“Don’t mention her,” said Jinny vehemently. “If it hadn’t been for her you wouldn’t have been in all this trouble.”
Angela smiled. “If it hadn’t been for her, you and I probably never would have really found each other again. But you mustn’t blame her. Sooner or later I’d have been admitting—‘confessing,’ as the papers say—my black blood. Not that I myself think it of such tremendous importance; in spite of my efforts to break away I really don’t, Virginia. But because this country of ours makes it so important, against my own conviction I was beginning to feel as though I were laden down with a great secret. Yet when I begin to delve into it, the matter of blood seems nothing compared with individuality, character, living. The truth of the matter is, the whole business was just making me fagged to death.”
She sat lost intently in thought. “All of the complications of these last few years—and you can’t guess what complications there have been, darling child—have been based on this business of ‘passing.’ I understand why Miss Powell gave up the uneven fight about her passage. Of course, in a way it would have been a fine thing if she could have held on, but she was perfectly justified in letting go so she could avoid still greater bitterness and disappointment and so she could have something left in her to devote to her art. You can’t fight and create at the same time. And I understand, too, why your Anthony bestirs himself every little while and makes his confession; simply so he won’t have to be bothered with the trappings of pretence and watchfulness. I suppose he told you about that night down at Martha Burden’s?”
“Yes,” said Jinny, sighing, “he has terrible ideals. There’s something awfully lofty about Anthony. I wish he were more like Matthew, comfortable and homey. Matt’s got some ideals, too, but he doesn’t work them overtime. Anthony’s a darling, two darlings, but he’s awfully, awfully what-do-you-call-it, ascetic. I shouldn’t be at all surprised but what he had a secret canker eating at his heart.”
Angela said rather sternly, “Look here, Jinny, I don’t believe you love him after all, do you?”
“Well now, when I get right down to it sometimes I think I do. Sometimes I think I don’t. Of course the truth of the matter is, I’d hardly have thought about Anthony or marriage either just now, if I hadn’t been so darn lonely. You know I’m not like you, Angela. When we were children I was the one who was going to have a career, and you were always going to have a good time. Actually it’s the other way round; you’re the one who’s bound to have a career. You just gravitate to adventure. There’s something so forceful and so strong about you that you can’t keep out of the battle. But, Angela, I want a home—with you if you could just stand still long enough, or failing that, a home with husband and children and all that goes with it. Of course I don’t mind admitting that at any time I’d have given up even you for Matthew. But next to being his wife I’d rather live with you, and next to that I’d like to marry Anthony. I don’t like to be alone; for though I can fend for myself I don’t want to.”
Angela felt herself paling with the necessity of hiding her emotion. “So poor Anthony’s only third in your life?”
“Yes, I’m afraid he is … Darling, what do you say to scallops for dinner? I feel like cooking today. Guess I’ll hie me to market.”
She left the room, and her sister turned to the large photograph of Cross which Virginia kept on the mantel. She put her fingers on the slight youthful hollows of his pictured cheeks, touched his pictured brow. “Oh Anthony, Anthony, is Life cheating you again? You’ll always be first in my life, dearest.”
Perhaps Virginia’s diagnosis of her character was correct. At any rate she welcomed the present combination of difficulties through which she was now passing. Otherwise this last confession of Jinny’s would have plunged her into fresh unhappiness. But she had many adjustments to make and to face. First of all there was her new status in the tiny circle in which she had moved. When at the end of two weeks she went down to her old apartment in Jayne Street to ask for her mail, she was, in spite of herself amazed and hurt to discover a chilled bewilderment, an aloofness, in the manner of Mrs. Denver, with whom she had a brief encounter. On the other hand there were a note and a calling card from Martha Burden, and some half dozen letters from Elizabeth and Walter Sandburg.
Martha’s note ran: “Undoubtedly you and Mr. Cross are very fine people. But I don’t believe I could stand another such shock very soon. Of course it was magnificent of you to act as you did. But oh, my dear, how quixotic. And after all à quoi bon? Will you come to see me as soon you get this, or send me word how I may see you? And Angèle, if you let all this nonsense interfere with your going to Europe I’ll never forgive you. Ladislas and I have several thousand dollars stored away just begging to be put out at interest.”
Elizabeth Sandburg said nothing about the matter, but Angela was able to read her knowledge between the lines. The kindhearted couple could not sufficiently urge upon her their unchanging regard and friendship. “Why on earth don’t you come and see us?” Elizabeth queried in her immense, wandering chirography, five words to a page. “You can’t imagine how we miss you. Walter’s actually getting off his feed. Do take a
