I would if I could. I am not altogether a brute, a monster. I am
not callous to the sufferings of my own child; but I have
absolutely nothing. Ever since I had your first letter I have been
thinking, trying my utmost to discover some way to help you.
And the only way I can do so is to appeal to Eddie, to tell him the
whole story, and to throw ourselves on his mercy. It will be a
bitter blow to him, and it is a terrible penance for me to tell
him; but, for your sake, I must bear the pain of telling and he of
hearing. He will help us, Angelica. He is a generous and noble
soul. He has never yet failed me.
She remained stupefied.
"D’ye mean Eddie doesn’t know?" she cried, addressing an invisible
Vincent.
It was such an amazing idea to her. She had always imagined Eddie as
possessed of all the details. She had often thought of him, sitting in
his trench in the moonlight, reflecting with grief and bitterness over
her infamy. She had looked upon him as utterly lost, beyond her reach.
She had believed, as a matter of course, that all those people knew, and
despised and hated her--Polly, Mrs. Russell, all the servants.
"Why, mommer!" she cried. "He----”
"Whatever is it, child?" asked Mrs. Kennedy, surprised at the strange
look on her daughter’s face. Angelica had risen slowly to her feet, and
was staring at her mother. A new, a terrible hope was dawning upon her.
"Quick, mommer!" she cried suddenly. "I got to stop him!"
She rushed into the bedroom, put on a hat over her disordered hair,
pinned together the open bosom of her blouse, and ran down the hall.
"Angie! Angie!" cried her mother. "Where are you going?"
The door banged. She was gone.
Mrs. Kennedy laid the baby on the bed.
"Cry, if you must," she said. "I can’t hold you any more till I’ve had a
cup of tea."