Into a singularly restricted and indifferent environment Ida Zobel
was born. Her mother, a severe, prim German woman, died when she was
only three, leaving her to the care of her father and his sister, both
extremely reserved and orderly persons. Later, after Ida had reached
the age of ten, William Zobel took unto himself a second wife, who
resembled Zobel and his first wife in their respect for labor and order.
Both were at odds with the brash gayety and looseness of the American
world in which they found themselves. Being narrow, sober, workaday
Germans, they were annoyed by the groups of restless, seeking, eager,
and as Zobel saw it, rather scandalous young men and women who paraded
the neighborhood streets of an evening without a single thought
apparently other than pleasure. And these young scamps and their girl
friends who sped about in automobiles. The loose, indifferent parents.
The loose, free ways of all these children. What was to become of
such a nation? Were not the daily newspapers, which he would scarcely
tolerate in his home longer, full of these wretched doings? The
pictures of almost naked women that filled them all! Jazz! Petting
parties! High school boys with flasks on their hips! Girls with skirts
to their knees, rolled-down stockings, rolled-down neck-bands, bare
arms, bobbed hair, no decent concealing underwear!
“What—a daughter of his grow up like that! Be permitted to join in this
prancing route to perdition! Never!” And in consequence, the strictest
of rules with regard to Ida’s upbringing. Her hair was to grow its
natural length, of course. Her lips and cheeks were never to know
the blush of false, suggestive paint. Plain dresses. Plain underwear
and stockings and shoes and hats. No crazy, idiotic finery, but
substantial, respectable clothing. Work at home and, when not otherwise
employed with her studies at school, in the small paint and color store
which her father owned in the immediate vicinity of their home. And
last, but not least, a schooling of such proper and definite character
as would serve to keep her mind from the innumerable current follies
which were apparently pulling at the foundations of decent society.
For this purpose Zobel chose a private and somewhat religious school
conducted by an aged German spinster of the name of Elizabeth
Hohstauffer, who had succeeded after years and years of teaching in
impressing her merits as a mentor on perhaps as many as a hundred
German families of the area. No contact with the careless and shameless
public school here. And once the child had been inducted into that,
there followed a series of daily inquiries and directions intended to
guide her in the path she was to follow.
“Hurry! You have only ten minutes now in which to get to school. There
is no time to lose!”... “How comes it that you are five minutes late
to-night? What were you doing?”... “Your teacher made you stay? You had
to stop and look for a blank book?”... “Why didn’t you come home first
and let me look for it with you afterwards?” (It was her stepmother
talking.) “You know your father doesn’t want you to stay after
school.”... “And just what were you doing on Warren Avenue between
twelve and one to-day? Your father said you were with some girl.”...
“Vilma Balet? And who is Vilma Balet? Where does she live? And how long
has it been that you have been going with her? Why is it that you have
not mentioned her before? You know what your father’s rule is. And now
I shall have to tell him. He will be angry. You must obey his rules.
You are by no means old enough to decide for yourself. You have heard
him say that.”
Notwithstanding all this, Ida, though none too daring or aggressive
mentally, was being imaginatively drawn to the very gayeties and
pleasures that require courage and daring. She lived in a mental world
made up of the bright lights of Warren Avenue, of which she caught an
occasional glimpse. The numerous cars speeding by! The movies and her
favorite photographs of actors and actresses, some of the mannerisms of
whom the girls imitated at school. The voices, the laughter of the boys
and girls as they walked to and fro along the commonplace thoroughfare
with its street-cars and endless stores side by side! And what triumphs
or prospective joys they planned and palavered over as they strolled
along in their easy manner—arms linked and bodies swaying—up the street
and around the corner and back into the main street again, gazing at
their graceful ankles and bodies in the mirrors and windows as they
passed, or casting shy glances at the boys.
But as for Ida—despite her budding sensitivity—at ten, eleven, twelve,
thirteen, fourteen—there was no escape from the severe regimen she was
compelled to follow. Breakfast at seven-thirty sharp because the store
had to be opened by her father at eight; luncheon at twelve-thirty,
on the dot to satisfy her father; dinner invariably at six-thirty,
because there were many things commercial and social which fell upon
the shoulders of William Zobel at night. And between whiles, from four
to six on weekdays and later from seven to ten at night, as well as all
day Saturdays, store duty in her father’s store. No parties, no welcome
home atmosphere for the friends of her choice. Those she really liked
were always picked to pieces by her stepmother, and of course this
somewhat influenced the opinion of her father. It was common gossip
of the neighborhood that her parents were very strict and that they
permitted her scarcely any liberties. A trip to a movie, the choice of
which was properly supervised by her parents; an occasional ride in an
automobile with her parents, since by the time she had attained her
fifteenth year he had purchased one of the cheaper cars.
But all the time the rout of youthful life before her eyes. And in so
far as her home life and the emotional significance of her parents
were concerned, a sort of depressing grayness. For William Zobel, with
his gray-blue eyes gleaming behind gilt-rimmed glasses, was scarcely
the person to whom a girl of Ida’s temperament would be drawn. Nor was
her stepmother, with her long, narrow face, brown eyes and black hair.
Indeed, Zobel was a father who by the very solemnity of his demeanor,
as well as the soberness and practicability of his thoughts and rules,
was constantly evoking a sense of dictatorship which was by no means
conducive to sympathetic approach. To be sure, there were greetings,
acknowledgments, respectful and careful explanations as to this, that
and the other. Occasionally they would go to a friend’s house or a
public restaurant, but there existed no understanding on the part of
either Zobel or his wife—he never having wanted a daughter of his own
and she not being particularly drawn to the child of another—of the
growing problems of adolescence that might be confronting her, and
hence none of that possible harmony and enlightenment which might have
endeared each to the other.
Instead, repression, and even fear at times, which in the course of
years took on an aspect of careful courtesy supplemented by accurate
obedience. But within herself a growing sense of her own increasing
charm, which, in her father’s eyes, if not in her stepmother’s, seemed
to be identified always with danger—either present or prospective.
Her very light and silky hair—light, grayish-blue eyes—a rounded and
intriguing figure which even the other girls at Miss Hohstauffer’s
school noticed and commented on. And in addition a small straight nose
and a full and yet small and almost pouting mouth and rounded chin. Had
she not a mirror and were there not boys from her seventh year on who
looked at her and sought to attract her attention? Her father could see
this as well as his second wife. But she dared not loiter here and
there as others did, for those vigorous, bantering, seeking, intriguing
contacts. She must hurry home—to store or house duty or more study in
such fields as Zobel and his wife thought best for her. If it was to
run errands she was always timed to the minute.
And yet, in spite of all these precautions, the swift telegraphy of
eyes and blood. The haunting, seeking moods of youth, which speaks
a language of its own. In the drugstore at the corner of Warren and
Tracy, but a half-block from her home, there was at one time in her
twelfth year Lawrence Sullivan, a soda clerk. He seemed to her the most
beautiful thing she had ever seen. The dark, smooth hair lying glossed
and parted above a perfect white forehead; slim, graceful hands—or so
she thought—a care and smartness in the matter of dress which even the
clothing of the scores of public school boys passing this way seemed
scarcely to match. And such a way where girls were concerned—so smiling
and at his ease. And always a word for them as they stopped in on their
way home from school.
“Why, hello, Della! How’s Miss McGinnis to-day? I bet I know what
you’re going to have. I think pretty blonde girls must like chocolate
sundaes—they contrast with their complexions.” And then smiling
serenely while Miss McGinnis panted and smiled: “A lot you know about
what blonde girls like.”
And Ida Zobel, present on occasion by permission for a soda or a
sundae, looking on and listening most eagerly. Such a handsome youth.
All of sixteen. He would as yet pay no attention to so young a girl
as she, of course, but when she was older! Would she be as pretty
as this Miss McGinnis? Could she be as assured? How wonderful to be
attractive to such a youth! And what would he say to her, if he said
anything at all? And what would she say in return? Many times she
imitated these girls mentally and held imaginary conversations with
herself. Yes, despite this passive admiration, Mr. Sullivan went the
way of all soda-clerks, changing eventually to another job in another
neighborhood.
But in the course of time there were others who took her eye and for a
time held her mind—around whose differing charms she erected fancies
which had nothing to do with reality. One of these was Merton Webster,
the brisk, showy, vain and none too ambitious son of a local state
senator, who lived in the same block she did and attended Watkins High
School, which she was not permitted to attend. So handsome was he—so
debonair. “Hello, kid! Gee, you look cute, all right. One of these days
I’ll take you to a dance if you want to go.” Yet, because of her years
and the strict family espionage, blushes, her head down, but a smile
none the less.
And she was troubled by thoughts of him until Walter Stour, whose
father conducted a realty and insurance business only a little way west
of her father’s store, took her attention—a year later. Walter was a
tall, fair complexioned youth, with gay eyes and a big, laughing mouth,
who, occasionally with Merton Webster, Lawrence Cross, a grocer’s son,
Sven Volberg, the dry-cleaner’s son, and some others, hung about the
favorite moving-picture theatre or the drugstore on the main corner
and flirted with the girls as they passed by. As restricted as she was
still, because of her trips to and fro between home and school and
her service as a clerk in her father’s store, she was not unfamiliar
with these several figures or their names. They came into the store
occasionally and even commented on her looks: “Oh, getting to be a
pretty girl, isn’t she?” Whereupon she would flush with excitement and
nervously busy herself about filling a customer’s order.
It was through Etelka Shomel, the daughter of a German neighbor who was
also a friend of William Zobel, that she learned much of these boys and
girls. Her father thought Etelka a safe character for Ida to chum with,
chiefly on account of her unattractiveness. But through her, as well as
their joint pilgrimages here and there, she came to hear much gossip
about the doings of these same. Walter Stour, whom she now greatly
admired, was going with a girl by the name of Edna Strong, who was the
daughter of a milk-dealer. Stour’s father was not as stingy as some
fathers. He had a good car and occasionally let his son use it. Stour
often took Edna and some of her friends to boathouse resorts on the
Little Shark River. A girl friend of Etelka’s told her what a wonderful
mimic and dancer he was. She had been on a party with him. And, of
course, Ida lent a willing and eager ear to all this. Oh, the gayety of
such a life! Its wonders! Beauties!
And then one night, as Ida was coming around the corner to go to her
father’s store at about seven-thirty and Stour was on his favorite
corner with several other boys, he called: “I know who’s a sweet kid,
but her daddy won’t let her look at a guy. Will he?” This last aimed
directly at her as she passed, while she, knowing full well who was
meant and how true it was, hurried on all the faster. If her father had
heard that! Oh, my! But it thrilled her as she walked. “Sweet kid.”
“Sweet kid”—kept ringing in her ears.
And then at last, in her sixteenth year, Edward Hauptwanger moved
into a large house in Grey Street. His father, Jacob Hauptwanger, was
a well-to-do coal-dealer who had recently purchased a yard on the
Absecon. It was about this time that Ida became keenly aware that her
normal girlhood, with its so necessary social contacts, was being set
at naught and that she was being completely frustrated by the stern
and repressive attitude of her father and stepmother. The wonder and
pain, for instance, of spring and summer evenings just then, when she
would stand gazing at the moon above her own commonplace home—shining
down into the narrow, commonplace garden at the back, where still were
tulips, hyacinths, honeysuckle and roses. And the stars shining above
Warren Avenue, where were the cars, the crowds, the moving-picture
theatres and restaurants which held such charm for her. There was a
kind of madness, an ache, in it all. Oh, for pleasure—pleasure! To
go, run, dance, play, kiss with some one—almost any one, really, if he
were only young and handsome. Was she going to know no one—no one? And,
worse, the young men of the neighborhood calling to her as she passed:
“Oh, look who’s here! Shame her daddy won’t let her out.” “Why don’t
you bob your hair, Ida? You’d be cute.” Even though she was out of
school now, she was clerking as before and dressing as before. No short
skirts, bobbed hair, rolled-down stockings, rouge.
But with the arrival of this Edward Hauptwanger, there came a change.
For here was a youth of definite and drastic impulses—a beau, a
fighter, a fellow of infinite guile where girls of all sorts were
concerned—and, too, a youth of taste in the matter of dress and
manner—one who stood out as a kind of hero to the type of youthful
male companions with whom he chose to associate. Did he not live in a
really large, separate house on Grey Street? And were not his father’s
coal-pockets and trucks conspicuously labelled outstanding features of
the district? And, in addition, Hauptwanger, owing to the foolish and
doting favor of his mother (by no means shared by his father), always
supplied with pocket money sufficient to meet all required expenditures
of such a world as this. The shows to which he could take his “flames”;
the restaurants, downtown as well as here. And the boat club on the
Little Shark which at once became a rendezvous of his. He had a canoe
of his own, so it was said. He was an expert swimmer and diver. He
was allowed the use of his father’s car and would often gather up his
friends on a Saturday or Sunday and go to the boat club.
More interesting still, after nearly a year’s residence here, in which
he had had time to establish himself socially after this fashion, he
had his first sight of Ida Zobel passing one evening from her home
to the store. Her youthful if repressed beauty was at its zenith.
And some remarks concerning her and her restricted life by youths
who had neither the skill nor the daring to invade it at once set
him thinking. She was beautiful, you bet! Hauptwanger, because of a
certain adventurous fighting strain in his blood, was at once intrigued
by the difficulties which thus so definitely set this girl apart.
“These old-fashioned, dictatorial Germans! And not a fellow in the
neighborhood to step up and do anything about it! Well, whaddya know?”
And forthwith an intensive study of the situation as well as of the
sensitive, alluring Ida Zobel. And with the result that he was soon
finding himself irresistibly attracted to her. That pretty face! That
graceful, rounded figure! Those large, blue-gray, shy and evasive eyes!
Yet with yearning in them, too.
And in consequence various brazen parades past the very paint store
of Zobel, with the fair Ida within. And this despite the fact that
Zobel himself was there—morning, noon and night—bent over his cash
register or his books or doing up something for a customer. And Ida, by
reason of her repressed desires and sudden strong consciousness of his
interest in her as thus expressed, more and more attracted to him. And
he, because of this or his own interest, coming to note the hours when
she was most likely to be alone. These were, as a rule, Wednesdays and
Fridays, when because of a singing society as well as a German social
and commercial club her father was absent from eight-thirty on. And
although occasionally assisted by her stepmother she was there alone on
these nights.
And so a campaign which was to break the spell which held the
sleeping beauty. At first, however, only a smile in the direction
of Ida whenever he passed or she passed him, together with boasts
to his friends to the effect that he would “win that kid yet, wait
and see.” And then, one evening, in the absence of Zobel, a visit to
the store. She was behind the counter and between the business of
waiting on customers was dreaming as usual of the life outside. For
during the past few weeks she had become most sharply conscious of the
smiling interest of Hauptwanger. His straight, lithe body—his quick,
aggressive manner—his assertive, seeking eyes! Oh, my! Like the others
who had gone before him and who had attracted her emotional interest,
he was exactly of that fastidious, self-assured and self-admiring
type toward which one so shy as herself would yearn. No hesitancy on
his part. Even for this occasion he had scarcely troubled to think of
a story. What difference? Any old story would do. He wanted to see
some paints. They might be going to repaint the house soon—and in the
meantime he could engage her in conversation, and if the “old man” came
back, well, he would talk paints to him.
And so, on this particularly warm and enticing night in May, he walked
briskly in, a new gray suit, light tan fedora hat and tan shoes and tie
completing an ensemble which won the admiration of the neighborhood.
“Oh, hello. Pretty tough to have to work inside on a night like this,
ain’t it?” (A most irresistible smile going with this.) “I want to
see some paints—the colors of ’em, I mean. The old man is thinking of
repainting the house.”
And at once Ida, excited and flushing to the roots of her hair,
turning to look for a color card—as much to conceal her flushing face
as anything else. And yet intrigued as much as she was affrighted.
The daring of him! Suppose her father should return—or her stepmother
enter? Still, wasn’t he as much of a customer as any one else—although
she well knew by his manner that it was not paint that had brought him.
For over the way, as she herself could and did see, were three of his
admiring companions ranged in a row to watch him, the while he leaned
genially and familiarly against the counter and continued: “Gee, I’ve
seen you often enough, going back and forth between your school and
this store and your home. I’ve been around here nearly a year now, but
I’ve never seen you around much with the rest of the girls. Too bad!
Otherwise we mighta met. I’ve met all the rest of ’em so far,” and at
the same time by troubling to touch his tie he managed to bring into
action one hand on which was an opal ring, his wrist smartly framed in
a striped pink cuff. “I heard your father wouldn’t even let you go to
Warren High. Pretty strict, eh?” And he beamed into the blue-gray eyes
of the budding girl before him, noted the rounded pink cheeks, the full
mouth, the silky hair, the while she trembled and thrilled.
“Yes, he is pretty strict.”
“Still, you can’t just go nowhere all the time, can you?” And by now
the color card, taken into his own hand, was lying flat on the counter.
“You gotta have a little fun once in a while, eh? If I’da thought
you’da stood for it, I’da introduced myself before this. My father has
the big coal-dock down here on the river. He knows your father, I’m
sure. I gotta car, or at least my dad has, and that’s as good as mine.
Do you think your father’d letcha take a run out in the country some
Saturday or Sunday—down to Little Shark River, say, or Peck’s Beach?
Lots of the fellows and girls from around here go down there.”
By now it was obvious that Hauptwanger was achieving a conquest
of sorts and his companions over the way were abandoning their
advantageous position, no longer hopefully interested by the
possibility of defeat. But the nervous Ida, intrigued though terrified,
was thinking how wonderful it was to at last interest so handsome a
youth as this. Even though her father might not approve, still might
not all that be overcome by such a gallant as this? But her hair was
not bobbed, her skirts not short, her lips not rouged. Could it really
be that he was attracted by her physical charms? His dark brown and
yet hard and eager eyes—his handsome hands. The smart way in which he
dressed. She was becoming conscious of her severely plain blue dress
with white trimmings, her unmodish slippers and stockings. At the same
time she found herself most definitely replying: “Oh, now, I couldn’t
ever do anything like that, you know. You see, my father doesn’t know
you. He wouldn’t let me go with any one he doesn’t know or to whom I
haven’t been properly introduced. You know how it is.”
“Well, couldn’t I introduce myself then? My father knows your father,
I’m sure. I could just tell him that I want to call on you, couldn’t I?
I’m not afraid of him, and there’s sure no harm in that, is there?”
“Well, that might be all right, only he’s very strict—and he might not
want me to go, anyhow.”
“Oh, pshaw! But you would like to go, wouldn’t you? Or to a picture
show? He couldn’t kick against that, could he?”
He looked her in the eye, smiling, and in doing so drew the lids of
his own eyes together in a sensuous, intriguing way which he had found
effective with others. And in the budding Ida were born impulses of
which she had no consciousness and over which she had no control. She
merely looked at him weakly. The wonder of him! The beauty of love! Her
desire toward him! And so finding heart to say: “No, maybe not. I don’t
know. You see I’ve never had a beau yet.”
She looked at him in such a way as to convince him of his conquest.
“Easy! A cinch!” was his thought. “Nothing to it at all.” He would
see Zobel and get his permission or meet her clandestinely. Gee, a
father like that had no right to keep his daughter from having any
fun at all. These narrow, hard-boiled German parents—they ought to be
shown—awakened—made to come to life.
And so, within two days brazenly presenting himself to Zobel in his
store in order to test whether he could not induce him to accept him
as presumably at least a candidate for his daughter’s favor. Supposing
the affair did not prove as appealing as he thought, he could drop
the contact, couldn’t he? Hadn’t he dropped others? Zobel knew of his
father, of course. And while listening to Hauptwanger’s brisk and
confident explanation he was quite consciously evaluating the smart
suit, new tan shoes and gathering, all in all, a favorable impression.
“You say you spoke to her already?”
“I asked her if I might call on her, yes, sir.”
“Uh-uh! When was this?”
“Just two days ago. In the evening here.”
“Uh-uh!”
At the same time a certain nervous, critical attitude toward
everything, which had produced many fine lines about the eyes and above
the nose of Mr. Zobel, again taking hold of him: “Well, well—this is
something I will have to talk over with my daughter. I must see about
this. I am very careful of my daughter and who she goes with, you
know.” Nevertheless, he was thinking of the many coal trucks delivering
coal in the neighborhood, the German name of this youth and his
probable German and hence conservative upbringing. “I will let you know
about it later. You come in some other time.”
And so later a conference with his daughter, resulting finally in the
conclusion that it might be advisable for her to have at least one male
contact. For she was sixteen years old and up to the present time he
had been pretty strict with her. Perhaps she was over the worst period.
At any rate, most other girls of her age were permitted to go out some.
At least one beau of the right kind might be essential, and somehow he
liked this youth who had approached him in this frank, fearless manner.
And so, for the time being, a call permitted once or twice a week,
with Hauptwanger from the first dreaming most daring and aggressive
dreams. And after a time, having conducted himself most circumspectly,
it followed that an evening at one of the neighborhood picture houses
was suggested and achieved. And once this was accomplished it became
a regularity for him to spend either Wednesday or Friday evening with
Ida, it depending on her work in the store. Later, his courage and
skill never deserting him, a suggestion to Mr. Zobel that he permit Ida
to go out with him on a Saturday afternoon to visit Peck’s Beach nine
miles below the city, on the Little Shark. It was very nice there, and
a popular Saturday and Sunday resort for most of the residents of this
area. After a time, having by degrees gained the complete confidence of
Zobel, he was granted permission to take Ida to one or another of the
theatres downtown, or to a restaurant, or to the house of a boy friend
who had a sister and who lived in the next block.
Despite his stern, infiltrating supervision, Zobel could not prevent
the progressive familiarities based on youth, desire, romance. For
with Edward Hauptwanger, to contact was to intrigue and eventually
demand and compel. And so by degrees hand pressures, stolen or enforced
kisses. Yet, none the less, Ida, still fully dominated by the mood and
conviction of her father, persisting in a nervous evasiveness which was
all too trying to her lover.
“Ah, you don’t know my father. No, I couldn’t do that. No, I can’t stay
out so late. Oh, no—I wouldn’t dare go there—I wouldn’t dare to. I
don’t know what he would do to me.”
This, or such as this, to all of his overtures which hinted at later
hours, a trip to that mysterious and fascinating boat club on the
Little Shark twenty-five miles out, where, as he so glibly explained,
were to be enjoyed dancing, swimming, boating, music, feasting. But as
Ida who had never done any of these things soon discovered for herself,
this would require an unheard-of period of time—from noon until
midnight—or later Saturday, whereas her father had fixed the hour of
eleven-thirty for her return to the parental roof.
“Ah, don’t you want to have any fun at all? Gee! He don’t want you to
do a thing and you let him get away with it. Look at all the other
girls and fellows around here. There’s not one that’s as scary as you
are. Besides, what harm is there? Supposing we don’t get back on time?
Couldn’t we say the car broke down? He couldn’t say anything to that.
Besides, no one punches a time clock any more.” But Ida nervous and
still resisting, and Hauptwanger, because of this very resistance,
determined to win her to his mood and to outwit her father at the same
time.
And then the lure of summer nights—Corybantic—dithyrambic—with kisses,
kisses, kisses—under the shadow of the trees in King Lake Park, or in
one of the little boats of its lake which nosed the roots of those
same trees on the shore. And with the sensitive and sensual, and yet
restricted and inexperienced Ida, growing more and more lost in the
spell which youth, summer, love, had generated. The beauty of the face
of this, her grand cavalier! His clothes, his brisk, athletic energy
and daring! And with him perpetually twittering of this and that, here
and there, that if she only truly loved him and had the nerve, what
wouldn’t they do? All the pleasures of the world before them, really.
And then at last, on this same lake—with her lying in his arms—himself
attempting familiarities which scarcely seemed possible in her dreams
before this, and which caused her to jump up and demand to be put
ashore, the while he merely laughed.
“Oh, what had he done that was so terrible? Say, did she really care
for him? Didn’t she? Then, why so uppish? Why cry? Oh, gee, this was
a scream, this was. Oh, all right, if that was the way she was going
to feel about it.” And once ashore, walking briskly off in the gayest
and most self-sufficient manner while she, alone and tortured by her
sudden ejection from paradise, slipped home and into her room, there
to bury her face in her pillow and to whisper to it and herself of the
danger—almost the horror—that had befallen her. Yet in her eyes and
mind the while the perfect Hauptwanger. And in her heart his face,
hands, hair. His daring. His kisses. And so brooding even here and now
as to the wisdom of her course—her anger—and in a dreary and hopeless
mood even, dragging herself to her father’s store the next day, merely
to wait and dream that he was not as evil as he had seemed—that he
could not have seriously contemplated the familiarities that he had
attempted; that he had been merely obsessed, bewitched, as she herself
had been.
Oh, love, love! Edward! Edward! Edward! Oh, he would not, could not
remain away. She must see him—give him a chance to explain. She must
make him understand that it was not want of love but fear of life—her
father, everything, everybody—that kept her so sensitive, aloof, remote.
And Hauptwanger himself, for all of his bravado and craft, now nervous
lest he had been too hasty. For, after all, what a beauty! The lure!
He couldn’t let her go this way. It was a little too delicious and
wonderful to have her so infatuated—and with a little more attention,
who knew? And so conspicuously placing himself where she must pass
on her way home in the evening, at the corner of Warren and High—yet
with no sign on his part of seeing her. And Ida, with yearning and
white-faced misery, seeing him as she passed. Monday night! Tuesday
night! And worse, to see him pass the store early Wednesday evening
without so much as turning his head. And then the next day a note
handed the negro errand boy of her father’s store to be given to him
later, about seven, at the corner where he would most surely be.
And then later, with the same Edward taking it most casually and
grandly and reading it. So she had been compelled to write him, had
she? Oh, these dames! Yet with a definite thrill from the contents for
all of that, for it read: “Oh, Edward, darling, you can’t be so cruel
to me. How can you? I love you so. You didn’t mean what you said. Tell
me you didn’t. I didn’t. Oh, please come to the house at eight. I want
to see you.”
And Edward Hauptwanger, quite triumphant now, saying to the messenger
before four cronies who knew of his present pursuit of Ida: “Oh, that’s
all right. Just tell her I’ll be over after a while.” And then as eight
o’clock neared, ambling off in the direction of the Zobel home. And as
he left one of his companions remarking: “Say, whaddya know? He’s got
that Zobel girl on the run now. She’s writing him notes now. Didn’t
ya see the coon bring it up? Don’t it beat hell?” And the others as
enviously, amazedly and contemptuously inquiring: “Whaddya know?”
And so, under June trees in King Lake Park, once more another
conference. “Oh, darling, how could you treat me so, how could you?
Oh, my dear, dear darling.” And he replying—“Oh, sure, sure, it was
all right, only what do you think I’m made of? Say, have a heart, I’m
human, ain’t I? I’ve got some feelings same as anybody else. Ain’t I
crazy about you and ain’t you crazy about me? Well, then—besides—well,
say....” A long pharisaical and deluding argument as one might guess,
with all the miseries and difficulties of restrained and evaded desire
most artfully suggested—yet with no harm meant, of course. Oh, no.
But again, on her part, the old foolish, terrorized love plea. And the
firm assurance on his part that if anything went wrong—why, of course.
But why worry about that now? Gee, she was the only girl he knew who
worried about anything like that. And finally a rendezvous at Little
Shark River, with his father’s car as the conveyance. And later others
and others. And she—because of her weak, fearsome yielding in the first
instance—and then her terrorized contemplation of possible consequences
in the second—clinging to him in all too eager and hence cloying
fashion. She was his now—all his. Oh, he would never, never desert her,
now, would he?
But he, once satisfied—his restless and overweening ego comforted
by another victory—turning with a hectic and chronic, and for him
uncontrollable sense of satiety, as well as fear of complications
and burden—to other phases of beauty—other fields and relationships
where there was no such danger. For after all—one more girl. One more
experience. And not so greatly different from others that had gone
before it. And this in the face of the magic of her meaning before
capitulation. He did not understand it. He could not. He did not even
trouble to think about it much. But so it was. And with no present
consciousness or fear of being involved in any early and unsatisfactory
complications which might require marriage—on the contrary a distinct
and definite opposition to any such complication at any time, anywhere.
Yet, at last, after many, many perfect hours throughout July and
August, the fatal complaint. There was something wrong, she feared.
She had such strange moods—such strange spells, pains, fears—recently.
Could there be? Did he think there could be any danger? She had done
what he said. Oh, if there was! What was she to do then? Would he marry
her? He must, really, then. There was no other way. Her father—his
fierce anger. Her own terrors. She could not live at home any more.
Could they not—would they not—be married now if anything were wrong? He
had said he would if anything like this ever happened, had he not?
And Hauptwanger, in the face of this, suffering a nervous and cold
reaction. Marriage! The mere thought of such a thing! Impossible! His
father! His hitherto free roving life! His future! Besides, how did she
know? How could she be sure? And supposing she was! Other girls got out
of such things without much trouble. Why not she? And had he not taken
all the usual customary and necessary precautions that he knew! She was
too easily frightened—too uninformed—not daring enough. He knew of lots
of cases where girls got through situations of this kind with ease. He
would see about something first.
But conjoined with this, as she herself could see and feel, a sudden
definite coolness never before sensed or witnessed by her, which
was based on his firm determination not to pursue this threatening
relationship any longer, seeing that to do so meant only to emphasize
responsibility. And in addition, a keen desire to stay away. Were there
not other girls? A whole world full. And only recently had he not
been intrigued by one who was more aware of the free, smart ways of
pleasure and not so likely ever to prove a burden?
But on the other hand, in the face of a father as strict as Zobel
himself and a mother who believed in his goodness, his course was
not absolutely clear either. And so from this hour on an attempt to
extricate himself as speedily and as gracefully as possible from this
threatening position. But before this a serious, if irritated, effort
on his part to find a remedy among his friends of the boating club and
street corners. But with the result merely of a vivid advertisement of
the fact that this gay and successful adventure of his had now resulted
most unsuccessfully for Ida. And thereafter hints and nods and nudges
among themselves whenever she chanced to pass. And Ida, because of fear
of scandal, staying in as much as she could these days, or when she did
appear trying to avoid Warren Avenue at High as much as possible. For
by now she was truly terrified, seized indeed with the most weakening
emotions based on the stern and unrelenting countenance of her father
which loomed so threateningly beyond the immediate future. “If me no
ifs,” and “but me no buts.” Oh, how to do? For throughout the trial of
this useless remedy, there had been nothing to do but wait. And the
waiting ended in nothing—only greater horrors. And between all this,
and enforced work at the store and enforced duties at home, efforts to
see her beloved—who, because of new and more urgent duties, was finding
it harder and harder to meet her anywhere or at any time.
“But you must see how it is with me, don’t you, dear? I can’t go on
like this, can’t you see that? You said you’d marry me, didn’t you? And
look at all the time that’s gone already. Oh, I’m almost mad. You must
do something. You must! You must! If father should find out, what in
the world would I do? What would he do to me, and to you, too? Can’t
you see how bad it is?”
Yet in the face of this tortured plea on the part of this frantic and
still love-sick girl, a calm on the part of Hauptwanger that expressed
not indifference but cruelty. She be damned! He would not. He could
not. He must save himself now at whatever cost. And so a determined
attempt not to see her any more at all—never to speak to her openly
anywhere—or to admit any responsibility as to all this. Yet, because
of her inexperience, youth and faith thus far, no willingness on her
part to believe this. It could not be. She had not even so much as
sensed it before. Yet his continuing indifference which could only be
interpreted one way. The absences—the excuses! And then one day, when
pains and terror seized on her and thereby drove her to him, he looking
her calmly and brazenly in the eye and announcing: “But I didn’t really
promise to marry you, and you know I didn’t. Besides, I’m not to blame
any more than you are. You don’t suppose that just because you don’t
know how to take care of yourself I’ve got to marry you now, do you?”
His eyes now for the first time were truly hard. His intention to end
this by one fell blow was very definite. And the blow was sufficient at
the moment to half unseat the romantic and all but febrile reason of
this girl, who up to this hour had believed so foolishly in love. Why,
how could this be? The horror of it! The implied disaster. And then
half in understanding, half in befuddled unreason, exclaiming: “But,
Ed! Ed! You can’t mean that. Why, it isn’t true! You know it isn’t!
You promised. You swore. You know I never wanted to—until you made me.
Why ... oh, what’ll I do now? My father! I don’t know what he’ll do to
me or to you either. Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” And frantically, and without
sufficient balance to warrant the name of reason, beginning to wring
her hands and twist and sway in a kind of physical as well as mental
agony.
At this Hauptwanger, more determined than ever to frighten her away
from him once and for all, if possible, exclaiming: “Oh, cut that
stuff! I never said I’d marry you, and you know it!” and turning on his
heel and leaving her to rejoin the chattering group of youths on the
corner, with whom, before her arrival, he had been talking. And as much
to sustain himself in this fatal decision as well as to carry it off
before them all, adding: “Gee, these skirts! It does beat hell, don’t
it?”
Yet now a little fearsome, if vain and contemptuous, for the situation
was beginning to take on a gloomy look. But just the same when Johnny
Martin, one of his companions and another aspirant for street corner
and Lothario honors, remarked: “I saw her here last night lookin’ for
you, Ed. Better look out. One of these skirts is likely to do somepin
to you one of these days”—he calmly extracted a cigarette from a silver
cigarette case and without a look in the direction of the half-swooning
Ida, said: “Is that so? Well, maybe. We’ll see first.” And then with
a nonchalant nod in the direction of Ida, who, too tortured to even
retreat, was standing quite still, exclaimed: “Gee, these Germans!
She’s got an old man that wouldn’t ever let her find out anything and
now because she thinks there’s something wrong with her she blames
me.” And just then, another intimate approaching, and with news of two
girls who were to meet them somewhere later, exclaiming: “Hello, Skate!
Everything set? All right, then. We might as well go along. S’long,
fellas.” And stepping briskly and vigorously away.
But the stricken and shaken Ida still loitered under the already
partially denuded September trees. And with the speeding street and
auto cars with their horns and bells and the chattering voices and
shuffling feet of pedestrians and the blazing evening lights making a
kind of fanfare of color and sound. Was it cold? Or was it only herself
who was numb and cold? He would not marry her! He had never said he
would! How could he say that now? And her father to deal with—and her
physical condition to be considered!
As she stood there without moving, there flashed before her a complete
panorama of all the paths and benches of King Lake Park—the little
boats that slipped here and there under the trees at night in the
summertime—a boy and a girl—a boy and a girl—a boy and a girl—to each
boat. And the oars dragging most inconsequentially—and infatuated heads
together—infatuated hearts beating ecstatically—suffocatingly strong.
Yet now—after so many kisses and promises, the lie given to her dreams,
her words—his words on which her words had been based—the lie given to
kisses—hours, days, weeks, months of unspeakable bliss—the lie given
to her own security and hopes, forever. Oh, it would be best to die—it
would—it would.
And then a slow and dragging return to her room, where because of the
absence of her father and stepmother she managed to slip into her bed
and lie there, thinking. But with a kind of fever, alternating with
chills—and both shot through with most menacing pains due to this
most astounding revelation. And with a sudden and keener volume of
resentment than she had ever known gathering in her brain. The cruelty!
The cruelty! And the falsehood! He had not only lied but insulted her
as well. He who only five months before had sought her so eagerly with
his eyes and intriguing smile. The liar! The brute! The monster! Yet
linked and interwoven with such thoughts as these, a lacerating desire
not to believe them—to turn back a month—two—three—to find in his eyes
somewhere a trace of something that would gainsay it all. Oh, Ed! Ed!
And so the night going—and the dawn coming. A horrible lacerating day.
And after that other days. And with no one to talk to—no one. If only
she could tell her stepmother all. And so other days and nights—all
alone. And with blazing, searing, whirling, disordered thoughts in
unbroken procession stalking her like demons. The outside world in case
she were to be thrust into it! Her own unfamiliarity and hence fear
of it! Those chattering, gaping youths on the corners—the girls she
knew—their thoughts, since they must all soon know. Her loneliness
without love. These and a hundred related thoughts dancing a fantastic,
macabre mental dance before her.
But even so, within her own brain the persistent and growing illusion
that all she had heard from him was not true—a chimera—and so for the
time being at least continued faith in the value of pleading. Her
wonderful lover. It must be that still some understanding could be
reached. Yet with growing evidence that by no plea or plaint was he to
be restored to his former attitude. For, in answer to notes, waiting at
the corners, at the end of the street which led down to his father’s
coal-dock, in the vicinity of his home—silence, evasions, or direct
insults, and sneers, even.
“What’s the big idea, following me around, anyhow? You think I haven’t
anything else to do but listen to you? Say, I told you in the first
place I couldn’t marry, didn’t I? And now because you think there’s
something wrong with you, you want to make me responsible. Well, I’m
not the only fellow in this neighborhood. And everybody knows that.”
He paused there, because as he saw this last declaration had awakened
in her a latent strength and determination never previously shown in
any way. The horror of that to her, as he could see. The whiteness of
her face afterwards and on the instant. The blazing electric points
within the pupils of her eyes. “That’s a lie, and you know it! It’s
not true! Oh, how terrible! And for you to say that to me! I see it
all now. You’re just a sneak and a coward. You were just fooling with
me all the time, then! You never intended to marry me, and now because
you’re afraid you think you can get out of it that way—by trying to
blame it on some one else. You coward! Oh, aren’t you the small one,
though! And after all the things you said to me—the promises! As though
I even thought of any one else in my life! You dare to say that to me,
when you know so well!”
Her face was still lily white. And her hands. Her eyes flashed with
transcendent and yet helpless and defeated misery. And yet, despite
her rage—in the center of this very misery—love itself—strong, vital,
burning love—the very core of it. But so tortured that already it was
beginning to drive the tears to her eyes.
And he knowing so thoroughly that this love was still there, now
instantly seizing on these latest truthful words of hers as an
insult—something on which to base an assumed grievance.
“Is that so? A coward, eh? Well, let’s see what you draw down for
that, you little dumb-bell.” And so turning on his heel—the strongest
instinct in him—his own social salvation in this immediate petty
neighborhood at the present time uppermost in his mind. And without a
look behind.
But Ida, her fear and terror at its height, calling: “Ed! Ed! You come
back here! Don’t you dare to leave me like this! I won’t stand for
it. I tell you, I won’t! You come back here now! Do you hear me?” And
seeing that he continued on briskly and indifferently, running after
him, unbelievably tense and a little beside herself—almost mentally
unaccountable for the moment. And he, seeing her thus and amazed and
troubled by this new turn his problem had taken, turning abruptly
with: “Say! You cut out o’ this now before I do something to you, do
you hear? I’m not the one to let you pull this stuff on me. You got
yourself into this and now you can get yourself out of it. Beat it
before I do something to you, do you hear?” And now he drew nearer—and
with such a threatening and savage look in his eyes that for the
first time in all her contact with him Ida grew fearful of him. That
angry, sullen face. Those fierce, cruel, savage eyes. Was it really
true that in addition to all the rest he would really do her physical
harm? Then she had not understood him at all, ever. And so pausing and
standing quite still, that same fear of physical force that had kept
her in subjection to her father overawing her here. At the same time,
Hauptwanger, noting the effect of his glowering rage, now added:
“Don’t come near me any more, do you hear? If you do, you’re goin’ to
get something you’re not going to like. I’m through, and I’m through
for good, see.”
Once more he turned and strode away, this time toward the central
business district of the High and Warren Avenue region—the while Ida,
too shaken by this newest development to quite grasp the full measure
of her own necessity or courage, stood there. The horror of it! The
disgrace! The shame! For now, surely, tragedy was upon her!
For the time being, in order to save herself from too much publicity,
she began to move on—walk—only slowly and with whirling, staggering
thoughts that caused her to all but lurch. And so, shaking and pale,
she made her way once more to her home, where she stole into her room
unnoticed. Yet, now, too tortured to cry but thinking grimly—fiercely
at moments—at other times most weakly and feebly even—on all that had
so recently occurred.
Her father! Her stepmother! If he—she—they should come to know! But
no—something else must happen before ever that should be allowed to
happen. She must leave—or—or, better yet—maybe drown herself—make way
with herself in some way—or—
In the garret of this home, to which as a child on certain days she had
frequently resorted to play, was an old wire clothes-line on which was
hung an occasional wash. And now—might not that—in the face of absolute
fiasco here—might not that—she had read of ending one’s life in that
manner. And it was so unlikely that any one would trouble to look
there—until—until—well—
But would she? Could she? This strange budding of life that she
sensed—feared. Was it fair to it? Herself? To life that had given it to
her? And when she desired so to live? And when he owed her something—at
least help to her and her—her—her—No, she could not—would not think of
that yet, especially when to die this way would be but to clear the
way to easier and happier conquests for him. Never! Never! She would
kill him first—and then herself. Or expose him and so herself—and
then—and then—