Chapter FIVE: I

Through the front basement window Mrs. Kennedy saw Angelica returning, a shockingly disheveled figure in the sweltering midday heat. She hurried to the door, with the baby in her arms.

"Oh, Angie!" she cried. "You cruel, cruel, bad girl! Where have you been? I’ve been near crazy, left alone here all night and morning with the baby, and not a penny in the house. Of course I couldn’t do my work----”

"Hush!" said Angelica, sternly. "Don’t bother me. I’m too tired. I had to walk all the way back. Make me some tea!"

She took the child in her arms and sat down in the rocking-chair, holding it pressed against her breast and staring over its head, indifferent to its crying, and the feeble beating of its little hands.

She had her tea and bread with it; then she lay down on her cot, always with the child in her arms, and fell asleep. Mrs. Kennedy looked in upon them, saw them both quiet, the little, downy head resting against Angelica’s shoulder, and she devoutly hoped that this period of rest might solace her daughter after whatever demoniacal adventure she had undergone that night. She picked up her pail and went out to work.

When she came in again at five o’clock, they were both gone.

II

Polly was reading, stretched out on the sofa of her charming little room, near the window which gave her a fine view of the Hudson and a cool breeze. Her maid had gone out, and she was quite alone in her little flat, content and languid, rejoicing in her dignified solitude.

Here she was living as she liked to live, with her music, her books, her very few and very casual friends, and long, long hours of delicate idleness. She enjoyed the blissful serenity of a convalescent, or a freed prisoner. After her two heart-breaking experiences of married life, after the anguish of her dear child’s death, she was happy now to be quite alone, to love no one, and to be hurt by no one. She wished to spend the rest of her life alone.

Eddie had arranged her affairs so that she once more received her decent little income. She didn’t enquire as to how he had done this. She suspected that for the present it must be coming direct from his pocket, but she preferred not to know.

She had a vague intention of some day divorcing Vincent, but she was never capable of action without some spur. There wasn’t any cause now. She was rid of him, and she had her money again. Her deepest instinct--the instinct of a woman by temperament unfitted to make her own way in the world--caused her to value her money above anything. It meant all that was desirable in life--ease, dignity, and freedom.

How happy she was in her loose, fresh white wrapper, looking so much younger, so much more charming--smoking her thin little cigarettes and reading some book which entirely engaged her attention--agreeably conscious, none the less, of a nice little supper left by her devoted servant in the ice-box! It was only half-past five, but she was growing hungry, and she was dallying with this idea of supper, when the door-bell rang.

This was startling, for the boy in the hall down-stairs was supposed to stop intruders and to telephone up to her before admitting them. And so loud a ring!

Again! She got up and opened the door.

She gasped at the spectacle of Angelica with a baby in her arms.

"My _dear_ Angelica!" she cried. "I never----”

"Let me sit down," said Angelica. "I’m dead tired."

So she came into Polly’s tranquil sitting-room, as out of place there as a wild animal--the fierce, rough Angelica with her wailing baby. She sat down on the sofa and held the child up--a wretched, frail little creature, with a wizen, troubled face.

"See him? Two months old."

"He’s sweet. But, my dear, I didn’t know you were married."

"I’m not married. Listen, Mrs. Geraldine! I got to have a talk with you."

"Of course! But, my dear, isn’t there something you could do for your baby? He seems so----”

"He’s sick. He’s sick all the time; but the doctor says if he gets good care, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t grow up strong and all right. It does make him kind of an extra trouble now, but after you’ve had him here a few months, Mrs. Geraldine----”

"_I’ve_ had him _here_!"

"Listen!" cried Angelica, in anguish. "Please, please, Mrs. Geraldine, don’t say no! Wait till you hear. Wait till you think. Think about that baby you lost. Oh, do, for Gawd’s sake, Mrs. Geraldine, take this baby!"

"My dear girl!" cried Polly. "You must be mad! What in the world are you talking about?"

"Oh, please, please, please, for Gawd’s sake! Just think of the poor little feller you lost. Take this one instead. I _can’t_ keep him, Mrs. Geraldine. He’ll only die. You’re too good and kind to let a little baby die. You _got_ to take him. You’ll never have a moment’s peace, night or day, if you don’t!"

"But, Angelica, it’s outrageous!"

"I don’t know the words to use. I don’t know how to make you. Oh, Mrs. Geraldine, I can only just beg and pray to you to take him!"

"My dear, I’ll help you, if I can. I’ll be glad to lend you money, or help you in any other way."

"No--I can’t keep him. You see, Mrs. Geraldine, I’m going to marry Eddie, and I can’t ever let him know about this."

"Angelica!" cried Polly, aghast. "I certainly won’t help you to deceive Eddie."

"I know; but it would be much, much worse to tell him. He’s crazy about me, and I can make him happy. This is the only wrong thing I’ve ever done, _ever_, and I’m never going to do another. I’m going to be good as gold, Mrs. Geraldine. If Eddie knew, he’d never forgive me. I’d never get a chance to be good. That’s why I came to you. On account of Eddie, won’t you do it to make him happy?"

"I could _not_ deceive Eddie."

"Oh, _why_ not? Why, for Gawd’s sake, tell the truth and spoil Eddie’s life, and be the death of this poor little feller and the ruin of me? Oh, just take him! Take him!" she cried, tears running down her cheeks. "You’ll love him. You’ll be awful glad to feel him next to you in bed, first thing in the morning. You’ll love him so. You’re the only one I know in the world that I wouldn’t mind leaving him with. I know he cries an awful lot, but that’s because he’s sick; and if you take him, and he has the best of everything, he’ll soon be fat and well, and you’ll be proud of him. Oh, say you will!"

Tears stood in Polly’s eyes.

"My dear, you mustn’t give up your child. I’ll help you, so that you can keep him."

"No, no! I can’t! I’m going to marry Eddie."

"Give up the idea. Go off somewhere and live quietly with your dear little baby."

"No! You can’t support me and him both. It would just be me and mommer over again--me going out by the day to keep him alive, and the two of us having nothing--no chances, no nothing. That’s if he’d even live. No; the only, only thing is for you to take him."

"But, Angelica, what in the world would I do with him?"

"Get a good nurse. I’ll find one, if you want, from a hospital."

"But what would people say?"

"Say he’s yours. No one would know the difference. Tell Eddie he’s yours. Tell Vincent, too."

"Vincent wouldn’t believe it."

"Well, he could say so, anyway. My Gawd, that’s little enough to do for the poor little feller!"

"It’s not a little thing, Angelica--it’s a great deal, to expect Vincent to say he is your child’s father."

"Well, he is!" said Angelica. "I forgot to tell you that."