Chapter TWELVE: I

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!"