I
Angelica was surprised at getting a letter the next morning, for she
never got letters. The writing was necessarily unfamiliar, as there was
none that would not have been. She opened it.
"Angelica, beloved girl!" it began. "I can’t do it!"
"Why, my Gawd!" she whispered. "It’s from _him_!"
I can’t give you up! I tried--God knows I did, but I can’t! I can’t
think of consequences, of honour, of anything but this heavenly
madness that is destroying me. Even if I lose my soul, even if it
brings ruin and misery upon you whom I worship, I must have you,
Angelica! Oh, come back to me! Come back to me! The farce is over.
I have played my rôle of prudent, honourable man of the world. Here
I am now, without reserve, without the smallest shred of worldly
wisdom, without conscience, without civilization; nothing, my
Angelica, but a man!
Nothing but your lover,
VINCENT.
She was wild with joy. She set to work with terrific energy, the letter
crushed inside her blouse. She insisted upon finishing the ironing which
Mrs. Kennedy had tried to do for a tenant before she became ill. She
stood over the ironing-board singing in her rather husky voice.
Nothing but a misunderstanding, after all! He did love her, he had only
tried to do what was right. She felt a profound pity for him, her poor
poet, who had done his very best to protect her, until love overwhelmed
him.
"You _bet_ I’ll go back to him!" she said to herself.
Her mother was alarmed. She saw--who could help it?--the exaltation of
her child, and she wished to know the cause. Poor woman! She feared joy
with all her soul.
"Who was that other man you went out with last night, Angie?" she asked.
"Oh! The brother of the other feller."
Her mother reflected.
"You seem to like him better," she said at last.
"Yes, I do."
"Is he nice?"
"Yes, he is."
"But you’re not----?"
"I don’t know, mommer!" she answered, laughing.
"Deary! I wish you’d _tell_ me!"
"There’s nothing to tell."
"But, my deary, don’t be foolish. Don’t be hasty! Try to find out if
he’s--a good man, before you let yourself think about him. _Is_ he a
good man, Angie?"
"He’s a good-looking one, anyway," Angelica answered flippantly. "Now,
mommer dear, please don’t worry about _me_. I’m not a fool!"
"But you’re young, Angie, and you’re very hasty. I do worry about you.
You never tell me anything. You won’t listen to me."
Angelica, with that letter next her heart, was patient.
"I do listen to you, mommer. Now, do you want a glass of milk?"
She was patient, because she was indifferent, because for the first time
in her life she didn’t care about her mother, didn’t care what Mrs.
Kennedy thought or how she felt. She wanted, in fact, to get away from
her, to be quite free and not bothered by questions.
"Shall I go back to him now?" she thought. "This instant? Just like I
am?"
But that, though splendid, wouldn’t do, and couldn’t be arranged; so she
sat down to write him a letter. It took her no more than a minute to
finish it, for this was all that she wrote: