I
But Angelica herself! That _she_ should be undergoing this horror, this
nightmare, this incredible thing she had heard of and read of!
"Oh, mommer!" she cried. "Oh, _mommer_! It’s the worst thing I ever
heard of! I’m the worst----”
"Hush, deary! Don’t talk so wild. It’s bad, I must admit, but you’re
young, and I dare say you loved the man and trusted in him, to your
sorrow."
Angelica turned her face to the wall. That was the very worst of it. She
hadn’t really trusted Vincent at all. She had simply followed an
instinct of which she understood nothing. She had been dazzled by his
words, been deluded through compassion, through recklessness, through
desire, into throwing herself away upon a man who cared nothing for her,
who had no affection, no human kindness. He didn’t care what happened to
her. If she had been willing to stay with him a little longer, he would
have been willing to "love" her a little longer; but when she had
decided to leave him, he offered no resistance. He would quite easily
forget her, she knew.
Useless to tell herself that the conventional code of morality meant
nothing to her. It did! She had fancied herself superior to all that,
but that was because she hadn’t known or imagined what such a surrender
meant. Just to run into his arms, without ceremony, without any promise,
any covenant, without regard for any other human creature, reckless of
her own future, flinging away her pride, her freedom, her decency. That
wasn’t beautiful. That wasn’t love. What in God’s name was it?
She had not even happy memories. It was shame to remember her past joy.
She loathed herself for her past ecstasy. A perfect terror of her own
infamy swept over her.
"No!" she cried. "I can’t stand it! Mommer, it’s too awful! You don’t
know how awful! You don’t know what I did!"
"Why don’t you tell me, deary?"
"I can’t! I don’t know how. I’ll try." She sat up in bed and caught her
mother’s hand. "The worst is the way I treated Eddie. He was so good to
me! He asked me to marry him, and I said I would; and then, the very day
he left, I went away--with his own brother!"
"Oh, Angie!" cried her mother, in horror.
"Oh, mommer, if you knew Eddie, you’d see what an awful thing I’ve done!
He’s such a _good_ man, and so--kind of noble, and all that! I don’t
know how he’ll ever stand it. He trusted me."
"But what ever made you do such a thing, Angelica? Are you so terrible
fond of this other one?"
"No--not now. No--that’s what I can’t explain. I don’t know why I did.
I--I just seemed to forget everything. I--just thought--I loved him."
"And you don’t? You love the other one--the good one?"
Angelica began to weep.
"No," she said. "That’s the worst. I don’t love either of ’em. What’s
the matter with me, do you suppose? I don’t seem to have any heart!" She
struggled painfully to get her thought into words. "I hate Vincent, and
I like Eddie, a lot; but love--I’ve never felt it at all, mommer, for
any one," she sobbed. "Not that love they have in books. It makes me
feel dreadful. If I loved Vincent, I wouldn’t feel so mean and low and
bad. It would be--sort of splendid; but this! Mommer!"
"Well, deary?"
"Maybe there’s no such a thing."
"No such a thing as what?"
"As love."
Mrs. Kennedy had never experienced it; had never seen or heard of any
authentic case of this beautiful tenderness, this undying devotion, this
heavenly thing. Yet she firmly believed that it existed--this love which
was not desire, not infatuation, not madness, not sentimentality, not
friendship--this ecstasy which endured forever. Not experience, not
common sense, nothing at all could have convinced her, for it was
instinct that made her believe--nature’s most cruel and most necessary
deception. For life to continue, it is necessary that women shall cling
to two lies--that men are capable of truly loving them, and that their
children will love them in their old age.
"Deary," said Mrs. Kennedy, "I think you’d better write to him and tell
him, and see what he will do for you. Perhaps he’ll marry you."
"He is married," said Angelica indifferently. "Yes, mommer, I will write
to him; but it’s an even chance if he’ll come or not. He’s queer. You
can’t ever tell, with him. I’ll try, anyway, and see if I can’t get some
money out of him."
To her mother the tragedy was somewhat lessened by the fact that
Angelica didn’t love Vincent. She fancied that the girl would
consequently get over it better, not suffer so cruelly; but for Angelica
there lay the worst of it, the most intolerable part to bear. It was
that that made her frantic with shame and remorse. She looked in vain;
she could find no trace of magnificence in her downfall. It wasn’t a
splendid sin, done for reckless love. It was a damnable folly, committed
through reckless ignorance.