Part 5

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."