ANNA HILDEN
"Johann! Johann! Oh, my dearest! Oh, thank God I have found you at
last! Oh, my long lost darling!" raved the woman ecstatically, while
her child ran up and clung to my coat, calling, "Papa! Papa!"
A pleasant situation considering the circumstances and the fact that a
number of other people, attracted by the woman's hysterics, began to
cluster round us.
Nita and Lottchen scurried back to our group; the two elder women were
looking both scandalized and disgusted; and Nessa bent over Lottchen,
scarcely able to conceal her laughter. Fortunately Rosa kept her head.
Giving me first a look of scornful indignation, she said something to
her mother and the whole group moved away.
The woman's outburst of hysterical passion had quieted by then, and she
just let her head rest upon my shoulder, feasting her rather fine eyes
upon my face with languishing rapture.
My first thought was that she was a lunatic; so I tried to unclasp her
embrace. Gently at first, but then with considerable strength, for she
resisted stoutly. Next I observed that for all her hysterical sobbing,
her eyes were scarcely moist; a fact which put quite a different
interpretation on the affair.
"We don't want a scene here," I said.
This had comparatively little effect and she tried to wrest her hands
away and begin the embracing over again.
"If we have any more of this, I shall call the police," I said sharply.
This did the business. After a moment she grew less demonstrative,
making a great to-do in the effort to check her agitation, and allowed
me to lead her away.
While we were shaking off the crowd there was time to study her and try
to get a glimmer of the meaning of it all. Now that the hysterics were
over, she appeared to be less emotional than perplexed. She kept her
eyes on the ground, evidently thinking intently and taking no notice of
the child at all, who was as unconcerned as if she didn't belong to the
picture, except that once or twice she glanced up at the woman, as if
wondering what to do and looking for a lead.
A thought of the truth occurred to me and made me look more searchingly
than ever at the woman's side face. Two things struck me at once. She
was older than I had believed; a little make-up cunningly concealed
some wrinkles, and a touch of rouge on the cheek helped to account for
my mistake about her age; and closer inspection revealed some lines of
grease paint close to her hair.
I put her down then as a second-rate actress, and her over-acting in
the embracing scene suggested corroboration. How the ordinary woman
would behave on discovering her long lost lover or husband may be a
question; but she certainly wouldn't shed tears which were carefully
tearless out of the fear that they would spoil her make-up. It was
obviously a plant.
That wasn't altogether a comforting reflection, however. My loss of
memory made it impossible to expose her, for the simple reason that any
story she might choose to tell could not be contradicted.
"Now I should like to know what all this means," I began when we were
free from inquisitive lookers-on.
"Do you pretend you don't recognize me?" she asked, turning her big
blue eyes on me with a pathetic wistfulness.
"Do you pretend that I ought to?"
"Why did you desert me? Oh, how could you, Johann?" she wailed.
"I don't even know what you mean."
"Oh, but you must; you must. You loved me so; at least you swore you
did, over and over again," she cried. "Oh, don't tell me you've
forgotten me. I could bear anything but that."
This suggested von Gratzen. It was just the sort of scheme which would
appeal to such a wily old beggar to trap me into admission. "Who are
you?" I asked.
She clapped her hands to her face and looked like starting hysterics
again. "Oh, you must know. You must. You can't have forgotten me! You
can't!"
"Perhaps your name will help me."
With a very overdone theatrical gesture she stopped and stared at me
and looked distracted.
"I'm--Anna. Your Anna."
"_My_ Anna? I didn't know I had one;" and she clapped her hands to
her face again, but not quickly enough to hide her expression, which
looked uncommonly like a smile. "And the surname?"
"Hilden, of course," she said after a pause without looking up.
This gave the clue. It was not von Gratzen's scheme but von Erstein's.
I remembered our interview; his persistent attempt to test my memory;
his story of Anna Hilden; his genuine anger when I had not recollected
her; and then the sudden change of manner which had been so puzzling.
He had put her up to play the part of the ruined maiden and had
probably planned the melodramatic scene which had just taken place,
knowing that, unless at the same time I gave myself away, I could not
expose her. It was cunning, and put me in a beast of a mess. There
seemed only one course--to prevail on the woman to admit the truth.
"You can see for yourself that this has taken me entirely by surprise,"
I said after a pause. "I had a very tough time of it a few weeks ago;
the ship I was in was blown up and the explosion caused me to lose my
memory entirely. What you have said may be absolutely true; although to
me it seems impossible. What do you wish me to do?"
"I want my rights," she replied, after a slight pause.
"Well, we can scarcely discuss things here. Where do you live?"
"In the Kammerplatz. 268g. No, I mean 286g;" making the correction in
some confusion.
Curious that she could not remember the right number; looked as if she
had only just gone there for this special business. "Shall we go
there?" I asked.
She found the question unnecessarily embarrassing, hesitated and
glanced at the child with a frown of perplexity. "I can't go home yet.
I was just taking my little darling to some friends."
She was certainly not a good actress, or she would never have implied
that it was more important to take the child to some friends than to
have an explanation with the false lover discovered after long years.
"When then?" I asked, concluding that the child had been borrowed for
the show and was to be returned with thanks at once.
"Come there in an hour," she said after thinking. "You won't escape me
again, for I know where to find you now," she added with a toss of the
head.
"I shall not try. Here's my address;" and I scribbled it on a card.
"I'll turn up all right. I'm only too interested in what you've said
and wish to know all you can tell me about it. I'll do the right thing
by you, Anna;" and I held out my hand.
She hesitated a second and then shook hands, her look showing that my
words had impressed her favourably and also perplexed her.
I spent the interval in the Thiergarten thinking over the whole
unpleasant incident: the probable effect upon those who had witnessed
it, and the line to take in the coming interview.
It would serve one good turn at any rate. Von Gratzen would hear all
about it from his wife and it ought to put an end to his suspicions. If
the woman I had ruined could identify me as the result of a chance
meeting, he could scarcely fail to regard it as a mighty strong
corroboration of the Lassen theory.
Both Rosa and Nessa would of course know that the story, even if it
were true, had nothing to do with me, and what the Countess herself
thought didn't amount to anything. The main point was what would happen
if the woman stuck to it and how far she was prepared to go. That would
probably depend upon the inducements or pressure brought to bear by von
Erstein; and judging the man, pressure was the more likely.
It would be easy enough to knock the bottom out of the scheme by
bringing the police into it; her nervousness at the mention of them had
shown that plainly. But that wouldn't suit me. The less the police had
to meddle with my affairs, the better. No doubt an inquiry agent could
soon get at the truth so far as the woman herself was concerned; and if
she proved obdurate, that might be the best course. But obviously the
quickest and best solution would be to get the woman herself to own up;
and that must be the first line of attack.
Her answer to my question what she wished me to do, suggested an idea.
She wanted her "rights," as she phrased it; and clearly the
straightforward course was to offer them. "Rights" meant marriage; and
she was likely to feel in a deuce of a stew if I agreed to marry her.
The farce of it was quite to my liking. To appear to force her into
such a marriage with a man she had never seen in her life was rich, and
at the same time good policy, as it would impress her with my honesty
of purpose.
I kept the appointment punctually and found her rather breathless and
flurried. It was a mean little flat; had evidently been hastily got
ready; and the number of things still littered about the room, told
that I had arrived in the middle of her efforts to get it in order.
She looked far less presentable without her hat and things. She was an
untidy person, anything but clean, and made the mistake of trying to
explain away the confusion and disorder in the place.
"I didn't really believe you'd come, or I'd have had the place tidier.
When any one has to struggle alone for a living in these times, there
isn't much chance of keeping the home right."
"Still I can see you've been doing your best."
"I always have to," she replied with a quick, half-suspicious glance.
"You have a hard struggle?"
"Hard enough."
"What do you do?"
"Anything and everything I can, of course. It's hard work."
Her hands offered no evidence of this, however. "Well, we must try to
make things easier for you, Anna. Now let us talk it over."
"I'll wash my hands first and tidy up a bit," and she went into the
adjoining room, where I heard her moving some furniture into place.
This gave an opportunity of scrutinizing the mean little sitting-room,
and one fact was instantly apparent. There was not a single thing to
suggest that a child had even set foot in it. On the floor close to the
shabby sofa was a partly open leather bag; much too good and expensive
to be in keeping with the rest, and a glance into it revealed a number
of dressing-table fitments, also much better than a struggling working
woman would be at all likely to own.
She had forgotten this in her confusion at my arrival and presently
came out to fetch it, still in the untidy slovenly dress. "I won't be a
minute, now," she said.
But several minutes passed before she returned, wearing now a
well-fitting coat and skirt and cosmeticed much as she had been when we
had met first.
"I try to keep my head above water, you see," she said, to account for
her good clothes, no doubt.
I smiled approval and got to business. "First let me ask you whether
you are absolutely certain I am the man you think."
"Do you think I should have made that fuss to-day if I wasn't? Why do
you ask such a question?"
"Because I don't remember anything whatever of it, and to me you are an
absolute stranger. Just tell me everything about it."
Her story was in its essence that which von Erstein had told me,
repeated as if she had got it up much as she would have studied her
part in a play. She was not very perfect in it, and there were just
those verbal slips and trips which one may hear in a badly rehearsed
play on the first night of production. Moreover, apart from her lines
she was hopelessly muddled and had either been very badly coached about
details or her memory was little better than my assumed one.
She judged by my looks that her story shocked me, and I sat a long time
frowning as if lost in thought. "It seems absolutely inconceivable!" I
exclaimed at length with a deep sigh. "Absolutely inconceivable that I
could have treated you in this way; and only--how long ago was it?"
"You came straight to Hanover from Goettingen."
"What was I doing there?"
"I don't know? At least, you were always so close you would never tell
me anything."
"You saw a great deal of me, of course?"
"Well, naturally. I wasn't going to marry a man I never saw, I suppose."
"No, no, of course not. Oh dear, to think of it all!" I put a few more
questions which she could easily answer, and when she was growing more
glibly at ease I asked: "And how old is the child?"
"Eh? I don't know. Oh yes, I do, of course. Pops was nine last
birthday."
"Nine!" I exclaimed. I might well be astonished, for they had muddled
this part of the thing hopelessly. The child I had seen in the
Thiergarten wasn't a day more than six, probably younger even. "Where
was she born?"
This rattled her. "What does it matter where she was born, so long as
she was born somewhere," she said, flushing so vividly that it showed
under her rouge. Clearly she did not know where "our child" was
supposed to have been born. "What does matter is what you're going to
do about it."
"There's only one thing any honourable man would think of doing, Anna.
I shall make you my wife at once," I cried.
Her amazement was a sheer delight. It was so complete that she didn't
know what to do or say and just stared at me open-eyed. "I didn't say I
wanted that, did I?" she stammered at length.
"There's the child, Anna; and neither you nor I can afford to think of
our own wishes;" and in proof of my moral duty in the circumstances, I
delivered a lecture on the necessity of freeing the child from the
stain of its birth.
This gave her time to pull herself together. "Are you in earnest?" she
asked when I finished.
"I hold the strongest views in such cases. The best plan will be for me
to arrange about the marriage at once, to-day indeed; and probably
to-morrow or the next day we can be married."
"But I----" She pulled up suddenly. It looked as if she was going to
protest she wouldn't marry a man she'd never seen before. "I'd like to
think about it," she substituted uneasily.
"But why any need to think? You showed this afternoon how bitterly you
resented my desertion and, unless you were play-acting, how much you
still care for me. So why delay when I am willing? It is true that I
can't pretend to care for you as I used, but it may all come back again
to me. We'll hope so, at any rate."
"But you're engaged to that rich cousin of yours, aren't you?"
This was a good example of her slip-shod methods. As she knew that, she
knew also where to have found me of course, so that the little
melodramatic recognition scene in the Thiergarten had been a mere
picturesque superfluity. I let it pass and replied gravely: "I should
not allow that engagement to interfere with my duty to you, Anna."
"You must have changed a lot, then."
"I hope I have, if you're not really mistaken about my being the man
you think. But I'll go and see about our wedding;" and I rose.
"Wait a bit," she cried, flustered and perplexed. "I didn't expect you
to--to give in quite so--quite like this," she added, laughing
nervously. "It isn't a bit like I was led--what I expected. Do you mean
really and truly that you're ready to marry me straight off like this?"
With all the earnestness I could command I gave her the assurance. "I
pledge you my sacred word of honour that if I've treated you as you say
I'll marry you as soon as it can be done." A perfectly safe and sincere
pledge.
This frightened her. The affair had taken a much more serious turn than
she had expected. "You--you've taken my breath away almost," was how
she put it; and she sat twisting and untwisting her fingers nervously,
not in the least seeing how to meet the unexpected difficulty. "I must
have time to think it over," she said at length.
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know; but it's--it's so sudden."
"There's, the child, Anna," I reminded her again.
"Oh, bother the child. I mean I'm thinking of myself." This hurriedly,
as she turned to stare out of the window. "Do you know the sort of life
I've been living?" she asked in a low voice without looking round.
"Whatever it is, it must be my fault, and I don't care what you've been
doing. I drove you to it. There's our child, remember."
There was another long silence as she stood at the window. Her laboured
breathing, the clenched hands, and spasmodic movements of her shoulders
evidenced some great agitation. If it was mere acting she was a far
better actress than she had yet shown herself. And the change in her
looks when at last she turned to me proved her emotion to be genuine.
"You're a white man right through, and I'm only dirt compared to you,"
she cried tensely. "Look here, I've lied about that kid. She isn't
yours, or mine either for that matter. What do you say to that?" and
she flung her head back challengingly.
"Only that I know it already, her age made it impossible. But it makes
no difference to the wrong I did you."
"Do you still mean you'd marry me?"
"I mean every letter of the pledge I gave you just now, child or no
child," I answered in the same earnest tone.
"My God!" she exclaimed ecstatically, throwing her hands up wildly, and
then bursting into tears. "And they told me you were a scoundrel!" She
was quite overcome, dropped into a chair and hid her face in her hands.
The tears were genuine enough, for when she looked up they had made
little runlets in the rouge and powder.
"Well?" I asked presently.
"I'm not fit to be the wife of a man like you," she stammered through
her sobs. "I'm dirt to you; just dirt. If more men were like you
there'd be less women like me."
Had the moment come to push for her confession? It looked like it; but
it seemed cowardly to take advantage of her remorse and distress
produced by my own trickery.
"Go away now, please," she said after a long interval.
"But how do we stand, Anna?"
"I don't know. I can't think. I can't do anything. Only that if I'd
known---- Oh, for Heaven's sake go away, or I shall say---- Oh, do go!"
"Is there anything else you would like to tell me?"
"No. Yes. I don't know. Only leave me alone now."
"Then I'll come to-morrow."
"No, not to-morrow. The next day. Give me time. I must have time," she
cried wildly.
I hesitated. In her present condition it would have been easy to
frighten her into admitting everything; but somehow I couldn't bring
myself to do it, so I left her.