Like all people who lead useful lives and neither have nor pretend to
have acquired tastes for fine-drawn emotion, Otto and Hilda indulged in
little mooning. They put aside their burdens--hers of dread, his of
despair--and went about the work that had to be done and that
healthfully filled almost all their waking moments; and when bed-time
came their tired bodies refused either to sit up with their brains or
to let their brains stay awake. But it was gray and rainy for Hilda
and black night for Otto.
On Sunday morning he rose at half-past three, instead of at four, his
week-day rising time. Many of his hard-working customers were astir
betimes on Sunday to have the longer holiday. As they would spend the
daylight hours in the country and would not reach home until after the
shop had closed, they bought the supplies for a cold or warmed-up
supper before starting. Otto looked so sad--usually he was in high
spirits--that most of these early customers spoke to him or to Joe
Schwartz about his health. There were few of them who did not know what
was troubling him. Among those friendly and unpretending and
well-acquainted people any one's affairs were every one's affairs--why
make a secret of what was, after all, only the routine of human life
the world over and the ages through? Thus Otto had the lively but
tactful sympathy of the whole community.
He became less gloomy under the warmth of this succession of friendly
faces and friendly inquiries. But as trade slackened, toward noon, he
had more leisure to think, and the throbbing ache returned to his heavy
heart. All the time pictures of her were passing before his eyes. He
had known her so long and she had become such an intimate part of his
daily life, so interwoven with it, that he could not look at present,
past or future without seeing her.
Why, he had known her since she was a baby. Did he not remember the
day when he, a small boy on his way to school, had seen her toddle
across the sidewalk in front of him? Could he ever forget how she had
reached with great effort into a snowbank, had dug out with her small,
red-mittened hands a chunk of snow, and, lifting it high above her
head, had thrown it weakly at him with such force that she had fallen
headlong upon the sidewalk? He had seen her every day since
then--every day!
He most clearly of all recalled her as a school-girl. Those were the
days of the German bands of six and seven and even eight pieces,
wandering as the hand-organs do now. And always with them came a swarm
of little girls who danced when the band played, and of little boys who
listened and watched. He had often followed her as she followed a
band, all day on a Saturday. And he had never wearied of watching her
long, slim legs twinkling tirelessly to the music. She invented new
figures and variations on steps which the other girls adopted. She and
her especial friends became famous among the children throughout the
East Side; even grown people noted the grace and originality of a
particular group of girls, led by a black-haired, slim-legged one who
danced with all there was of her. And how their mothers did whip them
when they returned from a day of this forbidden joy! But they were off
again the next Saturday--who would not pass a bad five minutes for the
sake of hours on hours of delight?
And Hilda was gone from his life, was sailing away on his ship--was it
not his ship? was not its cargo his hopes and dreams and plans?--was
sailing away with another man at the helm! And he could do
nothing--must sit dumb upon the shore.
At half-past twelve he closed the shop and, after the midday dinner
with his mother, went down to Brauner's. Hilda was in the room back of
the shop, alone, and so agitated with her own affairs that she forgot
to be cold and contemptuous to Otto. He bowed to her, then stood
staring at the framed picture of Die Wacht am Rhein as if he had never
before seen the wonderful lady in red and gold seated under a tree and
gazing out over the river--all the verses were underneath. When he
could stare at it no longer he turned to the other wall where hung the
target bearing the marks of Paul Brauner's best shots in the prize
contest he had won. But he saw neither the lady watching the Rhine nor
the target with its bullet holes all in the bull's-eye ring, and its
pendent festoon of medals. He was longing to pour out his love for
her, to say to her the thousand things he could say to the image of her
in his mind when she was not near. But he could only stand, an awkward
figure, at which she would have smiled if she had seen it at all.
She went out into the shop. While he was still trying to lay hold of
an end of the spinning tangle of his thoughts and draw it forth in the
hope that all would follow, she returned, fright in her eyes. She
clasped her hands nervously and her cheeks blanched. "Mr. Feuerstein!"
she exclaimed. "And he's coming here! What SHALL I do?"
"What is the matter?" he asked.
She turned upon him angrily--he was the convenient vent for her
nervousness. "It's all your fault!" she exclaimed. "They want to
force me to marry you. And I dare not bring here the man I love."
"My fault?" he muttered, dazed. "I'm not to blame."
"Stupid! You're always in the way--no wonder I HATE you!" She was
clasping and unclasping her hands, trying to think, not conscious of
what she was saying.
"Hate me?" he repeated mechanically. "Oh, no--surely not that. No, you
can't--"
"Be still! Let me think. Ach! Gott im Himmel! He's in the hall!"
She sank wretchedly into a chair. "Can you do nothing but gape and
mutter?" In her desperation her tone was appealing.
"He can say he came with me," said Otto. "I'll stand for him."
"Yes--yes!" she cried. "That will do! Thank you--thank you!" And as
the knock came at the door she opened it. She had intended to be
reproachful, but she could not. This splendid, romantic creature, with
his graceful hat and his golden hair and his velvet collar, was too
compelling, too overpowering. Her adoring love put her at a hopeless
disadvantage. "Oh--Mr. Feuerstein," she murmured, her color coming and
going with the rise and fall of her bosom.
Mr. Feuerstein majestically removed his hat and turned a look of
haughty inquiry upon Otto. Otto's fists clenched--he longed to discuss
the situation in the only way which seemed to him to meet its
requirements.
"Hilda," said the actor, when he thought there had been a long enough
pause for an imposing entrance, "I have come to end the deception--to
make you, before the world, as you are before Almighty God, my
affianced bride."
"You--you mustn't," implored Hilda, her fears getting the better of her
awe.
"If my parents learn now--just now, they will--oh, it will be hopeless!"
"I can not delay, angel of my heart!" He gave her the look that is the
theatrical convention for love beyond words. "It must be settled at
once. I must know my fate. I must put destiny to the touch and know
happiness or--hell!"
"Bah!" thought Otto. "He has to hurry matters--he must be in trouble.
He's got to raise the wind at once."
"Mr. Feuerstein--Carl!" pleaded Hilda. "PLEASE try to be practical."
She went up to him, and Otto turned away, unable to bear the sight of
that look of love, tenderness and trust. "You must not--at least, not
right away." She turned to Otto. "Help me, Otto. Explain to him."
Heilig tried to put courtesy in his voice as he said to Mr. Feuerstein:
"Miss Brauner is right. You'll only wreck her--her happiness. We're
plain people down here and don't understand these fine, grand ways.
You must pass as my friend whom I brought here--but I make one
condition." He drew a long breath and looked at Hilda. For the first
time she heard him, the real Otto Heilig, speak. "Hilda," he went on,
"I don't want to hurt you--I'd do anything for you, except hurt you.
And I can't stand for this fel--for Mr. Feuerstein, unless you'll
promise me you won't marry him, no matter what he may say, until your
father has had a chance to find out who and what he is."
Mr. Feuerstein drew himself up grandly. "Who is this person, Miss
Brauner?" he demanded with haughty coldness.
"He don't know any better," she replied hurriedly. "He's an old
friend. Trust me, Mr. Feuer--Carl! Everything depends on it."
"I can not tolerate this coarse hand between me and the woman I love.
No more deception! Carl Feuerstein"--how he did roll out that
name!--"can guard his own honor and his own destiny."
The door into the private hall opened and in came Brauner and his wife,
fine pictures of homely content triumphing over the discomforts of
Sunday clothes. They looked at Mr. Feuerstein with candidly
questioning surprise. Avenue A is not afraid to look, and speak, its
mind. Otto came forward. "This is Mr. Feuerstein," he said.
At once Brauner showed that he was satisfied, and Mrs. Brauner beamed.
"Oh, a friend of yours," Brauner said, extending his hand. "Glad to
see any friend of Otto's."
Mr. Feuerstein advanced impressively and bowed first over Brauner's
hand, then over Mrs. Brauner's. "I am not a friend of this--young
man," he said with the dignity of a Hoheit. "I have come here to
propose for the honor of your daughter's hand in marriage."
Mr. Feuerstein noted the stupefied expression of the delicatessen
dealer and his wife, and glanced from Otto to Hilda with a triumphant
smile. But Hilda was under no delusion. She shivered and moved nearer
to Otto. She felt that he was her hope in this crisis which the mad
love of her hero-lover had forced. Brauner was the more angry because
he had been thus taken by surprise.
"What nonsense is this?" he growled, shaking his head violently. "My
daughter is engaged to a plain man like ourselves."
At this Heilig came forward again, pale and sad, but calm. "No, Mr.
Brauner--she is not engaged. I'm sure she loves this gentleman, and I
want her to be happy. I can not be anything to her but her friend.
And I want you to give him a chance to show himself worthy of her."
Brauner burst out furiously at Hilda. The very presence of this gaudy,
useless-looking creature under his roof was an insult to his three gods
of honor and happiness--his "Arbeit und Liebe und Heim."
"What does this mean?" he shouted.
"Where did you find this crazy fellow? Who brought him here?"
Hilda flared. "I love him, father! He's a noble, good man. I shall
always love him. Listen to Otto--it'll break my heart if you frown on
my marrying the man I love." There was a touch of Mr. Feuerstein in
her words and tone.
"Let's have our game, Mr. Brauner," interrupted Otto. "All this can be
settled afterward. Why spoil our afternoon?"
Brauner examined Mr. Feuerstein, who was posing as a statue of gloomy
wrath.
"Who are you?" he demanded in the insulting tone which exactly
expressed his state of mind.
Mr. Feuerstein cast up his eyes. "For Hilda's sake!" he murmured
audibly. Then he made a great show of choking down his wrath. "I,
sir, am of an ancient Prussian family--a gentleman. I saw your peerless
daughter, sought an introduction, careless who or what she was in birth
and fortune. Love, the leveler, had conquered me. I--"
"Do you work?" Brauner broke in. "What are your prospects? What have
you got? What's your character? Have you any respectable friends who
can vouch for you? You've wandered into the wrong part of town. Down
here we don't give our daughters to strangers or do-nothings or
rascals. We believe in love--yes. But we also have a little common
sense and self-respect." Brauner flung this at Mr. Feuerstein in
High-German. Hilda, mortified and alarmed, was also proud that her
father was showing Mr. Feuerstein that she came of people who knew
something, even if they were "trades-folk."
"I can answer all your questions to your satisfaction," replied Mr.
Feuerstein loftily, with a magnanimous wave of his white hand. "My
friends will speak for me. And I shall give you the addresses of my
noble relatives in Germany, though I greatly fear they will oppose my
marriage. You, sir, were born in the Fatherland. You know their
prejudices."
"Don't trouble yourself," said Brauner ironically. "Just take yourself
off and spare yourself the disgrace of mingling with us plain folk.
Hilda, go to your room!" Brauner pointed the stem of his pipe toward
the outside door and looked meaningly at Mr. Feuerstein.
Hilda, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed, put herself between
Mr. Feuerstein and the door. "I guess I've got something to say about
that!" she exclaimed. "Father, you can't make me marry Otto Heilig. I
HATE him. I guess this is a free country. I shall marry Mr.
Feuer--Carl." She went up to him and put her arm through his and
looked up at him lovingly. He drew her to him protectingly, and for an
instant something of her passionate enthusiasm fired him, or rather,
the actor in him.
Otto laid his hand on Brauner's arm.
"Don't you see, sir," he said in Low-German, very earnestly, "that
you're driving her to him? I beg you"--in a lower tone--"for the sake
of her future--don't drive him out, and her with him. If he really
would make her a good husband, why not let her have him? If he's not
what he claims, she won't have him."
Brauner hesitated. "But she's yours. Her mother and I have promised.
We are people of our word."
"But I won't marry her--not unless she wishes it, she herself. And
nothing can be done until this man has had a chance."
It was evident from Brauner's face that he was yielding to this common
sense. Hilda looked at Otto gratefully. "Thank you, Otto," she said.
He shook his head mournfully and turned away.
Brauner gave Mr. Feuerstein a contemptuous glance. "Perhaps Otto's
right," he growled. "You can stay. Let us have our game, Otto."
Mrs. Brauner hurried to the kitchen to make ready for four-o'clock
coffee and cake. Hilda arranged the table for pinochle, and when her
father and Otto were seated, motioned her lover to a seat beside her on
the sofa.
"Heart's bride," he said in a low tone, "I am prostrated by what I have
borne for your sake."
"I love you," she said softly, her young eyes shining like Titania's
when she was garlanding her ass-headed lover. "You were right, my
beloved. We shall win--father is giving in. He's very good-natured,
and now he's used to the idea of our love."
Otto lost the game, and, with his customary patience, submitted to the
customary lecture on his stupidity as a player. Brauner was once more
in a good humor. Having agreed to tolerate Mr. Feuerstein, he was
already taking a less unfavorable view of him. And Mr. Feuerstein laid
himself out to win the owner of three tenements. He talked German
politics with him in High-German, and applauded his accent and his
opinions. He told stories of the old German Emperor and Bismarck, and
finally discovered that Brauner was an ardent admirer of Schiller. He
saw a chance to make a double stroke--to please Brauner and to feed his
own vanity.
"With your permission, sir," he said, "I will give a soliloquy from
Wallenstein."
Brauner went to the door leading down the private hall. "Mother!" he
called. "Come at once. Mr. Feuerstein's going to act."
Hilda was bubbling over with delight. Otto sat forgotten in the
corner. Mrs. Brauner came bustling, her face rosy from the kitchen
fire and her hands moist from a hasty washing. Mr. Feuerstein waited
until all were seated in front of him. He then rose and advanced with
stately tread toward the clear space. He rumpled his hair, drew down
his brows, folded his arms, and began a melancholy, princely pacing of
the floor. With a suddenness that made them start, he burst out
thunderously. He strode, he roared, he rolled his eyes, he waved his
arms, he tore at his hair. It was Wallenstein in a soul-sweat. The
floor creaked, the walls echoed. His ingenuous auditors, except Otto,
listened and looked with bated breath. They were as vastly impressed
as is a drawing-room full of culture-hunters farther up town when a man
discourses to them on a subject of which he knows just enough for a
wordy befuddling of their ignorance. And the burst of applause which
greeted the last bellowing groan was full as hearty as that which
greets the bad singing or worse playing at the average musicale.
Swollen with vanity and streaming with sweat, Mr. Feuerstein sat down.
"Good, Mr. Feuerstein--ah! it is grand!" said Brauner. Hilda looked at
her lover proudly. Otto felt that the recitation was idiotic--"Nobody
ever carried on like that," he said to himself. But he also felt the
pitiful truth, "I haven't got a ghost of a chance."
He rose as soon as he could muster the courage. "I must get back and
help Schwartz open up," he said, looking round forlornly. "It's five
o'clock."
"You must stay to coffee," insisted Mrs. Brauner. It should have been
served before, but Mr. Feuerstein's exhibition had delayed it.
"No--I must work," he replied. "It's five o'clock."
"That's right," said Brauner with an approving nod. "Business first!
I must go in myself--and you, too, Hilda." The late Sunday afternoon
opening was for a very important trade.
Hilda blushed--the descent from the romantic to the practical jarred
upon her. But Mr. Feuerstein rose and took leave most graciously.
"May I return this evening?" he said to Brauner.
"Always glad to see our friends," answered Brauner with a shamefaced,
apologetic look at Otto.
At seven o'clock that evening Otto, just closing his shop, saw Mr.
Feuerstein and Hilda pass on their way toward Tompkins Square. A few
minutes later Sophie came along. She paused and tried to draw him into
conversation. But he answered briefly and absently, gradually
retreating into the darkness of his shop and pointedly drawing the door
between him and her. Sophie went on her way downcast, but not in the
least disheartened. "When Hilda is Mrs. Feuerstein," she said to
herself.