During the next months many rumors of Dannevig's excesses reached me
from various sources. He had obtained a position as interpreter for
one of the Immigration Companies, and made semi-monthly excursions to
Quebec, taking charge of the immigrants, and conducting them to
Chicago. The opportunity for revealing his past history to Miss Pfeifer
somehow never presented itself, although I continued to call
frequently, and spent many delightful evenings with her and her uncle.
However, I consoled myself with the reflection that the occasion for
such a revelation no longer existed, and I had no desire needlessly to
persecute a man whose iniquities could, at all events, harm no one but
himself. And still, knowing from experience his talent for occult
diplomacy, I took the precaution (without even remotely implicating
Miss Hildegard) to put Mr. Pfeifer on his guard. One evening, as we
were sitting alone in his library enjoying a confidential smoke, I
related to him, merely as part of the secret history of our paper,
some of Dannevig's questionable exploits while in our employ. Pfeifer
was hugely entertained, and swore that Dannevig was the most
interesting rascal he had ever heard of.
A few days later I was surprised by a call from Dannevig, who seemed
again to be in the full bloom of prosperity. And yet, that
inexpressible flavor of aristocracy, and that absolute fineness of
type which at our first meeting had so fascinated me, had undergone
some subtle change which was almost too fleeting for words to express.
To put it bluntly, he had not borne transplantation well. Like the
finest European grapes, he had thriven in our soil, but turned out a
coarser product than nature intended. He talked with oppressive
brilliancy about everything under the sun, patronized me (as indeed he
had always done), and behaved with a certain effusive amiability, the
impudence of which was simply masterly.
"By the way," he cried, with fine unconcern, "speaking of beer, how is
your friend, Miss Pfeifer? Her old man, I believe, owns a good deal of
stock in this paper, quite a controlling interest, I am told."
"It will not pay to make love to her on that ground, Dannevig," I
answered, gravely, knowing well enough that he had come on a
diplomatic errand. "Mr. Pfeifer is, in the first place, not her
father, and secondly, he has at least a dozen other heirs."
"Make love to Miss Pfeifer!" he exclaimed, with a hearty laugh. "Why,
I should just as soon think of making love to General Grant! Taking
her all in all, bodily and mentally, there is a certain Teutonic
heaviness and tenacity about her--a certain professorial ponderosity
of thought which would give me a nightmare. She is the innocent result
of twenty generations of beer-drinking."
"Suppose we change the subject, Dannevig," I interrupted, rather
impatiently.
"Well, if you are not the oddest piece I ever did come across!" he
replied, laughingly. "You don't suppose she is a saint, do you?"
"Yes, I do!" I thundered, "and you would greatly oblige by never
mentioning her name again in my presence, or I might be tempted to do
what I might regret."
"Heavens!" he cried, laying hold of the door-knob. "I didn't know you
were in your dangerous mood to-day. You might at least have given a
fellow warning. Suppose, henceforth, when you have your bad days, you
post a placard on the door, with the inscription: 'Dangerous--must not
be crossed.' Then I might know when not to call. Good-morning."
* * * * *
On the lake shore, a short distance north of Lincoln Park, Mr. Pfeifer
had a charming little villa where he spent the summer months in
idyllic drowsiness, exhibiting a spasmodic interest in the culture of
European grapes. Here I found myself one Saturday evening in the
middle of June, having accepted the owner's invitation to stay over
Sunday with him. I rang the door-bell, and inquired for Mr. Pfeifer.
He had unexpectedly been called in to town, the servant informed me,
but would return presently; the young lady I would probably find in
the garden. As I was not averse to a _tête-à-tête_ with Miss Hildegard
just then, I threaded my way carefully among the flower-beds, whose
gorgeous medley of colors gleamed indistinctly through the twilight. A
long bar of deep crimson traced itself along the western horizon, and
here and there a star was struggling out from the faint, blue,
nocturnal dimness. Green and red and yellow lights dotted the surface
of the lake, and the waves beat, with a slow, gurgling rhythm, against
the strand beneath the garden fence; now and then the irrational
shrieks of some shrill-voiced little steamer broke in upon the
stillness like an inappropriately lively remark upon a solemn
conversation. I had half forgotten my purpose, and was walking
aimlessly on, when suddenly I was startled by the sound of human
voices, issuing apparently from a dense arbor of grape-vines at the
lower end of the walk.
"Why will you not believe me, darling?" some one was saying. A great
rush of emotion--fear, anguish, hatred, shook my very soul. "Your
scepticism would make Tyndall tear his hair. Angels have no business
to be so sceptical. You are always doubting me, always darkening my
life by your irrational fears."
"But, Victor," answered another voice, which was none other than
Hildegard's, "he is certainly a very good man, and would not tell me
anything he believed to be untrue. Why, then, did he warn me so
solemnly against you? Even though I love you, I cannot help feeling
that there is something in your past which you hide from me."
"If you will listen to that white-livered hypocrite, it is useless for
me to try to convince you. But, if you must know it,--though, mind you,
I tell you this only because you compel me,--I once interfered,
because my conscience forced me to do so, in a very disgraceful
love-affair of his in Denmark. He has hated me ever since, and is now
taking his vengeance. I will give you the details some other time.
Now, are you satisfied?"
"No, Victor, no. I am not. It is not because I have been listening to
others, that I torment you with these ungrateful questions. Sometimes
a terrible dread comes over me, and though my heart rebels against it,
I cannot conquer it. I feel as if some dark memory, some person,
either living or dead, were standing between us, and would ever keep
you away from me. It is terrible, Victor, but I feel it even now."
"And then all my love, my first and only abiding passion, my life,
which I would gladly lay down at your feet--all goes for naught,
merely because a foolish dream has taken possession of you. Ah, you
are ill, my darling, you are nervous."
"No, no, do not kiss me. Not to-night, Victor, not to-night."
The horrible discovery had completely stunned me. I stood as if
spell-bound, and could neither stir nor utter a sound. But a sudden
rustling of the leaves within broke through the torpor of my senses,
and, with three great strides, I stood at the entrance to the arbor.
Dannevig, instantly recognizing me, slipped dexterously out, and in
the next moment I heard him leaping over the fence, and running away
over the crisp sand. Miss Hildegard stood still and defiant before me
in the twilight, and the audible staccato of her breath revealed to my
ears the agitation which the deepening shadows hid from my eyes. An
overwhelming sense of compassion came over me, as for one who had
sustained a mortal hurt that was beyond the power of healing. Alas,
that simplicity and uprightness of soul, and the boasted womanly
intuitions, should be such poor safeguards against the wiles of the
serpent! And yet, I knew that to argue with her at this moment would
be worse than vain.
"Fraulein," I said, walking close up to her, and laying my hand
lightly on her arm, "with all my heart I deplore this."
"Pray, do not inconvenience yourself with any such superfluous
emotion," she answered, in a tone, the forced hauteur of which was
truly pathetic. "I wish to hear no accusations of Mr. Dannevig from
your mouth. What he does not choose to tell me himself, I will hear
from no one else."
"I have not volunteered any revelations, Fraulein," I observed.
"Moreover, I see you are posing for your own personal gratification.
You wish to convince yourself of your constancy by provoking an attack
from me. When love has reached that stage, Miss Hildegard, then the
patient is no longer absolutely incurable. Now, to convince you that I
am right, will you have the kindness to look me straight in the eyes
and tell me that there is no shadow of doubt in your heart as to Mr.
Dannevig's truthfulness; that, in other words, you believe that on one
occasion he assumed the attitude of indignant virtue toward me, and in
holy horror rebuked my profligacy. Dare you meet my eye, and tell me
that?"
"Yes," she exclaimed, boldly stepping out into the moonlight, and
meeting my eye with a steady gaze; but slowly and gradually the tears
_would_ gather, her underlip _would_ quiver, and with a sudden
movement she turned around, and burst out weeping.
"Oh, no! I cannot! I cannot!" she sobbed, sinking down upon the green
sod.
I stood long gazing mournfully at her, while the sobs shook her
frame; there was a child-like, hearty _abandon_ in her grief, which
eased my mind, for it told me that her infatuation was not so
hopeless, nor her hurt so great as I had feared.
* * * * *
The next evening when dinner was at an end, Mr. Pfeifer proposed a
walk in the park. Hildegard pleaded a headache, and wished to be
excused.
"Nonsense, child," said Pfeifer, with his usual good-humored
peremptoriness. "If you have a headache, so much the more ought you to
go. Put on your things now, and don't keep us waiting any longer than
you can help."
Hildegard submitted with demure listlessness, and soon re-appeared in
her walking costume.
The daylight had faded, and the evening was in its softest, most
ethereal mood. The moon was drifting lazily among the light summer
clouds, gazing down upon the many-voiced tumult of the crowded city,
with that calm philosophic abstraction which always characterizes the
moon, as if she, up there in her airy heights, were so infinitely
exalted above all the distracting problems and doubts that harass our
poor human existence. We entered a concert garden, which was filled
with gayly dressed pleasure seekers; somewhere under the green roof of
the trees an orchestra was discoursing strains of German music to a
Teutonic audience.
"_Donnerwetter_!" said Pfeifer, enthusiastically; "that is the
symphony in _E flat_; pretty well rendered too. Only hear that"--and
he began to whistle the air softly, with lively gesticulations "Come,
let us go nearer and listen."
"No, let us stay here, uncle," remonstrated Hildegard. "I don't think
it is quite nice to go so near. They are drinking beer there, and
there are so many horrible people."
"Nonsense, child! Where did you get all those silly whims from? Where
it is respectable for your uncle to go, I am sure it won't hurt you to
follow."
We made our way through the throng, and stationed ourselves under a
tree, from which we had a full survey of the merry company, seated at
small tables, with huge foam-crowned mugs of beer before them.
Suddenly a voice, somewhat louder than the rest, disentangled itself
from the vague, inarticulate buzz, which filled the air about us.
Swift as a flash my eyes darted in the direction from which the voice
came. There, within a few dozen steps from us, sat Dannevig between
two gaudily attired women; another man was seated at the opposite side
of the table, and between them stood a couple of bottles and several
half-filled glasses. The sight was by no means new to me, and still,
in that moment, it filled me with unspeakable disgust. The knight of
Dannebrog was as charmingly free-and-easy as if he were nestled
securely in the privacy of his own fireside; his fine plumes were
deplorably ruffled, his hat thrust back, and his hair hanging in
tangled locks down over his forehead; his eyes were heavy, and a smile
of maudlin happiness played about his mouth.
"Now, don't make yourself precious, my dear," he was saying, laying
his arm affectionately around the waist of the woman on his right. "I
like German kisses. I speak from experience. Angels have no business
to be--"
"_Himmel_, what is the matter with the child," cried Pfeifer, in a
voice of alarm. "Why, my dear, you tremble all over. I ought not to
have made you go out with that headache. Wait here while I run for
some water."
Before I could offer my services, he was gone, leaving me alone with
Hildegard.
"Let us go," she whispered, with a long, shuddering sigh, turning a
white face, full of fright, disgust, and pitiful appeal toward me.
"Shall we not wait for your uncle?" I asked.
"Oh, I cannot. Let us go," she repeated, seizing my arm, and clinging
convulsively to me.
We walked slowly away, and were soon overtaken by Mr. Pfeifer.
"How do you feel now, child?" he inquired anxiously.
"Oh, I feel--I feel--unclean," she whispered and shuddered again.