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!"