“And I want only you,” she said brokenly, weeping again. “I am used to hardship and uncertainty. I am used to heavy work and sacrifice. These are nothing, if we are together. I know. I am not romantic; I have worked very hard.”
He smiled, played with her hair. “But—I want the best for you. You must humor me. You trust me, my pretty one?”
After a moment, she answered, heart-brokenly: “What else can I do?”
He pressed his lips against her bare shoulder, and said: “I want everything for you. Comfort, security, safety, luxury, happiness. Money alone can buy these. I promise them to you. If I—took you away now, I would have nothing to give you. That would injure my self-respect permanently. It would all be drab and ugly. If we are to be happy, I must be free for a little longer. Then I shall know that I have you to work for, and that will be sufficient.”
He lifted his head, and she saw that strange, hard, indomitable expression of his again. He did not see her. He was looking beyond her, grimly. She was ominously frightened again. She put her hand on his, and pleaded: “Franz.”
He smiled then, with returning tenderness. “Remember, my darling, that I shall not allow you to leave me. That is not a promise. It is a threat.”
She tried to laugh at such absurdity, but all at once he was not smiling. He was looking at her, for just an instant, with inexorable resolve, almost as though she were an enemy who was about to deprive him of everything he wanted.
He went into his own room, in which he had not slept, and she heard him washing in the cracked bowl. She hastily dressed, washed her own face, patted her hair and braided it as tightly as possible. In the cracked mirror she saw her pallor, the heaviness of her eyes. But there was something else there, of new softness, a bloom, a maturity and completeness. Happiness rose in her so passionately that she had to grip the corners of the commode to support herself. She trusted him. He had not lied to her. She had seen truth in him. She belonged to him, and he would never let her go.
The gray light was no longer ugly to her. It was a promise of spring, of summer. It was the promise of America, full of strength and glory.
He returned to her, and for the last time, they embraced in silence, clinging to each other. Then, hand in hand, they went down the stairs together. The milk cart was at the door. It was too late for breakfast, but they hastily swallowed a cup of black steaming coffee. Franz glanced at his watch. It was a little after five. He frowned. He would be late, on this morning which was the most important morning in his life.
“How long will it take to drive us into town?” he asked the farmer. Behind him stood the proprietor, who had evidently had quite a conversation with the yokel before the guests had descended.
“Depends,” drawled the other, with a shrewd look. “If I get two dollars, you get into town at eight o’clock. But if I get five, you get in at seven. Please yourself.”
Franz counted his money, his lips tight and brutal with suppressed rage. But he never fought against the inevitable. He had six dollars. The night had been an expensive one. “All right, five dollars.”
“In advance,” said the farmer, holding out a calloused palm, and grinning briefly at the proprietor.
“No,” said Franz, calmly, “not in advance. I shall give you two dollars now. When we reach town, you get the other three. It is up to you.”
“No, sir, it’s up to you. Five dollars, or eight o’clock.”
Franz laid two dollars on the board seat beside the farmer. “It is up to you,” he repeated. “You’ve got to chance getting the other three.”
He turned to Irmgard, and helped her climb up on the seat beside the farmer. The man muttered and growled. Franz leapt up now, and seated himself beside Irmgard. “Let us go on,” he said.
“I don’t trust you foreigners,” said the farmer, obstinately.
“Then we are even. I don’t trust you either,” said Franz, tranquilly.
The horses strained, and pulled away from the inn. It was very cold, in the early morning light. The sky was like dull pewter, heavy with clouds, and beneath it, the earth was rutted iron, veined with snow. The frozen trees they passed were freckled with white, and swayed dolorously in the edged wind. On each side of the pitted road the country stretched away, blank and dead, streaked with white tall dry grasses, whispering their litany of death, tufting the empty fields. Crows fluttered against the sky, like vultures, cawing. Nothing stirred, except for a few cows snuffling despondently at the tufts of grass.
Franz put his arm about Irmgard to protect her from the cold. She leaned against him. She was very tired. She fell asleep, her head on his shoulder. The springless cart, loaded with its milk cans, swayed and lurched over the black and narrow road. The wind blew strands of Irmgard’s bright hair over her sleeping face, and Franz touched them gently with his finger. He saw nothing but her lips and her closed eyes, fringed with their bronze lashes. He held her closely yet tenderly, as he might have held a child. He said to himself: She shall never leave me. I will follow her to the ends of the earth.
He heard an approaching wagon, and hoofbeats. A strange closed black buggy passed him. On the seat sat a young bearded man with an ascetic face, grimly holding the reins. Beside him sat a plump, rosy young woman, beaming. The farmer touched his cap. “Mornin’, Mr. Barbour,” he said. The young man responded by a dignified bend of his head. The young woman dimpled. They went on.
The farmer, bearing no grudges, spoke. “That’s Mr. Barbour. His dad’s the richest man in the state. Maybe in the whole country. But he don’t care about money, young Mr. Barbour. He married a nice Amish girl from hereabouts, and they live down the next road a piece. Good farm, too. One of the best in the country.”
“The Amish—they are Germans, aren’t they?” asked Franz, with a little curiosity.
The farmer scowled. “Yep, but we don’t figure them as bein’ foreigners. Nice folks. Mind their own business, and even though they got funny ways, we like ’em. Good, hardworkin’, and no foolishness. Girls as pretty as pictures, even if they wear them funny bonnets, and marry their own kind. Best women folks in the state, they are, not always rushin’ off to town and spendin’ their men’s money on fancy dresses and sinful boots with tassels on ’em. They just stay at home, and tend the cows and chickens, and the gardens, and their kids. And the men can make a miser’ble farm produce more than any two other men with better land. Very church-goin’, too, allus singin’ hymns and havin’ prayer-meetin’s.”
“Barbour,” said Franz, reflectively. “You don’t mean Barbour-Bouchard, the munitions and steel people?”
“Yes, sir. That’s them. But young Mr. Barbour won’t have no truck with ’em. They say his old man’s mean as hell. I wouldn’t know. But everybody hereabouts likes young Mr. Barbour, even the Amish, though he ain’t a German.”
“He must be a fool,” remarked Franz, looking back at the black buggy, now a smartly trotting speck in the distance.
“That’s what you say,” replied the farmer, sardonically. “But all folks ain’t so crazy about money as some.”
“Such as you,” said Franz.
The farmer grinned. “Well, ’tain’t my fault, exactly. Bill, back there’s my cousin. He told me this mornin’ you was a hard feller to get money out of, and you wouldn’t pay your just bill for supper. Said I’d better get my money in advance.” He glanced sideways at Irmgard. “Your wife’s tired, ain’t she? Prettiest girl I ever did see. Funny thing, she looks like you, more’n a little.”
“She’s my cousin,” said Franz. He looked down at the sleeping girl thoughtfully, and then with increasing interest. Yes, there was a great resemblance to himself in her profile. The same calm withdrawal, the same implacability, the same shape of lip and nose, and the same curve of chin. His passion for her increased. The Narcissism which is in all men was unusually strong in him. This was a feminine reflection of himself, and with this thought his arm tightened strongly about her, as if with self-protection. We belong together, he thought.
We were made for each other. We are really only one person. He added to himself, with a smile: And I am that person!
He was not weakened by his love for her, he thought. He was made stronger. Nothing would ever separate her from him. Even though he could never marry her. He had known that always. She should never get away from him, even though he could not, and would not, marry her. It was nonsense. He and Irmgard were above the mean little formalities of marriage. He would marry some day. Perhaps soon. That would have nothing to do with Irmgard and himself. He was confident that he would be able to overcome any last scruples she had, any reproaches, any silly hysterics. You shall never get away from me, he said to her silently, touching her forehead with his lips.
They were approaching the outskirts of Nazareth. The dismal little suburbs were already steaming with smoke, and a horse-car rattled down a street.
“How far do you go?” asked Franz.
“Got to let off this load at the station. Then I’ll take you where you want to go. That’s if I get my three more dollars now.”
Franz laughed, and gave the farmer the balance of the money. A church bell in the distance tolled seven o’clock. He would not be very late, after all, though he would have no time to go home and change his clothes. He glanced down ruefully at his new suit and coat.
“Take me to the Schmidt mills, and then you can take the lady to her home,” he said.
They stopped at the ricketty station, and men came out to help with the unloading of the milk. Franz gently aroused Irmgard, and she sat up, staring and stupefied.
“We are here,” he said. “Within half an hour, you’ll be home.”
They looked at each other in a smiling silence, Irmgard shy and speechless. Franz pressed her hands warmly in his. “Soon?” he whispered.
“I have no day off until after Christmas,” she said, not smiling now, but looking at him with pathetic intensity.
“But Christmas Day? You will come to the flat, then?”
“Yes.” Suddenly she was smiling again, clinging to his hands. “I will be there. Franz?”
“Yes, my darling?”
“You—you do not despise me?”
He said nothing, only gazed at her steadfastly, and she was satisfied, warmth stealing hotly over her cold and aching body. They held hands when the farmer climbed back upon the seat, and drove towards the mills. They did not speak, only smiled, when Franz was dropped off at the gates. The cart drove on. Irmgard looked back to wave, but Franz was already gone.
The farmer, alone with this pretty girl, made himself agreeable.
“Good-lookin’ feller, yore husband, Missis. But harder’n nails.” He chuckled. “I like a feller with git-up. Looks like you, too.”
Irmgard was silent. The next immediate problem confronted her. This drab home-coming, furtive in the morning, her disheveled hair and stained face and crushed garments, excited her anxiety and embarrassment. She smoothed her hair with her chilled hands, rubbed her cheeks with her handkerchief, settled her bonnet. When the cart approached Grove Street, she flushed deeply, and began to tremble. Shame returned to her. She climbed down from the cart, and with bent head, hurried towards the Schmidt mansion. The blinds were still drawn, and nothing stirred. She silently let herself in the rear entrance, praying that she would encounter no one. The dark chill of the house smote her forcibly. It was like a catacomb, as Franz had said. She crept up the back stirway, having still encountered no servants, though she could hear Mrs. Flaherty and the maids in the distant kitchen, and Gillespie setting the table in the dining-room for Mr. Schmidt.
Thank God, she breathed. She opened the door of her room. It was quiet and still, waiting for her.
She stood in the center of the room, hardly breathing, looking about it. It was her refuge, her quietness, her sanctuary. Suddenly she began to cry, pressing her hands against her cheeks. She flung herself on the bed, and wept. Utter desolation came over her, utter abandonment. She buried her head in the clean white pillows, felt the softness of the quilts under her body. It was as she had left it. It had waited for her!
Finally, she rose, and feverishly stripped her clothing from her, until she was naked, and the discarded garments were a crushed heap about her. She washed in the cold water in the bowl. She dressed in her black cloth dress, fastened a clean white apron about her slender waist. She combed and brushed her hair, and coiled it neatly. She looked in the mirror, and saw her face, calm but flushed, her shining smooth hair. Then she tiptoed into Mrs. Schmidt’s room. That lady was still sleeping peacefully. The room was dark. Irmgard softly opened a window a little, then drew the silken coverlet gently over one of Mrs. Schmidt’s exposed arms. She finally touched a light to the fire laid on the hearth. Completing this, she stood for a moment, motionless, looking about her.
She would soon leave this house. She would be sorry, but the regret would only enhance her happiness. Perhaps Mrs. Schmidt would allow her to visit her, bringing Franz. But she would leave this house, with its sadness and gloom! She had found here the only friends she had ever known, the only tenderness and solicitude and consideration. But after all, this house was not a prison, in which captives were held in chains! Mrs. Schmidt, Ernestine and Baldur were free to come and go. Free to see her whenever they wished. They would not remain behind, peering through bars, watching her going wistfully. It was all nonsense. Part of the illusions of her tired but exalted mind.
And then she knew that something more terrible than prison gates held these people eternally in this house. It was themselves. They had only to push on the gates and they would open. They lacked the will to push. Or perhaps it was something much more subtle and frightful than lack of will.
Still musing wearily, she went downstairs for Mrs. Schmidt’s breakfast tray. She liked the great airy kitchen, the only room in the house which sunshine penetrated fully and completely. She liked the polished red tiles of the floor, the long black range against the brick wall, fuming with warmth and comfort. She liked the gigantic cupboards with their glass windows, behind which she could see the orderly rows of dishes, platters and soup tureens. Along one side of the wall were ranged the copper cooking utensils, brilliantly polished, ranging from a pan barely large enough to cook an egg to a pot almost as big as a washtub. These utensils caught the sun, flashed it back into the room in blinding golden light. A huge window, reaching from blackened ceiling to the floor, looked out upon the vegetable gardens and the stables. On the window seat, Mrs. Flaherty kept a great many pots of parsley, marjoram, mint and chives, blooming bravely though winter locked the garden and the land outside.
Irmgard was annoyed to find Matilda busily preparing a tray in the kitchen, while Mrs. Flaherty stood behind her, arms akimbo, and a look of dislike on her round red face. Neither saw the girl entering the doorway. Mrs. Flaherty spoke tartly and fumingly:
“I tell you, Miss Matilda, the colleen will be here soon. She’s got relatives in town, and stayed overnight for a change. She’ll be here.”
“A slut,” said Matilda, in a tone of satisfaction. “I knew she was a slut. She will not return. It is only good riddance.”
Irmgard halted, flushing deeply. But perhaps she was too sensitive. Perhaps Matilda was speaking of one of the chambermaids. She advanced into the kitchen. Mrs. Flaherty turned, and by her deeper color, and the triumphant glitter of her eyes, Irmgard knew that it was indeed herself of whom they had been speaking.
“Here she is!” exclaimed the cook. “Well, now, and where’ve you been keepin’ yourself, Miss?”
Matilda turned abruptly. Her broad fair face darkened with hatred and disappointment. “Where has she been?” she demanded, sardonically. “Ask her! And the poor lady upstairs is awake, and crying for her breakfast, which has been neglected and forgotten!”
“That is a lie,” said Irmgard quietly, her green eyes fixing the other coldly. “I have just left her. She is still asleep. I have lit her fire and prepared her bowl.” She turned to Mrs. Flaherty. “I think a poached egg will be be
st for her when she awakens, please, and perhaps a thin strip or two of bacon. No coffee, but hot chocolate. She has slept so well. I do not wish to disturb her with coffee.”
“I have her breakfast!” cried Matilda, seizing the tray and lifting it. She confronted Irmgard, holding the tray like a battering ram. “Out of my way, girl! I will attend Mrs. Schmidt this morning. She will be glad to hear that there is one in this house who does not neglect her!”
Irmgard did not move. She paled excessively. But her face became like stone. Matilda halted, nonplussed. To get by Irmgard she would have to use physical force. She was prepared to use it if necessary, when Mrs. Flaherty briskly stepped to Irmgard’s side, eyed Matilda belligerently, and shouted:
“You’ll not take that tray, you spalpeen! All that rubbish, ham and fried eggs, and coffee black enough to shine boots with! Don’t look at me like that,” and she suddenly flourished a very competent-looking fist. “One word out of you and I’ll wipe up the floor with ye! And you needn’t think you can frighten the likes of me with your glowerin’. I’ll be glad to be out of this house, in a minute. But you’ll have a fine time gettin’ another to take my place, that you will!”
Matilda literally swelled and puffed with rage. She looked ridiculous, standing there, tall, broad, stout, with the tray dangling in her hands, the plates slipping. She glared at Mrs. Flaherty as though she would annihilate her, but Mrs. Flaherty snorted contemptuously, put her hands on her hips, and tossed her head. Irmgard could not help smiling faintly. It was too absurd. But she did not move from her position.
Mrs. Flaherty’s demonstration, however, did cow Matilda. She was not accustomed to, nor familiar with, alien and unpredictable anger. But with Irmgard, there was a kindred, even if a hating one. She regarded the girl with savage hatred, until her small blue eyes almost popped from her head. She began to lash her with a torrent of German.