Chapter FOUR: I

"It can’t be the same night!" said Angelica to herself. "It can’t be only an hour ago that I was in the kitchen at home!"

For here she was now, in a soft little nest of a room, furnished in mahogany and dull blue, with every sort of convenience and luxury, with a gleaming white bathroom of its own, with long mirrors, shaded lamps, easy chairs. It amazed her. She had locked the door and got undressed, but she couldn’t persuade herself to go to bed. Barefooted, in a sturdy cotton night-dress her mother had made, she wandered about, examining everything like a happy child.

Then, not for the first time, she sat down before the dressing-table and studied her own reflection in the triple mirror--the profile with the long, delicate nose, the narrow cheek, the soft fullness of the chin. Then she looked straight before her, at her dark and solemn face, her long black hair, parted in the middle, making her more than ever like a Madonna, sorrowful, spiritual.

She was vaguely aware of the rare and exotic quality of her charm, and she was dissatisfied with herself because her thoughts were so incongruous. She couldn’t help wondering how much the lace bedspread cost, and where it had been bought. She had seen furnishings like these in the shops, and she began to compute how much the whole thing must have cost.

"For Gawd’s sake!" she cried impatiently. "Why can’t I just enjoy it, and not be so----”

She had no word for her meaning. She got up, and from behind the curtains looked out upon the clear and chilly May night, down below, across the road, over a woodland of delicate young trees, scarcely stirring in a faint wind. That august loveliness disturbed her. She turned away, back to the shelter of the dainty room, puzzled and angry because she couldn’t enjoy it with simplicity; because there was something, in the night outside--or was it within herself?--that distressed and hurt her.

Undine waiting for a soul!

II

There was a knock at the door, and she flew across the room, alarmed. Who knew what customs these rich people had? A little clock told her that it was just ten; she was sure they didn’t go to bed then. She knew, indeed, from the Sunday papers, that they turned night into day. Perhaps they had a meal now, and she was expected to be ready for it.

"What is it?" she asked, through the closed door.

"Mrs. Russell wants you at once in her room," said a sharp voice.

So she put on her shrunken, faded little kimono and went out into the hall. A light burned there, showing a double row of closed doors. In what possible way was she to know Mrs. Russell’s? She was daunted; she didn’t even know who composed the household; couldn’t imagine who might be behind those closed doors.

There wasn’t a sound in the house. She advanced a little, and stopped again, frowning at her own distress, her own fast-beating heart.

"I’m only doing what I’m paid to do!" she reassured herself. "If I can’t find her, I’m a fool. I will! I’ll knock at every single door!"

She began with a firm rap on the door next her own. There was no response, so she tried the next, and at once that agreeable voice called out:

"Come in!"

Mrs. Russell lay in bed with her eyes closed, in a lace cap and negligée. Her little rose-shaded lamp gave only a dim light, by which she looked oddly young and pretty; even her tousled hair was charming. The rest of the big room was shadowy, with here and there a glint from glass or silver.

There was absolute silence; Mrs. Russell didn’t stir. Angelica felt herself at a great disadvantage in her kimono, standing at the bedside, waiting for orders. It nettled her.

"Well!" she demanded, with a boldness that surprised even herself.

But Mrs. Russell didn’t notice it, or at least didn’t appear to notice it. She opened her eyes and smiled affably.

"I’m horribly selfish, aren’t I? But I’m such a miserable sleeper, and I felt--won’t you read to me a bit?"

"All right!" said Angelica; but though she spoke so carelessly, she felt suddenly quite sick. "What shall I read?"

"Here’s my book. I suppose you don’t read French, do you?"

Angelica reddened.

"Yes, of course!" she answered. "Nothing but French spoken in the factory, you know!"

"We’ll stick to English, then," said Mrs. Russell, with just the same smile. "And hand me my cigarette-case, won’t you?"

Angelica did so, and nervously opened the book at a marked page; but Mrs. Russell stopped her.

"Just a minute please! I want to ask you something. I’ll have to explain things a little. I told you, didn’t I, that I really engaged you for my daughter-in-law? She’s in a terrible state, poor soul! She lost her little boy. He died of pneumonia six weeks ago. Do you know, I’ve always thought that that poor little creature caught the disease from a friend of Polly’s, whose husband was just getting over it when she came here. My husband insists that it’s awfully contagious, or infectious, or whichever it is. And this woman, my dear, was so heartless about that poor man! She said, when I asked after him, ‘Oh, nothing will _ever_ kill him!’ Did you ever? But as far as that goes, she’s never made the slightest pretense of caring for him. But I think--don’t you?--that you can be decent without being hypocritical. She simply tells every one that she married him for his money, and that now she’s got it, she’s going to spend it. Of course, I’ve known her for years, but her husband’s more or less of a stranger--a Canadian, I think; and really very nice--too nice, I tell her. I don’t make any pretense about it. I simply tell her she’s a heartless little beast, and extravagant. It’s incredible!"

Angelica was bewildered by this volubility. She saw no point in it, and yet she couldn’t believe that any words spoken in so beautiful a voice, and with so just and well-bred an accent, were mere nonsense. She sat staring at the red-haired lady until she came back to her subject.

"But about Polly. She’s the dearest creature in all the world, but she’s rather peculiar in some ways. She’s--well, exacting. She can’t see--she wants every instant of my time. Of course I’m willing--I’m glad to be with her; but after all, one has one’s own life, and there’s my husband. But if ever I suggest a companion! My dear! We have the most miserable time. She never says a word, but she lets you see....

"But I simply cannot stop in that room all day long. I’m frightfully dependent upon exercise. If I don’t get plenty of it, I go all to pieces. I can’t sit still there hour after hour. I’m terribly sorry about her child, and all that, but really, what is the good in talking and talking about it? It only upsets her. And yet, if you try to talk of anything else, you can see she considers you cruel and unfeeling. She simply broods over the thing. She’s so morbidly sensitive that it’s painful to be with her. And I’m not particularly good with sick people myself. I’m too nervous. My dear, you’ll remember all this, won’t you, and be tactful with the poor soul?"

"When will I see her?"

"That’s the point. You see, it would never do to bring you in as a companion. She says she couldn’t stand a hired companion, when she’s in such a state. She doesn’t seem to understand that I’ve got to have some sort of relief. That’s why I’m paying you out of my own pocket; but it won’t do to let her know. That’s why I’ve given you that little guest-room. I want to tell her you’re the daughter of an old friend, and that you’ve come to visit me--until she gets used to you. Do you see?"

"Yes," said Angelica. "But do you think she’ll believe it?"

"Don’t worry, my dear. I understand Polly. All you’ve got to do is to sit with her and listen to her if she wants to talk. She won’t ask you any questions; she’s too indifferent. That’s really the trouble with the poor girl--she’s so self-centered. She lies there, brooding. Of course, it’s hard for her; but after all, we all have our troubles to bear. Now, to-morrow morning I’ll take you in there and introduce you to her, and you must----”

She stopped abruptly and yawned. It was a disconcerting habit she had, as if her incredibly frivolous mind wore itself down by its own erratic movements.

"Now read, won’t you?" she asked.

Angelica began, took up the book, and plunged into it, concentrating her mind fiercely on the words alone. She had no idea what the book was about; what she read conveyed no impression to her mind. Her sole thought was not to expose herself, not to make mistakes, and of course she did. There came words upon words which she couldn’t pronounce.

"What?" Mrs. Russell would ask with an amused frown, and Angelica would have to stop and spell the word and be corrected.

For days they stayed in her head to torment her, those words, those sounds which she repeated after Mrs. Russell. They danced before her eyes, rang in her ears at night.

It was a horrible hour. Angelica couldn’t make any sort of counter-attack, couldn’t assert herself, could only go on, and make outrageous blunders, and humbly repeat the corrections.

Came a long French phrase, not one word of which she could manage. She stopped short.

"Go on!" said Mrs. Russell.

Angelica flew at the thing, desperately and recklessly. Mrs. Russell couldn’t stop laughing. She lay back on her pillows and covered her eyes with her hands.

"Oh, my dear! That’s really---- You mustn’t mind my laughing, will you?"

"I don’t," said Angelica.

But she did--she hated and dreaded that laughter with all her heart. If she had planned it carefully, Mrs. Russell couldn’t have devised a better method for subduing her.

Yet all her recollections of this nightmare of shame and distress were permeated by the mystic atmosphere that so enthralled her--the rose-shaded light, the nonchalant, red-haired lady in bed, the sweet smoke of the cigarettes; all the softness, the seclusion, the luxury, all the amazing fascination of a dream come true--except, of course, that she should have been in Mrs. Russell’s place.

III

"All right! Never mind! Don’t bother any more!" murmured Mrs. Russell at last. "It’s a stupid story, anyway; and I suppose you’re getting sleepy. If you’ll go down-stairs and fetch me another book, I’ll read myself to sleep. There’s a package of new books Eddie brought home. Pick out something that looks bright and jolly, will you? They’re on the table in the library."

"I’ll have to get dressed first."

"No, you won’t. Put on my slippers and run down as you are. There’s not a soul in the house but Polly and you and me and the servants, and they’re all women. It’s just at the foot of the stairs."

So Angelica, shamefaced in her kimono and with her hanging hair, went softly down the stairs. The halls were brightly lighted, but there was no one about, and not a sound. She went into the library, which she remembered having passed. It was fascinating to her at this hour--silent and warm, with little glowing lamps in the corners and rows and rows of orderly books.

On the long table in the center of the room lay the package she had been told of. The paper was opened, and showed five or six fresh, brightly bound books. Angelica inspected them with profound attention, for with all her heart she desired to make an intelligent choice. At last she picked out three, and was about to go up-stairs with them, when a voice addressed her--a man’s voice.

"Are they for Mrs. Russell?" it said.

She started violently, dismayed at being seen by masculine eyes in such a costume. He was standing in the doorway; evidently he had just come in, for he carried his hat and stick. He wore a dinner-jacket, and it was the first time Angelica had ever been spoken to by a man in a dinner-jacket.

"Yes," she answered.

"All those books are good," he said. "I know she’ll like them all. I picked them out for her."

She gave him a quick and stealthy look, and her heart beat faster. He might, she thought, very well be the hero for whom she was waiting. He was a tall, blond fellow with a little fair mustache, very boyish-looking, very serious, not exactly handsome, but unquestionably possessed of a certain distinction. She looked at him again, but this time she met his eyes squarely, his shrewd gray eyes, and she saw quite plainly that he was displeased, that he didn’t like to see girls in kimonos in that library.

"Who are you?" he asked Angelica. "A new maid?"

"No!" she replied indignantly. "Not a maid. I’m her--I don’t know what her name is--her companion."

He raised his eyebrows.

"I’ll take up the books," he said. "I want to speak to Mrs. Russell. You needn’t trouble. Good night!"

He waved her out of the room ahead of him. She hurried, anxious to get out of his sight, and went into her own room. Looking back, she saw that he had left the door of Mrs. Russell’s room open, and she approached, to listen, for she felt quite sure that the conversation would relate to herself.

The young man had flung the books on the table, and was talking angrily.

"Then what did you do it for? You’ve no business to bring a girl like that into the house!"

"She’s respectable," said Mrs. Russell.

"You don’t know. She doesn’t look it. Anyway, even if she is, she’s no more fit to be a companion than--I don’t know what. It’s an insult to Polly!"

"No, it isn’t. She’s a nice, cheerful girl, and she can be very useful. She sews----”

"If you want her for a maid, call her a maid, and put her in a maid’s room. Why did you put her there, at the end of the hall? One of the best rooms!"

"To be near me."

"Near you? You said she was for Polly."

"That’s no reason why she shouldn’t help me now and then when I----”

"Now, look here!" interrupted the young man. "This is final. Either she goes to-morrow, or you’ll put her in her proper place. I won’t have her running around the house half-dressed. If she’s a maid, treat her as a maid. If you want a companion, get one--a real one. What does Polly say?"

"Polly hasn’t seen her yet. I engaged her. I went all the way into the city to see her mother and find out about her. You know, Eddie, I’m paying her out of my own pocket, because I feel that Polly shouldn’t be left alone."

"You ought to know better than to pick out a girl like this one!" he cried. "I’m disgusted. You’re so anxious to get rid of the trouble of looking after Polly that you’d pick up any one, out of the street--any one cheap!"

He was very angry; his fair face flushed; he twisted his little mustache with a trembling hand.

"I’d like to see her----” he began again.

Angelica waited to hear no more. She rushed back to her own room and began to dress with frantic haste.

"Well!" she said to herself. "It’s all up, now! I never thought it would last, anyway."

At length she was dressed, shabby and dusty enough in her street clothes, but feeling far better prepared for an encounter with the blond young man.

"All right!" she said. "All right! Let him fire me! I don’t care. I never pretended to be any different from what I am, anyway."

She was defiant, but she wasn’t resentful, any more than she would have been if the boss of a factory had reproved her. She had grown up in the consciousness that there were in the world people who had a right to get angry and to reprove--teachers, policemen, bosses, rich people.

There was a knock at the door, and a voice informed her sharply that Mrs. Russell was waiting for her. To her surprise and relief she found Mrs. Russell alone, and yawning.

"I suppose we’ll have to go to bed now," she said. "It’s after twelve; so I’ll say good night to you."

"Good night," Angelica answered.

She supposed that she was to be allowed to leave the room; but she had quite half an hour’s work still to do. She had to brush and braid Mrs. Russell’s short, curly hair; she had to go down-stairs again and fetch a bottle of spring water from the ice-chest; she had to put away dozens of things, and then to set out on the table lip-salve, cold cream, and some sort of medicine; and then to pull up the blinds, put out the light, and grope her way out in the dark.

She was in the habit of going to bed very much earlier; yet, once more in her own room, she didn’t feel at all sleepy. She lay stretched out on the bed, with her hands clasped under her head, meditating about Mrs. Russell, who was altogether outside her experience, and the blond young man with the little mustache. She wondered who he was.

"Her son, I guess," she reflected. "Anyway, he’s pretty cross to her. I wouldn’t put up with it, if I was her. One of these rich young fellers, he is, and as spoiled as can be!"

Then she didn’t think about him any more; he was no longer the possible hero of her romance. He was so obviously not for her. Her beauty, her impudence, would never impress him. Her mind dwelt for an instant with a sort of shadowy regret upon his nice young face; then the current of her thought changed, and ran back into the channel it had made for itself--that of speculating upon her own future.

"My first night in this house!" she said. "I wonder what’s going to happen to me here?"

She couldn’t invent or imagine anything. Certainly she couldn’t even dimly foresee the truth.