I
Angelica saw no one that night; but when she passed by the library, the
door was half open and she heard voices in there--an unusual thing for
that unsociable family.
Eddie went with her to the door of her room and wished her a good night,
but she did not have one. She slept fitfully, and she had heart-breaking
dreams. She felt confused and unhappy, awake or asleep. She couldn’t
shake off that dull remorse, or a certain sense of great loss which
haunted her.
She got up early, hoping that she might find Vincent and talk to him,
and arrange with him to put an end to this wretched, intolerable
situation. She couldn’t go on like this, in Eddie’s house, meeting him
every day. She felt sure that Vincent must feel this as she did, or
perhaps still more bitterly. She looked forward to it as an exquisite
relief, to pour out her heart to him, sure of his apprehension; sure,
too, that he would admire her fine feeling.
She was surprised, when she reached the breakfast-room, to see them all
at the table together--Polly and Mrs. Russell up and dressed hours
before their usual time; the doctor serious; Vincent in a neat dark suit
and a new air of decorum. He glanced up as Angelica entered, and smiled,
casually, the meaningless smile of his mother; then his eyes turned
away. It wasn’t a ruse; he wasn’t pretending to be indifferent; she
could see that he really _was_ so.
Polly made polite inquiries about Angelica’s mother, and then
they had finished with her, and returned to their own absorbing
preoccupation--the war.
In this one short week they had plunged into the war with fervour, led
by Vincent. They cared for nothing else. Mrs. Russell had organized a
tennis tournament for Stricken Belgium; her specialty was getting up
entertainments and recounting atrocities of a certain sort. Ordinarily
there were all sorts of fascinating subjects which one couldn’t discuss,
all sorts of the most interesting semi-medical details which were
unhappily tabu; but now, provided one told of it as done by a German,
one might say anything. Nothing was too degenerate, too shocking.
Polly spent much of her time in the Red Cross workrooms, rolling
bandages. She could do this with all her heart, without betraying a
secret pity she felt for Germany. She had lived there so long, and had
been so happy in her student days. She was convinced that the Germans
were very wicked, and that it was necessary to conquer them, but all the
same she was sorry for them; and she persisted in her firm hope that her
own country would never enter the war.
"Yes," she said, "I do sympathize with the Allies. I hope they’ll win.
I’m glad and willing to help them; but I’d rather see them lose than to
see any of our own boys killed!"
She kept to herself the horror she felt at the idea of some nice
American boy killing one of those magnificent, insolent German officers
she had always so admired.
Moreover, she didn’t like the English. She had all the resentment, all
the prejudices, of her little Ohio town against that lordly race. It
wasn’t Vincent’s fantastic Irish hate; it wasn’t really hate at all,
simply a stubborn dislike. She found a compromise, as he did, by a
preposterous worship of all things French. They were apparently fighting
the war alone against overwhelming numbers of Germans, somewhat hindered
by a small and very stupid British army.
Vincent gave a sort of inspired dissertation upon the French, which
deeply moved his family but failed to move Angelica. She was too stunned
by this change of atmosphere. She was of no significance now; she wasn’t
useful, she wasn’t interesting. No one--not even Vincent--gave her
another glance; and Eddie, her steadfast friend, wasn’t there.
But the greatest blow of all was Vincent’s attitude toward Polly, his
friendly deference, their air of complete harmony. She watched them, saw
them exchange smiles and glances, listened to their familiar talk.
He left directly the meal was finished, and Polly went up-stairs to put
on her hat.
"I’m going to work all morning," she said. "You can come with me and
roll bandages, or, if you’d rather, you can stay at home and trim that
hat for me."
"I’ll stay home," said Angelica.
But Polly lingered, inexcusably, to talk about Vincent--how Vincent and
she went to this meeting, how Vincent and she said this, how Vincent and
she thought that. They both knew that this was nothing more or less than
crowing. Polly had vanquished Angelica. She had got him back!
Of course she had no actual information as to his philandering with her
companion, but she had observed, she had put two and two together. She
had never suspected actual wrongdoing; she didn’t imagine, somehow, that
there was anything in Angelica’s conduct to blame. She simply thought
that Vincent had too much admired this lovely young thing, and that
Angelica had had her head turned by the flattery of his attention. She
felt justified in pressing her advantage.
Angelica endured it stoically. She wouldn’t show even any interest. She
listened to this talk of Vincent with rude inattention, and even went so
far as to yawn.
"He is wonderful," said Polly. "He’s organized a sort of club--the
Friends of France--men that can’t go themselves, but pledge themselves
to get recruits. He says the war has stirred his faith. I’m very glad.
He’s doing wonderful work!"
"Why don’t he enlist, like Mr. Eddie?"
"My dear, he’d never serve under the British flag. Eddie’s in the
Canadian service. Vincent’s Irish, you see."
"Well, isn’t Mr. Eddie the same as he?"
"Oh, yes, I suppose so; but he’s a different sort of Irishman."
"Well, why don’t he serve under the French flag, then, if he’s so fond
of it?"
"He can do more good as he is. There are plenty of men who can fight,
but there are very few who have Vincent’s wonderful eloquence."
"He said he was crazy to go," said Angelica; "but I notice he doesn’t."
"He’s married, too, you must remember," said Polly. "That makes a
difference. Married men aren’t supposed to go till the very last."
Their eyes met.
"Take him!" said Angelica’s glance. "_I_ don’t care!" But after Polly
had gone, she took out Vincent’s letter and read it again. She couldn’t
understand it! She felt bruised, and weary, and sick at heart, and
baffled. A letter like that, entreating her to come back to him, and,
when she came, to find him on the best of terms with his wife and quite
indifferent to her!
"But perhaps later, when we’re alone," she thought, "he’ll say
something."
But all that day, and that evening, not a word, and the next day, too,
until it grew plain to her that he didn’t intend to see her alone, that
he was avoiding her.
So the next morning she wrote a note and slipped it under his door: