"I said: when do we move in?"
Her instinct was up in arms. Throwing coolness into her reply, she
returned deliberately: "Not until doomsday."
He stopped fixing his tie. But he continued: "You're gettin' crazy
again."
"I'm not," she replied without changing her tone. "I said: not until
doomsday."
He turned toward her, smiling. But the smile left his face. "What's the
matter now?" he asked, coming forward.
"Go on dressin'!" she commanded, his smile having started her petulance.
He, however, had come over to the couch and now stood over her, staring
at her stupidly. She looked up at him, animosity in her glance. His
vapid expression deepened.
"Well?" she challenged.
"Sore?" he asked humbly.
"No!"
He tried to study her. Gradually, light penetrated his cloudy
understanding: Erna was just like other women. Luckily, some stroke of
intuition prompted him not to turn away this time. Instead, he put his
hands on her shoulders and said with unaccustomed seriousness: "Erna!
Don't be sore."
"I'm not sore," she resented.
"I know--but--"
"You don't have to explain," she cried melodramatically. Strange to say,
Erna seemed ready to cry.
At a loss, Jimmy tried philosophy: "'Cause life is Hell to some folks,
Erna, we don't have to imitate 'em, do we?" He could not tell whether
she was listening. "Gimme a chance!" he added more cheerfully. "Quit the
beanery an' gimme a chance! I don't want life to be Hell for you. Gimme
the chance, won't you?" He waited, but she did not look up. "You
listenin'?"
"Yes," she said.
"Then quit the beanery, Erna! We can live nice an' cosy an' happy here,
can't we? You like it here?"
"Yes," she admitted.
"Let's get the minister then!" he concluded quietly.
She removed his hands from her shoulders.
"Erna!" he repeated.
"Wait a moment," she cut him short, although in a milder tone.
"Stick to your freedom!" he had advised her. He was so human that he
understood everything. And yet, Jimmy--if she were not forced to decide
so soon!
Her strength came back under the influence of this tonic. A little of
her innate cheerfulness revived as well. She looked up at Jimmy. His
puzzled expression disappeared, and he smiled in encouragement. She
smiled too.
"Got somethin' to say," he read. "What is it?"
"Marriage'd be Hell, Jimmy," she announced without emotion.
"Why?" he demanded abruptly, but recollecting himself, stopped. Dimly,
he once more realized that Erna was a woman. And the man's psychology
assisted him: Nature and his long enduring exasperation had been
satisfied. Why worry his head trying to understand Erna? Let her take
care of herself. She would outgrow her present mood. He grew blasé, and
repeated quietly: "Why?"
"I dunno," she explained doubtfully. "Just because, I suppose."
He sat down beside her, not so much to help her wrestle with the problem
as to encourage her to speak. She was thoughtful. "I guess I don't want
to," she continued, but with increasing doubt.
"You don't want to marry? Why?"
"I wouldn't be free," she declared in an uncertain way.
"Why not?" he demanded. "You'd be free? You could do what you want. I
wouldn't stop you?"
She shook her head.
An idea came to him. "Maybe you'd rather--" but he stopped, remembering
a former experience.
"Go ahead," she advised him.
"You'll get sore again," he protested.
"No, I won't," she disagreed, but anticipated him with: "I know what you
were goin' to say."
"You do? Well?"
Erna averted her glance. The old thoughts passed in quick review:
Landsmann's--Mr. Nielsen's advice--scraps of the past--home. She could
live with him a little while and then marry him if all went well. That
seemed best for her.
"Wait'll to-morrow!" he interrupted her. "You're kind o' up in the air
now. You'll be surer to-morrow."
She nodded absent-mindedly.
"You'll let me know to-morrow?"
"Yes."
"Sure?"
"Yes."
"All right! Forget it! We'll get it all settled to-morrow. An' if you'd
still want to have the minister--"
She shook her head negatively. Jimmy appeared just as well satisfied. He
did not understand, but what was the difference, and what the use of
worrying? "You love me, don'tcher?"
Again, she nodded absent-mindedly. He pushed her with rough good nature.
Presently, he got up, returned to the mirror and again busied himself
with his tie. Erna likewise continued dressing. She had reached a
decision. And she was cheerful once more. But she would wait until
to-morrow. It might be better.
X
Mollie and Gretchen, the Landsmann waitresses, were gossipping. It was
about eight o'clock, the next morning. Above the rattle of dishes in the
kitchen, this is what one might have overheard:
"Yes, I saw her with him."
"So did I a few nights ago."
"They must go out every night."
"Of course! She's out every night since he's back. Who else would she go
with?"
"It's just like her."
"Yes! I always said she'd go back to 'im."
"It was _me_ said that."
"Maybe you did, but I said it first. She's a fine girl to be workin' in
an honest place like this to be goin' out with a common prize-fighter."
"Not to have any more self-respect!"
"Yes! I always said she'd come to a bad end."
"Looks that way!"
Their gossipping might have continued indefinitely had not part of it
been heard by an eavesdropper. She came stealthily into the kitchen and
of a sudden, the waitresses received some resounding slaps. The pair
screamed.
Erna called them one or two unquotable names and tried to continue her
attack. But she saw Landsmann coming into the kitchen and beat a retreat
into the dining room, although not without this parting shot: "So you're
the kind I've been givin' dresses to!"
Herr Landsmann was a busy man. Both waitresses were trying to explain at
the same time. And Mollie was weeping violently. At length, he succeeded
in holding an excited consultation with the girls, and with him at their
head, they marched out into the store in ragged single file. The trio
hurriedly argued the case before Mrs. Landsmann, who was standing behind
the counter, guarding the cash register. Pretty soon, Mollie cried:
"Here he comes now!"
Jimmy Allen entered. He greeted the Landsmanns and the waitresses and
then some of his friends, as he passed the store tables. "How about
Young Walcott?" called one. "Next Wednesday," Jimmy returned. "Trainin'
again?" "Yes, I start to-day." And the young hero penetrated the kitchen
and stepped down into the dining room.
Erna was in a disordered state. Some of the customers were endeavoring
to pacify her, but she refused their offers. She spied Jimmy and
throwing down all caution, hurried over to him. He soon heard enough
details.
The young man struck a melodramatic pose. "We'll clear out o' this
hole," he exclaimed. She put her hand on his arm, but he shook it off.
"Go up-stairs an' pack your things!"
"But Jimmy--"
"Never mind!" he interrupted. "You don't have to stay here. If you did,
it'd be different. Go up-stairs an' pack up!"
She looked at him with momentary dread, but Jimmy waved his hand toward
the doorway. Two of the customers got up to interfere, but he gave them
threatening glances. Erna moved away and then stopped in uncertainty.
"Go ahead!" he ordered her. She tried to go, but Landsmann stood in the
doorway. His face was struggling between anger and dignity.
"Erna!" he commanded.
She stared at him.
"Go right up-stairs and--"
The storekeeper noticed Jimmy's threatening attitude and hesitated. "Go
on!" that individual encouraged him. "Got any more to say?"
Evidently, the German had not.
"Then get 'er money ready an' see there ain't a cent short, you lousy
Dutchman! I'll see she gets her deserts. Hurry up, you fat slob, or I'll
help you!"
Herr Landsmann disappeared and so did Erna. Jimmy, master of the moment,
gave the dining room denizens a look of contemptuous pride and likewise
went out.
Consternation prevailed. Each patron wanted to express an opinion, and
argument rose high. Only one of them held his peace: John Carstairs. He
sat aloof, a picture of gloom and stupor.
* * * * *
It was an early hour that evening. Carstairs was seated at the piano in
his small cosy room. The gas was turned fairly low. Except for
intermittent sounds from the instrument, the room was quiet.
The young man was composing. Vague measures, desolate of all cheer,
followed one another in funeral tempo. The monotony, unbroken by even
one note of prophecying gladness, was maddening. But the young man
persisted in his lugubrious incantation. Presently, he got up, turned
the gas a little higher and sat down again. A sheet of music paper lay
in front of him. Only a few measures and the title--Dirge--had been
transcribed. He started jotting down more notes.
There was a knock at the door. He did not hear it. The knock was
repeated. Carstairs struck a petulant dissonance, arose wearily, went
over to the door and opened it part way.
"Special delivery!" a man announced.
Carstairs signed the slip, the postman went away and the door was
closed. The young composer examined the handwriting and quickly tore
open the envelope. The note was very short.
He gave way to eager joy. And he breathed a name twice over: "Elsie!"
Nervous animation betrayed him further. He re-read the note five or six
times, looked about in bewilderment and re-read the note again. Of a
sudden, he hurried over to the bureau and pulled open the bottom drawer.
A litter of odds and ends was laid bare. With anxious haste, he threw
them all about on the floor. At last, he came to a picture: the
photograph of a pretty girl. His joy deepened; he held the picture at
arm's length and gazed a fill of delight. He then arighted himself, went
over to the piano, moved the photograph of an older woman to one side
and placed this picture near the centre. He was soon occupied studying
the effect, and ultimate satisfaction was his.
He again sat down at the piano, but was unable to take his glance from
the picture. Eventually, he smiled, gave the picture an _au revoir_ look
and again turned his attention to the keyboard and manuscript. He had
decided to finish his composition just the same. The dirge continued
intoning its gloomy measures, but a note of prophecying gladness
appeared. From time to time, too, the composer stole shy glances at the
photograph.
* * * * *
In a cosy room in a building not far away, a different scene was taking
place. Eric Nielsen and Erna Vitek were sitting close together on a
couch, chatting confidentially and bantering each other.
Erna had not broken off her appointment with the young writer even
though a sudden change had come into her life. Luckily, Jimmy was away
all afternoon, training up in Fordham, and, thanks to his continued
absence, she was able to leave their flat shortly after six o'clock. She
would only stay out an hour or so and, should he return before her,
would tell him that she had to visit Landsmann's for some small articles
she had left behind. On the way to Nielsen's, she bought two or three
trifles. Fortunately, she had found him at home, although she was two
hours beforehand.
He had heard of the morning's event and was heartily sorry. But Erna
quickly reassured him. Of course, he did not believe the hazy part of
her story,--that she was "stayin' with some friends"--but his philosophy
was equal to the occasion: what Erna hid from him was no concern of his.
In all, they had been spending a delightful evening. As a consequence,
Erna was staying much longer than she had planned.
Nielsen enjoyed her company. She was a splendid stimulant to his
stimulant-craving mental system. After his recent intercourse with the
every-day woman and the every-day man,--a monotonous gallery of drab
souls--she was a touch of brilliant color. Her joy, animal spirit and
fighting instinct enthralled him. She stimulated his imagination
particularly and consequently brought him back to his old interest in
his life and work. So he was trebly indebted to her.
Erna's greed had developed rapidly, and she had grown reckless in short
order. Nielsen inspired her complete confidence. He did not take her too
seriously, neither did he take her too lightly. This was just what she
had craved so long. As a result, at the height of her confidence and his
bantering comment, she allowed him to sit next to her, and they
developed their further intimacy. For the present, she had forgotten
Jimmy. He was physical and did not inspire her as Nielsen's human
temperament did so easily and so quietly. Moreover, her Vitek blood had
been excited.
Therefore, it was inside a natural sequence of happenings that Nielsen's
arm stole about Erna's waist and that she submitted to the liberty. To
tell the truth, Nielsen was decidedly under the influence of the wine in
her nature and she under that in his.
"Isn't this wicked?" he questioned pleasantly.
"No," she denied.
"But it's growing darker," he protested.
"So much the better!" she retorted.
And they both laughed.
"This is rat time," he warned her.
"I don't care," she vaunted.
And they laughed again.
Erna did not leave the Nielsen workshop until well after nine o'clock.