She stood on the front steps long after he was out of sight, lost in a
painful reverie. The rain was still falling steadily and violently,
without wind, from a pale gray sky. She watched it, absently, churning
the gravel walk, splashing up again from the puddles. What a desolate
and tremendous world that morning!
Eddie was really gone. She had said good-by to that generous and loyal
friend, had pressed his hand and tried to smile brightly after him. He
hadn’t wanted her to go to the railway-station with him.
"No," he had said. "Let’s say good-by here, in the place that’s going to
be our home."
He was in a bad state. He did all he knew to conceal it, but it was none
the less apparent to her that he was deeply troubled by the thought of
what lay before him, that he was most reluctant to go, unhappy, alarmed,
and a little puzzled. He was ashamed of all this, he wished to be a man,
like Vincent, and he naïvely believed that a true man was practically
devoid of any emotion, except love and anger.
Nevertheless, disturbed as he was, he didn’t for a moment neglect his
beloved Angelica’s interests. He wished to know how she was to get on.
"I’ll find another job," she said.
He didn’t object; he really considered that it would be best for her to
remain sturdily independent, under no obligation to him.
"I’ve made a will," he said hurriedly, "so that if I don’t come back,
you’ll be all right. In the mean time, if you do need anything, here’s
my lawyer’s address. I’ve told him to give you anything you ask for
without question."
Mrs. Russell, too, had gone. She had felt so upset by Eddie’s departure
and Polly’s cruel behaviour that she was obliged to take a ten-day
motor-trip with the doctor and Courtland. She hadn’t remembered to bid
Angelica good-by.
Polly, however, had been very, very kind. She had given Angelica several
little presents, which wasn’t her way, and she had spoken to her with a
sincere kindliness.
"My dear girl," she had said, "this has been a wretched thing for you. I
only hope it won’t really harm you. You mustn’t let it. Try to forget
it. Just now, perhaps, there’s a sort of glamour--but after you’ve been
gone for a while, I think you’ll see it all more clearly"--meaning
Vincent all the time, of course. "If only you could find some work that
you could put your heart into, Angelica--something you are suited to!
What do you think you’d like?"
"Well, I guess I’m going to marry Eddie----”
"Yes," said Polly, who didn’t think that would ever come to pass. "But
he may be gone for a long time; and meanwhile you’d like to show him,
wouldn’t you, what you can do?"
"I guess I’d like dressmaking and millinery," said Angelica.
"Very likely I can find some sort of opening for you. I know quite a
number of self-supporting girls. Keep in touch with me, be sure!"
The house was very quiet. There was nothing to distract her, and
Angelica was able to meditate at her leisure. She thought first of
herself and her return to her mother, of that "going back" which was so
difficult to this ardent spirit always eager to go forward.
She suffered under a terrible discontent and restlessness. She was
ashamed of the past, disgusted with the future. She felt that life, real
life, was ended; the adventure finished, the mysterious charm lost.
Try as she would, she could not keep her mind from straying to Vincent.
He was adventure and charm, life itself, for her. She told herself that
she was going to forget him. He had treated her very badly, and she was
done with him. She was going to marry Eddie and be done with Vincent
_forever_.
But she knew that she could not. Wouldn’t she see forever in her dreams
that big, arrogant man with his hawk-like face and his bright hair? He
had hurt her, but he had made her happy, too. He had come upon her with
violence. Everything about his brief love-making had been startling and
disturbing. She had often hated him, but she had always loved
him--always, from that moment when she had seen him standing in the
doorway of Mrs. Russell’s room.
Then she gave her attention to Eddie, with a queer soreness of heart.
She felt that she was taking advantage of Eddie; that he was too good
for her. She was so sorry for him, so full of affection and respect for
him--and so disinclined to think about him!
She fancied she saw coming the taxi which was to take her to the
station, and she ran up-stairs to fetch her bag. Her familiar room was
neat and desolate, with the green blinds pulled half-way down, the
bureau and dressing-table stripped bare, the bed covered over with a
sheet. All trace of her was obliterated. It saddened her; she took a
last glance at herself in the darkened mirror and went out, closing the
door behind her.
She almost ran into Annie, who had been on the point of knocking on her
door.
"Mr. Vincent says he’d like to see you in the music-room for a few
minutes," the maid said curtly.
"No!" said Angelica, and then, almost immediately: "Yes!"
After all, she ought to see him, after what he had done. She ought to
thank him. Even if she were going to marry Eddie, there was no harm in
that. In fact, Eddie would doubtless have approved of it.
"He won’t eat me," she said. "Let’s see what he’s got to say!"
She tried to prepare herself for anything, whether she found him
pleading, passionate, brutal, or depressed. She felt herself quite
strong enough to withstand any of his moods--stronger than he was.
She entered again that little music-room where Mrs. Russell had
interviewed her so long ago; but to-day it had taken on quite a new
character. He had pulled the shades up to the top of the windows, so
that the cold light of the rainy day came in to destroy the charm and
romance of the armour, the harp, and the orange-shaded lamp that had so
delighted her.
Vincent sat on the piano-stool, writing on the closed piano. He was
without a coat, in a gray flannel shirt and old blue trousers. His hair
was all on end, in wildest disorder, and his face, when he turned to
Angelica, was troubled and ecstatic. He looked boyish, very touching,
and his manner was altogether unstudied.
"Angelica!" he said. "Please listen to this! Just tell me--these few
lines--do you get a picture at all? I mean--just tell me exactly how it
makes you feel--not what you think of it, you know, but how you _feel_.
Sit down, please, and keep quiet. Now, you know, this is almost the end
of the thing--the chap’s losing his faith--before he has the vision.
It’s free verse, of course--an impression:
"Men crushed down, like worms under a heavy foot,
Half stamped into the mud, but the other half
Still squirming. Writhing corpses
With writhing wounds,
From which the blood squirts violently;
And over it all, in a cloud of mist, rose and gold,
Rides God.
God! God! God, the father of all these mutilated animals!
God Almighty, whose will it is to kill his sons in these hideous ways!
He sees everything. He hears everything. He hears their yells,
Their howls for pity and for death. He could stamp the worm
Quite out of existence;
Smear it into the ground so that it should be obliterated and
At peace;
But for His own good purposes, He lets it squirm!"
Angelica was quite stupefied; she had no clue, no dimmest idea what to
say. She didn’t even know whether this weird stuff was meant to be
funny. She thought it was and yet----
"You see," he went on, "it’s meant to be horrible. It is horrible, isn’t
it?"
"Sure!" said Angelica. "It is."
"Now wait!" he said peremptorily, and swung round again on the stool, to
continue his writing.
"Wait!" he muttered again. "Don’t go! I want you to hear this!"
She sat perfectly still for a long time. Then, suddenly, he groaned,
looked round at her with a sort of glare, and tore up his paper with an
oath.
"No!" he cried. "No! I can’t _get_ it! Lord, it’s such torment!"
He buried his head in his hands.
"Angelica!" he said in a muffled voice. "Please come here!"
"What is it, Vincent?" she asked gently.
"Angelica! What’s going to become of me?" he asked huskily, his face
still hidden.
The question startled her.
"Why, I don’t know," she said. "I suppose you----”
"But I’m all alone!" he said in a sort of bewilderment. "They’ve all
left me, and you’re going, too!"
She didn’t dare to touch him, but her voice was a caress.
"Vincent, I’m sorry!"
He looked up and seized her hand.
"Oh, my love!" he said. "Aren’t we _fools_? Even to think of such a
thing as parting! You and I, Angelica, to part! It couldn’t be!"
"It’s got to be, Vincent," she answered, trying to withdraw her hand.
"No, it’s not. No, Angelica, you shan’t leave me!"
"Vincent!" she said. "Don’t! You’ve made enough trouble. Don’t make any
more."
"It’s you who are making the trouble. You’re breaking my heart, and your
own too--yes, yours! You can’t deny it! Every drop of blood in your body
tells you the same thing. You need me and you long for me as I need and
long for you."
"Please!" she said, beginning to cry. "You know I’m going to marry
Eddie."
"There’s no one else in the world but you and me. All other people, all
other things, are shadows--lies--folly! You are a woman and I am a man,
and we love each other. We cannot part!"
"I must!" she said desperately. "You know I must!"
"No! No! Only love me, Angelica, and care for nothing else. Oh, you
could not be so base and cowardly as to leave me!"
"Oh, Vincent!" she sobbed. "You talk like a fool! You know I can’t stay
here!"
"Look here!" he said. "Eddie gave me a hundred dollars. Come away with
me--now--this instant! Anywhere--it doesn’t matter. Just as we are,
friendless, homeless, penniless--just you and I, to make our way
together in the world."
She shook her head, the tears rolling down her cheeks.
"Oh, why didn’t you let me alone?" she cried, forlornly.
"My girl, how could I? I couldn’t lose you," he said, surprised. "I
couldn’t let you go."
"But you must!"
"But I won’t!"
"If you do really love me, you won’t make me so miserable----”
"Angelica, I don’t love like that. I don’t care whether you’re unhappy
or not. I want you! I am mad for you! Even if it means your damnation
and ruin, on earth and in hell! I don’t care for anything but you--not
for God Himself!"
"Don’t talk like that!"
"It’s true. I know well what I’m doing. For you I’ve lost my immortal
soul. I haven’t a soul now. I love you as Satan loves. I want to drag
you down to hell with me!"
Angelica, however, was by no means so concerned with hell as she was
with this world.
"But think what would become of me!" she cried.
"Who cares?"
This viewpoint startled her.
"Well," she said, "_I_ care."
"No, you don’t," he answered. "You only care for me."
She wished to argue, to defend herself; but it was too late. She was
lost. His words so appealed to the recklessness in her own nature, to
her devil-may-care heart, that she could not counter them. She loved
this man; her whole heart urged her blindly to follow him, to do what he
asked, to hurry gloriously to destruction.
She made a half-hearted effort to get away from him, but he only held
her closer. He looked down at her and laughed.
"No use!" he said. "You don’t _want_ to go!"
Suddenly she flung her arms about his neck, and clung to him, looking up
into his bold eyes.
"All right!" she cried. "_I_ don’t care!"