VI
TRAGEDY IN TOMPKINS SQUARE
After another talk with Travis, Feuerstein decided that he must give upHilda entirely until this affair with the Gansers was settled.Afterward--well, there would be time to decide when he had his fivethousand. He sent her a note, asking her to meet him in TompkinsSquare on Friday evening. That afternoon he carefully preparedhimself. He resolved that the scene between her and him should be, sofar as his part was concerned, a masterpiece of that art of which heknew himself to be one of the greatest living exponents. Only his ownelegant languor had prevented the universal recognition of this and histriumph over the envy of professionals and the venality of critics.
It was a concert night in Tompkins Square, and Hilda, off from her workfor an hour, came alone through the crowds to meet him. She made noeffort to control the delight in her eyes and in her voice. She lovedhim; he loved her. Why suppress and deny? Why not glory in theglorious truth? She loved him, not because he was her conquest, butbecause she was his.
Mr. Feuerstein was so absorbed in his impending "act" that he barelynoted how pretty she was and how utterly in love--what was thereremarkable in a woman being in love with him? "The women are all crazyabout me," was his inward comment whenever a woman chanced to glance athim. As he took Hilda's hand he gave her a look of intense, yearningmelancholy. He sighed deeply. "Let us go apart," he said. Then heglanced gloomily round and sighed again.
They seated themselves on a bench far away from the music and thecrowds. He did not speak but repeated his deep sigh.
"Has it made you worse to come, dear?" Hilda asked anxiously. "Are yousick?"
"Sick?" he said in a hollow voice. "My soul is sick--dying. My God!My God!" An impressive pause. "Ah, child, you do not know whatsuffering is--you who have lived only in these simple, humblesurroundings."
Hilda was trembling with apprehension. "What is it, Carl? You cantell me. Let me help you bear it."
"No! no! I must bear it alone. I must take my dark shadow from youryoung life. I ought not to have come. I should have fled. But lovemakes me a coward."
"But I love you, Carl," she said gently.
"And I have missed you--dreadfully, dreadfully!"
He rolled his eyes wildly. "You torture me!" he exclaimed, seizingher hand in a dead man's clutch. "How CAN I speak?"
Hilda's heart seemed to stand still. She was pale to the lips, and hecould see, even in the darkness, her eyes grow and startle.
"What is it?" she murmured. "You know I--can bear anything for you."
"Not that tone," he groaned. "Reproach me! Revile me! Be harsh,scornful--but not those tender accents."
He felt her hand become cold and he saw terror in her eyes. "Forgiveme," she said humbly. "I don't know what to say or do. I--you look sostrange. It makes me feel all queer inside. Won't you tell me, please?"
He noted with artistic satisfaction that the band was playingpassionate love-music with sobs and sad ecstasies of farewell embracesin it. He kissed her, then drew back. "No," he groaned. "Those lipsare not for me, accursed that I am."
She was no longer looking at him, but sat gazing straight ahead, hershoulders bent as if she were crouching to receive a blow. He began ina low voice, and, as he spoke, it rose or fell as his words and thedistant music prompted him. "Mine has been a luckless life," he said."I have been a football of destiny, kicked and flung about, hither andyon. Again and again I have thought in my despair to lay me down anddie. But something has urged me on, on, on. And at last I met you."
He paused and groaned--partly because it was the proper place, partlywith vexation. Here was a speech to thrill, yet she sat there inert,her face a stupid blank. He was not even sure that she had heard.
"Are you listening?" he asked in a stern aside, a curious mingling ofthe actor and the stage manager.
"I--I don't know," she answered, startling. "I feel so--so--queer. Idon't seem to be able to pay attention." She looked at him timidly andher chin quivered. "Don't you love me any more?"
"Love you? Would that I did not! But I must on--my time is short.How can you say I do not love you when my soul is like a raging fire?"
She shook her head slowly. "Your voice don't feel like it," she said."What is it? What are you going to say?"
He sighed and looked away from her with an irritated expression."Little stupid!" he muttered--she didn't appreciate him and he was afool to expect it. But "art for art's sake"; and he went on in tonesof gentle melancholy. "I love you, but fate has again caught me up. Iam being whirled away. I stretch out my arms to you--in vain. Do youunderstand?" It exasperated him for her to be so still--why didn't sheweep?
She shook her head and replied quietly:
"No--what is it? Don't you love me any more?"
"Love has nothing to do with it," he said, as gently as he could in theirritating circumstances. "My mysterious destiny has--"
"You said that before," she interrupted. "What is it? Can't you tellme so that I can understand?"
"You never loved me!" he cried bitterly.
"You know that isn't so," she answered. "Won't you tell me, Carl?"
"A specter has risen from my past--I must leave you--I may neverreturn--"
She gave a low, wailing cry--it seemed like an echo of the music. Thenshe began to sob--not loudly, but in a subdued, despairing way. Shewas not conscious of her grief, but only of his words--of the dreamvanished, the hopes shattered.
"Never?" she said brokenly.
"Never!" he replied in a hoarse whisper.
Mr. Feuerstein looked down at Hilda's quivering shoulders withsatisfaction. "I thought I could make even her feel," he said tohimself complacently. Then to her in the hoarse undertone: "And myheart is breaking."
She straightened and her tears seemed to dry with the flash of hereyes. "Don't say that--you mustn't!" She blazed out before hisastonished eyes, a woman electric with disdain and anger. "It'sfalse--false! I hate you--hate you--you never cared--you've made afool of me--"
"Hilda!" He felt at home now and his voice became pleading andanguished. "You, too, desert me! Ah, God, whenever was there man sowretched as I?" He buried his face in his hands.
"Oh, you put it on well," she scoffed. "But I know what it all means."
Mr. Feuerstein rose wearily. "Farewell," he said in a broken voice."At least I am glad you will be spared the suffering that is blastingmy life. Thank God, she did not love me!"
The physical fact of his rising to go struck her courage full in theface.
"No--no," she urged hurriedly, "not yet--not just yet--wait a fewminutes more--"
"No--I must go--farewell!" And he seated himself beside her, put hisarm around her.
She lay still in his arms for a moment, then murmured: "Say it isn'tso, Carl--dear!"
"I would say there is hope, heart's darling," he whispered, "but I haveno right to blast your young life. And I may never return."
She started up, her face glowing.
"Then you WILL return?"
"It may be that I can," he answered. "But--"
"Then I'll wait--gladly. No matter how long it is, I'll wait. Whydidn't you say at first, 'Hilda, something I can't tell you about hashappened. I must go away. When I can, I'll come.' That would havebeen enough, because I--I love you!"
"What have I done to deserve such love as this!" he exclaimed, and foran instant he almost forgot himself in her beauty and sweetness andsincerity.
"Will it be long?" she asked after a while.
"I hope not, bride of my soul. But I can not--dare not say."
"Wherever you go, and no matter what happens, dear," she said softly,"you'll always know that I'm loving you, won't you?" And she looked athim with great, luminous, honest eyes.
He began to be uncomfortable. Her complete trust was producing aneffect even upon his nature. The good that evil can never kill out ofa man was rousing what was very like a sense of shame. "I must gonow," he sai
d with real gentleness in his voice and a look at her thathad real longing in it. He went on: "I shall come as soon as theshadow passes--I shall come soon, Herzallerliebste!"
She was cheerful to the last. But after he had left she satmotionless, except for an occasional shiver. From the music-stand camea Waldteufel waltz, with its ecstatic throb and its long, dreamy swing,its mingling of joy with foreboding of sadness. The tears streameddown her cheeks. "He's gone," she said miserably. She rose and wentthrough the crowd, stumbling against people, making the homewardjourney by instinct alone. She seemed to be walking in her sleep. Sheentered the shop--it was crowded with customers, and her father, hermother and August were bustling about behind the counters. "Here, tiethis up," said her father, thrusting into her hands a sheet of wrappingpaper on which were piled a chicken, some sausages, a bottle of olivesand a can of cherries. She laid the paper on the counter and went onthrough the parlor and up the stairs to her plain, neat, littlebedroom. She threw herself on the bed, face downward. She fell atonce into a deep sleep. When she awoke it was beginning to dawn. Sheremembered and began to moan. "He's gone! He's gone! He's gone!" sherepeated over and over again. And she lay there, sobbing and callingto him.
When she faced the family there were black circles around her eyes.They were the eyes of a woman grown, and they looked out upon the worldwith sorrow in them for the first time.