As Mr. Feuerstein left Hilda on the previous Sunday night he promised to meet her in Tompkins Square the next evening--at the band concert. She walked up and down with Sophie, her spirits gradually sinking after half-past eight and a feeling of impending misfortune settling in close. She was not conscious of the music, though the second part of the program contained the selections from Wagner which she loved best. She feverishly searched the crowd and the half-darkness beyond. She imagined that every approaching tall man was her lover. With the frankness to which she had been bred she made no concealment of her heart-sick anxiety.
``He may have to be at the theater,'' said Sophie, herself extremely uneasy. Partly through shrewdness, partly through her natural suspicion of strangers, she felt that Mr. Feuerstein, upon whom she was building, was not a rock.
``No,'' replied Hilda. ``He told me he wouldn't be at the theater, but would surely come here.'' The fact that her lover had said so settled it to her mind.
They did not leave the Square until ten o'clock, when it was almost deserted and most of its throngs of an hour before were in bed sleeping soundly in the content that comes from a life of labor. And when she did get to bed she lay awake for nearly an hour, tired though she was. Without doubt some misfortune had befallen him--``He's been hurt or is ill,'' she decided. The next morning she stood in the door of the shop watching for the postman on his first round; as he turned the corner of Second Street, she could not restrain herself, but ran to meet him.
``Any letter for me?'' she inquired in a voice that compelled him to feel personal guilt in having to say ``No.''
It was a day of mistakes in weights and in making up packages, a day of vain searching for some comforting explanation of Mr. Feuerstein's failure and silence. After supper Sophie came and they went to the Square, keeping to the center of it where the lights were brightest and the people fewest.
``I'm sure something's happened,'' said Sophie. ``Maybe Otto has told him a story --or has--''
``No--not Otto.'' Hilda dismissed the suggestion as impossible.
She had known Otto too long and too well to entertain for an instant the idea that he could be underhanded. ``There's only one reason-- he's sick, very sick--too sick to send word.''
``Let's go and see,'' said Sophie, as if she had not planned it hours before.
Hilda hesitated. ``It might look as if I--'' She did not finish.
``But you needn't show yourself,'' replied Sophie. ``You can wait down the street and I'll go up to the door and won't give my name.''
Hilda clasped her arm more tightly about Sophie's waist and they set out. They walked more and more swiftly until toward the last they were almost running. At the corner of Fifteenth Street and First Avenue Hilda stopped. ``I'll go through to Stuyvesant Square,'' she said, ``and wait there on a bench near the Sixteenth Street entrance. You'll be quick, won't you?''
Sophie went to Mr. Feuerstein's number and rang. After a long wait a slovenly girl in a stained red wrapper, her hair in curl-papers and one stocking down about her high-heeled slipper, opened the door and said: ``What do you want? I sent the maid for a pitcher of beer.''
``I want to ask about Mr. Feuerstein,'' replied Sophie.
The girl's pert, prematurely-wrinkled face took on a quizzical smile. ``Oh!'' she said. ``You can go up to his room. Third floor, back. Knock hard--he's a heavy sleeper.''
Sophie climbed the stairs and knocked loudly. ``Come!'' was the answer in German, in Mr. Feuerstein's deep stage-voice.
She opened the door a few inches and said through the crack:
``It's me, Mr. Feuerstein--Sophie Liebers--from down in Avenue A--Hilda's friend.''
``Come in,'' was Mr. Feuerstein's reply, in a weary voice, after a pause. From Ganser's he had come straight home and had been sitting there ever since, depressed, angry, perplexed.
Sophie pushed the door wide and stood upon the threshold.
``Hilda's over in Stuyvesant Square,'' she said. ``She thought you might be sick, so we came. But if you go to her, you must pretend you came by accident and didn't see me.''
Mr. Feuerstein reflected, but not so deeply that he neglected to pose before Sophie as a tragedy-king. And it called for little pretense, so desperate and forlorn was he feeling. Should he go or should he send Sophie about her business? There was no hope that the rich brewer would take him in; there was every reason to suspect that Peter would arrange to have the marriage quietly annulled. At most he could get a few thousands, perhaps only hundreds, by threatening a scandal. Yes, it would be wise, on the whole, to keep little Hilda on the string.
``I am very ill,'' he said gloomily, ``but I will go.''
Sophie felt hopeful and energetic again. ``I won't come up to her till you leave her.''
``You are a good girl--a noble creature.'' Mr. Feuerstein took her hand and pretended to be profoundly moved by her friendship.
Sophie gave him a look of simplicity and warm-heartedness. Her talent for acting had not been spoiled by a stage experience.
``Hilda's my friend,'' she said earnestly. ``And I want to see her happy.''
``Noble creature !'' exclaimed Mr. Feuerstein. ``May God reward you!'' And he dashed his hand across his eyes.
He went to the mirror on his bureau, carefully arranged the yellow aureole, carefully adjusted the soft light hat. Then with feeble step he descended the stairs. As he moved down the street his face was mournful and his shoulders were drooped--a stage invalid. When Hilda saw him coming she started up and gave a little cry of delight; but as she noted his woebegone appearance, a very real paleness came to her cheeks and very real tears to her great dark eyes.
