In her father’s desk at the store was a revolver—a large, firm,
squarish mechanism which, as she had heard him say, fired eight shots.
It was so heavy, so blue, so cold. She had seen it, touched it, lifted
it once—but with a kind of terror, really. It was always so identified
with death—anger—not life—But now—supposing—supposing, if she desired
to punish Edward and herself—or just herself alone. But no, that was
not the way. What was the way, anyhow? What was the way?
And so now brooding in a tortured and half-demented way until her
father, noting her mental state, inquired solemnly as to what had
come over her of late. Had she had a quarrel with Hauptwanger? He had
not seen him about recently. Was she ill in any way? Her appetite had
certainly fallen off. She ate scarcely anything. But receiving a prompt
“No” to both inquiries he remained curious but inclined to suspend
further inquiry for the time being. There was something, of course, but
no doubt it would soon come out.
But now—in the face of this—of course there must be action—decision.
And so, in view of the thoughts as to self-destruction and the
revolver, a decision to try the effect of a physical threat upon
Hauptwanger. She would just frighten him. She might even point the gun
at him—and see what he would do then. Of course, she could not kill
him—she knew that. But supposing—supposing—one aimed—but not at him,
really—and—and—(but, oh no!) a spit of fire, a puff of smoke, a deadly
bullet—into his heart—into hers afterward, of course. No, no! For then
what? Where?
A dozen, a score, of times in less than two days she approached the
drawer that held the revolver and looked at it—finally lifting it up
but with no thought of doing more than just that at the moment. It
was so heavy, so cold, so blue. The very weight and meaning of it
terrorized her, although at last—after the twentieth attempt—she was
able to fit it into her bosom in such a way that it lay quite firm and
still. The horror of it—cold against her breast, where so often during
the summer his head had lain.
And then one afternoon, when she could scarcely endure the strain
longer—her father demanding: “What is the matter with you, anyhow?
Do you know what you’re doing half the time? Is there anything wrong
between you and that beau of yours? I see he doesn’t come around any
more. It is time that you either married or had nothing more to do with
him, anyway. I don’t want any silly nonsense between you and him, you
know.” And this effected the very decision which she had most dreaded.
Now ... now ... she must act. This evening—at least she must see him
again and tell him that she was going to see his father and reveal
all—furthermore, that if he did not marry her she would kill him and
herself. Show him the gun, maybe, and frighten him with it—if she
could—but at any rate make a last plea as well as a threat. If only—if
only he would listen this time—not turn on her—become frightened,
maybe, and help her,—not curse—or drive her away.
There was the coal-yard of his father that was at the end of an inlet
giving into the river. Or his own home. She might go first to the coal
office. He would be sure to be leaving there at half past five, or at
six he would be nearing his home. At seven or half past departing from
that again very likely to see—to see—whom? But best—best to go to the
coal office first. He would be coming from there alone. It would be the
quickest.
And Hauptwanger coming out of the coal office on this particular
evening in the mood and with the air of one with whom all was well. But
in the windy dusk of this November evening, arc lights blazing in the
distance, the sound of distant cars, distant life, the wind whipping
crisp leaves along the ground—the figure of a girl—a familiar cape
about her shoulders, suddenly emerging from behind a pile of brick he
was accustomed to pass.
“Ed! I want to talk to you a minute.”
“You again! What the hell did I tell you? I ain’t got no time to talk
to you, and I won’t! What did I....”
“Now listen, Ed, stop that, now! I’m desperate. _I’m desperate_, Ed,
do you hear? Can’t you see?” Her voice was staccato—almost shrill and
yet mournful, too. “I’ve come to tell you that you’ve got to marry me
now. _You’ve got_ to—do you hear?” She was fumbling at her breast where
lay that heavy blue thing—no longer so cold as when she had placed it
there. The handle was upward. She must draw it now—show it—or hold
it under her cloak ready so that at the right moment she could show
it—and make him understand that unless he did something.... But her
hand shaking so that she could scarcely hold it. It was so heavy—so
terrible. She could scarcely hear herself adding: “Otherwise, I’m going
to your father and mine, now. My father may do something terrible to
me but he’ll do more to you. And so will your father when he knows....
But, anyway....” She was about to add: “You’ve got to marry me, and
right away too, or, or, I’m going to kill you and myself, that’s
all—” and then to produce the revolver, and wave it before him in a
threatening dramatic manner.
But before that the uncalculated and non-understanding fury of
Hauptwanger. “Well, of all the nerve! Say, cut this out, will ya? Who
do you think you are? What did I tell you? Go to my father, if you want
to. Go to yours! Who’s afraid? Do you think they’re going to believe a
—— like you? I never had anything to do with you, and that’s that!” And
then in his anger giving her a push—as much to overawe her as anything.
But then, in spite of her desire not to give way, fury, blindness,
pain,—whirling, fiery sparks, such as never in all her life before had
she seen—and executing strange, rhythmic, convoluting orbits in her
brain—swift, eccentric, red and yet beautiful orbits. And in the center
of them the face of Hauptwanger—her beloved—but not as it was now—oh,
no—but rather haloed by a strange white light—as it was under the trees
in the spring. And herself turning, and in spite of the push, jumping
before him.
“You will marry me, Ed, you will! You will! You see this? You will
marry me!”
And then, as much to her astonishment as to his—yet with no particular
terror to either of them—the thing spitting flame—making a loud
noise—jumping almost out of her hand—so much so that before she could
turn it away again there was another report—another flash of red in
the dusk. And then Hauptwanger, too astonished quite for words at the
moment, exclaiming: “Jesus! What are you....” And then, because of
a sharp pain in his chest, putting his hand there and adding: “Oh,
Christ! I’m shot!” and falling forward to one side of her....
And then herself—those same whirling red sparks in her brain, saying:
“Now, now—I must kill myself, too. I must. I must. I must run somewhere
and turn this on myself,” only quite unable to lift it at the
moment—and because of some one—a man—approaching—a voice—footsteps,
running—herself beginning to run—for some tree—some wall—some gate or
doorway where she might stop and fire on herself. But a voice: “Hey!
Stop that girl!” “Murder!” And another voice from somewhere else: “Hey!
Murder! Stop that girl!” And footsteps, hard, quick ones, immediately
behind her. And a hand grabbing hers in which was still the pistol,
wildly and yet unwittingly held. And as the other hand wrenched at her
hand—“Gimme that gun!” And then a strong youth whom she had never seen
before—and yet not unlike Eddie either—turning her about—restraining
her— “Say, you! What the devil is this, anyhow? Come back here. You
can’t get away with this.”
And yet at the same time not unfriendly eyes looking into hers, strong
hands holding her, but not too roughly, and herself exclaiming: “Oh,
let me go! Let me go! I want to die, too, I tell you! Let me go!” And
sobbing great, dry, shaking sobs.
But after that—and all so quickly—crowds—crowds—men and women, boys and
girls, and finally policemen gathering about her, each with the rules
of his training firmly in mind to get as much general information as
possible; to see that the wounded man was hurried to a hospital, the
girl to a precinct police station; the names and addresses of various
witnesses secured. But with the lorn Ida in a state of collapse—seated
upon a doorstep in a yard surrounded by a pushing crowd, while voices
rang in her ears: “Where? What? How?” “Sure, sure! Just now, right
back there. Sure, they’re calling the ambulance.” “He’s done for, I
guess. Twice in the breast. He can’t live.” “Gee! He’s all covered with
blood.” “Sure, she did. With a revolver—a great big one. The cop’s got
it. She was tryin’ to get away. Sure, Jimmie Allen caught her. He was
just comin’ home.” “Yeah. She’s the daughter of old Zobel who keeps the
paint store up here in Warren Avenue. I know her. An’ he’s the son of
this Hauptwanger here who owns the coal-yard. I used to work for ’em.
He lives up in Grey Street.”
But in the meantime young Hauptwanger unconscious and being transferred
to an operating table at Mercy Hospital—his case pronounced
hopeless—twenty-four hours of life at the very most. And his father
and mother hearing the news and running there. And in the same period
the tortured Ida transferred to Henderson Avenue Police Station, where
in a rear inquisitorial chamber, entirely surrounded by policemen and
detectives, she was questioned and requestioned. “Yah say yah seen this
fella for the first time over a year ago? Is that right? He just moved
into the neighborhood a little while before? Ain’t that so?” And the
disconsolate, half-conscious Ida nodding her head. And outside a large,
morbid, curious crowd. A beautiful girl! A young man dying! Some sex
mystery here.
And in the interim Zobel himself and his wife, duly informed by a burly
policeman, hurrying white-faced and strained to the station. My God!
My God! And both rushing in breathless. And beads of perspiration on
Zobel’s forehead and hands—and misery, misery eating at his vitals.
What! His Ida had shot some one! Young Hauptwanger! And in the street,
near his office! Murder! Great God! Then there was something between
them. There was. There was. But might he not have known? Her white
face. Her dreary, forsaken manner these later days. She had been
betrayed. That was it. Devils! Devils! That was it! Eighty thousand
hells! And after all he had said to her! And all his and his wife’s
care of her! And now the neighbors! His business! The police! A public
trial! Possibly a sentence—a death sentence! God in heaven! His own
daughter, too! And that young scoundrel with his fine airs and fine
clothes! Why—why was it that he had let her go with him in the first
place? When he might have known—his daughter so inexperienced. “Where
is she? My God! My God! This is terrible!”
But seeing her sitting there, white, doleful-looking, and looking up
at him when spoken to with an almost meaningless look—a bloodless,
smileless face—and saying: “Yes, I shot him. Yes. Yes. He wouldn’t
marry me. He should have but he wouldn’t—and so—” And then at once
crushing her hands in a sad, tortured way and crying: “Oh, Ed! Ed!”
And Zobel exclaiming: “Ach, God! Ida! Ida! In God’s name, it can’t be
so. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you come to me? Am I not your
father! I would have understood. Of course! Of course! I would have
gone to his father—to him. But now—this—and now—” and he began to wring
his own hands.
Yet the principal thought in his mind that now the world would know
all— And after all his efforts. And beginning volubly to explain to the
desk lieutenant and the detectives and policemen all that he knew. But
the only thought afloat in the unhappy Ida’s brain, once she awakened
again, was: Was this really her father? And was he talking so—of help?
That she might have come to him—for what—when she had thought—that—that
he would not be like that to her. But ... after a time again ...
there was Ed to be thought of. That terrible scene. That terrible
accident. She had not intended to do that—really. She had not. She
had not. No! But was he really dead? Had she really killed him? That
push—almost a blow it was—those words. But still— Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
And then beginning to cry to herself, silently and deeply, while Zobel
and his wife bent over her for the first time in true sympathy. The
complications of life! The terrors! There was no peace for any one on
this earth—no peace—no peace. All was madness, really, and sorrow. But
they would stand by her now—yes, yes.
But then the reporters. A public furore fanned by the newspapers, with
their men and women writers, pen and ink artists, photographers. Their
editorials: “Beautiful girl of seventeen shoots lover, twenty-one.
Fires two bullets into body of man she charges with refusing to keep
faith. About to become a mother. Youth likely to die. Girl admits
crime. Pleads to be left alone in misery. Parents of both in despair.”
And then columns and columns, day after day—since on the following
afternoon at three Hauptwanger did die—admitting that he had wronged
her. And a coroner’s jury, called immediately afterwards, holding the
girl for subsequent action by the Grand Jury, and without bail. Yet,
because of her beauty and the “pathos” of the case—letters to the
newspapers, from ministers, society men and women, politicians and the
general public, demanding that this wronged girl about to become a
mother, and who had committed no wrong other than that of loving too
well—if not wisely—be not severely dealt with—be forgiven—be admitted
to bail. No jury anywhere would convict her. Not in America. Indeed, it
would “go hard” with any jury that would attempt to “further punish”
a girl who had already suffered so much. Plainly it was the duty of
the judge in this case to admit this poor wronged soul to bail and the
peace and quiet of some home or institution where her child might be
born, especially since already a woman of extreme wealth and social
position, deeply stirred by the pathos of this drama, had not only come
forward to sympathize with this innocent victim of love and order and
duty, but had offered any amount of bail that she might be released to
the peace and quiet of her own home—there to await the outcome of her
physical condition as well as the unavoidable prosecution which must
fix her future.
And so, to her wonder and confusion, Ida finally released in the
custody of this outwardly sober and yet inwardly emotional woman, who
ever since the first day of her imprisonment in the central county jail
had sought to ingratiate herself into her good graces and emotions—a
woman middle-aged and plain but soft-voiced and kindly-mannered,
who over and over repeated that she understood, that she also had
suffered—that her heart had been torn, too—and that she, Ida, need
never worry. And so Ida finally transferred (a bailed prisoner subject
to return upon demand) to the wide acres and impressive chambers
of a once country but now city residence, an integral part of the
best residence area of the city. And there, to her astonishment and
wonder—and this in spite of her despair—all needful equipment and
service provided—a maid and servants, her food served to her in her
room when she wished—silence or entertainment as she chose. And with
her own parents allowed to visit her whenever she chose. Yet she
was so uncomfortable in their presence always now. True, they were
kind—gentle, whenever they came. They spoke of the different life
that was to be after this great crisis was truly past—the birth of
the child, which was never other than indirectly referred to, or the
trial, which was to follow later. There was to be a new store in a
new neighborhood. The old one had already been offered for sale. And
after that ... well, peace perhaps, or a better life. But even in her
father’s eyes as he spoke could she not see the weight of care which
he now shouldered? She had sinned! She had killed a man! And wrecked
another family—the hearts of two other parents as well as her father’s
own peace of mind and commercial and social well-being. And in all his
charity, was there room for that? In the solemnity of his manner, as
well as that of her stepmother, could she feel that there was?
Yet in the main, and because her mood and health seemed to require
it, she was now left to contemplate the inexplicable chain of events
which her primary desire for love had brought about. The almost amazing
difference in the mental attitude of her parents toward her now and
before this dreadful and unfortunate event in her life! So considerate
and sympathetic now as to result in an offer of a happier home for her
and her child in the future, whereas before all was—or as she sensed
it—so threatening and desperate. The strange and to her inexplicable
attitude of this woman even—so kind and generous—and this in the face
of her sin and shame.
And yet, what peace or quiet could there be for her here or anywhere
now? The terrible torture that had preceded that terrible accident! Her
Edward’s cry! His death! And when she loved him so! Had! Did now! And
yet by his dread perverseness, cruelty, brutality, he had taken himself
from her. But still, still—now that he was gone—now that in dying, as
she heard he had said, he had been “stuck on her” at first, that she
had “set him crazy,” but that afterwards, because of his parents, as
well as hers, he had decided that he would not marry her—she could
not help but feel more kindly to him. He had been cruel. But had he
not died? And at her hands. She had killed him—murdered him. Oh, yes,
she had. Oh! Oh! Oh! For in connection with the actual scene did she
not recall some one crying that his shirt front had been all bloody.
Oh! Oh! Oh! And in her heart, no doubt, when she had jumped in front
of him there in the dusk had been rage—rage and hate even, too, for
the moment. Oh, yes. But he had cried: “Oh, Christ! I’m shot!” (Her
Edward’s cry.)
And so, even in the silence of these richly furnished rooms, with
a servant coming to her call, hot, silent tears and deep, racking
sobs—when no one was supposed to see or hear—and thoughts, thoughts,
thoughts—sombre, bleak—as to her lack of sense, her lack of courage
or will to end it all for herself on that dreadful evening when she
so easily might have. And now here she had plighted her word that she
would do nothing rash—would not attempt to take her life. But the
future! The future! And what had she not seen since that dreadful
night! Edward’s father and mother at the inquest! And how they had
looked at her! Hauptwanger, senior—his strong, broad German face marked
with a great anguish. And Mrs. Hauptwanger—small and all in black, and
with great hollow rings under her eyes. And crying silently nearly
all the time. And both had sworn that they knew nothing of Edward’s
conduct, or of his definite interest in her. He was a headstrong,
virile, restless boy. They had a hard time controlling him. And yet
he had not been a bad boy, either—headstrong but willing to work—and
gay—their only son.
At one point in these extensive grounds—entirely surrounded by Lombardy
poplars now leafless—there stood a fountain drained of its water for
the winter. But upon the pedestal, upon a bronze rock, at the foot of
which washed bronze waves of the Rhine, a Rhine maiden of the blonde
German Lorelei type, standing erect and a-dream, in youth, in love. And
at her feet, on his knees, a German lover of the Ritter type—vigorous,
uniformed, his fair blond head and face turned upward to the beauty
about whose hips his arms were clasped—his look seeking, urgent. And
upon his fair bronze hair, her right hand, the while she bent on him
a yearning, yielding glance. Oh, Edward! Oh, love! Spring! She must
not come out here any more. And yet evening after evening in early
December, once the first great gust of this terrific storm had subsided
and she was seeing things in a less drastic light, she was accustomed
to return to look at it. And sometimes, even in January, a new moon
overhead would suggest King Lake Park! The little boats gliding here
and there! She and Edward in one. Herself leaning back and dreaming as
now—now—this figure of the girl on the rock was doing. And he—he—at
her knees. To be sure, he had cursed her. He had said the indifferent,
cruel words that had at last driven her to madness. But once he had
loved her just this way. It was there, and only there, that she found
spiritual comfort in her sorrow—
But then, in due course, the child—with all these thoughts, moods
enveloping it. And after that the trial, with her prompt acquittal.
A foreseen conclusion. And with loud public acclaim for that verdict
also, since it was all for romance and drastic drama. And then the
final leaving of these great rooms and this personal intimate affection
that had been showered upon her. For after all the legal, if not the
emotional problem, had now been solved. And since her father was
not one who was poor or welcomed charity—a contemplated and finally
accomplished return to a new world—the new home and store which had
been established in a very different and remote part of the city. The
child a boy. That was good, for eventually he could care for himself.
He would not need her. The new paint shop was near another cross
business street, near another moving-picture theatre. And boys and
girls here as elsewhere—on the corners—going arm in arm—and herself
again at home cooking, sewing, cleaning as before. And with Mrs. Zobel
as reserved and dubious as before. For after all, had she not made a
mess of her life, and for what? What now? Here forever as a fixture?
And even though Zobel, in spite of his grimness, was becoming fond of
the child. How wretched, how feeble life really was!
But far away King Lake Park and the old neighborhood. And thoughts that
went back to it constantly. She had been so happy the summer before.
And now this summer! And other summers to come—even though perhaps some
time—once little Eric was grown—there might be some other lover—who
would not mind— But, no—no, not that. Never! She did not want that.
Could not—would not endure it.
And so at last of a Saturday afternoon, when she had the excuse of
certain things needed for Eric, a trip to presumably the central
business heart—whereas, in reality, it was to King Lake Park she was
going. And once there—the little boats, the familiar paths—a certain
nook under the overarching bushes and trees. She knew it so well. It
was here that she had demanded to be let out in order that she might go
home by herself—so shocked, so ashamed. Yet now seeking it.
The world does not understand such things. It is so busy with so many,
many things.
And then dusk—though she should have been returning. Her boy! He would
miss her! And then a little wind with a last faint russet glow in the
west. And then stars! Quite all the world had gone to its dinner now.
The park was all but empty. The water here was so still—so agate.
(The world—the world—it will never understand, will it?) Where would
Edward be? Would he be meeting her somewhere? Greeting her? Would he
forgive,—when she told him all—could she find him, perchance? (The
world—the busy, strident, indifferent, matter-of-fact world—how little
it knows.)
And then a girl in the silence, in the shadow, making her way down to
the very spot that the nose of their boat had nuzzled but one short
summer before. And calmly stepping into the water and wading out to her
knees—to her waist—her breasts—in the mild, caressing water—and then to
her lips and over them—and finally, deliberately—conclusively—sinking
beneath its surface and without a cry or sigh.
The world does not understand such things. The tide of life runs too
fast. So much that is beautiful—terrible—sweeps by—by—by—without
thought—without notice in the great volume.
And yet her body was found—her story retold in great, flaring
headlines. (Ida Zobel—Girl Slayer of Hauptwanger a Suicide.) And then
... and then ... forgotten.