And so the days flew by bringing little change, excepting that Marie
was left more and more to herself as Von Pfaffen's work seemed to
accumulate.
She seldom touched the piano when he was near, for although she
played well, she lacked the roundness of touch, the depth of tone
which pleased his fastidious ear. But during the long hours when he
was away, her music was a great solace to her.
Her walks never carried her far from the neighborhood, and brought
her little amusement. It was a peculiarly quiet, uneventful
location, given over, for the most part, to nurses and their charges.
Von Pfaffen was away from the apartment now for longer periods of
time. These journeys came at more and more frequent intervals. His
manner toward her began to change, he grew brusque and indifferent,
the slightest thing irritated him. He would sit for long periods at
the littered table, going over his papers in silence. Fearful of
annoying him, she would remain quiet, crocheting endless yards of
lace or staring into the coals, and when he had finished his work, he
would gather it together, put on his hat and coat and leave her
without a word.
Once during his absence, she had ventured another glimpse at those
papers which so absorbed him, but they seemed to be mostly tracings
of curious lines, columns of cryptic numbers and telegrams in what
appeared to be a cypher, and she soon lost all interest as to what
might be their import.
Toward spring, old Lena walked in one morning, her pendulous nose red
from the brisk winds, her ample form swathed in the enveloping folds
of an ancient shawl.
"So you're still here, Fräulein?" was her ungracious greeting, and
Marie, who had welcomed her with a smile, was chilled.
"Of course, I'm still here, Lena," she answered, as the old woman
laid aside her wraps. "I'm to stay here. The Herr Captain and I are
to be married soon."
The old woman looked at her curiously from between her reddish
eyelids.
"So," she grunted, "that's what he told you. Well, it's not for me
to say," and she ran an inquisitive forefinger along the ledge of the
mantle in search of dust.
Marie was angry, but it had been so long since she had spoken with
anyone besides the Captain, that she welcomed the return of even this
unpleasant creature.
"Lena," she began, "you know the Captain so well, you must know that
he always does what he says he will do. Won't you be a little kind
to me? I'm a very lonely girl."
The old woman smoothed her scanty hair, which she wore according to
an ancient fashion, banded down on either side of her face and rolled
under her ears into a hard little knot behind.
"Well, Fräulein," she said grudgingly, "you may be different from the
'others,' I don't know," and that was all the conversation Marie
could get from her for the rest of the day, although she followed the
old woman about the little apartment as she grumblingly set things
back in the order in which she was accustomed to having them, out of
which Marie had changed them.
The girl tried to talk to Von Pfaffen that night, but it was very
late when he came in and his mood was such as to discourage any
effort to continue the conversation, and so she lay awake almost till
dawn, worrying. She had been afraid to face this question boldly,
even to herself. After his first promises, she believed him because
she wanted to believe him, because her peace of mind depended upon
it. In the books she had read before she came here, wedding bells
always ended the last chapter, journeys always ended in lovers'
meeting. But the Captain's books were different. There was that
horrible chapter of Dostoieffsky, which she had since read again, and
every now and then an unpleasant picture had crossed her mind, of one
of the convent girls who had come back weeping to the Mother
Superior, and when she allowed herself the memory, she could even now
hear the stern voice saying: "My child, you have sinned deeply!"
But Von Pfaffen's kindness, his repeated assurances, at first had
shut out all fear of this. Now, however, things looked different,
his manner had changed. Old Lena's allusion to those "others,"
disquieted her.
She thought of the letter that had come back unopened from the
Schultzes. She recalled that the address had been crossed out and
her own substituted in which she now remembered to resemble Von
Pfaffen's handwriting, a fact which had made no impression on her
mind at the time.
She lay watching the square of the window grow gray with the morning
light. This couldn't come to her, she thought; he had promised. But
supposing it were true? What would she do?
She fell asleep at last with the sound of his words in her ears,
"Don't you trust me?"
But it was young Franz who added the last straw to her endurance. He
came hurrying in one morning several days later to get a portfolio
the Captain wanted.
"Good morning, Fräulein," was the young man's greeting as old Lena
let him into the living-room, "it's nice and cozy here, I wish I
could stay."
Marie pushed one of the big chairs nearer the stove.
"Why not sit down awhile," she smiled.
Usually her manner with him had repelled any advances, but to-day she
wanted to talk to some one, anyone, even this flat-faced boy.
Franz (Marie had never learned his last name), sank stiffly into the
cushions of the great chair, his hands with their thick fingers
spread out on each knee, the toes of his shiny boots turned toward
one another, round, pale blue eyes staring fatuously into her face.
"You are very pretty, Fräulein," he began, but Marie interrupted him.
"Don't compliment me, Herr Lieutenant. I want to talk to you if you
have a few minutes to spare."
He leaned toward her with a smile that was meant to be ingratiating.
"Indeed yes, Fräulein," he said and cleared his throat. "Indeed yes!
My time is at the disposal of so beautiful a young lady."
His manner was such a ludicrous imitation of the suave tones of his
chief that Marie almost laughed in his face, but she controlled the
impulse and went straight to the heart of her question.
"Tell me, when will all this be finished?" her glance took in not
only the littered table, but the yellow portfolio resting at the side
of his chair.
"That I do not know, Fräulein. Why do you ask?"
"Because, I am waiting for that, for then the Captain and I are to be
married."
The boy threw back his head and laughed.
"Ach, Fräulein, you will have a long, long wait!"
"What makes you say that?" Marie was her own inquisitor now.
"Because," and the boy rose awkwardly, shaking down the tight blue
legs of his uniform, "because the Herr Captain's work is never
finished."
"Do you mean----?" Marie was on her feet now, the scales were falling
fast from her eyes.
He put a clumsy hand on her arm.
"Come Fräulein, you're too pretty to worry," he said. "If the Herr
Captain grows too busy, there's always me."
The blood rushed into Marie's face and receded quickly again, leaving
her very lips white.
"I think you had better go," she said, and there was that in her
manner that made the Lieutenant, after one look into her eyes, turn
on his heel and leave the room, closing the door after him with a
click.
Marie stood for a long time motionless, unseeing. They were right,
Franz and Lena. She had been a fool, but she would give him one more
chance. She would put the question to him unfalteringly when he came
in. She dragged herself over to the window seat and sat looking down
into the square. Her hands clasped and unclasped nervously, her
teeth tore at her underlip. She made up her mind she would sit there
and watch for him, no matter how long it would be before he came.
With dry eyes, she stared down into the deserted street, for even the
nurse maids and their charges were absent.
It was one of those windy spring days when the breath of winter still
lingers in the air and sends the dust whirling in eddies about the
street and around corners. The clouds hung low, and every now and
then, a splash of rain moistened the pavement.
Two women were coming toward each other, their skirts blowing against
their limbs and outlining them like Greek statues. The one as she
came against the wind, held her head low to guard her hat, her white
stockings showing above her shoe tops as her skirts ballooned behind
her. The other leaned against the gale and almost ran with funny
little hurried steps, as the wind pushed her before it, one hand
hanging onto her hat, the other trying to steady her flying skirts.
They met, passed, and left the street once more to the wind, the dust
eddies and scattered pieces of paper which danced and skittered along
the pavement.
Lena came in after awhile to find out if Marie would have some lunch,
but the girl paid no heed to her question, and the old woman shuffled
out again, crossly.
The fire died down, the burnt coals clicking as they fell through the
grate into the graying pile of ashes. The little clock on the mantel
struck the hour, the half hour, and again the hour, but Marie sat as
she had sat since the Lieutenant left her.
Everything Von Pfaffen had ever said came back to her clearly,
stripped of all the glamor, all the fascination, all the hope that
had held her these many weeks. She remembered things he had told her
that were deliberate lies, lies so cunningly worded that she had
never been able quite to accuse him of them. She found herself
facing the fact, that almost every statement he had made to her,
though made with the positive manner of assurance, and with every
semblance of truth, had been utterly false. She was conscious of a
great growing anger, a fierce glow of hatred, resentment. Her eyes
narrowed, her lips tightened. Once for all, she would know the truth.
Several times the telephone bell shrilled out, but she paid no heed,
and then at last a huge chocolate-colored car turned the corner and
drew up at the curb. The chauffeur jumped down and threw open the
door. Marie flattened her face against the windowpane.
After a second, the Captain stepped onto the pavement and a slender,
white-gloved hand in a handsome sable cuff, was held out. He bowed
over it, and turning on his heel entered the apartment house. The
chauffeur closed the door and with a purr, the car drew away from the
curb and went on its way.
Marie waited to hear Von Pfaffen's key in the lock, her heart
pounding. No matter what his mood, she must know her fate now. The
Lieutenant's laugh and Lena's phrase about the "others" were ringing
in her ears.
He came in hurriedly and threw his hat and heavy fur-lined coat on a
chair.
"Well, Marie," he said brusquely, "I have only a few seconds. Will
you ring for Lena to bring some coffee?"
She came and stood beside him where he sat at the table rummaging
among the litter.
"I must speak with you," she said, "there is something I must know."
"I am busy now," he did not raise his eyes from the papers.
"When are we going to be married?"
The Captain let his thin hand rest a moment on the edge of the table.
"Are you worrying about that again?" he asked, looking up at her with
a frown. "Haven't I told you as soon as my work is finished?"
"Your work will never be finished!" Marie was echoing the
Lieutenant's words in almost the Lieutenant's stolid tone.
Von Pfaffen's face darkened.
"You're nagging again," he said. "I have too much to think about to
be bothered about trifles. If you are not satisfied here, I have no
doubt the Schultzes will take you in again."
Marie drew in her breath sharply. They were right, and she had
believed him. She seized him fiercely by the coat sleeve.
"You lied to me!" she cried. "You lied! You never meant to marry
me! You lied to me!" and with all her strength, she shook at his arm
as a small terrier might shake at the shaggy coat of a mastiff.
Von Pfaffen turned and held her from him.
"I marry you?" he sneered, "a cabaret singer!"
Marie's mouth was dry, the little pulse in her throat pounded as
though it would burst. She drew back her hand and struck Von Pfaffen
straight across the face.
He rose to his feet with an oath, his cheek a dull red, excepting
where the mark of her blow showed livid.
"You little devil," he said between his teeth. "What do you think
you could ever be in the life of a man like me? You want the truth?
Well, I'll give it to you. You amused me, filled in long hours, when
my nerves were ready to snap. Did you think for a second that a
woman like you could hold me? I thought even you had more brains
than really to believe that! I've given you comfort, I've taken care
of you, I've given you much more than--if I must speak plainly--you
have really been worth. There are things of so much more moment in
my life that even this explanation is taking valuable time; but I've
this to thank you for, you have helped me tell you what I've been
meaning to, that as soon as you care to, you are at liberty to go!"
He turned away from the flood of tears he expected to follow his
words, but the girl only stood staring at him, terrified.
Her mind was waking slowly to another phase of the world of which she
had never dreamed. Unconsciously, the flower of her life was
opening, developing, and the development was agony. She had learned
grief with the loss of her father, poverty and the struggle for
existence in that bitter year, and now this!
She turned with a dry sob and stumbled into her room, shutting and
locking the door after her. She must think. She must reason out
what to do. Shame, horrible, scourging shame, swept over her. She
threw herself in a shuddering heap across the counterpane of her bed.
Spent with the grief and anguish that had followed her awakening, she
lay for a long while dully repeating over and over the phrase, "he
lied to me!" Presently this gave place to resentment, bitter hatred,
which dried her tears. Her mind was swept of all illusions, she saw
things clearly as they were. Once more she faced a crisis, and
swiftly she made her decision as to what course she must follow. She
sat up listening for the sounds that would tell of Von Pfaffen's
departure.
She heard him rattle the poker among the dead coals, then old Lena
shuffle in and set down the coffee tray, his rough dismissal of her
and the old woman's angry grunt. The telephone rang and she heard
the click of china, as he hastily set down his cup and went to answer
it. She heard him say, "yes, immediately, I'll take a cab,
good-bye," and her imagination followed him as he hung up the
receiver and shrugged himself into his great coat, and with the sound
of the closing door, she jumped to her feet.
Hastily she rummaged in her bureau drawer. There were two or three
bank notes and some gold, besides some small change, housekeeping
money. These she stuffed into her purse, they would stand between
her and starvation for a little while at least. She took her suit
and hat from the clothes press, and slipping off her blue gown, let
it lie on the floor where it fell. She kicked off the little satin
bedroom slippers and pulled on her shoes.
Once in her clothes, she brought out her small leather traveling
case, and regardless of neatness or precision, she tumbled in the
necessary things. She hesitated over the few jewels Von Pfaffen had
given her, with the thought that they might aid her in escaping. She
decided, however, to leave them and placed them where they could
easily be seen on her dressing-table. Then, carefully, she locked
and strapped the bag.
Her hat was pinned securely, she fastened the collar of her coat, and
with a last look about, she picked up her bag and left the house.
But it was not until she felt the cold air of the outside world
whipping against her cheeks, that she realized that she had nowhere
to go.