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!"