``Little stupid!'' he muttered--she didn't appreciate him and he was a fool to expect it. But ``art for art's sake''; and he went on in tones of gentle melancholy. ``I love you, but fate has again caught me up. I am being whirled away. I stretch out my arms to you--in vain. Do you understand?'' It exasperated him for her to be so still--why didn't she weep?
She shook her head and replied quietly:
``No--what is it? Don't you love me any more?''
``Love has nothing to do with it,'' he said, as gently as he could in the irritating circumstances. ``My mysterious destiny has--''
``You said that before,'' she interrupted. ``What is it? Can't you tell me so that I can understand?''
``You never loved me!'' he cried bitterly.
``You know that isn't so,'' she answered. ``Won't you tell me, Carl?''
``A specter has risen from my past--I must leave you--I may never return--''
She gave a low, wailing cry--it seemed like an echo of the music.
Then she began to sob--not loudly, but in a subdued, despairing way. She was not conscious of her grief, but only of his words--of the dream vanished, the hopes shattered.
``Never?'' she said brokenly.
``Never!'' he replied in a hoarse whisper.
Mr. Feuerstein looked down at Hilda's quivering shoulders with satisfaction. ``I thought I could make even her feel,'' he said to himself complacently. Then to her in the hoarse undertone:
``And my heart is breaking.''
She straightened and her tears seemed to dry with the flash of her eyes. ``Don't say that--you mustn't!'' She blazed out before his astonished eyes, a woman electric with disdain and anger. ``It's false-- false! I hate you--hate you--you never cared--you've made a fool of me--''
``Hilda!'' He felt at home now and his voice became pleading and anguished. ``You, too, desert me! Ah, God, whenever was there man so wretched as I?'' He buried his face in his hands.
``Oh, you put it on well,'' she scoffed. ``But I know what it all means.''
Mr. Feuerstein rose wearily. ``Farewell,'' he said in a broken voice. ``At least I am glad you will be spared the suffering that is blasting my life. Thank God, she did not love me!''
The physical fact of his rising to go struck her courage full in the face.
``No--no,'' she urged hurriedly, ``not yet --not just yet--wait a few minutes more--''
``No--I must go--farewell!'' And he seated himself beside her, put his arm around her.
She lay still in his arms for a moment, then murmured: ``Say it isn't so, Carl--dear!''
``I would say there is hope, heart's darling,'' he whispered, ``but I have no right to blast your young life. And I may never return.''
She started up, her face glowing.
``Then you WILL return?''
``It may be that I can,'' he answered. ``But--''
``Then I'll wait--gladly. No matter how long it is, I'll wait.
Why didn't you say at first, `Hilda, something I can't tell you about has happened. I must go away. When I can, I'll come.'
That would have been enough, because I--I love you!''
``What have I done to deserve such love as this!'' he exclaimed, and for an instant he almost forgot himself in her beauty and sweetness and sincerity.
``Will it be long?'' she asked after a while.
``I hope not, bride of my soul. But I can not--dare not say.''
``Wherever you go, and no matter what happens, dear,'' she said softly, ``you'll always know that I'm loving you, won't you?''
And she looked at him with great, luminous, honest eyes.
He began to be uncomfortable. Her complete trust was producing an effect even upon his nature. The good that evil can never kill out of a man was rousing what was very like a sense of shame. ``I must go now,'' he said with real gentleness in his voice and a look at her that had real longing in it. He went on:
``I shall come as soon as the shadow passes--I shall come soon, Herzallerliebste!''
She was cheerful to the last. But after he had left she sat motionless, except for an occasional shiver. From the music-stand came a Waldteufel waltz, with its ecstatic throb and its long, dreamy swing, its mingling of joy with foreboding of sadness. The tears streamed down her cheeks. ``He's gone,'' she said miserably. She rose and went through the crowd, stumbling against people, making the homeward journey by instinct alone.
She seemed to be walking in her sleep. She entered the shop--it was crowded with customers, and her father, her mother and August were bustling about behind the counters. ``Here, tie this up,'' said her father, thrusting into her hands a sheet of wrapping paper on which were piled a chicken, some sausages, a bottle of olives and a can of cherries. She laid the paper on the counter and went on through the parlor and up the stairs to her plain, neat, little bedroom. She threw herself on the bed, face downward. She fell at once into a deep sleep. When she awoke it was beginning to dawn. She remembered and began to moan. ``He's gone! He's gone! He's gone!'' she repeated over and over again. And she lay there, sobbing and calling to him.
When she faced the family there were black circles around her eyes. They were the eyes of a woman grown, and they looked out upon the world with sorrow in them for the first time.