University of Virginia Library

7. VII
LOVE IN SEVERAL ASPECTS

It was not long before the community was talking of the change in Hilda, the abrupt change to a gentle, serious, silent woman, the sparkle gone from her eyes, pathos there in its stead. But not even her own family knew her secret.

“When is Mr. Feuerstein coming again?” asked her father when a week had passed.

“I don't know just when. Soon,” answered Hilda, in a tone which made it impossible for such a man as he to inquire further.

Sophie brought all her cunning to bear in her effort to get at the facts. But Hilda evaded her hints and avoided her traps. After much thinking she decided

that Mr. Feuerstein had probably gone for good, that Hilda was hoping when there was nothing to hope for, and that her own affairs were suffering from the cessation of action. She was in the mood to entertain the basest suggestions her craft could put forward for making marriage between Hilda and Otto impossible. But she had not yet reached the stage at which overt acts are deliberately planned upon the surface of the mind.

One of her girl friends ran in to gossip with her late in the afternoon of the eighth day after Mr. Feuerstein's “parting scene” in Tompkins Square. The talk soon drifted to Hilda, whom the other girl did not like.

“I wonder what's become of that lover of hers—that tall fellow from up town?” asked Miss Hunneker.

“I don't know,” replied Sophie in a strained, nervous manner. “I always

hated to see Hilda go with him. No good ever comes of that sort of thing.”

“I supposed she was going to marry him.”

Sophie became very uneasy indeed. “It don't often turn out that way,” she said in a voice that was evidently concealing something—apparently an ugly rent in the character of her friend.

Walpurga Hunneker opened her eyes wide. “You don't mean—” she exclaimed. And, as Sophie looked still more confused,

“Well, I thought so! Gracious! Her pride must have had a fall. No wonder she looks so disturbed.”

“Poor Hilda!” said Sophie mournfully. Then she looked at Walpurga in a frightened way as if she had been betrayed into saying too much.

Walpurga spent a busy evening among her confidantes, with the result that the next day the neighborhood was agitated

by gossip—insinuations that grew bolder and bolder, that had sprung from nowhere, but pointed to Hilda's sad face as proof of their truth. And on the third day they had reached Otto's mother. Not a detail was lacking—even the scene between Hilda and her father was one of the several startling climaxes of the tale. Mrs. Heilig had been bitterly resentful of Hilda's treatment of her son, and she accepted the story—it was in such perfect harmony with her expectations from the moment she heard of Mr. Feuerstein. In the evening, when he came home from the shop, she told him.

“There isn't a word of truth in it, mother,” he said. “I don't care who told you, it's a lie.”

“Your love makes you blind,” answered the mother. “But I can see that her vanity has led her just where vanity always leads —to destruction.”

“Who told you?” he demanded.

Mrs. Heilig gave him the names of several women. “It is known to all,” she said.

His impulse was to rush out and trace down the lie to its author. But he soon realized the folly of such an attempt. He would only aggravate the gossip and the scandal, give the scandal-mongers a new chapter for their story. Yet he could not rest without doing something.

He went to Hilda—she had been most friendly toward him since the day he helped her with her lover. He asked her to walk with him in the Square. When they were alone, he began: “Hilda, you believe I'm your friend, don't you?”

She looked as if she feared he were about to reopen the old subject.

“No—I'm not going to worry you,” he said in answer to the look. “I mean just friend.”

“I know you are, Otto,” she replied

with tears in her eyes. “You are indeed my friend. I've counted on you ever since you—ever since that Sunday.”

“Then you won't think wrong of me if I ask you a question? You'll know I wouldn't, if I didn't have a good reason, even though I can't explain?”

“Yes—what is it?”

“Hilda, is—is Mr. Feuerstein coming back?”

Hilda flushed. “Yes, Otto,” she said. “I haven't spoken to any one about it, but I can trust you. He's had trouble and it has called him away. But he told me he'd come back.” She looked at him appealingly. “You know that I love him, Otto. Some day you will like him, will see what a noble man he is.”

“When is he coming back?”

“I didn't ask him. I knew he'd come as soon as he could. I wouldn't pry into his affairs.”

“Then you don't know why he went or when he's coming?”

“I trust him, just as you'll want a girl to trust you some day when you love her.”

As soon as he could leave her, he went up town, straight to the German Theater. In the box-office sat a young man with hair precisely parted in the middle and sleeked down in two whirls brought low on his forehead.

“I'd like to get Mr. Feuerstein's address,” said Otto.

“That dead-beat?” the young man replied contemptuously. “I suppose he got into you like he did into every one else. Yes, you can have his address. And give him one for me when you catch him. He did me out of ten dollars.”

Otto went on to the boarding-house in East Sixteenth Street. No, Mr. Feuerstein was not in and it was not known when he would return—he was very uncertain.

Otto went to Stuyvesant Square and seated himself where he could see the stoop of the boarding-house. An hour, two hours, two hours and a half passed, and then his patient attitude changed abruptly to action. He saw the soft light hat and the yellow bush coming toward him. Mr. Feuerstein paled slightly as he recognized Otto.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” said Otto in a tone which Mr. Feuerstein wished he had the physical strength to punish. “Sit down here—I've got something to say to you.”

“I'm in a great hurry. Really, you'll have to come again.”

But Otto's look won. Mr. Feuerstein hesitated, seated himself.

“I want to tell you,” said Otto quietly, “that as the result of your going away so suddenly and not coming back a wicked lying story is going round about Hilda.

She does not know it yet, but it won't be long before something will be said—maybe publicly. And it will break her heart.”

“I can't discuss her with you,” said Mr. Feuerstein. “Doubtless you mean well. I'm obliged to you for coming. I'll see.” He rose.

“Is that all?” said Otto.

“What more can I say?”

“But what are you going to do?”

“I don't see how I can prevent a lot of ignorant people from gossiping.”

“Then you're not going straight down there? You're not going to do what a man'd do if he had the decency of a dog?”

“You are insulting! But because I believe you mean well, I shall tell you that it is impossible for me to go for several days at least. As soon as I honorably can, I shall come and the scandal will vanish like smoke.”

Otto let him go. “I mustn't thrash him,

and I can't compel him to be a man.” He returned to the German Theater; he must learn all he could about this Feuerstein.

“Did you see him?” asked the ticket-seller.

“Yes, but I didn't get anything.”

Otto looked so down that the ticket-seller was moved to pity, to generosity.

“Well, I'll give you a tip. Keep after him; keep your eye on him. He's got a rich father-in-law.”

Otto leaned heavily on the sill of the little window. “Father-in-law?” A sickening suspicion peered into his mind.

“He was full the other night and he told one of our people he was married to a rich man's daughter.”

“Was the name Brauner?” asked Otto.

“He didn't name any names. But—let me think—they say it's a daughter of a brewer, away up town. Yes, Ganser—I think that was the name.”

“Oh!” Otto's face brightened. “Where is Ganser's place?” he asked.

“I don't know—look in the directory. But the tip is to wait a few days. He hasn't got hold of any of the old man's money yet—there's some hitch. There'll be plenty for all when it comes, so you needn't fret.”

Otto went to the brewery, but Peter had gone home. Otto went on to the house and Peter came down to the brilliant parlor, where the battle of hostile shades and colors was raging with undiminished fury. In answer to Peter's look of inquiry, he said: “I came about your son-in-law, Mr. Feuerstein.”

“Who are you? Who told you?” asked Peter, wilting into a chair.

“They told me at the theater.”

Peter gave a sort of groan. “It's out!” he cried, throwing up his thick, short arms.

“Everybody knows!”

Shrewd Otto saw the opening. “I don't think so,” he replied, “at least not yet. He has a bad reputation—I see you know that already. But it's nothing to what he will have when it comes out that he's been trying to marry a young lady down town since he married your daughter.”

“But it mustn't come out!” exclaimed Ganser. “I won't have it. This scandal has disgraced me enough.”

“That's what I came to see you about,” said Otto. “The young lady and her friends don't know about his marriage. It isn't necessary that any of them should know, except her. But she must be put on her guard. He might induce her to run away with him.”

“Rindsvieh!” muttered Ganser, his hair and whiskers bristling. “Dreck!”

“I want to ask you, as a man and a father, to see that this young lady is warned. She'll be anxious enough to keep

quiet. If you do, there won't be any scandal— at least not from there.”

“I'll go down and warn her. Where is she? I'll speak to her father.”

“And have him make a row? No, there's only one way. Send your daughter to her.”

“But you don't know my daughter. She's a born—” Just in time Ganser remembered that he was talking to a stranger and talking about his daughter. “She wouldn't do it right,” he finished.

“She can go in and see the young lady alone and come out without speaking to anybody else. I'll promise you there'll be no risk.”

Ganser thought it over and decided to take Otto's advice. They discussed Mr. Feuerstein for several minutes, and when Otto left, Ganser followed him part of the way down the stoop, shaking hands with him. It was a profound pleasure to the

brewer to be able to speak his mind on the subject of his son-in-law to an intelligent, appreciative person. He talked nothing else to his wife and Lena, but he had the feeling that he might as well talk aloud to himself.

After supper—the Gansers still had supper in the evening, their fashionable progress in that direction having reached only the stage at which dinner is called luncheon—he put Lena into the carriage and they drove to Avenue A. On the way he told her exactly what to say and do. He stayed in the carriage. “Be quick,” he said, “and no foolishness!”

Lena, swelling and rustling with finery and homelier than before her troubles, little though they disturbed her, marched into the shop and up to the end counter, where Hilda was standing.

“You are Miss Hilda Brauner?” she said. “I want to see you alone.”

Hilda looked her surprise but showed Lena into the living-room, which happened to be vacant. Lena could not begin, so intent was she upon examining her rival. “How plain she's dressed,” she thought, “and how thin and black she is!” But it was in vain; she could not deceive her rising jealousy. It made her forget her father's instructions, forget that she was supposed to hate Feuerstein and was getting rid of him.

“I am Mrs. Carl Feuerstein,” she cried, her face red and her voice shrill with anger and excitement. “And I want you to stop flirting with my husband!”

Hilda stood petrified. Lena caught sight of a photograph on the mantelpiece behind Hilda. She gave a scream of fury and darted for it. “How dare you!” she shrieked. “You impudent thing!” She snatched the frame, tore it away from the photograph and flung it upon the floor.

As she gazed at that hair like a halo of light, at those romantic features and upturned eyes, she fell to crying and kissing them.

Hilda slowly turned and watched the spectacle—the swollen, pudgy face, tear-stained, silly, ugly, the tears and kisses falling upon the likeness of her lover. She suddenly sprang at Lena, her face like a thunder-storm, her black brows straight and her great eyes flashing. “You lie!” she exclaimed. And she tore the photograph from Lena's hands and clasped it to her bosom.

Lena shrank in physical fear from this aroused lioness. “He's my husband,” she whined. “You haven't got any right to his picture.”

“You lie!” repeated Hilda, throwing back her head.

“It's the truth,” said Lena, beginning to cry. “I swear to God it's so. You can

ask pa if it ain't. He's Mr. Ganser, the brewer.”

“Who sent you here to lie about him to me?”

“Oh, you needn't put on. You knew he was married. I don't wonder you're mad. He's my husband, while he's only been making a fool of you. You haven't got any shame.” Lena's eyes were on the photograph again and her jealousy over-balanced fear. She laughed tauntingly.

“Of course you're trying to brazen it out. Give me that picture! He's my husband!”

Just then Ganser appeared in the doorway— he did not trust his daughter and had followed her when he thought she was staying too long. At sight of him she began to weep again. “She won't believe me, pa,” she said. “Look at her standing there hugging his picture.”

Ganser scowled at his daughter and addressed himself to Hilda, “It's true,

Miss,” he said. “The man is a scoundrel. I sent my daughter to warn you.”

Hilda looked at him haughtily. “I don't know you,” she said, “and I do know him. I don't know why you've come here to slander him. But I do know that I'd trust him against the whole world.” She glanced from father to daughter. “You haven't done him any harm and you might as well go.”

Peter eyed her in disgust. “You're as big a fool as my Lena,” he said. “Come on, Lena.”

As Lena was leaving the room, she gave Hilda a malignant glance. “He's my husband,” she said spitefully, “and you're— well, I wouldn't want to say what you are.”

“Move!” shouted Ganser, pushing her out of the room. His parting shot at Hilda was: “Ask him.”

Hilda, still holding the photograph,

stared at the doorway through which they had disappeared. “You lie!” she repeated, as if they were still there. Then again, a little catch in her voice: “You lie!” And after a longer interval, a third time, with a sob in her throat: “You lie! I know you lie!” She sat at the table and held the photograph before her. She kissed it passionately, gazed long at it, seeing in those bold handsome features all that her heart's love believed of him.

Suddenly she started up, went rapidly down the side hall and out into the street. Battling with her doubts, denouncing herself as disloyal to him, she hurried up the Avenue and across the Square and on until she came to his lodgings. When she asked for him the maid opened the parlor door and called through the crack: “Mr. Feuerstein, a lady wants to see you.”

As the maid disappeared down the basement stairs, Mr. Feuerstein appeared. At

sight of her he started back. “Hilda!” he exclaimed theatrically, and frowned.

“Don't be angry with me,” she said humbly. “I wouldn't have come, only—”

“You must go at once!” His tone was abrupt, irritated.

“Yes—I will. I just wanted to warn you—” She raised her eyes appealingly toward his face. “Two people came to see me to-night—Mr. Ganser and his daughter—”

Feuerstein fell back a step and she saw that he was shaking and that his face had become greenish white. “It's false!” he blustered. “False as hell!—”

And she knew that it was true.

She continued to look at him and he did not try to meet her eyes. “What did they tell you?” he said, after a long pause, remembering that he had denied before a charge had been made.

She was looking away from him now.

She seemed not to have heard him. “I must go,” she murmured, and began slowly to descend the stoop.

He followed her, laid his hand upon her arm. “Hilda!” he pleaded. “Let me explain!”

“Don't touch me!” She snatched her arm away from him. She ran down the rest of the steps and fled along the street. She kept close to the shadow of the houses. She went through Avenue A with hanging head, feeling that the eyes of all were upon her, condemning, scorning. She hid herself in her little room, locking the door. Down beside the bed she sank and buried her face in the covers. And there she lay, racked with the pain of her gaping wounds—wounds to love, to trust, to pride, to self-respect. “Oh, God, let me die,” she moaned. “I can't ever look anybody in the face again.”