his mother.

"I’m going to get Courtland, to help me break in the door!"

Mrs. Russell drew near Polly.

"What do you think we’d better do?" she whispered.

"I don’t know," Polly answered in distress. "Even if he would wait till
the morning, I don’t see just what we could do. Perhaps we’d better----”

Mrs. Russell nodded.

Eddie returned promptly, bringing with him the blond young chauffeur,
pleased and alert.

"Which door?" he asked. "This? All right! Now, then, all together!
One----”

"No!" cried Mrs. Russell. "No, Eddie. Wait a minute!"

He did wait, but impatiently, while she hesitated. Finally she said to
him in a half whisper:

"Eddie, _he’s not there_!"

"Not there?" he shouted.

"Do hush! No; he’s been away for three days."

"Why the devil didn’t you tell me?"

"Because I didn’t want to upset you."

"Did Polly know?"

"Yes; she----”

"And you both stood there and let me make a fool of myself?"

"I couldn’t bear to upset you, Eddie, and neither could Polly."

"And you let me knock and call and bring up Courtland. Oh, by Jove, it’s
_too_ much!"

"I’m very sorry," said Polly gently.

Eddie didn’t even look at her.

"I’m sick of this!" he cried. "Sick of being made a fool of like this.
It’s always the way in this house; every hand’s against me. Nothing but
deceit and trickery!"

"Eddie!" said Polly firmly. "You forget yourself!"

The poor chap, recalled by her tone to his standard of propriety--the
very fount of his exploitation--became a little quieter.

"No," he said, "I don’t. Where did he go?"

"To New York," said Mrs. Russell. "He had a bag with him. Courtland
drove him in."

Eddie turned suddenly upon Courtland.

"Why didn’t you tell me he wasn’t there?" he demanded.

"How did I know he hadn’t come back?" retorted Courtland, smartly.

"Where did you leave him?"

"Corner of Broadway and Forty-Second Street," said Courtland, and, with
his unquenchable impudence, he added: "But you won’t find him there
now!"

"That’ll do," said Eddie. "You can go. And don’t gossip about this."

Courtland wheeled about briskly and began, quite leisurely to descend
the stairs, whistling cheerfully and loudly before he was well out of
sight. Eddie did not even appear irritated. He had turned toward the two
ladies of his household with an ominous look in his blue eyes.

Eddie was incredibly generous, he was kind-hearted and more or less
sympathetic, but he had in him, all the same, the making of a
first-class domestic tyrant. He desired, almost morbidly, to be
respected, and he was ready to force respect by bullying, if necessary.
He knew what every one else knows, moral precepts to the contrary
notwithstanding--that the bully is almost universally respected.

Like all domestic tyrants, he was shamelessly deceived and "managed" by
the women of his establishment. They managed him clumsily. Neither of
them had learned what the doctor had learned at once--that Eddie could
be manipulated with ridiculous ease by the employment of either of two
means. One was to appeal to his sense of justice; the other was
deferentially to ask his advice.

He liked to argue, to discuss, to weigh, to do finally, not without
pompousness, whatever he saw to be right; but the women never addressed
this vulnerable side. They treated him still as if he were a primitive
man, to be coaxed, hoodwinked, pampered, in spite of the fact that he
was not primitive in any way. He got along splendidly in his office,
because there it was acknowledged unanimously that he was not to be
diddled, that he was no fool; but at home he was always treated as if he
were a fool, and a slightly dangerous one. That is, of course, the
accepted attitude toward any master of any house, but it is not always
the most effective.

His anger began to ebb away as he looked at them, and a profound
dejection to take its place.

"It’s no use," he said. "No earthly use! I do the best I can--for the
entire family--to keep things as decent as possible; but I can’t. I get
no help. I can’t do it alone!"

"But Eddie, my dear boy!" said Polly. "It was only to spare your
feelings."

He shook his head.

"It wasn’t. You have some reason which I’ll never know. I’m not blaming
you, Polly. I know you do what you think is best; but if you’d only be
_honest_, regardless of what might happen!"

He stopped, for he had caught Angelica’s eye. He stopped, and his
startled and arrested look said, almost as plainly as words:

"I believe _you_ to be honest!"

He was as much surprised as if she had but that instant appeared.
Indeed, one might quite truly say that he had never before seen her. She
looked so hardy, so bold, so independent, in all ways so different from
the two other women who had just humiliated him. He felt a new and
sudden interest in her.

CHAPTER NINE

Angelica was consumed, devoured, by curiosity. She felt obliged to know
more of this family--of Vincent, above all. So the next morning she got
up very early, went down into the kitchen regions, and sought out a
snub-nosed maid who had seemed disposed to be friendly when they had
passed each other in the hall.

The girl wasn’t busy. She was sitting on the back steps, enjoying the
fresh morning; and as soon as she saw Angelica she moved over,
hospitably, to make a place for her.

"Sit down," she said. "It’s a nice day, isn’t it?"

Angelica did sit down, and for a time was silent, looking before her
across lawns as smooth and empty as those at the front of the house.
Nothing at all back-doorish about the outlook; the same air of
prosperous peace; in the distance other houses among their lawns, and
well-trimmed trees, and overhead a lovely May morning sky.

"Yes," she said, "it’s certainly a nice day."

She fell silent again, trying to arrange an opening for her questions;
but the snub-nosed maid spared her the trouble.

"Well!" she said. "How do you like it up-stairs?"

Angelica at once perceived that the other girl was curious.

"Oh-h-h!" she said slowly. "I suppose it’s all right."

Another silence, during which they appraised each other according to
their tradition. A mutual confidence was born.

"They’re a queer bunch," said the girl. "I never saw the like; and I’ve
been with seven families, too."

Here she courteously gave Angelica a brief history of her life and
condition. Her name was Annie McCall, born in Scotland, but brought up
in America, a member of the Plymouth Brethren, twenty-seven, and engaged
to be married. She was extremely severe in her views, which were often
similar to Angelica’s, especially in regard to the immoralities of the
rich. There was this difference, though--Annie was confident that she
knew everything, and was infallibly right, while Angelica was anxious to
learn.

"If it wasn’t that I was going to be married," said Annie, "and saving
every penny, I’d leave. The way they carry on! I never saw the like!"

"Do they carry on?" inquired Angelica, delighted.

Hadn’t she always known that rich people carried on? Wasn’t she just in
a paradise of the romantic, where the rich were bad, and the poor,
represented by herself and the terribly respectable Annie McCall, were
good?

"That Mrs. Russell’s the worst of them all," said Annie. "The bold,
brazen thing she is, with her breeches and her smoking, and her cursing.
You’d ought to hear her curse!"

"She’s queer," said Angelica reflectively.

"Queer!" cried Annie. "Well, _I’d_ call it more than queer! She’s----”
She stopped a moment. "She’s bad," she said.

"Oh! Bad! How?"

"I don’t like to be spreading scandal," said Annie, who always believed
the worst. "It’s not my nature, only that you’ll be working up-stairs
right with her, and you being so young, it’s only right you should be
told. As soon as ever I set eyes on you, I said to myself you’d ought to
be warned. I could see you weren’t used to such people. You never worked
out before, did you?"

"No," Angelica answered.

It was of no use to resent the ‘working out,’ or to tell Annie that she
was a ‘companion,’ because Annie knew very well what her place was.
Angelica’s eating with the family couldn’t deceive her. They were both
servants, and Annie was the better-paid and more respected of the two.
Angelica could not honestly consider herself in any way superior, except
in appearance. Annie spoke rather better than she did, and had had more
schooling; she admitted to money in two savings-banks, and she was
engaged to be married. So Angelica submitted to a temporary equality,
feeling morally sure, however, that the future would see her elevated
immeasurably above Annie.

"How is she bad?" she inquired eagerly.

"She’s a divorced woman," said Annie. "She divorced her first husband,
Mr. Geraldine, and I’ve heard that he was a very nice man--much better
than Dr. Russell, I dare say; too good for her, very likely. Anyway, I
never heard any good of a divorced woman."

"But what does she _do_?" Angelica demanded, rather impatiently.

"You wouldn’t believe it, but she’s carrying on with that chauffeur."

"My Gawd!" said Angelica. "Is she really?"

"It’s the worst I’ve ever heard of. Would you believe it? She’s teaching
him to play golf. They go out in the country somewhere, where they’re
not known. She’s bought him a bag of clubs, and he goes around showing
it to all the chauffeurs, and telling them I don’t know what. He’s a
liar, and I wouldn’t believe a word he said, but still--well, when you
hear a thing right and left--and there’s those clubs and all, and they
cost a terrible lot--you can’t help but think she’s a regular bad
woman."

But Angelica did help thinking so. She didn’t believe that Mrs. Russell
was that sort of bad woman, and the longer she knew her the more
convinced she became of her perfect goodness in this one respect.
Capable of the most outrageous follies, selfish, hard as flint, quite
without scruples in the pursuit of her own liberty and pleasure, she
was, however, not interested in men. Angelica said nothing, though, for
she had no proofs or surmises to bring forward, nothing but her own
instinct.

Annie continued.

"No, I can’t help thinking so. I’m no fool. I’ve seen a lot--you do,
working out. It’s a pity, too, on account of Mr. Eddie. He’s a nice
young man, and he works himself sick for the lot of them. No one doing a
stroke of work but him!"

"Don’t that doctor work?"

"Dr. Russell? He’s a regular old grafter, that’s what _he_ is."

"I saw him putting cigars in his pocket," said Angelica.

"I’ve seen worse than that. I’ve seen him going through _her_ bureau
drawers, and taking anything he has a fancy for. He’ll come down with a
flask, fill it with anything that’s left in the decanters, and take it
up-stairs and drink until he falls asleep on the floor. They say it’s
terrible bad to drink things all mixed together like that."

"Does he know about her carrying on?"

"He don’t care, so long as he’s got a good home and a little money to
spend. I never saw such people in all my life! And they never have any
decent company. Mrs. Geraldine----”

"Why do they call her Mrs. Geraldine?"

"Because that’s her name," said Annie, surprised. "That used to be Mrs.
Russell’s name. It’s Mr. Eddie’s and Mr. Vincent’s name. Didn’t you
know?"

"It’s a queer name," Angelica remarked thoughtfully. "I thought it was
her first name."

Nothing in the universe seemed specially queer to Annie.

"Well, as I was saying, Mrs. Geraldine, she hasn’t any friends, except
out West, and Mr. Eddie, he hasn’t got any time to make any, and there’s
no one ever comes here but _her_ lot from that country club--a lot of
swearing, drinking, smoking men and women. She fills the house with
them, and then Mr. Eddie’ll make a great row and say he won’t put up
with them, and then she’ll smile, that superior way, and say, ‘Very
well, Eddie, it’s your house!’ Then, when she thinks he’s kind of
forgotten, she’ll have them in again."

"But what’s the other feller like?" asked Angelica.

"Him!" cried Annie. "Why!" she was at a loss for words to express what
she felt. "He’s----” She hesitated. "He’s _crazy_, and downright wicked.
They call him religious. Sacrilegious, I call it. Every once in a while
he’ll get a fit of feeling sorry for his wickedness, and he’ll be
moaning and groaning about his soul, and working himself up to write his
religious poems. Why," she cried, "it’s as different from the real
repentance of a sinner, such as I’ve seen many and many a time in our
meetings, as can be. He’s never seen the light, and he never will. He’s
lost!"

"What does he do that’s wicked?" asked Angelica, avid for details of
rich people’s sins.

"Everything--drink and women and blasphemy. Why, right now he’s gone off
with a girl. Courtland saw him meet her."

But no further questions on the part of Angelica could elicit any more
details. Annie didn’t want to talk about him; he was what she called a
hardened sinner, and she considered him best ignored. She began to talk
of Polly.

"She’s the best of the lot," she said. "She’s a real lady. She’s
reasonable. She’ll never ask you for all sorts of outlandish things, all
hours of the day and night, like the other one. She’s stingy, I must
confess; she never gives you a penny, nor even an old dress or a hat;
but at least she’s nice and polite. I’m sorry for her, too, losing that
little boy. He was a sweet little thing, even if----”

The cook appeared on the porch--an untidy, bedraggled old Irishwoman.

"Come in, the two of ye!" she said. "Let your friend come in and eat a
bite with us, Annie, if she’s not too proud."

"You might as well," said Annie. "They won’t be eating for another half
an hour, and we’ve got just as good as they have."

"Better," said the cook. "You can trust me for that, Annie McCall!"

They went, not into the kitchen, as Angelica had expected, but into a
nice little dining-room, to a meal served and eaten with decorum and
propriety, a table daintily laid, and a breakfast beyond cavil--coffee
with cream, beefsteak, cold ham, new-laid eggs, hot rolls, corn-bread,
jams and marmalades, and a fine bowl of fruit.

The cook sat down behind the coffee-pot, with Angelica beside her.
Presently in came the chambermaid, the German laundress, and a mild
little thing known as the "second girl"; and, at last, swaggering, in
his shirt-sleeves, Courtland the chauffeur.

His eye fell at once upon Angelica.

"Hello!" he said. "What’s the matter? Did they kick you out up-stairs?"

"They sent me down to see how you behaved yourself," she answered,
promptly.

She was quite able to hold her own with this young bully, and though her
manner was too free and easy to suit Annie, the others were
delighted--especially the cook.

"_Now_ will ye be good?" she would cry to the worsted Courtland. "Now
you’ve met your match, me lad!"

Angelica enjoyed all this beyond measure. This homely simplicity,
combined with the greatest comfort, this atmosphere in which she lost
her painful consciousness of inferiority, in which she was among equals
and able to breathe freely, invigorated and satisfied her. She grew more
and more assured, her sallies more and more outrageous, in a violent
badinage that continued until the bell rang and Annie ran off up-stairs.
She returned to tell Courtland that he was wanted in fifteen minutes.

"Oh, Gawd!" he groaned. "It’s a tennis tournament to-day. Me sitting out
in a blame country road in the hot sun all the afternoon. My Lawd! Don’t
I wish that old fool’d learn enough to stay home, or go to the city, to
the theayters and stores!"

"And giff you de chance to see your schweetheart?" asked the laundress,
coyly.

"Which one?" he demanded, boldly.

"Ye’ll need a lot of thim," said the cook. "For there’s no one girl
could put up with ye long. Why are ye not playing your golf to-day, me
lord?"

"She makes me sick!" he answered, angrily. "There she goes and gets me
interested in the game and all, and then she drops it. Why, you know,
she promised me at the start she’d train me good and I could go in a
tournament. She said she’d introduce me as a friend of hers. She said I
was built to be a first-class player, and maybe I’d get to be a
perfessional."

"Don’t believe everything _she’ll_ be telling you!" said the cook.

"Damn old fool!" he muttered.

Annie reproved him.

"You’ve got no right to speak like that about a lady," she said.

"Shut up!" he said briefly.

"Go along with you!" cried the cook. "She’ll be waiting."

"Leave her wait! She makes me wait enough. If she don’t like waiting for
me, leave her say so. I can get plenty of jobs--better than this one,
too. I don’t have to put up with nothing from her!"

II

It was only half-past eight, and Angelica didn’t know what to do with
herself. She was in a rebellious and malicious mood; she had been fired
by Courtland’s attitude, and she, too, wished to keep some rich person
waiting. It was the attitude which is the despair of employers--the
spirit in which the young workman comes sauntering in, insolently late,
not because he wishes to lose his job or because he is, as they put it,
looking for trouble, but because, for this one day, this one hour, he
must assert himself, must be a man, must delude himself that he is not
inferior, not helpless, not driven.

So Angelica, this morning, was ready to assert that servants were in all
ways better than those they served, that poor people were all good and
rich ones all bad. She felt a warm glow of friendliness toward the
subordinate class, and a profound hostility toward their oppressors. She
wanted to swagger about it, to tell Mrs. Russell, loudly, that those
jolly, comprehensible people in the kitchen were vastly superior to her
in every respect.

She went defiantly about the lower floor, into the library, into the
breakfast-room, where the remains of Mr. Eddie’s meal still stood, into
the music-room, even into the august drawing-room, where she had never
before set foot.

"_I_ don’t care!" she said. "If they don’t like it, they can tell me!"

But she met no one. Thwarted of a victim, she went out upon the veranda
and sat down in a rocking-chair, facing the prospect already so
monotonous to her--the neat, smooth lawns, the orderly trees, the
dignified houses.

"Makes me sick!" she said, aloud. "Nothing to look at--nothing to do!"

Suddenly her chair was tilted back and a hand laid over her eyes--a
soft, cool hand. She pushed at it, roughly, and it was lifted, and she
saw bending over her the bland, smiling face of the doctor. He was in
flannels, well cut, quite correct, but with an air obnoxiously dapper.
His white head was bare, and he wore a flower in his coat.

"You let me alone!" said Angelica.

"I can’t!"

"I guess you can!" she observed grimly.

"But you’re so pretty! You’ve no business to be so pretty."

"I dare say I’ll get over that in the course of time."

"Seriously," he said, "I don’t think I’ve ever seen finer eyes. Have you
ever thought of going on the stage? And as far as I can judge, you have
a beautiful figure. Of course I don’t _know_----”

"None of that now!" she cried, flushing angrily. "Get away from the back
of my chair. I don’t want you hanging around me, anyway."

"You’re very hard," he said. "Very! Don’t you like me, Miss Angelica?"

"Not much."

"But why?"

"Go and look in the glass, grandpa," she answered.

He reddened.

"I suppose I do seem old--in your eyes," he said; "but after all, it’s
only a question of how you _feel_; and I feel as young as you do. It
takes a man of experience and maturity to appreciate a woman. Boys can’t
understand, but a man of my age has learned how a woman likes to be
treated."

"Well, he’s learned too late, then," said Angelica. "They’ll never give
him a chance to show off what he knows."

"Oh, yes, they do," he retorted, preening himself. "I could tell you of
more than one little girl who doesn’t think I’m too old. You, too, when
you know me better, you’ll find me just as----”

"Now, look here, grandpa," said Angelica. "What are you leading up to?
Because if you think you can get fresh with me, you’ve made a big
mistake. Guess again, grandpa!"

"Don’t call me that!" he protested. "It’s vulgar."

She looked at him scornfully, then turned her back upon him and once
more regarded the tiresome view. The doctor, after a glance at her
severe profile, gave up his attempt and changed his attitude. He sat
down jauntily astride of a chair and began joking. She never tired of
that, and although he did, although he grew painfully weary of this
rough and silly jesting, he was compensated by the sight of her
brilliant face.

But inevitably he began to grow bolder again.

"My dear, your shoe’s untied!" he said suddenly.

He threw himself on his knees before her and clasped her ankle in his
hand. She gave him a vigorous push with her foot that sent him rolling
over backward, knocking his white head against a chair. She laughed
immoderately, with abandon, all the more because he was so furious, her
head thrown back, her eyes closed.

And it was just at this minute that Eddie came out, to see his
father-in-law struggling to his feet, while Angelica shrieked with
laughter.

"What’s this?" he demanded severely.

No one answered, but Angelica’s mirth was checked.

"What has happened?" he asked again, with still greater displeasure.

"I slipped," said the doctor. "Where’s your mother, my boy?"

This was an attempt to disarm Eddie by reminding him that the doctor was
his mother’s husband, and therefore venerable; but it was not
successful. He received no reply, and went sauntering off with
exaggerated jauntiness, watched by Eddie till he was out of sight.

Then Eddie turned to Angelica.

"I’m sorry," he said gravely.

"Oh, it don’t matter!" she answered. "I can take care of myself all
right."

"I wasn’t apologizing for my father-in-law’s conduct. I meant I was
sorry that _you_----”

"Me?" she cried, indignantly. "I didn’t do anything!"

"I hate to think of you stooping to this sort of thing--this silly
vulgarity. It isn’t like you. It isn’t worthy of you!"

The former factory girl, with her long memory of scenes so much more
vulgar and silly than this--of faces slapped and insults replied to with
most forcible language--stared, astounded, at Eddie, at his displeased
and disappointed face.

"You ought to be more dignified," he said. "You say you want to improve
yourself. Then, in that case, this sort of thing----”

She really had seen nothing reprehensible in her conduct, nothing to be
censured. She knew, of course, that a girl in her situation mustn’t
spend her time in "fooling" with the men of the household; but to
disapprove it on high moral grounds ...!

However, the word "dignified" gave her a clue. It was those magnificent
women he had in mind! She was falling short of their standard, and
therefore disappointing Eddie. She wasn’t being magnificent.

She looked up at him.

"I see!" she said thoughtfully. "All right! I’ll try!"

"That’s right," he said. "I knew--if it were pointed out to you--that
that sort of thing is so out of keeping with your character----”

"With your face," he meant. He meant, without being aware of it, that
any sort of coarseness in a girl so lovely and desirable was a shocking
offense to him.

Angelica left him, inspired by the loftiest thoughts. She was resolved
to redeem this day begun so inauspiciously, breakfasting with the
servants, knocking over the white-haired doctor. She pictured a new
Angelica, stately and aloof.

"He does me good--that feller!" she reflected.

CHAPTER TEN

It now became the aim of Angelica’s life to satisfy Eddie. She felt that
his standard was the right one, however painfully high it might be, and
that he was genuinely concerned with helping her to attain it. And she
felt that, in spite of his youthfulness and his somewhat grandiloquent
air, he was a remarkable and an admirable man.

The more she saw of him, the more she admired him. She was a shrewd
enough observer, yet she never detected in him a single lapse from his
own rigid principles. What he set out to do, he did; what he determined
to be, he was. She had not knowledge or experience enough to see that he
was ignorant, crude, and childlike; she could see only his force, his
strength of will, the earnestness of his ambition, and his complete
ingenuousness.

He went directly to Polly. He told her that Angelica was ambitious, and
that he wished to help her.

"So any evenings that you don’t need her," he said, "she can come to me
and study. I’ll look out some books for her."

Polly smiled and agreed.

"It’s another of poor Eddie’s Utopian schemes," she said to her
mother-in-law. "I don’t know what he expects to accomplish with the
girl."

"I only hope _she_ won’t accomplish anything!" said Mrs. Russell. "She’s
very pretty, and Eddie’s so susceptible. Of course, he thinks it’s a sin
to think of a girl as a girl, but still----”

They didn’t at all like this educational project, but Mrs. Russell was
too careless and Polly too sensible to interfere. Besides which, it
didn’t look really alarming. Eddie was not the sort--it would have been
impossible to Eddie--to contemplate illicit relations with Angelica, and
with his extreme propriety he was certainly not likely to consider
marrying her. It was simply an annoyance to have her thus exalted. They
were irritated and somewhat contemptuous, but they said nothing. They
took care never to discuss Eddie in her presence.

It was a recognized fact that she and Eddie were allies. They were oddly
alike in many ways. They had the same sort of careless austerity;
neither of them cared whether a chair were comfortable or not, the soup
hot or cold, the weather propitious; they disdained fatigue, were ready
to work all day and all night to achieve an object, and had a fierce and
driving ambition for power and distinction. But Angelica was coarser and
stronger, while Eddie was more sensitive and very much more scrupulous.
He was ruled by ideas, she was ruled by her vigorous impulses.

Polly very rarely wanted Angelica in the evening, and Mrs. Russell dared
not summon her, so that it became quite a usual thing for her to go
up-stairs with Eddie directly after dinner and settle down with some
valuable book of his selection. He didn’t make any attempt really to
teach her; she could as well have sat in her own room to read, but that
would have entirely destroyed the character of the thing for Eddie. She
must be sitting there, under his eye, docile, earnest, his pupil.

Sometimes he worked, sometimes he was himself engaged with one of his
instructive books, which he bought in sets; but whatever it was, he very
rarely spoke to her. He maintained his pose of imperturbability, which
she knew well enough to be only a pose.

It didn’t take her long to see how it was with him. She understood that
sort of thing so well! She saw how drawn he was to her, how she stirred
his ardent blood; and she rejoiced and brought out all her tricks to
torment him. When she wanted something explained, she would bring her
book to him and stand beside him, leaning against him, bending over so
that her hair brushed his cheek. She had attitudes that were poems of
allurement; there were certain tones in her voice, certain little
gestures, which she saw enthralled and disturbed and shocked him.

"She doesn’t know what she’s doing!" he would think.

Well, she didn’t exactly. She was well enough aware of the effect of her
naughty wiles upon him, and upon other men; but she had never
experienced the thing herself, never yet been transfixed by a dart such
as she delighted to shoot. At first she was proud and gleeful; but after
she had seen his painful effort to retain his dignity--his majesty, one
might say--undisturbed, she felt a sort of respectful pity for him, and
desisted.

She had no illusions; she didn’t fancy that his inclination toward her
was love; she never dreamed of marrying him, and she understood him and
herself too well even to contemplate any other sort of alliance. She
ceased her tricks, became honest and sober with him, and sat at his feet
to learn what she could. The knowledge that she was desirable in his
eyes did good to Angelica, for it gave her more confidence, more hope of
attaining ultimate magnificence. She showed him her natural self,
inquisitive, eager, strong, ready for any sacrifice, any denial, that
might help her in her progress, a nature at once ardent and calculating,
a cool, shrewd, subtle Italian mind.

As for herself, she wasn’t in the slightest degree attracted by Eddie.
She admired him and respected him, she felt a warm friendliness toward
him, but no smallest trace of love or desire. It wasn’t possible; he
wasn’t the man for her; he wasn’t her sort.

In contrast, and running parallel with this life of effort and progress
under Eddie’s direction, ran the other existence, the lazy, soft life of
the harem. One-half of her time she was studying, reflecting, earnestly
considering her manners and deportment; the other half she spent with
Mrs. Russell and Polly, in a thoroughly demoralizing uselessness.

Laziness was Polly’s darling vice. She had long passed the stage of
struggling against it; now she hugged it, enjoyed it without shame. She
lay in bed, in a chaise-longue, or on a sofa, hour after hour, smoking
cigarettes, lost in her sorrowful reveries. Where on earth was she to
find an incentive to activity? There was no one whom she might love and
serve; no effort was necessary to obtain all the luxuries possible. Her
old love of her art lay buried beneath her grief; she felt that she had
all that she could ever expect in life.

She had got quite used to Angelica now, and more or less fond of her.
She liked to have the girl near, sitting with one of Eddie’s books;
absorbed in it, yet instantly ready for any service required.

"Do you know, Angelica," Polly said to her one day, "the very nicest
thing about you is that you never fidget!"

Angelica considered that.

"No," she said. "I know I don’t. I see other people squirming and
wriggling all the time, and I wonder--I don’t know--I _am_ quiet; but
I’ve got lots of life in me."

"I should say you had! Just my antithesis, aren’t you? I’m quiet, too,
but it’s because I haven’t any life in me at all."

"Well," said Angelica, displaying no interest in Polly’s state of mind,
and reverting, as she generally did, to herself, "I’m always kind of
expecting something to happen. So I just--wait."

Her naïve egoism never affronted Polly. Disillusioned, she would have
been rendered uneasy by affection or great interest; she liked it this
way, with no pretense on either side, nothing to keep up. She never
affected any interest in Angelica, although she couldn’t attain her
companion’s supreme self-absorption. She was obliged, now and then, to
ask a question; in fact, she couldn’t help being curious about Angelica,
who was not at all curious about her.

She was sometimes a little piqued by the young creature’s cool
assumption that she was of no interest. She knew, as all other people
know, what lay within herself, how different she was from every one else
who had ever lived, how interesting she was, both in her qualities and
her experiences, a thing true of every one; and yet how impossible it is
to make others see it!

Polly was a woman of curious temperament--intense, sensitive, flexible,
and yet protected and perhaps isolated by a certain cool good sense. She
was an artist, a musician, a woman who had twice loved and twice been
most cruelly deceived and rebuffed, who had suffered and thought very
much and very bitterly, if not very profoundly; but she was also the
simple daughter of a small town, a woman who liked a long and leisurely
gossip, who had sane and healthy blood flowing beneath her idle
hypochondria. Woman of the world, smoker of cigarettes, reader of the
most astounding books, seasoned as she was, disillusioned, heart-sick, a
bit theatrical, perhaps, in her utter indifference, she was nevertheless
the same Polly who would have heartily enjoyed a day spent in
jelly-making, or nut-gathering, or sewing with a friendly and talkative
group of her own Ohio women.

She had very little in common with Mrs. Russell. They didn’t really like
each other, but being unoccupied, and in somewhat similar circumstances,
they got on well enough together. The whole household got on together,
in fact. There were intrigues, incredibly petty and subtle struggles and
plots, but nothing overt.

The other two women accepted this new favourite of Eddie’s with resigned
tolerance; they made use of her, but they were quite kind. They, too,
had an influence on Angelica; they taught her something, a little of the
compromise that must be made with life. You didn’t have to love people
or to hate them--you had only to get on with them. She could not but
admire their charming good-humour, their complete lack of the
aggressiveness which the people she had known before had been obliged to
cultivate. They were all three so _comfortable_ together!

II

It was one of those summer afternoons which had such an indescribable
charm for Angelica. She wasn’t used to idleness, and it delighted her,
this sitting about, with a long stretch of empty hours ahead, to fill as
one pleased. They were all in Mrs. Russell’s big, airy room, with the
green blinds drawn down and flapping in a steady little breeze. It was
very hot, and, as was their custom when Eddie was not home, they were in
undress. Polly hated the hot weather, and didn’t care to move; she lay
on a rattan couch, smoking, with her eyes closed, and with an electric
fan blowing across her.

Mrs. Russell was stretched out in a deck chair; beside her stood a small
table with a bottle of whiskey and a siphon of soda, of which she
partook from time to time--very small drinks, but tolerably frequent.
Her face was crimson; her hair, for greater coolness, was pulled back
into a tight knot; she wore very little but a lace combing-jacket and a
short silk petticoat, which, as she sat with her long legs crossed,
showed a great expanse of gray silk stocking. She was a freak, a fright,
whatever you like, but she had a certain ineffaceable distinction. Her
voice, her gestures--Angelica watched her with interest. She was telling
jokes, outrageous stories that convulsed the other two with laughter.

"My _dear_! _Where_ do you hear such things?" Polly protested after each
one, and lay waiting for more.

Angelica rejoiced in a lovely cast-off garment of Mrs. Russell’s, light
as gossamer, pale yellow, with taffeta bows. Its coquetry was
incongruous with her dark and somber face, but it was bewitching,
nevertheless. She sat in a low rocking-chair opposite a mirror, content
to look now and then and to speculate endlessly upon the destiny of that
thin, languorous figure, dressed like a rich person, lounging like one,
beautiful, mysterious, alluring. Her bare arms were clasped behind her
head, in that attitude which so well reveals the line of neck and bust.
Seen from the door, in profile, she would have been an exquisite
picture.

And she was seen from the door. Mrs. Russell, facing in that direction,
gave a start of surprise, so that Angelica turned and saw a man standing
there.

He was a big, heavy, swaggering fellow, in baggy knickerbockers and an
old shooting-jacket hanging loosely from his powerful shoulders, with a
fierce, hawk-like face and bright gray eyes. He looked at them with a
sort of contemptuous amusement.

"_Vincent!_" cried Mrs. Russell.

"Well?" he asked, smiling.

"Eddie’s been so----”

"Eddie be damned! How are you, Polly?"

"Quite well, thank you, Vincent," she answered with simplicity.

"You’re looking better," he assured her in friendly manner. "And mamma?"

"Don’t be so provoking!" she cried, trying to be angry, but at heart, as
one could plainly see, filled with idiotic admiration for this big,
impudent son. "Don’t pretend to be so calm and cool! What are you going
to tell Eddie?"

Angelica jumped up from her chair, and then sat down again. Vincent took
no notice of her.

"Let’s have a drink," he said, and sat down beside his mother. "Ah! And
now another!"

He was certainly theatrical, playing to his little audience the part of
the idolized conqueror, the man to whom everything is permitted; but he
did it well. He could carry it off; it was evident that he had them both
in his pocket.

He talked to them with conscious mastery. His mother was silly and
adoring; Polly, in spite of all her reserve and her deep and hidden
resentment against him, couldn’t hide a sort of charmed interest. They
listened to him and looked at him, while he, sprawled out in his chair,
smoked a pipe and stared at the ceiling.

And then, suddenly, just for an instant, his falcon glance rested upon
Angelica, upon the swarthy face that turned pale beneath it. Her heart
stood still; she stared at his bold, careless face with a feeling that
was almost like terror. She had never seen his like before, never seen
so free and strong a spirit in any human creature.

She had met her match, and she knew it. She could never conquer him! It
was a sensation unique in her life; never imagined before, never to be
experienced again. She forgot herself completely, didn’t give a thought
to the impression she might be making upon this man. She thought only of
him, watched him, listened to him, in a sort of stupour.

He didn’t look at her again, but she knew that he was conscious of her,
and that he included her among his audience. He went on, always like an
adored actor secure of rapt attention, telling them things, painting
vivid pictures for them. In the midst of his finest phrases, he would
use the coarsest and bluntest of old words, abruptly, like a gross
insult in a love sonnet. He aimed deliberately to startle and amaze, and
he succeeded. The three women listened spell-bound; Angelica above all,
quite caught in his net.

He told them about a play he had seen the night before, and an actress
in it who had caught his fancy.

"That woman!" he said. "Good God! A fair, thin virgin--inviting with her
troubled eyes the fiercest lusts--still innocent, still trembling on the
threshold of her life. What an actress! Polly, you would have enjoyed
her work."

"I don’t doubt it, Vincent."

"I’ll take you some evening soon. But no, I forgot. I’m going away."

"Oh, Vincent, _again_?" cried his mother.

He looked at her with a strange smile.

"Yes," he said, "and for a long time."

Polly, so many times hurt, so long ignored, remained quite still and
indifferent. Only Angelica saw her thin fingers clench, and then open
listlessly. She didn’t open her eyes or speak.

"Where?" asked his mother.

"You ask me?" he demanded. "I am a man. Pray, where should I go?"

No one was able to answer, and he frowned again.

"There’s only one destination possible," he said; "one spot on earth
that draws toward it all of us who are men--a place of blood and
destruction, of utter loneliness and frightful agony, where we rush to
embrace that most maddening and most tender of mistresses----”

"Oh, Vincent!" cried Mrs. Russell, distressed. "Don’t talk that way
before Polly!"

He threw back his head and laughed.

"A mistress who breaks all hearts--of whom all loving souls are mad with
jealousy--a mistress to whom no man is unfaithful--beautiful Death!" he
cried.

His mother gave a sort of shriek.

"Vincent! You’re not going to kill yourself?"

"No!" he cried. "No! To kill my brother!"

"_Kill Eddie?_"

"Don’t be such a damned fool!" he said, irritably, annoyed that she had
misunderstood and cheapened his climax. "I’m going to the war."

Until that moment they had, to tell the truth, taken very little notice
of this war. It had been going on for some weeks, with great head-lines
in the papers, but in their isolated group it had very little
significance. Their routine was in no way interrupted. Eddie worried
over it, but then he worried over everything. He said it was disastrous
for the market. However, they were quite sure that he would bring home
money for them, if not in one way, then in another, and they weren’t
really disturbed.

And now suddenly the war and Vincent came bursting in upon them with
violence.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Vincent, of course, had to go out of the room at once after that
declaration, leaving the three women astounded.

Mrs. Russell was the first to bestir herself. Perhaps because she was
conscious that her emotions were so feeble, she always strained to
emphasize, to exaggerate them. She at once affected a great excitement.
She began rushing about, under the pretense of "getting Vincent’s room
ready," and telling the servants that Mr. Vincent was home.

"And he’s going to the war, Annie!" she cried. "Isn’t that _dreadful_?"

Polly took no part in this movement. She went back into her own room and
sat down before her dressing-table.

"I’ll do my own hair, Angelica," she said, with a new frigidity in her
manner that surprised her companion.

"All right!" Angelica answered, with a trace of sulkiness.

"You can go if you like," Polly went on. "I won’t need you any more
to-night. I think, Angelica, you’d better have your dinner in your room.
Mr. Geraldine might not like a stranger at the table the first evening
he’s home."

"All right!" said Angelica again, turning obediently to the door.

But she did not attempt to conceal a most provoking smile--to show Polly
that she knew the cause of all this.

She went trailing back to her own room in the yellow negligée, and shut
herself in, happy enough to be alone and unobserved. After all, what did
it matter if she couldn’t come down to dinner, couldn’t see him at all
that evening? She could think about him; she could recall his face and
his voice; rejoice again in that unaccountable thrill.

She leaned back in her chair, her arms clasped behind her head, a
strange and divinely stupid smile on her lips. Just at the threshold of
love she was lingering, in that little moment before there is desire or
pain, when love is without substance, without thought, a dim ecstasy,
with no more motive, no more basis for its joy, than the dream of an
opium-smoker.

"Gawd!" she said to herself, with a grin. "I guess I’m hit _this_ time,
all right!"

II

There was a knock at the door. She went leisurely to open it, with the
expectation of seeing her dinner served on a tray; but it was Eddie, the
loyal Eddie, come to fetch her. He was rather pale and quite unsmiling.

"If you’ll get dressed," he said. "We’re waiting for you to come to
dinner."

"Mrs. Geraldine said----”

"It doesn’t matter. You must come. I wouldn’t sit down without you."

He looked at her, and his face twitched. She looked so strange, so
terribly aloof! He was unstrung, anyhow. He had had a beastly interview
with his brother, and a somewhat unpleasant five minutes with Polly,
whom he so much admired. He had really annoyed her, for the sake of this
devilish girl. He was filled with dread and distress, with a wretched
sense of impending calamity--what people call a presentiment. Perhaps it
was because his mind unconsciously recognized all the elements here for
a hellish conflagration.

"Hurry, won’t you?" he said. "We’re waiting."

She did hurry, and her dressing took only ten minutes; but she was very
much surprised to find Eddie still waiting for her, and still more
surprised when he took her by the arm and for the first time used her
name.

"Angelica!" he said in a low voice.

"What?" she asked, startled.

"Don’t!"

"Don’t what, Mr. Eddie?"

He didn’t answer, but he squeezed her arm, and when she looked up into
his face it was desperately anxious.

"All right!" she said, half understanding what he wished her to
understand.

For she, too, was vaguely aware of danger; she, too, could dimly
perceive whither her eager feet were leading her; but she ran to it,
flew to it. She, too, had an odd and terrible feeling of approaching ill
fortune. She felt disaster drawing near, yet was not able even to wish
to avoid it.

She sat down at the table, next to Vincent; and she hadn’t been there
for fifteen minutes before she was lost. His bold eyes rested on her
face, and all her own boldness turned to surrender, her own fierceness
melted. She couldn’t turn away from him; she sat very still, enthralled,
listening to his voice, watching his mobile face, the fine, straight
brows moving so expressively, his supple hands.

He was still in his rough sport clothes, and his bright brown hair was
ruffled. He had an air about him of fine, arrogant carelessness that she
could worship. He had none of Eddie’s punctilio, no sort of nice
manners; he had only an indifferent ease, a most complete disregard for
any other living soul.

He interrupted without compunction, he made no pretense of listening; he
wanted to do all the talking, and he wanted to be listened to with
respect. Well, why not? Angelica wished nothing better than to look at
him and listen to him forever; she couldn’t bear the idea of having to
leave his presence.

Every time she looked at him, he was looking at her--at those curious
eyes not quite alike. She was bewitched; she scarcely knew what she was
doing. She felt that she shouldn’t look at him so much, but that was
quite beyond her control. The other people seemed dim and far away,
hardly audible. He was filling up the world.

He talked of the war, and his words were glorious. Oh, he was a poet,
truly! His talk of blood and battles fired her imagination. Eddie’s
studious dissertations upon the rights and wrongs of the conflict seemed
to her contemptible. A man mustn’t go to war because it is his duty, but
because he loves it; because he is a hero, like Vincent.

"I’m going!" he said. "I long for it. It’s the completion of a man’s
life. Until he has fought and killed, a man has not lived. That is his
manhood, his glory. Think of all Europe rushing, blood-mad, to the
Flanders battlefields, all the young and the fine and the strong herded
there, to kill or to die! My God! The very pinnacle of life!"

"Or the lowest depth," said Eddie.

Vincent laughed.

"You’re no warrior, my dear boy," he said. "Well, we don’t expect it of
you."

Eddie grew red.

"I dare say I’m as much of a warrior as the next man," he said. "I dare
say I’d like it--this fighting and killing; but I don’t see anything
fine about it. I don’t glorify it. I think it’s beastly. There are
plenty of things that I’d enjoy that I don’t by any means admire. This
fighting is a filthy relic of our old barbarous days."

"Then so are all our splendid passions, my boy. God keep us barbarous,
and men! You chilly, cowering little pen-drivers----”

"That’s enough!" said Eddie. "You’re talking rot--pure rot!"

He was making a desperate effort to control a furious anger; for the
sake of his own dignity he didn’t dare to quarrel with Vincent. He knew
his brother and his unholy resources too well.

"All those chaps in offices and so on," he continued. "You don’t know
anything about them. If it comes to the test----”

"Oh, you’ll all do your duty, all you little money-grubbers!" said
Vincent. "I don’t doubt that; but what we need--what the world is sick
for, _dying_ for--is men who are inspired."

"They might be inspired by something better than drunken enthusiasm,"
said Eddie.

Vincent laughed again, and looked around the table at his worshipping
women; but his glance rested upon Angelica. She caught her breath,
stared up at him; and then, for the first time, smiled at him, a smile
quite strange to her, trembling and uncertain.

Eddie pushed back his chair and got up.

"Miss Kennedy," he said, "I’ve some more books for you--if you’ll come
and get them."

"All right!" she answered carelessly.

He hesitated a moment, as if he were about to speak; then he went on
up-stairs into his room, leaving the door open so that he could watch
the lighted hall. He saw his mother go by, into her own room; then he
heard the sound of the piano down-stairs--Polly’s familiar touch.

"I suppose she’ll stay down there--jabbering!" he said to himself,
jealous, hurt beyond measure. "When _he_ comes, with his damned swagger,
of course she has no further use for--for study and improvement. She’ll
forget all about coming!"

He couldn’t read, himself. He sat facing the door, restless, miserable.
There came to his mind so many stories he had read, operas he had heard,
with the tragic rivalry of brothers for their theme. And wasn’t he the
very prototype of the good brother; the one who is always wronged by
the reckless, handsome one--by Vincent? He thrust the thought away.
Damned nonsense! No one was in love with any one else in this house!

He recognized an old and most unworthy adversary in this jealousy,
something which he had tried for years to combat. It was the most
convincing proof of Eddie’s greatness of soul that he did so struggle
with this envy, and that he did not hate his brother. He had every
possible reason for doing so. He had the memory of years and years of
injuries and injustices; he had seen this brother always exalted above
him, always held up to him as an example of all the social virtues.

"If you’d only try to be more like Vincent!" his mother used to sigh.

Eddie couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, couldn’t in any sort of way
ingratiate himself. He wasn’t liked. His goodness itself was perhaps the
chief thing against him.

"I never worry about Eddie," Mrs. Russell had often said in his hearing.
"He’s perfectly safe." And he knew that this was a most unattractive
thing to be.

He had never got on with Vincent. There was only two years’ difference
between them, and Eddie had never been able to make even this apparent.
He was smaller, he developed much more slowly, he never could obtain any
of the prestige due to him as the elder. Eddie, at nineteen, had been
nothing but a somewhat priggish and very shy school-boy, while Vincent,
at seventeen, was a young man.

It must not be imagined, however, that Eddie was in any way subservient
to his brother. For the most part, they were quite indifferent to each
other. They very rarely met; they went to different schools, and Eddie
spent his holidays with his mother and Vincent with his father. When
their father died, and they were once more under one roof, with their
mother, they had separate friends, separate interests.

When anything did bring them together, they fought. Eddie had more than
once been sent rolling in the dirt by his bigger brother; and in spite
of the tradition that the normal boy loves the fellow who pummels him
most heartily, this didn’t breed affection in Eddie’s heart. He resented
it. He was fiendishly proud and sensitive, and he couldn’t forget such
outrages.

He had fleeting visions of certain miserable moments--visions of the
triumphant and exuberant Vincent, of being taken to see Vincent
graduated with honours, to hear him read a valedictory poem he had
written, to see him surrounded, overwhelmed with admiration, of watching
him win races, play in tennis tournaments and amateur theatricals, of
hearing him sing. It seemed to him that he had spent a great part of his
youth sitting beside his mother and watching Vincent show off.

There were facets to Vincent’s nature which he never regarded or
attempted to comprehend. This poetic stuff, for instance. He had heard
Vincent recite from his work, but he hadn’t seen much in it for
admiration. He had simply taken for granted what every one told him,
that his brother was a poet. It had never occurred to him that there
were grades of poets.

There was something mysterious at which he merely guessed, a side to his
brother too amazing and unpleasant to contemplate. Eddie, with his rigid
self-discipline, his ceaseless struggle to perfect himself, could in no
way comprehend the laxity, the facile debauchery, the equally facile
repentance, of an ill-balanced and self-indulgent soul. He had more than
once fancied he heard his brother weeping and groaning, sometimes shut
in with his mother, sometimes with Polly; but when he actually saw
him--big, strong, insolent, forever bragging of his manhood--he couldn’t
believe it. He couldn’t reconcile the idea of hysterical weakness with
this conquering creature. He imagined it must be merely some expression
of the poetic temperament.

No, this victorious brother was without blemish; he had become in
Eddie’s eyes a rival of quite fantastic perfection. He was handsome, he
was strong, he was fascinating, he was a poet; he had every
accomplishment, every charm. He was not to be withstood.

And, just as he was reflecting, he saw Angelica go by the door,
absolutely oblivious of him, without so much as turning her head. He
heard her door close; he waited, but he knew it was of no use. She had
forgotten him!

IV

Polly, too, was thinking of Vincent. With that pitiful stupidity of
women, who can never quite believe themselves without attraction, she
had seated herself at the piano and begun to play. She knew he loved
music; she hoped to interest him with a curious new piece.

She wasn’t in love with him any longer. She didn’t even wish him,
exactly, to love her; but she was passionately anxious to secure his
attention. She had that hunger which all really fine women have--the
hunger for being appreciated, recognized. She deluded herself with the
idea that after an episode with some worthless little hussy, he couldn’t
help but contrast such a creature with Polly, and be filled with remorse
and respect.

As a matter of fact, he felt nothing in the world but irritation. He did
contrast Polly with the girl whom he had left the day before, but it was
to the disadvantage of his wife. He saw her to be sallow, weary, faded.
She had, he thought, only one good point--she didn’t nag; didn’t even
ask where he’d been.

He came and listened to her music. She saw him sitting close to her,
with a look of pleasure on his face, and she put all her art, all her
skill, into her playing; but when she glanced up from a difficult
passage, he had gone.

She went on playing, but it was mournful, dispirited music; the
improvisings of a forlorn heart.

Mrs. Russell alone never gave a thought to Vincent. She had gone to bed
very early, as she liked to do, and lay reading a French detective
story. Her eyes were bright with interest; she was delighted.

V

Angelica had not turned on the light. She sat by the open window of her
room, near which a big lime-tree was rustling in the dark. The grass,
the bushes, the clouds, were all moving, and she fancied that moths and
bats and other little night creatures fluttered by. The breeze was going
past her; she felt none of it on her face. She had an impression of
being spectator of a mighty procession, forever passing her window in
dim, dark shapes.

She was excited and exultant; in the dark her lips were smiling. She
wasn’t thinking; she was drifting, lost in an endless reverie, upon the
strength and beauty of this man. She was like poor Polly, playing
uncounted variations on one sole theme.

"I never felt this way before!" she reflected, with wonder. "I never
thought I _could_!"

But then she had never expected to meet a man like this, so entirely the
hero of her dreams. With her sad, worldly wisdom, she had expected so
little of love or of men. She had expected to be satisfied with some one
who would love her; she had never, in her pride, imagined a man whom she
could love. This noble and poetic soul was a shock to her, an amazement.
Her fancy dwelt upon his splendid figure, his bold face. She smiled
again, and then grew suddenly uneasy.

"No!" she said. "I don’t like it. I wish I didn’t. Him being married,
and all!"

For a moment she had an inchoate perception of life going by like that
wind outside, only not passing her, but bearing her with it. She knew
that this thing could not be stopped.

"Maybe I’d better go home," she thought. "I don’t want to get mixed up
in anything queer. Maybe I’ll go."

But that wasn’t genuine; retreat wasn’t in her soul. Her vague
uneasiness increased; she began thinking of Eddie and his books, and
those magnificent women.

"But all of them," she thought, "just went for the man they wanted, I
guess, and didn’t give a darn for anything else. Maybe that’s the best
way."

She dallied with the idea of reckless, overwhelming passion, but she
could not wholly accept it. There was something humiliating in caring so
much for a man.

There was a quiet little knock at the door. Angelica’s hand flew to her
heart; she didn’t stir. There was another knock, and still she didn’t
answer. Then, fancying she heard a footstep departing, she was seized
with an unreasonable panic, and flew across the dark room and stood
close beside the door.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"It’s I," said the voice she had longed for and dreaded.

"Well, what do _you_ want?" she asked, flippantly.

"I thought you’d like to take a walk in the garden," he said.

"Why? It’s too late!" she cried.

"Can’t we have a little talk?" he asked, plaintively. "Can’t I come in?"

She hesitated.

"I guess--you’d better not. I’ll see you in the morning. It’s so late
now."

"I didn’t think you’d care about such things," he said.

She saw that he was disappointed; that he found her tame, cowardly. She
unlocked the door and flung it open.

"But what on earth is there to talk about?" she asked, laughing
nervously.

And then and there and forever she lost her advantage over Vincent. For
that moment she was triumphant, indulgently amused by his eagerness,
mistress of the situation and of him, elated by the knowledge that she
was beloved and desired; but no sooner had Vincent really entered than
he dominated the situation. His big hand closed over hers. He bent over
her and whispered in the darkness:

"I couldn’t sleep till I’d seen you again!"

"Well!" she said, with the same forced little laugh. "Here I am!"

He seemed in the dark to tower above her; his bigness, the resonance of
his deep voice, confused her.

"I couldn’t sleep without seeing you," he said again. "I had to know
that you were real. After you had gone, I thought I must have dreamed
you. You were so lovely, so wonderful, you came upon me so suddenly! You
_are_ real, aren’t you?"

Again she gave a stupid laugh.

"Tell me!" he said. "Are you the girl that I saw at the
dinner-table--the houri in yellow that I saw in my mother’s room?"

"Yes."

"And only to think!" he said. "I’ve been looking for you all my life
long, all over the world, and I find you here, under my own roof, when I
come home! Were you waiting for me?"

"I didn’t know there was any you," she said, simply.

"I knew there was you, though! I knew I should find you!" he cried. "Oh,
I’ve hungered for you and thirsted for you! I’ve been so restless and
unsatisfied! I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’ve found you, dear, beloved
girl!"

"But you don’t know me!" she protested, with an almost painful anxiety.
"Perhaps I’m not--as nice--as you think."

"I do know you! I know all your soul. I was born to know you and to
comprehend you. You are my sovereign, my most beautiful and adored lady.
I am your knight and your servant forever. I think I could faint with
joy for a touch of your dear hand!"

Tears sprang to her eyes, she was so moved by his words, by his ardent
and touching voice. She stood motionless, still with her hand in his;
but some tremor, some sign which his agile heart at once detected, must
have told him that his moment had come. He drew her close to him and
clasped her in a strong and tender embrace, her heart beating close to
his, while he stroked her soft hair.

"My little one!" he whispered. "My beloved little one! Madonna! Dear,
glorious angel!"

His voice broke in a sort of sob, and the hand smoothing her hair
trembled. He bent and kissed her cheek, kissed her again; then,
suddenly, his embrace tightened, and he pressed his lips against hers
with something quite different, something quite devoid of tenderness.
She struggled, pushed him roughly away.

"Don’t!" she said, sharply.

For she wanted it to stop there. She wanted this to be love, this
half-sad ecstasy, these stirring, heart-breaking words. She wished to go
no further. Perhaps the ghosts of dead mothers for ages back come to
beseech young girls, to entreat them in silent voices:

"Oh, do not, my daughter, for the love of God, do not become a woman!
Stop here! Let this suffice! For whatever little you may gain, you will
lose a hundred times as much. Draw back from this bitter, bitter
draught!"

"Kiss me!" he entreated, following her further into the room.

"No!" she said harshly. "Go away! Go out and close the door! Go away, or
I’ll call!"

He stopped at once.

"I thought you loved me!" he cried.

"I do," she said, with sublime honesty. "Only--I want you to go. Good
night!"

CHAPTER TWELVE

And here was Angelica, the very next afternoon, sitting once more in her
mother’s underground kitchen, with the teapot handy beside her on the
stove and a familiar blue and white cup and saucer before her; but the
kitchen was not as in the old days. Now it was all disorder and dirt,
the clock had stopped, the floor was unswept, the bright blackness of
the stove was lost in a grayish fuzz. The mistress--or, one might better
say, the servant--of this little domain, who had worked so valiantly to
preserve its decency, was lying ill in the adjoining bedroom.

Angelica had got a brief note from her that morning at the
breakfast-table:

DEAR ANGELICA:

     I am taken ill, and do not know how ever I shall manage. If you can
     spare the time I wish you would come.

                                                           YOUR MOTHER.

Angelica had shown this to Eddie, and he had at once ordered the motor
for her and given her twenty-five dollars for any urgent expenses.

"Get everything that’s necessary," he told her. "If she’s very ill, be
sure to get a nurse. Don’t overtax yourself. And here’s my office
telephone number; I’ll expect to hear from you this afternoon."

Angelica had got a doctor from the neighborhood. He had declared her
mother’s illness to be a sort of indigestion, and had ordered a
cessation of boiled tea, a strengthening diet, a number of medicines,
and a week’s complete rest; and now Mrs. Kennedy was enjoying the rest.

Angelica had set to work with terrific energy; had gone flying in and
out of the flat, using Eddie’s money to great advantage. She bought her
mother two new night-dresses, a bag of oranges, a drinking-glass--they
had had nothing but cups for a long time--and two new saucepans for
cooking the food she was to enjoy. Her last purchases had included
extension screens for the windows and a wire "fly-swatter," with which
she had pursued and deftly crushed every fly in the flat.

After lunch she intended to clean the rooms properly, to scrub, to
sweep, to dust, to wash. She rather looked forward to it. Her mother
wasn’t seriously ill, and she had had the extreme satisfaction of making
her happy and comfortable. She had left her lying neat and peaceful in
the dark little cell, with her hair brushed and braided and her mind at
peace.

Mrs. Kennedy had said that it was better than medicine to see her child
again, and it was--above all, to see her child so triumphantly happy.
Letters had told her very little, for Angelica was not good at writing,
and her brief notes had given her mother plenty of scope for anxiety.
She hadn’t thought it possible that her child had actually held her own
there among the rich people. She wanted to ask innumerable questions, to
talk at great length; but Angelica made use of the doctor’s
recommendation.

"He said for you to be very quiet and not talk much," she stated.

"You talk and I’ll listen," said her mother.

"No, that’ll excite you," Angelica replied. "You just keep quiet,
mommer, till you’re better."

She could not talk to Mrs. Kennedy; she felt absolutely obliged to go
off alone where she could think of Vincent. All the morning, even
through her great anxiety before she had got to her mother, all the
while she was working to make her patient comfortable, that delight had
glowed in her heart. She had scarcely closed her eyes the night before,
but she was not in any way tired. She was in a sort of continuous
rapture; she was filled with energy, vigour, an immeasurable good-will.

She rocked back and forth in the creaking old chair of which her mother
was so fond, and drank her tea, as it had been their custom to drink it,
black and bitter, with a parsimonious teaspoonful of condensed milk in
it. She smiled to think of the contrast between this sort of
tea-drinking and that at Buena Vista--the fine and delicate china, the
pale amber liquid, served with cream, crystal sugar, thin slices of
lemon, all sorts of biscuits and cakes, all the ceremony of the thing.
She felt that, after all, there was a tranquil sort of comfort in her
present state quite lacking in the other; not realizing that it was the
happiness in her heart which gilded all her surroundings.

She pictured Vincent and herself in a place like this, blessed outcasts
who had renounced everything, and had only each other. She imagined his
coming home to her, weary and pallid; she saw herself welcoming him,
smiling, proud, brave through any suffering, her ambitions all
renounced, all her hope in him. She fetched a pail of water and a
scrubbing-brush and a cake of horrible yellow soap, and while she worked
bemused herself with a fancy that this was Vincent’s home, and that she
was working for him.

Because she so longed to see him, she felt sure that he would come. When
the door-bell rang, she sprang up from the floor she was scrubbing, and
ran just as she was, disheveled, in her wet apron, to let him in.

She met the troubled regard of Eddie.

"How is your mother?" he inquired, staring and staring at this joyous,
untidy creature.

"Better," said Angelica.

She was friendly, very well-disposed toward Eddie, and yet, at this
moment, irritated by him because he wasn’t Vincent. Really she didn’t
want to see him. She remained holding the door half open, and hoping
that he would go, but he stood there for some time, frowning a little
and biting his little yellow mustache in silence.

"Do you mind if I come in?" he asked at last.

"No, of course not! Come on in, if you want; only mommer’s in bed----”

"I wanted to see you alone," he said, his frown deepening to a scowl.
"May I?"

Her heart sank. It was surely something about Vincent--a reproof, an
accusation, perhaps dismissal. She led the way into the tiny parlour,
black as a dungeon, and with barred windows, too; took off her apron and
threw it, a sodden bundle, out into the hall. Then she sat down
defiantly before him.

"Well?" she demanded.

Eddie waited for a moment.

"I’ve been thinking," he said at last. "About you. A lot. Especially
last night. If you’ve got time to spare, and if you’ll listen----”

"Go ahead! I’m listening."

She was still defiant, because she expected a rebuke, and she was well
aware that there was quite enough cause in her conduct to merit severe
reproofs. He was so serious, so disturbed, that she believed him to be
disappointed in her, and she resented that.

"Well?" she said again.

"It’s this," he said. "I--I wish I could make you believe that I’m not
selfish in this. I wish I had some way of making you believe that I’m
really thinking of _you_, first of all. You seem so--solitary,
so--unprotected. Of course, I know you’re very self-reliant, and all
that, but still, you’re only a young girl, after all."

"I can take care of myself," she said sullenly. "I suppose you mean you
don’t like the way I’ve been acting. Well, I----”

"No!" he cried impatiently. "What nonsense! No! What I mean is--I think
you’d better marry me."

"Oh, Gawd!" cried Angelica, astounded.

Eddie’s face grew scarlet.

"Why shouldn’t you?" he said.

"But----”

"I’ve--I can offer you--I have a good income," he went on, angry and
embarrassed. "I own Buena Vista, with a small mortgage on it. I have
something invested, and I’m earning plenty. I’m doing well. I’ll be a
rich man before long."

"Yes, I know; but----”

"And--I think I’d make a good husband. I admire you so much--I can’t
tell you how much! I think you’re--wonderful. You haven’t a penny, you
haven’t any family, any position----”

"Now, look here!" she interrupted, threateningly.

He hastened to repair his lack of tact.

"I’m only mentioning that to show you that I think that you--just
yourself--are worth more than any other woman on earth. It seems to me
you have all the qualities I’ve always admired--pride, and spirit, and
ambition, and strength--and then you’re so beautiful. I--really,
Angelica, if you would marry me, I could do _anything_. I’m only
twenty-nine, you know."

"Oh, I thought you were much older!" said Angelica, glad of any
distraction from this awful topic.

To her amazement, Eddie sprang to his feet and looked down at her, quite
pale with anger.

"No doubt!" he cried. "No doubt you looked on me as a dull, tiresome,
middle-aged man. You’re like all women--you _must_ have a handsome
man--any fool with a handsome face, who’ll make you fine speeches! If
I’d go down on my knees and rant and rave like a damned actor--but I
won’t! I’m not that sort. I tell you, in a straightforward way, that
I--I ask you to marry me. I’m--I’ve got nothing to be ashamed
of--nothing! One or two little things in the past--but nothing serious.
I mean, no one can reproach me. I’ve never harmed any one."

"Oh, I know it!" she cried. "It’s not that. I know you’re good--too good
for me. I think an awful lot of you, Mr. Eddie. Only----”

"Only what?"

"I couldn’t!"

"Now, see here, Angelica, I haven’t much time. I’ve come away in the
very middle of my office hours to--settle this. I can’t work, I can’t do
anything until this is off my mind. It’s--_don’t_ be unreasonable,
please, Angelica!"

"I’m not, Mr. Eddie; but--I just can’t!"

"Do you mean," he said, "that I’m--distasteful to you?"

That was his weak point, his sorest spot, this sense of his own
unattractiveness, his unpopularity. He had labored too long under
disadvantages too crushing; he couldn’t acquire the self-respect to
which his qualities entitled him. He had never been loved, not even by
his own mother, and he could not destroy a conviction, persisting from
childhood, that he was in some mysterious way unlovable and repulsive.

He turned away abruptly.

"Very well!" he said. "I understand. I’ll go. Good-by!"

"No! Don’t! It’s not that. You’re _not_ distasteful!" she cried.
"Honestly, you’re not--not a bit! I think an awful lot of you. I think
you’re--grand. I do, really; but I’m just not in love with you. I can’t
help it. It isn’t that you’re not handsome, or anything like that."

She was moved by his wretched, pallid face. She wanted very much to
reassure him as to his desirability and attractiveness. She wanted him
to know of her admiration and her great good-will; but she knew no way
of saying all this. She caught his hand and squeezed it; and when he
turned, she looked up at him with those wonderful black eyes, troubled,
filled with tears.

"But can’t we keep on being good friends?" she asked.

He forced himself to smile down at her in his old kindly way--or as
nearly that as his drawn face would allow.

"I’ll try," he said. "Good day!"

II

Mrs. Kennedy wished to have all this explained to her.

"Who was it, Angie?" she asked.

"It was Mr. Eddie--him that owns the house," said Angelica.

"What did he want?"

"Oh, nothing!"

"Angie, tell your mother, deary. What made you cry?"

"I don’t know. I was nervous, I guess."

Her mother sighed.

"If you’ve made up your mind not to tell me--You know your own business
best, I dare say; only, Angelica, I hope there’s nothing wrong about
it--nothing that’s what it shouldn’t be?"

"No! If you really want to know, he wants to marry me."

She couldn’t conceal a sort of pride. After all, it _was_ something!

Her mother was not garrulous, but this she couldn’t stop talking of; she
couldn’t have enough of Eddie, no detail was too trivial. She wanted to
have a complete description of his person and of his life.

But Angelica’s reception of his proposal she didn’t mention. She saw
that there was something a bit strained in that quarter, something which
talking might make worse, so she held her tongue, confident that it
would end right enough. A girl’s whim! She knew her daughter; Angelica
was far too sensible and shrewd not to take advantage of such an
opportunity. She permitted herself to dream of a future for her child
glorious beyond all her former hopes.

For herself she expected nothing. She knew--none better--what there is
of gratitude in this world. She trusted her child, knew that she would
never forget or neglect her, but she knew also that Angelica was likely
to rise where she never could follow. There would be a pension, no
doubt, but no real share in any future grandeur for Mrs. Kennedy,
scrubwoman, janitress, and martyr.

Her dreaming was disturbed, however, and her happiness turned to
uneasiness by the arrival of a second man that night. She heard the bell
ring and her daughter hasten to the door, and then come back again.

"Mommer, do you mind if I go out for a little while?" she asked.

"Who with, Angie?"

"A feller," said Angelica. "I’ll be back inside of an hour, sure. Will
you be all right?"

"What fellow?"

"A new beau," Angelica told her, laughing. "By-by, mommer! Back soon!"

So joyous, so excited! It didn’t look well for Eddie.

"Now what in the world is that child up to?" Mrs. Kennedy thought.

In the meantime Angelica had reached the street with Vincent, and they
stood on the corner, irresolute. It was a sultry night; the street was
swarming with wretched and vicious life, evil smells, a pandemonium of
noise. Angelica, however, might have been standing in the golden streets
of paradise, or in the desolation of hell, for all she cared. She didn’t
notice, she didn’t really know, where she was.

Ever since she had opened the door and seen Vincent standing outside,
she had been quite beside herself. She waited on that malodorous corner,
looking up into his face with hungry eyes, waiting for his words, for
the sound of his voice. So much had she thought about that enchanted
love scene in the dark, so long had she dwelt upon Vincent’s words, his
appearance, that in this brief interlude she had been able to
accomplish that amazing and essential transformation of lovers--she had
changed the real man into the man she wished him to be.

She was dazed, stupid with the splendour of her own creation, of the god
whom she had made to worship. She was almost afraid of him. After all
her preposterously exaggerated day-dreams, it was necessary that she
should see in him a marvel, and of course she did see a marvel.

He wore a dark suit that fitted closely to his shoulders, and moulded
for the delighted eye his splendid figure, his perfectly proportioned
height. He was powerful and at the same time graceful, and he carried
himself regally. In his rôle of poet, he wore a white shirt with a low,
open collar and a soft black tie, and he went with his hat in his hand,
the better to show his keen, vigorous profile, his fine head with its
rough, bright hair. Angelica felt that she would never grow tired of
looking at him, and yet in less than five minutes she grew restless
because he didn’t look at her.

At last he did, and smiled.

"Well?" he said. "What shall we do, eh?"

"Whatever you like."

"God forbid!"

"Why?" she demanded impudently. "What _would_ you like?"

"I’d like to kiss you, for one thing; but I won’t. Don’t be provoking,
naughty Angelica--I won’t make love to you!"

His tone was light and careless, and the smile he gave her she neither
understood nor liked. She was puzzled and hurt. What made him so
different? What was the matter?

"Suppose we walk?" he suggested. "This isn’t a very appetizing corner to
stand on. How is your mother?"

"Better," said Angelica in a surly tone.

"And you?"

"All right."

"I don’t know who else there is in your household, but I hope they’re
all quite well. Brothers and sisters----”

"Don’t be silly!" she said roughly.

"Angelica," he replied, "I’m not silly. I’m only trying to be decent.
You’re very young, very inexperienced. It’s hard to talk to you. I hoped
you’d understand without an explanation, but I don’t believe now that
you can."

She could have wept with chagrin and utter bewilderment. She saw that
she was being very stupid, and that she was disappointing her idol in
some way, but she couldn’t in the least comprehend how.

"You see," he went on, with an air of extreme patience and gentleness,
"all that--last night--it was very wrong. I blame myself severely. My
ideas about such things aren’t the usual sort, by any means. I don’t
parade it, but I’m a deeply religious man; and when I find myself giving
way to temptation as I did last night, I’m ashamed."

They went along in silence, down Seventh Avenue, to the entrance of the
park at One Hundred and Tenth Street. They entered here, and proceeded,
at the easy pace he had set, side by side, both looking ahead. All about
them in the warm dark were lovers, sitting close together on the
benches, walking hand in hand. There was a very atmosphere of love. And
Angelica must go on beside this man, who didn’t even turn his head to
look at her, who had nothing to say to her. He only quoted some poetry
which she neither liked nor understood, for it had nothing to do with
love; it was about the foreign people in the city and the hot weather.

She tried to lean upon her pride. Very well, if _he_ didn’t mind wasting
this precious and beautiful hour together, then neither would she; but
she couldn’t restrain a hoarse little sob that flew suddenly into her
throat.

Vincent stopped.

"Now, my dear child!" he remonstrated. "Don’t! You make it so hard for
me. It’s not kind."

She tried to stop weeping, but couldn’t at once. He laid a hand on her
shoulder and gently patted her.

"You mustn’t take it like this, my dear; or else I shan’t be strong
enough. Do you know why I came to-night?"

"I suppose--you wanted to see me."

"No, I didn’t. It’s only pain for me to see you. I can’t have you. I
mustn’t even think of you. I’ve got to give you up. I’ve got to stop
loving you."

"Can you?" she asked, with quivering lips.

"I must. I came to tell you so. You must forget all I said last night. I
shouldn’t be fit to live if I were to harm you. Angelica, what do you
think I am? Do you think I _could_ harm you? Do you think it’s in me to
do so brutal a thing, Angelica?"

She was effectually checked, her ardour destroyed. Nettled by his
assumption that only his nobility saved her, her pride came to the aid.
He needn’t talk of giving her up when he hadn’t got her!

And, ignorant as Angelica was, a novice in love, she was able to
perceive a certain falseness in his attitude. This was not the
renunciation of a man who loved her better than himself. It was
something different, which she didn’t understand, and which displeased
her.

She had such a feminine longing to be captured and compromised that she
couldn’t even imagine the motive which just then ruled Vincent--that
powerful instinct of the male to escape entanglements; but her fresh and
fervent spirit was able by instinct to perceive his staleness. Mystery
as he was to her, she nevertheless felt, with perfect justness, that at
that moment he cared nothing at all for her.

"Let’s turn back!" she said. "I told mommer I wouldn’t be gone long."

He made no objection. He took her back to her own door and stood hat in
hand to wish her a good night.

"Angelica," he said, "I think you will thank me some day."

She didn’t reply, only turned and left him, and went into the flat.

Her mother was asleep, and everything was quiet. She sat down in the
dark kitchen near the barred window, where a beam of light from a flat
overhead, across the court, fell upon her.

"Well!" she said. "_That’s_ over, I guess!"

An awful sense of frustration swept over her. That all this should stop
before it had fairly begun; that this beautiful love should be stamped
out--intolerable! It was not in her nature to submit; there was no
resignation in her. She could not bear to be thwarted here, at the
threshold of her life, at the very beginning of the adventure to which
she had always looked forward.

She cried fiercely to God that she didn’t love this man, that he wasn’t
the one for whom she had longed. She _wouldn’t weep_! If she could, she
would have torn out of her body that treacherous heart which so belied
her pride.

"All _right_, my lad!" she said. "All _right_! You won’t find it very
hard to give _me_ up!"

She lighted the gas and sauntered about the kitchen, eating whatever she
saw--bread and biscuits, with a little cold tea that was in the teapot.
She even whistled softly to herself.

Mrs. Kennedy waked up, and Angelica went in to see what her mother
wanted. She strictly discouraged conversation, however, and questions.

"Don’t talk, mommer. It’s too late. Go to sleep now. I’m coming to bed
myself right away. I’ll put out the light and get undressed in the dark,
so you can get to sleep."

Which she did. Her mother heard her moving adroitly about, heard her
brushing her hair, and, at last, the wild shriek of a spring cot, bought
second-hand the day before.

For half an hour Angelica lay quite still; then suddenly she sat up.

"_You!_" she whispered, with a sob. "_You!_ You go to hell! I don’t
care!"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Angelica was surprised at getting a letter the next morning, for she
never got letters. The writing was necessarily unfamiliar, as there was
none that would not have been. She opened it.

"Angelica, beloved girl!" it began. "I can’t do it!"

"Why, my Gawd!" she whispered. "It’s from _him_!"

     I can’t give you up! I tried--God knows I did, but I can’t! I can’t
     think of consequences, of honour, of anything but this heavenly
     madness that is destroying me. Even if I lose my soul, even if it
     brings ruin and misery upon you whom I worship, I must have you,
     Angelica! Oh, come back to me! Come back to me! The farce is over.
     I have played my rôle of prudent, honourable man of the world. Here
     I am now, without reserve, without the smallest shred of worldly
     wisdom, without conscience, without civilization; nothing, my
     Angelica, but a man!

                                                Nothing but your lover,
                                                               VINCENT.

She was wild with joy. She set to work with terrific energy, the letter
crushed inside her blouse. She insisted upon finishing the ironing which
Mrs. Kennedy had tried to do for a tenant before she became ill. She
stood over the ironing-board singing in her rather husky voice.

Nothing but a misunderstanding, after all! He did love her, he had only
tried to do what was right. She felt a profound pity for him, her poor
poet, who had done his very best to protect her, until love overwhelmed
him.

"You _bet_ I’ll go back to him!" she said to herself.

Her mother was alarmed. She saw--who could help it?--the exaltation of
her child, and she wished to know the cause. Poor woman! She feared joy
with all her soul.

"Who was that other man you went out with last night, Angie?" she asked.

"Oh! The brother of the other feller."

Her mother reflected.

"You seem to like him better," she said at last.

"Yes, I do."

"Is he nice?"

"Yes, he is."

"But you’re not----?"

"I don’t know, mommer!" she answered, laughing.

"Deary! I wish you’d _tell_ me!"

"There’s nothing to tell."

"But, my deary, don’t be foolish. Don’t be hasty! Try to find out if
he’s--a good man, before you let yourself think about him. _Is_ he a
good man, Angie?"

"He’s a good-looking one, anyway," Angelica answered flippantly. "Now,
mommer dear, please don’t worry about _me_. I’m not a fool!"

"But you’re young, Angie, and you’re very hasty. I do worry about you.
You never tell me anything. You won’t listen to me."

Angelica, with that letter next her heart, was patient.

"I do listen to you, mommer. Now, do you want a glass of milk?"

She was patient, because she was indifferent, because for the first time
in her life she didn’t care about her mother, didn’t care what Mrs.
Kennedy thought or how she felt. She wanted, in fact, to get away from
her, to be quite free and not bothered by questions.

"Shall I go back to him now?" she thought. "This instant? Just like I
am?"

But that, though splendid, wouldn’t do, and couldn’t be arranged; so she
sat down to write him a letter. It took her no more than a minute to
finish it, for this was all that she wrote:

     I will come back to you. I love you, too.

                                                                   Your
                                                              ANGELICA.

The telephone rang--that hateful telephone in the dark outer hall, under
the stairs. This was one of the "modern conveniences" of the
apartment-house, and it was her mother’s duty to attend it, and by
screaming, by ringing the down-stairs bells, or, when they were broken,
by toiling up the stairs, to apprise the tenant whom it summoned. They
both hated the thing. When it rang, they would sigh, "Oh, that
telephone!" and go wearily to serve it.

It was a surprise and a great relief to hear Eddie’s voice on the
telephone, for Angelica had been half afraid that the etiquette
prevailing among rich people would prevent any further communication.
She wasn’t even sure as to whether or not she was expected to go back to
Buena Vista. But Eddie wasn’t that sort. His voice was just as it had
always been--official, but quite kindly.

"Hello!" he said. "How’s your mother?"

"Much better."

"That’s good! Then have you any idea when you’ll come back to us,
Angelica?"

"In a week. Next Saturday, the doctor says."

"Good! I’ll call for you next Saturday afternoon, when I leave the
office. And I say, Angelica, don’t you want Courtland to bring you some
of the things you left at our place?"

"I _would_ like a few of them," she answered, gratefully.

And the busy, harassed Eddie, sitting in his office, with impatient men
waiting to see him, with his stenographer pen in hand beside him, with a
telegraph-boy behind him who required a reply, in the midst of the
rattle of typewriters, the ringing of telephone-bells, the clicking of
the ticker, hoarse, excited voices, all this frenzied life which he had
caused to exist and directed and sustained--he took time to write down
at Angelica’s dictation a list of things she had left behind her in his
house.

It touched him, that list, it was so obviously the list of a poor
person--things that he, or any one he knew, would have bought duplicates
of without a second thought; things one would hardly bother to pack. He
got them together himself when he reached home that evening--a
tooth-brush, a cake of perfumed soap, a half-empty box of cheap
writing-paper, hairpins, a nail-brush.

Courtland brought them that evening, much against his will. Who was she
to have her wretched little belongings sent down to her in a motor-car?
He was obliged to assert himself, to proclaim his independence and his
superiority. He stood outside the door with his finger on the bell so
that it rang in one long, maddening clamour, and he kicked at the door.
He made an outrageous noise.

Angelica came flying down the hall in a fury, and flung open the door.

"What do you mean?" she cried. "Where do you think you are, anyway?"

Courtland stared at her for a minute. Then, making an imaginary
lorgnette of his thumb and forefinger, he peered through it, bending
forward from the waist in a preposterous and unseemly attitude.

"Aeoh!" he exclaimed, in a simpering voice. "I beg your pawdon, I’m
suah! I forgot myself, really, don’tcher know! If you will kindly permit
me to enter this mansion, I will deliver to you this package of jools
sent by the dook!"

"Give it to me and shut your mouth," said Angelica.

"What’s all this?" called Mrs. Kennedy from her bed. "Who is it, Angie?"

"Only the chauffeur. He brought some of my things," her daughter
answered in a contemptuous tone.

There was something about her child’s words and tone that jarred upon
Mrs. Kennedy. She came out of the bedroom in her new flannel wrapper,
and addressed Courtland with ceremonious politeness.

"I’m sure we’re very much obliged to you," she said. "Won’t you step in?
Maybe you’d take a cup of tea, and rest a few minutes?"

"Rest!" said Angelica. "He never does anything else!"

Courtland ignored her.

"I don’t care if I do," he said to Mrs. Kennedy, and followed her into
the kitchen, where he sat down heavily on the step-ladder chair. "I’m as
tired as a dawg," he said, with his invariable air of grievance. "It’s
enough to make you sick--driving that woman all over the country. No
more consideration, she’s got, than a--than a dawg!"

"Well," said Mrs. Kennedy, "I suppose that’s what you’re paid for."

"I know it!" he agreed, plaintively. "That’s all right; but then what
does she want to be telling me I’m too good to be a chauffeur for? She
says there’s lots of fellows in college hasn’t got my brains. And this
golf! There she’s got me the bag of clubs that cost Gawd knows what, and
she just started showing me the way to use them. She said I was doing
fine, and then, all of a sudden, she dropped it, and never said another
word about it. I waited. After a while I began putting the bag of clubs
in the car, to remind her. No, not a word! So I says to her to-day,
‘What about this here golf?’ And she says, with that grin of hers, ‘Oh,
I hawdly think it’s worth while going on. I’m afraid it was a
mistake’--and tells me I can sell the clubs!"

"What of it?" inquired Mrs. Kennedy. "They’re no good to you. I can’t
see any sense in your learning to play golf. I can’t see what you have
to complain of."

"Oh, it’s the way them rich people pick you up and then drop you that
makes me sick! Who is _she_, anyway? An old----”

"You shouldn’t say that!" said Mrs. Kennedy, severely.

She was well enough used to bad language not to be shocked, but she was
displeased.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Angelica, "after all she’s
done for you."

"I don’t want her to do nothing for me. I want her to let me alone.
Listen here--you wouldn’t stand up for her if you knew the way she talks
about you. I had the two of them out the other day, and they were
fighting about you all the time. _She_ said you was no good, and she
guessed you’d stole things off her; but Mrs. G., she says no, you’re all
right. Then _she_ says you’d make trouble in the house, and Mrs. G.
says, ‘Well, ain’t there enough trouble there anyway? What do we care if
we get a little more? _I_ want her back,’ she says. ‘All right,’ says
the old lady, ‘have her, if you want her, but don’t kick if you find
your hus----’”

Angelica had grown scarlet.

"My Gawd, what a lot you talk!" she said. "You better be starting home."

He eyed her with resentment.

"I’ll go!" he said. "Don’t you worry!"

After Courtland had gone, Mrs. Kennedy attempted to reprove her daughter
for her bad manners, but Angelica insisted autocratically that she must
go to bed at once.

"You shouldn’t get up at all," she told her mother.

"The doctor said it wouldn’t hurt me--just around the flat."

"Not at night! You’d ought to know better. You ought to be asleep by
this time. Now, listen here, mommer!" she added firmly, as she saw signs
of rebellion. "If you don’t do what I say, I’m not going to stay and
take care of you. The doctor said _rest_. Well, this isn’t rest. You got
to go to bed this instant!"

So did she rid herself of the necessity for talking, for listening, for
recognizing the external world. She was irritable at the very least
disturbance; her joy had gone, and left a bitter impatience. Five days
before she could go back to that enchanted house where Vincent lived,
to be again under the same roof, sitting at the same table! Five days
lost out of life, out of her best years!

She was a little surprised and rather pleased at her own lack of
morality. She really didn’t care a bit, didn’t feel in the least shocked
or distressed, at loving a married man; nor did she hesitate for an
instant at the prospect of going off with him. She believed that was
what he meant; very well, she was ready!

She would leave her poor little mother desolate, she would humiliate and
affront the kindly Polly, she would leave Eddie overwhelmed by disgrace
and grief, and still she didn’t care. She was deceiving her mother,
deceiving Polly, shamefully deceiving Eddie, and she didn’t care. On the
contrary, she was rather proud of it. She felt that such insolent
wickedness had in it more than a little magnificence of the sort
possessed by the magnificent women of the past.

Oh, the world was well lost for Vincent, her poet lover! She read his
letter again and cried over it--she who had shed so few tears in her
life.

II

But in spite of all her hardihood, her pride in her love, she couldn’t
help feeling a great dread of Eddie. She didn’t like to face him. She
had a silly idea that by merely looking at her he might know all that
her heart contained; and although he so much admired magnificence, she
had no delusion as to his admiring this!

She got ready on Saturday afternoon in a state of great nervousness that
subdued even her eagerness to be with Vincent again. She hadn’t seen
either of the brothers for the past five days; Eddie had telephoned
every day, but there had been no word at all from Vincent.

That didn’t trouble her, however. She felt that she and Vincent
understood each other absolutely, no matter how long or how far apart
they were. Just as she thought of him, he thought of her, longed for
her. Her only trouble was this dread; if only it were not Eddie who were
taking her to him! It seemed to cast a shadow upon the boldness and
beauty of their love to dupe a creature so blameless and so generous as
Eddie.

He was late. It had grown dark, and the lamp in the parlour was lighted,
and she and her mother sat in there, talking--a word now and then, and
long, long silences. They had nothing to say to each other. Angelica’s
heart had flown forward to meet her lover, while her mother’s brain
struggled wearily with the problems of the minute, of the next week, of
some one’s ironing, some one else’s scrubbing, of whether she were going
to earn enough to keep herself from getting ill again. They were
effectually separated now.

Came a brisk ring at the bell, and Mrs. Kennedy went to open the door.

"Come in, sir!" Angelica heard her say.

"Mrs. Kennedy?" replied Eddie’s voice. "I hope you’re better?"

"Thank you, sir, I’m quite well again. Won’t you step in?"

Angelica greeted him with an uncertain smile; she didn’t know what his
attitude would be. But he was certainly not vexed, or cold, or
suspicious; he was simply excited, not himself.

"Well!" he said. "I’ve done it!"

"Done what?" she asked.

"I’ve enlisted."

"You’re going to the war?"

"Yes."

"But I thought you didn’t approve of it. You said it was beastly, and
everything."

"Yes, I do think so; but----”

He hesitated, frowning. He didn’t know how to explain; didn’t, as a
matter of fact, honestly wish to explain. His motive in going was purely
selfish; he hoped in battle to make more of a man of himself, to glorify
himself. It was the same impulse which sent him to historical books and
to tremendous days of work--his earnest, priggish, sublime desire to
perfect himself. He believed--like how many others!--that he would come
back from the war a new man.

"I think I ought to go," he said, and was immediately ashamed of this
self-righteous phrase.

Angelica, to tell the truth, was not much impressed by the war. It never
stirred or moved her much at any time. She felt neither belligerent nor
pacifist. She simply took it for granted. She was one of those peasant
natures for whom it is quite impossible to feel either love or hate in
the abstract. She could have hated with royal hatred a German who
molested her, but she had no ill-will toward a German who invaded
Belgium. And as for fine phrases about it, her rough and vigorous mind
rejected them all. Ought to go? Why ought he to go? Just what did he
expect to accomplish?

However, she didn’t say this, any more than she allowed the least hint
of her great relief to show. That was the first thought that crossed her
mind--how much better it would be if Eddie were away!

Mrs. Kennedy shook her head.

"It’s too bad!" she said. "Think of your poor mother!"

Eddie could find nothing to say to that.

"Suppose you should be killed?" Mrs. Kennedy went on, with a sort of
severity, as if she were speaking to a person who persistently sat in a
draft.

"It wouldn’t matter very much," said Eddie, with a faint smile. "Good
night, Mrs. Kennedy! Be sure to take care of yourself!"

Angelica followed him out and climbed into the car beside him. Those
last words of his had hurt her, had brought to her mind the thought of
his loneliness, and memories of his kindnesses and of his little, oddly
touching traits. She was pursued by a great remorse and a great regret.

"I’m _sorry_ you’re going!" she said, with a break in her voice.

"I know you are; but don’t be sentimental about it. I couldn’t stand
that. Be cheerful!"

"I’m not sentimental," she said, forcing her voice to be steady.
"Only--I think a lot of you. Every one’ll miss you."

"No!" replied Eddie. "No one will miss me, except perhaps you. No one
else at all, Angelica."

They were spinning along dark country roads now, and he could not see
her stealthy tears. She was thinking--wasn’t she perhaps a fool to let
him go?

"Oh, I am sorry!" she said again. "I wish I could have----”

"I know!" he said. "You can’t help it. I--don’t blame you. I’m not
lovable."

"You are!"

"No, I’m not. There’s nothing about me that a girl like you could fall
in love with. I know that with women that’s the chief thing--love; but
men are made of coarser stuff. Even if you didn’t love me, Angelica,
I--I wish you would marry me. I’m not boasting, but I could do a great
deal for you. If you could only hear how other men speak of me! I’m
doing bigger things in business--all the time. I--I know I seem like a
fool. Maybe I am, at home; but I’m not a fool in finance. I’ll be one of
the richest men in the country some day, Angelica."

"I never thought you were a fool. Indeed, I think you’re wonderful. I
think you’re--I’m sure you’ll do whatever you set out to do."

"But wouldn’t you like to help me? Things are so muddled and wasteful at
home now. If I had a wife like you, Angelica, to manage there for me,
while I’m away! I _need_ you so much!"

"Oh, deary!" she cried. "Please don’t! I’m so sorry, but I just can’t!"

He drove silently for a long time, until the lights of that home of
his--named with such Eddie-like pomposity--came into view. Then he said,
quite serenely and kindly:

"I’ll be your friend, anyway, Angelica--always!"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Angelica saw no one that night; but when she passed by the library, the
door was half open and she heard voices in there--an unusual thing for
that unsociable family.

Eddie went with her to the door of her room and wished her a good night,
but she did not have one. She slept fitfully, and she had heart-breaking
dreams. She felt confused and unhappy, awake or asleep. She couldn’t
shake off that dull remorse, or a certain sense of great loss which
haunted her.

She got up early, hoping that she might find Vincent and talk to him,
and arrange with him to put an end to this wretched, intolerable
situation. She couldn’t go on like this, in Eddie’s house, meeting him
every day. She felt sure that Vincent must feel this as she did, or
perhaps still more bitterly. She looked forward to it as an exquisite
relief, to pour out her heart to him, sure of his apprehension; sure,
too, that he would admire her fine feeling.

She was surprised, when she reached the breakfast-room, to see them all
at the table together--Polly and Mrs. Russell up and dressed hours
before their usual time; the doctor serious; Vincent in a neat dark suit
and a new air of decorum. He glanced up as Angelica entered, and smiled,
casually, the meaningless smile of his mother; then his eyes turned
away. It wasn’t a ruse; he wasn’t pretending to be indifferent; she
could see that he really _was_ so.

Polly made polite inquiries about Angelica’s mother, and then
they had finished with her, and returned to their own absorbing
preoccupation--the war.

In this one short week they had plunged into the war with fervour, led
by Vincent. They cared for nothing else. Mrs. Russell had organized a
tennis tournament for Stricken Belgium; her specialty was getting up
entertainments and recounting atrocities of a certain sort. Ordinarily
there were all sorts of fascinating subjects which one couldn’t discuss,
all sorts of the most interesting semi-medical details which were
unhappily tabu; but now, provided one told of it as done by a German,
one might say anything. Nothing was too degenerate, too shocking.

Polly spent much of her time in the Red Cross workrooms, rolling
bandages. She could do this with all her heart, without betraying a
secret pity she felt for Germany. She had lived there so long, and had
been so happy in her student days. She was convinced that the Germans
were very wicked, and that it was necessary to conquer them, but all the
same she was sorry for them; and she persisted in her firm hope that her
own country would never enter the war.

"Yes," she said, "I do sympathize with the Allies. I hope they’ll win.
I’m glad and willing to help them; but I’d rather see them lose than to
see any of our own boys killed!"

She kept to herself the horror she felt at the idea of some nice
American boy killing one of those magnificent, insolent German officers
she had always so admired.

Moreover, she didn’t like the English. She had all the resentment, all
the prejudices, of her little Ohio town against that lordly race. It
wasn’t Vincent’s fantastic Irish hate; it wasn’t really hate at all,
simply a stubborn dislike. She found a compromise, as he did, by a
preposterous worship of all things French. They were apparently fighting
the war alone against overwhelming numbers of Germans, somewhat hindered
by a small and very stupid British army.

Vincent gave a sort of inspired dissertation upon the French, which
deeply moved his family but failed to move Angelica. She was too stunned
by this change of atmosphere. She was of no significance now; she wasn’t
useful, she wasn’t interesting. No one--not even Vincent--gave her
another glance; and Eddie, her steadfast friend, wasn’t there.

But the greatest blow of all was Vincent’s attitude toward Polly, his
friendly deference, their air of complete harmony. She watched them, saw
them exchange smiles and glances, listened to their familiar talk.

He left directly the meal was finished, and Polly went up-stairs to put
on her hat.

"I’m going to work all morning," she said. "You can come with me and
roll bandages, or, if you’d rather, you can stay at home and trim that
hat for me."

"I’ll stay home," said Angelica.

But Polly lingered, inexcusably, to talk about Vincent--how Vincent and
she went to this meeting, how Vincent and she said this, how Vincent and
she thought that. They both knew that this was nothing more or less than
crowing. Polly had vanquished Angelica. She had got him back!

Of course she had no actual information as to his philandering with her
companion, but she had observed, she had put two and two together. She
had never suspected actual wrongdoing; she didn’t imagine, somehow, that
there was anything in Angelica’s conduct to blame. She simply thought
that Vincent had too much admired this lovely young thing, and that
Angelica had had her head turned by the flattery of his attention. She
felt justified in pressing her advantage.

Angelica endured it stoically. She wouldn’t show even any interest. She
listened to this talk of Vincent with rude inattention, and even went so
far as to yawn.

"He is wonderful," said Polly. "He’s organized a sort of club--the
Friends of France--men that can’t go themselves, but pledge themselves
to get recruits. He says the war has stirred his faith. I’m very glad.
He’s doing wonderful work!"

"Why don’t he enlist, like Mr. Eddie?"

"My dear, he’d never serve under the British flag. Eddie’s in the
Canadian service. Vincent’s Irish, you see."

"Well, isn’t Mr. Eddie the same as he?"

"Oh, yes, I suppose so; but he’s a different sort of Irishman."

"Well, why don’t he serve under the French flag, then, if he’s so fond
of it?"

"He can do more good as he is. There are plenty of men who can fight,
but there are very few who have Vincent’s wonderful eloquence."

"He said he was crazy to go," said Angelica; "but I notice he doesn’t."

"He’s married, too, you must remember," said Polly. "That makes a
difference. Married men aren’t supposed to go till the very last."

Their eyes met.

"Take him!" said Angelica’s glance. "_I_ don’t care!" But after Polly
had gone, she took out Vincent’s letter and read it again. She couldn’t
understand it! She felt bruised, and weary, and sick at heart, and
baffled. A letter like that, entreating her to come back to him, and,
when she came, to find him on the best of terms with his wife and quite
indifferent to her!

"But perhaps later, when we’re alone," she thought, "he’ll say
something."

But all that day, and that evening, not a word, and the next day, too,
until it grew plain to her that he didn’t intend to see her alone, that
he was avoiding her.

So the next morning she wrote a note and slipped it under his door:

    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 he had 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 to _say_. 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 to _say_."

"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. "You _couldn’t_
love 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 you _see_? 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 am _lost_!"

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
drink another 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. "_I_ could 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!

II

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. "_Now_ what? 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!"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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 you _just_ got 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, to _get 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 him _now_. But she was 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. "But _I’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’s
_that_! 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. _I_ don’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! I _have_ no
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.