The huntsman had successfully stalked the doe. With the ingenuity
and skill of long experience he had brought her to bay. The trophy
won, he had gone, leaving his victim suffering and alone, with a
wound that time might heal, but a scar that could never be effaced.
When Marie roused herself from the stupor in which she had lain, the
room was flooded with sunlight. She sat up slowly. Her head
throbbed with a splitting pain, her eyeballs burned. She was sick
with revolt and terror. This man, whom she had trusted, whom she had
thought was her friend, was worse than those from whom he had seemed
to protect her. One more veil was torn brutally away from her eyes,
and the world stared back at her, gaunt, ugly, grim, and altogether
pitiless. Phrases heard at the convent, kept repeating themselves
over and over in her brain. What would her father have said could he
have known? How could she explain her absence to the Schultzes? How
could she face them again? That such a thing as this could have
happened to her!
"I'll kill myself!" she sobbed. "I want to die!"
After awhile, old Lena shuffled in with breakfast on a tray, her
ugly, wooden face, as expressionless as a carven image, her wicked
old eyes shifting about the room. The girl buried her head deeper in
the pillows.
"Let me alone!" she cried. "Let me alone! I want to die!"
The old woman grunted.
"Don't be a fool!" she said unsympathetically. "What did you come
here for?" and setting the tray down, she left her to weep out her
horror and remorse alone.
For a long time she lay convulsed with sobs. Then the natural
reaction of youth and perfect health reasserted itself. She
gradually grew quiet. The courage that had made it possible for her
to face so many trying experiences in the past year, came to her
rescue.
The thing had happened. There was no going back. She must face it
as best she could.
Later, her hat pinned on securely, her cloak wrapped about her, she
opened the door and went into the library.
Von Pfaffen was sitting in the great easy chair by the fire,
evidently waiting for her. He rose as she entered.
"Ah, little one----" he began, but stopped as he saw that she was
dressed for the street.
Marie looked at him dully.
"I'm going!"
He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and smiled into her eyes.
"Where?" The slight note of sarcasm did not escape her.
"I don't know," her voice was almost a whisper, her lips trembled
pitifully.
He bent over her with a smile. His long arm drew her close to him.
"Sweetheart," he said softly, "don't be frightened. I love you. You
are all mine now."
The girl tried to draw away from him, crying aloud her bitterness,
but with the strength that she could not battle against, Von Pfaffen
held her firmly against his shoulder.
"Little one," he whispered, "there is nothing to cry about. I love
you! As soon as I can arrange my affairs, we'll be married.
Everything will be well."
But Marie sobbed with long dry sobs that tore at her throat. How
could she face the Schultzes? How could she go back to the "Two
Eagles" even if they would take her in? Where was she to go? What
was to become of her?
Von Pfaffen soothed and patted her.
"There is nothing to worry about, _Liebchen_," he whispered. "Don't
you trust me?" His brilliant eyes softened into almost sincerity.
"The Schultzes will probably not take you in, besides, your place is
here with me."
Marie's breath caught in her throat and she shrank away from him.
"No," she stammered, "no--please! You must let me go!"
"But where?" and in her heart the girl echoed his words.
"Where!"
Quick to see his advantage, he put his hands on her shoulders.
"Now listen, I love you! I want you! As soon as my affairs are
adjusted, as soon as the work I'm engaged in is finished," and he
pointed to the pile of papers on the long table, "you and I will be
married!"
Her trembling hands grasped his coat lapels. She shook at them
desperately.
"Marry me now," she begged, "marry me now! What would the nuns
say--my father--Frau Schultz? Marry me now! You must!"
He drew her cheek against his own.
"Hush, little one," he whispered, "don't worry. There are reasons
why I can't arrange things now. Everything will be all right. Can't
you trust me?" His eyes smiled into hers, the lines about his mouth
were softened, gentle. There was no suggestion of the terrible
creature against whom she had tried to bar her door.
The power of his dominant personality over-awed her. She wanted so
to trust him.
"But what am I to do?" she faltered. "Where am I to go?"
"You are not going anywhere. You are going to stay here with me,
sheltered, taken care of, protected, as I shall protect you, until we
can be married. You don't want to leave me, do you?" and in spite of
her grief, the warning voice of her conscience, Marie thought of the
"Two Eagles," of the swinging wreaths of tobacco smoke, the heavy,
fetid air, the leers of the half-drunken students, which she seemed
suddenly to understand. She felt again the flabby, sticky kiss of
Brower against her cheek, and shuddered as she thought what that,
too, might have meant. To go back to the "Two Eagles" was
impossible, even if Brower would have taken her, after the blow she
had given him, and the Schultzes--the Schultzes would never let her
in again. She looked about her half stupidly. The fire crackled
comfortably in the stove. The room, in spite of its incongruity, was
such a room as her father had taught her to love. This man beside
her was, after all, one of her own class.
Through her thoughts, she could hear his voice saying again, softly,
kindly, with that subtle charm that held such fascination for her:
"You will stay, little one? You don't want to leave me, when I love
you so! We'll be married as soon as I can arrange it. Trust me.
Little hands like these were never meant to work. Little feet like
these should be cased in satin. Let me give you everything,
anything! Sweetheart, sweetheart, you don't want to leave me! You
can't!"