But in spite of all her hardihood, her pride in her love, she couldn’t
help feeling a great dread of Eddie. She didn’t like to face him. She
had a silly idea that by merely looking at her he might know all that
her heart contained; and although he so much admired magnificence, she
had no delusion as to his admiring this!
She got ready on Saturday afternoon in a state of great nervousness that
subdued even her eagerness to be with Vincent again. She hadn’t seen
either of the brothers for the past five days; Eddie had telephoned
every day, but there had been no word at all from Vincent.
That didn’t trouble her, however. She felt that she and Vincent
understood each other absolutely, no matter how long or how far apart
they were. Just as she thought of him, he thought of her, longed for
her. Her only trouble was this dread; if only it were not Eddie who were
taking her to him! It seemed to cast a shadow upon the boldness and
beauty of their love to dupe a creature so blameless and so generous as
Eddie.
He was late. It had grown dark, and the lamp in the parlour was lighted,
and she and her mother sat in there, talking--a word now and then, and
long, long silences. They had nothing to say to each other. Angelica’s
heart had flown forward to meet her lover, while her mother’s brain
struggled wearily with the problems of the minute, of the next week, of
some one’s ironing, some one else’s scrubbing, of whether she were going
to earn enough to keep herself from getting ill again. They were
effectually separated now.
Came a brisk ring at the bell, and Mrs. Kennedy went to open the door.
"Come in, sir!" Angelica heard her say.
"Mrs. Kennedy?" replied Eddie’s voice. "I hope you’re better?"
"Thank you, sir, I’m quite well again. Won’t you step in?"
Angelica greeted him with an uncertain smile; she didn’t know what his
attitude would be. But he was certainly not vexed, or cold, or
suspicious; he was simply excited, not himself.
"Well!" he said. "I’ve done it!"
"Done what?" she asked.
"I’ve enlisted."
"You’re going to the war?"
"Yes."
"But I thought you didn’t approve of it. You said it was beastly, and
everything."
"Yes, I do think so; but----”
He hesitated, frowning. He didn’t know how to explain; didn’t, as a
matter of fact, honestly wish to explain. His motive in going was purely
selfish; he hoped in battle to make more of a man of himself, to glorify
himself. It was the same impulse which sent him to historical books and
to tremendous days of work--his earnest, priggish, sublime desire to
perfect himself. He believed--like how many others!--that he would come
back from the war a new man.
"I think I ought to go," he said, and was immediately ashamed of this
self-righteous phrase.
Angelica, to tell the truth, was not much impressed by the war. It never
stirred or moved her much at any time. She felt neither belligerent nor
pacifist. She simply took it for granted. She was one of those peasant
natures for whom it is quite impossible to feel either love or hate in
the abstract. She could have hated with royal hatred a German who
molested her, but she had no ill-will toward a German who invaded
Belgium. And as for fine phrases about it, her rough and vigorous mind
rejected them all. Ought to go? Why ought he to go? Just what did he
expect to accomplish?
However, she didn’t say this, any more than she allowed the least hint
of her great relief to show. That was the first thought that crossed her
mind--how much better it would be if Eddie were away!
Mrs. Kennedy shook her head.
"It’s too bad!" she said. "Think of your poor mother!"
Eddie could find nothing to say to that.
"Suppose you should be killed?" Mrs. Kennedy went on, with a sort of
severity, as if she were speaking to a person who persistently sat in a
draft.
"It wouldn’t matter very much," said Eddie, with a faint smile. "Good
night, Mrs. Kennedy! Be sure to take care of yourself!"
Angelica followed him out and climbed into the car beside him. Those
last words of his had hurt her, had brought to her mind the thought of
his loneliness, and memories of his kindnesses and of his little, oddly
touching traits. She was pursued by a great remorse and a great regret.
"I’m _sorry_ you’re going!" she said, with a break in her voice.
"I know you are; but don’t be sentimental about it. I couldn’t stand
that. Be cheerful!"
"I’m not sentimental," she said, forcing her voice to be steady.
"Only--I think a lot of you. Every one’ll miss you."
"No!" replied Eddie. "No one will miss me, except perhaps you. No one
else at all, Angelica."
They were spinning along dark country roads now, and he could not see
her stealthy tears. She was thinking--wasn’t she perhaps a fool to let
him go?
"Oh, I am sorry!" she said again. "I wish I could have----”
"I know!" he said. "You can’t help it. I--don’t blame you. I’m not
lovable."
"You are!"
"No, I’m not. There’s nothing about me that a girl like you could fall
in love with. I know that with women that’s the chief thing--love; but
men are made of coarser stuff. Even if you didn’t love me, Angelica,
I--I wish you would marry me. I’m not boasting, but I could do a great
deal for you. If you could only hear how other men speak of me! I’m
doing bigger things in business--all the time. I--I know I seem like a
fool. Maybe I am, at home; but I’m not a fool in finance. I’ll be one of
the richest men in the country some day, Angelica."
"I never thought you were a fool. Indeed, I think you’re wonderful. I
think you’re--I’m sure you’ll do whatever you set out to do."
"But wouldn’t you like to help me? Things are so muddled and wasteful at
home now. If I had a wife like you, Angelica, to manage there for me,
while I’m away! I _need_ you so much!"
"Oh, deary!" she cried. "Please don’t! I’m so sorry, but I just can’t!"
He drove silently for a long time, until the lights of that home of
his--named with such Eddie-like pomposity--came into view. Then he said,
quite serenely and kindly:
"I’ll be your friend, anyway, Angelica--always!"