The Fortune Hunter [24]
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.
VII
LOVE IN SEVERAL ASPECTS
It was not long before the community was talking of the change in Hilda, the abrupt change to a gentle, serious, silent woman, the sparkle gone from her eyes, pathos there in its stead. But not even her own family knew her secret.
``When is Mr. Feuerstein coming again?'' asked her father when a week had passed.
``I don't know just when. Soon,'' answered Hilda, in a tone which made it impossible for such a man as he to inquire further.
Sophie brought all her cunning to bear in her effort to get at the facts. But Hilda evaded her hints and avoided her traps. After much thinking she decided that Mr. Feuerstein had probably gone for good, that Hilda was hoping when there was nothing to hope for, and that her own affairs were suffering from the cessation of action. She was in the mood to entertain the basest suggestions her craft could put forward for making marriage between Hilda and Otto impossible. But she had not yet reached the stage at which overt acts are deliberately planned upon the surface of the mind.
One of her girl friends ran in to gossip with her late in the afternoon of the eighth day after Mr. Feuerstein's ``parting scene'' in Tompkins Square. The talk soon drifted to Hilda, whom the other
``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.
VII
LOVE IN SEVERAL ASPECTS
It was not long before the community was talking of the change in Hilda, the abrupt change to a gentle, serious, silent woman, the sparkle gone from her eyes, pathos there in its stead. But not even her own family knew her secret.
``When is Mr. Feuerstein coming again?'' asked her father when a week had passed.
``I don't know just when. Soon,'' answered Hilda, in a tone which made it impossible for such a man as he to inquire further.
Sophie brought all her cunning to bear in her effort to get at the facts. But Hilda evaded her hints and avoided her traps. After much thinking she decided that Mr. Feuerstein had probably gone for good, that Hilda was hoping when there was nothing to hope for, and that her own affairs were suffering from the cessation of action. She was in the mood to entertain the basest suggestions her craft could put forward for making marriage between Hilda and Otto impossible. But she had not yet reached the stage at which overt acts are deliberately planned upon the surface of the mind.
One of her girl friends ran in to gossip with her late in the afternoon of the eighth day after Mr. Feuerstein's ``parting scene'' in Tompkins Square. The talk soon drifted to Hilda, whom the other