Hilda had not spent her nineteen years in the glare of the Spartan
publicity in which the masses live without establishing a character.
Just as she knew all the good points and bad in all the people of that
community, so they knew all hers, and therefore knew what it was
possible for her to do and what impossible. And if a baseless lie is
swift of foot where everybody minutely scrutinizes everybody else, it
is also scant of breath. Sophie's scandal soon dwindled to a whisper
and expired, and the kindlier and probable explanation of Hilda's wan
face and downcast eyes was generally accepted.
Her code of morals and her method of dealing with moral questions were
those of all the people about her--strict, severe, primitive.
Feuerstein was a cheat, a traitor. She cast him out of her heart--cast
him out at once and utterly and for ever. She could think of him only
with shame. And it seemed to her that she was herself no longer
pure--she had touched pitch; how could she be undefiled?
She accepted these conclusions and went about her work, too busy to
indulge in hysteria of remorse, repining, self-examination.
She avoided Otto, taking care not to be left alone with him when he
called on Sundays, and putting Sophie between him and her when he came
up to them in the Square. But Otto was awaiting his chance, and when
it came, plunged boldly into his heart-subject and floundered bravely
about. "I don't like to see you so sad, Hilda. Isn't there any chance
for me? Can't things be as they used to be?"
Hilda shook her head sadly. "I'm never going to marry," she said.
"You must find some one else."
"It's you or nobody. I said that when we were in school together
and--I'll stick to it." His eyes confirmed his words.
"You mustn't, Otto. You make me feel as if I were spoiling your life.
And if you knew, you wouldn't want to marry me."
"I don't care. I always have, and I always will."
"I suppose I ought to tell you," she said, half to herself. She turned
to him suddenly, and, with flushed cheeks and eyes that shifted, burst
out: "Otto, he was a married man!"
"But you didn't know."
"It doesn't change the way I feel. You might--any man might--throw it
up to me. And sooner or later, everybody'll know. No man would want a
girl that had had a scandal like that on her."
"I would," he said, "and I do. And it isn't a scandal."
Some one joined them and he had no chance to continue until the
following Sunday, when Heiligs and Brauners went together to the Bronx
for a half-holiday. They could not set out until their shops closed,
at half-past twelve, and they had to be back at five to reopen for the
Sunday supper customers. They lunched under the trees in the yard of a
German inn, and a merry party they were.
Hilda forgot to keep up her pretense that her healing wounds were not
healing and never would heal. She teased Otto and even flirted with
him. This elevated her father and his mother to hilarity. They were
two very sensible young-old people, with a keen sense of humor--the
experience of age added to the simplicity and gaiety of youth.
You would have paused to admire and envy had you passed that way and
looked in under the trees, as they clinked glasses and called one to
another and went off into gales of mirth over nothing at all. What
laughter is so gay as laughter at nothing at all? Any one must laugh
when there is something to laugh at; but to laugh just because one must
have an outlet for bubbling spirits there's the test of happiness!
After luncheon they wandered into the woods and soon Otto and Hilda
found themselves alone, seated by a little waterfall, which in a quiet,
sentimental voice suggested that low tones were the proper tones to use
in that place.
"We've known each other always, Hilda," said Otto. "And we know all
about each other. Why not--dear?"
She did not speak for several minutes.
"You know I haven't any heart to give you," she answered at last.
Otto did not know anything of the kind, but he knew she thought so, and
he was too intelligent to dispute, when time would settle the
question--and, he felt sure, would settle it right. So he reached out
and took her hand and said: "I'll risk that."
And they sat watching the waterfall and listening to it, and they were
happy in a serious, tranquil way. It filled him with awe to think that
he had at last won her. As for her, she was looking forward, without
illusions, without regrets, to a life of work and content beside this
strong, loyal, manly man who protested little, but never failed her or
any one else.
On the way home in the train she told her mother, and her mother told
her father. He, then and there, to the great delight and pleasure of
the others in the car, rose up and embraced and kissed first his
daughter, then Otto and then Otto's mother. And every once in a while
he beamed down the line of his party and said: "This is a happy day!"
And he made them all come into the sitting-room back of the shop. "Wait
here," he commanded. "No one must move!"
He went down to the cellar, presently to reappear with a dusty bottle
of Johannisberger Cabinet. He pointed proudly to the seal. "Bronze!"
he exclaimed. "It is wine like gold. It must be drunk slowly." He
drew the cork and poured the wine with great ceremony, and they all
drank with much touching of glasses and bowing and exchanging of good
wishes, now in German, now in English, again in both. And the last
toast, the one drunk with the greatest enthusiasm, was Brauner's
favorite famous "Arbeit und Liebe und Heim!"
From that time forth Hilda began to look at Otto from a different point
of view. And everything depends on point of view.
Then--the house in which Schwartz and Heilig had their shop was burned.
And when their safe was drawn from the ruins, they found that their
insurance had expired four days before the fire. It was Schwartz's
business to look after the insurance, but Otto had never before failed
to oversee. His mind had been in such confusion that he had forgotten.
He stared at the papers, stunned by the disaster. Schwartz wrung his
hands and burst into tears. "I saw that you were in trouble," he
wailed, "and that upset me. It's my fault. I've ruined us both."
There was nothing left of their business or capital, nothing but seven
hundred dollars in debts to the importers of whom they bought.
Heilig shook off his stupor after a few minutes. "No matter," he
said. "What's past is past."
He went straightway over to Second Avenue to the shop of Geishener, the
largest delicatessen dealer in New York.
"I've been burned out," he explained. "I must get something to do."
Geishener offered him a place at eleven dollars a week. "I'll begin in
the morning," said Otto. Then he went to Paul Brauner.
"When will you open up again?" asked Brauner.
"Not for a long time, several years. Everything's gone and I've taken
a place with Geishener. I came to say that--that I can't marry your
daughter."
Brauner did not know what answer to make. He liked Otto and had
confidence in him. But the masses of the people build their little
fortunes as coral insects build their islands. And Hilda was getting
along--why, she would be twenty in four months. "I don't know. I
don't know." Brauner rubbed his head in embarrassment and perplexity.
"It's bad--very bad. And everything was running so smoothly."
Hilda came in. Both men looked at her guiltily. "What is it?" she
asked. And if they had not been mere men they would have noticed a
change in her face, a great change, very wonderful and beautiful to see.
"I came to release you," said Otto.
"I've got nothing left--and a lot of debts. I--"
"Yes--I know," interrupted Hilda. She went up to him and put her arm
round his neck. "We'll have to begin at the bottom," she said with a
gentle, cheerful smile.
Brauner pretended that he heard some one calling him from the shop.
"Yes right away!" he shouted. And when he was alone in the shop he
wiped his eyes, not before a large tear had blistered the top sheet of
a pile of wrapping paper.
"I know you don't care for me as--as"--Otto was standing uneasily, his
eyes down and his face red. "It was hard enough for you before.
Now--I couldn't let you do it--dear."
"You can't get rid of me so easily," she said. "I know I'm getting
along and I won't be an old maid."
He paid no attention to her raillery. "I haven't got anything to ask
you to share," he went on. "I've been working ever since I was
eleven--and that's fourteen years--to get what I had. And it's all
gone. It'll take several years to pay off my debts, and mother must be
supported. No--I've got to give it up."
"Won't you marry me, Otto?" She put her arms round his neck.