I
This one idea remained with her when she got up from her brief
sleep--this determination to get away. Except for this, she was drained
quite dry of all ideas, all feelings. She was not poetic; she hadn’t the
astounding variations of a poetic soul such as Vincent’s. She was not at
all easy to move, and when she was thoroughly aroused--to pity, to love,
to grief, to whatever it might be--it took a very long time for the
tempest to calm. She wanted now simply to get away alone, where she
might examine this turmoil in her heart.
She packed her bag, put on her hat and coat, and went to Polly’s room.
Polly was dressing in her very leisurely fashion, going to and fro in
the room, and stopping now and then before the table where her coffee
and rolls were laid. She was in petticoat and under-bodice, with her
thin, sallow arms and neck bare and her black hair hanging about her
face. She had a forlorn and jaded look--for which, however, Angelica had
no eyes.
"Mrs. Geraldine," she said, "I got to go. I want to go right
away--to-day. I don’t feel well."
"I’m very sorry, my dear! What’s the trouble?"
"I’m just tired. I’ve just got to get away. I want to go home."
"But if you’re not very well, wouldn’t you be more comfortable here?"
"No. I want to go home. I--you know how it is, Mrs. Geraldine, when you
feel you _just_ got to go home!"
Indeed Polly knew!
"For how long?" she asked. "You don’t think you’re really seriously ill,
do you? You think a little rest at home will set you up in a very short
time?"
Angelica hesitated a moment.
"I don’t think----” she began. "I don’t guess I’ll come back."
"Never?"
"No."
"But aren’t you happy here? Aren’t you comfortable? Tell me what’s
wrong, and perhaps we can arrange it."
"You couldn’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t stay--not for anything."
There was no mistaking Angelica’s tone. Polly saw that the girl was
absolutely determined and not to be turned--not without a long argument,
anyway, and that she had no desire to undertake. What is more, she had
too much sense to ask questions. She had a suspicion that her husband
was somehow concerned in Angelica’s going; there was probably a great
deal in this thing of which she decidedly preferred to remain ignorant.
She wasn’t jealous; that had worn off on that first evening of Vincent’s
home-coming. It had hurt her dreadfully, then, to see his glance turn
always away from her and toward this younger and lovelier face; but now
she didn’t care whether he was infatuated with Angelica or any one else.
She was pleased simply to be on friendly terms with him, to have him
agreeable instead of contemptuous, and she knew that was the best she
could expect.
She had not the slightest hope of winning him back; she didn’t even want
to very much. She was so tired; she dreaded the necessity which love
brings for effort--for keeping up, in appearances, in spirits. She
preferred that Vincent should never look at her at all, rather than to
have to endure his old critical glance. She was only too conscious of
her sad decline.
So there was nothing in her heart but real regret that Angelica was
going. She liked her very much, and was used to her.
"I’m very sorry to lose you," she said. "I’d hoped you were quite
settled here. I’ll miss you more than I can say."
"You’ve been very nice to me," said Angelica.
"And you must always remember me as a friend. If there is ever anything
that I can do for you, come to me. I mean it!"
She held out her hand, and Angelica gripped it.
"Good-by!" said Polly again. "And good luck! I hope you’ll let me know
how you get on."
"Yes, I will. But listen, Mrs. Geraldine--can I have my money?"
"Certainly! You’ll have to get it from Mr. Geraldine, though. He’s in
the library, writing."
Angelica was dismayed.
"No," she faltered. "I don’t want to bother him. If you’ll just give me
my train fare, you could send me the rest."
"My dear, I don’t think I have even enough for your fare. Mr. Geraldine
handles all my money for me."
She was a little ashamed of this arrangement, to which she had eagerly
agreed when she and Vincent were first married. It humiliated her to be
thus, without a penny.
"You needn’t mind disturbing him," she said. "He expects to do such
things for me. Come up and say good-by to me the last thing before you
go, won’t you?"
Angelica said "Yes," quite absently. She was thinking how this interview
with Vincent might be avoided. It was the thing above all others she
most desired to avoid. She had meant to go off quickly, to _get home_,
where she could think in peace, where she could try a little to remember
and to comprehend what had happened. She didn’t attempt to decide
whether or not she would ever see Vincent again; she knew only that she
did not want to see him _now_. But she was too well-trained in poverty,
and had too much common sense, to go off penniless, without even her
train fare, when there was honestly earned money due to her.
"Shall I wait for Eddie to come home?" she reflected.
No, that wouldn’t do at all. She wouldn’t know what to say to Eddie, how
to explain her leaving. She felt absolutely afraid to see him.
"I’ll just have to go to Vincent," she decided. "But _I’m going_! He
can’t stop me--I don’t care what he says!"
It took all her courage. She went down-stairs and into the library.
There he sat, writing, as Polly had said. He didn’t look up. She stood
in the doorway, waiting, for a few minutes; then she said:
"Mr. Geraldine!"
"Yes?" he asked, not looking up from his writing.
"Mrs. Geraldine told me to come to you and get my money."
"I can’t be bothered now!" he said irritably. "I’m busy. Can’t you see?"
"I’m sorry, but I’ve got to have it. I’m going."
"Going, Angelica?" he said, looking up at last.
"Yes. I want to catch the ten-forty. So if you’ll just give me my money,
I’ll go right away."
He resumed his writing.
"Too bad!" he said. "I really haven’t got it."
"Please don’t be so mean!" she cried. "For Gawd’s sake, give it to me,
and let me go!" Her fatigue and her distress at his callousness were
unnerving her. She felt ready to burst into tears. "Just give it to me
and let me go!" she said again.
"I haven’t it," said Vincent.
"You haven’t got any money?"
"Not a sou."
"But you can get it for me?"
He shook his head.
"No, my dear, dear girl. You’ll have to wait."
"How long--an hour?"
"I can’t say."
"But what do you mean?"
"I mean that I haven’t any money. I said so before."
"But Mrs. Geraldine said you had all her money."
"Then Mrs. Geraldine will have to be informed, very kindly, that her
income is mortgaged for the next two years. I had to do it. You see, she
has a little annuity, which she lets me collect. Well, I was
embarrassed. I had to borrow money against it. So, you see, that’s
_that_! She hasn’t anything; and I--I’m penniless as a gipsy. Now you
comprehend, I hope."
And to her amazement he began to write again.
"Say!" she cried. "This won’t do!"
"Don’t bother me, my dear girl. I’m at work," he said, frowning. "On a
poem."
"But you can’t put me off like this!"
"I’m writing!" he cried, in a sudden rage. "I don’t care about you and
your money. Let me alone!"
"You’ve got to stop writing, then. _I_ don’t care about you and your
writing. You’ve got to pay me!"
He sprang to his feet.
"Get out!" he shouted. "How dare you trouble me about your dirty money?
Good God! Lines such as I had, ready to put down, and to have them
ruined by a greedy, good-for-nothing little servant girl! I _have_ no
money. If I had, I wouldn’t give it to you. You don’t deserve it. Idling
away your time, aping your betters, draggling about in their cast-off
finery! If they weren’t both of them lazy and worthless themselves,
they’d have turned you out long ago. Get out!"
And he caught her by the arm and thrust her into the hall, slamming the
door behind her.
Angelica rushed up-stairs like a whirlwind and into Polly’s room,
panting, quite beside herself with fury.
"Him!" she cried. "He turned me out! Took me by the arm and shoved me
out into the hall! He----”
Polly had been putting on her hat before the mirror, but she threw it
down in haste, to give all her attention to this frantic young thing.
"What were you saying to him?" she asked, mildly.
"Nothing! Not a blame thing! Only just asking him for my money, like you
told me. Ah, he’s a fine feller, he is! The names he called me--and just
last night crying and saying he couldn’t live away from me!"
And she told all the story to Polly--even showed her Vincent’s letter.
"Now!" she said. "Give me my carfare, and I’ll go."
"I have nothing. Perhaps Mrs. Russell----”
But Mrs. Russell was out. Polly was in misery. There was this terrible
girl, demanding her money, implacably waiting for it, this girl whom her
husband had treated so shockingly. Her only wish in life was to be rid
of her.
"Take my ring," she said. "It’s worth ten times what you want."
"I can’t buy a ticket with it. I don’t believe you have any money, the
lot of you!"
Paradise was lost, her hopes destroyed, her pride mortally wounded; so,
having nothing to lose, she let herself go. She threw off all restraint;
she was as coarse, as fierce, as she wished to be.
Polly was wonderfully patient with the girl.
"You shall be paid," she said. "I’ll go down with you to Mr. Geraldine.
If he hasn’t any ready money, he’ll write you a cheque."
He still sat there writing. He paid no attention to them as they opened
the door and went in.
"Vincent!" said Polly. "Will you please write a cheque for Angelica at
once?"
Then he laid down his pen and looked at them for a long time in
contemptuous silence.
"I told her," he said, "just what I shall tell you. I have no money."
"But, Vincent, a cheque----”
He smiled, pulled a cheque-book out of his pocket, and wrote. Tearing
out a leaf, he handed it to Angelica. She stared at it.
"What do you mean?" she cried.
Polly looked over her shoulder.
"Please don’t joke, Vincent," she said. "Please give her what is due
her."
For he had drawn a cheque for ten thousand dollars.
"My dear Polly, any cheque I wrote would be equally ridiculous. There’s
nothing in the bank."
"Then where is it, Vincent?"
"I’ve told you. My investments----”
"But my income? Surely that----”
He began to show irritability.
"I tell you," he said, "that it’s all gone. Now, for God’s sake, my dear
soul, go away! Can’t you see I’m trying to write?"
"But my income----”
"Oh, you and your damned income!" he shouted. "You women and your
beastly greed! Haven’t you any soul? Can’t you think of anything but
money?"
"No, I can’t, Vincent, just now. It’s a very serious matter," said
Polly, gravely.
He jumped up with an oath.
"It’s disposed of for the next two years," he cried. "You left it to my
judgment. I’ve used my judgment. And now you come whining and sniveling
about your handful of pennies. By God, I’m entitled to it! The whole
thing doesn’t amount to what you cost me in a month--your clothes and
your----”
"Never mind that, please. Do you mean that we can’t pay Angelica?"
"Good God! Is your head made of wood? Or are you getting senile?"
Polly went on, as unheeding of his gross rudeness as a rock is of the
spray that dashes over it. Quiet and resolute, she pursued her
investigations. Her money was her life, her peace, her freedom, her
dignity; she knew that she could not earn any more, and that there was
no other man to give it to her. She must have it!
Angelica observed her with profound admiration. Even to further her own
best interests, even, she fancied, to save her own life, she couldn’t
have remained so calm, so self-controlled.
"Do you mean," she went on, "that we have nothing?"
"I do not! We have all sorts of things--paintings, books, your jewelry.
Simply we have no _money_. Now let me alone!"
"But what do you propose doing?" she asked. "We can’t go on, like this,
without a penny. How do you propose to pay Angelica?"
He raised his upper lip in a brutal sort of sneer.
"Oh, you don’t know, do you? Of course not! You’re perfectly innocent,
aren’t you? You never suspected, did you, who it was paid for the
clothes on your back? It’ll be such a shock to you, dear soul! In our
need we shall have to turn to Eddie! He’ll pay Angelica, he’ll pay me,
and he’ll pay you. God bless Eddie!"
That blow told. Polly winced under it. She turned away slowly and went
out of the room. Angelica followed her, and, looking back from the
doorway, she saw Vincent writing again.