Hilda returned to her father's shop and was busy there until nine
o'clock. Then Sophie Liebers came and they went into the Avenue for a
walk. They pushed their way through and with the throngs up into
Tompkins Square--the center of one of the several vast districts,
little known because little written about, that contain the real New
York and the real New Yorkers. In the Square several thousand young
people were promenading, many of the girls walking in pairs, almost all
the young men paired off, each with a young woman. It was warm, and
the stars beamed down upon the hearts of young lovers, blotting out for
them electric lights and surrounding crowds. It caused no comment
there for a young couple to walk hand in hand, looking each at the
other with the expression that makes commonplace eyes wonderful. And
when the sound of a kiss came from a somewhat secluded bench, the only
glances east in the direction whence it had come were glances of
approval or envy.
"There's Otto Heilig dogging us," said Hilda to Sophie, as they walked
up and down. "Do you wonder I hate him?" They talked in American, as
did all the young people, except with those of their elders who could
speak only German.
Sophie was silent. If Hilda had been noting her face she would have
seen a look of satisfaction.
"I can't bear him," went on Hilda. "No girl could. He's so stupid
and--and common!" Never before had she used that last word in such a
sense. Mr. Feuerstein had begun to educate her.
Sophie's unobserved look changed to resentment. "Of course he's not
equal to Mr. Feuerstein," she said. "But he's a very nice fellow--at
least for an ordinary girl." Sophie's father was an upholsterer, and
not a good one. He owned no tenements--was barely able to pay the rent
for a small corner of one. Thus her sole dower was her pretty face and
her cunning. She had an industrious, scheming, not overscrupulous
brain and--her hopes and plans. Nor had she time to waste. For she
was nearer twenty-three than twenty-two, at the outer edge of the
marriageable age of Avenue A, which believes in an early start at what
it regards as the main business of life--the family.
"You surely couldn't marry such a man as Otto!" said Hilda absently.
Her eyes were searching the crowd, near and far.
Sophie laughed. "Beggars can't be choosers," she answered. "I think
he's all right--as men go. It wouldn't do for me to expect too much."
Just then Hilda caught sight of Mr. Feuerstein--the godlike head, the
glorious hair, the graceful hat. Her manner changed--her eyes
brightened, her cheeks reddened, and she talked fast and laughed a
great deal. As they passed near him she laughed loudly and called out
to Sophie as if she were not at her elbow--she feared he would not see.
Mr. Feuerstein turned his picturesque head, slowly lifted his hat and
joined them. At once Hilda became silent, listening with rapt
attention to the commonplaces he delivered in sonorous, oracular tones.
As he deigned to talk only to Hilda, who was walking between Sophie and
him, Sophie was free to gaze round. She spied Otto Heilig drooping
dejectedly along. She adroitly steered her party so that it crossed
his path. He looked up to find himself staring at Hilda. She frowned
at this disagreeable apparition into her happiness, and quickened her
step. But Sophie, without letting go of Hilda's hand, paused and spoke
to Otto. Thus Hilda was forced to stop and to say ungraciously: "Mr.
Feuerstein, Mr. Heilig."
Then she and Mr. Feuerstein went on, and Sophie drew the reluctant Otto
in behind them. She gradually slackened her pace, so that she and
Heilig dropped back until several couples separated them from Hilda and
Mr. Feuerstein. A few minutes and Hilda and Mr. Feuerstein were seated
on a bench in the deep shadow of a tree, Sophie and Heilig walking
slowly to and fro a short distance away.
Heilig was miserable with despondent jealousy. He longed to inquire
about this remarkable-looking new friend of Hilda's. For Mr.
Feuerstein seemed to be of that class of strangers whom Avenue A
condemns on their very appearance. It associates respectability with
work only, and it therefore suspects those who look as if they did not
work and did not know how. Sophie was soon answering of her own accord
the questions Heilig as a gentleman could not ask. "You must have
heard of Mr. Feuerstein? He's an actor--at the German Theater. I
don't think he's much of an actor--he's one of the kind that do all
their acting off the stage."
Heilig laughed unnaturally. He did not feel like laughing, but wished
to show his gratitude to Sophie for this shrewd blow at his enemy.
"He's rigged out like a lunatic, isn't he?" Otto was thinking of the
long hair, the low-rolling shirt collar and the velvet collar on his
coat,--light gray, to match his hat and suit.
"I don't see what Hilda finds in him," continued Sophie. "It makes me
laugh to look at him; and when he talks I can hardly keep from
screaming in his face. But Hilda's crazy over him, as you see. He
tells all sorts of romances about himself, and she believes every word.
I think she'll marry him--you know, her father lets her do as she
pleases. Isn't it funny that a sensible girl like Hilda can be so
foolish?"
Heilig did not answer this, nor did he heed the talk on love and
marriage which the over-eager Sophie proceeded to give. And it was
talk worth listening to, as it presented love and marriage in the
interesting, romantic-sensible Avenue A light. Otto was staring
gloomily at the shadow of the tree. He would have been gloomier could
he have witnessed the scene to which the unmoral old elm was lending
its impartial shade.
Mr. Feuerstein was holding Hilda's hand while he looked soulfully down
into her eyes. She was returning his gaze, her eyes expressing all
the Schwarmerei of which their dark depths were capable at nineteen.
He was telling her what a high profession the actor's was, how great he
was as an actor, how commonplace her life there, how beautiful he could
make it if only he had money. It was an experience to hear Mr.
Feuerstein say the word "money." Elocution could go no further in
surcharging five letters with contempt. His was one of those lofty
natures that scorn all such matters of intimate concern to the humble,
hard-pressed little human animal as food, clothing and shelter. He so
loathed money that he would not deign to work for it, and as rapidly as
possible got rid of any that came into his possession.
"Yes, my adorable little princess," he rolled out, in the tones which
wove a spell over Hilda. "I adore you. How strange that _I_ should
have wandered into THIS region for my soul's bride--and should have
found her!"
Hilda pressed his clasping hand and her heart fluttered. But she was
as silent and shy as Heilig with her. What words had she fit to
express response to these exalted emotions? "I--I feel it," she said
timidly. "But I can't say it to you. You must think me very foolish."
"No--you need not speak. I know what you would say. Our hearts speak
each to the other without words, my beautiful jewel. And what do you
think your parents will say?"
"I--I don't know," stammered Hilda.
"They are so set on my marrying"--she glanced toward Otto--how ordinary
he looked!--"marrying another--a merchant like my father. They think
only of what is practical. I'm so afraid they won't understand--US."
Feuerstein sighed--the darkness prevented her from seeing that he was
also frowning with impatience and irritation.
"But it must be settled at once, my heart's bride," he said gently.
"Secrecy, deception are horrible to me. And I am mad to claim you as
my own. I could not take you without their consent--that would be
unworthy. No, I could not grieve their honest hearts!"
Hilda was much disturbed. She was eminently practical herself, aside
from her fondness for romance, which Mr. Feuerstein was developing in a
way so unnatural in her surroundings, so foreign to her education; and
she could see just how her father would look upon her lover. She
feared he would vent plain speech that would cut Mr. Feuerstein's
sensitive soul and embattle his dignity and pride against his love.
"I'll speak to them as soon as I can," she said.
"Then you will speak to them to-morrow or next day, my treasure, and I
shall see you on Sunday afternoon."
"No--not Sunday afternoon. I must stay at home--father has ordered it."
"Disappointment--deception--postponement!" Feuerstein struck his hand
upon his brow and sighed tragically. "Oh, my little Erebus-haired
angel, how you do test my love!"
Hilda was almost in tears--it was all intensely real to her. She felt
that he was superfine, that he suffered more than ordinary folk, like
herself and her people. "I'll do the best I can," she pleaded.
"It would be best for you to introduce them to me at once and let ME
speak."
"No--no," she protested earnestly, terror in her voice and her hand
trembling in his. "That would spoil everything. You wouldn't
understand them, or they you. I'll speak--and see you Monday night."
"Let it be so," he conceded. "But I must depart. I am studying a new
role." He had an engagement to take supper with several of his
intimates at the Irving Place cafe, where he could throw aside the
heaviest parts of his pose and give way to his appetite for beer and
Schweizerkase sandwiches. "How happy we shall be!" he murmured
tenderly, kissing her cheek and thinking how hard it was to be
practical and keep remote benefits in mind when she was so beautiful
and so tempting and so trustful. He said aloud: "I am impatient,
soul's delight! Is it strange?" And he bowed like a stage courtier to
a stage queen and left her.
She joined Sophie and Heilig and walked along in silence, Sophie
between Otto and her. He caught glimpses of her face, and it made his
heart ache and his courage faint to see the love-light in her eyes--and
she as far away from him as Heaven from hell, far away in a world from
which he was excluded. He and Sophie left her at her father's and he
took Sophie home.
Sophie felt that she had done a fair evening's work--not progress, but
progress in sight. "At least," she reflected, "he's seeing that he
isn't in it with Hilda and never can be. I must hurry her on and get
her married to that fool. A pair of fools!"
Heilig found his mother waiting up for him. As she saw his expression,
anxiety left her face, but cast a deeper shadow over her heart. She
felt his sorrow as keenly as he--she who would have laid down her life
for him gladly.
"Don't lose heart, my big boy," she said, patting him on the shoulder
as he bent to kiss her.
At this he dropped down beside her and hid his face in her lap and
cried like the boy-man that he was. "Ach, Gott, mother, I love her
SO!" he sobbed.
Her tears fell on the back of his head. Her boy--who had gone so
bravely to work when the father was killed at his machine, leaving them
penniless; her boy--who had laughed and sung and whistled and diffused
hope and courage and made her feel that the burden was not a burden but
a joy for his strong, young shoulders.
"Courage, beloved!" she said. "Hilda is a good girl. All will yet be
well." And she felt it--God would not be God if He could let this
heart of gold be crushed to powder.